It was just as he knew the blood would be.
The vampire knew how to hunt and did it well. No skills were required of him on this fair night. He was a spider and a swollen fly had found his web all on her own. It made Pilate smile a wicked smile that was not in the least bit kind
* * * *
Jonah’s wife and he were in Clarkston when their tire blew. Jonah was a bright-eyed clean cut young man back then and he limped their sedan to the nearest service station. Rebecca rubbed her swollen belly. She had a look of concern stamped her as she checked out the bleak surroundings. She didn’t know ghetto.
“Don’t worry,” Jonah told his pregnant wife. He turned into the station. “I’m sure we’ll be able to find someone here to help us.”
Rebecca looked doubtful as she clocked the area all around. All was dark noiseless and bordering on the corner of creepy and eerie. The place looked to her like deep-fried shit. She glanced back at her husband. Rebecca loved Jonah all the more for his lame attempt at a brave face.
“There’s not enough paint in the world for this pig,” she stated. She opened the passenger door, “But it’ll have to do.” She wrinkled her brow at Jonah. “I gotta pee!”
“You always hafta pee,” he replied with a mock gruffness that Rebecca knew was bullshit. Jonah was about as tough as an old teddy-bear with a hangover.
Rebecca exited the car. She walked knock-kneed and grasping the ponderous bulk of her belly. “Gotta pee, gotta pee…” she sang as she scoot-scooted around the corner and out of sight.
Rebecca stopped for a moment when she saw the boy. He was squatting back on his haunches and playing with a cat. The boy was petting and loving it.
“What are you doing back here in the dark?” asked Rebecca. The boy merely looked up at her with his dark-as-secrets eyes and smiled. The boy didn’t answer her. He returned to petting the cat and cooing at it. Rebecca stood on one foot squeezing her thighs together. She was trying her best not to pee down her legs. “What’s your name, little man?” she tried. Rebecca furtively glanced about her in search of the toilet. He did not answer, but the boy seemed to have gleaned her need. The prep school uniformed lad simply pointed the way to the women’s restroom a few short yards away. “Thank you,” Rebecca said. She quickly made her uncomfortable way to the bathroom.
The boy was alone once more. He wiped the slightly shaggy blonde hair from his face. He grabbed the cat with both hands and held her firm. The cat’s scream caught short. Eleven year old fingers were pinching shut the small animal’s throat. He walked as the cat was fighting and dying. The frantic animal bit the shit out of his bloody arms. The cat was scratching to hell every part of the boy she could reach. The boy held on and walked the frenzied cat over to a mop bucket filled with floor cleaner. It was near the back wall of the service garage.
“I’m Jorgie porgie, I like pudding and pie,” the boy sang softly. He reached down with his face and kissed the struggling cat. She tore his mouth, nose and one eye to shreds. “I tried to kiss the girl-kitty,” he continued with an evil little chuckle, “and it made me cry.”
Then, with blood racing from points everywhere, the boy did dunk the cat in a wash basin full of cleaning fluid. He held her down below the green liquid until the cat drowned.
When it ceased struggling Jorgie porgie let go of the dead cat. He noticed Rebecca coming out of the toitee. Then he looked to the man standing dark in the shadows. The man was staring at Rebecca with yellow eyes. She didn’t notice a thing. That made little Jorgie bloody smile.
“Come,” the young lad whispered to yellow eyes. “See what gifts I bring thee.”
* * * *
Jonah opened the driver’s side. He left the car and went to the little ghetto storefront. “CLOSED” the sign on the flyblown glass assured. There was no one anywhere around.
Jonah cursed to himself; –never aloud/allowed anymore. Rebecca hated it and he just fucking adored her. So, shitfuckassholeing to himself, he gazed at the cloudy sky with hands on his hips. He looked to the slow moving clouds and blew a frustrated steam of air through pursed lips.
This trip was getting shittier by the minute. The only reason that Rebecca and Jonah came from Big City to The Harbor was to identify the remains of his father. Amittai’s body rested in the morgue. He lay there squinting pale. Most of Jonah’s father’s blood was mysteriously missing. Otherwise the monstrously successful televangelist, author and ordained minister appeared peaceful and accepting of his fate.
The medical examiner and the local police had no idea how the minister came to be in a Harborside dumpster with a broken neck and nearly emptied of blood. Jonah had no idea what his father would be doing here, either, he told the police. Jonah just came to identify the body.
Jonah’s father and he were never close. Jonah had hoped the grandchild Rebecca carried would be the catalyst to change that. Amittai turned his back on Rebecca and Jonah, but they still hoped he would change his mind. Now it was forever too late.
Jonah turned back to the injured vehicle.
“Looks like I’m gonna have to be a big boy and change my own goddamned tire,” Jonah said, very much to himself.
Jonah went to the rear of the sedan and popped the trunk. He removed the tire iron and jack and placed them beside the sheared tread. A noise brought his head up.
The noise Jonah heard sounded like a wet choking cry. It came from behind the service garage, from the direction Rebecca had gone. Jonah snatched the tire iron from the ground. He ran toward the cry.
Jonah turned the corner of the darkened garage calling out his wife’s name. There was no answer from her, but Jonah saw Rebecca. She was there as he came to a stop. Jonah stared in shock as a vampire was kneeling astride his wife. Her stomach was ripped viciously open.
The night creature held Jonah’s firstborn like an abortion. He was feeding on the mother through the baby. It was a boy.
The vampire suckled the new fruit. He drained the baby first. Then the monster pulled blood up through the still attached umbilical cord from the mother. Rebecca turned her pallid face toward Jonah. She silently mouthed his name.
The vampire lifted his gore-stained face from the abdomen of the child. His lips creased a smile. The yellow eyes beheld Jonah with evil mirth. Oxygen-enriched juice dripped wholesale red from his chin.
“Welcome to The Harbor,” greeted Pilate. He held out the limp remains of Jonah’s son to him. “Try the veal,” he advised.
With the vampire smiling Jonah turned on heel and ran away. Pilate chuckled. Both he and she watched as Jonah abandoned his family. Jonah’s back dissolved into the thick coming dark of the Harborside night.
Rebecca gave up the ghost as the vampire finished his meal with a delightful sigh and a satisfying rush of blessed oxygen.
Pilate never saw Jonah even slow down.
* * * *
Jorgie watched Jonah fly down the street as the vampire fed. Jorgie’s bloody wounds knit and healed. He’s as good as new.
“And when the boys came out to play,” he sang to the feeding vampire, “scared little bitches ran away.”
The boy stood. Jorgie porgie’s schoolboy uniform shred as Lucifer grew out of it. The clothes fell useless at the Devil’s feet.
He chuckled as he walked away. While Pilate was still face deep in Jonah’s twitching baby boy, Satan smiled at a job well done.
The Devil’s in the details.
Chapter Twelve
I’ll make a big noise, with all the big boys,
So much stuff I will own:
Tacitus was so glad the old vampire Herod was long gone. He was such an unhinged and crazy motherfucker.
By way of example: The babies were two years old and Herod had wanted them dead. He’d had another vision. The psychotic vampire lord was ruled by them. He believed they were harbingers of things to come.
In this particular gruesome dream Herod saw the Coming. The Christ child would come with the fiery comet. Two years later and Herod had convinc
ed himself of a final solution. For the vision told of the Christ leading him unto destruction and old Herod would have none of that. He could not allow a Christ to come into The Harbor and foul his power.
Herod knew the Christ child would come as predicted from Clarkston. So Herod ordered the killing of all two-year old boys there. Then to make doubly sure he amended the order to include all babies under the age of two. Whether in Clarkston or The Harbor proper, the vampire Herod wanted them wiped out. He wanted all of the children destroyed.
Tacitus was placed in charge of this purge. He embarked upon it with his usual gusto and care. Herod’s vision did not specify gender. In an exceedingly masculine environ such as The Harbor it was wrongly assumed that the Christ child would be male. That alone spared Immanuel. She was still hidden by Her adoptive parents just in case. She escaped the slaughter of the innocents, but not so three of Tacitus’ own children. He did not expect to successfully dodge any landmines. Tacitus knew without asking that he would receive no clemency from Herod. Tacitus’ children were also on the list.
All three of his boys were under the age of two. He accepted their fate and, therefore, did not even hesitate killing them. The only mercy Tacitus showed was to poison them by lacing their sippee-cups with cyanide and dissolved Soma instead of slitting their throats, or putting two in the skull like he did the other children. Regrettably the cyanide worked much faster than the Soma. His toddlers did not die in their sleep as he had hoped. Fortunately it didn’t take them too terribly long to suffocate to death.
Both of the mothers of Tacitus’ progeny tried to prevent his killing of the children. They ended up sharing burial space with their babies for the trouble.
Tacitus was a loyal soldier. This successful engagement secured him a position as Herod’s most faithful and trusted servant. The purge got him closer to Herod. This allowed him to plot and kill the Herod’s former Second and take his place. That he had to kill his own children was the price for his rise within the organization that the old vampire Herod ran with an iron fist and his deranged mind.
Tacitus was so glad the old vampire Herod was long gone. He was such an unhinged and crazy motherfucker.
The tragic affair added yet another layer of steel to his already hardened heart. Tacitus felt with all of his heart that he was destined one day for the top spot. Now he is Herod and coveting the Pharisees’ throne, since it seems to have been vacated by its previous occupants.
Annas and Caiaphas Pharisee never used their official shared title of Caesar, but Tacitus would. He liked it and coveted their throne in Big City. Tacitus wanted to live like the king he felt he was.
No one can stop me, he believed. I am Caesar.
And once that crown has been acquired, no more babies of his shall be sacrificed. Not for anything.
Tacitus sat in the office corner of the old Throne Room. He readied himself to take the helm. He was Herod now, but Matthias was dead. Annas and Caiaphas Pharisee were both still missing.
The two old men controlled the Plata trade. Tacitus and Matthias already had suppliers for the raw materials to make Plata in hand. The lab nary even missed the Pharisees. Everyone was afraid of them. They were such secretive bastards that nobody even noticed they were gone. And those in their organization that were on lower rungs than Job never wanted to see their scary asses any way.
Tacitus sat at the big desk and looked all around him. He decided that it would not do. The Compound was great for privately engaging in all manners of evil consort. It was ideally situated for hunkering down and circling the wagons for any sort of protracted war. Tacitus knew these things from personal experience, but he could not afford any of those types of distractions. Not now. He did not want a war and he did not want to play. Tacitus wanted to consolidate and enforce his new power. He was going to use this power to become rich and untouchable.
He glanced at the sooty dank walls and thought he should really take over every aspect of the lives of the missing Pharisees, not just the distribution of Plata.
Tacitus had never been to the Pharisees’ palatial LakeShore digs in Big City, but he’d heard all about it from Matthias. It was supposed to be very nice and suitable for a real king. He’d move in and run The Harbor just like the Pharisees did. Without ever having to step foot in this ghetto shit hole again. He would let Job move his family tribe into the Compound and make him the Herod. Tacitus would go to Big City and crown himself Caesar.
There were two telephones on the desk in front of Tacitus. The one to his left the minions used for street-level shit. The other one to the right was a direct line to the penthouse. That one rang.
A stunned Tacitus picked it up after the first ring.
“Right here,” he said. He had a bad feeling about this.
“Hello,” replied a female voice never heard from before, “I’m calling for the Pharisees,” she told him. “Is this Tacitus, The Harbor Herod?”
Shit. How could it be known already? Tacitus wondered. This shit just went down.
“Who is this?” asked Tacitus. His heart chugged.
“Who do you think it is?” she said. Her soft silky voice changed at once to the distinct voice of Caiaphas Pharisee.
Shit. The bosses are back and you’re gonna be in trouble. Hey la, hey la, my bosses are back.
Shit.
Chapter Thirteen
Implications of knowing all:
“Caiaphas, Sir,” Tacitus managed, almost croaking out the response. “I did not expect to hear from you. Are you well?”
“Never mind that,” he brusquely replied. “A little bird told me that you have claimed the throne from Salome. Is this true?”
“Yes sir it is. The quotas have been slipping of late and I felt it best to have a change in the structure until such time as your return.”
“Which is now, coincidentally,” the ghost Pharisee told him. “We have been unavailable, but we have returned. Rest assured we will get to the bottom of everything that has been going on in our name and under our umbrella during our absence.”
“Have you heard what happened to Mathias?” the new and frightened Herod asked him.
“Yes, yes,” Caiaphas replied with an irritated short. “We are quite aware of what transpired. We have already dealt squarely with him. Matthias received his just desserts.”
SHIT! It was them. Good fuck did Matthias tell them anything?
“Well, uh- what can I do to help you Sir?” asked Tacitus. He gripped the desk, truly concerned now. His heart fluttered and flopped about in his chest. The fear pushed out of him. They overdosed him. If those two knew about Matthias, how much would they know about the new Herod? “Tell me what you need Good Sirs,” Tacitus obsequiously replied.
“First, do not worry. Had we been around I would have granted you charge to remove Salome. We would have given you our blessing to become the Herod, as we are doing now.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“We need to see you in order to make the transition official and to mandate new strategies.”
“Of course,” Tacitus replied, “When do you need me?”
“Come tonight,” the Pharisee ordered, “And bring your young Job with you.”
“Without fail Sir,” Tacitus genuinely pleased. He was scared a little bit less, “Job and I will be there. We will not let you down.”
“On that we shall see my dear Tacitus.” Caiaphas hung up.
Tacitus heard the dial-tone. He replaced the phone on its cradle. He leaned back and blew a long exhalation out of his pursed mouth. He thought how quick one’s fortunes can change. Tacitus went in one day from being the Second, to Herod, to plans of Caesar, to dreading his own possible execution and then back to Herod once more. All this shit with the Pharisees’ blessing.
Tacitus sat and thought this all out. He was glad for the official promotion, but he was still filled with dread at the old man’s implication of knowing all.
Hell, I’m still going to Big City to see the Pharisees. I’ll bring
Job, as ordered, but I’m not going in naked. I’m also going heeled, thought Tacitus. And, sure as shooting, I’m bringing muscle with me, he finished. Tacitus was thinking of the huge and imposing albino Ovid. The soft-headed mongoloid motherfucker was well over six feet tall and weighed three bills if he weighed an ounce. Ovid was just the shot in the arm Tacitus’ rapidly flagging bravery needed. He had no idea what would happen, but the possibilities are dire, indeed.
“And if they do know of our dip in the cookie jar,” Tacitus then mumbled to himself, “My life won’t be worth a velvet painting of Elvis.”
Tacitus desperately wanted to bring everyone (I just love when a nigga bring his whole crew, it’s just a bigger piece of cake for me to chew a hole through) but he can’t. Anything heavier than one bodyguard and the Pharisees will know Tacitus knows what’s really up.
Maybe they’ll want to frisk me, too, Tacitus considered. There’s no place to hide a weapon that those niggas won’t already know.
Tacitus had to take his chances and hope to God shit spins out right.
And then again Tacitus could be completely off the mark with his worrying. He just could not tell for sure. Maybe it was part of some elaborate ruse; the Pharisees have a reputation for wasting motherfuckers on the spot.
It was anyone’s guess.
With these two crazy, cruel, old fucks it’s all games, games and more games.
Tacitus hated playing fucking games with the rich and untouchable. He wasn’t in charge, however, and the Pharisees were. Tacitus has to dance to whatever tune the Caesars’ decide to play.
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