Forced Retirement (2 page)

Young Epitome thrashed in the air, pulling at the sphere, trying unsuccessfully to wedge his fingers between the golden skin and his throat. His body turned to rock, then steel, then ice, but he could not break open the sphere from within. He expanded and shrunk and stretched, but the sphere changed size and shape along with him.

Young Epitome wrestled with the smothering helmet for one more moment. Then, he stopped fighting it.

And became a blinding ball of energy like a new sun flaring to life in the sky.

Because Hericane was on pause and could not blink or shield her eyes, Overtime threw a hand over them to block the burst of light. When Overtime pulled his hand away, Hericane saw a single figure hovering in the sky, silhouetted against a pulsing rainbow nimbus.

For an instant, Hericane thought it was the seventy-two-year-old version of Epitome, because his hair was little more than stubble, and his costume was red with a gold breastplate instead of red and white fabric.

But as the halo faded, and the man drifted toward her, she saw that he was not the old man after all. He was not quite the same young man who had come from the past, either.

For one thing, the blinding smile was gone. “I’m so sorry,” he said grimly, looking lost. He stared down at his costume, brushing it with his fingertips.

Hericane felt sick. She had always wondered how the impenetrable golden breastplate of her father’s costume had been created, with its unearthly properties and unique, pebbled texture. It must have been forged in the heart of a volcano or a star, she had thought, or in another dimension where the laws of physics were different from those she knew. How else could an indestructible metal be shaped into body armor for a super hero?

Now, she knew. In addition to burning his long hair down to stubble, Young Epitome’s nova blast had liquefied the metal sphere that had nearly smothered him. The metal had oozed down over his chest and adhered to his costume.

For fifty-odd years, Hericane’s father had worn a costume sheathed in his own remains.

“Sorry,” said young Epitome. The confusion on his face shifted to horror. Tears rolled out of both eyes. He drifted close to Hericane as if he knew her, as if she could help or reassure him in some way.

Hericane felt a mild zap like static electricity as Overtime took her off pause mode. Her body jerked as she regained the power of movement in her native time frame.

Even when she was able to move and speak again, however, she did not know what to say to young Epitome.

He continued to hover in front of her, alternately meeting her gaze and staring down at his newly minted breastplate. His expression shifted quickly, like super-powers in the Bonus Round, switching from anguish to disbelief to horrified rage to blank shock...though the overriding visible emotion was deep confusion.

“I think I owe you an apology,” he said slowly, returning his gaze to Hericane. “I’m sorry for killing your father.” He said it like a question, raising his voice on the last syllables.

“I only wanted to help him,” said Epitome. His eyes narrowed and shunted to one side, staring into space. “I wanted to stop him from hurting people...but God knows I didn’t want
this
to happen.”

Tears rolled down his face, and his shoulders shuddered. He hung his head, then caught sight of the breastplate and quickly looked up again.

Hericane drifted forward and took him in her arms. She stroked the stubble on his scalp as he sobbed silently into her shoulder.

“I’m sorry he hurt you,” said the man who was or had been or would be her father, trembling against her. He was younger now than she was, and she did not know him though she had known him all her life, and it was almost too strange for her to bear.

At that moment, Overtime bobbed into view behind Epitome and pointed to one of the fifty watches strapped onto his right arm. Then, he turned and waved at the rainbow disk of a newly opened time chute spinning in midair behind him.

‘Time’s up,’ he signaled. ‘Time to send him back.’

Hericane shook her head and held on to her father.

“How can I live with this?” said Epitome. “Knowing I did this to myself? Knowing this is what’s in store for me?”

“Don’t close yourself off,” whispered Hericane, giving him the only advice that she could think of...the advice that she had wanted to give him for decades. “Don’t be afraid to reach out to other people. Maybe things will be different for you next time.”

Overtime tapped Epitome on the shoulder then, and he drew back from Hericane. “I don’t know if I can take that chance,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you again.”

He reached out then and ran his fingertips softly down the curve of Hericane’s cheek. She had never known that he could be so gentle. His eyes widened and sparkled as he gazed at her wonderingly.

She felt tears of her own begin to fall.

Finally, she understood why he had pushed her away all her life. Not because of her sexuality. Not because he did not love her.

He had pushed her away because he had wanted to protect her from himself.

“I love you, Dad,” said Hericane, her voice catching. It was the last time in her life that she would say those words to Epitome...though, from his point of view, it was the first time that she said them to him.

Then, Overtime took young Epitome by the hand and guided him into the swirling disk of the time chute.

Hericane should not have been happy, she thought, because, after all, she had lost her father that day. He had died right before her eyes.

And yet, her heart was full and her tears were tears of joy, for just before Epitome slid headfirst into the chute, he looked back over his shoulder and said the one thing that she had never heard him say to her before.

“I love you, too,” he said. And then he was gone.

By Robert T. Jeschonek

Now Available from Tsetse Press

Jonah was drunk, pissed at the world, fresh from his mom and dad's viewing at the funeral home...and he was playing what might have been his best gig ever.

He had always been good, but he was great that night. He ripped through every song with unusual precision and ferocity. Instead of note-perfect renditions, he brought each solo alive with newfound fire and surprise. He pushed the whole band to a new level, and he could tell they loved it.

As they drove through one Jethro Tull classic after another, from "Locomotive Breath" to "Thick as a Brick," all four musicians grinned with rare and predatory intensity. It wasn't just a run-of-the-mill gig.

Too bad hardly anyone was there to see it.

The bar, a downtown Tucson dive joint called Halcyon, was tiny...and nowhere near full. Not counting the bartender, Jonah didn't see more than ten people in the room at the same time that night.

But he played for those ten people like he was playing for a full house. Like he was playing with something to prove.

Something to forget.

The audience, small as it was, definitely caught the vibe and egged on the band. It was the kind of give-and-take that Jonah thrived on, with band and audience equally focused and serious and unified.

And some were more focused than others. One, in particular, was focused hard on Jonah.

She looked twenty-something, with shoulder-length blonde hair and impossibly bright blue eyes. A tight-fitting white tank top and black leather skirt hugged the curves of her perfectly sloped and rounded body.

If she ever took her eyes off Jonah, he didn't see it happen. She watched every move he made and locked eyes with him every time he looked out at her.

She didn't seem to be with anyone. She just stood with a bottle of beer in her hand, six feet away from Jonah, dancing to every single song with supple, undulating movements.

Which, naturally, made him play with even more fire. He had a pretty good idea what might be coming next.

Sure enough, at the end of the first set, the girl made a beeline for him. With a silent, knowing smile, she wrapped his hand in her own and led him out the back door into the alley outside.

Then, she closed the door behind them and pinned him against the wall.

Jonah's heart pounded as she flexed her body against his. Her hands, where they locked his wrists to the wall, were cold, but her gaze was filled with heat.

"You were amazing in there." Her throaty voice was a purr. "I am so turned on right now."

"I know the feeling." Jonah grinned. Playing with the band had taken his mind off his troubles a little. Maybe the blonde would take his mind the rest of the way off, if only for a while.

Without another word, the girl moved in for a kiss. Jonah's heart beat even faster as he finally made the contact he'd been anticipating for so long.

But the kiss was not quite what he'd expected.

The girl's lips were freezing cold, as if she'd just eaten ice cream or gone swimming. There wasn't the slightest trace of warmth anywhere in her kiss.

Jonah pulled back. "Are you chilly?" Even as he asked the question, he couldn't imagine that she could possibly feel cold in that alley. It was a hot desert night in Tucson, probably in the nineties...plus which, heat was rolling off an air conditioning unit in the window a few yards away.

"Low blood pressure. But we can fix that." The girl moved in for another kiss. Her fingers latched onto his belt buckle.

"We need you," said the girl.

We?
That was when Jonah realized something wasn't right.

He suddenly felt much hotter than he thought he should. His lower body, in fact, was quickly becoming uncomfortable, as if he were standing too close to a hot stove.

Jonah looked down...and immediately wished he hadn't.

He'd never seen anything like it. Thin streams of blood projected from the tops of his legs--a dozen streams per leg punching right through his clothing. They met in a glistening red veil that hung suspended in midair, rippling mere inches from the girl's face. As Jonah watched, new streams burst from his legs and added their crimson liquid to the veil.

"What the
hell
?" said Jonah. "What are you
doing
?"

But the girl did not answer.

Get out of here. Now.

Jonah was in for another shock when he tried to escape: his hands were stuck to the wall, and his feet were locked to the floor of the alley.

He couldn't move.

What's going on here?

Then, it got worse.

The girl opened her mouth wide, and red filaments reached toward her from the veil. The sinuous filaments twisted and writhed as they flowed between her scarlet lips and over her jet black tongue.

Black tongue? Black tongue?!? Why didn't I notice
that
before?

The girl spoke without closing her mouth. The red filaments splashed against the tip of her tongue when it moved. "How delicious," she said. "I love you."

She's a vampire! Vampires are real!

"I'll blow you a kiss," she said, and then she puckered her lips and squirted a flume of blood toward Jonah's face.

The blood stopped in front of his nose and hung in midair. It curled and contorted and rotated, forming into a gleaming red shape.

A throbbing cartoon heart the size of a quarter.

Since when can vampires do this kind of crazy stuff?

The girl giggled. "Happy birthday, baby," she said. "Wait'll you see what comes next."

Jonah couldn't take his eyes off the floating cartoon heart. It changed as he watched, twisting and kneading itself into a new shape.

A skull and crossbones.

That was when Jonah finally tried to scream. He tried with all his strength to scream as loud as he could.

And when no sound emerged from his throat, he tried to scream even louder.

*****

It was as if someone had heard Jonah's silent cry. Seconds after he tried in vain to scream his head off, the sound of gunfire crackled in the alley.

Multiple impacts shook the blood-drinking girl and pitched her from her knees to the dusty floor of the alley. As she dropped, so did the veil and filaments of blood. So did the floating skull and crossbones. All of it lost shape immediately and plunged down in one big splatter on the pavement.

In the same instant, Jonah regained some of the movement in his extremities. His arms and legs still felt heavy and stiff, but at least he could finally change position.

Now, if he could just avoid getting shot.

As Jonah stepped away from the wall, a figure moved out of the shadows. The first thing Jonah saw coming toward him was the smoking barrel of a gun.

A machine gun. Pointed right at him.

Then, he heard a familiar voice. "This is what it's all about." A female voice. "Protection."

Jonah was kind of shell-shocked, but he realized who was doing the talking just before she stepped fully into view.

"Stanza." Jonah didn't rush to her side right away. For one thing, he hardly knew her. For another, as relieved as he was to see a fellow non-vampire...

How do I know she isn't a vampire, too?

"What's going on here?" said Jonah as he buckled his belt.

"Did you know I get a bonus every time I save your life?" Stanza grabbed him by the arm and yanked him around to stand behind her. "And if you die, I get nothing."

"Nothing?" said Jonah.

"Not one red cent. So stay here." With that, Stanza moved forward, keeping the machine gun pointed at the blood-spattered blonde on the alley pavement.

The blonde lifted her head and glared. "Bitch." She hissed the word through clenched teeth. "You just became my main course."

Stanza fired more rounds into the vampire's chest, flinging her back and bouncing her off the pavement. "I've got three words for you," she said, waving the machine gun. "Black ironwood points."

The vampire howled in pain and clutched at the seeping red blossom over her heart. She suddenly lunged forward, clawing with one taloned hand at Stanza...but another burst from the machine gun threw her back again.

Stanza looked at Jonah and brushed a lock of black hair behind her ear. "Ammo tipped with hardwood," she said. "Very effective. It's like stabbing them in the heart with dozens of little stakes moving thousands of feet per second."

Jonah gaped at the writhing, bloody blonde on the alley floor. "That'd kill anybody."

"But not everything that kills anybody is enough to kill someone like
her
." Stanza turned and fired more rounds.

The blonde lay still for a moment, then began to jerk and twitch spontaneously. Stanza placed a hand on Jonah's chest and eased him back a step.

"Don't get too close," she said. "Here's where it gets ugly."

You mean it hasn't already?

As Jonah watched, the blonde spasmed repeatedly, then stopped. For a long moment, nothing moved or made a sound in the alley except the air conditioning unit in the back window of Halcyon.

Then, suddenly, the hacked-up flesh of the vampire's chest began to squirm. Shreds of skin and bone flexed up from the place where her heart should have been. Something was pushing its way through from underneath.

At first, as the thing emerged, Jonah thought it looked like a baby's head, bloody and covered with dark, downy hair.

Then, it unfurled.

The gruesome mass bloomed like a flower, poking through the chest wound and popping open. Its true form lay revealed, pulsing and glistening on the blonde's upper body.

Twelve tentacles swayed and twined around a central bulb the size of a fist. The bulb's slimy pink flesh rippled with eyes and jagged-toothed mouths that snapped and gnashed and oozed.

The tentacles were lined with suckers and fluttering cilia strung with slime. Oily black fur streaked the outer skin, barely concealing clusters of blisters and running sores.

"They say you never forget your first look at a
feratu
," said Stanza.

Jonah was transfixed. The creature Stanza had called a
feratu
was like something out of a horror movie.

"Now you know." Stanza replaced the ammo clip in her machine gun. "That's why it takes a stake through the heart to kill a vampire. Because that's where the
feratu
sits."

As Jonah watched, the
feratu
flipped itself over and crawled across the blonde on its hairy tentacles. It left a trail of bloody slime in its wake.

Stanza followed it with the barrel of her machine gun. "A vampire doesn't have a heart," she said. "The
feratu
eats it and takes its place. Pumps the blood, everything. Perfect setup for a creature that thrives on drinking blood."

The
feratu
hopped off the blonde's head and scuttled toward Jonah. He backed away and glanced behind him, sizing up his escape route.

"Two ways it can make you a vampire," said Stanza. "One, it infects your bloodstream with its babies through the bite of a host. Two..."

Suddenly, the
feratu
scrambled forward with a burst of speed. Adrenaline surged through Jonah's body, and he started to run.

That was when Stanza fired the machine gun. The
feratu
danced in a hail of ironwood-tipped bullets, exploding in a flash of flesh and fangs and fur and blood.

When the thing had been blown to sufficiently tiny bits, Stanza released the trigger. "Two, it jumps on you, burrows in through your urinary tract, and eats its way to your heart."

"Geez." Jonah was shaking. He tried to stop looking at the gruesome mess on the alley floor. "Ever hear the expression 'too much information?'"

"More on the way, Jonah." Stanza gazed up at the rooftops on either side of the alley. "They're hunting you. In force. They need you."

Jonah stared at her. "That's what the vampire said. 'We need you.'"

"Sure you're not up for some travel?" said Stanza.

"What makes you think I'll be any safer traveling than staying put?" said Jonah.

"They know where to find you now." Stanza kicked at the shredded remains of the
feratu
. "Wouldn't a moving target be harder to hit?"

Jonah frowned. "You're leaving when?"

"Right now," said Stanza. "Trust me, they're already closing in on you."

Jonah shook his head. "Mom and Dad's funeral is tomorrow."

"Would they rather have you alive or undead? What do you think?" Stanza marched over and lifted the dead vampire's head by her bloody blonde hair. The head tore away, and the rest of the corpse slumped to the pavement. "This isn't a joke, Jonah. Want to end up like her?"

Jonah shifted his weight from one foot to the other. What he really wanted to do was run, all right...run away from Stanza and the blonde and the
feratu
and the funeral and everything. Just start over without all the noise.

"I need to think about it," said Jonah.

"There's no time." Stanza tossed the head aside and stomped over to stare him in the eye. "We've got to leave
now
."

"And go where?" said Jonah. "What's the first stop?"

"Church, of course." Stanza smiled. "Where did you think?"