I look up, uncomprehendingly.
“That's the kid that bit Juan,” Mr. Green yells, fighting for balance as the world moves back and forth beneath our feet.
Juan . . . where's Juan?
We both look frantically around. And seeing Juan standing there with the machine gun pointed at me, a red dot lighting my chest, I get it. I finally put it together.
85
A moment of sad enlightenment later . . .
You travel through blood, I say to my former friend. That's how you do it.
“Juan, put the goddamn gun down!” Mr. Green yells, his pistol steadied at Juan's head.
He's not Juan anymore, I say calmly.
“You're an idiot, Jack,” Evil Juan says in the queen's English. “So busy trying to fix your own mistakes you didn't pay attention to what was really going on around you.”
The light glowing in my left eye giving me advanced knowledge of where the bullet is going to enter, I say, “ . . . why?”
Juan laughs, “Evolution, you talking monkey. God holds the key to a human being's afterlife. We're going to be greater than human. More than human . . .
“ . . . we'll be better than God.”
That's absurd.
“Is it, Jack? Is it? We're going to evolve past humanity. We'll become something bigger, grander, and we will be beyond the whims of a jealous, angry, vengeful God. An unworthy God who's been asleep at the wheel from the start.”
Who are you to decide?
“Who is he ?” Juan yells angrily. “You don't even know where you belong. He doesn't love you. You're just a low level employee. Barely middle management. You could have come with us. You could have been the twenty-forth.”
What you're doing is unnatural. It goes against the natural order of—
“The natural order . . . ” Juan says, the words trailing off into laughter. “Are you serious? Really, are you having a laugh? This is the natural course. Evolution through change and chance and struggle . . . that is nature. It's just too bad you couldn't have been a part of the new era.”
His finger tightens on the trigger as he says, “You should have stayed dead, Jack.”
I have my Rambo knife on my left hip, a pistol on my right thigh. But I know I'll never reach either of them before he ventilates my head.
“Tell me what to do,” Mr. Green says, dropping to a knee for support . . . to aim at his target.
Put your gun down, Mr. Green. There's no sense in both of us dying. I'm already dead, anyway. I'm good at it.
And then I just close my eyes and wait for it to all be over.
Forgive me, I say . . . for I have failed.
And that's when I feel his fingers depress the trigger.
86
0.00005 seconds later . . .
In the space between when he pulls the trigger and when the hammer starts to fall towards the waiting 9 mm. bullet, I grab the black shadow blade from the gatherer behind me.
As the metal of the firing pin approaches the primer on the cartridge I hurl the blade forward faster than anything I've ever done in my entire remembered life.
My purpose was for that one moment.
That one throw.
This isn't a pink dot at a carnival, and I won't be winning a stuffed horsey.
This is pure evil, and I might be winning back my own salvation.
As the compression of the hammer's metal on the primer starts to ignite the ammonium picrate inside, the black blade from the darkness enters his chest, taking Juan off his feet sending him hurling towards the ground
The bullet fires upwards as the gun spins awkwardly.
I run towards Juan's body knowing I only have a narrow window to contain him. The Evil children were difficult enough, so I'm sure a full grown adult is nearly impossible to overpower. Along the way I extend my arms running past two more gatherers who provide me with their blades.
The bullet slug hasn't left the barrel yet, and already I've thrown the two blades. Everything is happening at uneven, non-linear time. I know I'm not this fast. For sure, I'm supposed to be dead. But all I do is continue to react. Something inside of me pushing.
By the time I jump onto Juan's tumbling body, two more knives are slapping into my palms as I fall to my knees, chopping at his chest.
This body driver has got to feel like the biggest dumbass ever. A real disgrace to Evil.
As I cut down into his body, the purple fluid spraying everywhere, I say, “You . . . should . . . have . . . pulled . . . the . . . trigger! You . . . blood-sucking . . . bastard!”
And then I deliver the fatal blow.
Craaaacccck-pop !
The gatherer's long black claws dive into Juan's chest, fighting for the transient soul that almost escaped us. Tearing with a ferocity I've never seen nor imagined, they pull the soul from Juan and race off into the darkness.
Not a thank you, or even a nod.
Just gone.
Juan turns to his side, retching and convulsing as he reaches for his chest. Mr. Green holsters his pistol as he runs over to his partner's side.
“Juan, dime algo!” Mr. Green yells.
“Calla te, gringo!” Juan replies as he finishes throwing-up. “Is it out of me?”
“It's gone,” I say, putting a hand on his shoulder. He looks up, his eyes watering as the gatherers slowly back away, one by one disappearing into the black abyss of the forest.
“Grab Juan,” I tell Mr. Green. At the same moment I pick up the screamining child and cut her free of the zip-ties.
We're not out of the woods, yet.
Mr. Green supporting Juan, Ms. Josephine ahead of us, Ricky and Mr. Blue and the freed children, we're all running as if the sky was falling. Thing about it: it actually is . The cloudy sky above us is bright, igniting with brilliant orange and fiery red as the Cotopaxi Volcano finally succumbs to its internal pressure.
Trees and burning and lava are exploding all around us as we run with the formerly black forest as bright as a summer's day. Brighter, even. The ground is not just shaking, it's moving. Chunks of uprooted trees and plants falling sideways and rising above us.
The ground that was flat is now uneven and nearly impassable, but we're not hesitating. Not even for a second!
Rocks and boulders are being swallowed by the earth that was calm and complacent just hours ago.
These are the worst parts of revelations going on all around us as we run for our lives. This is a first-look at what the End of Days will be like. And it won't be pretty. Behind us is a giant explosion, incinerating the clearing we were just at.
The trees where the children were being held captive and slowly drained of blood, they no longer exist except in our nightmares.
Run! Run! Run ! I scream.
I can feel the heat on my skin as we race forward. And I hope we didn't come this far to be covered in hot magma. That would be a real letdown. Epic-scale upset.
Tree after tree explodes around us like there were sticks of dynamite in them. We finally make our way past the last line of trees in this impossible burning forest. We find ourselves being hurried into several vehicles and I see father Pete helping us get to safety. This is an odd turn of events that I don't have time to consider as we're dodging Hell's cough drops.
Before I know it, we're racing away, a caravan of vehicles. Rescued children, battered souls, and uncomprehending minds, all of us wondering as we bounce around, trying to beat the rain of hot ash and spewed lava.
This is death, my new life.
We're the actors when the stage catches on fire.
We are the paintings while the museum is burning to the ground . . . waiting for a miracle.
And I lower my head, laughing until the laughter subsides and gives way to tears. I just sit, bouncing here and there as my tears leave clean streaks in the make-up and stains of life-force that cover my face.
I don't even know what emotions I'm feeling.
I just let them keep on coming.
87
Several minutes later . . .
As we race away from certain death and disaster, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I lift my head to the left, just enough to see Juan, one hand on his neck, the other on me. He's alive. The children, most of them, are alive. Ricky and Ms. Josephine and Mr. Green and Mr. Blue, are all alive.
I'm alive, or dead, or alive . . . I'm not sure, anymore.
I'd like to think I've arrived at some kind of conclusion about all of this. Answers.
What have I become?
What side do I belong on? The earth plane, or Deadside?
Am I in control of my fate? Or am I just a puppet on the end of some invisible strings that only I can't see?
“I think we've made it,” Father Peter Scarcelli, or whoever he actually is, yells over a static-laden radio transmission. Everything is still rumbling and shaking like we're stuck in a paint mixer.
Hey, if the Vatican says we're good . . . who am I to argue.
Pan-American Highway, 21 miles outside Quito, Ecuador.
3 hours, 33 minutes, 33 seconds later . . .
My eyes have been closed for the last couple hours, or couple hundred kilometers. I'm not sure which is more correct. The toilets flush the same but the distance is different. Evil is the same, but the harvesting is different. Maybe it's all the same.
I haven't been able to sleep. I'm trying to make some sense out of what happened. And here's what I think I know.
I think the Evils transfer by blood-to-blood contact.
When they enter a body they find some way to suppress the original soul and take over. Body drivers. It's like they just stole a car and pushed the other driver into the backseat to quietly watch.
I think all the animals that we found dead indicates that they were attempting to transfer into different animals. Perhaps they did. All the proof has been covered in ash and apocalyptic fire and brimstone.
They need blood to survive. Maybe two souls is just too much stress on a single body and they need a constant source of life-force. That might also explain the elevated heat Ricky was talking about in the bodies. I imagine it like plugging too many appliances into an electrical outlet: too much load and you end up melting and burning stuff out.
Fuses pop.
The system has catastrophic failure, eventually.
These are the things I think I know.
But I have too many questions to even consider right now.
On the radio the broadcasters are saying that the eruption and subsequent earthquakes that came from the Cotopaxi Volcano were all part of its 15-year natural cycle of tension release. It was just a matter of time, they say. A waiting game.
Imagine that, labeling an event of that magnitude commonplace . No different than, say, the sun setting, or some rainfall in the east. Just another natural development that you could set your watch by if you had enough time.
Over the radio I've been hearing father Pete communicating with the federal policia giving them the children's names so that their parents can be informed. The couple we thought was responsible, we're just two parents being forced to provide the Evils with material support to save their own two children.
Arturo and Celia Morales.
Whether or not they were inhabited by the Evils for some or all of the blood-sucking, we'll never know. And at this point, nobody is going to be asking those kinds of questions.
I hope Mr. Green apologizes to them for the little interrogation session.
All in all, four children ended up dead. And that's on me. Their drained blood is on my incompetent hands. Ms. Josephine will assure me that it's not my fault, but we'll both know otherwise.
At some point, and I don't know when, I have to answer for all the bodies. It'll just be me and the big guy, and I'll probably be twiddling my thumbs like the retard I am, without an excuse worth giving. I'm not looking forward to that meeting, really.
We got into Quito and made our way to the Jesuit church La Compañía. There we were met by tons of local, state, and federal police. Inspector Rodriguez, with his baggy eyes, was there. He was followed by about four spooks. That's two more than he had a few days ago. I see a pack of cigarettes in his pocket.
Cancer, probably.
Between thank yous , and God bless yous , I pulled him aside and told him to find a church, grab a priest, and get some faith. I told him to do it today !
He smiled, his tired face softening as he said, “Estas cansado, Señor.”
You're tired, Sir.
He continued, “You and your Canadian friends did some good things, here. Get some rest.” And then he shook his head like I'm the crazy one.
Ricky, Ms. Josephine, Mr. Green, Mr. Blue, Juan, and I have all gotten together and had some paramedics look us over. Juan's neck injury was curiously not infected. Apparently, something in the saliva—the anticoagulants, Ricky theorizes—kept the wound incredibly clean and bacteria free.
He lost a few pints of blood, but he said for us not to worry because he had plenty more where that came from.
Yeah, Juan's a pretty tough son-of-a-bitch. I'm sure glad we didn't shoot him in the face.
Father Pete approached us after the press was shooed away and the police were done asking their questions. He thanked us and apologized for “lapses in judgment” that led to “over zealous decisions” yesterday.
You mean when you sent those guys out to kill us? I asked flatly. Little oversights and lapses in judgement like that?
“I did not know what your intentions were, and I only had the best interests of the missing children and their families at heart.”
The way he speaks, his mannerisms and gestures, all seems genuine. Everything he says and does appears honest and apologetic. But I can't shake this feeling that he's got another agenda all together. It's just a hunch I have, but I've been listening to those hunches a lot more, lately.
“If the World Peace Brigade would like additional funding,” Father Pete says, “the Vatican would like to be a donor.”
Ricky, always smiles and handshakes, he says, “Well, Father, we will certainly take your offer to our board of directors. Every dollar today might save a child tomorrow.” He's an entire sales force, that Ricky. My pseudo-brother. The smartest guy I know.
Ms. Josephine, I guess reading my mind, asks, “Mistah Peter, what were you going to do to da perpetrators of dose kidnappin's . . . I mean, if dat cult 'adn't been buried by 'ot ash?”
He has this wonderfully animated, yet humble, smile, “We would have brought them all to the Ecuadorian authorities so that the law of the land could prevail and justice could ultimately be served by both man and God. But then . . . they all died, didn't they. Killed by the volcano?”
We all nod, doing our best not to look shifty-eyed.
“There were four of them, you said?” father Pete asks as if he knows that we're being withholding.
That's right. Four adult male Satan worshippers that liked to ritualistically drink children's blood.
He nods slowly, “Right.” He looks at us, cocks his head to the side and sighs with a slight grin. “Well, I guess we'll never know.”
I shrug, my eyes downcast. “Yeah, father, only God knows, now.”
Father Pete makes his way to each and every one of us, shaking our hands as he gives us a polite social hug, and then shuffles off to ponder our lies.
I wonder about the longterm ramifications of lying to a holy man from the Vatican, but then I dismiss it. I've got so much damn blood on my hands that a couple of white lies to a suspicious catholic isn't going to sway my pits of fiery afterlife one way or another.
Mr. Green, has been pretty quiet since he saw all of the horrible Deadside things. The gatherers and my admittedly grotesque soulectomy procedures on the four Evils. He turns to me, whispering, “ . . . I still have a few questions about what happened.”
I know.
“No, Jack . . . really,” he stressed, a bit unsettled still.
I know .
Then a face from our recent past, full of tears and joy and helplessness and elation, she walks over to us with her son. Señiorita Alonzo and her two sons find us and she thanks us between her sobs. Her son Carlos was one of the kids that Evil inhabited. I don't think I'll mention how I had to box him to the ground to get him tied up.
She and Ms. Josephine hug and they trade words. I guess that chicken paid off in the long run. She thanks all of us, and I don't mind admitting that it did make me feel a little better about myself. At least, for now.
When she walks away Ricky turns to us, “Who wants an all expense paid weekend in Cancun?”
Are there any volcanoes? I ask.
“None.”
“Me gusta la playa,” Juan says, a smile briefly passing his otherwise worn and tired face. I can see that it pains him to move his head more than a few degrees in any direction.
“I like the beach, too,” Mr. Green says, nodding.
“Yo tambien,” Mr. Blue adds.
Me too.
I look at Ms. Josephine, her shoulders lifting and dropping. I nod. We're all ready for some down time.
“You know,” I tell them, “ . . . this is only the beginning.”
“Even da good days 'ave to start out wit darkness,” Ms. Josephine says as she grabs my bruised, battered hands. She slowly lifts them, turning my wrists until my palms are exposed to her eyes. She smiles, places my hands together and shakes them a bit. Almost a jiggle, really.
“What do you see?” I ask, looking into her once blind eyes. Eyes that see more than the rest of us.
“I see a man who needs a slice of pepperoni and mushroom pizza.”
I smile, looking at the others, “ . . . she's good.”
Epilogue
Cancun, Mexico.
Saturday, July 28th, 7:36 pm . . .
My name is Jack Pagan . . . and I'm just over seven-months-old.
The sun is this giant orangish-red ball that's setting behind us, making the ocean and the horizon both beautiful and ominous at the same time. At the farthest edge of our sight, the water seems to melt into the dark sky in the place between dogs and wolves and sharks and impossible forests.
See Jack Hunt (See Jack Die) Page 33
