by Kevin Wright
“Days til what?” asked Peter. “Look, am I going to die, or turn into a vampire or, and this is my personal favorite, watch the flesh rot off my bones? Because I—”
“All and one are the same, Peter,” the Padre said. “But no, the rot has not taken, I deem. Yours is the more difficult path.” The Padre’s eyes glanced to Carmine.
“It’s not the rot, then,” Carmine said.
“No. The skin is healed. The infection spreads below now. Were it the rot, it would stay upon the surface. It burrows, now, toward the meridians, then to the soul.”
“Meridians? Burrowing?” Peter clutched his stomach. “So what? I’m a ghoul? What does that mean? Is it worse than the rot? Or AIDS, I mean, Jesus Christ!”
“You still have your mind, Peter, and your soul, and your body. Still, you have the capacity to choose. To affect your future. Others’ futures. One who is stung always has choices. Always. How strong is your soul, Peter? As strong as your namesake? I pray that it is.”
“So what choices do I have? Really?” Peter asked. “Turn into a vampire, or what? Kill myself?”
The Padre just stared with those gray eyes.
“You, a catholic priest, are telling me to kill myself? That’s great. Just fucking great.”
“I said nothing.”
“You didn’t tell me not to, either, though.”
“Within a week’s time your pain will end one way or another,” the Padre said. “You will lose your body, your mind, and then your soul. Yes, your pain will end, for you will cease being Peter. You shall become a curse upon others. A demon. Death would end your suffering, now, and prevent the suffering of others.”
“I’m not really suffering that much, Padre.” Peter scratched his shoulder. “It just sort of itches. Maybe calamine lotion?”
“There’s got to be some way to help the kid,” Carmine said. “You’re a priest for God’s sake. Suicide?”
“Suicide rarely is the answer, I must admit,” the Padre said. “I am not here to choose paths for you, but to point out roads you may take. You asked me earlier what I am going to do about this. Let me answer you, frankly, Peter. If and when you turn, I will hunt you down and purify you.”
“Purify? That doesn’t sound so—”
“Purification requires that I remove your head, remove your teeth, and stuff your mouth full of the body of Christ. Then I shall nail it shut. I shall then consecrate your corpse with Holy water before I bury you face down in a deep grave and drive a stake through your heart and into the earth. I shall do this to cauterize the disease. I shall do this because no one has ever stopped the disease once they have been infected. An epidemic has gripped this town, and it is my duty to stanch the flow. Now I ask you, Peter, what are you going to do?”
Peter just sat there a moment, eyes glassy.
“Do you have faith?” the Padre asked. “Do you believe in God?”
“I’m not Catholic, Padre, anymore, I guess,” Peter said.
“That’s not what I asked, Peter. I asked if you have faith. If you believe in God. If you believe in something, anything.”
“I … I don’t know.” Peter’s gaze fell.
“Jesus Christ was the embodiment of God upon earth,” the Padre said. “There have been, and are, other beings, other embodiments. None so grand as our Creator’s, though, but legion just as willing and apt to take a hand in altering the future. Many for the ill.” The Padre withdrew a small bible and opened it. He pushed it across the table. “Look. Angels are perhaps the most public of the forces of good. There are the nine orders, though the layman knows of the Guardian angel and the now-distorted view of the Cherubim, or cherub, more than the others. Some have claimed to see these ethereal beings and have been given great solace in knowing they exist. These people possess a great gift, Peter. They have been given proof. And proof is the rarest commodity in this world. If you have proof, you do not need faith.
“Evil, too, though, has its own embodiments, entities, if you will, who exert their will amongst us. These entities of darkness are numerous and some are most powerful. All are dangerous. All are proof of Lucifer, the fallen angel, the devil, of his continued struggle and lust for power. You met one the other night.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“It was done feeding, or it would have been upon you in the blink of an eye. It would have killed you, would have drained you of all your vitality, your life, your innocence. But, instead, he lay engorged on the blood of innocents. Such is the nature of the low ones. As a boa constrictor lies helpless after consuming a goat, so too shall the ghoul lay, though perhaps not so helpless as the constrictor.”
“Right, well, lucky for me he wasn’t hungry,” Peter said.
“Lucky for you that you have a partner and friend who cares about you. A friend unafraid to act, to risk his life, his very soul. No, Carmine, do not interrupt, he must know. He must choose, and to choose wisely, he must know.” The Padre turned to Peter. “Carmine is a rare commodity, Peter. Lucky it was for you that he did not hesitate. He did not wait for the police, or myself, but charged in after and saved you.”
“What?” Peter looked to Carmine. “I thought you said the police…”
“Forget it, kid.” Carmine shrugged. “I didn’t do nothing.”
“Nothing, indeed,” the Padre said. “To face the nightwalkers without adequate equipment. Carmine is modest in his service to the Lord, and to you. He has faith, though hard pressed he would be to admit it. You, Peter, question your faith. I tell you this now; you do not need faith. You have been given the gift of proof. If the existence of the Lucifer’s forces is not proof, then the actions of your partner are.”
Carmine scoffed.
“You must believe in something, Peter, if you are to survive.”
“But you said no one’s ever survived,” Peter said.
“Yes, I said that.” The Padre raised a hand. “But that doesn’t mean you cannot survive, Peter. Someone must be the first. Man will always have a first, that is his strength. Have faith that it shall be you.”
Peter lowered his head onto his hands.
“Your debt is to Pestilence,” the Padre said. “It is from her that your disease flows. She is the queen vampire, or ghoul, or wraith, however you wish to refer to them. They are all the same, in fact. Merely cultural differences separate them. For example, your typical mummy and vampire are essentially the same—”
“Padre, excuse me, how do we find this queen vampire thing?” Carmine asked.
The Padre sat back in his chair. “I have searched for her for many years, but to no avail,” the Padre said, more to himself than to Peter or Carmine. “She must be quite powerful to cover her signature, or I would have found her. Oh, how I have searched. I have seen and smelled the rank stench of her evil in so many forms. I would taste hers.”
“Okay…?” Carmine said, raising an eyebrow. “So, we kill her, and Pete don’t lose his soul to the netherlands. Right?”
“I honestly do not know, Carmine,” the Padre said, his eyes cool. “When a ghoul infects a man and allows him to change, there is often a bond created between the two. One of master and slave.”
“So what are you saying, Padre?” Carmine asked.
“What I am saying is simply this: Peter, you were bitten and infected. You would have turned into a ghoul and been bonded to the one who made you if Carmine had not killed it. Peter is still sick, though its effects have not taken full effect, yet.” The Padre stood and began pacing. “My point is this: the source of his infection is gone, eradicated. The bond is broken, yet Peter, you are still ill. I do not know that killing the queen will rid Peter of his disease. It is a Hail Mary at best. I am sorry.”
No one spoke.
Peter sat, head hanging seaweed limp.
Carmine stood. “If we could find her, what could we kill her with?” he asked. “The usual stuff? Stakes? Holy water?”
“Yes, sunlight, fire, silver is effective but expensive, of course,” the Padre
said. “Leech-rounds are a potent, low-cost alternative, though still quite difficult to obtain. Potentially deadly to vampires. My old standby, beheading, usually kills most things. Holy water is useful, of course. A blessed weapon perhaps, they are very rare, though. Shotguns at close range are excellent. In the head preferably. Hmmm, a blessed shotgun…”
“Okay, so where would we start?” Carmine asked.
The Padre walked to one of the bookshelves and began tearing books out. Peter looked up. Dusty tomes, unopened for decades, soon littered the floor of the room as Peter and Carmine watched. Small pamphlet guides, some offering advice on marriage and others on exorcizing demons whipped through the air.
Carmine sneezed.
“G’bless you.”
“Thanks, kid.”
“Ah, here it is!” The Padre pulled a book out and blew dust off its cover.
Peter stood, hopeful, and walked with Carmine to the Padre. His back was to them, shielding the ancient tome. The Padre flipped through the pages wildly, ripping some. Finally, he turned and threw the book upon the table. He pointed a finger at the book and said, “You must go here. The Immortal Jade Palace. The oracle will guide you.”
Peter gaped at the phone book open on the chair. “The Immortal Jade Palace?” he asked. “What is it?”
“Chinese food joint,” said Carmine, reaching into the book and withdrawing a book-marked menu. He nodded, beaming. “Good crab rangoons.”
Chapter 13.
“IT’S QUARTER PAST NINE you fucking clam, and if you don’t get the fuck out of my sight I’ll split you from head to crotch and make an ugly-woman-suit out of you.” Raymond Gurlek didn’t say that, though he wanted to more than anything. “Manager’s gone home ma’am, but I’ll get you your romaine, right quick,” Raymond droned in actuality. He stifled a giggle as she glared up at him. He hated her: her flaming red hair, her stupidity, her lack of respect, of punctuality.
“Excuse me, sir,” she always said ‘sir’ as though it were a joke, “could you go out back and get me some fresh romaine?” she asked in that condescending voice she used every week, that condescending voice that spoke volumes about her estimation of Raymond’s mental capacities. She never said ‘please.’
Raymond Gurlek turned his lanky body and shuffled towards the double doors at the back of the store.
“Why is it these people never leave it out?” she asked out loud of no one in particular, though no one was around, except Raymond.
He stopped.
He did not face her.
“We pull certain items every night,” said Raymond, monotone, “and put them in the cooler, to keep them fresh, so people will buy them … tomorrow.”
“Oh. Well, maybe you should wait until everyone’s left the store? I might speak with the manager on the way out. Really.” She went on up the aisle, lazily pricing the sweet potatoes. “Oh, boy!” she called. “Bring me some yams from out back. Apparently, you forgot to fill them.”
Raymond emerged from the double doors carrying three heads of romaine lettuce because he knew he was completely incapable of selecting satisfactory product. “We only carry sweet potatoes,” he called out, walking toward her. “But they’re the same thing as yams.”
“Oh?” she said, her voice an icy wind. “I asked for yams, young man, not sweet potatoes.” She folded her arms. “And that’s what I want.”
“Ma’am, all’s we have is sweet—”
“Don’t use that tone with me. I’m not stupid. I know the difference between the two. I’ll have that talk with your manager. Yes, I will. Let him know how you treat your customers.” She squinted at his nametag pinned to his green apron. “Raymond is it?”
Raymond Gurlek, serial killer extraordinaire, stood there, hands in his pockets, and took the abuse. He knew yams and sweet potatoes were the same thing because they all came in one box. He just put them in different displays. His face turned red. His body began to quiver ever so slightly, and his eyes melted black. He towered like a twisted old birch tree over the fat, stupid, little shrub of a woman.
She seemed to just notice this and left in a hurry, forgetting her romaine.
When the lights in the store went out a half-hour later, Raymond still stood there in that same exact spot, shaking like a scarecrow in a hurricane. The romaine in hand was now pulverized, its white juice congealing in a puddle underfoot. Within his pocket, he gripped the butt of his revolver, trying to keep it there. It was not easy.
Chapter 14.
THE SAPPHIRE EYES of the jade dragon sparkled in the dim foyer. Upon a small mound of rocks above a bubbling pool it stood. Any who entered the Immortal Jade Palace were confronted by the dragon’s gaze and forced to choose: to the right was the restaurant, to the left lay the bar. The perfume of exotic spices wafted on steamy breezes that gusted out from behind the bar anytime someone walked into the kitchen.
The Gurkha stood behind the bar, idly polishing a highball glass. He’d been polishing it for five minutes, his attention focused elsewhere.
“I will kill them,” he said to himself.
His age was difficult to say, being one of those men who might range from forty to seventy years old. He looked … weathered. Weathered in the way a gnarled mountain tree looks weathered. The tough times hardened, that was all.
“First I will cut them. Then I will kill them.”
A frown shone upon his little brown face, which was rare. The Gurkha was normally a jovial fellow. He rarely concerned himself with anger, but when he did he did not bottle it up.
The present look of displeasure on his face was interesting not only for the fact that it was so rare, but that that frown, which made him look even uglier than he normally did, was not directed at the six-and-a-half foot tall man, wearing nothing but a hospital johnny, who stood in the Gurkha’s restaurant foyer. It was a dirty johnny, too.
No, the Gurkha was glaring past the ugly, tall man whose ass blew in the wind of the open front door; bells rang as it closed. He was looking past the jade dragon that, had it been a living creature, would surely have looked away, confronted as it was by so venomous a glare. Unfortunately, its sapphire eyes could not blink, and its jade neck could not turn.
Could the neck of the jade dragon have turned, it would have looked with great displeasure upon the three young men seated in the restaurant who were pointing, spouting obscenities, and laughing at the old man.
“Motherfucker forgot his bedpan.”
“And his hair.”
“Looks like he forgot to wipe his ass.”
Of the three men, the dominant one, his upper arms covered in tattoos and his right hand covered in a black cast, laughed the loudest. His shoulders were thick; he was built like a boxer. The other two were slightly smaller versions of him.
The old man regarded them blandly, held his johnny closed behind, with solemn dignity, and then chose the path most often taken. He took a seat at the bar.
Placing the highball glass down behind the bar, the Gurkha snatched another one and began wiping it. His eyes never left the young men laughing in the booth. As fierce as the dragon’s fiery eyes were, they were a kitten’s compared to the Gurkha’s. He watched as his granddaughter, Lien, walked up to the young men’s table with a shallow dish of fortune cookies and a bill in hand. They said something the Gurkha could not hear and then laughed. Lien bolted quickly, flashing the Gurkha a warning glance.
The Gurkha continued polishing.
The old man looked down at his clothes, or lack-there-of and said, “I imagine I’d laugh at me, too.”
The Gurkha shook his head, “Very, very disrespectful. Shameless. They think their tattoos and guns give them power.”
“They are children.” The old man turned back and folded his hands.
“What do you want?” the Gurkha snarled.
The old man was taken aback for a moment, but the Gurkha was glaring past him at the three men now sauntering like gunfighters into the bar.
“Well, I want a fucking
drink. What do you guys want?” the leader said. Scratches crisscrossed his face.
Another one answered. “I want this old piece of fucking shit, here, to get the fuck back into his nursing home where he belongs.” He pulled something from his back pocket, a switchblade. With a click, it was open.
“You pay. You go.” The Gurkha started on another glass. “We are closed.”
“Hey, Carlo, what’d he say? They’re crozed?”
Carlo, the leader, answered, “No, he said he’s gonna get me my fucking drink. And then he’s gonna throw this piece of shit out of here, cause he fucking reeks.” As he leaned on the bar, Carlo bumped his shoulder into the old man.
The others guffawed.
The old man shook his head slowly.
“You got a problem with the Nines, old man?”
The old man looked down.
“Well, the Nines got a problem with you.”
“Please leave,” the Gurkha said. If sweat had been on his forehead, it would have been steaming.
The one with the knife stepped up to the bar. “We no go, we no pay, fuck-face.” He laughed, holding his blade point-forward to emphasize each word. “Go get your granddaughter. Tell her to come out here and sit on my lap. I got something for her.”
The others laughed.
The old man slid down the bar away from Carlo.
“Where you going, old man?”
Carlo looked puzzled for a second; then it dawned on him just as a highball glass shattered against his temple, and he went down like a Saigon whore.
“AYO GURKHALI!” blared a cry, as a blur vaulted the bar in that same instant, landing like a cat amidst the men. Unlike a cat, the Gurkha wielded a kukri, just about the biggest knife you could possibly hold and not call a machete. Unlike a machete, it was not designed for trimming foliage. The Gurkha descended upon the two men whom suddenly seemed not so much like men and not so much like standing. The bells on the door jingled as they flew outside. The Gurkha skidded to a stop at the jade dragon. His eyes followed their fleeing forms.
