Bravado's House of Blues (11 page)

“We are gravely outnumbered here,” said Bellicus.

“Thank you for that intelligence,” Atticus said. “We will trade our lives for the lives of these hell spawn.”

Bellicus only nodded.

“Stand ready men.” He swept his gaze over the few who stood with him. “We are the sacrifice that ends this charade. May our actions spare the others.”

He turned, shivering as the snow slid off his shoulders. The warm air caught in his throat. The pungent aroma of springtime filled his head. Flowering shrubs and budding trees permeated the air with a miasma of odors that confused his winter-deadened senses.

Hundreds of tiny pixies flitted about the glen, their wings flashing iridescent colors as they flew in and out of the trees. From the shadows, men, women and children could be seen. The Romans fingered the blades of their swords.

“Bring no battle here,” a rich alto voice said from deeper in the glade.

From the shade of the forest stepped a maiden with black hair and piercing green eyes. She wore a dress of leaves, and small circlet of red and white flowers adorned her hair. A halo of light shone around her as she moved forward.

“Marabus,” the old druid breathed, falling to his knees.

Atticus whirled around to the druid. “Marabus?” he hissed. “This woman-child is the leader of your tribe?”

“Yes,” said the prisoner. “Since my father’s father’s father’s time.”

“No wonder the Fey are your allies,” Atticus said pitching his voice low. “You follow their queen.”

Laughter tinkled down from the trees. Marabus chuckled like the water flowing over the rocks in a quick-moving stream.

“No, foolish Roman. I do not pretend to take the rightful place of Titania, Queen of the Fey, may she reign forever. I am but one of her humble servants.”

Atticus shook his head. “I think humble too light a compliment for you, Queen of the druids.” Surely his eyes played tricks. She was so beautiful.

“I am but a leader of a single tribe. Why must you insist on giving titles, foolish man?”

“What should I call you then?” Atticus asked.

“Why, Marabus, of course. Haven’t you listened to Leucix? He is accounted very wise among our people.”

“You do me honor, Marabus,” Leucix said.

Atticus stared at him.

“Do you like what the deaths of your men have wrought?” Leucix asked.

“What do the deaths of my men have to do with this unholy place?”

“It took the sacrifice of many of your men to open this refuge,” Marabus said. “You have managed to drive us from our homes, which should be enough for you—and yet you have followed us to your own demise.” She bowed her head for a moment. The soft buzzing of the fluttering wings hummed against the background of breathing men and horses. When she raised her head once more, tears rolled down her pristine face. “You see, enemy mine, you will not be permitted to leave this glade.” She opened her arms to encompass the greenery that surrounded her. “Titania has lent her magic to this place. Her power will protect us. Lay down your arms. There is no war here.”

Atticus wound the reins tighter in his fist. “We hold no peace with the Fey.”
Hades! To be trapped here, after all this
? “You have sacrificed many of Caesar’s good men to create this place,” he said sweeping his hand across the wide green wood. “But your efforts are in vain. Caesar’s troops sweep through Gaul as we speak. We are but a small part of that iron fist.”

Marabus laughed. The men quailed about Atticus, the fear apparent on their faces. He felt hope dwindle as the shattering laughter pierced him. “The storm that rages outside this refuge will sweep all the lands of Gaul, freezing your precious Caesar in a winter colder than his black heart.”

“You lie,” Atticus growled.
Why did his head throb so
?

“You have no chance to spare him and his legions.” She smiled. “We have struck a bargain with Titania, to live out our lives in this realm in exchange for freedom from your Caesar. Your blood can enrich this land. How is up to you. The trees thirst, but we can come to a truce, mix our blood in other ways,” she tilted her head to the side.

Atticus found breathing suddenly harder. Fire burned through his veins. Passion rose in him, unbidden.

“You cannot hurt us,” she crooned. This is a place of magic. Titania provides more than springtime in this sanctuary. You are trapped as we are. Give over your blood lust and join us.”

“What if she speaks the truth?” Bellicus’ harsh whisper grated through Atticus’ head. “Her words make sense. If we are trapped here after all, why fight them? “

“Your magic is strong,” Atticus said, fighting the wave of surrender and lust that flowed over him. “You will not bewitch me with your words. If we are trapped here, then we will make you pay for our lives with your blood.”

“Your weapons of bronze are useless here,” she said again. “Come to me, embrace me, and be at peace.”

The sound of pixie wings rose to a fevered pitch in Atticus’ head. He slid from his horse and leaned against the saddle. She spoke truth, he knew. They were trapped here and she would hold them with her magic. He pushed himself away from the horse and stumbled toward Marabus. His men did not move to stop him. The pixies’ incessant buzzing seemed to fade. Stillness fell over everything. No one moved but he.

Marabus stood amongst the flowers and the greenery, resplendent in power and beauty. Atticus could feel the last bit of his anger in the back of his mind like a fruit pit, hard and firm. She killed my men, he thought, yet she is so beautiful. He squeezed his eyes shut and in his mind bit down hard on the pit of anger, releasing the poison that resided within. Hatred and bile flooded him, pushing against the tide of her magic.

He stumbled into her arms and the world seemed to stop. In one brief instant Marabus had won. She cradled Atticus’ head to her bosom and threw her head back in laughter. The Romans were lost. Atticus screamed in anguish as woody tendrils slid out of her fingers and began burrowing into his scalp. For the briefest of moments, the buzzing stopped as Atticus slumped against Marabus. Then her smile faded to shock. Atticus fell back from her, trailing roots like woody tresses; in his fist he grasped a bloodied dagger.

“But, how?” she gasped as blood flooded her mouth and spilled down over her dress.

“Cold iron,” Atticus said as he slid to the ground. Blood poured from the spots where her fingers had begun to take root in his scalp. “Caesar has wise men of his own. We know of your weaknesses.” He rose to his knees beside the dryad. “Take them,” he cried, waving his left hand toward the huddled druids and their families.

The stillness shattered at his words, and the cacophony of sound and colors resumed. His men surged forward shouting “Mars vigilia!” as they rushed into the midst of the stunned crowd. Atticus fell forward over the body of Marabus, his mind filled with flashing reds and greens, vibrant flowing colors of a rushing summer. He felt the first breaths of wintry cold blow through the glade as the barrier ebbed with the flowing of Marabus’ blood. The cries of the dying filled his head, shredding the remnants of Marabus’ final words. He slipped into darkness and the acrid scent of decay.

*

Reverend Sykes stood at the bottom of a huge oak. The twins used loggers’ gear to scale the monster tree. Once at the top they began to harvest the mistletoe. Deacon Smith caught the plants as they fell from the sky. Not a single leaf hit the ground.

“This reminds me of a tale my gran used to tell,” Michael said. “Ain’t this the way the old druids gathered the mistletoe?”

“Could be,” Reverend Sykes said. “My daddy was a preacher in these hills, and so was his father. Before that we came over from France. I learned to gather the greens from them.”

“Look,” Michael said. “That moon sure is pretty.”

“Yeah,” Deacon Smith said. “Really lights up this old grove, don’t you think?”

“A night of magic,” Reverend Sykes said. “Come on down boys, I think we have enough for this year’s celebration.”

“Yessir,” Tim and Jim said in unison from fifty feet overhead. The twins shuffled down the tree. Jim hit the ground first and hustled over to stand under his brother.

“Hey, what’s that?” Tim called out from twenty feet up.

“What’s the matter?” Jim called.

The other men formed a circle around the tree, looking upwards. Something flashed past Tim’s head—something golden and fast.

“Oh, Jesus,” Tim said as he jerked back against his safety lines.

“Is that a bird?” Deacon Smith asked.

“Don’t look like no bird I’ve ever seen,” Michael said.

Tim’s line snapped.

The men scattered. Tim fell the last twenty feet, his body limp. Jim dodged to the left, but managed to put himself directly under Tim. The boot spikes slashed Jim’s face and left arm. Tim bounced at the end of his tether and jerked back into the air, his body spinning. Two more rebounding drops finally halted his movement. He hung against the tree, tangled in line, spread-eagled with his head lolling to the side. Jim lay at the bottom of the oak, the deep red blood flowing from him, bathing the oak’s thick roots.

“God Almighty,” Deacon Smith said as he fell to his knees by Jim’s side. He clamped his gloved hands over the young man’s neck. Blood quickly turned the pale yellow leather maroon. “Sliced right through his carotid.”

Michael looked around the clearing. Blood flowed from Tim’s throat, which appeared to be cut. Reverend Sykes stood dumbfounded with one hand over his mouth, the other clutching the cross around his neck.

“Michael,” the reverend said, “you run and get to the trucks.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped a splash of blood from his face. “Get one of the rangers up here as quick as you can.”

Michael took off, heading towards the highway.

Several small winged creatures flew from the top of the oak after Michael. Fifteen feet from the glen he fell with a cry.

Reverend Sykes walked over to Deacon Smith and placed his hand on his shoulder. “You got your gun on you, Bill?”

Jim’s eyes stared upwards, unseeing. The flow of blood around Deacon Smith’s fingers had stopped flowing. “Gun?” he asked looking up. Dozens of winged creatures burst from the trees with the overwhelming miasma of rotted flowers. Iridescent flashes spiraled upwards into the frigid sky.

“God in heaven,” Reverend Sykes said, as the buzzing of wings filled the air.

*

Atticus sat propped against a tree, his head swathed in bloodied linen. Around him his men collected the bodies of the fallen Fey.

“Hang those as a warning to our enemies,” he said. “Just as they filled the trees with our dead, so shall we fill the oak, laurel, and birch with the bodies of theirs.”

As his remaining fifty men prepared to make the long march out of the forest, the tree trunks ran green with the blood of the Fey.

*

“And so you see,” said Mabel, “we are the last to honor the pact—children of children, back to the cold days before Christ.”

“But what do we repay?” Candace asked, her eyes wide.

Mabel wrung her hands together, massaging the great swollen knuckles. “Blood—”

Several women in the back began to sob.

“—for blood. Titania demands recompense. Each generation pays a tithe . . .” She sighed heavily, her breath rattling in her bony chest. “. . . and a little more.”

Candace looked back at her mother. Sally Preston shook her head slowly, mouthing “I’m sorry,” at her daughter. Tears flowed down her face.

Junie stood forward, placing her hand on Sally’s shoulder. “It’s just the men folk that pay the blood,” she said, her voice as steady as a beam.

“But we pay in heartache,” Deacon Smith’s wife said from the back of the room. “We carry the burden.”

For a long moment, the only sounds above the crackling of the fireplace were the quiet sobs of the mothers and wives of the eight who walked the deep woods.

Mabel’s eyes never wavered, just stared off into the distance. The women in the church watched her with reverence and fear. Mabel fell to her knees, the breath chuffing from her in painful sobs. “Three,” she croaked. “A trinity for our Christ.”

Candace pulled away from her mother to stand with the other women, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.

“Who, then?” Junie begged.

“I see them,” Mabel whimpered. “Their blood flows into the sacred grove.” She raised her hands in supplication. “My . . .” a sob choked her for a moment. “My grandchild. My promise.” She clasped her hands into fists, and raised them to her forehead. “Oh, my Michael.” She shrieked, falling prostrate to the floor.

“Who else?” Junie said, falling to her knees beside Mable and bending her head downward. For a moment there was muttering and Junie raised her anguished face to the other women. “She’s taken the twins.”

Vivian Farley began to keen, a low anguished lament that rose upwards to a wail.

“It is done,” the deacon’s wife whispered. “Perhaps this time it will be enough.”

F*CKING NAPALM BASTARDS

I
ke sat in bunker twelve, cradling his M-16 in the crook of his arm and flipping through the pages of a
Richie Rich
comic book. Peeps read aloud from the latest letter from home. Ike glanced up frequently, watching Stick devour Peep’s words. He tried to ignore the auras that danced around the men—pretended that he didn’t see the colors painting them with the psychic brush of madness, telling tales of their deepest emotions, their darkest fears.

Peeps cleaned his glasses and placed them back on his nose. The act striped his reddish/orange aura of anxiety and fear with the soothing green of calming predictability.

Ike shared in the news of simple things—box scores and cocktail parties—things that provide comfort in dark places far from home.

“. . . and Tom went to another rally yesterday. The young folks are really agitated . . .”

Ike closed the comic book, sniffing the wind. Something damp and evil brushed along the edge of his psyche.

“We’ll finish later,” he said, snapping off his flashlight’s reddish glow. Peeps folded the pages and tucked the precious words into his shirt. The three men retrieved the helmets they’d been using as seats. Peeps and Ike quickly worked the straps, securing their helmets onto their heads. Ike rolled the comic into a tight cylinder and tucked it into the band on his helmet. Stick let his strap hang loose, bouncing against his cheeks as he placed his half-eaten ration pack on the ground by his pallet.

Ike placed his hand on Stick’s shoulder. “Wind’s shifted, my man. Button up that helmet. It could get ugly.”

“Okay, Preacher,” Stick said.

Ike smiled. They’d called him preacher ever since he came in country. He didn’t argue with them. He sat on a crate and pulled out a necklace with several charms from beneath his shirt. He began to pray, holding each charm to his forehead before kissing it and moving to the next—Cross, Star of David, ankh, yin and yang.

“How many religions you got, man?” Stick asked.

Ike didn’t look up.

“Preacher’s got his bases covered,” Peeps said. “Whoever’s listening up there gives him . . . something.”

“Like what?”

“He gets this look on his face, like he can’t focus or something. Then he moves around an ambush. Not like actually seeing the VC, you know. Says he can see the danger oozing around the kill zone.”

“Some kinda voodoo shit?”

“He doesn’t like to talk about it. I heard him say one time that he can see the colors we give off—like the glow of a neon light or something. All I know is, he takes point every time we go into the bush, and we always make out better than we should.”

“So what’s up with that comic book?” Sticks whispered.

“Some sort of totem,” Peeps told him. “Been carrying it since he was fourteen. Personally, I think that comic book’s his lucky charm.”

Ike listened, not daring to interrupt. He understood myth-making. He didn’t carry that comic book around because he was particularly fond of Casper’s white ass. It connected him to his past, to the night he first had the sight. He shuddered, thinking about all the things he’d seen—the evil that lurked in the darkness.

“Story time’s over,” he said, putting his necklace away. “There’s some serious shit coming this way.” He paused, scanning the night. “Peeps, you smell napalm?”

“Napalm? No. I ain’t heard any planes, neither.”

“Okay,” Ike said, scrunching his nose against the acrid odor.

“This gonna be bad?” Peeps asked with a shiver.

“Could be.” Ike moved to the front of the bunker, trying to discern one shadow from another. “Something hunts out there,” he said, keeping his voice low so only Peeps could hear.

“Damnit,” Peeps said, pushing his glasses even though the strap around his head secured them. “Stick, get on the horn and call HQ. Tell them something’s going down.”

Peeps gave Stick a push when he didn’t move, sending him stumbling toward the radio.

Ike felt Peeps’ stare—looking for signs, no doubt. Ike tried not to let it bother him. He couldn’t blame the man. He knew his reputation.

“Better get the flares ready,” he said. “Never felt anything like this.” He looked at Peeps, watching his friend for a long few seconds.

“Shit, Preach. What is it?”

Ike stood silently, returning his gaze to the blackness between the razor wire and the tree line.

“Oh, man,” Peeps said. “Which one of us is gonna buy it tonight? Huh, Preach?”

He reached over and lightly touched Ike’s arm, fingers trembling. Ike never took his eyes off the night.

Stick glowed yellow and red, sick with fear and anger. Peeps glow muted to grays. Gray like the dirty parking lot snow that remained long after the first Spring rains—the gray of ashes and death.

“Just be prepared to send up the flares, Peeps, or we’re all in the shitter,” Ike said into the night.

“Damn!” Peeps said as he moved to the boxes of flares.

“What’s going on?” Stick asked, cupping the handset.

“Just get through to HQ and tell ’em that Preach feels a shit storm coming,” Peeps said.

Stick spoke into the headset. Peeps returned to the front of the bunker, arms loaded with two small crates of ammunition and a flare gun. He plunked the wooden boxes down by Preacher. The flare gun broke open with a click. He inserted a cartridge into the breach and snapped it shut. Ike still watched the night, but lay his rifle atop the sandbags, aiming into the blackness that oozed from the jungle.

“Get Stick up here before you send that thing up,” Ike said. “We’ll need every gun we got.”

A couple of seconds later, Stick stood at Ike’s right, working his helmet straps as he talked.

“HQ gave me shit. Recon says we’re in for a calm night. Something about a VC holiday and all.”

“Stupid fucks,” Peeps said.

“Okay,” Ike began. “Who’s in the next bunker?”

“Johnson, Davis, and O’Connell are east in thirteen. Not sure who’s in eleven,” Peeps said.

“Williamson, and some new meat,” Stick said.

New meat, Ike thought. Stick’s skinny ass only had twenty or so days in country.

“Okay, we’ve gotta warn both sides,” Ike said. “Stick get on the horn. See if Johnson has noticed anything strange. Tell ’em I said to get ready.”

“Okay.”

For the next several minutes, urgent mumbling filled the festering night.

“Johnson is passing the word along. Said if Preach is worried, then the shit must be coming down.” Stick looked at Peeps.

“Okay, now Williamson,” Ike said.

Several more minutes passed. “Damn,” Stick muttered. “I ain’t getting anything from Williamson.”

“Then it’s already started,” Ike said, straightening

The two men watched him, waiting for his lead. He could feel it.

“I’m going over to Williamson’s bunker,” he said finally. “You give me a couple of minutes. If I don’t signal you, send up a couple of flares and shoot anything that moves out there.”

“Okay, Preach,” Peeps replied, hugging the gun to his chest.

“Stick, you get back on the horn and tell the base commander that Williamson is out of communication and that he should drag his sorry ass out of bed and into a bunker.”

“Preach?”

“Yeah, Peeps.”

“I’ll pray for you.”

“Thanks, man. Pray for all of us, but keep your eyes on that tree line.”

Ike glanced around the bunker, taking in the half-eaten ration back by Stick’s bedroll. Poor kid, he thought. Won’t be finishing that meal. Look out for them, he prayed.

He patted Peeps on the shoulder before he climbed out the back of the bunker. He glanced back one time. Stick spoke urgently into the phone. Peeps stared into the blackness, searching the night for boogey men.

Ike cradled his rifle, minimizing his profile by duck walking across the open ground, keeping to the scrub and any other cover he could discern in the night. He barely breathed as he made his way across the open. The tarp that would have normally covered the back entrance of Williamson’s bunker shuddered in the hot, moist breeze. Ike paused, cocking his head to listen, to sniff the air. He took one step forward, then another—finally slipping to his belly to crawl the final distance. Four feet from the bunker he began to hear wet smacking sounds. A vision rose unbidden of someone slobbering across a watermelon rind, spitting seeds into the summer dirt. The wind shifted, bringing Ike the iron-heavy smell of fresh blood.

The hackles on his neck rose. He shouldered his rifle and pulled his shotgun from its harness. He snapped the flashlight into its rig on the underside of the barrel and peered with one eye into the bunker. Waves of red agony exploded out, as a shriek ripped through the night.

He switched eyes, garnering a cyclopean view of the bunker’s interior. A black form moved inside, an evil that glowed with a tainted light and fed noisily. Ike dropped into the bunker, landing on his haunches, and brought his shotgun up to bear. He placed his left hand on the ground to steady himself and pulled it away sticky. He flipped on the light, playing it across the pulpy mass that had once been a boy from Kentucky. Ike remembered him from his arrival just three days ago. He hadn’t even learned the boy’s name.

He pivoted about, placing one knee to the ground. There, across the bunker, lay Williamson. On his chest sat a creature beyond Ike’s most vivid nightmares. Six spindly legs radiated out from the elongated middle. Black coarse hairs covered the entire body. The face like that of a leech, flat with a circular mouth ringed with razor teeth, turned toward Ike.

“My holy God in Heaven,” Ike mumbled. Those eyes—black pinpricks in pus-yellow pools—shone with intelligence. That killing face knew Ike, called to him in the way a mesmer calls the snake. The segmented demon held Williamson down with five of its legs while it used its sixth to casually pick through his exposed entrails. A scream burst forth from Williamson, piercing the honey-thick air between Ike and the eating thing. The creature swiveled its head around and thrust its face against the boy’s, muffling the shriek with the wet sound of chewing.

“Sorry, Williamson,” Ike said as the night erupted with his twelve-gauge.

While some of the first round hit the dying Williamson, the brunt of the blast took off the beast’s dipping claw, sending the jointed limb spinning into the shadows that consumed the bunker’s interior. The beast turned towards Ike, oblivious to the ichor pulsing from the stump. It blinked at him, running a long tongue over its many fangs, slurping the blood from its hairy face. Ike chambered another round and the creature moved, bouncing up from the mangled boy to the bunker’s top support beam and back down to land on the table. Ike caught it with the second blast as it leapt from the stained wooden surface. The blast shredded the black, furry chest, flinging the beast against the sandbagged outer wall. Ike kicked through the scattered debris, placing the barrel against the chittering face. The third shot sprayed the wall with blackness. He slumped back, struggling to remain calm, but the thing moved, grasping toward him, faceless and bleeding. He scampered backwards, but the thing lunged forward, talons lancing into Ike’s leg with a wet crunch. Ike glanced around, spying a fallen rifle with the bayonet attached. He scooped it up, twisted around and brought it down, point first. The bayonet bit deep into the creature’s abdomen, pinning it to the collapsed wooden table. He kicked free of the writhing beast, breathing in deep ragged gasps. His leg flared with agony.

The burp of an M-60 brought his attention back into focus. He moved to the front of the bunker, peering out as the first flare arced into the black night and erupted into a falling blossom of white burning phosphorous. The entire field between the tree line and the razor wire boiled with VC. They moved in silence—tracers criss-crossed the field, men shouted, but some unknown force deadened the noise. Flares erupted up and down the line as more bunkers entered the firefight.

“Oh my God,” he heard Peeps’ muffled cry as the next flare flew skyward.

Williamson screamed into consciousness. Blood spewed from his ruined mouth and bubbled out of his abdomen as the muscles contorted in a final release. Ike yanked a blanket from a nearby bedroll and covered the terror-contorted expression that froze on Williamson’s dead face. He inserted three new shells into his shotgun. The black monster kicked and wriggled on the broken table, five limbs beating a hollow cadence of horror. Ike panned the light across the entire bunker, looking for the other man. Back by the radio lay the shell of the third man. Several jumbled items shone through the jagged cavity that ate through the abdomen. Ike turned away, no one left to save.

He limped to the bunker’s front, pulling his rifle from his shoulder, and took aim into the night. He spied men in the razor wire, sappers clearing a path for their friends. He opened fire into the nearest group, sending short three-round bursts into the black shrouded figures. He rocked back as the first claymore blew, clearing wide swathes through the wire. Men charged through the breaches, funneling up and down the line, but avoided the bunker he now occupied. He didn’t blame them. He could feel the evil emanating from the creature, filling the air with a stench like a slaughterhouse on a hot day.

Ike took advantage of the enemies’ reluctance to approach the bunker. He dropped each clip into a pile at his feet as he emptied them, one by one into the approaching horde. Once he’d worked through the clips he carried, he paused to salvage ammo from the bunker’s fallen occupants.

Ike felt the oppressive presence lift when the demon finally stopped kicking. Like a temple bell calling the faithful to worship, the final death of the demon tolled through the night, signaling to the massed army. The bulk of the horde moved, breaking against the bunkers. Bayonets replaced bullets as man grappled with man. Ike blasted the first two figures that dove into his bunker.

The third man in fired his weapon, skittering bullets across the sandbags behind Ike’s head. He lunged at Ike, clubbing forward with his rifle. Ike deflected the blow with his shotgun, but staggered back from the force. The shadowy figure lunged forward, bayonet flashing. Ike fired one quick round into him as they came together with a grunt. Ike deflected the rifle with his shotgun, stopping the bayonet from piercing his chest.