The Watchers

by Jon Steele

  ‘Don’t leave me, my love, not yet. Give me more.’

  Harper pulled at his chains.

  ‘Enough, she’s so drugged she doesn’t know what she’s doing.’

  ‘All the better to give you pleasure.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She has been bathed in breeding oils and made ready to conceive this night, this hour. Lie with her, feed on her dreams and consecrate her with the seed of your form.’

  ‘You must be joking.’

  Komarovsky moved close to Harper, traced his moist fingers over Harper’s lips.

  ‘Taste the stuff of creation, let it inflame the flesh in which you hide.’

  Harper twisted away.

  ‘Forget it, rules and regs. No fraternization with the locals. You remember the rules and regs, don’t you?’

  ‘But you and me, we’re way beyond rules and regulations, aren’t we? Even now I smell the scent of fear rising from your skin.’

  ‘Forget it, this isn’t going to happen.’

  ‘Fuck her and I will spare both their souls.’

  Harper shook his head.

  ‘You were sent here to protect this place, comfort the locals at the time of their death, guide them to their next form in life.’

  Komarovsky grabbed Harper’s crotch and twisted hard. Harper felt a shock of pain.

  ‘But fucking their women and breeding a new race to rule over paradise turned out to be far more satisfying.’

  ‘Fuck you, fuck your half-breed goons.’

  Thwack!

  The killing knife, skimming Harper’s throat, digging in the wall. The tall one rushed in, pulled the knife from the wall, held it in front of Harper’s face.

  ‘Tsk, tsk, I missed. I know, let’s have some fun with your skin friends.’

  Harper felt the dead black blow apart the firewall between his eternal being and the emotions of his human form. Then came the breathless panic of being trapped in a physical space, crushing down, can’t get out … the weight, Christ, the weight … bloody hell, no.

  ‘Told you before, I don’t know these people. Don’t have friends in this place. Never did, never will.’

  The tall one moved back to the bed, dragged the point of the blade over the woman’s stomach. She reacted to the touch as if it was a loving thing. The dead black in the half-breed’s eyes pulsed faster watching her. Across the room, the same thrill in the small one’s eyes as he yanked the hooded man upright, pulled the burlap sack from his head. Harper saw the fearful eyes, gaffer tape over the mouth … the bartender from LP’s.

  ‘Stephan?’

  ‘Mmmm! Mmmm!’

  The small one set the hacksaw against the boy’s jugular. Harper looked at Komarovsky.

  ‘He’s got nothing to do with this, he’s a bloody bartender.’

  ‘But he has everything to do with it, as does the woman whom, I’m sure, you remember very well.’

  The tall one lifted the woman from the bed. The woman’s eyes hidden by the blindfold. Her skin white and pasty. Harper stared at her, the auburn hair, the black scarves around her wrists, almost hiding the kid gloves on her hands. Komarovsky swept by her, pulled the blindfold from her face … No, not her.

  ‘Ah, I see by the expression on your face you do recall the lovely Miss Clarke. So needing to hold on to someone, so wanting it to be you. She kissed you with such tenderness.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time, they’re not even partisans.’

  ‘No, they are the innocent instruments of your salvation.’

  ‘You don’t fucking need them. You’ve got me in chains and a billion hits online waiting for a show. Let’s clear the place of locals and get to it. Torture me for a thousand years.’

  ‘You see, you are already more than a warrior. You have become the new Christ on Earth. Ready to sacrifice the eternity of your being for the insignificant souls of men. But it is not your suffering I seek.’

  ‘What do you want then? What do you fucking want?’

  ‘Lie with the woman and let the flesh of your form bond with hers. Let the passion of her love release you from your oath to an ancient and forgotten will.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Breed one of your own kind on Earth and we shall be brothers again. Tonight, you and I will put an end to this eternal and forever war.’

  Harper looked at Stephan and Lucy.

  ‘They are not us and we are not them.’

  ‘Once again, you give me rules and regulations, when innocent lives are at stake.’

  ‘Just telling you the way it is.’

  ‘Then you would choose their death?’

  Harper nodded to the cameras in the ceilings, zooming in for close-ups as the half-breeds readied themselves for the slaughter.

  ‘There isn’t a choice.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It’s no use, Komarovsky. I saw the hunger in the eyes of your half-breeds, they’re whacked to the gills on dead black. They want death. No matter what I do, the locals are as good as listed.’

  Komarovsky smiled.

  ‘How clever of you to notice. Because your salvation does not come in choosing to love, but in choosing to hate.’

  He spun around and pointed towards Lucy.

  ‘Wake her! Let her know the good and noble warrior who would not save her soul!’

  The tall one threw a white powder in Lucy’s face, pressed the killing knife against her throat. A trickle of blood ran down her breasts. She snapped out of her druggy haze, saw herself naked, saw the blood. She felt the killing knife at her throat, saw Harper in chains.

  ‘Jay?’

  Harper shook his head, tried to suppress the rage pumping in his brain.

  ‘Look into my eyes, just look into my eyes.’

  ‘Jay, what is this? What’s happening? Help me!’

  Komarovsky turned to the cameras.

  ‘Yes, let the warrior angel hear their cries. Let him hear her cries rise to the emptiness of the heavens. Slaughter them both!’

  The short half-breed tore the gaffer tape from Stephan’s mouth.

  ‘Monsieur, what are they doing? Please, stop them!’

  ‘Look at me, both of you, look at me, listen to my voice.’

  Komarovsky turned to Harper.

  ‘Do you feel their panic, do you feel their terror!’

  ‘Leave them alone, you fear-mongering fuck!’

  Then realizing he’d played into Komarovsky’s hands. Letting the dead black in his blood fuel the rage in his guts and crush the light in his eyes. No, damn it! Hold on!

  The tall one pulled Lucy’s head to the side, sliced at her neck, her scream ripping at Harper’s ears.

  ‘Jay!’

  The knife sliced deeper into her neck.

  ‘Ahhhhh!’

  The short one pulled the saw over Stephan’s throat.

  ‘Monsieur, save us!’

  Harper pulled at the chains like a madman.

  ‘Listen to me! Your life doesn’t end, it never ends!’

  The hacksaw cut hit Stephan’s jugular, blood sprayed through the room. The tall one twisted the blade into Lucy’s throat. Their screams drowning in blood. Then blades set for death cuts. Terrified eyes watching him, begging to be saved. Harper felt a spark of light in his eyes.

  ‘Look into my eyes, listen to my voice. C’est le guet, Il a—’

  Komarovsky slapped gaffer tape over Harper’s mouth.

  ‘Their souls will not hear the ancient words of comfort. Nor shall they see good and noble light in your eyes. Their souls will be fed to the devourers and we shall share in the sacrament of their flesh.’

  He pulled a burlap sack over Harper’s head.

  ‘Nnnn! Nnnn!’

  Harper twisted in the chains and chewed at the tape over his mouth. The rage in his throat tasting of bile and vomit. The chains clanging and scraping on the floor. Hearing their screams drown in gurgles of blood, arms and legs slapping in death throes. Then the sawing of blades against bone and the sound of bodies falling
to the floor.

  Soft footsteps stepping near.

  Two dull thuds before him.

  An evil voice in his ear. ‘I bring you death.’ Then an unseen hand pulling the sack from his head and tearing the gaffer tape from his mouth and forcing his half-blind eyes to the floor.

  Two severed heads staring back at him.

  Terror burning in their still-blinking eyes.

  And in the corners of the room, shadows of the devourers forming to feed on uncomforted souls. Komarovsky drifted towards Harper. Harper tried to see through the dark glasses.

  ‘Which one are you?’

  ‘I am Komarovsky.’

  ‘Which one are you, what’s your name in the Book of Enoch? Let me see your bloody eyes!’

  ‘Names are the things of men. And the Book of Enoch is only a legend.’

  Harper’s eyes shot to the watching cameras in the ceiling. The flood of dead black dragging his being under again.

  ‘You fuckers! This is nothing but a game to you. I’ll kill you, all of you.’

  Komarovsky loomed over him.

  ‘And you will kill not because of your oath to a forgotten will, but because you now choose to hate.’

  Harper ripped at his chains.

  ‘Let me free, you bastard. I’ll show you how much I choose to hate. I’ll show you how I choose to kill!’

  Komarovsky leaned down. Harper saw his own face in the dark lenses, again. Unrecognizable to his own eyes, blood and frothing spittle dripping from his mouth. Komarovsky kissed Harper’s lips, licking the drool.

  ‘At last, brother, the taste of free will is upon your lips. You are saved.’

  ‘And you’re fucking dead for ever, every one of you. I’ll find all of you and every one of your half-breeds! I’ll slaughter every last one!’

  ‘That’s the spirit! Go forth into the world and kill!’

  ‘Let me go, I’ll slaughter every fucking half-breed in the world!’

  ‘Do you swear to hate, do you swear to kill them all?’

  ‘Yes, I fucking swear!’

  Komarovsky held his hand before Harper’s eyes and, as if controlling a wild beast, he whispered to soothe him.

  ‘So let the slaughter begin with the crippled fool hiding in the tower of Lausanne Cathedral.’

  Harper jolted to a stop.

  The world suddenly coming unhinged from its place in the stars.

  ‘The lad with the lantern, a half-breed?’

  Komarovsky’s form began to fade, transmigrating into shadow.

  ‘Go, my brother, go in the name of hate and fulfil your oath to kill them all. Go and slaughter le guet de Lausanne.’

  Harper felt a needle punch through the base of his skull.

  A flood of dead black potion rushing into his brain.

  Falling into blackness … Kill …

  thirty-six

  Rochat came into the loge after the midnight rounds.

  ‘He isn’t here yet.’

  ‘He’s probably drinking his supper somewhere. Let’s not worry, not yet anyway.’

  Katherine was sitting on the bed, sorting clothes to pack in the rucksack Rochat had given her. Monsieur Booty sat nearby, pawing at each item as if laying claim to it. Katherine brushed him away each time. Rochat took Monsieur Buhlmann’s cloak from the door hook and folded it. He handed it to Katherine.

  ‘You can take this because it’s winter and you need a coat. We forgot to buy you a coat from the lady behind the counter.’

  ‘I thought it belonged to the other guy who works here.’

  ‘I can buy Monsieur Buhlmann a new cloak for Christmas. You need a coat to go home and I’m very sure he won’t mind. He’s a very nice man.’

  ‘Gosh, thanks, I really love this old thing.’

  Rochat turned around, reached up to a shelf, took down the tin box with the picture of the Matterhorn on the lid.

  ‘And you can take the rest of the money too. I have more in my bank.’

  ‘Marc, you’ve done enough already.’

  ‘But what will you do to make money?’

  ‘Have to earn it the old-fashioned way, I guess.’

  ‘You mean like Marie-Madeleine?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘But if you take my money you won’t have to sell yourself any more and you can just go home.’

  Katherine stared at the tin with ninety-six thousand Swiss francs inside, like ninety-six thousand second chances staring back at her.

  ‘Tell you what. I’ll take it if we call it a loan. A loan I’ll pay back.’

  ‘I have more in my bank.’

  ‘I know but I need to pay you back. Not quite sure how but I will. Even if I have to flip hamburgers at McDonald’s for the next twenty years.’

  Rochat thought about the McDonald’s near Place de la Palud. The people behind the counter wore funny hats and always asked if Rochat wanted an extra-large drink with his meal.

  ‘Is that a joke?’

  ‘Yeah, I hope so anyway. But I promise, I’ll pay this back, every franc.’

  ‘D’accord.’

  She took the tin and stuffed it into the rucksack. Rochat reached to another shelf, took down a sketchbook and a jar of pencils. He sat at the table, opened the sketchbook. Katherine watched him a moment.

  ‘What are you drawing now, Marc?’

  ‘I’m drawing you getting ready to go home.’

  ‘You’re going to wear down your pencils drawing me. Why don’t you finish that funny story. The one about the wizard and the guys in paper hats on the flying caterpillar. What’s his name, Pompidou?’

  Rochat looked from Katherine to his sketchbooks on the shelf, seeing the one with the word piratz scribbled on the binding, noticing it’d been moved from where he’d left it.

  ‘Did I show you the book with the story of the pirates in the paper hats?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Then how do you know about the pirates in the paper hats?’

  ‘Oops, guess the cat’s out of the bag, huh?’

  Rochat looked at Monsieur Booty sitting on the bed next to the rucksack, busily looking back and forth at the two of them.

  ‘He’s on the bed.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s an expression, Marc.’

  Rochat watched Katherine pick up Monsieur Booty, set him on her lap.

  ‘Now he’s on your lap.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that too. Truth is … Marc, look at me, forget the cat, he’s fine.’

  ‘Forget the cat, he’s fine.’

  ‘Yeah, forget the cat. I was peeking through your things when you went to the café, the first day after I got here.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You’re really talented.’

  ‘Merci.’

  ‘No, I mean it. All your drawings are wonderful and that story is really, really funny. I loved the part where they’re all yelling silly stuff at each other. I couldn’t stop laughing.’

  Rochat stood, took piratz from the shelf, handed it to her.

  ‘You can take it with you.’

  ‘Wow, really? This is the best thing.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Sure, you made it with your heart.’

  ‘I made it with my hands.’

  ‘Man, am I going to miss you. Did you finish it?’

  ‘Finish what?’

  ‘The story.’

  Rochat thought about it.

  ‘The pirates need to get into the ice castle and rescue the princess and find the future-teller diamond and then they go home.’

  She handed the sketchbook back to him.

  ‘Then you sit down, buster, and draw while I finish packing.’

  Rochat sat at the small wood table and opened the sketchbook to the page with the pirates in their paper hats waving wooden swords and shouting, ‘Oh yeah?’ and Screechy the evil wizard shouting back, ‘Yeah and double yeah!’ Rochat picked up a pencil and his hand began to move quickly over the page.

  Katherine watched Rochat draw for a few
minutes, then she slowly packed her clothes. Monsieur Booty, seeing all the things he’d already laid claim to now being stuffed in a rucksack, jumped on a black jumper and purred in protest. Katherine picked up the cat and dropped him to the floor.

  ‘No claws on the cashmere, thank you.’

  Mew.

  Monsieur Booty arched his back, flapped his ears, hopped on to the table to watch Rochat draw. He swung a furry paw at the pencil, Rochat brushed it away.

  ‘Non.’

  Mew.

  ‘Because I said so.’

  Mew.

  Another swipe of the paw.

  ‘Non. You ask her, you miserable beast.’

  Katherine stopped packing.

  ‘Hey, I’m standing right here. Ask me what?’

  Rochat and Monsieur Booty looked at Katherine, then each other, then back to Katherine. Rochat pointed to the beast.

  ‘He wants to be in the story.’

  ‘Monsieur Booty told you he wants to be in the story?’

  ‘Oui.’

  She looked at Monsieur Booty. The beast yawned.

  ‘You sure that’s what he said?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘OK, so put him in the story.’

  ‘I have to think of something for him to do.’

  ‘So think of something.’

  Rochat scratched his black mop of a head and thought about it.

  ‘Monsieur Booty can be living in the ice castle from the times of the nice old queen before she died and one day he climbs to the tower on secret steps and finds the captured princess and falls in love with her. So he lets the pirates in the ice castle so they can take her home. But before they leave she reminds them about the future-teller diamond and the pirates all say, “Oh yeah, the future-teller diamond.” And Monsieur Booty shows the pirates where it is and they go steal it back, and the princess decides to take Monsieur Booty with her and they all fly back over the Boiling Seas of Doom on Pompidou the giant caterpillar. And then they put the future-teller diamond in its secret place and then they all drink tea in a vineyard overlooking the lake and it’s a spring day and the swallows are coming back to Lausanne and everyone’s happy. The end.’

  Katherine tipped her head with wonder.

  ‘How the heck did you come up with that so fast?’

  ‘Because I imagined that’s the way the story’s supposed to end.’