Of Blood and Stone

by Howard Upton

  “Close. No good,” repeated their driver from his opened window, indicating that the museum was not opened for business. Suddenly, he opened his door and jumped out. Buddy and Evers took a step backward uncertain of the man’s intentions. He began motioning them up a sidewalk, his gesture friendly like there was something he wanted them to see. His face was full of excitement as though he had remembered something and wanted to share it with the two of them.

  “Okay, okay,” Evers responded as he patted the man on the shoulder. They followed him up the sidewalk then up a series of winding concrete stairs until they reached the plateau. At the top, the two men were astounded to see one lone, stone warrior atop a fierce looking horse bathed in white light from a street lamp standing ten feet above the warrior’s head. Insects swooped around the street lamp, while an occasional stray would buzz the statue’s helmeted head. The warrior’s expression made both men pause for a few seconds. Evers glanced at Buddy, but Buddy’s face revealed nothing. Instead he reached into his wallet and seized another hundred Yuan and handed it to the cab driver.

  Evers thanked the driver before motioning him to leave. The driver bowed and thanked them both for the additional money, money that would go a long way toward feeding his family. He turned and walked back down the stairs to his cab.

  “Well, I’m of the opinion, Buck, that this is our boy Dugan’s first target. It makes perfect sense. The warrior is outside, he doesn’t have to break in to try to reverse the spell, and I believe this statue we’re looking at was the focal point of the legendary spell caster. Even though I’m looking at the ‘lone warrior statue,’ I can’t believe the legend is really true,” Buddy said considerably shaken at the sight.

  “For the first time in a while, Buddy, I think you’re right. Amen. Let’s move into position so we can keep an eye out for our targets. I’m going to find a good place to lay low and out of sight over here to the left, you take the right,” said Evers, the tactical soldier and mercenary coming out of him.

  Evers had been careful to purchase darker clothes and sneakers while in Manila, which proved strategic as he looked for camouflage and cover. He found a small row of hedges just beyond the bright street lamp’s reach and lay down in front of them, appropriately molding to the ground and vegetation. Hidden in plain sight, he thought to himself as he loaded his plastic pistol and stuck it in his waistband. He became deathly still; his only movement was his blinking eyes.

  Although his adrenaline had begun pumping he closed his eyes and slowed his breathing and heart rate. Soon the only sound to be heard was the occasional rustling of leaves as a squirrel pilfered the ground in search of food, and the buzzing of the street lamp. On the other side of the statue Evers could detect no movement. He knew Buddy had taken similar cover.

  The worst part of being a professional killer is the waiting, that is, aside from the obvious mental defects it sometimes creates after the deed is done. The planning, the meticulous calculations, the travel, the boredom…all of those things are nothing compared to the waiting.

  Patience is the one thing I’ve always struggled with, even in my martial arts training. Yonomo Sensei would tell me, “If you have an annoying fly in your house you can be patient and swat it when it lands, or you can set your house on fire and burn it to the ground. Either way the fly is dead.”

  That analogy still makes me laugh, but he was certainly right. The end result is the same, but the strategy used to get there is what matters. Patience should always be an integral part of strategy; without it the result can be catastrophic.

  “Sensei, I understand the ‘whys’ of patience, I just don’t understand the ‘how,’” he had explained to Yonomo. The two of us, student and master, sat in the formal seating position known in Japan as seiza, our knees on the tatami, or mat, and feet tucked neatly behind us, our left big toe crossed behind our right.

  Yonomo nodded his understanding at his disciple and silently rose as a curt, “Hai,” flew from his mouth.

  I was confused, but followed Sensei’s lead and rose as well. He motioned for me to stand in front of him then muttered “Dozo, Bill-san. You punch me.”

  I realized Sensei was about to teach me something, but I was still confused what that teaching would consist of or what this was about, so I asked, “In the face, Sensei, or your chest?”

  Yonomo laughed at my question and said, “Doesn’t matter. You pick where you want to punch me and when. I will decide whether I block or counter your attack. That is how fights work, Bill-san.”

  I pulled both hands to my chest like a boxer, as opposed to the usual fighting position traditional karate-ka assumed in the dojo. Sensei always became angered when students would stand in that position when he asked for a uke (partner) when demonstrating a technique. He would tell everyone that no one does that outside the dojo, so why would we practice that way?

  Sensei stood, casually, with both hands at his side, his right foot slightly behind him and both eyes locked on mine. I had the keen sense that he could read my mind and knew what I was going to do before I did it, but shook the sensation from my mind.

  We stood like that for what seemed an eternity, me on my toes poised to attack my sensei, he relaxed and breathing normally. I had always been a big guy and quick with my hands and feet. As a matter of fact, I took great pride in my ability to move the way I did; most people wouldn’t expect someone as large as I am to be able to move that way.

  My right hand shot out at Sensei’s head, my hips snapping to add power to the punch. Yonomo waited until my hand was a hairbreadth from his face then shifted his feet slightly to the right while his open left hand drilled into my shoulder immediately stopping my punch. My body felt as though a bolt of electricity had traveled from my right shoulder all the way down to my right knee.

  In a blur Sensei’s open right hand lightly struck the left side of my neck. That was the last thing I remembered before opening my eyes, finding myself lying on the floor, and Sensei again sitting in seiza sipping green tea.

  My eyes were watery and a tear rolled down my cheek. I shook my head and it exploded with pain. “What happened?” I asked.

  Sensei, a smirk on his face, replied, “Bill-san, I was attempting to teach you a lesson about patience when you decided to go to sleep.”

  My brain recalled the lesson, my punch and his unfathomably quick reaction right before my hand was due to connect with his face. “How did you do that, Sensei?” I asked as my senses came back to me and the pounding in my head subsided.

  He laughed. “Patience, Bill-san; that’s how I did that.”

  The memory that flooded into Evers’ head was a not-so-subtle reminder to be in the moment and block external influences that created impatience. He could hear cars in the distance and could almost detect Buddy’s breathing as he focused his mind. Being in the moment was another lesson his sensei had taught him, and he embraced it. His military training had heightened and elevated those lessons making them a part of who he was and had become.

  Twenty minutes passed, then forty, and soon two hours were gone. Still, Evers remained in the moment, relishing the ground on which he lay and the sights and sounds of this strange, new land. Down the hill by the museum he heard car doors shut – two of them. A couple of moments later he could hear shoes as they labored up the steps leading to the lone Warrior.

  Xi’an, China

  July 25, 2013 12:03 A.M.

  Dugan and Rafael stepped into the bright light of the street lamp. Rafael stopped in his tracks to gaze at the giant stone horse and soldier who sat atop it. He held his breath in stark recognition. After some time he walked over to it and ran his hand across the Warrior’s leg and the horse’s nose. His eyes took in the whole scene before he looked at Dugan and nodded his head, the silent acknowledgment understood by both.

  He walked back to Dugan’s side as Dugan’s hand slipped into his pocket. When he withdrew his hand he was holding the cartouche, now on a small chain. Rafael’s gaze locked on the jewel. Th
is time Dugan handed it to him willingly.

  Evers watched as Rafael turned toward the statue, his outstretched hand holding the chain. The cartouche dangled and swayed in the gentle summer breeze. He closed his eyes and the chant began quietly, but quickly grew louder.

  “Hua shi yŏng zŭ xiàng...Hua shi yŏng zŭ xiàng...Hua shi yŏng zŭ xiàng,” called out Rafael. Evers watched the man holding the jewel he had traveled half a world to retrieve stand in a strange trance and chant words that he had never before heard. From nowhere a cold wind blew through the area directly in the path of the stone warrior, the key bearer, and Dugan.

  Just behind the pair, standing in front of the statue, Evers saw Buddy holding the 3-D forty caliber pistol. This was his signal to action. He pulled his own weapon and belly crawled to the edge of the light from the street lamp, circling behind Dugan and Rafael. He rose to one knee and leveled his pistol at Dugan’s head.

  Buddy stepped into the light and said, “It’s over Dan. Time to give me the cartouche like we originally agreed upon. You’ve received half your money and you’ll get the other half as promised when I get home.”

  Dugan’s head snapped to his right to find Buddy standing with the oddest looking gun he’d ever seen. Rafael didn’t budge, apparently lost in the jewel’s enchantment. His chant continued to grow louder.

  “Hua shi yŏng zŭ xiàng! Hua shi yŏng zŭ xiàng! Hua shi yŏng zŭ xiàng!” The sound of his voice reverberated although there were no walls or surfaces to create the echo. A strange thrumming was heard all around them, and another cold blast of wind blew from the mountains towering over the valley.

  Evers rose and moved directly in front of Rafael, his pistol now pointing at the Mexican’s heart. A third blast of cold air rushed over them and Evers would have sworn that everything became wavy for just a few seconds. Rafael’s chant grew louder and louder until he was shouting at the top of his lungs. Cold air encircled them all and clouds quickly passed in front of the night’s half-moon.

  Dugan stared at Evers with his hands in the air and said over the top of Rafael’s chant, “Well, you certainly are a resourceful one, Mr. Smith, but I’m afraid you are entirely too late. You are about to witness the most powerful army in all the world come to life! There’s nothing you can do to stop that now.”

  Evers commanded Rafael, “Give me the cartouche right now or I will shoot you!”

  Rafael, oblivious to the demands, continued his chant, “Hua shi yŏng zŭ xiàng! Hua shi yŏng zŭ xiàng! Hua shi yŏng zŭ xiàng!” Evers watched the cartouche rock back and forth in Rafael’s hand as a soft blue-white glow engulfed the jewel.

  There was a strange shifting sound behind Evers. He didn’t dare take his eyes off his intended target, but allowed his ears to focus on the sound. Just to his left a strange grinding noise emanated very close to him.

  “Buck, look out!” Buddy screamed.

  Before he could react something hard and strong hit him squarely in the back, knocking and rolling him fifteen feet from where he stood. His breath rushed from his lungs and his ribs screamed in protest. The plastic pistol he was holding fell very hard to the ground and shattered, its bulleted contents rolling harmlessly in every direction. He struggled to force air back into his chest wall. Slowly, his head turned and he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  As Rafael’s chant continued, “Hua shi yŏng zŭ xiàng! Hua shi yŏng zŭ xiàng! Hua shi yŏng zŭ xiàng,” the Terracotta Warrior’s left arm, the one not holding the stone sword, was moving at the elbow and shoulder. Its fingers wiggled making the strange grinding noises Buck had heard just a moment earlier.

  One of the steed’s forelegs pawed at the ground beneath it. Evers thought he saw steam blow from the horse’s nostrils as Rafael took a step closer to the strangely moving stone statue. The cartouche began to rotate on its chain like a small tornado.

  In all the confusion, Dugan seized the moment and kicked Buddy hard in his midsection. He fell to his knees but managed to cradle the pistol to keep it from slamming onto the hard ground. His nemesis moved to stomp his head as he gasped for air.

  The cold wind created a bizarre vortex around the men and stone warrior. Leaves that had fallen from the surrounding trees were swirling in the gusts, all keeping time with the rotating cartouche. The Warrior’s head turned toward Evers and his mouth moved! Evers had never heard such an ear piercing screech in his life. The sound was wild and primal, its force such that he was momentarily frozen where he stood.

  Buddy looked up just as Dugan’s foot began its downward motion to smash his face and head. In one smooth arc he raised his pistol, breathing a silent prayer that it wouldn’t fail, and squeezed the trigger. A bullet erupted from the gun’s barrel hitting Dugan in the back of his leg and exited the top of his thigh. He screamed and fell to the sidewalk holding the wound, which bled profusely. The gunshot’s sound echoed loudly all around them.

  Evers managed to get to his feet, the air fighting his lungs all the way down and back through his nose. He wheezed as he stepped toward Rafael who was transfixed on the moving statue. His chant continued as loudly as it had over the past five minutes. The cold air whipped all around them, each oblivious to its sound or sensation.

  In a blaze of fists and fury Evers unloaded on Rafael’s face and ribs. A properly placed hook punch spun the man’s head in an almost unrealistic arc on a neck that looked as though it struggled to support everything above it. A disgusting crunch rang out and Rafael’s chant stopped. The cold wind, however, continued to swirl and the stone horse’s tail twitched in a most odd way.

  The Mexican collapsed to the ground, his broken jaw agape and his eyes closed. Evers reached for the cartouche that was still wrapped in Rafael’s fingers. He felt the thrum and vibration in the chain from the jewel when he lifted it away from Rafael’s hand. The ancient spell coursed through the cartouche, into his body, and was projected to the stone statue. Evers sensed the power of the relic, but watched helplessly as the stone warrior turned his head and attention toward him. All at once Evers realized the soldier recognized the cartouche, as another grizzly howl of anger and pain pushed from its lungs, through its throat, and out of its mouth.

  His sword bearing arm began to move as the spell slowly lifted it away from its body. One of the horse’s rear legs twitched at the same time its stone neck swayed. Evers, still stunned at the sight, took a full step away from the statue.

  Evers felt an arm wrap around his left knee and a punch land in his groin. Yelling from the blow, hot pain rushing from his loins to his guts. He looked down in time to see Rafael begin to stand, his broken jaw swaying on its hinges. Without thought, Evers left fist shot from his side and struck Rafael’s trachea. He felt the small bones and cartilage snap in the man’s neck. For a second time Rafael collapsed to the ground, this time for good.

  An eerie horse’s neigh made Evers eyes snap back to the Warrior and his steed. In an instant, the horse and its rider turned, facing the two men head on. The horse’s head bobbed up and down as the warrior swung his stone sword arm in preparation to kill. The horse reared up on its back legs just before it charged.

  “Buck, throw that fucking charm on the ground!” Buddy screamed.

  Without questioning his old mentor, Evers dropped the cartouche on the sidewalk. The horse’s forelegs hit the pavement and began charging the two men, the soldier raising his sword to levy a fatal strike on one or both of them. Evers looked up to see the sword on course to slice through his neck.

  A loud blast once again boomed all around the men, deafening them for a few seconds. The bullet from Buddy’s gun slammed into the cartouche sending pieces flying in multiple directions. Evers watched in horror as the sword closed the distance to his neck.

  Sand, grit, and a cold blast of air swept across his neck as the Terracotta Warrior turned to dust. Evers looked around his feet in disbelief as the warm summer breeze that had drifted through the area before Dugan and Rafael had arrived pushed grayish sand across the sidew
alk.

  “Noooooooooooooo,” screamed Dugan! “You stupid bastard, Smith! I’ve spent the past two years tracking down that jewel and now you’ve destroyed everything,” he snarled as he lay on the sidewalk still holding his bleeding leg.

  Buddy smirked at Dugan and said, “Well, ain’t that a bitch, Dugan? I’ll tell you what, you can explain to the Chi-com police, that are certainly on their way here to investigate, all about how I ruined your dream of stealing their stone army and selling it to the highest bidder. As a matter of fact, you explain to them how you planned on figuring out how to recreate the curse so you could have your own Terracotta Army.” He turned his attention to Evers and finished, “Let’s get the hell out of here, Buck. We don’t need to be here when they arrive.”

  Dugan suddenly had a look of terror on his face. “You can’t leave me here. I’m a fucking American,” he croaked.

  Buddy looked at Evers and chuckled then threw the plastic pistol to the ground. The gun shattered into hundreds of pieces, and the remaining bullets rolled harmlessly on the sidewalk. Evers smiled at his friend as they turned their back on Dugan, leaving him in a pool of his own blood, and with the knowledge that in a few minutes he would be seized by people not known to be very affectionate.

  Langley, Virginia, U.S.A.

  January 3, 2014 10:08 A.M.

  Evers walked into the Barnes and Noble book store and located the Starbucks sign in the far right corner. He weaved around countless yuppies in search of self-help books and teens and twenty-something’s, all dressed in black with bars, studs, and rings hanging from their faces, perusing the gothic and cult sections. The warmth of the store was a welcome relief after walking for a few minutes in the northern Virginia winter.

  As he approached the coffee shop he heard what sounded like singing. The singing actually sounded more like a donkey in the throes of blissful passion. Evers was shocked to see Buddy sitting at a table with his computer open, ear buds shoved in his ears, eyes closed, and belting out Delbert McClinton’s No Mississippi.