Witch Lights (19 page)

William shuddered again. His eyes were rolling around wildly in his head. He muttered something that sounded like gibberish. But it wasn't his voice. It was an octave or more lower, and sharp as a razor.

“William!” She shook his shoulder.

“Shh!” El Varón silenced her. His eyes widened.

“Mel-kalga szz'iglus,”
William said. His mouth drew into a sneer.

Ellen couldn't help herself. She drew back. A wave of cold was pouring off him, as if he were carved from a block of ice.

“He is with him!” El Varón said, his face aglow. “He is in the boy!”

The fat man behind him muttered,
“Dios mío.”

William's body started seizing. His legs flailed. With her hands taped behind her back, Ellen could do nothing, so the boy's head bounced up and down on her lap.
“Geth'gzz kala'ga zotz,”
he said in the deep, ugly voice. His tongue slipped between his lips then curled back in between his teeth.

“No, William,” Ellen shouted. “Stop it!”

William sat up, eyes blinking, as if he were seeing for the first time. His eyes scanned the cave, the rows of unseeing faces, then settled on his mother's face. There was no recognition at all—she was a stranger to him.

“Cha' kik' el,”
El Varón whispered. “
Zotzilhala Chamalcan.
He has risen.”

William sprang to a crouch with an uncanny lightness. Ellen fell to the cavern floor. Whatever this thing was, it had taken over William—it was
inhabiting
him, working his body like a puppet.

“Get out of my son!” she screamed.

William's cold stare stilled her voice. The candle flames danced in his pupils, which had grown until they nearly filled up the whites of his eyes. Their black was endless and alien.

Something ripped, and then he was holding his hands in front of his face. He'd torn through the duct tape, and shreds of it hung from his wrists.

A click from behind them. El Varón turned to the fat guard. “No!” he said. The guard was pointing his rifle at William, his eyes wide with terror. “Leave him! He is bringing forth the
Cha' kik' el
!”

William stared at his hands, turning them, examining them. Flexed his fingers. Again his tongue poked between his lips, darting like a snake tasting the air. Then a smile spread across his face, stretching so far it seemed his mouth would rip. He opened his mouth wide, and a sound emerged—a high-pitched shriek, like the scraping of metal against rock. The fat guard fell to his knees, praying in Spanish to Jesus.

El Varón backhanded the guard.
“Silencio!”
He stood in front of the altar, eye level with William.
“Camazotz, al-k'a mishgullah.”
He turned to Ellen. “Look upon your son, woman! He has taken the Old One into himself.”

Ellen could only stare in mute horror.
Please get out of him. Please, whatever you are, leave him alone.

William moved his face within inches of El Varón's. The boy's head tilted and turned, and his tongue again flashed out between the lips. There was some sort of communication happening, wordless, between the boy and the man. El Varón's face went slack. William's small hands reached out and held the man's face still.

A horrible smell filled Ellen's nostrils. A smell she remembered from her days as a nurse—gangrene and putrescent flesh. She gagged.

William lifted El Varón's chin. Gazed at his neck, where even in the dim light Ellen could see the blood pulsing like a mad drum in his artery, then started speaking in that same ugly barking language El Varón had chanted to Santa Muerte.

Ellen understood it, somehow. The language transformed into thoughts in her head.
Your time is done. I have come for you, my priest. You served me well, but it is time for another to be my host.

“No,” El Varón whispered.

William opened his mouth. Leaned closer to El Varón's bared neck.

At the far end of the room the fat guard struggled with the door. He was cursing, almost crying as he struggled with the lock.

William's head snapped around to face the guard.

The guard, keys jangling in his hand as he tried to slide one into the lock, started to babble.

William leaped over Ellen, barely touching the ground as he scurried across the floor of the cave.
Like a spider,
Ellen thought, so fast he was almost a blur. When she blinked he had already dragged the fat guard back to the altar and was crouched above him, his mouth drawn in that impossible snarl that nearly split his face.

The pig-man shall suffice, my priest,
it said.
Open him.

El Varón lifted the obsidian blade with both hands. Sweat rolled down his face, and his eyes were wide with something that looked both pained and intensely pleasurable.
I serve thee, Master,
he said.

The guard flopped about, but his head was held immobile against the stone by William's small hands. William opened his mouth, and again the foul syllables poured forth. El Varón joined the litany. The fat man's eyes widened and his mouth babbled a mix of Spanish prayers:
Jesús Jesús Madre de Dios no no por favor Jesús Cristo Dios Dios y libranos del mal—

El Varón brought the blade down on the man's neck. Ellen winced, and when she opened her eyes she saw her son, now sprayed with ropes of blood, grinning down at the dying man below him.

El Varón brought the blade down again. And again.

Ellen closed her eyes and screamed.

Something exploded in the darkening sky. Ray jumped. Mantu and Rocky both looked up. Above them, in the direction they were moving, a bright green cascade of fireworks rained down, leaving an afterimage like a glowing willow against the early twilight sky.

Ray stared. “What the hell?”

Rocky quickly spoke to Mantu.

“Something's wrong,” Mantu said.

“What do you mean?” Ray asked.

“That's a warning. From some of El Varón's men along the road. Something's up.”

“How far away are we?”

Mantu looked at his watch. “We're getting close. But we have to move fast. I don't like this.”

Rocky picked up the pace, and the two men followed closely behind.

Suddenly Rocky stopped. This was as far as he was going. He pointed to the trail and told them to follow it. When the trail opened up, he explained, they'd be on a hill, and from the hill they'd be able to see the landing strip next to El Varón's compound. They were maybe twenty or thirty minutes away, less if they hurried.

Mantu pulled a stack of money out of his backpack and handed it to Rocky, who counted it carefully and stashed it in his front pocket.

“
Gracias,
Rocky,” Mantu said. They fist-bumped and Rocky murmured something under his breath before nodding to Ray and making his way back down the darkened trail behind them.

“What did he say?” Ray asked.

“He wished us good luck. And said if we made it back alive he'd introduce us to some pretty girls.” Mantu took out his handgun, checked it, and tucked it into the back of his pants. He pulled another from the backpack, checked to see if it was loaded, and handed it to Ray. “Not much chance this will do you any good, but hang on to it.”

Ray turned the gun over in his good hand. He still hated guns, but thanks to Mantu he knew how to fire one pretty accurately. Not that either of them would be any match for the firepower that lay ahead, but the weighty steel comforted him nonetheless. He watched Mantu going through the backpack, eyes concentrated in thought, and felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Hey. So this…this is it, I guess.”

Mantu looked up. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

Something rumbled in the distance. Thunder, probably, but it unsettled Ray. “So we're just going to try to get in. To talk to him.”

“That's the plan,” Mantu said.

“We could get shot just walking up to the place.”

Mantu nodded. “Maybe.” He pulled a chocolate bar from the pack.

“Can you have a snack later?” It was getting late. And the air felt heavy, as if a storm was coming. And the fireworks had rattled him.

“This isn't a snack,” Mantu said. He unwrapped the bar and pulled out a tiny black wire. “It's plastique. A Brotherhood variant of C-4.” He stuck the wrapper back into the backpack and shoved the waxy brown bar down the front of his pants.

Ray stared.

“Now you know why I didn't offer you a bite,” Mantu said.

“You're…wired? A suicide bomb?”

Mantu avoided his eyes. “If we get to him, and there's no other way out…” His voice trailed off. “Better to take him out—and a bunch of his soldiers with him—than to let him do what he does to people he doesn't like. I haven't told you all the stories I've heard. I don't think you want to hear them.”

Ray understood.

“I'll give you everything I have to finish this. I mean that. But you do what you have to do, Ray. The fact that we've gotten this far makes me think you're gonna do it. You're gonna find them, and get them out of there.”

Ray looked at his bandaged hand. Hoisted the gun in the other. “Look at me,” he said. “Look at us. What the fuck are we doing?”

Mantu smiled. “You remember Micah's saying?
When it seems like we're out of choices—
”

Something boomed in the distance. The ground shook. That wasn't lightning. Or fireworks.

“Come on,” Mantu said.

They started running.

The cavern shook.

Around the room the heads on the shelves rocked and wobbled.

Ellen had crawled away and gotten sick at the sound of the blade hacking against dull bone, and now her back was pressed against the wall of the cave. That had been an explosion. Somewhere above.

William, drenched in the dead man's blood, looked up, startled. His eyes were fully black now. She found it hard to believe any of her son's consciousness was still behind them.
No. He has to be in there. Maybe stuck somewhere deep, but he's still there.

El Varón, eyes closed in rapture, was still chanting as he lifted the severed head. The fat jowls waggled, and dripping threads of sinew hung from the ragged neck. He presented the head to his god—a god now occupying the body of William.

Another boom shook the cave, much louder this time, and bits of rock fell from above. The candles flickered wildly. One of the rotted heads fell off its shelf and rolled to a stop on the floor.

El Varón opened his eyes, blinked, and looked around as if he had just woken from a deep sleep.

And then Ellen heard a voice that stopped her heart.

“Mom?”

William looked down, in shock, at his bloodied shirt and hands, at the headless, hacked body below him, and at El Varón holding out the severed head to him like an offering. He swayed, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“William!” Ellen ran to him, but El Varón dropped the head and stepped in front of her. She slammed into him, and he pulled her hair until his blood-splattered face was inches from hers. His breath was sour and sickly. “Now it's your turn,” he said.

Ellen reacted instinctively, the way Mantu had taught her in their self-defense lessons. She rammed her knee as hard as she could into El Varón's crotch. And again.

He wheezed and doubled over.
How's that feel, fucker?
She drove her knee into his chin. His teeth smacked together with a sound like a hard candy cracking. He screamed. She drove another foot into his crotch. He fell backward, one hand between his legs and the other on his wobbly jaw. He sat, stunned, spitting out blood.

William was staring at the two of them, his mouth hanging open.

The guns. Where were they? And with her hands taped behind her back, how would she even use one anyway?

Something slammed against the door.

She spied the guns on the floor by the door. Two rifles and El Varón's gold-plated pistol. “Get the guns, William!” she yelled. She slipped in the blood and fell to her knees but managed to stand up. “Go!”

William didn't move.

El Varón's foot caught hers and she fell onto her back, her head smacking against the rough stone. Her vision turned white, then red.
No. Don't pass out. Not now.

El Varón's face came into focus above hers, and she felt his hands on her neck. His eyes were wild, blazing with hate, and the blood running from his lips and in streaks across his face made him look like a vampire from a garish seventies horror film.

Something slammed against the door again. And again. The wood splintered.

El Varón's fingers tightened around her neck. He was on top of her, crushing her, squeezing with all of his might. Her vision turned bright red at the edges. Sparks danced. This was not fair. This was not the way everything was supposed to end. He was smiling, his teeth bloodied red, his thumbs digging deeply into her neck, crushing her windpipe.

The circle of her vision dwindled. In a brief flash, she saw Ray's face. He would miss her. And William—poor William. If he survived, how would he manage without her?

Her bladder let go.
So this is how it ends. Pissing yourself.

Then William was there. His face appeared over the blurry image of El Varón. He was holding something. Something long and black. And then she closed her eyes.
What will be, will be.

A loud, deafening pop. Even behind her closed eyes she saw the room explode in light. So this is what dying felt like—an enormous explosion of blinding white light.

El Varón screamed. “No!” His fingers released their grip and air, cold and painful, rushed into Ellen's lungs. She coughed, gasping, her eyes blinded by the flash. She blinked again. William stood above El Varón. He was holding the long black knife as if ready to drive it into El Varón's back. But he staggered, blinking, and dropped the knife. “My eyes!” he wailed.

El Varón lashed out with his arms. He seemed to have been blinded, too. One of his arms caught William and sent him flying. And then his face was over hers again, his forearm crushing her throat.

She kicked, but his weight was too much.

It was all over.

I'm sorry, William. I'm sorry, my love.

Something exploded in her face. Stings like a hundred bees. And then wetness. Hot wetness. She blinked. Above her, where El Varón's head had been, there was nothing but a cloud of smoke and pink mist. Her ears were ringing. His head was gone.

His body collapsed on top of her.

And then there were people swarming around her. All dressed in black. All wearing black masks. Carrying guns. Someone pulled El Varón's corpse off her and helped her sit up. She tried to shout William's name, but all that came out was a hoarse gasp, and it felt as if someone had poured boiling water down her throat.

He was saying something, the man in the black mask, but she couldn't hear him over the ringing in her ears. Someone led William toward her. Behind her, another of the masked men cut the duct tape binding her hands. She reached out, and William, his hands covering his eyes, collapsed against her.

“Ellen. Ellen,” the man was saying.

His voice sounded familiar.

“Ellen. William. Jesus, oh my God.” He pulled his mask up.

She started sobbing.

William opened his eyes. “Daddy?”

Steve.
Steve
had found them.

Ellen's sobs shook her whole body. Steve wrapped his arms around the two of them, and he started shaking, too. Ellen had never seen her ex-husband cry, but she felt his tears dropping on her cheeks, mingling with hers, his body and her body and William's body shaking and trembling together. Despite all the fighting and the pain of their separation she had never been so happy to see anyone. The horror had ended, and if she just kept her eyes closed maybe when she opened them she'd be back in Blackwater, waking up from a long terrible nightmare, with William sitting in the grass drawing in one of his robot notebooks and Steve cooking hamburgers on a grill.

Steve spoke sharply. “We have to get out of here—we don't have a lot of time. Come on. Let's get you back home. Let's all of us get back home.”

She cradled William's head against her chest. “Let's go home,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

An enormous helicopter flew overhead, almost at the level of the trees.

Ray and Mantu were running. Ray's breathing was ragged and raspy, his lungs aching. Every time his feet hit the ground his ballooning hand felt like someone was stabbing it with a long nail. But there was no possibility of stopping. For thirty minutes there had been nothing but gunshots and explosions from the direction of El Varón's compound. But then there had only been silence.

Mantu was in better shape, but he was hurting, too—Ray could hear it in his labored breathing.

“There,” Mantu gasped. He was pointing to an opening at the end of the trail.

Ray sprinted. The sun had almost gone down, but as he approached the clearing he saw lights. They were so close. His nose caught the smell of smoke. Burning plastic and chemicals.

Mantu charged past him, his gun drawn.

The clearing opened up. Below them, illuminated in bright lights, was a landing strip. The helicopter that had buzzed over them had settled on the edge of the strip and its blades were still whirling. It wasn't military, but more like a luxury civilian copter.

El Varón's house was on fire. Black smoke billowed from the windows, and the back half was completely engulfed in flames.

A peacock skittered across the runway.

Ray ran down the hill. This could not be happening. Ellen and William must have gotten out. He scanned the chaotic scene. Heavily armed men in black outfits and face masks ran in and out of the open gate. Scattered bodies littered the ground, but from what he could see they were all men. Two of the men in black were escorting a woman in a white robe toward a gleaming black SUV, and Ray's heart leaped. But it wasn't Ellen.

“Stop!” someone yelled. Multiple guns pivoted and pointed at Ray and Mantu.

Ray lunged, lifting his pistol.

Mantu grabbed him. Ray struggled, but Mantu fell on top of him, pinning him to the ground. Ray tasted dirt. “Get off me,” he spat. Mantu pulled the pistol from his hand and tossed it aside. “Don't shoot!” Mantu yelled. “We're unarmed!”

Ray banged his head against the hard dirt. “Let me go! They might be in there. Get the fuck off me.”

Mantu twisted his arm behind his back. “No way. You're gonna get yourself killed.”

“Get
off
me now.”

Mantu didn't budge.

Ray watched the feet of the black-clad men running toward them. So this was it. This is how the story came to a close, facedown in the dirt, watching the flames rise while Ellen and William burned to death. A scream rose in his throat but the pressure of Mantu on his back kept it from getting out.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

“Put your hands up,” one of the men shouted. Mantu raised his hands, and Ray struggled to get out from under him. When he got to his feet he noticed something odd—their uniforms had weird symbols on the sleeves. Circles with multiple-pointed stars within them.

Then the masked man spoke again. “Son of a bitch. Mantu.”

Mantu stood. Ray scrambled to his feet. They were surrounded by men in black body armor and weird white symbols and inscrutable, hidden faces. Ray stared back at the eyes of the man in front.

He removed his mask.

“Mark,” Mantu said.

“What's going on?” Ray asked. And then he understood.

Mark lowered his gun. “Fuck, Mantu,” Mark said. “You almost got yourself killed, Brother.” He looked at Ray. “Ray Simon. I finally get to meet you.”

Ray stepped toward Mark. Rifle barrels followed him. “Ellen and William—are they in there? Did you find them?”

Mark shook his head. “No one's in there.”

“But they were here.” Ray lunged toward the house but Mantu held him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides. “He had the two of them.”

“Not anymore,” Mark said.

“Then where the fuck are they?”

“Hold still, Ray,” Mantu said in his ear.

“Well, well,” came a voice from behind them. Mantu spun around, still holding Ray.

A man dressed all in white stood in front of them. Long white shirt, white baggy pants, and sandals. He was thin but muscled, his hair hanging down to his shoulders, with a long, graying beard. When he smiled the abundant lines on his face deepened into shadowy ruts. Two guards, their rifle barrels pointed at Ray and Mantu, flanked him. “Mantu and Ray,” he said, smiling.

Mantu's jaw clenched. “Jeremy.” He released Ray and bowed his head.

“Where are Ellen and William?” Ray asked.

Jeremy's smile faded. “You're both a little bit too late,” he said.

Ray ran at Jeremy, but one of the guards stepped out and knocked him backward with his rifle. Ray fell into the dirt, clutching his wounded hand to his chest.

Jeremy stepped forward. “Ray, please stop this. We don't want to hurt you.”

Ray held out his hand. It was bleeding again—he could see the blood spreading on the bandages. “Where are they?”

“They're gone, Ray. Alive, I am quite certain. But gone. Taken right before we arrived.”

Ray broke. He started laughing. A sick, ugly laughter like a tremor through his chest. “You motherfuckers.” He tried to stifle his laughter, but it grew more manic. “You goddamn pieces of shit. You knew they were here all this time and you let them go.”

Jeremy's face darkened. “If we hadn't spent so much time looking for the two of you,” he glanced at Mantu, “you would be somewhere safe with the both of them right now.”

“Fuck you,” Ray said.

Jeremy turned to one of his guards. “Get them into the copter.” He turned to Mantu. “Mantu, I'm sure you realize we're going to need to handcuff you.”

Mantu's face had gone slack. “I understand.” He pulled the block of plastic explosive out of his pants. “Careful with this, Brothers,” he said. One of the guards took it and walked off to a nearby truck. “Go ahead. Put 'em on.” He held his arms behind his back.

“Help Ray up,” Jeremy said. Two of the guards knelt next to him. “Ray, please don't put up a fight. We'd rather you be comfortable, not tied up. We have a long ride ahead.”

“What happened here?” Ray asked. He refused their assistance and stood by himself, then tucked his injured hand under his arm. It felt like it had swollen to twice its size.

“We got here too late. Someone else got here first—they took out El Varón's entire operation. It's hard to believe. But awfully impressive.”

“Who? Who did it?”

Jeremy raised a bushy gray eyebrow. “Well, I know of only one organization that could have pulled this off—gotten in here as quickly as they did, with such firepower. That kind of efficiency, and the sheer brutality, is their calling card. And they apparently took only two people away alive.”

Ray closed his eyes. Lily. Goddamned Lily. “So they're gone. She has them.”

“For now,” Jeremy said. “But not for long. We'll find them.”

Ray laughed bitterly.

Behind them the helicopter blades whirled to life. Ray's hair whipped in the breeze. Dust blew into his eyes, and he covered them with his arm.