The cold silence is punctuated by the sharp metallic clicks of the rings locking underneath my skin. They are slightly warmer than the air temperature in this chill, subterranean chamber. This leads me to believe that they were comprised of something other than common steel, gold, or silver. It was obviously an exotic mixture, probably bearing some strange occult significance. It was a significance that I had yet to fathom and might never understand.
I keep track of how long has passed by counting out the seconds. 5539... 5540... 5541...
Moisture. The subtle shaking from unknown vibrations. I open my eyes to a world of darkness. Immense agony, unlike any I had known possible, courses through my face as something’s maw rips into my flesh. Movement is nearly impossible, as is rational thought. I snarl back at my feral assailant in pain and rage as my fingers search out its soft eye sockets. I push until I’m up to my knuckles, and proceed to use the leverage to force it below me as I arch my back against the bonds that keep me captive.
By the time I can remember my name, the cold drizzle of a late winter rain is beating upon my earth-stained business suit. Blood runs down the gaping orifice that was my nose, and I stare down at the eyeless, human head in my hands. This was the last time I come to St. Louis on business.
Looks like you win this one, an oily Mexican says to his female companion as they smirk at me in the rain. I shudder and let go of the head in surprise, only to hear it make a barely audible thump in the open grave that lies between the Mexicans and myself. Taking in my surroundings, I could see that I was but one of many extras in this epic re-enactment of Night of the Living Dead. Rolling hills adorned with tombstones boasted empty graves and fresh corpses, all hungry for something. Every few exhumed graves had a caretaker. I was lucky enough to have two.
You can pay me later, Rico, the woman replied. I should note that they spoke in the native Mexican dialect of Spanish, and conversed with each other confident in the fact that I didn’t understand them. I guess they never considered that a mild-mannered young white guy would have majored in Spanish before attending law school. Lucky me.
They continued their dialogue in a hurried tone. Rico lets his unkempt black hair flail about as he gestures maniacally with grimy hands. His female companion, Rosa-Maria, displayed no hint of excitement as she calmly brushed her long black hair behind her ears. They both wore durable, not to mention well-worn, clothing. Blue jeans, steel-toed boots, and t-shirts. Rico had a leather jacket that looked like he puked on it, and the odor emanating from him reinforced this theory.
As they conversed, Rico kept emphasizing the fact that a couple guys, who went by the names Wilme and Carlos, were still MIA, and they weren’t even sure if Amada’s distress call was genuine or not. The woman’s name, for the record, was Rosa-Maria.
At length the other caretakers brought their charges forward. We were a motley crew, everything from homeless crack addicts to soccer moms. On girl, a sorority sister by the looks of her, was so deranged by the whole experience that they had her on a chain leash with a metal bit in her mouth.
They herded us in like cattle, forming a loose circle around us. The drizzle continued to bear down on us in that same, stagnant monotony that personifies the Midwestern way of life. There was no monotony among our keepers, though. Rosa-Maria wanted us to go farther south into the city and create a distraction. Another woman, with a New York accent and a silver streak through her long black hair, loudly thought otherwise. She wanted us to break into some mausoleum over the next hill and find this Amada woman. Even though it seemed like Rosa-Maria was officially in charge, the others listened to the New Yorker; partially because she had her own crew of like-minded psychopaths with her, and partially because of the casual "I always leave the fucking safety off" manner in which she carried her assaulted rifle.
Rosa-Maria asserted her dominance by stating (for all to hear) that if we were sent into the mausoleum that we’d tear Amada to shreds if she was still hiding there. I don’t understand that line of reasoning; all I know is that I’m starving and I need to get away from these freaks as soon as possible. My years of study at Harvard Law School also taught me the necessity of removing myself from the vicinity of the man I just decapitated.
The New Yorker bared her fangs – she’s a vampire, lucky me – and advanced toward Rosa-Maria. La chica responded by holding out her hand, as if daring the New Yorker to enter her personal space. This put the New Yorker in her place for some reason. Rosa-Maria wasn’t without mercy, though. She allowed the New Yorker to save some face by agreeing to have a couple of us zombies go with her, Rico, and the whole NYC crew into the mausoleum. The rest of us would be herded south down Kingshighway before being turned loose amidst the crack houses and all-night liquor stores. This would apparently buy them enough time to find Amada and split town. I remember the New Yorker talking about Philadelphia, and Rosa-Maria naturally planned to return to Mexico City.
I love the way a young woman says "Meheeco."
My body lays motionless. My naked chest is still against the cold slab. It was a polished stone, not like marble, but more like rock that has felt centuries of erosion; leaving it smooth yet still possessing friction. The faint, distant light of candles could be felt from all sides. The light seems to ebb and flow in time with the soft, almost feminine chant-song that is whispered by my unseen adorner. Soft yet precise fingertips dance across my skin like the legs of a spider to create openings all along my flesh; running up the back of my limbs and connecting with two parallel rows along my back.
6624... 6625... 6626...
The hovel reeks of death. Corrugated tin walls struggle to support a roof decayed by rust and time. My compass tells me I’m backed into the southwest corner of this filth as I sit with my knees to my chest. I’m just trying to stay away from the rotting corpse of the mongrel that had met his end through starvation or disease. He was maggot food now, though. The buzzing of the flies was loud enough to be grotesque, but not so loud that it blocked out the conversation outside.
Well, he did make it here all the way from St. Louis, Rico reluctantly admitted in his gutter-trash version of the Spanish language. The hunched little... thing he spoke to shifted her pus-encrusted gaze to Rosa-Maria for confirmation.
It’s true, Rosa-Maria replied. I created him as a distraction against our enemies while we searched for Amada. The cool spring winds picked up at she spoke, carrying refuse as well as who knows how many undocumented diseases across the Mexican shanty-town. I don’t understand how they can tolerate the smell when they speak. As long as I keep my mouth shut I don’t feel the urge to retch. Not breathing definitely has its benefits.
I looked down at my smooth, upper-middle class hands. Even though they were covered in grime and filth, they were as pristine and callous-free as the night I died. Every night since then I’ve managed to either bruise, lacerate, or nearly sever them in my nocturnal pursuits. It had been a long, hard road from St. Louis to Mexico City, but here I am, sitting and awaiting judgment from some hideous Muppet while the two vampires who ruined my life plead with her on my behalf.
Rosa-Maria recounts the story of how they never found Amada in the mausoleum. It was an ambush by some unidentifiable enemy. They never ascertained Wilme or Carlos’ status, either. She also goes over the details of my involvement, which she refers to as "The Decoy Phase" but which I like to call "Operation Save Our Own Asses While These Fucks Get Massacred." At this point the forbidden love child of Grandma Clampet and the Crypt Keeper insists on hearing about it straight from the horse’s mouth. Rosa-Maria proceeds to call me out.
I rise as much as possible in the metal hut, and feel the pain in my ribs from my initial conversation with Rico that evening. I wasn’t too thrilled to see him again after the past few months, and the feeling was mutual. We had what I like to call a domestic dispute that carried itself throughout whatever they called this garbage dump. Rico should have realized that I had learned a few things regarding my condition during my trip down here, and that I had enough of a hate-on built up to go a few rounds with him. A quick analysis of my current situation indicated that this might not be a friendly conversation. I decided to force some blood through my system and repair my ribs in case I needed to run for my unlife in the next couple minutes.
Aside from my white – now paling – skin, I genuinely look like I should be stepping out of this rusted dog-toaster. My suit was long gone, replaced by the sturdy denim of filth-soaked blue jeans and what remained of a red and black flannel shirt. I gave up on shoes when I hit Arizona. My desperate, hungry gaze goes from Rosa-Maria to Rico. Rico sneers at me like he means it. I choke back the instinct to tackle him and sate my hunger on his blood. I’m starving. Five more minutes in that shack and I would have fought the maggots over the dog.
So, the little woman says in a voice that reminds me of December sleet, tell me what happened to you since the night you were buried. I stare at her like I’m looking for Frank Oz’s hand. What is this? The farther I go on this crazy trip the worse my nightmare becomes. For my delay, the little thing slaps my left knee hard enough to all but shatter it. I fall backwards, my head slamming against the metal wall of the shack. My fangs bear in anger, and a large Mexican rat scurries out from under my neck. It diverts my attention away from the woman, and my predatory maw crunches through its oily, sinewy hide in half a heartbeat. As I drain it of its filthy, disease-filled blood, I reflect upon how much the rat and I have in common. We were both distractions. We were both meant to get sucked dry in some predator’s gaping maw. The only difference is that I was lucky enough to get away.
Letting the rat drop from my mouth, I rise and explain the whole affair to my audience of three. I start off with how I split from the others once we hit Kingshighway. Half of them started fighting each other over their blood; the other half terrorized whatever was near. Those who didn’t show aggression didn’t last long. I found a crack-head behind the closest liquor store. I don’t remember exactly what happened, but as the next evening approached I awoke in a dumpster with the degenerate’s lifeless corpse on top of me. I didn’t have a clue what was going on, but I quickly learned of my aversion to sunlight.
I knew my life was over. Everything I had worked so hard to build up was gone. My cars, my home, my condo, my mutual funds, my bank account, it was all fucking gone. My family was easy to write off. I lost track of them after law school. I couldn’t remember the last friend I had, so no big loss there. After all, I was a corporate lawyer, not a people person.
The only thing left to do was to try to find my two caretakers and get some answers – or at least some revenge – before I was either apprehended by law enforcement or destroyed by the sun. I remembered liking the way Rosa-Maria said "Meheeco," and the horrid details of the night before came back to me. So off to Mexico City I went. It was slow-going. I routinely took my blood by force, and this became messy. So I stole clothes off bums and out of Good Will’s every few nights. I also broke into a local hardware store and stole a portable heavy-duty tarp that came in an over-the-shoulder rucksack, as well as a compass and a road map. I knew better than to touch the cash register and set off the alarm connected to it. Besides, most businesses empty out their registers when they close. After that it was a few months of walking the interstates, giving the occasional gay trucker the surprise of his life, sleeping in drainage ditches wrapped in a tarp, and avoiding state police.
You’re very lucky, the woman commented. Tell me about it, I replied. That earned me another slap, this time on the right knee. I decided to stay on the ground this time.
He’s too old, the crone stated, turning back to Rico and Rosa-Maria. He’s already set in his ways. I cannot teach him anything.
He made it across the United States to Mexico City without any idea of what he was, Rosa-Maria countered. He tracked Rico and I down, and proceeded to give Rico the fight of his unlife. He shows a great deal of potential, Teresita. Rico even grudgingly nodded his agreement.
Meanwhile, I was tired of seeing this twisted version of Star Wars play itself out. Being trained in the arts of adjudication, I knew I had to prove my own sincerity and dedication. I had to put Teresita into a position where she’d lose face if she refused to let me continue my existence.
Look, I stated matter-of-factly as I rose to my feet while picking a rusted pipe off the ground. If you want to take me in, fine. If not, fine. But if you want to kill me, again, then at least let my trip be worth something by letting me and Rico to slug it out until the sun comes up.
The little thing actually chuckled at this.
He’s in. She announced.
The rings snap into place one by one. Delicate fingers work persistently and gracefully. I wonder if this is what a canvas feels like as some wonderful yet blasphemous painting is created upon it. Will I be burned because I offend? Or will I offend because I burn? It doesn’t even matter anymore.
10567... 10568... 10569...
I deflect the finely sharpened stake with my free arm while lunging in with a stake of my own. My assailant easily blocks my thrust and sends me flying back with a hard open-handed thrust to my sternum.
Never ignore an opportunity to end a threat! Teresita barked out in her native Spanish as she briskly walked forward to stand between us. She took the stake from Alanza’s hand and slapped her across each cheek. The Enemies of the Sword of Caine will not go easy on you!
Teresita’s hard slaps were potent enough to floor all of the cadets except Alanza, which was surprising considering that she was the smallest in stature of all of us. Alanza was so lithe, yet so resilient. She was a deception in every sense of the word.
Now try it again! Teresita commanded, and returned to her place amongst the recruits. She enjoyed pitting Alanza and myself against each other. I don’t know why. Maybe it was because Alanza was from a zealous lineage of brutality and I carried the blood of a crusader. The other cadets claimed that Alanza had been Embraced and trained specifically for Teresita’s schooling for the past five years. She was her Sire’s most accomplished Progeny, and marked for something great. Teresita was just another in a long list of mentors, they said. Then why pit her against me – a guy who only made it this far through sheer determination and a lot of luck. I was definitely the scrub of this crew. I didn’t even know what it was about until the first night of training.
That first night was a couple years ago, but it seemed like a century. What I didn’t know then was that Teresita was referred to as the Godmother to the Damned, and she was in charge of all potential cadets in Mexico City. We were her official charges, known collectively as Los Ninos Heroes. It was a reference and a tribute to a group of young Mexican military cadets who leapt to their deaths rather than face capture by American forces.
I had found far more answers than I cared for in Mexico City. Under Teresita, I learned all about the Sabbat, and our war against the Ancients. In addition to the physical training, Teresita insisted on the rigorous study of Noddist texts and Sabbat dogma so that we might learn more of our savior, Almighty Caine – He Who Creates His Own Destiny. We are his Sword. We are the Sabbat. His Sword is Righteous. We are His Sword. We are the Sabbat. His Sword is Death to The Ancients. We are His Sword. We are the Sabbat.
We also studied everything from military field manuals from around the globe to The Art of War, by Sun Tzu. Many Sabbat waste their gift from Caine. We do not. We are Purpose. We are Wrath. We are the Blood of our Father.
This brainwashing occurs with an intensity that human governments have never dreamed of. If it were not for Alanza, gently saying my name to rouse me from my mental wanderings as we studied, I would forget what my name was. Teresita always forces us to be together. Not that I mind. While I feel no desire for sex anymore, Alanza’s presence brings a sense of comfort to me. She is an anchor that I can hold onto as I flail about madly in this sea of chaos. Her eyes are such a gentle shade of brown, and complement the mestizo heritage in her skin in such a way that I could never find words to describe.
I felt a sense of comfort with her that I never knew before. I had never trusted people on general principal. As a lawyer, I was paid not to trust what people say. I was trained to analyze what had been recorded and break it apart for any inconsistency. And when there weren’t inconsistencies, I created inconsistencies. It’s funny how becoming a murderous vampire and joining a militaristic blood-cult made me realize what a cold-hearted bastard I was in life.
The slow whir of a hydraulic motor fills the cavernous chamber. Tension mounts on the rings in my skin. Mettle hooks pull upward, lifting me by the dozens of rings along my backside. I feel like a giant statue that is to be put upon the top of a great architectural achievement. I am the crowning glory of a hideous nightmare. I only deserve death.
11620... 11621... 11622...
We had monitored the two every night for a week. We were cut off from Los Ninos Heroes. We had no supplies except for the clothes on our backs and what we could scrounge for ourselves. Alanza usually took the first watch while I hunted, then I took watch while she hunted. Shortly before daybreak we disengaged from our position of observation outside the condo and slept in the air ducts of a nearby subway terminal.
Teresita met us in our observation post on the eighth night, just as she promised.
Tell me, cadets, who is the deceiver? Our mentor asked as she gazed through military-grade binoculars into the couple’s condo. Is it the husband or the wife?
We know that Lupe that is cheating on Pablo, Alanza stated as she produced several black and white photographs of intimacy between Lupe and a man who was much younger and better looking than her husband.
So those are your conclusions? Teresita inquired.
Not entirely, I added matter-of-factly. Pablo knows about the affair. He’s known about all of them, in fact. We obtained our pictures from a guy Pablo once hired. Pablo, in fact, doesn’t care, because he’s perpetrating the genuine deception. I produce internet print-outs of earnings sheets from a successful Mexican investment firm and hand them to Teresita.
Check the bottom line, I continue. You’ll notice that he should be living as if he has three times as much income than he does. His company’s net profits are very impressive. He’s hiding at least two-thirds of his income from his wife. Bottom-line - he’s a professional, she’s an amateur.
The Godmother to the Damned examined the financial statements for a moment, then nodded. Good. You have two hours to hunt. Then you will return to the academy and pack your possessions. You leave for your final test tomorrow.
I allowed a slight smile to cross my face, just as I did every time we had passed a test over the past five years. Alanza never did, though. She was the perfect soldier; emotionless and standing at attention until Teresita departed. I used to tease her about being so serious all the time. She just dismissed it as part of what she was trained to do. I knew that she had been training for this much longer than I had. I knew that this opportunity meant a lot to her, or at least to someone. Her Sire perhaps. I don’t really know.
What I do know is that Alanza excels at everything she put her mind to. She always ranks the highest in any test, be it martial, psychological, or academic. None of the other cadets could even come close. Let alone me. The only reason I rank so high was because I always end up being paired with her. The other cadets don’t particularly like me for that fact. Teresita knew this, and I think she takes smug satisfaction in knowing that she’s making my unlife even worse. What Teresita doesn’t realize is that I’m using her. I’ll happily let her think that she’s getting the most satisfaction out of this situation, when in reality there I would give anything for every second I’m allowed to spend with Alanza.
Two hours was an excessive amount of time to hunt. With the two of us working together, we were finished in twelve minutes and seventeen seconds. As we casually walked down a strip of nightclubs, I openly theorized that our Godmother was letting us have some free time to wander the local strip before we headed out tomorrow. Alanza didn’t agree, but she didn’t disagree, either. We refrained from speaking at great lengths, being taken in by the audio and visual stimuli of the vibrant Mexican nightlife that now seemed so foreign to us.
I found my thoughts drifting back to the night when Teresita walked down the row of cadets, stating what function each of us would perform. There were the scouts, the surveillance operatives, the removers, the front-line commandos, and numerous other roles. I was an analyst, which fit me to a tee, being as my I previously performed in such a position as I would analyze corporate financial records for loopholes and inconsistencies. My greatest achievement was that I never had to set foot in the courtroom. I was good at what I did.
Alanza, on the other hand, was what we refer to as an infiltrator. She was trained to sleep with the enemy, gain their trust, and destroy them from within. She was the wolf in sheep’s clothing. She had to be able to assume a seemingly endless number of alternate identities to draw out our enemies, both outside of The Sword of Caine and within. This required that she always keep her true emotions buried and hidden. This made the other cadets nervous around her. They felt like she was always hiding something. They didn’t understand that it was just part of her training. They didn’t understand her like I did.
The crowds of people gradually increased as we made our way down the strip. Soon, we found ourselves surrounded by a mass of humanity as some grand moonlight parade made its way down the crowded street. Alanza began to turn around as I continued to move forward. I don’t really understand what happened next. I remember how soft her hair felt and the sense of timelessness I had from being so near to her. As the parade passed, we held each other amidst the sea of humanity and drank deeply.
I hang. A greasy, fatty substance covers the uncountable incisions along my naked form. The smoke and heat from the candles is thick along the ceiling. It is almost nauseating. Nothing disgusts me more than myself. When the End Times come, I will rule from atop the Mountain of Offal as I sit upon my Throne of Corpses.
16557... 16558... 16559...
Our final mission brought us north of the border. Way north. Detroit to be precise. Murder capital of the United States and Sabbat stronghold. It was a good place to go if you wanted to get some wheels or firepower for your Pack, but I wouldn’t recommend staying there. The Sabbat in Detroit are some of the most violent I had ever seen. With established Covens like Motor City Murderers and Murder, Inc. often clashing over who had the better name, you can imagine what the Welcoming Rites were like.
Alanza and I passed ourselves off as the remnants of a group of nomads traveling up from Mexico City. It wasn’t far from the truth so it was easy to make it stick. Our mark was in Murder, Inc. He was a young mutt who went by Shawn. Shawn apparently had some long-standing bitch with his Ductus, and was rumored to be missing Vaulderies and selling out Sect information to some semi-important rabble in Indianapolis. We were sent in to covertly ascertain the truth in this matter, and then call in the removers if necessary.
Everything was going fine. We ingratiated ourselves with Murder, Inc. fairly quickly. Their Coven Rites were nothing compared to the brutality of Teresita’s training exercises. They weren’t too fanatical about conducting a regular Vaulderie, so we lucked-out there. This could also easily explain how Shawn was able to sell them out so easily. Speaking of which, our intelligence on him hit the nail on the head. Shawn was known to disappear, and he was doing so with increasing frequency. We knew that it would only be a matter of time before he never came back to the Coven’s communal haven.
Alanza and I shared a room together. We each scrounged up a rusty box-spring in the basement of the boarded up crack-house we stayed in, and stole a couple mattresses from the local discount furniture store. Even though we were dwelling amidst the swine of the earth a la the forty-seven ronin, we still made our beds in military fashion. Some routine actions can become so ingrained in your mind that you cannot undo them. It’s amazing how they were able to break us down completely and then remold us into whatever they wanted us to be over the past five years.
Alanza never seemed to change, though. From night one, she was a well-discipline foot-soldier. Obedient, loyal, and excelling at everything. There was a quiet passion about her, though. She had every right to be arrogant about her ability and standing, but she wasn’t. She was a rising star, destined for great things. Everyone back in Mexico City knew this. I was just some tag-a-long finance lawyer playing soldier, and I was only here to analyze the situation. She was the infiltrator. She was the one who had to go off, alone, with Shawn.
I found myself beginning to dream. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a dream. College, maybe? I dreamed I was still alive, and Alanza was alive as well. We were having dinner at some posh restaurant in Manhattan. She was radiant. Her eyes possessed a sparkle that could not be taken away. In my dream, I remember smiling. I remember being happy.
All dreams have to end.
The next evening I awoke and hunted quickly. I hoped for Alanza to return tonight. She had taken off with Shawn seven nights ago. This was the longest she had been gone. When I returned from sating my hunger, I found her in our room. Instantly, I noticed something was off. She was sitting on her cot, and weakly smiled at me while her hands rested at her sides. She never rested her hands at her sides. There was also a slight half-inch wrinkle where the sheet from my cot was tucked under the mattress. A second passed and I smiled back. She noticed my hesitation, but I needed more information to conduct a thorough analysis of the situation.
Alanza quickly excused herself from the room, stating that we needed to speak about something important later in the evening, when we would not be disturbed. I agreed and remained in the room.
After she left, I carefully walked around the room. I examined where Alanza was sitting, and I noticed a small scrap of paper tucked between her mattress and the box-spring. Carefully removing the paper, I noticed that the handwriting upon it wasn’t identifiable, but the message was. It was a note detailing the locations and havens of several Sabbat Covens in Detroit. We were listed too, as was the nature of our true loyalties. It even mentioned Teresita. And it was addressed to the rabble in Indianapolis.
My face froze in a mask of terror and dread as my mind analyzed the situation in rapid order. The writing wasn’t Alanza’s, however we were all training to adopt other forms of penmanship for communication purposes. Her hands were at her sides because she was pushing the communiqué between the mattress and the box-spring. That’s why she smiled weakly. I had surprised her with my entrance. Why did she let it show? She was a master of hiding her emotions, after all. And that’s what makes infiltrators the most dangerous agents. Because they have easy access toward betraying The Sword of Caine. Almighty Caine – He Who Creates His Own Destiny. We are his Sword. We are the Sabbat. His Sword is Righteous. We are His Sword. We are the Sabbat. His Sword is Death to The Ancients. We are His Sword. We are the Sabbat.
I made sure my USP .45 automatic had a round in the pipe before tucking it back into the back of my jeans. Then I made the call.
I was there when they dragged her off. She did not resist. She looked at me with eyes that said she forgave me. How her eyes sparkled.
They took Shawn, too. He tried to put up a fight, but begged for his unlife in the end. He never had any dignity anyway. I was heralded as a hero by Teresita and my peers for my actions. Alanza still testified as to Shawn’s betrayal of the Sect, so I had passed my final test with flying colors. Alanza never implicated any other Sabbat, nor would she elaborate how she was connected with our enemies. They tortured her for twenty-one nights before executing her as a traitor to the Sect. Twenty-one nights. That’s 1814400 seconds.
The Rite Masters have entered the chamber. I feel weightless and numb. Their black, hooded robes smell of night jasmine and the pulp of cacti. They chant in a tongue that reminds me of Latin as I am lowered from my all-encompassing view.
I have completed the five years of testing. I have become everything I was trained to be. The eldest of the Cabal approaches with a flaming brand. I hang barely above his head. Fatty residue drips from my corpse to the cool stone floor. The chant concludes swiftly as the brand is brought against my right palm. Everything has now been revealed to me. I have seen that strength and unity can only come from faith and obedience in the Holy Body of Caine – that which we call The Sabbat. Our sacred charge is to defend this Holy Body from threats, both without and within. This is our true loyalty. Individual loyalty cannot be counted upon, as it will only betray me. I have witnessed this with my own eyes. All is clear to me now.
I am of the Black Hand.
I have to admit, it’s a very convincing story, except for one small flaw – it’s all a lie. Remember, I am an analyst, and I have analyzed that fateful moment every night since then. I always arrive at the same conclusion. The reason that there was a half-inch wrinkle in my sheet was because Alanza had seen the note tucked between my mattress and the box-spring. After reading it she would have arrived at the conclusion that I was betraying The Sword of Caine. And her, I was betraying her. She was the perfect soldier in every way, but she wasn’t capable of turning me over to my death, so she slipped the note under her mattress and resolved to speak to me later about it, after she had time to reign in her emotions. That was the reason for her weak smile. She didn’t know how to handle the fact that I would betray her.
However, I didn’t write the note. My analysis continues. Our final test was really a test within a test. Shawn was as obvious a traitor as they come; anybody could have found him out. The real test was for Alanza. That’s why Teresita picked me to join Los Ninos Heroes in that shanty-town five years ago. And that’s why she always paired me with Alanza. Teresita and her superiors wanted to make sure that a bond formed between us. They wanted us to become lovers, because they wanted Alanza to be the perfect agent. They planted the note and intended for her to find it. They needed to know that she was completely committed to The Black Hand.
Alanza didn’t look at me with forgiveness because I was sending her off to her death; she forgave me for being the traitor. Through twenty-one nights of hell she refused to name me as the real traitor. She loved me and I murdered her.
I can never find words to describe the levels of self-hatred and revulsion that consume me. I have to keep it all on the inside, though. If my superiors ever suspected that I knew the truth they would execute me as well. I have to conceal all of these emotions so I can be the rising star they want me to be, just like Alanza.
They want to send me to Chicago next. I want to go there. I want to go anywhere north of the border. I can’t even look at the people here. Every time I see a young mestizo girl with long black hair I think of her. Every time I see a street parade I walk the opposite direction. Every time I begin to smile I remember that final, weak smile.
I hate to hear a young woman say "Meheeco."
References to products created by White Wolf or other companies are not challenges to their copyrights.
This story © 2003 Seth Horton
This page © 2003 anneke@scarywhitegirl.net