Mendez Genesis

by Edward Hancock II

  If he only knew.

  He was a big guy. Maybe 6’2, thickly muscled, chiseled face. Enough to scare any normal man. A visible neck tattoo and one on his forearm.

  Laughable.

  Walking inside, He judged the security guard again. Even more laughable up close, he thought. In the parking lot, a small sports car parked just yards away let out a small pop. The security guard jumped to the ready, pointing his gun in the direction of any would-be gunman.

  Laughable.

  Ordinary men.

  Afraid of a simple parked car.

  Useless. Utterly useless.

  * * *

  The red Pontiac Firebird pulled into the parking lot of The Star Club. Night had fallen. Time to play, she told herself.

  “Time to catch a falling star, old girl,” she whispered allowed. Her insides shook “No,” she continued, inwardly poised. “Sleep Baby. I will wake you when I need you.”

  Across the way, she heard a small pop from a nearby car.

  “Too bad,” she thought aloud. It was such a nice car. A jade green Eclipse. She focused her attention toward the Star Club’s entrance. For a moment, She thought she saw him, or at least his essence. It’s hard to mistake the shrill cry of hundreds of lost souls and the caliginous light it manifests in the world. Her eyes grew playful.

  Her insides quivered with unfulfilled anticipation.

  “So strong,” she whispered under the noise of Star’s music. “This should be quite fun.”

  * * *

  Inside Star Club, the dance floor was packed with unsuspecting witnesses. She read through the area, looking for Him, but she knew he would not be found until he is ready to show himself.

  Scanning the dance floor, she noticed people laughing, dancing the dances of youth. A scantily clad young girl, acting far too promiscuous for her years, surrounding herself with boys far too old and far too hormonal for her own good, or theirs for that matter.

  “Poor thing,” she whispered aloud. “So like Tina.” But obviously lacking in Tina’s dutiful sense of morality.

  Her insides shook again, but this was not Tina. It was as if Time was preparing itself. Preparing itself to stand still. Preparing itself to turn backwards. Preparing itself to rip apart into the bitter chaos of eminent conflict.

  “Get a grip, Old Girl,” she laughed. “You won’t run into your old friend just yet.” But she knew different. He would not reveal himself to her, but she would nonetheless know his power tonight. Of that much she was sure. Tonight would be a test, nothing more. Just an introduction, as if it was necessary to introduce oneself to its reflection. Its antithesis

  “Well,” she thought, “let the games begin.”

  The song changed to one she did not recognize. Not as upbeat as the last. She was sure He was pleased with the new selection. It carried with it the solemn cry of death. Near the bar, a scuffle broke out between two very eager young teens. Children. So childish.

  She made her way toward a small table just off the dance floor. A waitress came by to take her order. She ordered a 7-up even though she knew she would not drink it.

  Behind her, she felt a tap on her shoulder. Her insides shook.

  Butterflies! She turned, just as a young man swung out from behind her.

  “Want to dance?” he asked. He was a child, she thought. Perhaps 16, if that much.

  She smiled as polite a smile as she could muster “No thank you. I think you are a bit young for me.”

  “Well then,” he said, without missing a beat, “is this seat taken?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned toward her. For a moment, she thought he was going to try to kiss her. It took milliseconds to realize his intentions were not nearly so benign. As the amber glow in his eyes grew, she jolted herself backwards from the table.

  Too late. He grabbed her.

  “You will be mine,” He growled. His voice was deep. Immeasurably deep, like the soulless black depths in which his spirit now swam. He had been claimed. The Evil had taken over.

  Methodically he approached her. “Back!” She commanded, but it was no use. She stumbled over her chair, trying desperately to cling to her balance as she struggled to gain a stable footing.

  “You will be mine.”

  “Want to bet?” She said, her confidence returning.

  “I’ll bet your soul,” he whispered. He didn’t need to shout any longer. He was next to her. Leaning in. His body touching hers.

  “It’s not yours to bet!” She screamed, pushing the malevolent sycophant with all her might. He laughed, but it was not his laugh. Not the laugh of a 16 year old boy hitting on some uninterested older woman. It was the laugh of Evil. She looked for Him, but knew that he would not be found. In that moment, he existed only as the servant which he sent to do his bidding.

  “It will be,” the young manikin scowled. “It. Will. Be.”

  Around her, the crowd seemed unaware of the disturbance.

  He glared at her, with piercing ice blue eyes.

  “Want to dance?” he laughed.

  * * *

  Is it possible for Him to feel joy? Happiness? How is it possible that one can relish, and so deeply, something that exists to destroy the very things that allow him to endure? He couldn’t help but be proud of himself. In one single act of fate, He’d proven that she was not ready to face him. Fear existed only to serve him. And serve him it did, tonight. He loved playing games with her. It was perhaps the most fulfilling part of the entire Dance Macabre. He loved watching her reactions, her unreadiness jolting her back to the seriousness of the situation at hand.

  “Underestimate me again,” he thought aloud, “and I won’t be so forgiving.”

  The dance floor filled with more potential victims as the music rose to a fevered pitch. It pained him to hear the life in the rhythmic beats the synthesized drum machines expelled all around.

  He had almost forgotten about his victorious acquisition, then he saw her. Dark brown eyes. Dirty blonde hair. It almost saddened him to realize what she had done to Tina’s perfect existence.

  Sadness and rage. They aren’t that far apart.

  * * *

  Jason Brenton stood out among most of his friends. Many of them were dark-haired, or bleached blonde with obvious dark roots, where Jason was a fair-haired redhead with menacing brown eyes.

  Their low-hung pants and backward caps were nothing like the clean cut Jason. On the outside, he owned the look of a Connecticut boarding school preppy. Polo shirt, Khaki pants, even penny loafers on occasion, minus the penny. Hey, everybody had their limits.

  On the inside, he was every bit the delinquent his friends were. Heavy into Gangster Rap. Frequent dope smoker.

  Just last week he’d snorted his first line of cocaine. As Jason peered around Star Club’s dance floor, on his most recent cocaine high, he sensed that trouble was on its way.

  He smiled.

  Jason loved a fight. He loved lulling an innocent victim into a false sense of a one-on one-confrontation, only to pummel him into submission with the help of his 4 lackeys. He wasn’t all that large. Just a shade under 5’10, weighing 170 lbs., so he claimed. But he had a great equalizer. Friends. Or something close to it.

  When he spotted the tall man sitting near the back wall, he grimaced. This was the sucker. He tapped the stocky hispanic boy to his left. Enrique—Ric to his friends—leaned in to hear over

  Star’s music. “Guy in the trench coat. See him?”

  “Yeah. That the guy?” Ric asked, smiling.

  “Yeah. Grab the boys and wait by the door. When you see us coming, head outside. You know what to do.

  “Heh Heh.” Ric laughed “You’re bad! You know that right?”

  “Straight to Satan’s Front Door, Ric.”

  “Nah! Satanás tenga cuidado, Vato Loco!”

  Satan be warned!

  Ric tapped the other boys and motioned them toward the door. As always, he waited till they were in position to point the sucker out.
<
br />   “Primo Choice, Vato!” one of the boys said.

  “Best beat down yet.” another cheered.

  Across the way, they watched as Jason approached the prey.

  Action was imminent.

  * * *

  He sat there in his acid washed grey trench coat. He was still reveling in the triumphant pride. He’d lost her in the crowd, but he knew she was still there. Gaining strength, he realized. His connection to her was no longer instantaneous. She was learning to mask it. So much the better. He never liked it when she went down too easy. He liked a little bite in his prey.

  As he stood, a young redheaded boy bumped into him with quite a bit of force. He thought the boy fool enough to have done it deliberately.

  “Hey Man! What’s your problem!?” the young boy shouted.

  “Problem?” he asked.

  “Do you have a problem, Jerk?” The young boy kept on.

  “Jerk?” Chills ran up his spine. His eyes closed.

  No, he thought. Not yet.

  The redhead pushed him. “Come on, Punk! Wanna take

  this outside?”

  “Outside,” he nodded.

  “I’m gonna kill you!”

  The young redhead darted for the door. He knew what the boy had in mind. Nothing happens without purpose. He knew what He was walking into and he loved it! The young boy was hollering obscenities from the doorway. Be patient, He whispered aloud. You’ll die soon enough.

  As he neared the doorway, he saw them there. Five of them, counting the redhead.

  “Shame,” he exulted. “I was hoping this would be fun.”

  “Oh it will be,” said the stocky Mexican boy. “I’ll be having fun sticking my foot up your—.”

  Another boy interrupted the young Mexican thug with a shout of “Dude!”

  The boys charged him. He edged his arms outward, palms raising toward the sky. His eyes rolled back in his head. Winds picked up. The fight was reaching its apex, and the unsuspecting boys stood awestruck, ignorant of the fate befalling them. Rumbling sounds filled the night air. Car engines, thunder, or the voice of God letting loose a mournful lament. To the dying spirit, drowning in its own sorrowful blood, they all sound the same.

  “Death,” he growled, as the familiar blue glow grew from his palms. The Tempest of Death had come. And he was the eye of the storm. The bitter calm. The center from which all chaos radiates, the very spot that no chaos can touch.

  The music from Star ceased to penetrate the chaos of the night, but no one seemed to notice. The song of the sunset was more than enough to entertain him and the unwitting souls he would claim.

  A couple of the boys drew 9 mm pistols from somewhere. Too late. Lifeless. Only the redhead stood watching in horror as his four best friends fell lifeless around him.

  “What the . . .” he choked on the words even before he could get them out. Nothing could save him now. He was last, but he was next.

  “Not much fun,” he hissed. But fun would come in time.

  He had yet to deal with her.

  He turned and walked into the night, glancing at the few dust specks that would brave the trip into his world. He brushed them off, thinking of the young boys he vanquished just moments before.

  So like dust. So like Tina. So fragile.

  For a moment, he thought he saw her. Wishful thinking perhaps.

  * * *

  She got to the door just in time to see the carnage that he had dealt. Two young Hispanic boys lay on the ground, another two looked as if they were string puppets in mid fall. Too late to save them. She hurried out into the parking lot, closer to the action.

  She wasn’t scared, but she knew a full-fledged confrontation was not called for. Discretion, they say, is the better part of valor. She heard Death’s agonizing song and knew that the redheaded boy had been claimed. As quickly as the carnage had begun, it stopped.

  He had gone. Back to the gates of Hell, she wished, but it would not be so easy with Him.

  She crawled up to the redhead, crouching so as to avoid being seen. Her eyes rolled back into her head. All around her, the red ambers of universal existence began to burn.

  Come on, Baby, she thought. Don’t let me down now.

  “Life,” she whispered. He had been claimed, but he had a fighting spirit. He had a will to live. He had strength that the others did not. He had led them in life. He would not lead them in death.

  His breathing was shallow, but definite. It had worked. After all that time, she still had the touch. She smiled a prideful smile.

  * * *

  As he started the Ford Bronco, he felt the most alarming disturbance he’d felt in a long time. He felt his soul being ripped at. He felt cracks. He felt . . . Her!

  She must have been close. He had lost one of them.

  He growled, cursed, slamming the door on his Bronco.

  His tires screeched for help, as did the gravel alley from which he sped. When he saw her standing over the living body of the redhead, anger filled him. He wanted to kill her, but the truck wouldn’t do it.

  “Still,” he whispered “You need a lesson.”

  * * *

  As she stood, a dark Ford Bronco passed by, too close. She threw herself backwards more out of Tina’s reflexes than her own fear.

  “Yipes, Old Girl,” she panted. “You have got to be more careful.”

  * * *

  He missed, but that didn’t matter now. He had made his point.

  The night was his. Tomorrow would belong to another.

  CHAPTER 6

  TOMORROW

  Tuesday. Tina had a break from college classes today, so she wasn’t too upset with herself that she had slept so late. She was a bit disoriented, confused even, as to why she might have slept from Monday afternoon until nearly 9 Tuesday morning. Her dreams were filled with cloudy images of death, fear and fun. In her half-woken slumber, she could scarcely make little sense of them. Try though she might, Tina’s dreams were rarely little more than feelings. Often she could not remember her dreams, only the senseless feeling that whatever it was felt very real and very harsh.

  She needed to spend some time today looking through the classifieds and trying to find an acceptable job. She could not survive on her savings account for very long, nor did she relish the thought of draining her “rainy day” money of all its resources.

  She stretched and rose from bed quickly. To her surprise, she found herself dressed, but not in clothes she remembered wearing. Let alone changing into. As she approached the bathroom mirror, she couldn’t escape the sensation of how whorish she felt. She felt the uncontrollable urge to jump into the shower and wash . . . Something. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she could not fight the feeling that whatever she wanted to wash away had once impartially possessed her. She mussed her hair, leaned in close to get a better look at her bloodshot eyes. She didn’t feel drunk or hung over, but for some reason she couldn’t shake the notion that something had happened from the time she got home yesterday until now.

  She groaned. “Oh, I’ll be ok. I just need a shower.”

  There was no greater comfort than a fresh shower. It seemed to invigorate her, charge her with energy, with life. When she was finished, she wrapped her body in a towel, went to her closet and chose a nice gray pin stripped pant suit. It was not flashy in any way. It was professional in appearance. Just the look she would need to make a good impression on prospective employers.

  Without dressing, she laid her pant suit on her bed and crashed down beside it, staring blatantly up at the ceiling, as if she half expected it to crumble down around her. She yawned and managed to stretch several pops out of her joints. Reflex told her to cover herself, for fear of being shamed a Jezebel.

  Having dressed, she went outside to pick up the paper. The wind whipped a chill through the air. She shivered. Across the way, another young woman was making her way down the walkway toward her own morning paper. She waved sleepily in Tina’s direction. Tina reciprocated, if only out of r
eflex. It was the first time she remembered not getting the sudden urge to bolt inside, like a vampire hiding from the dawn. She thought of Devin. Her insides shook.

  * * *

  It was a nice sunny day outside Lisa Warner’s house. A nice breeze whispered good morning, tickling the nape of her neck. As always, her paper was waiting for her. Only, this morning, she wouldn’t be hurriedly cruising the headlines, forcing down a slice of toast and running out the door for work. She would take it easy today, whether she liked it or not. It was the first time in her four years as a police officer that she’d had a day off from work, let alone a vacation.

  That’s what she’d convinced herself it was. Mostly because the words “Mandatory Departmental Suspension” didn’t quite set well with her. It was such garbage, she thought, but it was departmental policy after any situation such as hers. Internal Affairs would investigate the shooting and find out that the 15 year old boy had pulled his gun on her first. Then she would be reinstated, probably with little more than a written reprimand in her file. Behind the scenes, she might even be able to worm a medal out of Lieutenant McAvey.

  Still, this happened to other cops, she thought to herself. Not to someone so orderly and so efficient at her job, other than an affinity for late sleeping of course. She was always early. She might have lived frantically on the edge in order to be early but she was always early nonetheless. She made sure to hurry out the door every morning, just so she would never be less than 10 minutes early for work.

  Other cops made mistakes. It happens. Other cops that graduated lower in the academy ranks. Other cops that didn’t really care, or just did the work for the danger, the payoff or for the selfish notion of occasional recognition by the press. This was not Lisa.

  She sighed as she walked out the front door of her yellow brick home. It was a beautiful place. Small but ample for a single woman with no children and no significant other. There were few frills, but there was no need. Frills just added to the clutter and, if nothing else, gave her something else to have to keep clean.