The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two (28 page)

“Indeed,” the Creature said, pausing to meet
Conan’s armored gaze up close.
So calm my young friend, she
smiled at him
.
Your tears smell like freedom, little
brother
. And tears entered her eyes again. Taking Mr. Jay’s
hand she drew him to the center of the circular floor by her
chair.

“The Creature sees that this is the truth
you
hope to realize,” she said to the magician, looking up
and smiling before continuing. “But as one who has carried
responsibility,
you
know our hopes rarely match
reality.”

“Hope,” echoed among the children.

“And we tend to forget
fate
at such
times,” she whispered, dropping her guest’s hand and bowing. “How
can we help you, Mr. Jay?”

His face had gone ashen at the word “fate,”
but he quickly regained his composure. “I need to know about the
Orphanage. I have to get Dawn out of there.”

The word “Dawn” followed the gathered circle
of children. The Creature smiled as she looked into the ageless
faces.

39 – The Marquis

Tiny watched Bloody through the dripping
golden arms of a candelabra and he shook his head disgusted. Ever
since his murder, the gunman was impossible to live with.

Bloody’s skin was waxy and gray. His eyes
were hidden behind a pair of scarred and scratched sunglasses. The
hair that grew to his collar was greasy—now matted with dirt, straw
and what looked like shards of red brick. Tiny glared across the
table at Driver. The Texan had promised to tidy Bloody up for the
meeting with the Marquis. But it was obvious that he’d only brushed
the dust off him.

“Now, Tiny…” Driver smiled nervously over the
rim of his wineglass, and smirked when his naturally carefree
demeanor kicked in. “Don’t go givin’ me your looks!” He set his
glass down, lit a cigarette. “Let’s don’t spoil it. I ain’t buckled
up to a feed like this in years!”

Tiny looked down the length of the table. The
setting was splendid. It reminded them of the all-you-can eat
buffet days before the Change.

The Marquis’ home was a big brick mansion
circled with a tall wrought iron fence in one of the gated
neighborhoods on Level Four of the City of Light. The ride there
had taken some dizzying turns on the Skyway, but Driver’s Nova SS
easily handled the soaring strips of blacktop. These Skyways swept
the City’s population from place to place hugging the underbelly of
the Level above only to swoop down at reckless speeds to the Level
below. There were hair-raising turnpikes and overpasses that
dropped a hundred feet on each side of a double lane. Driver loved
it.

They parked around back then entered through
the building’s brass double doors. They knew the mansion’s layout,
had enjoyed its comforts in times past. There were mirrors
everywhere, and all the furnishings were either antique or replicas
of 18th Century designs. Every pillar, every cornice carried carved
grapevines and angels. The butler showed them to the dining room,
told them to refresh themselves and await the Marquis.

“Don’t worry, Tex.” Tiny picked up his pale
glass of Chardonnay, sipped it. “I won’t spoil your fun. But
look
at him.” He gestured to Bloody’s startling face. “You
said you’d spruce him up—looks like you
dug
him up.”

“Well, I just started gettin’ the creeps…”
Driver’s blue eyes sparkled—his dark eyebrows forming an arc of
dismay. He looked over at the dead man. “Bloody, you got to get
into the swing of things. You can’t sit there starin’ like a
goddamn zombie, askin’ us to wait on every hand and foot.” Driver
turned to Tiny and whispered. “Well did you expect I was goin’ to
put curlers in his hair? I ran a brush over his head. I ain’t no
hairstylist nor any sweetheart dustin’ off his clothes.” The
Texan’s eyes flashed with grim humor. “Goddamn it Tiny, I noticed
you weren’t linin’ up to lend a hand.” He grabbed a formed
fish-turkey leg off his plate, loaded it with chili peppers and
tore a strip off it with his teeth. “You a bossy som’bitch.”

“Rude.” Bloody’s voice suddenly creaked like
dry leather.

His companions looked at him, startled, then
at each other.

“Rude?” Driver masked his surprise with a
liberal mouthwash of wine.

“Talking.” Bloody’s purple-gray lips were
granite.

“Oh, you’re right, Bloody. It isn’t polite to
talk with you sitting there,” Tiny said, eyeing the gunman. “Course
you could get involved in the conversation and stop acting like a
bag of rotten bones.”

“Damn you son of a bitch.” Driver leaned
forward, pointed. “Sittin’ there listening like the
C-fucking-I-fucking-A. You got nerve!” The Texan dropped his
fish-turkey leg. “Here I am thinkin’ you’re dead and gone, and
you’re sitting there eavesdroppin’. And me in the car combing your
goddamned hair!” He angrily lit another cigarette. “You must’a had
a hoot!”

“You should know better, Bloody.” Tiny piped
up now. “You and your self-pity make me sick. You’re out in the
driving shed drinking and crying like a baby while Driver and me
rack our brains for a way to make a living. We ain’t crying for
you.” Tiny caught Driver’s surprised expression. “You got yourself
killed, and you’re wallowing in pig shit and whisky.”

“Christ yes, Bloody.” Driver’s fingers
clenched near his armpits where his guns nestled. They always
twitched like that when his temper was up. “Take a bath. Get a new
jacket. Christ you smell. You said once that the sorriest piece of
shit on the planet was a man who lived in the past. Well you’re a
sorry piece of shit.”

“Amen, brother.” Tiny toasted Driver.

Bloody’s frame convulsed, his lips pursed,
and then his neck bulged like he was going to vomit. He said—his
voice a seizure, “Forgive Felon.”

“That’s fine. I’m glad you got religion.”
Tiny looked over at Driver. The Texan was digging into his food
again.

Bloody’s forgiving Felon could mean anything.
The gunman’s temper usually followed on the heels of his
feelings
. In the years they had known him, Bloody had
forgiven
a lot of people, in a way that earned him his
nickname.

When they had first told him where they were
going, he stood there staring through his sunglasses. Driver had
picked the location, on the highway north about four hours out from
the farmhouse. It was still hours to catch a ferry across the
Mississippi Sea. The long straight stretch of highway took them
along the west coast of the cold haunted body of water.

The Texan had pulled off the road and drove
about a quarter of a mile over prairie grass. They got out, and
motioned for Bloody to follow. Tiny kept his hand on his gun the
whole time. The dead gunman moved automatically without any sign of
caring. He came to a halt finally, listing to one side, about
twenty yards from the car. Driver, dressed in tough black military
pants, shirt, boots and trench coat, took ten paces to the
northwest and Tiny, in gray, took ten to the southwest. The Texan
turned and stood with the casual pose of a gunman. His twin
automatics poked out of their shoulder holsters. His hands were
crossed at his waist.

“Bloody, you’ve had a hard go.” The wind had
snatched at Tiny’s voice. “But, it’s time we get back to work. We
want you to ride with us. But we’re not sure about you.”

The dead gunman’s head had tilted forward.
The wind tore at his filthy hair. Both of his friends recognized
the stance. Bloody paused like that before he started killing. He
relaxed both shoulders for the draw, and giant bullets would start
blowing things apart.

At the motion, Tiny took his stance—legs
relaxed, one hand in the front pocket of his overcoat. He’d tilt
the gun barrel up instead of drawing it. A smaller weapon with a
lighter grain of bullet would have done the job. But Tiny was
nostalgic. A .357 magnum fired at that angle with a single hand
could snap his wrist. But the salesman had a trick. He’d do a drop
dive, if it came to shooting—kick both legs forward and hit the
ground firing over his knee. He had to get the gun up to take most
of its kick along his elbow. Dangerous, but the situation was a
sticky one. Driver nodded when he caught his eye.

“Bloody!” Tiny shouted. They both knew Bloody
was a straight shot, and being dead, was impossible to kill. The
.45 Colt didn’t have to be all that accurate. Those big bullets
could take an arm off. “We’ve got a job with Felon!” He waited a
second, watched the dead man for any hint of recognition. “He can
make us rich if we ride with him. Driver and me want to do it. Are
you in?”

Bloody didn’t move. Tiny focused his energy
along his thigh muscles and down into his calves. He had learned
the technique forty years before from a karate teacher. The
salesman kept himself in excellent shape, and in the years he’d
spent after the Change he had learned to discipline both body and
mind. He had to be hard and fast to survive. Bloody was a shining
example of what happened if you got slack.

“What’s it goin’ to be?” Driver had bellowed,
the wind plucking at his words.

“Forgive,” Bloody croaked.

“What?” Tiny shouted back.

“Forgive Felon.” Bloody’s voice was a broken
thing to listen to.

Tiny and Driver had looked at each other
then, and decided to go with it. Guns would have blazed if Bloody
was against working for Felon. They got back in the Nova, drove to
the ferry and went east from there. Bloody lapsed back into
silence. Tiny had instructed Driver to take them to the Marquis’ La
Maison du Porc where they were expected.

“So you’re goin’ to forgive him?” Driver
asked as he dug into a pile of potatoes. “Don’t get yourself killed
again.” Tiny and Driver knew Bloody’s trigger finger. And he killed
when he started feeling too much. But Felon could take care of
himself.

“Hush now.” Tiny raised his glass. “Someone’s
coming.”

The ornate doors at the end of the dining
room swung open and away from them. A dwarf in red silk knickers,
stockings and waistcoat rushed in with powder flying from his wig.
He held a long brass trumpet. Pressing it to his lips he blew once
then barked: “Rise! Rise for the Marquis de la ville de la lumière!
La dame de la maison du porc!”

And the Marquis entered. He dressed as an
eighteenth century French noblewoman. His gown was a richly
embroidered and lacy bell embossed with glistening jewels. Upon his
head was a tall powdered wig of curls, graced at the top with an
arching tiara of diamonds. His face was powdered sugar white
scarcely disguising his booze-veined nose. The Marquis’ cheeks and
eyes were similarly highlighted in brilliant rouge and garish
peacock. His ancient chest was powdered and puffed, and poked like
a broken fence over the dress’s plunging neckline. His withered
throat was accented with a strip of purple silk that exactly
matched his dress’s embroidery. He batted his rheumy eyes. They
were flat and pale. The old transvestite fluttered a golden fan
under his nose.

“Bonjour mes amis!” the Marquis trumpeted as
he fanned his corded throat. “How wonderful to have you gentlemen
for entertainment.”

Tiny rose after his glass. Driver did the
same—Bloody lapsed into corpse-like stillness. “A toast gentlemen!”
Tiny smiled with all his might. “To the lovely Marquis.”

The Texan hoisted his glass and murmured,
“Charmed.”

“Tiny!” The Marquis used a fake French
accent. “You are the consummate roué as always!” He fluttered
forward in silk slippers. Tiny took his hand and kissed the
wrinkled knuckles.

“As beautiful as always, Marquis.” Tiny knew
the man’s moods. Inside he felt an overwhelming urge to shoot the
old pervert but the Marquis was one of the City’s most powerful and
dangerous gangsters. “You make it worth the trip.”

“Thank you, Tiny.” He flashed his eyes over
his open fan. “I was twice your age and more before the Change. And
yet, the times have not changed so much that flattery has ceased to
work upon a lady.” He looked over at Driver.

Tiny knew that Driver’s Republican soul had
some trouble with the Marquis’ exotic affectations. But Driver had
always been a gentleman. The Texan smiled, his eyes glowing pink
with alcohol and strain. “Lord, but you’re a dam buster! There’ll
be many a lonely and jealous girl down in the haymow this
year!”

The Marquis giggled. “Monsieur Driver, you
are such a scamp!” And then he turned his old eyes upon Bloody.
“Unlike certain individuals who will eat my food but will not favor
a lady’s entrance by rising.”

Bloody sat like the dead man he was. The face
was slack leather—his sunglasses two chipped dark holes. His large
hands lay on the table before him as hard and lifeless as rakes.
The Marquis moved around the table, his old face a wrinkle of
petulance, his dress a storm of rustling silks.

“Oh, so! Vous bête ignorante!” the Marquis
started, and stopped. His eyes were focused on a glistening tear
that rolled down Bloody’s cheek. “My gracious. My…”

Tiny watched the proceedings move rapidly
past him. “You’ll have to forgive Bloody, Marquis. He hasn’t been
the same since he got killed.”

The Marquis gasped. His whole body shook
beneath his dress. “Oh my dear Bloody! Mon cher homme.” He sat
beside the gunman. Tiny tensed watching the scene. He had no idea
how Bloody would react to the transvestite sputtering sympathy. The
Marquis reached out and drew the gunman’s head to his brittle
breast. “Oh my dear fellow.” His bejeweled and gnarled fingers
cupped Bloody’s cheek. The Marquis glared angrily at Tiny and
Driver. “Gentlemen with a lady you may be, but you are beasts to
your friend!”

“Marquis. We just spent two days in a car
with him,” Tiny said. “So we’ve done our part. We’re kind of
anxious to talk to Felon.”

“Oh. He’s here.” The Marquis rose. He left
Bloody bent over dead as a doornail. “For hours…” The old
courtier’s nose wrinkled. “He’s been watching you since you
arrived.”