Chapter 3 The von Richton Watcher's Society

Tail had found her way to the surface, but something had gone wrong. Marks did not come for her, nor did Lichi. Tail makes a choice. She runs. Tail finds she can live on the road so long as she is smart. She sticks to back roads, she steels clothing, food, and finds a skateboard. Once on the surface Tail runs east, she quickly finds herself facing the ocean then turns to face south.

Tail has never seen the ocean, she has never seen any of the outside world. Quickly Tail has to turn to instinct to make decisions. Soon Tail will learn that the world hostel, and a little fox like her that fails to watch her step will find herself 'underwater' in short order

***

Richard Blake is a young man, he was born into the life of a hunter. He is laying in the road bloody and beaten. A gladius clutched in his fist, his tan overcoat is shredded, his jeans are torn and falling off of his body. Richard pushes himself up to a kneeling stance, he spits out a mouth full of sand. One hand finds the side of his head as he groans. He looks side to side trying to figure out where he is and how he got there.

Richard yells out looking for his brother and his lover. "Chriss! Charry!" there is on one around. Blake takes in his surroundings, it is mid-day, he is sitting on the side of a interstate. There is tall wheat stalks growing all around him. Blake calls out again "Chriss! Charry!"

Blake can remember just bits and pieces of yesterday, he and his brother where on a hunt. A old man with a cane, he head told the three of them a story about a monster breeding ground hidden inside a hotel. Chriss was gun-ho as always, Charry tried to talk them out of hunting that day.

In the hotel the three of them found a statue of a god-like being. From there Blake's memories seem to get cluttered. He came face to face with so many things he has never seen. Then he came face to face with a monster, it had white skin, violet eyes. The monster whispered a word ... "Ju-on"

The monster proceeded to smack Blake around, seemingly just for fun. Chriss came to Richard's aid. Blake lowers his head, he remembers, or thinks he remembers. Chriss was stabbed by his own sword. Charry had grabbed Richard, she dragged him out of the hotel. Charry did not follow him out.

Blake stands up, he picks a direction and starts to walk. Where to? It makes no difference. A crippling deportation has taken root. Blake walks for hours, he has no destination, no place to go, no one to call. Hunters make few friends and have no family. It seems to be one of their defining characteristics. Blake digs around in his pockets taking inventory of what he has on him: bill fold, $34 cash, a revolver, 7 9mm rounds, and Chriss' sword. Blake whimpers "Chriss."

Richard walks down a silent road for miles before a lone car comes into sight. It is a high end imported car, black in color, twenty years ago it would have been top of line. Blake waves at the car. The windows are tented. Blake places a hand on the hood as the car pulls over. Blake thanks the driver as the she rolls down the window only a crack.

A posh voice interrupts Blake "Are you Christopher Blake?"

Blake shakes his head, "No, I Richard, Chriss is my twin..." Blake suddenly notices he has ask such a strange question. A gun sticks out the window. A silver gun with blue engravings on it. Blake in a panic reaches for his revolver. He never gets a chance to take aim. Richard is shot once, he stagers a few steps.

One of Blake's hand reaches up to feel where he was shot, he pulls a dart out of his chest and looks confused. Two more shots are taken, Blake crumbles to the ground overwhelmed by poison in the dart.

The doors of the car open, three people step out. A woman in a red three-piece suit is the first out, she has wide brimmed glasses, she has long blond hair and glowing pink eyes. She holsters her gun. "where are the other two. The brother and the succubus? You told me there where three of them?"

The second man out of the car is a bearded man with skunk strips in in his hair, he is plump and has on thick black gloves, he has a green overcoat. He has a cane, he leans on the hood of the car. "my first thought, they failed the entrance exam."

The third man is barley human looking, he has a crown of thorns growing out of his head, and skin that looks like wood, his hands are long and stretched. The women point at Blake, "Mr. England, please pick that up and throw it in the trunk."

The man with the crown of thorns bows "As you wish Ms. von Richton." England follows orders

Von Richton looks to the last man "Mr. Dove, this had best pay out. I have already invested more money in this hunter then I would like to."

"we are going to need boots on the ground, Cravixs is coming back." Dove explains

Von Richton gets back in the car "you have been saying that for 40 years."

Dove gets back in the car "I am right this time."

The car phone rings, Dove picks it up. He listens for a few seconds. Von Richton folds her hands across her face waiting. Joe hangs up, "Saisana has been spotted again."

Von Richton replies, "I will contact Agent Malaguard, she will handle this."

Dove wiggles in his chair, he leans over the front set looking to England "Mr. England, Get me to Miami. I want to see this first hand."

***

Tail walks along the beach on a hot Florida night. Tail is unaware she is being watched. In a car half a block away Dove sits, he picks up his radio, "Kitsune, female, 800+ years old."

A second voice comes over the radio, a deep male voice. "It isn't Saisana, I can see her, the fur pattern is wrong."

Dove clicks the radio on "Agent Frog, Agent Womack, Agent Frog. Move into position. I want to bring her in."

A third voice comes in, a gruff female voice "We have a group of missionaries on are Six."

Dove ask for clarification "Malaguard, what is there position?"

Frog clicks on his radio "Did you just ask what the missionary position is?"

Malagaurd comes back on "I know these two, it is Nightingale and Headsmen."

Dove curses "The Jesuit's." he waits for a moment thinking "Malagaurd, send the preachers back to church. Frog, grab the fox."

***

(page taken form the journals of Richard Blake.)

Her name is Wright von Richton, and mine is Richard Blake. Yesterday I was picked up by her men, the so-called Holy Order of the von Richton Watcher's Society. "Around here, Dick Blake, we try to be punctual," she calls to me in her thick British accent. But honestly, I don't even know what day it is, let alone the time.

"Richard," I respond. "I like to be called Richard."

She crosses her hands and hides her mouth as she lowers her head, slouching slightly on her ancient throne of a chair. "I prefer Dick." She is wearing a pair of glasses with wire frames and introverted lenses, as if to impair her vision rather than improve it. But as far as dick goes, I do not think she sees them often. Her face is lovely, but her posture belies her beauty, as does her clothing. She's wearing a business suit, crimson in color, with a bright ascot held in place by a brooch in the shape of the iron cross. Her hair is platinum blond, almost silver.

"If you don't mind, Mr. Blake," she says as she reaches alongside her chair for a martini glass, "you are what we around here call an Abet," she takes a sip of her sweet, light liquor, "and I don't particularly like your kind." She tauntingly places her glass back on the table and strokes up the back of the cat statue that makes up one leg of the chair. The chair looks to be carved from a red wood, finely crafted with two cats lying on their stomachs with their ass ends in the air, forming the legs. The back of the chair seems to be a gargoyle of some kind, but I can't make out the details due to the red light being cast through the window behind Ms. von Richton.

"You're mistaken," I explain, "I'm a hunter."

"You are a clairsentient with the innate ability of Aura Sight," she explains, "just like your brother was. In fact, I bet you could even feel me, couldn't you?"

What? How would she know about my brother or me? That's not right--or rather she is right, and that scares me.

"Did you know my brother?" I feel compelled to ask. Come to think of it, Ms. von Richton doesn't feel right--she is emanating energy almost like that of the demons my brother and I used to slay together. She smiles, no doubt knowing the confusion I'm feeling. She understands perfectly the power she has over me. She might be really sexy, if she acted like a woman.

"There is a saying my predecessor liked; maybe you can appreciate it. It has so many meanings. 'Sometimes you may see some of my people, others times you may see all of them, but you cannot see all of them all the time.'" She tugs on the sleeve of her overcoat, allowing me to see the tattoo on her wrist in the shape of a 'W' with three rings around it. "I hear you killed the monster that killed your brother, a Lemure."

"It was a demon, one like I have never seen before," I argue, "we had slain at many before but this one caught us off guard..." my thoughts trail off into nothing

She smirks almost evilly. "Filthy tainted mortals foolish enough to fall beneath the kiss of an Erinyes, infantile monster. Those sad posers aren't worthy of being associated with true demons."

I change my mind--maybe Ms. von Richton isn't so cute after all. She says, "Tell me, have you ever seen a real demon?" A strange energy overcomes me. The room seems darker. I feel a cold wind, and a dread unlike any I can remember sweeps over me.

I look behind me and see the most grotesque thing I have ever seen--a monster pretending to be a human being. It stares at me mockingly. It's over six feet tall, with leather skin pulled so tightly that the stretch of its muscle can be seen through its skin. Its teeth look like drill bits, and a crown of spikes grows from its skull. Elongated hands end in hooks at the end of its fingers, and the foul beast's eyes are horrible--so deep, so dark, greener than any other green, and portraying not the rage I'm familiar with, but instead a malevolent cunning.

My heart pounds within me, almost physically jerking me to and fro. I can't breathe. My eyes are locked on it as feelings of fear and rage fill me and it groans a laugh, joyfully feeling my fears, which seemingly bring the creature erotic ecstasy. It stands like a wall before me, no larger than an ordinary man, but somehow far more imposing. It is clothed in blackened scrubs stained with blood. I feel myself sweating and, becoming dizzy, I nearly faint from fear before von Richton speaks again.

"That is a true demon," she says, calling my attention back to her. "His name is England. He is a Greater Baatezu from Phlegethos, the fourth tier of the land you call hell." I can't understand a word she is saying, but she continues, "Blake, are you a saintly man?"

"No." But maybe it's not too late to start.

"Good," she responds, "that saves me the heaven/hell analogy. I get so bored repeating myself for every zealot slacker that comes in here. I can move right on to dimensionalism."

She looks relieved, but I still don't understand. "Earth as we know it," she says, "is not a part of a single universe, but instead a part of a multi-verse. This one is one of millions of Earths like it, which are connected by both nothing and everything. The power called Agency (Agency is the power of free will which shapes destiny and the world itself) is the key, free will is the way, and every move you make--every dirty thought you may think--has a tremendous effect on the multi-verse. This results in endless worlds, some with only mild changes from this one, such as your favorite café having changed their prices, but others with changes so significant as man having evolved from avian life, or the influence of God being so great that the discovery of electricity becomes as meaningless to the average man as the discovery of gluons."

The monster England steps up to Ms. von Richton, and my vision grows foggy. All of a sudden, I can't hear anything. She takes off her glasses. She is radiant. The room seems brighter. England kisses Wright passionately. Her suit changes before my eyes. Now it's a nightgown, white and transparent. I'm hallucinating--that's the only answer.

Or maybe I'm wrong. I feel warm. There is something soft beneath me, and I discover that I'm sitting on my knees. It isn't England kissing Wright, it's me. Yeah, I can get use to this. The office has melted away, and we are in a wondrous bedroom with gold sheets. Wright is rolling her back up and down my chest, moaning like a dog in heat as she turns and kisses me. I'm not in control of my body. I reach one hand down to her pelvis and squeeze her lovingly. She firmly presses her ass against me, begging for attention. A pair of radiant white wings sprouts from her back, like the wings of angels in old-world art. Her warmth is overwhelming. I feel a passion I haven't felt in years.

I hear the clank of metal, and suddenly there is something wet on my hand. No,

this can't be! I know what I think I'm feeling but it can't be--or at least I don't want it to be. Wright slouches forward, her wings limp. She slowly becomes cold. The room darkens and my vision blurs in and out as I pull my hands away from her. Knives have grown from my fingertips, and I'm half covered in blood. The room browns in decay. I feel myself scream, but no sound emerges. What is wrong with me?

"Blake!" I hear a scream, "are you listening to me?"

It's Wright--the real Wright, not my fantasy. My sight clears, and I'm standing right where I was before, dazed and confused. "Come with me and I'll show you around before your job, but first let's get you burned."

(Note added by Archivist Lincoln Gallard: if you are reading this note that means you are reading from the soft copy of this document, if you are looking at the time stamps at the bottom of this document you may have noticed there is gap in the time stamp. Richard Blake still under the influence of INT-23 is suffering from hallucinations. There are serval pages of Blake describing his delusion, I have cut around this to the best of my ability leaving in only as much as needed to give context to future references.)

How much time has passed? What happened to me? Is it England? Is that only a taste of what's yet to come? I fear the world I have just entered.

Ms. von Richton sticks her hand into her overcoat and draws a weapon. My eyes widen. I hear a click, I feel a sting, and I look down to see a dart with three needles protruding from my chest. Has this happened before? It seems familiar. My eyes drop, and I feel like I'm falling.

"Mr. Blake."

I'm walking. My arm is numb. That voice; it's Ms. von Richton's. "They say you have a taste for the exotic." This place--is it below the bastion? It's different. The walls are metal, and so are the floors. There are men in hazard suits all around us.

"Your brother. His girlfriend was a licensed succubus; you and he shared her many times during their relationship," Ms. von Richton says.

"The perk of being a twin I guess."

"Mr. Blake, in my experience, every extra-planar being is a hair away from being a snarling, drooling, bloodthirsty monster, and if you knew what was good for you, you would content yourself with relations with only your own kind before you became the very monster you hunt."

I don't think they're that bad. In fact, some are really pretty up close.

A pair of men are struggling with a fox woman. She is athletic-looking, with a model's body--large, full breasts, a sharp curve to her hips, orange-red fur with slightly grayed tips, and reddish-brown hair tied in a ponytail. She has a cluster of tails, maybe ten, and she is dressed in a pair of tight black jean shorts, a tube top that reads "porn Q" in glitter, and an overshirt wrapped around her waist, like a skater might do. She has a California accent but is yelling like a New Yorker. Ms. von Richton looks to me as she signals me to stand still.

"What the hell is going on here?" she demands.

One of the men holding the fox woman says through his helmet, "We found her on

Long Beach."

The fox woman struggles furiously, but to no avail. "WTF, mate! This is no way to treat an American citizen! Are you a lawyer? I was sitting on the beach, someone shot me, now I'm being dragged into a prison, and no one has read me my rights yet or even told me why I'm under arrest."

One of the men twists her arm. "Silence in the presence of the honorable Wright von Richton," he says in a stoic tone.

"Get the fuck off me!" The fox woman thrusts her arms back and a wave of fire spits from her fingertips, singeing one of the guards' armor. "Umm, sorry." She laughs distraughtly.

"Shut up," von Richton barks at her with force. She grabs a report write-up from one of the officers and skims it. "You are an unlicensed nine-tailed canine Yugoloth, and had you been caught in Manchester instead, I would have had your execution warrant signed well before you saw a prison cell. But due to weak American protocol, I can't sentence you to death without a trial."

The fox growls, "Are you some kind of Nazi? You can't do that!"

"Take her away," Ms. von Richton yells. The men start shoving the fox away down the hall.

"God damn it!" the fox yells. "Get me my phone call! I want Johnnie Cochran, or

Perry Mason! I'll compromise--how about Ingrid Nowcert ... the ALF ... PETA!"

"Sorry about that," Ms. von Richton says as she returns to my side. "Here is your job. We have ID'd a Wolfin nest. Go there and kill anything not human. If you get there and find tarnished humans, do them a favor and kill them, too. If you fail, I'll simply send another agent, so try not to die on your first day on the job."

"Sorry," one of the officers speaks out, "but freaks don't have civil rights."

My mouth is dry I feel numb fear is in the air like it is most every time the dark side calls, but something not the same this time I can't tell if I'm hunting the monsters today or if it's a monsters shadow in which I know lie. I feel death all around me like a stinging water and I can't help but wonder, is it coming for me this time or just passing under my nose like it was with my brother so few days ago it would seem.

***

Tail is puhed into a small room with a mirror wall and a table, Tail looks over the room, "well this feels like home." A stalky man stands in the shadows waiting for her behind the door.

The man walks in behind her, he sets up a camera then interduces himself "The name is Joe Dove." He waves to a chair in the room. "How are the accommodation?"

Tail does as she is told. She is accustomed to taking instructions "well the bus ride was ok, the bell hop was pretty touchy..." Tail plays along with Joe's joke "haven't been shown to my room yet, are you in charge here?"

Joe smiles and fiddles with his camera, he fails to give Tail and answer. "I have been told your name is Tail." Tail looks up as Joe seems to be having trouble getting the camera running, he waves his hand in front of it "what the hell?" Joe whispers as he can't seem to get a picture.

Tail looks down then up "try flipping the yellow and red plugs."

Joe nods and fallows Tails recommendation, the camera springs to life. "hay thanks. I just got this thing, I am told it would let me get twice as much work done in a day as I ever could have in the past. I am still trying to figure out how."

Tail looks to Joe as he is struggling to get the camera up and running. "so, what do you do here?"

Joe squints as he is looking over the wires to make sure everything is plugged in "what we do and what we are meant to do are two estranged beasts. We are at this time acting as an ununiformed mercenary police force. But this is not the job any of us signed up for."

Tail nods "so what are you supposed to be?"

"Funny thing really." Joe explains "no one seems to remember where we came from or what we were sent her to do. One story said that we where a group organized by Alexander the Great, we where a group of elite men that would ride across the kingdom finding and protecting art and wisdom. At some point we become spies, thieves, assassins. Now an invisible army fighting in a secret war." He takes a deep breath, "ok red light is blinking, lets try this thing out." He turns to look at Tail "can you please state your name?"

"Tail Vixon." Tail explains

"Did you say "Vixen?" Joe asks

"No, Vixon, I was named after doctor Mercedes Vixon." Tail expresses

Joe nods as he takes a set across from Tail "where are you from Tail?"

"New York." Tail explains

Joe folds his hands thinking "I recall no kitsune clans licensed to live in New York."

Tail rest her head in her hands "I am not a Kitsune."

Joe leans in "so what are you?"

Tail offers a short and elegant expansion "I am a synthetic person."

Joe stands with a hard breath "Do you drink coffee?" Joe approaches the door, Tail nods, Joe knocks at the door as he looks over his shoulder, "How do you take your coffee?"

Tail giggles, "I like my coffee like I like my friends Hot and Sweat, ... and with a spoon, and cream..." Tail tries to continue the joke but is out of ideas at this point.

In short order Joe provides Tail with a cup of coffee, he sits back down with a huff as he thinks, he wipes his face with a hand before continuing "So, New York. where in New York could I find synthetic people?"

Tail awsers without a second thought "Claw Co International Tower, Claw Co. R&D, West wing. I spent most of my time on floor 40." Tail feels no need to hide anything. She is honest and open by nature, possible to the point of it being seen as a character flow.

Joe takes a sip of his drink then tip his head watching Tail. Tail isn't acting like someone with something to hide. As far as Joe can tell, she is telling the truth to the best of her understanding. "and is that our New York?"

Tail ask for clarification "you mean in the U.S.? Yeah, I didn't swim here from London or anything."

Joe nods "of course not." Joe smiles, a slight pinch of anger pulls at the back of his neck "How many of you are there Tail?"

"Synthetics?" Tail states "There is me, so one , then Nile, Jude, that would be three and Karin is four." Tail counts out her fingers to make sure of that "Yep, I count four."

Joe offers a puzzling grin "and do you have family? Mother, father, siblings?"

"no mother, I wasn't born, I was constructed. I suppose that, that would mean that I am sisters with all the other synthetics. If I had a father it would have to be Dr. Marks Karingson. Im like one sixty fourth Mercadies also, her being only one of two girls on the 'Tail project'..." Tail starts to ramble off into nothingness

Joe waves "Finish your coffee Tail, Millie should be here soon to help you to your room. I need to head to the library."

Tail Smiles, her tails fan in a halo wagging behind her. "Thanks Joe."

Joe walks out of the room, he whispers with someone standing in the hallway, Tail wiggles her ears trying to hear what they are say but Joe must have some idea about Tail's enhanst senses as he keeps his voice down.

Chapter 4 Awakening

Millie Malagaurd is a is a Stith, a kangaroo like animal from an unknown world, she stands ten feet tall, she has magenta hair long and straight, she dresses in a pink body suit with military patches on it. Millie leads Tail to her room as Blake is getting ready to leaves for his mission.

Millie's room is barley abdicate for someone of her size and shape. Millie needs to crouch and walk sideways to slip under the door into her room. The bed is only half her body length and the room is only twice as wide as she is tall. There is a basketball hoop on one side of the room nailed to the wall over her bed. There is a trunk under the bed containing some treasures of the kangaroo's, a radio on the nightstand and a T.V. hanging from the ceiling. As the kangaroo walks by she turns on the T.V. a music video is playing

"I am a space traveler,

On the lonely planet Earth

I have traversed the universe,

Flown into the unknown,

I turn the key

I flip the switch

I feel the roar!

I fly to the edge of the cosmos

I let it roar!

Flames bite the sky

And still the roar!

The closer to you I get

The father away I am

I want to scream!

I need to scream!

I feel the roar!

I am the roar!

Let me roar!"

Tail looks up at the video "what is this?"

"Daughters of Odin, their singer is a banshee, I helped her fill out her papers when she moved to earth." Millie digs around in her trunk pulling out some band shirts. She hands them to Tail "I have Fear Factory, KMFDM, Black Sabaoth, Alice Cooper."

Tail takes off her shirt and tries on the Fear Factory shirt "Amazing, you and I have the same shape." Tail notices a marking on the back of Millie's hand "What is that?"

"My branding mark. I am property of the von Richton's."

Tail looks surprised even appalled "you are property?"

Millie nods "Freaks don't have rights. You are property too, they just haven't burned you yet."

Tail snarls "And you are ok with this?"

Millie nods "Yes, and you will be to. You will do what the von Richton's say or your life is going to get very complicated." Millie flops down on her bed "almost a third of the people working in this building are here for life." Millie finds a basketball on the ground near her bed, she scoops her tail under it then rolls it up into her hand. Millie can reach clean across the room so as a game she lays on the ground and throws baskets from there. "You want my advice. Make friends with Joe. He will protect you from the worst of things, if he likes you."

***

Joe Dove uses his cane to punch open the door to library, he walks briskly, he is a man with a purpose. Joe yells to Amarant and he walks with the greatest of haste. "Unlock the Archives. Fire up the micro film reader. Bring me every folder from every Watcher that has been inside Claw Co. Tower in the last 20 years!" Joe is made. Amarant can see it, the young Faykin steps down for the librarian booth and races ahead of Joe to get to work.

"Is there anything in particular you are looking for?" Springfield asks

Joe acts as if he didn't hear as he starts thumbing over the spines of books searching them "Do we have eyes on Marks Karingson right now?"

Amarant thinks "I don't recall that name coming up any time in the last few months." Amarant starts to lay out sleeves of film for Joe to look over "Hunter Ceruse was the last person we had follow him."

Joe looks over "Sato? Is he still on active duty?"

Springfield lowers his head "KIA"

Joe sits down with a microscope to start looking over the microfilms

***

(Section taken from the Watcher's journal of Agent Sato Ceruse 07-28-99)

I have been shadowing Dr. Karingson for over a year. I am constantly amused by the complexity of his character. Day and night, I watch him lounge in his office chair, one hand fold under his chest, one hand draped across his face, his lips wrapped around one finger. It seems he is relaxed but never at rest. Whenever reporters show up to talk to Marks about the latest project this rock star scientist is working on he has a loving wife and talks about his amazing child in order to exploit his but as soon as the cameras are off and the microphones pulled away Ako vanishes into the depths of the tower not to be seen again for days. Marks only ever shows any affection for his lab assistant Allen.

The good doctor seldom wants to dine alongside the technicians and researchers, choosing instead to sit in a dark room, only the glow of a TV offering light and warmth to his chamber. A stage performance Swan Lake playing on a loop. I listen in as he talks to his cat about how lonely he is, he its and cries as he whispers the names of people he must have known in a past life. But as soon as an alarm sounds anywhere in the tower for any function the secluded Doctor jumps to his feet and runs at the danger.

When spoken to in a crowed the Doctor puts on the mask of a social butterfly floating from speaking to a hundred people every hour, never does he stop moving. He holds a glass in both hands but never have I seen him finish even one drink. A casual disinterest stains his face. He is a warrior working a garden.

The speed at which he moves from place to place, the energy he demonstrates with his every action, the things he knows, one would be forgiven for assuming him a time traveler. Marks Karingson seems to live a split-second outside of time. Two days ago, he had only just clocked out, I imagine he had barely made it back to his apartment, before he runs back into the office in the nude, hugging his cat and dashing up the step like a man possessed.

In the disguise of a fellow researcher I had trapped him in the elevators in order to try to get a few moments of his time to get a first-hand account of what he is doing and try to understand his strange behaviors. I am acting as Jon Snow, a contractor that floats departments. Everyone excepts me as being just another nameless suit walking the halls. But not Marks, he knows better.

Marks takes me by the hand and twist my arm making me lean over backwards. He looks at my tattoo, satisfied he grins at me like a cat. His eyes a soul searing orange. Marks leans into me, he whispers in my ear my name. not my pin name, my name. I am so filled with fear I think I am going to die of fright.

But then he lets me go. We talk, Marks wanted to share with me a dream. He tells me it is the most powerful image he had ever experienced. In his dream, he tells me, he is a grayed old man, his skin is turning to ash as he walks. Marks grips onto the fire escape of the tower and he starts to climb, with labored breaths he pulls himself hand over fist to the highest point of the tower. He looks up to a radio tower, he knows he needs to keep climbing. A plasma storm boils in the clouds.

As the doctor reaches the top of the radio tower he sees a lightening rod, he grabs it tight and shimmies with the last of his might to the top of the lightening rod. Balanced precariously on the head of pin Marks in the shape of a child stands. The aging doctor laboriously reaches into his coat and pulls a book from a hidden pocket. He hands it to his younger self.

And with that last action the old doctor loses his grip and falls into the darkness. Black wings sprot from his back and in loving embrace he is consumed by the gloom feathers of a black bird. The last thing he would ever see is his young self grow white wings as the doctor is Odette and Odile.

What strange symbolism.

A strange howl shatters the air, I jump and instinctually reach for my sidearm. Marks is unshakable. He asks me, "would you like to meet Tarra?" Marks references his daughter by name. something done remarkable infrequently as he proffers the phrase "my daughter." Or "my child."

In spite of my better judgment, I nod.

Marks types a code into the keyboard on the elevator, we start to drop into the lower levels. Marks tucks his hand behind his back and watches the door. "so, Watcher, when you go to record your records there is something I would like you to add on my behalf." He starts to say. I still don't understand how Marks knows anything of us. "you may ask how I know the things I know. I have drunk the blood of dragons, I have touched the aethereal plains." To me this all make too much sense. But how... you and I, we are watchers, we spend our lives staring into the shadow looking for monsters. Where did this man come to find such things?

He continues "my daughter was born with a genetic disorder. I had tried treating her with every form of medicine available to man. With my options running out I have done the unthinkable. I have reached across the vail. I had stolen fire and steel from the gods. I have become Prometheus."

I should have known then. What I was going to see when the elevator stops, it was going to be something truly horrible. Marks leads us across the hall, in a hidden laboratory. Locked in a room, a beast lays on the slab. A part reptile monster, a part bird part human. Four men stand with heavy fire arms watching the door.

Marks places a hand on the glass looking into the room, he rests his head and lowers his eye "Tarra." He whispers. The beast lifts its head. It can hear him.

Someone nearby starts shouting. I hear the braking of glass. I look to the left, one of the solder is arming his gun. I feel myself get struck...

***

(section taken form an unsigned letter delivered alongside Sato's book)

To: the honorable overseer of the Watchers

I should like you to know that Sato Ceruse was a fine representative of your organization and its will. He fought honorably on his last day. Tarra had escaped her binds, a half dozen of my men died at her hand, Sato stood alongside the Black Hawks under the employment of Claw Co. international. It seems even a lowly pickpocket faced with an unmistakable mirror of mortality may find himself succumbing to the better angels of our nature.

Sato's name hand face will find a place on our wall of memories, as any who tried their lives for the lives of other should.

I should like to ask on the behalf of one how will not have the opportunity to do so, Respect the wishes of the dead. I have returned his book to you, now you must return his ashes to Giza

***

(note by Archivist Amarant Springfield: there seems to be a dozen pages missing from this article. As best as I can extrapolate there are 32 hours between this and the previse entry in Richard Blake's diary. I will leave this notation here as a bookmark wall I am attempting to track done the missing pages from Blake's journal. Update 09-15-01: I (Amarant Springfield) have collected the notebooks from all the hunters in blocks: AA, B, C, E, S, and U. I have been able to construct a timeline that seems to fill in the pages in the chronical.

After departing from Wright von Richton's office Blake had founds his way to the utility depo. He had payed for a new overcoat and picked up a gun case. He then meat up with Agent Charlit Davis, Davis described his mannerism as 'charming'. as reported by Agent Marin Duphran, Duphran on the other hand called him 'grabby.'. Next Blake had gone to the detention center along side Agent Joe Dove, who according to Agent Allen Frog he had met in the library. Blake had spoken to von Richton and payed the bail for Tail Vixon. Joe Dove had signed off on Tail's release conditionally. As the origin of Tail Vixon was still under investigation Tail would not be aloud to leave watcher compound, but she could stay on as a guest. Agent Millie Malagaurd had then taken Tail and Blake to the studio that would act as their dormitory until farther notice.

According the note by Agent Edger Frog, he at that time had escorted Blake to the commissions office. Blake had there been handed the chronical that contained his first commission as an official member of the Holy Order of the von Richton Watcher's Society. Wright von Richton had offered to escort Blake to The Lamia's Back, Blake's first job as a watcher is a hunt.

There is still a noticeable gap in the time line. But this would satisfy the minimum requirements to submit this journal for archiving.)

Where the hell am I? I rub my face. I'm lying face down in the dirt. I climb to my feet and notice that my clothes have changed. I'm in a sports coat and slacks. This stuff isn't mine. I look at my watch. It's September 11th, 2001. I've been out for seven days.

This makes no sense. I feel my face, and I must have just shaved today. My gut hurts, so I think I haven't eaten lately. Come to think of it, my arm hurts, too.

I strip out of my coat. My arm has a bandage wrapped around it. I tear it off to reveal a tattoo a W. There is a fresh scab on my neck and a briefcase at my feet. I open the case and see a gun inside--a 30-06, I think. My brother knew more about guns than I do. But I know how to fire it, at least. Looks like it is bolt-action.

There is a map also. There are all sorts of scribbles on it: red lines, circled spots, Xs, and an address. "County road UU 1006 Navu 5557." I must be in Missouri. There is a stack of photos, as well. no one I know, and an envelope as well. It contains instructions.

"Kill anyone tainted," it explains, to be brief.

I hear a ringing coming from one of my many pockets. I must have twenty of them on this thing. In my inner breast pocket, I find a phone and a picture of a redheaded fox dressed in blue jeans and a shirt that says, "Fear Factory." The picture's caption reads, "My name is Tail" across the bottom. She looks sweet.

I pick up the phone and say, "Who is this?"

"Blake," a young, excitable girl's voice says across the line, "it's me, your operator."

But that isn't the voice I hear, not at first the voice I hear first is that of Chriss "Bullshit," I reply, "you're dead." It takes a few seconds for my head to clear and my mind to focus, thin I start to remember things again.

"Yeah, well, we will be too if we bungle this up." I look at the photo as she speaks to me.

"Is this Tail?" I ask. "Pay attention. I can't remember you. I can't remember anything--how I got here, what I'm supposed to do." I can't help sounding a bit panicked; I'm flustered.

"Blake, they poisoned you. It's a neurotoxin produced by my mother's company, Claw Co. called INT-23. I bet your head hurts like hell, and you're not going to remember shit for three days. But you'll be OK so long as you don't OD and try not to get shot again, that may be a good idea."

"How do I know you?" I start to get a grip on myself as things are starting to make sense again, but things are still not adding up right.

"You sprung me from the detention center."

"What the hell is going on?"

"Blake, you are a member of an exclusive organization known as the von Richton Watchers Society, an underground union that monitors and polices the actions of planeshifters as well as studies the movements of immortals and the undead."

I'm baffled; how would something like this happen to me? "Where do you fit into all this?" I ask.

"I got beaten within an inch of my life by your buddies and you decided, like your boss, that you wanted a pet freak."

The memory is still fuzzy at best, but the subject seems touchy, so I change it.

"Tail, what is my mission?"

"Right!" She must get into this, I think as she goes on. "Your GPS shows you on county road UU. It is thirty-five miles to your goal, south by southwest."

I look up. I'm in the middle of the nowhere and I'm wearing Italian kicks. Not a good combo. Tail continues, "After you arrive, simply go inside and do your voodoo on the place--you know, purify the hell out of it and all. Your ETA is 2300 hours and pickup is at 1300."

I've never been good at that techie stuff. "How long is that?"

"Fourteen hours, boss man," she explains to me.

I hang up the phone and set my feet in motion. The scenery is familiar; I think I walked this road once before. I find that it's not long at all before my coat is wrapped around my waist, and my shirt around my head. I guess I should be happy that there isn't sand in my boots.

Think, Blake, what has been going on? Ms. Wright von Richton ... she tranquilized me after I met her monster. But that was not the first time, ether. I remember that I've drawn on that map before. I'd been on my way to that address hitchhiking when a Jag pulled up next to me. Wright von Richton was in the back seat. She asked if I was Christopher Blake, then she shot me. When I awoke, I was in her castle being branded.

Then I had sex with her--no that's not what happened at all ... is it?

Tail--I went to see her in her cell. It was refrigerated, and there was a wall of icy vapor behind the door. She had been stripped prior to being thrown in. The bed was made of steel, and she had only a hemp blanket. It was amongst the least humane things I had ever seen. The men that imprisoned her were going out of their way to make her uncomfortable. I had seen the inside of a county jail before, and I knew that those jailers at least offered heated rooms and a decent bed.

I think I'm starting to see things clearly. I remember that Tail had looked up to see me observing her. She seemed to be quite the wisecracker. The first thing she said after noticing me was, "If you're here to rape me, believe it or not, you're the first in line. And I'm a virgin, so you don't have to worry about me gumming up your works ... much to my discontent."

"I'm not here to rape you, I'm here to get you out," I had explained. "That is, unless you would like to be raped first," I'd joked.

Then what? How did we get out? I don't think I did. I had attempted to break the security lock, but someone had interrupted me. Was it England? Or Wright? Or what ...?

It's hot as hell out here in the middle of nowhere. I have been struggling for two, maybe three hours to recall what has been happening to me, with little progress. Well if nothing else, it has still given me something to think about aside from how much pain I'm in right now.

Wings? In my dream, Wright von Richton had wings. I've seen demons before, lots of them. Might Wright be my first angel? She did say something about heaven and hell, after all. No, that can't be.

I hate the road and I always have. But I have a job to do. I have a promise to keep to my brother, to von Richton, and to Tail.... I made each of them a promise--a promise to fight, to protect, and even to kill in their names. The smell of death is still so fresh in my mind. I feel as if it is my fault. I know it wasn't my fangs that pierced his chest, but the way it plays out in my memories, it very well could have been.

In the end I guess this is for the best. I have power, and this is the price. I can never have a life like others do. Children, a wife, a job with benefits--they're just not me.

I love you, big brother. After I'm done here, maybe you can show me the way home.

It's starting to get dark right about now. It's still a dozen or more miles to Navu. I wipe the sweat from my face. The temperature is dropping fast. At this rate, it feels like my sweat is going to freeze to my skin. But just now I see headlights over my shoulder. Looks like I have a ride.

Chapter 5 Moses

A car rolls to a stop in front of me. It's a convertible; it looks like a sporty Mustang. Behind the wheel is a short, stocky man with a big grin. Half his teeth are gold, and he has a hair-thin mustache. His skin is a bronze tan and he is dressed in a relaxed-fitting, off-white overcoat with a matching fedora that has a red stripe and alligator's teeth in it. He looks ethnically confused.

"Amigo, ya'll catch the death out there," he says as he waves at me. "Come on, I'll drive you some." His accent is awful. Sounds like a Spanish Australian, or Eastern English, but he has offered me a ride, and a ride I need.

"Thank you."

I can feel something is not right here. My Aura Sight has fired up. I look around despairingly. I see myself; I'm glowing lightly blue with a flare of red as always. Blue is suggestive of sadness and/or loneliness, and the red adds just a taste of "pure" rage. The man in the car is yellow, a sign of happiness. This guy has no problems in the world. Something behind us, though, seems to be sucking our auras toward it, some black, empty thing. I dread to look, but I bet I already know.

(note from Archivist Lincoln Gallard. I have no way of confirming the accuracy of this statement. But it does seem that Blake is also aware of how off this sounds and he as I accept this as in part being a hallucination. It is my feelings that Blake has accurately recorded Moses dialog if not in full in essences and only the clearly fantastical elements are out of place.)

As I reach for the car door, the metal crinkles away from me like a soda can in a fire bending in on itself and turning to ash. I see in the high polish of the door the sand behind me pouring into a hole, like into a vortex. This can't be right. I cover my eyes. It's just like before; something is inside my head driving me mad, controlling my thoughts. My power of the mind is all that's keeping me sane.

"Por favor," the man in the car says, "rápido. I need go." I nod and hop into the car with him. "Where to, boss, the titty club, Mexico, Columbia? I love it all." He can't see any of what I'm seeing.

I hold my head as I point forward. I can't find anything to say other than simply, "Go." As we roll down the street I retake control of my mind and things become clear again. Something is following me, that part is clear--who and why, I can't tell. It is not really important, I guess. What is, on the other hand, is that I get rid of them, one way or another.

"Comprenda el Inglés?" I ask him.

"Sí, my English is very well," he responds. I could have guessed.

I pull out my map and point. "Do you know where this is?"

He nods to me. "Yaw, I'll be going right by."

"Good, drop me off." I reach for my wallet. He shakes his hand at me as if offended by the notion. Apprehensive, I look in the mirror, watching for god only knows what.

My driver looks at my suitcase and then back at me. "Guitar?" he asks. He is a good man and I would like to tell him everything, but I don't know anything myself, really, and If I simply opened it and let him "meet the ladies," likely he would freak out and kick my ass to the street.

Well, if I say nothing, I'll insult him. If I say everything, I'll scare him. Maybe I can tell the truth and he'll laugh at it. "Nope, a shitload of guns."

Just as I thought, he laughs. "Son of the scorpions," he says.

I don't understand, but I can play along. "Contract killer."

He laughs again, not believing a word of it. I think that's for the better, anyhow.

He holds his hand out to me and manages to slip out one word between his high belly laughs. "Moses," he tells me--his name. I hold my hand out to him.

***

Touching Moses hand triggers Blake's second sight. Blake learns more about his new friend then he would have liked to have. Moses is a kingpin with a network of people under him from Spain to L.A. the trade of women and drugs make up the bulk of his affairs.

Blake's second sight like surface thoughts more than any. It seems Blake has in some way reminded Moses of his two sons. As that is what he is thinking about, and what Blake gets to see most clearly.

A boxing ring, it is midnight, Moses has gathered his boys and a dozen of his friends, Moses wants Snake and Larry to learn how to box. Moses pushes Snake onto stage first. A heavy man jumps into the ring on the other side. Moses explains to Snake "Hit him, don't let him hit you."

Snake is a kid, not even fifteen yet. But already he has a receding hair line, his eyes are sharp. Snake has lived a life of constant running and hiding. Snake has been a pick pocket for years already, he has learned to pick locks, Snake is fast and crafty, but now Moses wants him to be smart and frisky also. That is why Moses put him in the ring with Tarry, Tarry was once a 'Federale' who better to teach a kid to fight then a police officer.

Snake rises his fist, Snake for the first time in his life demonstrates that he is willing to play fare. Tarry puts a swift end to this, the bulky Mexican grips one of Snakes wrist and pulls the kid into a back fist. Snake is knocked onto his back in a swing punch.

"Hasta! Hasta!" Moses cries out.

Snake jumps to his feet. He runs forward and howls, Snake jumps at Tarry. Tarry sidesteps the charge and pushes Snake into a poll. Snake growls and regains his footing, sloppily, Snake throws a cross punch. Tarry packs the punches out of the way then returns with a palm strike to the chest.

Tarry savagely pushes Snake against the ropes, Tarry slaps the boy a dozen times. Snake is dizzy, he doesn't know what to do, so he stands and gets slapped over and over again.

Larry growls, the long haired younger brother drops his glasses on the ground and picks up the lamp off the announcer's table. Larry is a wild animal. He barks, he screams, he howls. Overtaken by anger Larry is like something sub human. Larry hammer Tarry on the back to make him kneel. With a feverous scream the ten-year-old plants a foot on the old cop's chest and thrust the lamp but first down into his face.

Tarry folds his arms in front of his face to protect himself. Moses and four other men climb onto the stage to grab Larry and protect Tarry from the terrifying ten-year-old. Moses looks to Snake as Snake is regaining his footing "How about archery? next week, I want to go to the shooting range and practice archery." Moses is not mad at all, he is impressed. Snake and Larry did better than he would have guessed, not as well as he would have hopped but better then he guessed.

***

"My name is Richard Blake."

"Blake, ha." He squints. "How do you, Mr. Blake, get out here with no cars or bikes or a horse?" he laughs. "I don't know how far you came, but it no short."

I don't really want to have to explain anymore, so I try to lead him off the idea. "I walked. How about you, Moses? What are you doing out this way?"

He shrugs. "Work. I drive like a trucker; I go get something from one man and bring it to another man." A convertible is not an F-350 or an eighteen-wheel big rig, but I'm not going to protest.

After about an hour I note that Moses is taking the least direct route he could possibly have found. He takes a sharp left and detours to a different town entirely. I seek to inquire, and he simply shakes his head and asks me to relax. We stop at what looks to be a façade town--I doubt it even appears on any maps. It is only fifteen buildings long, all one story. I don't see any phone or power lines. This place looks like it belongs in a Jesse James flick. Moses buys me an egg salad sandwich from the rest stop and a bottle of brandy. I'm grateful. He gets himself something similar in a corn wrap.

I feel at ease. Moses's rambunctious idea of driving has shaken whatever I felt earlier--this man's good karma seems to override my bad. We sit at a dusty gas station eating our nibbles for half an hour, killing the time talking about the weather, sports, and whatever middle-aged men like, before my phone rings. I ask Moses to hold as I take the call.

"Blake!" It's Tail, and she sounds frantic. "Are you OK?"

"Yes, why?"

"Your signal started moving funny then stopped abruptly."

"I got picked up."

"Blake, you're way off target," she says, starting to calm down.

I think hard for a moment about our last conversation. "Tail, your mother helped produce INT-23 under the offices of Claw Company International. How are Claw Co. and the von Richton's related?"

"Blake, they're not related at all, to spite what Ms. von Richton seems to think. I'm not a Yagoloth; I'm no demon, and neither were any of my parents."

I feel the need to interrupt her. "Any?"

"Yes, Blake, I'm a Bio-organic computer S1 Alpha unit codenamed 'Tail.' I'm a strategic system unit number M-00-1 --to my knowledge, the only operational one not under lock and key in a military compound. One of the Watchers' spies must have stolen the vaccine."

"Why do you look like a Yagoloth?" I feel inclined to ask.

Tail exhales heavily in irritation. "Year to year, canines have faster and longer reproductive lives and shorter incubation periods, therefore are cheaper than humans to harvest and breed. And besides, the Right to Life Act of 1979 forbade human testing until a procedure has been tested and found safe on animal subjects."

"Thanks, Tail. One more thing, do you feel physically attracted to humans or dogs?"

"God damn it, Blake, get back to work before you get us killed!" She seems upset again.

"Has it been tested to see what you're compatible with?" I ask, and it's the final straw--she hangs up on me. Now I know she wants me.

We jump back into Moses's car and make our way to the Lamia's Back bar.

Moses drops me off and explains that he is going to be back in five hours. I can't help but wonder why....

As Moses is driving off, I look around. There are nine vehicles, some cars and some motorcycles. I decide it would be in my better interest to search them. I pull a slim jim from my bag--the tool the cops use to open locked doors when one needs more subtlety then a battering ram.

First, I search the sports car. In the front seat there is a pair of glasses with a broken lens and a photograph taken at some park. It shows two men at night. There is a juke box in the background, and the man with long hair is screaming into a microphone like a rock star. The other, a man with short hair, is firing a pair of prop guns. There is some lens flare, so it's hard to make out details. In the back there is a billfold with a money clip. There's an ID inside that reads "Larry Gekks, age 25, height 5'9'', weight 235 pounds, brown hair and brown eyes." In the trunk there is a box filled with gold bars.

***

Another vision starts.

"Today is a good day!" Snake yells back to his younger brother, who was half asleep in the back of the Mustang. "Less than fifteen hours ago I broke a man's nose and threw thirteen gold bars into the trunk of my new car." He laughed. "I wanted twenty, but that many just wouldn't fit! Woo hoo!" he yelled out, enjoying the sound of his car's hum and the feeling he got from speeding down the street at nearly ninety mph.

Snake is slick, sexy, and confident. His only weak spot is his little brother Larry Gekks. Both brothers dress in matching black silk suits with green inner linings and light red accents around the neck and cuffs. Snake has short hair and is thin. He has tattoos in the shape of flames leaping from beneath his collar running up and kissing the sides of his face. Larry has his long hair tucked into his jacket and wears wide-rimmed glasses; he is also a slightly larger build than his brother.

"Only the best is good enough for you, bro," Snake thinks aloud. "Cars, women, food, nice threads, big houses, drugs--whatever you want, I'll give it to you." Snake turns up the radio to hear Pink Floyd's '80s hit "Money." He laughs again. "Things just don't get any better, do they!" he howls wildly into the early evening sky.

In the past, Snake and Larry have been runners doing little more than moving drugs and other undesirables from one side of their home town to the other. But a year ago they were promoted to fieldwork after moving some "Ice." It turns out the two of them are pretty good at it. Ruthless and controlling, the Gekks brothers are nothing shy of a murderous pair perfect for the role.

My brother is helpless without me, Snake thinks. Larry waves at him in a nonchalant fashion as he fades in and out of sleep. Snake laughs to himself, reaching back and poking at Larry

"I shot some people," Larry mumbles as he's nodding off

"Larry," Snake holds his hand back, "give me your glasses." Larry hands them over. "Killing people takes a lot out of you, doesn't it?" Larry nods as he crosses his arms in a snore. "You must have fired every bullet I gave you, didn't you, bro?" Larry snickers and nods. "It's eighty miles to the checkpoint. Our friend Moses is going to meet us in the morning." Snake stretches his arm behind him and rubs Larry's head. Larry bats at his hand like a kitten. "We will be there in less than an hour, which gives us all night to drink beers and get laid if we want to." Snake joyfully beats the wheel, cranks up his tunes, and flies down the street.

"Come one, come all! Cum all you like! Come on in! The Lamia's Back is open all night for all of your bordello needs. Here we have it all--fine wine, hard liquor, and all the sexy bitches a man can handle!"

The man who's voice is yelling over a loud speaker as Snake and Larry arrive is a burly Spaniard with a handlebar mustache and flannel sweater, hefty, Hoss-style bicker boots, and hair in a ponytail despite his widow's peak. "What color would you like your pussy today? Red, yellow, tan, or even black and white? But tonight only, fifty percent off your third purchase, so buy all you need, buy in excess!" The man gives a hearty laugh as he finishes his pitch.

Snake throws his arms in the air as he and Larry step out of the car. He yells out in excitement, "Sounds like my kind of place! Come on, Larry, pussy and beer is on me!" They head across the dusty parking lot, Larry following closely behind his brother.

As they approach, the man on the speaker holds out an intercepting hand. "Hey you, nice suit. A bit too nice, I think. FBI maybe, or maybe Jews, or Jew feds. Man, Jews and cops, this place isn't for you."

Snake looks down at the hand on his chest. "Larry, can you believe this guy?" Snake fervently grabs the arm and runs his fist into the bouncer's face repeatedly until he falls to his knees. He then shoves the bouncer to the ground. "For your information, I'm a Mormon."

Larry looks down at the bloodied man and giggles with a hint of insanity. "Snake ... He doesn't like being touched ... He doesn't like to hear people say no to him, either." Larry stands up straight and starts to kick the life out of the bouncer, punctuating his words, "And ... neither ... do ... I!" The two of them step over the body, slam open the doors, and walk in calmly.

Snake and Larry spend almost an hour putting back drinks and laughing hysterically at one another as they talk about the past years and the work that they have done. A hot Egyptian woman takes the stage and she starts her dance. Snake slaps a pair of fifties on the stage. "So, bro, you know how to play finger cuffs?"

Larry giggles as he nods. "Let's get our dicks wet." The woman climbs down off the stage and kisses Larry deeply. They both chuckle, but their moment of fun is interrupted as the bouncer comes inside, loudly cursing at them. The man picks up a knife with equally violent intent and points it at the two brothers who just kicked him ... to death?

"Damn English bitches, I'll kill you both for what you did! Knock the god damn filling out my teeth and everything." He flings the knife from hand to hand, demonstrating his competency with a blade.

Snake points and shouts, "Larry! Shut his mouth!"

Larry nods. "Yes sir." He pulls out his revolver and shoots the man three times in the forehead. The two of them laugh as he falls over backward. A group of bikers off to one side are startled at the commotion, as are the old man next to them and the bold prick at the bar wearing a cotton suit. The bikers start to walk toward the brothers. Snake draws a gun, and Larry a second.

"Hold it right there!" Snake yells, "Sit down and enjoy your drinks, and no one has to get hurt!"

The man Larry just gunned down stands back up, taunting them. "What the fuck?" Snake whispers. The man smiles at the two thieves as his face melts into a semi-reptilian shape. "Smoke him!" Snake cries, enraged. Larry unloads his revolvers, throwing down the first gun as he starts with a second one. Snake starts to fire his gun as well.

The woman standing between the brothers lets out a diabolic hiss and throws Larry on his back. She begins dry humping him as she sinks a set of viper-like fangs into his shoulder.

Snake turns from the mob near the door to see the Egyptian woman has become the same serpentine monster shown on the sign out front. He pumps five shots into her back before she drops Larry and looks at him. She hisses again, and the floor shakes. Snake looks around and sees that the band members have all turned into monsters and that snarling wolves and walking corpses have begun to emerge from below. "Larry!" Snake calls out, "I need you!" But there's no answer. The longest night of Snake's life has begun....

***

Next, I search the bikes. In the saddle bag of one there is an insurance card that reads, "Farm State motorcycle insurance registered to Charlie Belmond. Valid through 18 June 2008." There's also a notebook with pictures of animals, people, and people that look like animals--there's a several-page-long cartoon of a woman having sex with a man as he morphs into a wolf. It's signed by a girl named Lucia Wingate.

***

The notebook triggers another vision, another set of memories. At first scattershot, stating with images of a 14-year-old girl in a fight with an older woman, a fire, the barking of dogs, a wolf pressed nose to nose with Blake for a split second then it's mouth drops open. Finally, things focus in a way that makes it easier to ready.

Charlie Belmond, also called Pistol, kicks down the stand on his hog, an old-style Davison from the 1930's, fully refurbished to look like it just came off the assembly line as he pulls into the diner's parking lot. He and all the members of his group with the exception of Trash are dressed in black leather. Pistol has ratty, dark brown hair and a similar eye color. He wears a whip wrapped around his waist, old and bronze, the whip is something out of antiquity, the whip has a name, "Souleater" Charlie has horrible scars covering his face that look like they could have come from an animal attack, but he still smiles bright as a boy.

His girl climbs down off the back of his bike, a sixteen-year-old redhead who goes by the apparent nickname "Trash.", her real name is Lucia Wingate She is wearing way too much make-up for her young age and is dressed in a red tank top with a jean skirt dyed red, black fishnet stockings, as well as knee-high boots.

Alongside Pistol on a much more modern Harley bike is a man so black the leather of his jacket is nearly the same color as the skin on his face. As a joke Charlie calls him Spooky, and he and Pistol have been friends for nearly twenty years, the two of them even work in the same school, Charlie as the director of environmental services Professor Mohamed Quinn as a physical fitness instructor and heath adviser. They have rolled from town to town in search of fun and freedom. Trash just joined them about a year ago after Pistol shook some rapist off of her in the back of a movie store. At least that is the cover story. Lucia and Charlie have never talked about what really happened to anyone.

Today the three of them are riding back from Bram with five buddies they hooked up with at the last stop. They walk into the diner, which is about a half-hour's ride from Navu. Pistol himself is feeling fine, but some of the younger riders are not set up for a half-day-long haul. The hostess greets them with a smile and routine-sounding, "How are you?" as well as a, "Welcome back!" They all extend half-hearted greetings while looking for a suitable booth to sit down. In nearly no time the lot of them finish off nearly a full pot of coffee each.

Trash has been sweet on Pistol since they met, almost to the point of being sickeningly sweet. He looks after her much like a father, but he is just as allured by her pretty face as any man would be. Yet he has to remain true to his strong sense of responsibility, lest he should act on such animal-like instincts in the face of her frequent pressure.

Part way through everyone's third or fourth cup, Spooky lights up a blunt and starts passing it between his friends. Pistol shakes his hand and passes it on knowing that it's difficult to ride half deaf, and he doesn't need to be half baked, too. Having a light frame and little tolerance to the drugs, Trash finds herself becoming high in no time. She swings one leg around Pistol and sets her head gently on his shoulder. She seductively whispers to him, "Do you want to mess around?"

Pistol smiles and answers "Yes ... no!" He quickly regains his bearings and pushes her back into her seat.

"Christ, Trash!" he says angrily, "I'm probably older than your father!"

"So what?" Trash protests in an upset tone. "my father is 15 years older then my mother."

Spooky takes off his leather jacket, revealing his large, broad shoulders. He laughs through his teeth as he speaks, "Do you know who you remind me of? Steve Buscemi."

With a crossed look of disgust and disappointment, Pistol shakes his head. "First off, I have no clue as to how you would know personally the comedian Steve Buscemi. Second, I'm nothing like him for three reasons: this is my hair, Steve is not deaf, and he has never needed reconstructive surgery for ripping his face off after a bad high. How exactly did you come to that conclusion, anyway?"

Spooky laughs, "You like cartoons, rockabilly music, and you dig dudes."

"I'm not gay," Pistol argues. "Trash gave me head last week." It is a lie and everyone at the table knows it. But no harm in playing along.

"A guy can give head," Spooky states firmly. "I don't get it, anyway. Why do girls want you? I wouldn't fuck a hideous fuckin' chud like you."

"I wouldn't want you to big buddy," Pistol jokes.

As the group is chatting Lucia gets up from her chair. "I'm going to the bathroom." She departs hastily. She shouts for Charlie "come on!"

Spooky chuckles, Charlie dose as he is asked.

Lucia steps into the girl's room, she pulls Charlie in with her, she is shacking "Charlie, It has been almost a year now but I have to know, that thing in the movie theater. Was it real?"

Charlie nods, "yeah, it was."

"It acted like in knew you." Lucia expresses. "what was it? Why did it attack me?"

Charlie chuckles slightly, he doesn't want to say what he knows but he doesn't want to lie to Lucia "is was a Jacklwere, it was breeding season and you are of prime age to take as a mate."

Lucia stands and stars or a moment. She nods "I am too high to do this right now." She walks back out to the main area and takes her seat again, Charlie only a few steps behind.

As they continue speaking to one another, another pair of men walk into the restaurant. One is a tall, powerful-looking bald man in a gray suit. His partner is built for all the world like a modern-day Viking. Large chest, powerful arms, taller than most--he seems ten feet tall from Trash, Spooky, and Pistol's point of view--and possessing hair of a deep crimson. Pistol overhears the bald one with the stone face say to the hostess, "Ten miles back up the road there is supposed to be a bridge that leads into the town on the other side of the mountains."

Pistol kicks his feet up on the table as he thinks about what was just said. He then responds to the stoic man's inquiry as his mind pulls up the information he was trying to remember. "That's old Navu isn't it? The bridge has been gone for a while, but there's still a road that goes through."

"What happened there?" inquires the stone-faced man with the well-pressed suit.

"Some acid or radiation or something spilled all over the place. The cops closed the bridge and barred the road. They say it's unlivable now." Pistol's explanation continues, "Still some folks live 'round there, though."

"Can you tell me how to get there?" the icy stranger asks.

"No, but I can show you. The eight of us are heading that way pretty soon," he

answers. "Take a load off, have a beer. We'll be leaving soon."

"We don't drink, but thank you. We will sit."

"What's your name? " Pistol asks out of curiosity.

"El," the calm man states plaintively.

"El?" Pistol chuckles upon hearing the stranger's name. "Like, The? How about him? What's his name? Is?" Pistol sarcastically speaks with a snicker, almost disbelieving of the man's answer.

The man who could be mistaken for an ox steps forward with an angered look on his face, moving with an apparent intention to rearrange Pistol's anatomy. El calmly holds out one hand to stop his large friend.

"He is my shotgun. We call him Lacerti."

"Muscle," Pistol responds.

"Something like that," El answers, suppressing a small amount of shock that the apparent biker gang leader knows anything of the Latin language. "'Lacerti' actually means 'strength of muscle, or body.'"

The early evening hours proceed much like that, the group of them discussing most everything--from music to actors to Madonna and big dicks, manly men and feminine women and the things that can make them better, hairy chests, waxed asses, and even rhinoplasty After several more cups of coffee and half a pack of cigarettes on Spooky's behalf, everyone's ready to set back out on the road. Throughout the conversation, El and his big buddy Lacerti sat quietly, saying word neither to the bikers nor one another--they were seemingly happy listening in not needing to talk to understand, like a pair of owls.

After the short ride the bikers arrive at the hangout as they commonly do on their weekends, and the heavy drinking begins, though El goes to sit by the bar and Lacerti heads off elsewhere. The music is good the beer is not too bad, either. A live mariachi band like you might see in Mexico or the deep West plays. Taking a good look, Pistol notes that the women aren't looking too bad, themselves. Partway through "Johnny Be Good," Pistol announces it's time to take a piss and parts from his friends.

The bathrooms here at Lamia's Back are divided from the stage by an iron gate and a narrow hallway. The bathroom is amongst the cleanest Pistol has ever seen, flawlessly beautiful aside from a broken mirror over the sink nearest to the door. Pistol sees that Lacerti is in there, too.

Pistol tries to make small talk, but Lacerti never says a word, merely shrugging and grunting in response to any given statement. A new song starts, and the melody is familiar to Pistol. It's a country song from the late '70s called "Misunderstood." As he reminisces, the sounds of gunfire ring out in the club. Pistol laughs uncomfortably. "I guess this isn't just my favorite song, after all."

A child screams, and at that Pistol quickly re-zips his pants and the two men run to see what's the matter. As Lacerti throws open the door, four zombies lunge in at him. Lacerti throws his fist at them, and they tumble back through the door as quickly as they came. Pistol reaches around his waist and pulls his whip. The two of them push their way out of the bathroom and back to the hall. The scene looks bad; Trash and Spooky are wrestling with the undead. The bartender has turned into a twin-headed demon that is getting knocked around by El wielding a fire extinguisher. A man in a silk suit has gunned down one of the dancers, and the old man that Pistol saw come in with a pair of kids several minutes ago as he headed to the restroom is swinging a chair leg at a group of flesh-hungry beasts. As the children are being carried away, the younger-looking of the two toward Pistol and Lacerti, the other being taken toward the front of the bar.

The music stops and the sprinklers come on, pouring blood from the ceiling.

Pistol points to the older girl and yells, "Big stuff!" Lacerti nods and charges through the gate toward the beast making away with her. Pistol pulls his whip back as the younger girl is carried into range, He lashes at just the right moment, wrapping the whip around the zombie with the girl. Pistol smiles as he tugs on the monster and says, "I don't think that's kosher, someone your age picking up someone hers." He waves a mocking finger.

The monster drops the girl and runs at Pistol, its mouth draped open hungrily. It pushes the man backward into the gate, slamming it shut. Other undead hands reach through, tugging at Pistol. "Bad touch, bad touch," Pistol calls he elbows the gate to shove the other zombies away then pushes the one holding him. Pistol swings his whip again, wrapping it around the zombie's head this time. He pivots inward at it and side-kicks it, and the force rips the minion's head clean off.

The gate shakes as the other zombies start to try to get at Pistol, who strikes a ready stance. He calls to the girl, "Out the back, sweetheart." Pistol smiles again, and using his best kiddy voice, says, "I'll follow you in just a sec."

Pistol pulls a pair of handcuffs out of his jacket and uses them to chain the gate shut. For the first time he notices a swirling mist on the ground, which now starts to form a humanoid shape. A hand flies out at him and wraps around his chest as a wolf-like monster with bat wings on its back materializes. It lifts Pistol into the air and begins choking him. "Belmond," it growls.

Pistol looks it up and down. Hanging from its body are tattered remnants of the shiny clothes one of the band members had on. It's the guitar player, he thinks.

The monstrous wolf beast looks at the whip. "Son of Belmond," it snarls, "how many of my brothers' souls have you swallowed with that cursed instrument? Do you even know?" The monster whips Pistol to the ground, making a horrible cracking sound.

Pistol can't tell whether it was his arm or the cement cracking beneath him.

He groans in pain. "That really sucked," he mutters as he rolls onto his stomach and starts to stand back up.

"Crushing your pathetic body will bring great honor to the Dracul," the monster shouts, kicking him back over as he gets to his feet.

Pistol half-laughs and half-cries as he tries again to stand. "Isn't sixteen hundred years a long time to hold a grudge?" He backs up against the wall.

"Son of Belmond, you and all your ancestors will spend eternity as one of us," the wolf beast bellows. It gets onto all fours, and Pistol starts to sidestep it. The monster pounces and as Pistol brings his arm up to block it, it sinks its jaws into Pistol's forearm.

They fall into the gate, toppling it with their combined weight.

More zombies start to pour into the hall as Pistol and the wolf man growl at one another. Pistol desperately backhands the beast, and to his shock the monster yelps in surprise. Pistol takes this opportunity to place his foot in the monster's gut and judo-throw it off of him.

The man leaps to his feet as he grabs his whip from the ground and recoils it. He takes one last look back at the monster and boyishly salutes it. "We will have to finish this another time," he jests. Pistol runs away, giving chase to the girl.

****

Finally, to the big rig. The thing smells like lemon, the dashboard looks oiled, and the brake petal has recently been replaced. The driver must be the cleanest trucker in the world. Clipped to the visor on the passenger side is a picture. It is of eighteen soldiers outside of a base, sixteen of them posing for the camera, grinning, and two of them at attention. The sixteen posing all have Xs over their hearts--only the lieutenants standing at attention remain unmarked. The first unmarked man is a large man standing in the back. He is mildly out of focus, making it difficult to gage his stature. Even so, he stands as wide as two men and half again as tall--he is massive. The second stands alongside his men, hands folded before him. Completely ordinarily, the only identifying marks on him are his insignias. Flipping over the picture, there is a notation reading, "Dec. 14, 1968, Vietnam."

***

His vision is clear and crisp the person he is reading clearly disciplined of both mind and body.

It's a night like most every other. El Driver ,A name he has given himself, has company at his favorite bar--the unfriendly kind of company. He's with two men--a Cuban with his hair in cornrows and a Negro as bald as El himself. The Cuban has drawn his gun, a 13mm Jackal, limited edition. It's a good gun; too much gun for most to handle, El thinks to himself while examining the firearm. He is completely without fear as he stares down the muzzle of the gun with his head held high. He adjusts the collar of his gray, economy-class suit with matching tie then crosses his arms atop the table. His eyes are deep brown and seem to hold back a fiery evil, and his imposing presence as even as he sits makes it is clear that he would stand over six feet tall.

"Mister El, your price--it's just too much!" The Cuban man yells out. "Seven thousand for only one truck?"

"Plus, seven grand more on delivery, plus expenses." El's face is stone cold as always.

"What do I pay for?" the Cuban asks.

"Insurance," El responds, his voice calm and piercing. "No questions, guaranteed. I provide the tools and the training. If I fail, my replacement picks up where I left off...." El continues in his soft but demanding voice, "Before you think any more about shooting anyone, are you any good with numbers?"

"No, why?" the Cuban questions.

"It so happens to be that I'm exceptional, so let's play a game. Count with me. If you look around right now you will see there are twenty-seven men looking at you in addition to myself. Twenty-five of them are carrying guns, twenty-four of which are pointed at you. Half of those guns are 9mm Berettas, the favored gun of the CIA, a third are .45 Dostoveis, a Russian hand-cannon. The rest are United States .50 Desert Eagles, and there's one man outside with an M18 an assault rifle, which the army just started using in 2008. So tell me, how many rounds are there between them?" The Cuban tries to count on his fingers as El continues, "Its 388 not counting your Jackal. You fire, you're not getting out of here alive."

"I see your point, Mr. El." the Cuban puts his gun down and El takes it.

"I trust the package is outside, like in the deal?"

"Yes," the Cuban man responds.

"Lets all take a look."

"It's the Hot Dog Taco truck." The now nervous Cuban nods to one side as sweat starts to pour down his brow. "Is it true what people say about you?" he questions, tentatively.

"What's that?"

"That you kill people who refuse to pay you."

"What do you think?" El questions calmly and coldly as he stands, tucking the Jackal into the back of his pants. He leads the Cuban and the Negro to the front of the bar and outside to the back of the big rig.

"You never look at the package, I'm told," The Negro says as El opens the truck.

"I never look in the package," El confirms as he begins moving boxes around.

"What are you doing then?" the Cuban questions.

"Making sure that what's here is what's supposed to be here." He starts counting the boxes.

"A hundred and one boxes weighing between twenty and forty-five pounds each." He finishes his count.

"There are 104 boxes here. Three of them have to go. That's the deal," El coldly explains to them.

The scared men nod, knowing their game is up. "I'll be back in forty-five minutes. Clean this mistake up and I'll give you the flight plan," El orders.

An hour later, El leads them back inside the bar after recounting the truck. He gives them the recap. "Here's the plan. I drive only by day and within the speed limit. I begin at 8:35 AM stopping at 12:35 and 5:35 PM for food and drink and making no more than three stops for gas per day. At 7:45 PM I make my way to the nearest hotel, motel, rest station, or legal park and go to sleep. You reimburse me for whichever when I drop the assets in your PO box.

"This map shows my intended path. If this is not acceptable, you can set a new one. I will arrive at the rendezvous in seven to fourteen days. Once there, I will make two attempts to deliver the package, thirteen hours apart. If there is any sign of danger, I will leave and come back in one hour. If there is no one to meet me, I will take the contents and sell it myself. If I get there and there is no money or it's not the right amount, I kill the messenger, call my assistants and have them kill you, find your address book, and take the remainder of the money from your accounts. So don't mess up again."

Everyone agrees and El sets off, everything according to plan. Less than a block away, El picks up his partner, Lacerti. A giant of a man with dark red hair and a matching beard, Lacerti is reminiscent of the Vikings. He seems to stand over eight feet tall and has a highly trim, but muscular, physique.

The drive from Florida to Mexico is long and unfriendly, but one that El and his partner have made dozens of times, just like their fathers had made and their sons will make after them. El's family has been in the same career for generations, moving and transporting anything and everything, and always with the same set of rules.

On the fourth day they hit a snag. A road that's on El's map isn't actually there in truth. El turns the truck around and they return to the last town for both gas and directions. They stop at a diner where there seems to be a biker gang dining, as well.

Inside, El approaches the waitress and calmly asks, "Miss, can you help me?"

She is chewing gum and smells heavily of a watermelon-scented perfume. "What's up, stranger?"

"Ten miles up the road there is supposed to be a bridge that leads into the town on the other side of the mountains."

One of the bikers' pipes in. He is a man with black hair and has a face torn up from years of drug use. "That's old Navu, isn't it? The bridge is gone, but there is still a road that goes through."

"What happened there?" El inquires with curiosity.

"Some acid or radiation or something spilled all over the place. The cops closed the bridge and barred the road. They say it's unlivable now," the biker explains. "Still some folks live 'round there, though."

"Can you tell me how to get there?" El asks in his always-calm tone.

"No, but I can show you. The eight of us are heading that way," the man answers.

"Take a load off, have a beer. We'll be leaving soon."

El cracks a smile. "We don't drink. but thank you. We will sit."

As El and Lacerti wait around with the bikers, they learn that the one who spoke with them is named Pistol. The rest of the talk, though, is almost incoherent blabber. After a time, they leave, El and Lacerti following the bikers around the mountain to "the hangout," as they called it--a sleazy whorehouse called Lamia's Back.

The place is not quite El's style, but it's the only stop along the way, if they want to stay punctual. He goes to the front bar to sit by himself while Lacerti makes his way to the restroom and the rest of the group finds a table together to continue their heavy drinking.

Some commotion begins, but El pays no heed until the bartender takes his cup and growls at him, "Time to pay your tab."

El looks at him and quickly notices that something is not right. Blood begins to rain from above projected by the sprinkler system, and the bartender has grown a second head. Neither head resembles anything even remotely human-looking. He leans over to grab El, but El kicks his chair back out of reach and leaps to his feet. The bartender jumps onto the bar and crouches like some kind of wild animal. El round kicks him in the side and then axe kicks him to the ground. The mutated bartender grabs El as he gets back up and throws him over the bar.

"Bleed for me!" the monstrous bartender ferociously orders.

El stands and cracks his neck in a prominent show of defiance. The 'tender stretches his rubbery necks and snaps at the man. El grabs a nearby fire extinguisher and swings. It gets caught in one of the monster's mouths. Having bought some time and wondering where the hell Lacerti is in the surrounding ruckus, El raises his new gun to blast that mutant second head to pieces. By this time the room is crowded with dozens of beasts of all shapes and sizes. "It looks like the mail will be late today," El mutters as he faces a bar full of hell's own minions....

***

I approach the door to the joint. It's locked with an I-bar and I'm not strong enough to lift it, seeing that it weighs several hundred pounds. I lift my phone instead--it's time to make that call.

Tail answers, "Operator."

"Tail?"

"Yes?"

"I need help," I explain.

"You're the monster hunter, not me," Tail reminds me.

"I have a list of names and a picture. I need to know who they are."

"Why?" she asks.

"They're inside, and I can't get in."

"Shoot the damn door down," she commands. I shake the door, but it doesn't budge an inch.

"No good." The door is thicker than the lock by at least two inches. "Don't suppose you slipped any C-4 or an RPG in my bag?"

"What the hell is an RPG?" Tail asks.

"Rocket Propelled Grenade."

"No, Blake, the Watchers don't issue military-brand arsenal," Tail explains sarcastically.

"I guess I'll just have to find another way in, then," I say, and hang up the phone.

I walk around the structure only to find as I reach the back side there is an unpassable fissure, must be a mile long and a thousand feet deep, a graveyard of bikes and trucks wait at the bottom of the pit. Hundreds or more wrecked cars sit and rust. I feel something is asleep in the hole. Something old, evil, premortal.

I feel a pulling on my mind. Glowing velvet eyes burn into my heart. The monster that took Chriss and Charry away is close by. I feel a flash of light, a hear a whale like song resonate from the underground. A hot wind blows my coat up. Something just outside our reality is within arm's reach of me. Teeth pierce the ground in my second sight. the thing under the ground is an eldritch abomination this thing. It has been standing in my shadow for days. It has been leading me here.

An intangible hand rest against my back. The otherworldly thing whispers in my ear. It tells me to take one more step. To fall from this world and into theirs. I call on my psionic power to push me back the other way. I step away from the pit, I run back to the front of the bar. The godless thing waits for me, the bridge between life and death is so close I can almost see past the vale of reality. The reaper awaits.