by Ren Hamilton
“I guess. It’s just that I’ve been dreaming about Joey every night. In each dream I’m trying to save his life. The dreams are monstrous. They wake me up with headaches.”
“They’re dreams, Patrick. That’s all. It’s your subconscious trying to sort through everything that’s been happening to you. The fact that you’re having bad dreams has nothing to do with yours or anybody else’s blood. The only power anyone has over you is that which you give them.”
Patrick nodded, but he was remembering the strange, painful shock that passed through his arm when Shep said those odd words. He remembered the pressure as Shep sandwiched Joey’s arm to his.
Robin shook her head. “How can you be so sure the characters in this testament are supposed to be Patrick and Joey? I mean, this could all be a coincidence.”
“I was skeptical too, Robin,” the priest said. “Until I saw these.” Father Carbone handed Patrick one of the envelopes. “Look at this one first. These two envelopes were with the notebook among Shepherd’s possessions.”
On the outside of the envelope, were the words ‘The Sword’ written in pen. It was Shep’s handwriting. Patrick pulled the contents out and spread it onto the table. They were photographs, dozens of them, and they were all of Joey. They went in chronological order, starting with pictures of a six-year-old Joey running on the beach. More childhood snapshots followed, all taken from a distance. Some were in the park, some in Joey’s back yard. They advanced to Joey in junior high school, a bevy of different photographs of him performing in school plays: Joey as Macbeth, Joey as Dracula, Joey as the Captain of the H.M.S. Pinafore.
Robin stared at the pictures. “Holy shit.”
Patrick flipped through the rest of the photos. There were a few more of Joey at about fourteen playing street hockey, and then there were no more. “Robin, how old was Joey when Shep moved in?”
“He was fifteen. Why?”
“I don’t know. This is just too weird.”
Father Carbone replaced the pictures and handed Patrick the second packet. “If you think that’s weird, you ought to love this. Brace yourself.” The second envelope had ‘The Shield’ written in the same blue pen on the outside. Patrick hesitated. “Go on, take it,” Father Carbone said.
Patrick’s heart sped as he reached into the envelope and pulled out the contents. It was more pictures, only this time they were all of Patrick. They started with Patrick in junior high school. A twelve-year-old Patrick threw a baseball in the school field. Then there was a slightly older Patrick leaping over hurdles at a track meet. There was Patrick at the high school gym with a crowd of friends. Patrick lifting weights. Patrick playing soccer. “Jesus, that was way back. Some of these are from junior high! Shep didn’t even meet me until we were in college. It doesn’t make any sense!”
“Yes,” Carbone said, “he did not meet you until college, but it appears he may have chosen you long before then.”
Patrick stared at the priest. “That’s crazy. No way.”
“Are you sure?” Father Carbone reached into the pile and handed him the last picture. It was Patrick arriving at college on his first day. He knew it was his first day because his parents were with him in the photo, and he was carrying his minifridge into the dorm.
Patrick stared at the picture. “Why? Why me?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say because of your size and perhaps your athletic ability. Did you do anything extraordinary when you were younger? Something that might have drawn attention to you?”
“Not really. I was a typical jock. You know, high school sports hero, that sort of thing.”
“Were you ever in the newspaper?”
Patrick shrugged. “Yeah, I was in the paper all the time. So were a lot of other athletes.”
“Hmm,” Carbone said. “Would you say you are a loyal person, Patrick?”
“I’m the most loyal guy you could ever meet. What are you getting at?”
“It sounds like you’d make someone a fine bodyguard.”
“Bodyguard?”
“You’re big, exceptionally athletic, and loyal. Sounds like a winning combination.”
Something slammed loudly against the front door. The three of them jumped. Father Carbone ran to the kitchen with Patrick and Robin following. Patrick was sure he was going to see one of the curly-topped Shep-alikes creeping around outside. Instead, a very young black man stood swaying on the porch. His face was bleeding along his forehead, and the dripping blood had caked onto the tiny braids that adorned his head. Patches of skin on his arms looked burned and his clothes were nearly shredded. Carbone opened the door.
“Please,” the boy said weakly. “They’re trying to kill me.” He took one step and collapsed on the floor.
Chapter Twenty-One
“He’s hurt bad. Let’s get him to the couch,” Father Carbone said. He and Patrick each grabbed an arm and carried the wounded stranger over to the sofa and lay him down.
“We need to call an ambulance,” Robin said.
The kid twitched and his eyes fluttered open. He grabbed the priest’s arm. “No ambulance! You can’t call anyone. I’m begging you, just let me stay here a while.”
“But son, you have burns on your arms and your face is badly cut. You need medical attention.”
“Please. It looks worse than it is. Please, no ambulance.” The kid’s voice was raspy, his skin wrought with cuts and bruises. “They can’t know I’m alive! They’ll try to kill me again.”
“He’s delirious,” Robin said.
He looked at her. “I’m not delirious,” he said between tears. “I wish I were.”
Father Carbone knelt and took the boy’s hand. “You’re safe here. I want to help you, but I need to know what happened.”
“They blew up the photography lab,” the kid said. “They blew it up with me in it. I got out. I got out just in time. When I got home, my apartment was torn apart. I couldn’t stay there. I didn’t know where to go. I figured this was a good enough place. This is where it all started.”
“Where what started?” Patrick stepped forward. “Who did this to you? Who blew up a lab? Where did this happen?”
The kid looked up, focused on Patrick, and his eyes widened with new terror. He sprang off the couch and crawled backward on the floor, pointing a shaking finger up at Patrick. “I know you. I’ve seen you. You’re one of them!”
“Told you he was delirious,” Robin said.
Patrick took a step back. “Hey, I don’t know what you’re talking about, kid.”
The boy looked at Father Carbone, still pointing at Patrick. “He’s one of them. I saw him that night! He’s with them!”
Patrick stared at the youth. He couldn’t be much more than eighteen years old. Even through the scrapes and bruises, his brown skin had the taut glow of youth. He was wearing khakis and what was left of a pale pink button-down shirt that screamed of The Gap. His tiny braids, aside from being currently smeared with blood, were neat and silky and looked professionally done. College student, Patrick guessed. The kid may have gotten himself into some trouble, but it was clearly something he was not accustomed to.
Father Carbone got down on the floor and crawled slowly toward the kid. “Nobody here is going to hurt you. This man here is an acquaintance of mine. Why would you think he’d hurt you?”
The kid trembled. “I saw him the night he climbed the church. He knows that Shepherd guy, the one who tried to kill me.”
The room fell into shocked silence. Robin stepped cautiously toward the stranger, who crouched on the floor like a cornered animal. “I’m sorry. Did you say Shepherd?”
He eyed her suspiciously. “I thought this church would be safe,” he whispered. “I thought I’d be safe here.”
Robin grabbed him by the collar. “What did you say about Shepherd?” she screamed. “You said he tried to kill you, what did you mean?”
“Robin, stop it!” Patrick tore her off the boy.
“Shep’s not a murderer,” she
said, tears filling her eyes. “He’s not!”
Patrick wrapped an arm around her and pulled her in tight. “Take it easy.”
Father Carbone knelt on the floor next to the boy. “Listen to me. Whatever was done to you, I can assure you that nobody in this room was part of it. Now why don’t we get your wounds cleaned up, then we can all sit down and discuss this rationally.”
The kid looked around the room, his gaze lingering on Patrick. “Okay, but none of you better try anything. I escaped death once tonight, and I’ll do it again if I have to.”
“What’s your name?” Father Carbone asked gently.
He rose on shaky legs, and moved gingerly back to the couch, wincing and clinging to his ribs. “Copeland Smith. Copie.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The day was a dream of sunshine and spring breezes. Now that the nasty business with the photography student was taken care of, they were all in high spirits. Joey and Shep sipped margaritas on the deck and watched the crowd of followers dancing all over the yard. Some of them congregated on the huge deck, playing hacky sack or making blender drinks at the bar. It was quite a spectacle. Joey adjusted his lawn chair and leaned back, sighing. The music was festive, and the followers were clearly ecstatic to be there.
“It looks like Burning Man,” Shep said. “We should burn something.”
“Please, let’s not. Drunks and fire don’t mix.” Joey scowled. “My followers are all juiced on tequila. Where’s Allisto with those burgers? Didn’t you tell him to make the paddies?”
“Yeah, he’s in the house making them now. The poor thing. I thought he was gonna faint when I handed him the ground beef. Allisto’s not a big fan of cow flesh.”
“Allisto is not a big fan of any flesh. Even his own.”
Shep’s lips tightened. “I know, but he’s come a long way. He’ll get used to it in time. Hey, speaking of flesh, how are things going with Kelinda?”
Joey frowned. “She’s weird. How long do I have to keep being her boyfriend?”
“Why? What’s the problem?”
“It makes me uncomfortable.”
Shep laughed loudly. “Oh please. Your biggest problem is that you have to have sex with a beautiful woman.”
“It’s not that. I like the sex, it’s just that it’s gotten…weird.”
Shep raised an eyebrow and sat up. “Weird? Oh do tell. Does she want to call you Daddy or something?”
“Don’t be gross. It’s nothing like that.”
“What then? Why are you being so tight-lipped? This is me you’re talking to.”
Joey shifted in his lounge chair. He glanced around, then leaned in close to Shep. “All right. I don’t think she even likes me anymore. You know what I mean? I feel like she’s going through the motions just so she can get…it.”
Shep shrugged. “So she’s using you for sex. Big deal. You’re using her too.”
Joey shook his head. “I’m not talking about straight sex. We hardly ever do that anymore. She seems to be addicted to...well…it.”
Shep grimaced. “What the hell are you talking about? She’s addicted to what? What it? Sex?”
“No. I mean, she’s addicted to it!” Joey said in a loud whisper.
Shep frowned, then nodded as the realization hit him. “Oh. You mean, it it.”
“Yes. It it.”
“You are talking about your semen, right?”
“Shhh! Yes!”
Shep struggled unsuccessfully to suppress his crooked grin. “Why didn’t you just say so?”
“It’s embarrassing!” he hissed in Shep’s ear. “Just forget I told you anything,”
Shep took a long haul off a joint and let the smoke drift out of his nostrils. “Hmm. I don’t know about her being addicted to it. Why do you think that?”
Joey laughed, a sharp breathy sound. “It’s like she’s getting high off my bodily fluids. When I kiss her, she sucks the saliva out of my mouth. I feel like I’m at the dentist every time we make out. The other day, she and I went for a jog around the property. I spit on the ground once, and she gave me a look like I was wasting precious gold. Oh, and after she, you know…”
“Sucks you off?” Shep asked seriously. He leaned forward with hands clasped between his knees like a patient psychiatrist.
Joey’s lip curled. “Yes, after she does that, she lies there with this bizarre expression on her face, like an addict that just got a fix. This lasts for about five minutes, then she gets up and leaps around the room, dancing like she’s on an adrenaline rush. When the little dance thing is over, she just takes off, and I don’t see her again until she wants more. Sometimes I don’t see her for a whole day, and then she’s just there suddenly, climbing all over me. I’m telling you Shep, it’s creepy, man.”
Shep stubbed out the joint on the arm of the lounge chair. “Huh. I always wondered what an unsupervised contamination might do. I never wanted to risk it with Robin. We always used condoms.”
“See, this is what I’m worried about. You gave me your blood for years. Nothing like this ever happened to me.”
Shep laughed. “No, Joey. You never danced merrily about after a blood ritual. Our situation was completely different though. My blood was given to you with the proper ceremony, in a controlled environment. I drew a specific power out in you.”
Joey nodded. “The enchantment thing. I know.”
“Right. It’s the mix of my blood, and your human blood that draws people to you. Human instinct is so deeply buried that they don’t realize they’re sensing your blood. They only know there’s something special about you. They think they’ve made a connection. That’s why these zombies here listen to everything you say. They can’t sense my power, because it’s completely foreign. But when my essence is mixed with your human essence, watch out. It flows out of you. They don’t know what they’re seeing, but they sense it, something more, something beyond this dismal world. And you’re not even fucking any of them.”
“So what you’re saying is, I may have overloaded Kelinda. No pun intended.”
“Precisely. Think about it, Joey. If one speech from you can mesmerize sixty people, what do you think a load of your jizz, directly ingested, is going to do to Kelinda?”
Joey wrinkled his nose. “I preferred it when you were calling it my essence.”
“Your essence then. It transfers elements as well as blood does. However you slice it, it’s going to change her somehow. She’s got something more than human running through her veins now, and part of her probably knows it.” Shep looked concerned then. “She hasn’t exhibited any special abilities, has she?”
Joey squinted as a beam of sunlight fell across his eyes. “Special abilities? What do you mean?”
“Well, technically it is possible for her to take on some of our attributes, even though I haven’t specifically drawn anything out in her. However unsupervised the transfer, she has, after all, been directly infected.”
Joey rubbed his forehead, looking worried. “You know, the followers seem to have become quite fond of Kelinda lately. Do you think there’s a connection?”
Shep squinted at the sunlight. “Do you?”
“Maybe it’s just her beauty,” Joey said. “And that they know she’s close to me.”
“Or, she may be radiating her own essence now. To play it safe, I’ll tell her to stay away from the fields. Let’s keep these house parties to a minimum too. I don’t want anyone controlling these people but you.”
“So what do I do in the meantime?”
“Just keep an eye on her.”
Joey shrugged. “Well it’s not that easy. Granted, she follows me around until she gets what she wants, but then she just disappears. Then she’s just done with me, you know?”
“Oh you poor baby. Do you feel used?”
“Yes I do. I feel like a piece of meat.”
“Speaking of meat, I’m going to see what’s keeping Allisto with those burgers. If these zombies keep drinking on an empty stomach it’l
l get ugly.”
Shep stood and headed toward the house. He was almost to the sliding door when he heard a loud pop like a firecracker, then an explosion. The party guests screamed and scrambled in all directions. Shep turned back just in time to see Joey fall off his chair. Blood gushed from his left shoulder, forming a red stain on the pale wood of the deck. Juris and Margol came running out of the house. “Get him inside!” Shep screamed. “Get Joey inside now!”
Chaos. It appeared a bullet had hit Joey’s shoulder and then ricocheted off the gas grill, exploding one of the propane tanks. Luckily nobody was standing near the grill, but the sound of the explosion sent the followers scrambling for cover. Only the brothers remained unruffled. Juris and Margol followed Shep’s instructions and got Joey inside the house. They scooped him off the deck and carried him quickly through the back slider as blood gushed from his shoulder onto their clothes. Shep followed them in. They sat Joey at a kitchen chair. Allisto came running out of the pantry wearing rubber gloves. He had scraps of raw hamburger all over his shirt.
“Go make sure that fire is extinguished!” Shep shouted, and Margol ran outside. Shep wiped away Joey’s blood with a towel and examined the shoulder. “Bullet didn’t go in. It looks like you just got grazed.”
Joey winced as Shep pressed his finger around the puffy wound. “Okay, grazed,” he said, “but was I the target?”
Shep ignored Joey’s question and turned to Juris. “Medical supply cabinet. Clean and dress it, Juris. Use the homemade balm to stop the bleeding. I’ll be back.”
“Shepherd!” Joey demanded. “Was I the fucking target?”
Shep looked at him. “Stay inside.”
He ran down to the basement and got a pistol out of the locked cabinet. He quickly loaded it and holstered it inside his pants, concealing it with the long tee shirt he wore over his jeans. This was bullshit. Obrien should be handling this. He ran back up the stairs and straight out the back door. “Where are you going?” Allisto called after him.
“Watch Joey!” he screamed back.
He stepped out onto the deck, where Margol was spraying the grill with a fire extinguisher. “Is it out?”
