The Legend Of The Christian Zombie Vampires

Chapter 4

Bad Dreams/Silver Clouds

Weeks of Las Cruces, New Mexico summer passed by. Each day seemed to be hotter than the last. Each night, Mitch feared sleep. His mind was on the brink of insanity and his body showed. He had lost a significant amount of weight. His hairline showed regressive growth and his face was almost always pale. He feared that the war he had learned of was more than he could handle.

Mitch was young and, for the most part, innocent. The torment of the unknown beat his morale. The pain, fixated on his soul. Mitch lay in his bed, a fan and the air conditioner passed cool waves over his burning skin. He sat up and reached over to his nightstand. He grabbed a low-ball glass and a half full bottle of Jameson whiskey. Jameson was a brand made in its origins, by priests. He wondered what had happened to Father Rahm.  Mitch looked at his phone and thought to call the young priest but did not think he had anything to discuss coherently at the time of night it was. He took a sip of the drink, kept it in his mouth below his tongue, and swished it around his gums a few times before swallowing. He did not wince. He did not flinch. He poured a double dose and shot it without taking notice of the taste. The whiskey burned as it made its way into his stomach. His head felt light and his face felt warm. Rosy blush color came to his cheeks. The gray bags under his eyes disappeared ever so slightly and his eyes closed with a thud.  

Mitch faded deep into a dream. He was walking in a crowded arena with gold and green neon lights around the upper decks of what seemed to be a seven-deck layered arena. He pushed past bodies that stood in his way as he made his journey to find his seat near the front row. Every step he took was deeper into the crowd and the people didn’t move easily. The crowd was also dressed in tattered, beat-up clothing, mostly composed of flannels, dingy greens, and red plaid.

An usher in a monkey suit made eye contact with Mitch.  He gestured to come that way. The crowd was dense and would not make way.  Three dings of a bell rang out loud and the masses moved their attention to the entrance that burst with purple and gray smoke and was lit by strobe lights flashing brilliantly.  The music blaring out from the speakers was familiar, though Mitch could not figure out from where he knew the song. It was a deep bass beat accompanied by a harp and an old cryptic piano. Mitch could see a spotlight shining down the aisle of which an entrance was being made. It looked like nothing but the glow of a full moon.

He was nearing the usher who awaited him with a smile. The usher looked as if he was under a black light. His teeth and eyes glowed.  His beard was full like a shadow. Mitch was stuck behind a very large man. He stepped to the side but was met by traffic walking in the opposite direction.  He grabbed the large man from behind and pulled him by the shoulder gently. The man’s shoulder tore from its socket and fell to the ground. The man bent down to the floor, picked his arm up, and stood again. The man bit right into his own arm. Flesh slid fresh off the bone, but the man did not seem upset. Mitch stepped past him, the usher took his ticket, and pointed a moon beam flashlight at an empty seat.

Mitch looked at the fighter approaching the ring. He was wearing a white sequined robe with gold trim and a shiny gold belt. His skin was red like from sunburn, or what appeared to be burned from a distance. The fighter’s chest had a scar from carving of an upside down cross and on his collarbone, words in an ancient script that Mitch could not read. The chant of demon win, demon rule! Echoed out in unison. The crowd roared like it was their hero. They buzzed with anticipation when the music stopped. The lights dimmed and white smoke began to fill the aisle.

The next fighter entered with a black robe and gold trim. He had a white towel draped over his neck. He looked fast as lightning but cool as a shadow as he performed combo cuts in the air. His music was deep, almost that of an old Gregorian chant, or a hymn sheet at an old Catholic church.  As he paced in his boxer dance, he looked very closely and saw it was Darius.

The fight began with no introductions, and it carried a ferocious pace with brutal power. The demon was a few inches shorter than Darius, so Darius had the reach advantage. Both of them were fast and Mitch was so deep in sleep that he felt no fear. He just watched in anticipation.

The fists of the combatants flew at a blinding pace. Darius jabbed often and used his feet to gain position. The demon moved forward and cut the ring off from his opponent. He threw power shots that shook Darius’s body. The fight pushed the crowd into a drastic frenzy. Both warriors’ energy had seemingly dropped until fire from the corner posts of the ring blew high in the sky, signaling the end of the round.

Mitch took in the sights of the crowd. He noticed mangled dismembered beings all around. He saw tormented souls having a hoorah for the spectacle of which was this fight. He looked across the arena and up into the press box. There sat Satan himself, wearing a lavish lavender suit and huge gold chains that had diamonds as big as Mitch’s own fist.  In his mouth, a cigar that let off smoke into the arena.

Mitch looked down near ringside and saw three judges. One, a blueish gray dragon with a real blazer and a matching bow tie. Next, an old haggard woman who wore a fluffed out, flower pattern silk shirt with glasses that accented her evil-looking red eyes.  The third judge wore an over-sized, satin, burgundy button up shirt. He smoked a Pall Mall cigarette. The silver in his hair accented his tan olive skin tone. Above his left eye, he wore an eyebrow piercing of a silver cross. Upon closer inspection, it was Gregg.

Gregg had a look of concern on his face. His hands typed with diligent urgency.  For some reason, Mitch was now confused if he was working the fight as a journalist, or as a judge. The rush of combat began once more. As the demon stood, his corner men yelled his name. It was an ancient tongue that Mitch could not comprehend.  The demon’s trainer reached his hand into the gloves and looked inside. He spit fire into the opening of the demon’s glove. His glove sparkled with flames.

Darius quickly came to the center of the ring. He unleashed a five-punch combo that stunned the demon. He bobbed his head and switched directions. Above all the buzz, above all the roar, from up in the press box, came a whistle.

Like an amateur fighter, just a slight hesitation; just a blink that shifted his concentration, and the demon pounced. He unleashed punches of fire. The crowd sensed he had landed the blow to end this war. Darius, bloodied, bruised, battered and now broken, fell to the floor. Gregg’s fingers stopped typing. He rose to his feet. He reached Darius’s body and held his head as blood flowed in epic proportion. The demon stood tall, hands of fire in the air. Victory cheers shook the arena. Satan stood tall. He jumped and his chains swayed. Flames of victory blew from his skull. The rabid fans rushed to the ring to celebrate their victory of evil.

Blood flowed down Gregg’s arms, covered his hands, and poured down making a steady stream. Gregg looked up in panic. He saw bodies dropping limbs. They fell and moved so awkwardly. Arms and legs piled up as the crowd seemed to just break upon contact. Then he noticed the most hideous character making her way towards him. She was charcoal black and scaled. She wore jewels that featured stones unknown to Gregg’s eyes. Colors shining that made unrecognized colors glistened the path in which she walked. She wore no shirt. She wore no bra and pointed at Darius and Gregg.

Then, like thunder from above came a knock…

“Shhh…. It’s Diane.” said a voice that rumbled through the arena.  

Chaos broke out. Darius and Gregg were torn by the bit until they were no more. Gobbled by the masses, here one moment, gone the next. Isn’t it just the way life goes…Mitch woke up with the demon of fear inside him. He could not breathe right. He could not sit up. In paralysis, he lay, eyes dilated. His heart is in dismay. He reached his shaking hands to the sky and looked at them. They were both red with burns.  

*****

It was a cold windy night in the desert. The moon glowed beautifully against the old adobe church. The mighty cross that stood above the bell tower loomed over the plaza. A man in a white zoot suit with a purple shirt and white tie approached the wooden paneled double doors below the bell tower. He was a short Hispanic man with burgundy hair pulled back into a ponytail. He wore a white fedora with a purple sash. He carried a small black case under his right elbow.  The man flung open the doors and made his way down the aisle between the wooden pews. He noticed the paintings of Saint Peter and Saint Dominic, and Father Rahm standing behind the pulpit going over his notes for the upcoming sermon. The man was about halfway down the aisle when the young priest looked up, adjusted his glasses and spoke.

“Hello, my son what can I do for you? Confessions aren’t for another hour.”

The man in the zoot suit stared blankly at the priest. The air in the room began to chill, the priest let out a slight nervous sigh, and could notice his breath in front of him. The man continued to stare blankly but began to inch his way towards the pulpit. The priest called out.

“What’s troubling you, my son? God watches over us all the time, and I’m sure whatever it is that is troubling you the lord will give you wisdom and guidance, now tell me how I can help you, my son?”

The man in the zoot suit was now directly in front of the priest. He took the black case from under his elbow, held it in front of him, then loosened the latches. He carefully placed it on the pew to his left, opened it, and pulled out a golden flintlock. He then pointed it at the priest and said.

“Sorry padre what troubles me is that I have to kill you. In all honestly this isn’t really my department. It’s my dad that really wants you dead, but what are you going to do?”

He fired his weapon, striking the priest in the shoulder. Father Rahm screamed in agony as he fell back on the floor, blood gushing everywhere. The man climbed the three steps toward the altar and stood over the fallen priest. The priest clutched his shoulder as he prayed.

“Our Father who art in Heaven,

Hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come

Thy will be done…”

The man in the zoot suit picked him up and put him in a chair and spoke. “Save your breath your God can’t help you right now.”

The priest began to cough. Blood trickled down the side of his mouth as he writhed in pain and whimpered.

“Who-who are you? Why are you doing this? Don’t worry my son God will forgive you.”

The suited man replied.

“You may know me as Abaddon, and full disclosure I don’t care if God forgives me or not. We burned that bridge a long time ago padre.”

He pulled out a straight edge razor from his pocket and unhinged the steel blade from its golden case. He grabbed the priest by the back of his hair and began slicing his ear. The priest was screaming, pleading for the man to stop, finally passing out from the shock.

When the priest came to, he saw the man standing in front of him, looking up admiring the statue of the Virgin Mary in the altar. The man turned and saw that the priest had regained consciousness. He knelt in front of the priest who was just trying to hold on and said.

“I thought we lost you there for a second. I didn’t want you dying all fast on me. What would be the fun in that.? Now what should I cut off next? Your other ear, or perhaps a finger? My father always said I have a flair for the dramatic but what can I say…I’m greedy.”

He stood up, pulled out the razor once more, and returned his gaze to the statue of the Virgin Mary. Abaddon unhinged the blade and began to wipe the blood with his tie. He looked down at the blood stain, and then angrily stared at the wounded priest.

“See now look what you’ve made me do. This was one of my favorite ties” He started his way towards the priest, razor at his side. The priest began to mutter.

“Qui custos es mei,

Me tibi commissum pietate superna  Hac nocte illumina, custodi, rege, et guberna.

Amen.”

(“my guardian dear. To whom his love commits me here; Ever this night be at my side,

To light and guard, to rule and guide.

Amen.”)

Abaddon laughed.

“Glad to see someone was paying attention at seminary but sorry padre I’m afraid that’s not going to work either.”

His eyes began to grow red as he once again knelt in front of the priest.

“You’re not going to win this time.”

He pressed the blade on Father Rahm’s thigh right above that knee and began to slowly slice. The priest let out an agonizing scream and began to pray once more. This time he said the same prayer in English.  

“My guardian dear

To whom his love commits me here.

Ever this night be at my side,

To light and guard, to rule and guide.

Amen.”

Abaddon removed Father Rahm’s shirt and noticed he was wearing a silver necklace with a cross attached to it, snatched it off of his neck, and threw it to the side. He took his razor and carved a small cross on to the right side of the priest’s chest. Father Rahm let out an agonizing scream, and with every ounce of energy he could muster he spoke the words one more time.

“Qui custos es mei,

Me tibi commissum pietate superna  Hac nocte illumina, custodi, rege, et guberna.

Amen.”

Abaddon, now bored with this exchange, stood up and walked back over to the black case. He pulled out a small black bag.  Then lifted up his flintlock and poured a golden powder down the muzzle.  He put a small cloth over it and then a small golden ball over the cloth. He took his ramrod and tamped the golden ball down the barrel, then cocked the hammer. He walked back up the steps to the priest still in his chair and pressed the gun against his forehead. Father Rahm closed his eyes and prepared to meet his maker.

Suddenly there was a bright light, and a silver flaming blade from a long broadsword sheathed through Abadon’s chest, stopping mere inches from the priest’s face. The blade was un-sheathed, and the demon fell lifelessly to the floor. Father Rahm opened his eyes and saw a shadowy figure, with what appeared to be a large afro. The shadowy figure wiped the sword on the side of his leg and moved slowly toward Father Rahm.  

He looked over at the battered priest still in his chair, then looked down on the floor noticing Father Rahm’s ear. He put his hand on the priest’s right shoulder and said.

” You no longer have to call me father for I am already here. Everything is going to be alright; God is on your side. Oh, shit where are my manners I’m Shiloh, like your guardian angel or something. Now let’s see about getting you to a hospital.”

(to be continued)

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