Red Twilight: A Dawning Of Power

Chapter 5 Moses

A car rolls to a stop in front of me. It's a convertible; it looks like a sporty Mustang. Behind the wheel is a short, stocky man with a big grin. Half his teeth are gold, and he has a hair-thin mustache. His skin is a bronze tan and he is dressed in a relaxed-fitting, off-white overcoat with a matching fedora that has a red stripe and alligator's teeth in it. He looks ethnically confused.

"Amigo, ya'll catch the death out there," he says as he waves at me. "Come on, I'll drive you some." His accent is awful. Sounds like a Spanish Australian, or Eastern English, but he has offered me a ride, and a ride I need.

"Thank you."

I can feel something is not right here. My Aura Sight has fired up. I look around despairingly. I see myself; I'm glowing lightly blue with a flare of red as always. Blue is suggestive of sadness and/or loneliness, and the red adds just a taste of "pure" rage. The man in the car is yellow, a sign of happiness. This guy has no problems in the world. Something behind us, though, seems to be s.u.c.k.i.n.g our auras toward it, some black, empty thing. I dread to look, but I bet I already know.

(note from Archivist Lincoln Gallard. I have no way of confirming the accuracy of this statement. But it does seem that Blake is also aware of how off this sounds and he as I accept this as in part being a hallucination. It is my feelings that Blake has accurately recorded Moses dialog if not in full in essences and only the clearly fantastical elements are out of place.)

As I reach for the car door, the metal crinkles away from me like a soda can in a fire bending in on itself and turning to ash. I see in the high polish of the door the sand behind me pouring into a hole, like into a vortex. This can't be right. I cover my eyes. It's just like before; something is inside my head driving me mad, controlling my thoughts. My power of the mind is all that's keeping me sane.

"Por favor," the man in the car says, "rápido. I need go." I nod and hop into the car with him. "Where to, boss, the titty club, Mexico, Columbia? I love it all." He can't see any of what I'm seeing.

I hold my head as I point forward. I can't find anything to say other than simply, "Go." As we roll down the street I retake control of my mind and things become clear again. Something is following me, that part is clear—who and why, I can't tell. It is not really important, I guess. What is, on the other hand, is that I get rid of them, one way or another.

"Comprenda el Inglés?" I ask him.

"Sí, my English is very well," he responds. I could have guessed.

I pull out my map and point. "Do you know where this is?"

He nods to me. "Yaw, I'll be going right by."

"Good, drop me off." I reach for my wallet. He shakes his hand at me as if offended by the notion. Apprehensive, I look in the mirror, watching for god only knows what.

My driver looks at my suitcase and then back at me. "Guitar?" he asks. He is a good man and I would like to tell him everything, but I don't know anything myself, really, and If I simply opened it and let him "meet the ladies," likely he would freak out and kick my a.s.s to the street.

Well, if I say nothing, I'll insult him. If I say everything, I'll scare him. Maybe I can tell the truth and he'll laugh at it. "Nope, a shitload of guns."

Just as I thought, he laughs. "Son of the scorpions," he says.

I don't understand, but I can play along. "Contract killer."

He laughs again, not believing a word of it. I think that's for the better, anyhow.

He holds his hand out to me and manages to slip out one word between his high belly laughs. "Moses," he tells me—his name. I hold my hand out to him.

***

Touching Moses hand triggers Blake's second sight. Blake learns more about his new friend then he would have liked to have. Moses is a kingpin with a network of people under him from Spain to L.A. the trade of women and drugs make up the bulk of his affairs.

Blake's second sight like surface thoughts more than any. It seems Blake has in some way reminded Moses of his two sons. As that is what he is thinking about, and what Blake gets to see most clearly.

A boxing ring, it is midnight, Moses has gathered his boys and a dozen of his friends, Moses wants Snake and Larry to learn how to box. Moses pushes Snake onto stage first. A heavy man jumps into the ring on the other side. Moses explains to Snake "Hit him, don't let him hit you."

Snake is a kid, not even fifteen yet. But already he has a receding hair line, his eyes are sharp. Snake has lived a life of constant running and hiding. Snake has been a pick pocket for years already, he has learned to pick locks, Snake is fast and crafty, but now Moses wants him to be smart and frisky also. That is why Moses put him in the ring with Tarry, Tarry was once a 'Federale' who better to teach a kid to fight then a police officer.

Snake rises his fist, Snake for the first time in his life demonstrates that he is willing to play fare. Tarry puts a swift end to this, the bulky Mexican grips one of Snakes wrist and pulls the kid into a back fist. Snake is knocked onto his back in a swing punch.

"Hasta! Hasta!" Moses cries out.

Snake jumps to his feet. He runs forward and howls, Snake jumps at Tarry. Tarry sidesteps the charge and pushes Snake into a poll. Snake growls and regains his footing, sloppily, Snake throws a cross punch. Tarry packs the punches out of the way then returns with a palm strike to the c.h.e.s.t.

Tarry savagely pushes Snake against the ropes, Tarry slaps the boy a dozen times. Snake is dizzy, he doesn't know what to do, so he stands and gets slapped over and over again.

Larry growls, the long haired younger brother drops his glasses on the ground and picks up the lamp off the announcer's table. Larry is a wild animal. He barks, he screams, he howls. Overtaken by anger Larry is like something sub human. Larry hammer Tarry on the back to make him kneel. With a feverous scream the ten-year-old plants a foot on the old cop's c.h.e.s.t and thrust the lamp but first down into his face.

Tarry folds his arms in front of his face to protect himself. Moses and four other men climb onto the stage to grab Larry and protect Tarry from the terrifying ten-year-old. Moses looks to Snake as Snake is regaining his footing "How about archery? next week, I want to go to the shooting range and practice archery." Moses is not mad at all, he is impressed. Snake and Larry did better than he would have guessed, not as well as he would have hopped but better then he guessed.

***

"My name is Richard Blake."

"Blake, ha." He squints. "How do you, Mr. Blake, get out here with no cars or bikes or a horse?" he laughs. "I don't know how far you came, but it no short."

I don't really want to have to explain anymore, so I try to lead him off the idea. "I walked. How about you, Moses? What are you doing out this way?"

He shrugs. "Work. I drive like a trucker; I go get something from one man and bring it to another man." A convertible is not an F-350 or an eighteen-wheel big rig, but I'm not going to protest.

After about an hour I note that Moses is taking the least direct route he could possibly have found. He takes a sharp left and detours to a different town entirely. I seek to inquire, and he simply shakes his head and asks me to relax. We stop at what looks to be a façade town—I doubt it even appears on any maps. It is only fifteen buildings long, all one story. I don't see any phone or power lines. This place looks like it belongs in a Jesse James flick. Moses buys me an egg salad sandwich from the rest stop and a bottle of brandy. I'm grateful. He gets himself something similar in a corn wrap.

I feel at ease. Moses's rambunctious idea of driving has shaken whatever I felt earlier—this man's good karma seems to override my bad. We sit at a dusty gas station eating our nibbles for half an hour, killing the time talking about the weather, sports, and whatever middle-aged men like, before my phone rings. I ask Moses to hold as I take the call.

"Blake!" It's Tail, and she sounds frantic. "Are you OK?"

"Yes, why?"

"Your signal started moving funny then stopped abruptly."

"I got picked up."

"Blake, you're way off target," she says, starting to calm down.

I think hard for a moment about our last conversation. "Tail, your mother helped produce INT-23 under the offices of Claw Company International. How are Claw Co. and the von Richton's related?"

"Blake, they're not related at all, to spite what Ms. von Richton seems to think. I'm not a Yagoloth; I'm no demon, and neither were any of my parents."

I feel the need to interrupt her. "Any?"

"Yes, Blake, I'm a Bio-organic computer S1 Alpha unit codenamed 'Tail.' I'm a strategic system unit number M-00-1 —to my knowledge, the only operational one not under lock and key in a military compound. One of the Watchers' spies must have stolen the vaccine."

"Why do you look like a Yagoloth?" I feel inclined to ask.

Tail exhales heavily in irritation. "Year to year, canines have faster and longer reproductive lives and shorter incubation periods, therefore are cheaper than humans to harvest and breed. And besides, the Right to Life Act of 1979 forbade human testing until a procedure has been tested and found safe on animal subjects."

"Thanks, Tail. One more thing, do you feel physically attracted to humans or dogs?"

"God damn it, Blake, get back to work before you get us killed!" She seems upset again.

"Has it been tested to see what you're compatible with?" I ask, and it's the final straw—she hangs up on me. Now I know she wants me.

We jump back into Moses's car and make our way to the Lamia's Back bar.

Moses drops me off and explains that he is going to be back in five hours. I can't help but wonder why.…

As Moses is driving off, I look around. There are nine vehicles, some cars and some motorcycles. I decide it would be in my better interest to search them. I pull a slim jim from my bag—the tool the cops use to open locked doors when one needs more subtlety then a battering ram.

First, I search the sports car. In the front seat there is a pair of glasses with a broken lens and a photograph taken at some park. It shows two men at night. There is a juke box in the background, and the man with long hair is screaming into a microphone like a rock star. The other, a man with short hair, is firing a pair of prop guns. There is some lens flare, so it's hard to make out details. In the back there is a billfold with a money clip. There's an ID inside that reads "Larry Gekks, age 25, height 5'9'', weight 235 pounds, brown hair and brown eyes." In the trunk there is a box filled with gold bars.

***

Another vision starts.

"Today is a good day!" Snake yells back to his younger brother, who was half asleep in the back of the Mustang. "Less than fifteen hours ago I broke a man's nose and threw thirteen gold bars into the trunk of my new car." He laughed. "I wanted twenty, but that many just wouldn't fit! Woo hoo!" he yelled out, enjoying the sound of his car's hum and the feeling he got from speeding down the street at nearly ninety mph.

Snake is slick, s.e.xy, and confident. His only weak spot is his little brother Larry Gekks. Both brothers dress in matching black silk suits with green inner linings and light red accents around the neck and cuffs. Snake has short hair and is thin. He has tattoos in the shape of flames leaping from beneath his collar running up and kissing the sides of his face. Larry has his long hair tucked into his jacket and wears wide-rimmed glasses; he is also a slightly larger build than his brother.

"Only the best is good enough for you, bro," Snake thinks aloud. "Cars, women, food, nice threads, big houses, drugs—whatever you want, I'll give it to you." Snake turns up the radio to hear Pink Floyd's '80s hit "Money." He laughs again. "Things just don't get any better, do they!" he howls wildly into the early evening sky.

In the past, Snake and Larry have been runners doing little more than moving drugs and other undesirables from one side of their home town to the other. But a year ago they were promoted to fieldwork after moving some "Ice." It turns out the two of them are pretty good at it. Ruthless and controlling, the Gekks brothers are nothing shy of a murderous pair perfect for the role.

My brother is helpless without me, Snake thinks. Larry waves at him in a nonchalant fashion as he fades in and out of sleep. Snake laughs to himself, reaching back and poking at Larry

"I shot some people," Larry mumbles as he's nodding off

"Larry," Snake holds his hand back, "give me your glasses." Larry hands them over. "Killing people takes a lot out of you, doesn't it?" Larry nods as he crosses his arms in a snore. "You must have fired every bullet I gave you, didn't you, bro?" Larry snickers and nods. "It's eighty miles to the checkpoint. Our friend Moses is going to meet us in the morning." Snake stretches his arm behind him and rubs Larry's head. Larry bats at his hand like a kitten. "We will be there in less than an hour, which gives us all night to drink beers and get laid if we want to." Snake joyfully beats the wheel, cranks up his tunes, and flies down the street.

"Come one, come all! C.u.m all you like! Come on in! The Lamia's Back is open all night for all of your bordello needs. Here we have it all—fine wine, hard liquor, and all the s.e.xy bitches a man can handle!"

The man who's voice is yelling over a loud speaker as Snake and Larry arrive is a burly Spaniard with a handlebar mustache and flannel sweater, hefty, Hoss-style bicker boots, and hair in a ponytail despite his widow's peak. "What color would you like your p.u.s.s.y today? Red, yellow, tan, or even black and white? But tonight only, fifty percent off your third purchase, so buy all you need, buy in excess!" The man gives a hearty laugh as he finishes his pitch.

Snake throws his arms in the air as he and Larry step out of the car. He yells out in excitement, "Sounds like my kind of place! Come on, Larry, p.u.s.s.y and beer is on me!" They head across the dusty parking lot, Larry following closely behind his brother.

As they approach, the man on the speaker holds out an intercepting hand. "Hey you, nice suit. A bit too nice, I think. FBI maybe, or maybe Jews, or Jew feds. Man, Jews and cops, this place isn't for you."

Snake looks down at the hand on his c.h.e.s.t. "Larry, can you believe this guy?" Snake fervently grabs the arm and runs his fist into the bouncer's face repeatedly until he falls to his knees. He then shoves the bouncer to the ground. "For your information, I'm a Mormon."

Larry looks down at the bloodied man and giggles with a hint of insanity. "Snake … He doesn't like being touched … He doesn't like to hear people say no to him, either." Larry stands up straight and starts to kick the life out of the bouncer, punctuating his words, "And … neither … do … I!" The two of them step over the body, slam open the doors, and walk in calmly.

Snake and Larry spend almost an hour putting back drinks and laughing hysterically at one another as they talk about the past years and the work that they have done. A hot Egyptian woman takes the stage and she starts her dance. Snake slaps a pair of fifties on the stage. "So, bro, you know how to play finger cuffs?"

Larry giggles as he nods. "Let's get our d.i.c.ks wet." The woman climbs down off the stage and kisses Larry deeply. They both chuckle, but their moment of fun is interrupted as the bouncer comes inside, loudly cursing at them. The man picks up a knife with equally violent intent and points it at the two brothers who just kicked him … to death?

"Damn English bitches, I'll kill you both for what you did! Knock the god damn filling out my teeth and everything." He flings the knife from hand to hand, demonstrating his competency with a blade.

Snake points and shouts, "Larry! Shut his mouth!"

Larry nods. "Yes sir." He pulls out his revolver and shoots the man three times in the forehead. The two of them laugh as he falls over backward. A group of bikers off to one side are startled at the commotion, as are the old man next to them and the bold prick at the bar wearing a cotton suit. The bikers start to walk toward the brothers. Snake draws a gun, and Larry a second.

"Hold it right there!" Snake yells, "Sit down and enjoy your drinks, and no one has to get hurt!"

The man Larry just gunned down stands back up, taunting them. "What the f.u.c.k?" Snake whispers. The man smiles at the two thieves as his face melts into a semi-reptilian shape. "Smoke him!" Snake cries, enraged. Larry unloads his revolvers, throwing down the first gun as he starts with a second one. Snake starts to fire his gun as well.

The woman standing between the brothers lets out a diabolic hiss and throws Larry on his back. She begins dry humping him as she sinks a set of viper-like fangs into his shoulder.

Snake turns from the mob near the door to see the Egyptian woman has become the same serpentine monster shown on the sign out front. He pumps five shots into her back before she drops Larry and looks at him. She hisses again, and the floor shakes. Snake looks around and sees that the band members have all turned into monsters and that snarling wolves and walking corpses have begun to emerge from below. "Larry!" Snake calls out, "I need you!" But there's no answer. The longest night of Snake's life has begun.…

***

Next, I search the bikes. In the saddle bag of one there is an insurance card that reads, "Farm State motorcycle insurance registered to Charlie Belmond. Valid through 18 June 2008." There's also a notebook with pictures of animals, people, and people that look like animals—there's a several-page-long cartoon of a woman having s.e.x with a man as he morphs into a wolf. It's signed by a girl named Lucia Wingate.

***

The notebook triggers another vision, another set of memories. At first scattershot, stating with images of a 14-year-old girl in a fight with an older woman, a fire, the barking of dogs, a wolf pressed nose to nose with Blake for a split second then it's mouth drops open. Finally, things focus in a way that makes it easier to ready.

Charlie Belmond, also called Pistol, kicks down the stand on his hog, an old-style Davison from the 1930's, fully refurbished to look like it just came off the assembly line as he pulls into the diner's parking lot. He and all the members of his group with the exception of Trash are dressed in black leather. Pistol has ratty, dark brown hair and a similar eye color. He wears a whip wrapped around his waist, old and bronze, the whip is something out of antiquity, the whip has a name, "Souleater" Charlie has horrible scars covering his face that look like they could have come from an animal attack, but he still smiles bright as a boy.

His girl climbs down off the back of his bike, a sixteen-year-old redhead who goes by the apparent nickname "Trash.", her real name is Lucia Wingate She is wearing way too much make-up for her young age and is dressed in a red tank top with a jean skirt dyed red, black fishnet stockings, as well as knee-high boots.

Alongside Pistol on a much more modern Harley bike is a man so black the leather of his jacket is nearly the same color as the skin on his face. As a joke Charlie calls him Spooky, and he and Pistol have been friends for nearly twenty years, the two of them even work in the same school, Charlie as the director of environmental services Professor Mohamed Quinn as a physical fitness instructor and heath adviser. They have rolled from town to town in search of fun and freedom. Trash just joined them about a year ago after Pistol shook some rapist off of her in the back of a movie store. At least that is the cover story. Lucia and Charlie have never talked about what really happened to anyone.

Today the three of them are riding back from Bram with five buddies they hooked up with at the last stop. They walk into the diner, which is about a half-hour's ride from Navu. Pistol himself is feeling fine, but some of the younger riders are not set up for a half-day-long haul. The hostess greets them with a smile and routine-sounding, "How are you?" as well as a, "Welcome back!" They all extend half-hearted greetings while looking for a suitable booth to sit down. In nearly no time the lot of them finish off nearly a full pot of coffee each.

Trash has been sweet on Pistol since they met, almost to the point of being sickeningly sweet. He looks after her much like a father, but he is just as allured by her pretty face as any man would be. Yet he has to remain true to his strong sense of responsibility, lest he should act on such animal-like instincts in the face of her frequent pressure.

Part way through everyone's third or fourth cup, Spooky lights up a blunt and starts passing it between his friends. Pistol shakes his hand and passes it on knowing that it's difficult to ride half deaf, and he doesn't need to be half baked, too. Having a light frame and little tolerance to the drugs, Trash finds herself becoming high in no time. She swings one leg around Pistol and sets her head gently on his shoulder. She seductively whispers to him, "Do you want to mess around?"

Pistol smiles and answers "Yes … no!" He quickly regains his bearings and pushes her back into her seat.

"Christ, Trash!" he says angrily, "I'm probably older than your father!"

"So what?" Trash protests in an upset tone. "my father is 15 years older then my mother."

Spooky takes off his leather jacket, revealing his large, broad shoulders. He laughs through his teeth as he speaks, "Do you know who you remind me of? Steve Buscemi."

With a crossed look of disgust and disappointment, Pistol shakes his head. "First off, I have no clue as to how you would know personally the comedian Steve Buscemi. Second, I'm nothing like him for three reasons: this is my hair, Steve is not deaf, and he has never needed reconstructive surgery for ripping his face off after a bad high. How exactly did you come to that conclusion, anyway?"

Spooky laughs, "You like cartoons, rockabilly music, and you dig dudes."

"I'm not gay," Pistol argues. "Trash gave me head last week." It is a lie and everyone at the table knows it. But no harm in playing along.

"A guy can give head," Spooky states firmly. "I don't get it, anyway. Why do girls want you? I wouldn't f.u.c.k a hideous f.u.c.kin' chud like you."

"I wouldn't want you to big buddy," Pistol jokes.

As the group is chatting Lucia gets up from her chair. "I'm going to the bathroom." She departs hastily. She shouts for Charlie "come on!"

Spooky chuckles, Charlie dose as he is asked.

Lucia steps into the girl's room, she pulls Charlie in with her, she is shacking "Charlie, It has been almost a year now but I have to know, that thing in the movie theater. Was it real?"

Charlie nods, "yeah, it was."

"It acted like in knew you." Lucia expresses. "what was it? Why did it attack me?"

Charlie chuckles slightly, he doesn't want to say what he knows but he doesn't want to lie to Lucia "is was a Jacklwere, it was breeding season and you are of prime age to take as a mate."

Lucia stands and stars or a moment. She nods "I am too high to do this right now." She walks back out to the main area and takes her seat again, Charlie only a few steps behind.

As they continue speaking to one another, another pair of men walk into the restaurant. One is a tall, powerful-looking bald man in a gray suit. His partner is built for all the world like a modern-day Viking. Large c.h.e.s.t, powerful arms, taller than most—he seems ten feet tall from Trash, Spooky, and Pistol's point of view—and possessing hair of a deep crimson. Pistol overhears the bald one with the stone face say to the hostess, "Ten miles back up the road there is supposed to be a bridge that leads into the town on the other side of the mountains."

Pistol kicks his feet up on the table as he thinks about what was just said. He then responds to the stoic man's inquiry as his mind pulls up the information he was trying to remember. "That's old Navu isn't it? The bridge has been gone for a while, but there's still a road that goes through."

"What happened there?" inquires the stone-faced man with the well-pressed suit.

"Some acid or radiation or something spilled all over the place. The cops closed the bridge and barred the road. They say it's unlivable now." Pistol's explanation continues, "Still some folks live 'round there, though."

"Can you tell me how to get there?" the icy stranger asks.

"No, but I can show you. The eight of us are heading that way pretty soon," he

answers. "Take a load off, have a beer. We'll be leaving soon."

"We don't drink, but thank you. We will sit."

"What's your name? " Pistol asks out of curiosity.

"El," the calm man states plaintively.

"El?" Pistol chuckles upon hearing the stranger's name. "Like, The? How about him? What's his name? Is?" Pistol sarcastically speaks with a snicker, almost disbelieving of the man's answer.

The man who could be mistaken for an ox steps forward with an angered look on his face, moving with an apparent intention to rearrange Pistol's anatomy. El calmly holds out one hand to stop his large friend.

"He is my shotgun. We call him Lacerti."

"Muscle," Pistol responds.

"Something like that," El answers, suppressing a small amount of shock that the apparent biker gang leader knows anything of the Latin language. "'Lacerti' actually means 'strength of muscle, or body.'"

The early evening hours proceed much like that, the group of them discussing most everything—from music to actors to Madonna and big d.i.c.ks, manly men and feminine women and the things that can make them better, hairy c.h.e.s.ts, waxed asses, and even rhinoplasty After several more cups of coffee and half a pack of cigarettes on Spooky's behalf, everyone's ready to set back out on the road. Throughout the conversation, El and his big buddy Lacerti sat quietly, saying word neither to the bikers nor one another—they were seemingly happy listening in not needing to talk to understand, like a pair of owls.

After the short ride the bikers arrive at the hangout as they commonly do on their weekends, and the heavy drinking begins, though El goes to sit by the bar and Lacerti heads off elsewhere. The music is good the beer is not too bad, either. A live mariachi band like you might see in Mexico or the deep West plays. Taking a good look, Pistol notes that the women aren't looking too bad, themselves. Partway through "Johnny Be Good," Pistol announces it's time to take a piss and parts from his friends.

The bathrooms here at Lamia's Back are divided from the stage by an iron gate and a narrow hallway. The bathroom is amongst the cleanest Pistol has ever seen, flawlessly beautiful aside from a broken mirror over the sink nearest to the door. Pistol sees that Lacerti is in there, too.

Pistol tries to make small talk, but Lacerti never says a word, merely shrugging and grunting in response to any given statement. A new song starts, and the melody is familiar to Pistol. It's a country song from the late '70s called "Misunderstood." As he reminisces, the sounds of gunfire ring out in the club. Pistol laughs uncomfortably. "I guess this isn't just my favorite song, after all."

A child screams, and at that Pistol quickly re-zips his pants and the two men run to see what's the matter. As Lacerti throws open the door, four zombies lunge in at him. Lacerti throws his fist at them, and they tumble back through the door as quickly as they came. Pistol reaches around his waist and pulls his whip. The two of them push their way out of the bathroom and back to the hall. The scene looks bad; Trash and Spooky are wrestling with the undead. The bartender has turned into a twin-headed demon that is getting knocked around by El wielding a fire extinguisher. A man in a silk suit has gunned down one of the dancers, and the old man that Pistol saw come in with a pair of kids several minutes ago as he headed to the restroom is swinging a chair leg at a group of flesh-hungry beasts. As the children are being carried away, the younger-looking of the two toward Pistol and Lacerti, the other being taken toward the front of the bar.

The music stops and the sprinklers come on, pouring blood from the ceiling.

Pistol points to the older girl and yells, "Big stuff!" Lacerti nods and charges through the gate toward the beast making away with her. Pistol pulls his whip back as the younger girl is carried into range, He lashes at just the right moment, wrapping the whip around the zombie with the girl. Pistol smiles as he tugs on the monster and says, "I don't think that's kosher, someone your age picking up someone hers." He waves a mocking finger.

The monster drops the girl and runs at Pistol, its mouth dr.a.p.ed open hungrily. It pushes the man backward into the gate, slamming it shut. Other undead hands reach through, tugging at Pistol. "Bad touch, bad touch," Pistol calls he elbows the gate to shove the other zombies away then pushes the one holding him. Pistol swings his whip again, wrapping it around the zombie's head this time. He pivots inward at it and side-kicks it, and the force rips the minion's head clean off.

The gate shakes as the other zombies start to try to get at Pistol, who strikes a ready stance. He calls to the girl, "Out the back, sweetheart." Pistol smiles again, and using his best kiddy voice, says, "I'll follow you in just a sec."

Pistol pulls a pair of handcuffs out of his jacket and uses them to chain the gate shut. For the first time he notices a swirling mist on the ground, which now starts to form a humanoid shape. A hand flies out at him and wraps around his c.h.e.s.t as a wolf-like monster with bat wings on its back materializes. It lifts Pistol into the air and begins choking him. "Belmond," it growls.

Pistol looks it up and down. Hanging from its body are tattered remnants of the shiny clothes one of the band members had on. It's the guitar player, he thinks.

The monstrous wolf beast looks at the whip. "Son of Belmond," it snarls, "how many of my brothers' souls have you swallowed with that cursed instrument? Do you even know?" The monster wh.i.p.s Pistol to the ground, making a horrible cracking sound.

Pistol can't tell whether it was his arm or the cement cracking beneath him.

He groans in pain. "That really s.u.c.k.e.d," he mutters as he rolls onto his stomach and starts to stand back up.

"Crushing your pathetic body will bring great honor to the Dracul," the monster shouts, kicking him back over as he gets to his feet.

Pistol half-laughs and half-cries as he tries again to stand. "Isn't sixteen hundred years a long time to hold a grudge?" He backs up against the wall.

"Son of Belmond, you and all your ancestors will spend eternity as one of us," the wolf beast bellows. It gets onto all fours, and Pistol starts to sidestep it. The monster pounces and as Pistol brings his arm up to block it, it sinks its jaws into Pistol's forearm.

They fall into the gate, toppling it with their combined weight.

More zombies start to pour into the hall as Pistol and the wolf man growl at one another. Pistol desperately backhands the beast, and to his shock the monster yelps in surprise. Pistol takes this opportunity to place his foot in the monster's gut and judo-throw it off of him.

The man leaps to his feet as he grabs his whip from the ground and recoils it. He takes one last look back at the monster and boyishly salutes it. "We will have to finish this another time," he jests. Pistol runs away, giving chase to the girl.

****

Finally, to the big rig. The thing smells like lemon, the dashboard looks oiled, and the brake petal has recently been replaced. The driver must be the cleanest trucker in the world. Clipped to the visor on the passenger side is a picture. It is of eighteen soldiers outside of a base, sixteen of them posing for the camera, grinning, and two of them at attention. The sixteen posing all have Xs over their hearts—only the lieutenants standing at attention remain unmarked. The first unmarked man is a large man standing in the back. He is mildly out of focus, making it difficult to gage his stature. Even so, he stands as wide as two men and half again as tall—he is massive. The second stands alongside his men, hands folded before him. Completely ordinarily, the only identifying marks on him are his insignias. Flipping over the picture, there is a notation reading, "Dec. 14, 1968, Vietnam."

***

His vision is clear and crisp the person he is reading clearly disciplined of both mind and body.

It's a night like most every other. El Driver ,A name he has given himself, has company at his favorite bar—the unfriendly kind of company. He's with two men—a Cuban with his hair in cornrows and a Negro as bald as El himself. The Cuban has drawn his gun, a 13mm Jackal, limited edition. It's a good gun; too much gun for most to handle, El thinks to himself while examining the firearm. He is completely without fear as he stares down the muzzle of the gun with his head held high. He adjusts the collar of his gray, economy-class suit with matching tie then crosses his arms atop the table. His eyes are deep brown and seem to hold back a fiery evil, and his imposing presence as even as he sits makes it is clear that he would stand over six feet tall.

"Mister El, your price—it's just too much!" The Cuban man yells out. "Seven thousand for only one truck?"

"Plus, seven grand more on delivery, plus expenses." El's face is stone cold as always.

"What do I pay for?" the Cuban asks.

"Insurance," El responds, his voice calm and piercing. "No questions, guaranteed. I provide the tools and the training. If I fail, my replacement picks up where I left off.…" El continues in his soft but demanding voice, "Before you think any more about shooting anyone, are you any good with numbers?"

"No, why?" the Cuban questions.

"It so happens to be that I'm exceptional, so let's play a game. Count with me. If you look around right now you will see there are twenty-seven men looking at you in addition to myself. Twenty-five of them are carrying guns, twenty-four of which are pointed at you. Half of those guns are 9mm Berettas, the favored gun of the CIA, a third are .45 Dostoveis, a Russian hand-cannon. The rest are United States .50 Desert Eagles, and there's one man outside with an M18 an assault rifle, which the army just started using in 2008. So tell me, how many rounds are there between them?" The Cuban tries to count on his fingers as El continues, "Its 388 not counting your Jackal. You fire, you're not getting out of here alive."

"I see your point, Mr. El." the Cuban puts his gun down and El takes it.

"I trust the package is outside, like in the deal?"

"Yes," the Cuban man responds.

"Lets all take a look."

"It's the Hot Dog Taco truck." The now nervous Cuban nods to one side as sweat starts to pour down his brow. "Is it true what people say about you?" he questions, tentatively.

"What's that?"

"That you kill people who refuse to pay you."

"What do you think?" El questions calmly and coldly as he stands, tucking the Jackal into the back of his pants. He leads the Cuban and the Negro to the front of the bar and outside to the back of the big rig.

"You never look at the package, I'm told," The Negro says as El opens the truck.

"I never look in the package," El confirms as he begins moving boxes around.

"What are you doing then?" the Cuban questions.

"Making sure that what's here is what's supposed to be here." He starts counting the boxes.

"A hundred and one boxes weighing between twenty and forty-five pounds each." He finishes his count.

"There are 104 boxes here. Three of them have to go. That's the deal," El coldly explains to them.

The scared men nod, knowing their game is up. "I'll be back in forty-five minutes. Clean this mistake up and I'll give you the flight plan," El orders.

An hour later, El leads them back inside the bar after recounting the truck. He gives them the recap. "Here's the plan. I drive only by day and within the speed limit. I begin at 8:35 AM stopping at 12:35 and 5:35 PM for food and drink and making no more than three stops for gas per day. At 7:45 PM I make my way to the nearest hotel, motel, rest station, or legal park and go to sleep. You reimburse me for whichever when I drop the assets in your PO box.

"This map shows my intended path. If this is not acceptable, you can set a new one. I will arrive at the rendezvous in seven to fourteen days. Once there, I will make two attempts to deliver the package, thirteen hours apart. If there is any sign of danger, I will leave and come back in one hour. If there is no one to meet me, I will take the contents and sell it myself. If I get there and there is no money or it's not the right amount, I kill the messenger, call my assistants and have them kill you, find your address book, and take the remainder of the money from your accounts. So don't mess up again."

Everyone agrees and El sets off, everything according to plan. Less than a block away, El picks up his partner, Lacerti. A giant of a man with dark red hair and a matching beard, Lacerti is reminiscent of the Vikings. He seems to stand over eight feet tall and has a highly trim, but muscular, physique.

The drive from Florida to Mexico is long and unfriendly, but one that El and his partner have made dozens of times, just like their fathers had made and their sons will make after them. El's family has been in the same career for generations, moving and transporting anything and everything, and always with the same set of rules.

On the fourth day they hit a snag. A road that's on El's map isn't actually there in truth. El turns the truck around and they return to the last town for both gas and directions. They stop at a diner where there seems to be a biker gang dining, as well.

Inside, El approaches the waitress and calmly asks, "Miss, can you help me?"

She is chewing gum and smells heavily of a watermelon-scented perfume. "What's up, stranger?"

"Ten miles up the road there is supposed to be a bridge that leads into the town on the other side of the mountains."

One of the bikers' pipes in. He is a man with black hair and has a face torn up from years of drug use. "That's old Navu, isn't it? The bridge is gone, but there is still a road that goes through."

"What happened there?" El inquires with curiosity.

"Some acid or radiation or something spilled all over the place. The cops closed the bridge and barred the road. They say it's unlivable now," the biker explains. "Still some folks live 'round there, though."

"Can you tell me how to get there?" El asks in his always-calm tone.

"No, but I can show you. The eight of us are heading that way," the man answers.

"Take a load off, have a beer. We'll be leaving soon."

El cracks a smile. "We don't drink. but thank you. We will sit."

As El and Lacerti wait around with the bikers, they learn that the one who spoke with them is named Pistol. The rest of the talk, though, is almost incoherent blabber. After a time, they leave, El and Lacerti following the bikers around the mountain to "the hangout," as they called it—a sleazy whorehouse called Lamia's Back.

The place is not quite El's style, but it's the only stop along the way, if they want to stay punctual. He goes to the front bar to sit by himself while Lacerti makes his way to the restroom and the rest of the group finds a table together to continue their heavy drinking.

Some commotion begins, but El pays no heed until the bartender takes his cup and growls at him, "Time to pay your tab."

El looks at him and quickly notices that something is not right. Blood begins to rain from above projected by the sprinkler system, and the bartender has grown a second head. Neither head resembles anything even remotely human-looking. He leans over to grab El, but El kicks his chair back out of reach and leaps to his feet. The bartender jumps onto the bar and crouches like some kind of wild animal. El round kicks him in the side and then axe kicks him to the ground. The mutated bartender grabs El as he gets back up and throws him over the bar.

"Bleed for me!" the monstrous bartender ferociously orders.

El stands and cracks his neck in a prominent show of defiance. The 'tender stretches his rubbery necks and snaps at the man. El grabs a nearby fire extinguisher and swings. It gets caught in one of the monster's mouths. Having bought some time and wondering where the hell Lacerti is in the surrounding ruckus, El raises his new gun to blast that mutant second head to pieces. By this time the room is crowded with dozens of beasts of all shapes and sizes. "It looks like the mail will be late today," El mutters as he faces a bar full of hell's own minions.…

***

I approach the door to the joint. It's locked with an I-bar and I'm not strong enough to lift it, seeing that it weighs several hundred pounds. I lift my phone instead—it's time to make that call.

Tail answers, "Operator."

"Tail?"

"Yes?"

"I need help," I explain.

"You're the monster hunter, not me," Tail reminds me.

"I have a list of names and a picture. I need to know who they are."

"Why?" she asks.

"They're inside, and I can't get in."

"Shoot the damn door down," she commands. I shake the door, but it doesn't budge an inch.

"No good." The door is thicker than the lock by at least two inches. "Don't suppose you slipped any C-4 or an RPG in my bag?"

"What the hell is an RPG?" Tail asks.

"Rocket Propelled Grenade."

"No, Blake, the Watchers don't issue military-brand arsenal," Tail explains sarcastically.

"I guess I'll just have to find another way in, then," I say, and hang up the phone.

I walk around the structure only to find as I reach the back side there is an unpassable fissure, must be a mile long and a thousand feet deep, a graveyard of bikes and trucks wait at the bottom of the pit. Hundreds or more wrecked cars sit and rust. I feel something is asleep in the hole. Something old, evil, premortal.

I feel a pulling on my mind. Glowing velvet eyes burn into my heart. The monster that took Chriss and Charry away is close by. I feel a flash of light, a hear a whale like song resonate from the underground. A hot wind blows my coat up. Something just outside our reality is within arm's reach of me. Teeth pierce the ground in my second sight. the thing under the ground is an eldritch abomination this thing. It has been standing in my shadow for days. It has been leading me here.

An intangible hand rest against my back. The otherworldly thing whispers in my ear. It tells me to take one more step. To fall from this world and into theirs. I call on my psionic power to push me back the other way. I step away from the pit, I run back to the front of the bar. The godless thing waits for me, the bridge between life and death is so close I can almost see past the vale of reality. The reaper awaits.