The Dead Run (25 page)

“I am if it means stopping—”

“You willing to take us all with you?”

They both looked at Sherry, and the doctor fell silent.

“What about eating it?” Cantwell said a beat later, a decibel softer. “That's what Seth will do.”

Galvan shook his head. “I've seen what's behind that door. I'd rather die.”

Nobody asked.

Good
.

“All right, here's the plan,” said Galvan a moment later, making it up as he went along. “The way I understand it, I gotta hand the fuckin' thing over to Seth, directly. I'm the Righteous Messenger.”

I think.

“That puts me close enough to kill him. Which happens to be something I'm good at.”

If I can retain consciousness that long.

“And if Seth dies, all bets are off. It'll be fuckin' chaos, and they won't care about us anymore.”

Probably
.

“With a little bit of luck, we grab a few guns and ride off into the sunset.”

Nichols dropped his hands onto his thighs, bowed out his elbows. “
That
's your plan.”

Galvan shrugged. “Yeah. More or less.”

“Stupidest thing I've ever heard.”

“You got a better one?”

“As a matter of fact,” the sheriff said, “I might.”

 

CHAPTER 44

T
he hour of reckoning was upon him, and Aaron Seth could only hope he was prepared. He had consumed neither food nor drink for three days, as his father had instructed—so that his ego might recede and the passage be eased. He had shed the blood of an impure man and immersed himself in the blood of a pure woman.

It was the proper day of the month. A harvest moon, fat and crimson, was mounting the horizon. To compound the date's auspiciousness, it was the proper year—the final year. The same blood-pregnant moon had presided over Cucuy's ascendance, precisely a half millennium ago.

There would never be another chance. If the god's powers did not pass to him this night, they would pass beyond man's grasp forever. What that meant, Seth did not know; Cucuy had never seen fit to specify the horror failure would bring. Perhaps Tezcatlipoca would return from exile and slake his thirst for revenge. Perhaps the gods would reverse their abdication and history would circle back on itself, the New World transformed into the Old.

Seth gazed out the tinted window of his chauffeured town car, and a reverent shudder passed through him as the Rock of Tezcatlipoca loomed into view. This was the holiest of sites, described by the deity in the very first of his great decrees, when the world was young and man had not yet learned to worship—much less joust with—the divine.

Find a great spear, cast from the heavens into the earth,
the sorcerer-god had commanded the man who would soon found the Line of Priests.
Upon its blade, mortify your flesh, so you may come to know me.

The holy man—a simple farmer, until that day—had wandered the desert for weeks, growing weaker and purer, the veil separating the worlds lifting a little at a time. Finally, in a hallucinatory daze, he had found this place, sighted the great, jagged pillar of quartz from afar and prostrated himself before it. The razor-sharp rock drew his blood as a quill draws ink, and the god's voice filled his head. The priest wrote the words down feverishly, until his veins would yield no more—and yet, when the communion ended, he found his strength renewed. He returned to his village clutching the instructions for a great temple, one that would cost thousands of hours and hundreds of lives.

To build it was to build an empire.

The priest would not live to see the project completed. Nor would his son, groomed from infancy to be initiated into the sorcerer-god's mysteries.

The village had grown into a capital city by the time his grandson consecrated the house of worship—which now doubled as the seat of government. Its people were no longer land tillers and craftsmen, but warriors and politicians, savvy in the arts of death and manipulation.

On that holy day, the preserved body of the first priest was buried deep beneath the temple, alongside his son, there to await the Final Days.

The first of a great and noble line.

It would preside over the Old World's fall—throw off the tyranny of gods and rise to heights of power that the pious men slumbering in the temple's bowels could never have imagined.

And it would hide itself among the ashes, as the New World rose. Disappear from sight. Pull unseen strings. Bide time. Double and redouble its strength beneath a cloak of silence.

Until now.

The New World had grown old. Rotten. It, too, had to fall. And once more, the sacred Line of Priests would be there to usher in a new age.

Third time's the charm.

The car eased to a standstill, and Seth unfolded himself from the backseat, closed the door gently, and stepped into the warm night air. Arrayed in a circle around the rock, clad in white vestments and holding unlit torches, were the elders of his flock, the eighteen men whose belief in Seth had endured the longest, burned the brightest. They had earned the privilege of witnessing the ceremony. Seth greeted each one, clasping the men's hands in solemn recognition. These were his elect—bankers and bakers, lawyers and truckers—and while the mysteries of the priesthood were for the priests alone, these men understood the weight of the occasion, had labored for years to bring this day about.

In the days to come, Seth would lean heavily on the loyalty of such individuals. Fear was a poor substitute for belief; one shepherd was worth a hundred soldiers.

These men would teach the world how to worship him.

Communing with them quelled Seth's nerves, and he lingered longer with each one as he moved around the circle. To his consternation, the tranquillity he wished to feel at this portentous moment remained elusive. His aides assured him that the Messenger's arrival was imminent, and no aspect of the ceremony had been left to chance, but Seth found it impossible to find peace within himself.

Perhaps that was appropriate. The human condition was a churning stew of fear and worry. He would not be human for much longer, Seth thought as he shook the final hand and turned out from the circle. He ought to embrace the feeling while he could.

The decision to accept the fear banished it, as was so often the case.

“Fire,” Seth said softly, and the torches of the elect flared up. The light fell softly on the outer circle of guests: the pure women of Seth's flock. They, too, wore white, and sat scattered among the lesser rock shelves, amidst the outcroppings of quartz that littered the plain. Unlike the elect, they knew nothing of the ceremony's significance. They were mere girls, lambs among the world's lions—
the chaste forever chased,
as he had often sermonized—but Seth liked to keep them close. Their presence energized him; he had sustained himself for decades on the purity of such creatures.

As had his father.

The sacred rock glowed pink in the firelight, seeming to pulse with energy. Seth stared at the plateau before it.

Where he would soon stand, a beating heart in his hand.

Like his father before him.

If Seth understood correctly—and Cucuy preferred to dole out history and explanation and command in discrete, perplexing fragments, so it was possible that Seth did not—the original journey from the temple to the rock had been a test. The power of Tezcatlipoca resided in the vessel, but Cucuy could not assume it until he had proved his mettle, until he stood at the world's holiest site. Seth had long puzzled over that. Why would the god test his servant, when failure would ensure his own demise? What compelled him to do so?

And if the journey was meant to be a test, why was Seth not the one taking it?

That, he had pondered even longer.

There were only two possibilities. Either he was too important to risk, or he was unequal to the task.

It was a moot point now. In his boundless wisdom, and through his peerless sorcery, Cucuy had fashioned the Righteous Messenger into a double, a doppelgänger. Empowered an expendable man to assume the role.

Scores of them, Seth reflected, had not even made it out of the temple, the hearts dying in their hands, and the Messengers dying at the priest's.

Perhaps the heart's chaperone did not matter—only its journey. Certainly, Cucuy's insistence that the vessel pass from the temple to the rock in the same manner as before had turned a simple task grueling—delayed this blessed day by years.

Seth's father had set off along the secret, treacherous path with four soldiers—forbidden to bear his burden, instructed only to ward off interlopers, wild beasts, evil men drawn to the power of the heart. Their fates even Cucuy claimed to be unable to recall, but by the time he collapsed of exhaustion, he was alone.

A band of traders had found him—marauding nomadic tribesmen, the empire's scourge—and the priest promised them great power if they conveyed him to the holy place.

Wisely, they agreed. Their descendants remained in Cucuy's employ still. De la Mar, the man who had been assigned to meet the Messenger today, was replaying his ancestors' errand, though he knew nothing of it. Of them.

Any more than he knew why he could not intercept the Messenger earlier.

Or why he'd been instructed to kill any companions the man retained.

The marionette does not see the strings.

The sound of an automobile brought Seth out of his reverie, and he looked up to see a black van rumbling into view. The rock was miles from any road, any settlement, any incorporated land; this could only be the Federale's vehicle. After a few seconds, Buchanan's sedan appeared, behind it. The anticipated escort of True Natives was nowhere to be seen.

No matter. Seth could sense the closeness of the heart.

He turned on his heel, the gold-trimmed white robe flaring around his ankles. Strode toward the altar and took his place on the rock shelf at the base of the great spear.

“Remember,” he intoned, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, and the circle of elect contracted to listen. “Tonight is an occasion for both celebration and mourning. The powers I will receive come at a cost—they come because my father gives up his life. Since we cannot honor his body in accordance with the ancient custom, we shall burn his surrogate instead. The pyre is ready?”

“Yes,” the elect chorused as one, and two of them stepped back so Seth could see the giant rectangle of oil-drenched wood laid out at the far side of the altar.

He had, of course, already noted it—just as he'd already said all this. There was value in repetition. It was how words hardened into laws. Deeds into sacraments.

“The Messenger's daughter,” he prompted them. This was the only aspect of the ceremony they had not rehearsed for weeks—the matter so urgent that Cucuy had done the unthinkable and used a telephone in order to convey it. This, if Seth thought about it, lay at the bottom of his unease. It was unlike his father to spring such a surprise.

“She will stand at your right hand,” the elect replied.

Seth nodded, like a schoolteacher rewarding a correct answer, and wondered if any of them dared to wonder why this girl, at this late hour, should be awarded such an honor.

Cucuy had assuaged Seth's curiosity in his own manner—which was to say, he had increased it.

When the moment comes, her purpose will be clear.

Seth chose to take it as a vote of confidence.

He closed his eyes, just as the engines of both cars fell silent. For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of fire, and Seth felt a great, ecstatic wave of energy suffuse him. As if he had already thrown off the mortal coil, was already rising to the long-awaited plane that was his destiny.

He reopened his eyes in time to see Knowles and another biker—the Natives were here after all, absent their usual means of transport—walk to the back of the van and open the rear doors.

I speak now as a god,
Seth thought, staring into the darkness where the Messenger sat. He inhaled deeply, taking in the fullness of the moment, and unleashed the majesty of his voice.

“Righteous Messenger, come forth and be known. The glory of your journey shall never be forgotten. Deliver the sacred vessel unto me, and in the breadth of my munificence, I shall fulfill my father's promise and deliver you into freedom.”

The man who stepped into the sacred circle of light, cupping the heart in the palm of his hand, looked like something out of a nightmare.

Disfigured. Rancid with hate. Grotesque with fear.

Seth spread his arms wide, leaching those poisons from him, replacing them with obedience and calm.

“I bid you welcome,” he proclaimed.

“Go suck a bag of dicks,” the Righteous Messenger replied.

 

CHAPTER 45

S
uch a vulnerable thing, the human heart. Stress burst it. Fat clogged it. Love made it skip beats. The seat of life, and yet so easily compromised.

This one, pinkish-red, no bigger than a child's fist, weighed scarcely half a pound.

The terrified face of the girl from whom it had been taken flashed across his field of vision, and Galvan thought,
This is for you
.

The image faded, and a vision of the swarming undead girls replaced it.

That, too, dissipated, and the stunning, tragic visage of the woman in yellow floated before his eyes.

For all of you
.

“Listen up,” he said, shaking his head clear. He held the lump of tissue out at arm's length, as if it were a protective amulet, or a grenade. The circle of white robes fractured as he stepped inside, became a horseshoe.

“I know what this is. What it means to you.”

He raised the heart a few inches, from chest height to eye level, and thrust it at the nearest man.

Dude stepped back, in reverence or in fear, and Galvan spun on his heel, repeated the move with the next Ku Klux Klan–looking cocksucker in line. Watched him flinch, and then turned back to Seth.

Motherfucker was still standing with his arms at crucifixion height, as if he were only halfway through his opening remarks.

He cut a pretty unimpressive figure, for all his divine aspirations and high-flown rhetoric. Looked like a fuckin' mailman.

Don't be a fool, Jess. Lotta shit ain't what it seems, in case you haven't noticed.

“All your father's power,” Galvan went on, low and even. “It's right here, Seth. Everything you've been waiting for, your whole life. You lose this, what have you got?”

He let the question hang in the air, let it ripple out and do its work on all of them.

Seth wasn't biting. The arms dropped, but the expression on his face stayed steady, floating somewhere between indulgent and serene. The moon loomed behind him, red and giant, looking as if it might swallow up the earth. Galvan sought out Seth's eyes, poured his entire back catalog of fire and brimstone straight into them.

Seth absorbed it all. Hungrily. And waited.

A rush of footfalls filled the silence, and then—as planned, as promised—Nichols scrabbled out of the van and took his position, back-to-back with Galvan. The sheriff was weaponless, little more than a set of eyes and a pair of fists, but Galvan would take what he could get. The white-robed men were not the muscle; Buchanan and Knowles and the Natives were the dogs Aaron Seth could sic on him.

Better to see them coming, if they came.

Though unless Galvan missed his guess—and his shot, and his life, and his daughter's—they would not come. This was not a battle Seth could win by force, or it would've been over already.

Galvan's staring contest with the cult leader was still deadlocked.

Good. Try this on for size, pendejo.

He tossed the heart lightly into the air—

And Seth's eyes jumped to follow, his mouth dropping open, the first syllable of a protest sounding before he could regain his composure—

—and Galvan caught it again, a meat-on-meat slap ringing through the warm night air.

Yeah. That's right, motherfucker. That ain't Kool-Aid running through your veins. You're shook. I got your number. We play this my way. Word to Frank Sinatra.

Time to bring it home.

He opened his palm, jiggled the heart ever so slightly. “Lemme be real clear here. I've got no problem ripping this fucking thing apart right now.”

Seth's lips bowed into a smile, as if he were enjoying the show.

Nice try, asshole. Consider your bluff called.

“Unless what, Righteous Mess—”

“Don't fuckin' call me that. My daughter and her friend leave. Alone, in a car. Now. That's for starters.”

“I'm afraid I can't do that. My business with Dr. Cantwell is unfinished.”

Seth folded his hands in front of him and lifted his chin.

“And dear Sherry is of great importance to me.”

A bead of sweat rolled down the inside of Galvan's arm like liquid dread.

Just hearing his daughter's name roll off this man's tongue would have been unsettling. The notion that he had plans for her was beyond terrifying.

The heart pulsed faster in Galvan's hand, as if sensing the danger it was in, or matching the beat of his own.

“That's too fuckin' bad,” he fired back. “You let them walk, or this ends now.”

He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip.

Seth looked past him, flicked a finger at something outside the halo of light. “Bring Sherry to me, Mr. Buchanan.”

Galvan spun in time to see the hulking thug step from the shadows, bend into the cage, grab Sherry just above the elbow.

He hauled her out, a jumble of flailing arms and legs, hair loose and falling into her face.

“Easy now, young lady,” Seth called in a hideous, mild-voiced parody of paternal concern. “It's all right. Come visit with me a spell.”

Every cell in Galvan's body cried out with desire as he watched his daughter stumble into the moonlight, try to jerk her arm free, fail.

Rush him. Break his neck. Go now.

He tamped it down, stood rooted to his spot as Buchanan half-dragged her toward Seth, Sherry refusing to walk and then realizing it was pointless and giving in, her long legs landing awkwardly with each step as Buchanan applied the pressure.

You can't win that fight,
Galvan told himself, swallowing the violence rising in his throat like bile
. But you don't need to.

It's all a ruse. Seth needs you to panic.
His only plan for Sherry is to leverage you. Force some kind of fuckup.

Seth's fate is in your hands. Literally.

Hand.

Let him stand her wherever he wants—he can't do shit to her
,
'cause he can't do shit to you.

So calm the fuck down. Stick to the plan. Seth puts Sherry and Cantwell in a car, or you destroy the heart. When he does, you destroy it anyway. Chaos ensues, Nichols grabs a gun, the both of you fight your way free—in the event that anybody even tries to stop you, what with their whole goddamn universe collapsing.

He felt the bile recede.

Thataboy, Jess. Nice and steady. High card's yours.

Nichols's impulse control was less refined.

He ran at the big man with a savage yell and leapt, arms outstretched, legs akimbo, like a defensive back vaulting the linemen to sack the QB.

Big dumb bastard never made it.

Two Natives brought Nichols down in midair—the landing hard, the ground ungiving. Buchanan half-turned, smirked, and went on with his errand. Sherry twisted at the waist and cringed at Nichols's motionless form, then raised her eyes to Jess, frightened and full of questions.

It's okay,
he answered with his eyes, trying to compress all the safety he'd ever made her feel into the look.
Don't be scared. I'll get us—

Buchanan jerked her arm, made her turn her head and march. A moment later, he had delivered Sherry into Aaron Seth's custody and taken up position in the darkness behind.

An invisible sentry.

Seth took Sherry's hand in both of his, gave it a reassuring pat.

“Hello, dear,” he drawled.

Sherry recoiled, tried to pull away. But Seth's grip was like iron; Galvan could see that from where he stood.

Steady . . .

The cult leader smiled as she struggled. Smiled bigger when she stopped.

“Here is my counteroffer, Righteous Messenger. Complete your duties now, or watch every man here take his turn with your precious little girl, and
then
complete your duties.”

The words were like a kick in the gut, and for a moment Galvan thought the agonized grunt that followed had been his own.

But no. Nichols was actually getting kicked in the gut. Repeatedly.

Galvan turned to glance at him and almost missed the part where Sherry—trembling with fear and florid with rage, and Jesus Horatio Christ, did she look like Melinda at that age; not the most opportune time to notice, but what in the clear blue fuck could you do—leaned forward and spit right in Aaron Seth's pale, pitted husk of a face.

Thatagirl
.

Seth blinked long, and Galvan tensed, knowing that if this man raised a hand to his daughter, all bets were off, all plans forgotten.

Some things, a man just couldn't stand idly by and watch.

That'd make a pretty fair inscription for his gravestone, come to think of it.

But Seth offered no retribution. The tight smile returned to his thin, cruel lips; he didn't even bother to wipe away the saliva dripping down his cheek.

“Return the sheriff to the van,” he said. “Lock it, this time.”

The mercenaries complied, Galvan's negotiation on pause as he and Seth listened to the body thump against the floor and the doors slam shut.

So much for backup.

Seth shrugged his shoulders and extended a hand. “There are no more choices, Mr. Galvan. You are out of threats, and I am out of patience. Bring it here, or your friends start to suffer and they do not stop.”

Galvan shook his head. “Uh-uh. You're not calling the shots here. You need me.”

He opened his palm, pointed his fingers at the ground.

They all watched as the heart slid slowly from his grip.

Gasped, as it landed on the hard-packed ground with a sickening plop and sat there, quivering.

Galvan raised his arms and spread his legs. “The hands of the wicked cannot keep it alive.”

He pivoted left, then right. “So. Who wants to come and get it? Volunteers?”

Nope.

“Come on, what is it, fifteen feet? Nobody?”

A moment passed, and then one of Seth's robed assholes stepped forward, a look of determination playing on the hard lines of his face.

“Be still!” Seth barked, and the man froze.

Galvan nodded. “That's what I thought.”

He bent at the knees, plucked up the heart, and straightened.

“You don't have a fucking choice.”

Seth regarded him in stony silence.

Galvan waited, something like hope pumping through his system, the feeling so unfamiliar he barely recognized it.

Can it be possible? Can I be winning?

“Here is my final offer, Messenger. Your friends can go. Complete your task, and so can you. My word, my bond.” He brushed one palm against the other. “New beginnings. I wash my hands.”

“And what about—”

“On my father's divine orders, your daughter stays.”

Galvan's hope curdled into fury. “The fact that you'd even call that an offer—”

He shook his head. There were no words.

“Fuck you,” Galvan spat. “You had your chance.”

He dropped to his knees, pinned the heart to the ground with his bad arm, and wrapped his killing hand around the supple flesh.