Red Twilight: A Dawning Of Power

Chapter 6 Heroes

I return to the front of the bar, I walk around looking for many more information I can find on what is going on here. I give Tail "the list" and she gives me the facts; Tail is wonderful. I still can't remember how long we have known each other, but it's long enough for me to understand that she is absolutely trustworthy. I might imagine that her rough voice garnishes a lot of negative attention, aside from her being a so-called freak, but I find it beautiful. "Hey check this out," Tail says as she texts me a letter:

From Colonel Donavan on Jan 6th, 1969

To General Karingson

Dec 15th

We sent a battalion of hand-picked individuals to investigate a series of weapon depots reported to us by our information network in North Vietnam. The battalion was divided into three companies in order to execute simultaneous action. The companies were then divided into nine squads for strategic reasons. Paratrooper drops were made twenty-five miles out from their targets to avoid detection.

Dec 17th

Radio contact was lost. The last transmission was received at 0600 hours sent by Captain Reeves reporting his unit was under fire. All units appeared to be lost in a large-scale assault on our covert troops.

Dec 19th

We received an encrypted message by hard line from Corporal Thompson that appeared to be a collateral report. 297 American soldiers were confirmed KIA 50 MIA, and the remainder of the soldiers had joined a fallback organized by Lieutenant David Lay, a sniper, and Lieutenant Mattimeto Whitewolf, infantry commander. Half of the men under their command were reported injured.

The soldiers under Lt. Whitewolf commandeered a farm town in which they set up fort. After losing his unit, Lt. Lay made his way to the last known locations of the surrounding teams and escorted the survivors to relative safety, where he joined up with Lt. Whitewolf.

Dec 21st

Lt. Lay requested evacuation of his wounded. He went on to explain that he and seven others were abandoning the fort to go in search of the missing men.

Dec 24th

Lt. Lay and Lt. Whitewolf reported that they had captured one of the weapons depots and recovered five POWs. His report explained that though the base is now under their control they have failed to locate any high-powered ballistics.

Jan 5th, 1969

Lt. Lay and his team have just arrived home. General, it is my belief that this attack was well beyond anything we expected and can only be the result of an intelligence leak. Had it not been for the quick actions of Lieutenants Lay and Whitewolf, this could have been a disaster of a far greater scale. I believe that Lts. Lay and Whitewolf should both be considered for the highest Honors that can be afforded.

P.S. On another note, it may not be my place, but I believe that until this leak is repaired we should launch a withdrawal of all troops.

Tail continues her story. "Lieutenants Lay and Whitewolf, along with their teams, are labeled as killed in action on January 8th, 1969—killed behind enemy lines in an attempt to rescue a Blackbird team. The team leaders are recognized as some of the most decorated soldiers to come out of the United States Armed Services. Lay and Whitewolf were buried at sea by the marine squad next on scene. Their bodies were recovered during a fallback. What a drag, huh?"

I think for a time, and Tail speaks again. "So, do you think these guys are the real deal?"

More thinking. "Well," Tail answers herself, "there are two clear possibilities if you ask me. Either they are and the people in there are in the best hands possible, or they are not and they're S-O-L-N-J-W-F."

That is the longest acronym I think I have ever heard slipped into a normal conversation. "Say again, Tail?" I ask.

"S-O-L-N-J-W-F. Shit out of luck and jolly well f.u.c.k.e.d."

I make my way over the hill—if one can call it that—on the other side of the street and open my bag to begin assembling my rifle. "How about Larry Gekks?"

"The man is a parking ticket away from the FBI most-wanted list. He has spent time in a padded room at the National Institute for Mental Health. He is a highly disturbed, violent criminal with a history of s.e.x.u.a.l offenses, and he has a multi-murder on his record. He is wanted for questioning in a dozen and a half other crime, too. He makes his brother look like a saint; he's only wanted for numerous thefts and drug trafficking."

I line up my crosshairs as I listen. "Sounds like a couple of nice guys. What about Lucia Wingate? Is she another award-winning asshole, or did she just get off the bus on the wrong side of town?"

"Hold on."

There is silence for several minutes as I assume Tail scans her computer looking for info. I wait, occasionally throwing up verbal pauses.

"She is a runaway, her mother is enjoying the hospitality of the state, her father is the headmaster of a school down south. Suspect in an arson case. Not much else."

I have to struggle to hold back a chuckle as Tail tells me this. Floods of filthy thoughts run through my head. "She is an amateur artist, you know. She has some wonderful pieces right here in her notebook. I think you would appreciate them; maybe I'll steal some for you."

Tail laughs once into the phone. "Thanks, Blake, I'm sure she will love to give you her life's work."

"Well if she ends up dead the price won't be to high. if you think about it." I spend a moment reflecting on the dismal work at hand. I'm sitting on top of a dirt mound waiting to assassinate a roomful of men and women as they escape the most difficult fight of their lives—assuming that anyone gets out at all. I would assume best-case scenario, a Wolfin opens the door, I kill it, and justice is done. But that wouldn't be any different than the worst-case, really, would it?

Tail questions "are you saying it is easier to pick pocket the dead then to steal from the leaving?"

The harder I think about it, I realize that if I follow orders to a T, everyone is dead except for me. But what do I really have to choose from? I kill the things in there, human and otherwise, or I sacrifice myself—which might not be all bad in the end—and Tail. That second part is not acceptable. Damn, what is a man to do? I'm a soldier; I have to follow orders. No, I'm not a soldier, I'm a supernatural investigator and eliminator, an exorcist, a mercenary at best. I don't have to follow orders. There is nothing stopping me from going back to HQ and killing everyone there instead. Aside from not knowing the way back, or how many men I'm outnumbered by, or even their ultimate goal. I have to live up to it, I suppose. I'm a heartless killer. But these are human beings, not faceless monstrosities. Lucia is a runaway, she has a family, and I don't know anything of the others.

"Tail," I break the silence, "the last one Charlie Belmond."

Tail takes her time scanning page after page on her computer. "Well aside from a bounty on his head, the guy is invisible. No police record, no credit cards, no cosmetic surgery."

"Did you say bounty?" I interrupt her.

"Yes, a man named A. C. Dem Row is offering a hundred thousand bananas to the first man to deliver 51 percent of his corpse to Del International, Miami, Florida, room 18F," Tail elaborates.

"That's a whole lot of bananas," I think aloud.

"It's not just for Charlie, ether. It's for any Belmond with heritage that can be traced to Turkey," Tail continues. "I'm not sure what Mr. Dem Row's beef is with Belmond, but he is willing to pay out the a.s.s for it."

"Is Belmond a Turkish name?" I ask.

"Yeah, no, I don't know. I type it in and get 843 marks. It could be Turkish, or it could be … Swahili?" Tail explains to me in a mater-of-fact fashion. "I just don't know." There is a hum as Tail thinks aloud "About your trouble with the front door, someone must have locked it…"

I exhale heavily, thinking about the future. Things are going to get bad, and it is going to get there in one hell of a hurry. "Tail, I have to let you go. I don't know what's about to happen, but I'll call you when it's over."

Tail starts to say something, but I can't make it out; I slam my phone shut and lie upon the ground, one eye placed firmly against the sight of my gun as I sweep my surroundings for anything out of the ordinary.

I don't know what I was expecting to find, but little more than a few seconds pass before my sixth sense kicks me in the groin. Instinct takes over as I roll onto my back and reach for my iron, an antique replica of the Jesse James's six-shooter made of silver with an ivory handle. The vortex—I can feel it again; it has followed me. But it refuses to come any closer. I hear a deep laughter. It is muffled, as if being forced down.

The rolling moonlight is playing tricks on me. Bathed in darkness, I see a face smirking at me from about a hundred feet away. It looks to be carved in wood with grotesquely fine detail. There is now an appalling stink in the air, like burning flesh. As the moon comes back out the devilish vision stops, and once again I am alone in the dark. I sit frozen in place for several moments, holding my piece in both hands, staring at the vortex only inches outside my range of vision, awaiting the return of the monstrosity that mocks my humanity. But it never returns.

I rub my eyes until I start to see spots then replace my gun in its holster. My vision returns to clarity. The hell that has been following me has receded to whatever depth it calls home. I suddenly wonder, is this the hell I made for myself, or can others see the darkness, also? If others do see it, do they ignore it somehow, or do they cower away from the monsters hiding so near? I feel I'm filled with fear, but I know that the fear protects me. Sometimes I think that only myself and children truly understand the nature of the darkness, and everyone else is simply hiding in the metaphoric closet from it. Or maybe I'm going mad after all. There was something there, I have no doubt of that, but it was not a man or monster. It was a dog—yes, that's it, it was a dog.

Who do I think I'm kidding? I'm a psion, and one of the worst parts of being a psion is no one can lie to me, not even myself. There is something around me, but I cannot do a damn thing about it. I can take comfort in the idea that two-thirds of the time an entity that you can't feel can't feel you, either. We are at an impasse until it takes on a solid form so I can fight it.. Until that comes to pass, there is only one thing left to do—wait.…

***

Joe shuts the book he has been writing in, he stands up and looks to Amarant. "I need a dink." Joe leaves the library. He walks down the hall to a nearby door in the underground structure. Joe folds his arms and taps his cane to the wall as he is thinking. 'something about all of his isn't sitting right with me, life can't simply be wished into existence by man can it? If man had the power to give and take away life then what need is there for gods and devils?'

The door is opened by an old Jamaican man in a leopard spotted cloak and fez, the Jamaican holds out his arms in a smile and laugh "Josephus!"

Joe smiles to his companion "Lincoln." Joe takes the man in a hug "How long have we know each other Lincoln?"

Galard pats Joe on the back "A life time, not a day less."

Joe nods "Lincoln, I need an ear to bend."

Lincoln waves Joe into his den, "you are in luck, I have two of them and they both still work, most of the time."

Joe steps into Lincoln's room "I stumbled on something I have never seen before and I need advice."

Lincoln pours a cup of tea as they start talking "that is becoming an ever-rarer a phenomenon. As we age the world keeps becoming smaller, or maybe we keep getting larger."

Joe explains "I met a girl today…"

Lincoln asks "is she your type?"

Joe laughs with his friend "I tend to like older girls."

Lincoln hands Joe a cup "So then what is on your mind dear friend?"

"Did you know Sato?" Joe request

"I have seen his journals, he took the Karingson job from me." Lincoln expresses

"then you know Marks Karingson." Joe extrapolates

"Yes."

Joe takes a sip from his cup "what where your feelings about him, anything that didn't make it to the archive?"

Lincoln chuckles "The man was crazy like a cat with a cuc.u.mber. But he was not a leir, not a crook. He was a warrior through and through." It is clear to Joe that Lincoln has some level of affection for Marks

Joe cuts to the chase of his though process "How much human blood do you need to have before you are human?"

Lincoln senses there is something strange about the question. There are details that Joe is leaving out. This stamen will be used to fill in the gap in more than one inquiry Lincoln will not let Joe play games with him "Do not talk to me like you think I am stupid, you know epistemology as well as I do, your statement is Mu."

Joe lowers his head with a smile and a nod "you are right, let me tell you more, Marks created something, something almost human but not quite…" Joe trust Lincoln, the two have fought side by side, the two have been friends for generations. Lincoln folds his hand in front of his face and leans onto the table tacking in everything joe has to say. The two men will spend the rest of the night sitting together drinking tea and determining the fate of Tail and her kin.