Strange City Page 10

  What was she telling me? It made no sense. How could humans exist without prophets to transmit the commands of the gods? How lonely it must be for them in this future; to be like little islands of con­sciousness, not to be linked to the great cycle of the cosmos; to be not part of one great self but merely little selves, with little, meaningless lives. I could not, would not live that way. I took her in my arms; I made a tiny incision in her neck with my little fingernail; I drew a thimbleful of blood into the sacred cup; deeply I drank, and as I drank I prayed: Huitzilopotchtli, Huitzilopotchtli, do not forsake me now.

  Hortator burst into the chamber. The alarms were screeching. "The rest of the treasures of the room have now been brought to San Francisco," he said. "That's why I told Julia where you could be found. I need the other ritual objects. I need the powers they can bestow on me. As for you, you're just a historical oddity."

  But I could feel the strength of Huitzilopotchtli course through my flesh.

  As Julia, faint from her bleeding, sat, dazed, on my old sarcophagus, still in its wooden crate, Hortator and I battled. He threw me against the wall; I lacerated his face with my fingernails-, he whirled about me, pounding his drum, my drum. Each of us drew on his dark powers. A mortal would not have seen us bat­tling at all. He would have felt now a tremor, now a flash of light, now a ripple of darkness. I leaped onto the ceiling, I sped along the walls, defying the earth's pull with my speed; but Hortator was equally swift. His fangs glistened in the man-made light. We fought hand to hand on the lid of the sarcophagus where Julia still lay. We tussled on the concrete floor of the storeroom, and still the siren wailed.

  "I'll really kill you this time," Hortator shouted. "The black robes told me a stake through the heart would kill you. I know better now."

  And still I had not heard the voice of the Hummingbird, it was beginning to dawn on me that there was something to what Julia said; that perhaps this was no longer an age of gods. The last time the god had spoken, had he not said, Do you not under­stand that he who rises to godhead, who creates a world, a people, a destiny, plants inevitably within his creation the seeds of his own destruction? I did not understand then, but I understood it now. My exis­tence showed to ordinary men that there was some­thing beyond mortality; but beyond my own immortality there was also a kind of entropy. In being granted the ability to see the grand scheme of the universe, to live for centuries and know the higher purposes of mankind, I had also learned that all, even the most sublime, is vanity. I was full of despair. How could I belong to this future? How could I live amongst dozens of creatures like myself, arcane hier­archies all selfishly struggling for domination over one another? I knew that Hortator would hound me to my death. I could not live in a world where I could not hear the voice of my god.

  We had battled for what seemed like days, but I knew that only seconds had passed; so quick were our movements that time itself had seemed to stand still. He had me pinned to the ground. I felt not only his weight but the weight of this whole bizarre new uni­verse. And with a free hand he continued to drum, frenzied now, his eyes maddened, his lips frothing. I waited for him to drain me of all my blood, to desic­cate me, to consign me to the well of oblivion forever.

  Then, at that moment, the siren ceased. Hortator relaxed his hold on me. A shadow had fallen over us. I smelled the presence of another Kindred. I could feel the concentrated power, a puissance that nearly matched my own.

  "Prince," Hortator whispered. He stepped back from me, then fell to the floor in supplication. I could not see this Prince, so thoroughly had he cloaked himself in magical darkness. But I knew him in the shadow that suffused the air.

  "Oh, Nezahualcoyotl," said the prince, whose voice was as reverberant as a god's, "what am I to do with you? You have arrived in this city, yet you do not even come to pay homage to me as is our custom; and already you've created all sorts of controversy. The Vampire Club talks of nothing else but you. You're an anomaly; you challenge our most basic assumptions about our people's history."

  I said, "I did not mean to offend you. My quarrel with Hortator is an ancient one, and not your affair; and I see now that the things we quarrel about have become irrelevant. I have no real desire to live. Let Hortator take my ritual objects and grow in power; and let me return to the earth."

  "It is true," said the prince, "that I have the authority to grant you death. But how can I? You are older than I; you are so old that even the concept of the Masquerade is foreign to you; it is I who should bow to you, but I cannot. There can only be one prince. Nezahualcoyotl, you must find your own destiny in some other place. Or else there will always be some who will look to you for leadership, anarchs who will revere your disregard of our rules of civilization and who will claim that your greater age gives you greater authority. Nezahualcoyotl, you must leave. I cannot command you. I, a prince, must ask it of you as a favor."

  And now the security guards were entering the room. It was just as it was in Tenochtitlan, the enemy storming the secret chamber just as my world was disintegrating all around me. The prince did some­thing—used his powers of hypnosis perhaps—for the guards did not seem to see me, Hortator, or the rip­pling darkness that was the prince of San Francisco.

  "Are you all right, Ms. Epstein?" said one of them.

  Julia was struggling to get up. "I—must have passed out," she said. "Something—someone—per­haps a prowler—"

  "No one here now, ma'am. But they've made quite a mess."

  "Are you sure you don't want me to get a doctor?" said another guard.

  "I'm fine, thanks."

  "Let's see if we can find him lurking around some­where," said the first guard, and they trooped away. Astonished, I looked up. I thought I glimpsed some­thing—a swirl of shadow—vortices within vortices— the eyes of an ancient creature, world-weary, ruthless, yet somehow also tinged with compassion. I knew that he was right. I could not stay in San Francisco. I knew nothing of the feuding factions of the vampire world, the warring Clans, the Masquerade; I belonged to a simpler time.

  "I will go," I said softly.

  Then lulia said, "And I will go with you." I said, "You don't know what you're saying. You think it's some romantic thing, that there's glamour in being undead. Look at us; look at how we have relived, again and again, ancient quarrels that the world has forgot­ten; the vampires that rule the world are but shadows, and I am less than a shadow of their shadow." Julia said, "Only because you have not loved." She came toward me. In her eyes there shone the crystalline coldness of eternity. I had not wanted to transform her into one of my kind. I had sought only to use enough blood to sustain me, to let me see my visions. She had not yet become a vampire; what I saw in her eyes was the yearning. "It's a historian's dream," she said, "to pass through the ages of man like the pages of a book, to perceive the great big arc of history. It's not just that I love you. Even if I didn't, I could learn, in eternity, to love."

  Hortator hissed, "Only the prince can grant the right to sire new Kindred!"

  But the prince said oniy, "Peace, peace, Hortator; will your anger never be slaked?" And then—and I could feel him fading from our presence as he spoke—he said, "Do what you wish, Nezahualcoyotl. Be glad. We will not meet again."

  I have returned to Tenochtitlan. It is a gargantuan madhouse of twenty million souls, but it is still called by the name of my vanished tribe, the Mexica. My offi­cial title is Meso-American Studies Advisor to the San Francisco Museum Field Research Unit, Mexico City, lulia and I have a charming apartment; one side over­looks one of the few areas of greenery in the city, the other one of the worst slums.

  lulia tells me that a philosopher named laynes has written a book called The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind. It is a book that explains how, in the ancient world, men did not pos­sess consciousness of self at all, but acted blindly, in response to voices and images projected by the right side of the brain, which they perceived to be the direct commands of gods, kings, and prie
sts.

  It is a strange world indeed, where people see no visions, and where a book has to be written explaining away the gods in terms of ganglia and synapses. I do not like it. I do not like the fact that I have been cut off forever from the divine; that I am no longer a prophet, but merely one vampire among many.

  Yet the city does have its charms. Its nightlife is thriving and decadent; its music colorful; its alleyways quaint and full of titillating danger. And then there are the people, the descendants of my own people and the Spaniards who overcame them, lulia and I often make time to enjoy the inhabitants of our new home.

  There are many poor people here. They pour in from the country, seeking out a better life; often they end up working as virtual slaves in huge factories that pump out cheap goods for their richer neighbors to the north. Sometimes they become gangsters or beg­gars. Sometimes they find a charitable person to take them in, as domestics, perhaps, or live-in prostitutes.

  But sometimes, ah, sometimes, they vanish with­out a trace.

  The Bye-Bye Club

  by Ray Winninger

  Your mom is in the ground, isn't she?" whispered a thin boy with ash eyes. "And your papa's dead too!"

  The new boy was too young or too unsophisticated to realize that Ash-eye's own parents must be dead or missing. No one is admitted to the Child Services Northrock Facility for any other reason.

  "Did they choke each other to death 'cause they couldn't stand your shitty reek?"

  The pew boy couldn't respond. He stared at Ash-eye's face and nervously examined the boys features, hoping they concealed a clue to the mystery that had tortured him all nine years of his life. As Ash-eye turned to face him, the new boy instinctively locked his fingers around the plastic kaleidoscope resting on the desk in front of him, He was determined to pro­tect the kaleidoscope. It was the only thing he had left.

  "What's that?" Ash-eye grabbed for the kaleido­scope himself and raised his voice, obviously signal­ing for reinforcements. "You tryin' to hide that from us, you shit-smelling pussy? Maybe we oughta break you off!" On cue, a full half the students in the class­room swarmed around Ash-eye and added their own voices to his taunts. One, a pasty boy in a Gl Joe sweatshirt, grabbed the new boy's hand and began methodically prying each of his fingers off the kaleido­scope. When only two fingers remained, a sharp elbow to the stomach allowed Ash-eye to snatch away the kaleidoscope and disappear into the crowd,

  The instant his grip slipped away, the new boy started drooling and thrashing wildly. He grasped Gl loe's upper lip between his index finger and thumb and tugged the boy's sweaty face down toward the desktop. Gl Joe reacted by bringing both hands up in an attempt to break away—a mistake that freed the new boy's other hand and sent it hurtling into the pasty boy's neck The sudden, violent blow sent Gl loe gasping and startled the gang of tormentors Ash-eye made his way to the corner of the classroom and steeled his fists. He recognized that he would face the enraged boy alone. No one else, save the incapacitated Gl loe, had invested reputation in the encounter

  As the students rushed back to their seats, an empty corridor opened between the new boy and Ash-eye, allowing the new boy to charge with outstretched arms. As he approached, he spread his fingers and angled his thumbs, hoping to thrust them into his tor­mentor's eyes and gouge into the skull. Horrified by this savagery, Ash-eye lifted his knee in a panic and drove it into the new boy's diaphragm, sending the berserker sprawling. In another beat, he pounced upon his floored prey, cocked back his fist, and grit his teeth. The new boy closed his eyes tight and brought both hands in front of his face

  Before Ash-eye could strike, something yanked him to the floor. "GOD DAMN YOU! YOU LEAVE HIM ALONE RIGHT NOW OR I'LL TEAR THIS HAIR RIGHT OUT OF YOUR HEAD! Christ! I'm five minutes late and you're already causing problems!" Ash-eye let out a yelp and started mumbling. Another shout—"Now give me that thing and go see the administrator!"— was followed by the panicked squeak of sneakers and the sound of a small plastic object rebounding on the cold floor.

  The new boy opened his eyes to the sight of a chubby woman on her hands and knees, retrieving the kaleidoscope. He supposed that she reminded him of his mother, though he hadn't been able to imagine anything about his mother for weeks. "Here you go, honey. Don't be afraid; I'll make sure those little bas­tards leave you atone. I'm Mrs. Tremortd. I'm your teacher, If you have any problems, come see me." The new boy struggled to his feet, scooped the kaleido­scope from her hand and returned to his seat. Mrs Tremond gave him what she hoped was a comforting pat on the top of his head and went to gather her papers.

  The teacher's departure cued a whisper that filled the new boy's ears with a tickling wind, "Hey, Friend" The new boy recognized the lisp. Et came from one of his tormentors, a gap-toothed boy in black overalls who was seated directly behind him. "Hey, I think I like you. Umm, we have this club here at Northrock. We call it the Bye-Bye Club. If you ... if you wanted to join, I'm sure it would be okay."

  The new boy turned and greeted the invitation with a vacant stare.

  "Oh. Don't worry about that other stuff—we were just teasin' ya. I'm sure we'll get along from now on." Gap-tooth paused to read the new boy's expression, which hadn't changed much since the scuffle ended, "If you decide you want to join the club, we meet in the toolshed every fifth Wednesday after lights out. We're meeting tonight lust sneak out through the fire door and head for the shed. You'll find us there And don't worry about the door—the alarm doesn't work"

  The new boy turned and pretended to focus his attention as Mrs. Tremond began the day's lesson He still felt Gap-tooth's breath on his neck.

  "Urn. One last thing." Gap-tooth waited for Mrs. Tremond to face the chalkboard before finishing his thought.

  "My mom's dead too."

  That evening, the new boy awoke to the sound of his bunkmate. Rust-top, sliding down to the floor and opening a drawer. Feigning sleep, he watched through squinted eyes as Rust-top pulled on a pair of trousers and slipped out into the corridor It wasn't untii the new boy noticed that Rust-top's exit failed to attract the attention of any other resident that he realized he was completely alone.

  Then he remembered the toolshed and Gap-tooth's invitation. He thought about his mom in the ground and his kaleidoscope and then slipped out of bed to find his trousers.

  Ten minutes later, he was gliding through the darkness. As he neared the shed, he noticed that its door was slightly ajar. A red light emanated from within and stretched along the walkway leading back to the dormitory, cutting the courtyard in half Something about the light sent strange signals to the new boy It soothed him, though he couldn't understand why. It reminded him of that distant evening and the traffic light he noticed and his father missed.

  As he approached the shed, he heard a low whisper that abruptly dissolved into total silence. Those inside were alerted to his presence. He should have been startled, but he wasn't.

  "It's okay, it's the new kid," he heard Gap-tooth whisper. "I told him to come." More whispers and a brief pause before the shed door finally creaked open

  Inside, the new boy saw his classmates seated in a semi-circle that faced the shadows blanketing the back of the shed. The red light came from a stained bare bulb that projected from a broken Mickey Mouse lamp. The glow it cast upon the faces of the assem­bled children lent them an unexpected familiarity, The new boy was certain that Gap-tooth was right—from now on, they d all get along just fine.

  As he entered the shed, the new boy sensed an unfamiliar presence. Disoriented, he looked around for a few moments before he noticed the two adults seated deep in the shadows. One was a fat, greasy man wearing a Marlboro hat and a dirty, black T-shirt The other was dark, lithe, and dressed in black leather. Something about the dark man fascinated the new boy. Perhaps it was the dull red glow that may have been another reflection of the Mickey Mouse lamp, but instead seemed to emanate from deep within the man's eyes.

  The dark man was the first to speak. 'And who are you?"

&
nbsp; The new boy didn't answer.

  "Well, Little Cobra, welcome to our club, Do you know who this man is?" The dark man looked at fat-and-greasy,

  The new boy paused for as long as it was comfort­able before shaking his head "no." I see Do you dream of electricity?"

  The new boy never remembered his dreams, but he knew the answer was "yes"—another nod, quicker this time.

  The dark man smiled and a hint of recognition crossed his face and quickly submerged beneath his icy features. "I am your friend."

  'Who is the other man?" The new boy surprised himself with the words, his first in a very long time,

  "Let's ask one of your classmates Chatterjack, tell Little Cobra about George."

  Across the shed, Ash-eye stood and stared at the new boy with contempt. "His name is George Feeney. People call him the Seaside St rangier. No one knows his real name but us." Ash-eye gave an abrupt nod to signal that he was finished and sat back down.

  "Chatterjack, you're not finished." The dark man shot Ash-eye a cold leer, spooking the boy and urging him to stand and continue.

  "George likes to cut sluts. So far, he's killed twelve of them '

  The dark man was obviously appeased. "Eleven actu­ally, but very good, Chatterjack; I see you've read those books I left you the last time George and I were here." Ash-eye sat down with a wide grin poking out from under his deep brow. "You see, Little Cobra, George has a mission—he and many others like him, scattered all across the globe. George is part of a grand plan."

  "What plan?" More words—the new boy was becoming intrigued.

  "I'm afraid you wouldn't understand if I told you. But no need to worry; if you're like George, you'll fig­ure it out for yourself one day."

  Fat-and-greasy giggled out loud, pleased with the compliment.

  "George was once one of you. He wasn't a member of this particular club—there are many such clubs scattered across the United States—but he was a club member Where was your club located, George? Kayenta. Arizona, wasn't it?"