Spirit Wars (17 page)

The
projections of the Infernal Affairs Division charge and scatter the Crows close
to the ground. Kera either slashes them apart with her overgrown talons or bites
them in half with her fangs. Ankou throws a barrage of acidic blood-balls in
the manner of a nonstop pitching machine. And Yama Ranger on his fearsome mount
Nightmare
blasts away with two six-shooters and one lever-action
carbine; still not missing a beat with his portal-opening lasso in his fourth
hand.

 To
top it off, a second group of rescuers arrives at the fateful spot. The chef
from the diner and a couple of waitresses (still on their rollerblades) round
the corner because it turns out that Sephtimus left a note on the table napkin
before following Lessa.

The
mortals approach with caution not because of the otherworldly battle taking
place right on top of them but at the sight of both Chester and Lessa lying on
the ground, the first bathed in his own blood and the second having fainted in
terror. The gang leader responsible for everything stands transfixed above the
bodies. The act of killing a man with his bare hands has finally registered and
he flounders like a stage volunteer cut off from a hypnotist’s spell. One of
his sidekicks attempts to shake him back to the crisis at hand.

Inside
the leader’s pocket, Lessa’s watch ticks to exactly 4: 25.

The
gangster crouched over Lessa is more vigilant and the oncoming mob impels him
to action. In desperation and against all logic, he reaches for the folded
knife jutting out of his catatonic boss’ back pocket.

Influencing
the story from high above, the rest of the Crows have finished their circle.
They dive towards Lessa in the aggressive shape of a kamikaze fighter plane,
all in flawless synchronicity.

Sephtimus
himself rises to meet this second wave. His real trench-coated form emerges,
spattered with Chester’s blood, out of the mess that’s lying on the street. The
battered Grim Reaper trudges to stand in front of Lessa like he’s about to
greet the Crows.

In
a trick that makes my heart swell, what appears to be human feet peeks from
under Sephtimus’ parting coat skirt. At first the calves are stuck to each
other like very cheesy black pizza but they soon cleave in the middle and the
contours of human legs clad in tripp pants become visible. This single addition
at once settles Sephtimus’ affinity to mankind. 

Finally,
the most glorious vision takes place. From Sephtimus’ shoulder blades, a pair
of majestic, metallic wings extend. These wings look like phalanxes of tiny
shields flashing the dazzling face of the sun.

With
rabid intensity, the third gangster makes a stab to bury the small butterfly
knife into Lessa’s heart.

The
hands of her watch slip to 4:26.

The
Crows turn the nose of their jet formation to Sephtimus. The birds of hell slam
against him as a wave and his outstretched wings take the brunt so they dent
and billow. I can see where the solid black deluge hits the reaper and then
arcs, but the immediate spot behind him where Lessa lies remains shielded.

At
the same time, Lessa’s would-be murderer is freaked out to see the knife
stopped by some magical vest he can’t see. He drops the weapon, jumps to his
feet and flees as though poltergeists were at his heels.

The
dark tsunami then breaks into billions of locusts that cover, tear, and lash at
Sephtimus and me. The Grim Reaper’s leather coat rips apart in many places and,
surprisingly enough, warm human blood flows from every scratch and laceration.
He grits his teeth below his Dia de los Muertos mask, which is barely holding
together. I try to protect my own flesh from the razor-sharp storm. 

****

Through
my telepathic link to both my immediate surroundings and Spinstra’s
perspective, I sense all these things: The chef of the diner is the first to
arrive and grabs the rigid gangster. A rollerbladed waitress catches the shirt
tail of the sidekick who has wavered between saving the leader and his own
hide.

The
members of the Infernal Affairs Division aren’t as lucky. Spinstra has had the
foresight to steal into Death’s office and, with her vile accomplice Charon,
massacres all the clueless Helter-Skeletals along the way. Upon reaching Hell’s
Helm, they also ambush the preoccupied reapers, stabbing one in the back,
slicing another’s throat, and impaling the third with a sword shaped like a
giant insect’s mandible.

The
effect is instantaneous here in the mortal realm. The reapers lose against
their indestructible, self-replenishing enemies. Yama Ranger’s faithful horse
attempts to take flight and is snapped up by a stream of molten Crows. Its
rider catches several more birds inside his extra-dimensional lasso, banishing
them straight back to Necro City and keeping them out of the fight for a few
precious minutes. Then Yama Ranger is paralyzed by pain from a dagger buried in
his back thousands of kilometers away. He goes down shooting, as taciturn as
only a true cowboy can be.

Kera’s
covered in tar-black Crow blood from chin to breastplate, from talons to the
edges of her wings. She starts spinning like a top to keep back the
overwhelming hordes, hissing like a feral animal in between. But when she feels
Charon’s hand grab her hair at Hell’s Helm, she accepts her fate and crams as
many Crows as she can into her mouth, dislocating her jaws to make even more
room. She’s stuffing herself like a bulimic woman in a cake-eating contest when
her eyes bulge, her distended stomach grows pointy then gets pierced open by an
invisible sword.

I
can hear Spinstra and Charon laughing maniacally.

But
then, just when all hope seems lost, what comes crashing through the advancing
layers of Crows but Ankou’s wagon. It brakes right in front of Sephtimus and
me, who are both spent and bloodied.

Special
delivery, boss,
Ankou announces in the doll-like voice that always
sounds like it’s coming from an embedded phonograph record. The only difference
this time is his head with the Cheshire-cat grin has been severed and is tucked
under his arm.

Spank
these foul creatures back to our hole sweet hell
, Ankou requests
before being reduced to gurgling, as though the doll was suddenly thrown into a
fire.

The
death-wagon spews out Sephtimus’ guitar case, which the head reaper catches in
mid-air. Ankou then stomps on the accelerator to ram the Crows’ front lines,
disappearing into an uncertain fate but buying Sephtimus more time.

Sephtimus
lays the guitar case on the asphalt and opens it, revealing a black electric
guitar with two necks. He picks up the instrument and slings its strap over his
shoulder, looking every bit the goth rock star minus the bruises and cuts. He’s
the
Danse Macabre
reaper after all. The Pied Piper of the Black Death.

What’s
the plan, Sephtimus?
I ask.

I’m
gonna play your and Samantha’s song,
he answers as he
turns to me, his Dia de los Muertos mask cracked and falling apart. His words
prove it was him who paid Sam and me a visit during our breakup, probably
laying the groundwork for my extraction.

Through
the lopped-off top of his mask, I see that his black hair’s a mix of Mohawk and
dreads, with the strip of hair in the middle hanging down in matted coils and
the sides not shaven but cut short and dyed silver. Through the enlarged eye
hole I also see black eyeliner that’s sharp to the point of being reptilian.
Even the eyebrow is slanted and pointed upwards.

Sephtimus
gives a cocky wink. Then all at once he takes off the entire mask and reveals a
perfectly human face underneath.

To
match his attire he has the face of an emo kid, sickly white but unmistakably
human, not to mention the numerous accents of metal studs and captive hoops
placed symmetrically across his face. I figure he’s of European descent and
young; he can’t be more than twenty-five years old, just a little younger than
me. He’s also sort of good-looking in that androgynous way that has become
popular with the young generation.

“Call
me Seph,” he tells me out loud.

I
nod. “Call me Lachesis,” I reply.

He’s
confused at first but when it dawns on him, his face breaks into a boyish grin.
He starts playing the guitar.

The
chords of
The Right Time
, the song that I wrote especially for Sam,
drifts sweetly in the air amid the incessant buzzing of the Crows. The first
strands of music provoke an instant reaction from the hell-birds within a
ten-mile radius; the volatile mass stiffens and then shudders as though hurt.

I
start singing. I can’t tell how my voice really sounds because I’m hearing it
on two overlapping levels. First, in the spiritual world, my voice is
reverberant and hoarse and the words are in an alien tongue, either Latin or
classical Greek. Second, I’m perfectly human again and back in front of Sam’s
boarding-house. And it’s this second world that I choose to believe and exist
in during this moment. 

When the right time comes

I shall hold you in my arms

Wrap in mine your hand

Stroke
your hair, my love

Our
impromptu performance drives and pushes back the Crows. We’re the last two reapers
left. The only ones standing between the immortal army and all of humanity. The
combined sound of Sephtimus’ playing and my singing amplifies each of our
powers and creates a giant bubble of protection that the Crows are unable to
penetrate. 

When the right time comes

I shall whisper words of love

Shout your name out high

Let the
world know why

Behind
us, Lessa, as soon as she has regained consciousness, rushes to part the human
crowd and cradle the unresponsive Chester.

But
then
all
the Crows amass into one giant monster with a tapering nose that, like diamond
against shock-proof glass, begins drilling through. And as the last words of
the song coincide with the spending of all our energies, the monster breaks
through the glass bubble to then trickle down like black sand inside an
hourglass. 

 Lessa’s
sobbing the same words over and over: “Don’t die on me, Chester! Oh God. You
can’t die on me!”

Sephtimus
stands up poorly to the blinding torrent of the Crows. But though his face is
covered in bigger and deeper lacerations and he’s been stripped from the waist
up except for a few bits of tattery coat, he still manages to turn his head to
the sight of Lessa cradling Chester and, the proud Mafioso that he is, twists
his burst lips into a wolfish grin.

With
one last defiant laugh, the head reaper finally allows himself to be lifted
just as his electric guitar snaps in two and one of his metallic wings gets
ripped away. Meanwhile, I’m thrown aside by the sheer volume of Crows and
disappear right under them.

The
Crows take the fight higher, completely shattering our protective dome and
rising all the way up to the cold night sky. Then they switch directions,
turning back on themselves and creating a tornado that wraps around Sephtimus.
In the center of this spiral the one-winged reaper is flung about; a ragdoll
surrounded by hateful children.

The
black tornado leans forward without spilling the body. It streaks back to Necro
City, along the River Akheron
towards the Drain
of the World, where the four-eyed master plotter now waits.

Spinstra’s
literally licking her chops, armed with swords and daggers in all six of her
hands. Behind her, Charon stands smugly by like a dueling second.

Back
in the human world, Lessa’s crying over Chester’s lifeless body.

I
love you
,
Lessa thinks to herself. Her tears plummet and produce tiny ripples in
Chester’s blood as raindrops would in mud, or on the slopes of an anthill where
they would knock like tremors.

Sephtimus
is bathed with glowing light. A smile lifts a corner of his mouth.

He
lands on top of Spinstra and Charon like a missile, reducing the ground they’re
standing on into rubble and sending two particularly large pieces hurtling all
the way into Lethe, river of forgetfulness.

As
large an army as the Crows, from a distance but gaining fast, a flock of
colossal Storks beat thei
r wings with a thunderous
noise.

Everything
fades
into regular, high-pitched beeping.

I
open my eyes to the unsettling sight of machinery next to the bed I’m lying on.

Where
in God’s name am I?

I
tear some of the tubes off my chest and this starts a rapid, insistent
sound. 

Sam’s
at the park
, I remember vaguely.
No, that can’t be right. Sam’s
waiting for me…

…at…

A
ll at once
the memory of the past week comes rushing back. It feels terribly discomforting
yet also as natural as puzzle pieces sliding together.

I
sit bolt upright and nurses walk into the room with their mouths hanging open.

“I
know everything,” I tell myself. “I know who I am now.”

The
rebellion that spilled over to the surface world shall be known forevermore as
the
Battle of the Bolgias
. A great number of Death’s loyal guards, the
Helter-Skeletals, have shed marrow and nutrients to restore the balance between
the Fates. Restore is an apt word because the minds of Spinstra and Charon have
both been reborn by Lethe, the old-school equivalent of a factory reset.

After
some quick but heartfelt grieving for the fallen, Seph proceeds to freeze the
Sands
of the Horologium
and pay Manchester Imagay a visit in his bedroom. He
makes the
barista
sleepwalk and then pushes him down several flights of
stairs, not intending to kill him but just to paint him the right shade of
black and blue.

During
the ride to the hospital, the empty, broken husk that was Sephtimus’ costume is
switched with the real sleeping Chester. It’s one of those cases the experts
just can’t explain. And neither can Chester. He regains consciousness,
suffering from a head trauma that has conveniently wiped out all memory of the
previous night, wrapped in unbelievably soft arms and being soothed by an
angel.

As for
me,
I
go on to live a full life by the sea together with Sam. Though I’m perfectly
and grimly aware of how frail and ephemeral humans are, that doesn’t stop me
from loving and being loved.   

The big
guy downstairs i
s back to his old grouchy and at times mischievous self.
With no room for love in his heart – or so he makes it appear outside. He’s
often deep in his sanctum santorum, digging his hand into a bucket of popcorn
while monitoring the human realm through the magic-mirror screens. He and every
bit of skull embossed on the curves and edges of his throne howl in laughter
and sometimes cry at the simplest human things.

All his gothic rings are back on his fingers except one.
And the Infernal Affairs agents stand heroically at the Helm once more. Behind
this last tableau, a larger-than-life logo of a hip skull can be seen hanging
from the ceiling, with the words of Virgil on its rim:
Flectere si nequeo superos,
Acheronta movebo
, which translates to: If I cannot bend the will of Heaven,
I shall move Hell.

The
End