The Green Lama: Scions (The Green Lama Legacy Book 1) (6 page)

“And I will apologize profusely when it happens.”

“Isn’t that sweet,” Ken said dryly as he slipped on his undershirt. “Will you be packing?”

Jean patted the gun strapped beneath her coat. “Never leave home without it. Now, come on, sweet cheeks,” she said, slapping his butt as she walked out the door. “Let’s solve ourselves a mystery.”

The train pulled into Grand Central with a hiss, the conductor bellowing down the aisle like a town crier of old. Gary Brown sat up in his seat and massaged the sleep from his eyes. It was too damn early, he decided. The sun wasn’t even high enough to warrant calling it morning. He glanced over at the beautiful blonde resting her head on his shoulder and smiled.

“We’re here?” Evangl asked without opening her eyes.

Gary kissed her forehead. “We’re here.”

Evangl sat up, stretched her arms, and cracked her neck. “That was fast.”

“Still say we could have driven down,” Gary commented as he put on his fedora and followed her into the aisle.

“The Lama spoiled you,” Evangl sighed. “Driving in New York isn’t always about car chases.”

“Yeah, but it was always an adventure.”

Evangl raised an eyebrow and took his hand as they exited onto the platform, early morning commuters filing toward the exit. It was hard to believe there had been a major train derailment here only five years ago. “Was it?”

‘“Least that’s how I remember it.”

“I remember guns,” Evangl said with a dramatic frown. “Actually, I remember a lot of guns.”

“And you loved every minute of it,” he retorted with a crooked grin.

“I loved
you”
Evangl said matter-of-factly, sending goosebumps down Gary’s neck; he would never get tired of hearing her say that. She hooked her arm with his and pulled herself close. “Everything else was secondary.”

A reformed gangster and a post debutante, Gary and Evangl’s courtship had been anything but orthodox. Kidnapped by the Crimson Hand, they had formed a bond that proved to be something deeper. Within a short time they were married, giving up the vigilante trade to raise a family in upstate New York.

“You think she enjoyed the trip?” he asked as they walked into the main concourse.

Evangl reassuringly patted Gary’s arm. “Of course she did, honey. You saw her face when she was boarding; your mother was positively glowing. Heading off to Greece! Looked like she was about to go on an adventure.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘adventure.’ Adventure implies guns.”

Evangl furrowed her brow. “Didn’t you just say how much fun it used to be?”

“Well, honestly, I’m not sure how much I love the idea of my mother and guns,” Gary said with a shrug. “And besides, I didn’t want to disagree with you again.”

“Aw,” Evangl smiled, squeezing his hand. “You’re learning.”

“Miracles can happen.”

“Next you’ll start turning water into wine. Remember, I prefer white.”

“I’m actually still working my way through exorcisms,” Gary replied. “But I’ll let you know when I get around to wine. What was the name of Mom’s boat again?”

“Bartlett,
I think.”

“Right. Like that girl I… Um… Courted,” he mumbled, feeling Evangl’s icy glare.

They circled around the central information booth, walked through the tidal pool of people in the waiting room, and out onto Forty-Second Street. It felt good to be back in the city, Gary reflected, missing the hustle and bustle. He had made a decent life with Evangl at their small farm outside Black Rock, but his heart would always belong to the city. Gary raised his hand to call for a taxi when a Cadillac V-16 Imperial Limo pulled up in front of them, the chrome strips glinting in the early morning sun.

“Jeez, look at that piece of work.”

“You want one?”

“Sweetheart, we couldn’t afford that if we tried.”

“Well, you couldn’t,” Evangl said.

Gary mimed stabbing himself in the heart and twisted. “It looks like Uncle Moneybags is staying put, why don’t we head over there and see if—”

“Mr. and Mrs. Brown,” Jethro Dumont said, climbing out the back of the limo. Gary felt his muscles tense. While Dumont also worked for the Green Lama, Gary had never forgiven him for trying to steal Evangl away.

“Stewart-Brown,” Gary corrected, cocking his head at Evangl. “Her maiden name carries a lot more weight than mine, so she split the difference. You mind telling me what the hell you’re doing here, Dumont?”

Dumont’s gaze dropped to the ground. “There’s been an incident.”

Desdemona Georgas woke up screaming. Sweat poured down her body, leaving her nightgown drenched. Nightmares and memories intermingled, flashing ferociously behind her eyes. She covered her mouth and let out a small sob, the scar on her neck throbbing. She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heart thunder.

She could still hear the screams, the broken nails scratching against the metal doors as the mad and dying tried to fight their way through.

She wrapped her arms around her body, shivering despite the warmth of the room. The shadows were deep enough to fall into, and no matter how much they seemed to move they were only just shadows. The nightmare was over, no matter how real it was, no matter how much it violated her dreams. She was alive, she reminded herself, she was impossibly, horribly alive. It didn’t seem fair, didn’t seem right. What made her so special that she could escape the madness, the savagery that had overtaken the entire ship in a matter of days?

Like a plague it had started quietly with a mosquito bite or finger prick. Passengers complained of hearing whispers at night, voices that spoke to them when no one else was around. At first, the crew believed it to be a stowaway in the ducts or a thief trying to steal valuables, searching the ship to no avail. Then the fights began.

Ordinary folks, from prim and proper gentlemen to waif thin dowagers, would break out into violent brawls, often needing a dozen grown men to keep them apart. Desdemona, having grown up on the island of Kamariotissa, naively thought it was simply the ocean’s effect on normally landlocked travelers, the tides affecting their minds. It wasn’t until she returned to her cabin to find her mother driving a comb through her father’s eye that the real horror began.

Desdemona didn’t scream then, not the entire time she fought to survive aboard that ship. Not when their black eyes watched her like an animal, not when crimson flowed over the ship like a river as flesh was torn from bone, hearts ripped from chests. Throughout it all she remained silent, eliciting little more than a frightened breath as she watched the few survivors succumb, one by one, to their violent, horrifying fate. But it wasn’t bravery or inner strength that held her tongue, she could never claim that; it was pure, unadulterated terror. She never fought back, never defended herself against the horde, she simply ran into any shelter she could find while all around her men, women, and children became monsters. After hours—or perhaps days—of watching an orgy of blood and agony fill the ship, Desdemona locked herself in the bridge and waited to die.

And yet, she survived.

But why?

The question rolled over and over in her mind without answer. She had watched the madness—the virus—spread to every single person onboard and yet she was spared.

She absently massaged the wound on her neck, tracing the branched line with her fingers. She didn’t remember getting it, but perhaps that wasn’t such a surprise, she was still discovering bruises and cuts all over her body. Stranger were the bits of blood she found beneath her nails. She wiped her face dry with the back of her hand, turned on the small lamp next to her cot and took a sip of water, trying to stifle the tickle growing in the back of her throat. The police had given her a small room at the station, letting her get what rest she could before questioning her further. With her wardrobe lost aboard the ship, one of the officers had lent Desdemona his wife’s clothing, including the now sweat soaked nightgown that clung to her frame. She pulled away the blanket and screamed at the sight of the small puddle of blood that had formed between her legs.

She tumbled out of the cot and crawled across the floor as if she could retreat from the sight. All around her the walls began to whisper her name, a thousand voices— her mother’s, her father’s—calling out to her, repeating over and over again: “He is here. He is here.”

“No, no, no. Please, God, please—” Desdemona sobbed. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples as a sharp pain stabbed from the center of her mind, threatening to rip her skull in half. She started coughing violently until blood speckled her chin. The scar on her neck grew crimson, squirming madly as if it were trying wrench itself free of her skin. Her body twitched and writhed violently as if something were clawing up inside her. Her eyes rolled back in her head and grew black as a smile curled her lips.
“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh!”
she screeched in a voice that was no longer her own. The nightmare had begun.

• • •

Daniel Rohn scratched at the stubble on his neck as another body was trucked into the morgue. At last count there was over three hundred, but that was hours ago, and more bodies kept flowing in. Though “remains” was a more accurate term, the carcasses shredded beyond anything recognizable as a human body. There was a time Rohn would have been disturbed by the unending stream of dismembered corpses, but that was a long time ago. Now all he felt was exhaustion.

“Where do you want this one?” one of the uniformed officers asked, pulling back the cotton cover to reveal the torn visage of a man in what Rohn guessed was his late sixties. Most of the man’s right cheek had been ripped off, giving him a twisted, angry grin. His eyes had been gouged out, the sockets red and black pits.

“Any identification?”

The officer snorted. “Right.”

Rohn sighed and jotted down a description in his notepad before slipping a tag on the victim’s toe. “Drop him over there with the other males. You might need to start piling them up.”

“Wonderful,” the officer grumbled as took the body deeper into the morgue.

“Don’t bitch to me. I’m the one who’s gonna have to try putting them all back together again,” he retorted under his breath. “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall…”

“Um, excuse me?”

Rohn looked up to find a man and woman standing in the doorway, their hands clasped. The woman was a beautiful blonde who’d look at home at a high society ball, while the man had a face that belonged on a wanted poster.

“Can I help you?”

“We—We’re here to, uh…” the man stuttered, his eyes glassy and red.

“We’re here to identify a body from the
Bartlett,”
the woman finished.

Rohn flapped his arms. “Take your pick, we’ve got plenty. What do you want? Male or female?”

The woman walked over to Rohn, a thin smile on her lips. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but could I talk to you for minute, Mister…?”

“Rohn,” he answered, pursing his lips.

“Right. Mr. Rohn.” She grabbed him by the tie and pulled him down. “My husband just lost his mother to this tragedy, so you better show some goddamn respect or so help me I will make sure the next body they tag is yours.” She twisted the tie. “You get me?”

“Yeah, I get you!” Rohn coughed.

The woman smiled sweetly and let him go.

“Jeez, lady,” he swore, adjusting his tie. This was just what he needed right now. “Fine, what’s the victim’s name, I’ll see if she’s on the list.”

“Margaret Brown.”

Rohn scratched his cheek as he flipped through the pages. “She might be here, but a lot of these folks came without any I.D.,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m gonna need a description or something. How old was she?”

“Early fifties,” the woman answered.

“Fifty four,” the man corrected absently, leaning heavily against the doorway.

Rohn felt he should apologize but couldn’t find the words or the desire. He wasn’t sure what that said about him, but it probably wasn’t anything good. He gestured toward the other side of the morgue. “She might be over there,” he said as kindly as he could manage. “We’re still getting more in, so if she isn’t here, she might be soon.” If she isn’t floating around in the water, he didn’t say.

The man nodded in muted understanding as the woman took his arm.

“Come on, hon,” she whispered, eyeing Rohn with contempt as they walked to the other end of the morgue. “It’ll be all right.”

Rohn sighed when the couple was out of earshot and waited for the next body to come in.

• • •

Wilfred sat hunched over the counter, carefully sipping at his coffee, bitter heat dancing angrily over his tongue. His body ached, muscles trembling as much from the cold as fatigue. Frankie had insisted on him getting some sleep, but Wilfred had refused, only risking closing his eyes for a second. Any longer and the memories would come rushing in like water from a broken dam.

At least, they felt like memories. When he closed his eyes he saw visions of pain, blood, and screams. He saw his hands indiscriminately tear apart the flesh and bone of men, women, and children—but they weren’t his hands, not really, as if his mind had been switched with someone else’s.