Divine Fantasy (11 page)

There was a soft grunt and the sound of Ambrose hitting the floor.

“Catch,” he said, and as I turned he tossed a box of shells in my direction. Wasting no time, I reloaded the Colt. “The shotgun?” I asked hopefully.

“Gone.”

Ambrose walked out of the bedroom, donning a belt that was half filled with giant shells that looked about right for the gun he had chosen to carry, and half loaded with something that looked like bayonet spikes. He looked like an extra from
Blade
.

“Ready to kick some zombie butt?” he asked.

“Hell yes,” I lied. We didn’t have much choice. If they had gotten into Ambrose’s reinforced cottage, nothing on the island was safe. My best hope of survival was to stick with the zombie-butt-kicker and
hope he could kill Saint Germain’s handpicked army before I got eaten or had a heart attack.

I knew that before the day was over, I would use the gun again. This didn’t fill me with as much dismay as it should have.

They say that sex sells, but I think fear is an even greater motivator. What do you think convinces healthy adults with functioning taste buds to eat plain oatmeal for breakfast when doughnuts are readily available? I’m not saying that light doses of fear don’t have some good uses; it can keep us out of a lot trouble when temptation is whispering lo.
But too much fear is crippling. For me, that is in both the figurative and literal sense, but our enemy seemed to have none that bothered him. Saint Germain—or his golem—had faced down that monster crocodile and never even blinked. Nor did zombies or ghouls back off from guns or spikes or any weapon we had so far used against them. And that really sucked.

Some people grow incoherent when frightened. Others incontinent. I was neither—so far—but then I’d spent most of my time worrying that I would pass out and get eaten. I had a worthy distraction. Still, just in case, I used the bathroom before we left the cottage. There was nothing to do about possible incoherence, except to rely on statistics that said two writers would never run out of pertinent things to say, especially when every word might be our last.

We searched the guest cottages first. They had all been gone through, including mine. There were slimy trails on the floor and rot in the air. Most of the buildings had their doors ripped off. This was unnecessary, because none had been locked. I would also not be wearing my pareu again. I don’t think ghoul slime ever washes out. Fortunately, my computer seemed unharmed.

I had a moment of epiphany as we were searching for bogeymen under the beds of the last cottage. I had willingly left the comfort of my known life to chase a bloodthirsty maniac who would let his ghouls eat me, and though terrified and hating every moment, I wasn’t going back to my old life
when this was over—assuming it ever was over. We might win this one battle, but what about the war? That was less certain. I was needed in this fight and I would answer the call, however ill-suited to the task I might be.

To this day, I still find it somewhat astounding that I mentally walked away and left it all behind without even a pang of regret. That’s what rage and determination—and, I’ll admit it, growing lust—will do for you. Like a migrating bird, I headed south for warmer climes and a better choice of mates. This was doubtless because Ambrose was near and his presence kept the worst of my terror at bay. Thanks to him, fear had me energized and wary, but not paralyzed. And, I’ll be honest: Dread of confronting zombies wasn’t as great as my secret fear that I was a damaged person and would never have a normal life with any normal person. The walking dead I could deal with as long as I had a gun. Relationships were trickier. A shadow of doubt would always precede me when it came to dealing with the opposite sex.

“What are you thinking?” Ambrose asked. That, and
Are you ready?
seemed to be his favorite questions. The latter is normal for a guy; the former is not.

“Things seem a bit…” I searched for a word. “Sticky. A bit tight. But you’re very calm. Heroic even. It gives me hope.”

“You poor deluded woman. A hero must do more than fight. He must be wise and capable of compassion.”

“And your point is?”

“I’m neither of these things. My life has been nothing but rocks and hard places for the last century. Most of them of my own making,” Ambrose answered. “I’m almost used to it by now. But you…” The dark eyes turned my way. I had gotten to a point where I could feel their weight whenever they were on me.

I pushed open a bathroom door, gun at the ready. It was a matter of form. Had there been anyone in there I am convinced that Ambrose would have heard them—or smelled them. There is a reason that no one markets zombie-scented aftershave or ghoul-flavored Jelly Bellies.

I said: “I understand. I’ve also had my share of choices between devils and deep blue seas. Only, my devils were emotional ones. This is the first one I’ve faced that has actual teeth. They’re nasty, but at least I know what I’m grappling with. I can see it. All things considered, I think we’re doing rather well.” I sounded so brave, so calm and logical, when in reality I presently had all the will of a sock puppet and was keeping erect because Ambrose willed it. Newton’s proverbial apple falling on my head had left me with a concussion. Personal detachment, the friend and constant shield of the nonfiction writer, was gone.

Perhaps running away from my old life would prove to be an epic misjudgment, but there was nothing I could—or would—do about it. Ambrose and I were in this together. Leaving aside my growing feelings for him, and that was an awfully large
thing to ignore, the situation was beyond being dealt with by local authorities. Or
any
authorities. There was no legal reprisal—no human reprisal—that could set this situation to rights. Saint Germain was raising the dead and forcing them to do murder! What could the police do about this? Even if they believed us—which they wouldn’t—no human laws were going to stop this madman before it was too late. The innocent had no protection I could see beyond Ambrose and me.

I have never felt myself to be called by a higher power to any particular life choice. But I felt a weight of responsibility that day and understood for the first time what it meant to be your brother’s keeper—or at least his guardian at the gate.

I didn’t kid myself that all could be put right by us in this most horrible of situations. There was no way to make up for the horror I now believed Saint Germain had caused untold blameless people. We’d probably never even know all those he had hurt. This man was the alpha asshole of all time…and almost no one knew about him! This was stunning to me. Evil was the foundation on which he had built his house, his corporations and charities for which he was lauded as a hero and benefactor, with not one word on CNN of his evil deeds. There was a deep abyss in Hell that already had his name on it, if we could ever kill him. Yet still he walked among the living, and had for over a century, doing evil at will.

No, we couldn’t make up for the past. All that could be done now was to stop him so that he
never had the chance to hurt anyone else with his sick diablerie. That meant Ambrose, because he was able, and little old me, because I was there and not going to pass the buck and refuse to help do what clearly needed doing. Not when Ambrose was in danger and needing backup. Not when I had a chance to finally do something that really mattered to another person. I was frightened and this would be hard and dangerous, but it was the right thing to do. I believed this with a conviction that bordered on religious faith.

“Unfortunately, the sea has some fangs too,” Ambrose remarked, looking toward the shore through a broken window. He smiled, but his dark eyes didn’t agree with his mouth’s lighthearted perjury. Not too surprisingly he added: “I should have sent you away whether you wanted to go or not. I never suspected it could be this bad, but I should have guessed. After all, as the saying goes: if I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.” He paused and turned my way. “Of course, you’re damned stubborn.”

“And that’s why I’m here?”

“It’s certainly contributory.”

“And that is the pot calling the kettle black.” My verbal defense mechanism was kicking in, but the counteraccusation only amused him.

“Okay,” I continued. “I admit that self-preservation says I should have gone. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. And neither could you. You know what’s at stake. So here we are. The last of the great patriots, at least on this island.” I looked out the window. Clouds
were thickening. We were going to have a severe storm, and soon. I added seriously: “Even if we come to a bad end, I don’t regret staying. My life was…just a lot of nothing. I haven’t felt truly alive for a very long time.”

There was a bit of silence. I hoped I hadn’t sounded melodramatic. This urge to confide in anyone was new and confusing.

“And now?” he asked. I could tell that he wanted the truth, and I was certain he would know if I lied. There is a scientific name for this ability. It’s called Hellstromism. It’s the art of muscle reading, the study of small muscular giveaways that tell a body reader if you are lying or nervous. But was that how he did it?

I settled on saying: “And now I recall why I want to live. If we get out of this I am going to be making some changes.”

I turned and looked back at Ambrose. I wanted to say something else but courage failed me. I was more afraid of his rejection of this mild declaration of newfound affection than I was of being killed by ghouls.

He nodded as he dropped to the floor. Again, checking under the bed was strictly for form’s sake; we had yet to run into any monster that chose hiding over attacking. I think he just wanted a moment to think.

“Me too,” he said at last. “You have made me recall why people seek out companionship. There is a powerful allure in being with someone who knows your history and all your flaws and accepts you
anyway. I’ve been reluctant to get close to anyone for a long time. My changed nature was just too unpredictable. Too violent.” He unfolded his limbs and rose in a fluid movement. He reached for me and I took his hand, knowing that I would feel the strange life current flowing through his body. In a very short time I had become addicted to that feeling.

“But now?” I wanted to ask about his past and what had happened to his last “companion”.

“I hope—believe that my control is better. And we are a fair way from a full moon.” He said abruptly: “It’s probably pointless, but let’s check the kitchens, dining room and lobby of the main building next. They’re on the way, and I’d like to know we don’t have something creeping up on us from the rear.”

“Sounds good.” It didn’t, but what were the options?

We stepped outside and turned abruptly toward the shadowy mangroves where an unnatural wind blundered in and out of trees like a drunk with staggers, flinging handfuls of stinging sand at us from time to time. I set my jaw. We had a rendezvous with a rising storm and the evil creatures crawling underneath. Darkness could hide danger, but it also induced wariness. I wasn’t worried about Ambrose being careless if dark fell; he would never underestimate this enemy. And my nerves were amped up enough to give off electrical charges, so exhaustion wasn’t a problem. Not yet. We were ready.

“I’m not a patriot, you know,” Ambrose said suddenly. “Not one of the new kind, anyway. Perhaps I
used to be, but the definition has changed. I don’t understand the recent breed of media darlings cast as heroes. Sometime in the last century the meaning of patriotism distorted.”

I nodded. “I am often baffled by who is chosen for the cult of ‘patriotic personality’ Their recent poster boys have seemed like self-interested jerks to me. These days it is politics that is the last refuge of scoundrels.”

He nodded. “Most of our leaders seem to have decided that capitalism rather than invention should be America’s defining trait, and they value it more than the personal freedoms that countless soldiers have fought and died for from the very beginning. Washington—and much of the rest of the world—is filled with narcissistic cowards who send the deluded to fight for them. Bah! To willingly do battle for these selfish men is idiocy, and as far as I am concerned, spreading their kind of social disease to the rest of the planet is just plain immoral. And what of the poor fools sent off to die for whatever economic plan the politicos have cooked up?” He snorted. “Maybe it is just that this is a young man’s game and I got it all out of my system years ago. It took a while, but I finally figured out that, for me, there was more power in the pen than any weapon I used while soldiering. Words and not bullets will most often carry the days that matter.” He paused. “This situation is an exception.”

I wasn’t certain what Ambrose was thinking of, but the war in Iraq was on my mind. In some ways, it was easier to handle than zombies and ghouls.

“I know the kind of person you mean,” I said slowly. “Personally and morally cowardly, unwilling to go and fight their own battles, they still think they’re patriots because they wave flags and have lots of pictures of dead presidents on the hundred-dollar bills in their pockets, and they have lots of political stickers on their SUVs.”

“They don’t want to expend any great effort comprehending any other point of view—”

“—but they hate and fear everything they don’t understand and are just as happy when the government sends someone to bomb it.” I stopped as I finished his sentence, shocked that this much vitriol was inside me. Was Bierce’s bitterness contagious? Or had I always felt this and kept it hidden because there was no one to share these thoughts with?

He grinned. It wasn’t a smile so much as a baring of teeth in a kind of snarl. “And they’re busy high-fiving one another over the fact that there is fast food in the Forbidden City in China and on Princes Street in Edinburgh, and that Wal-Mart is a dominant global power where they can buy cheap socks and DVDs—and they are not at all distressed that a quarter of our nation’s children live in poverty because our jobs have gone overseas, or that their cheap goods are being produced by slave labor imprisoned in other countries for having differing political views. They are consumers and not citizens, not neighbors, not caretakers of the only planet we have to live on. They feel entitled to everything and feel no requirement to ever pay anyone back
for the privileges they enjoy.” His voice had grown softer, sadder.