III. Aztec Death Whistles and Non-Euclidean Space

I first heard the whistle five years ago – three before I left for Antarctica. Three years before that I saw the Light, and I have served it ever since. Our crew was small, just a team of four, including myself. Our path cut through the Amazon, guided by an outcast whom villagers had deemed, ‘condemned beyond redemption.’ Even before I witnessed the reality of this world, I knew that the condemnation of knowledge, forbidden knowledge, was the dying gasp of the weak protecting lies.

That man, Nawinawi, blinded slave of the Eye-Eyed One, led us through the crumbling ruins of a city never recorded on any map, a sprawling labyrinth of stone tenements, palatial homes, arenas, markets, all seemingly lost to history underneath the rain-forest canopy. At its center the great ziggurat at the center. A towering pyramid of volcanic stone overgrown with the jungle’s tendrils with narrow steps leading to an altar at the top. We ascended the narrow incline with significant effort, each step half as deep and a foot taller than were it built for human feet.

In my awkward, tottering climb to the flat top of this bone and pumice monstrosity, I lost my footing and fell upon my stomach. I arose and marched on, until my toe caught upon another too high step and threw me forward again. Then I attempted to walk up the steps sideways, but the queer incline of the pyramid struck me with a severe flash of vertigo that sent me careening on my back.

The rough stone and jagged stair edges dug into my spine and forced me upon my belly, and it was in that moment I realized that this was the true nature of this structure. No other building in these ruins was of this make, each home and hovel designed with humans in mind. But this one, this monument of twisted geometry was doing to our team what it was meant to do: to force us upon our stomachs and propel us onwards in supplication.

As my crawl neared the rise of the zigurrat, my eyes beheld a great carved mural. Ancient, winged reptillian behemoths, radiant crowns of feathers like the manes of lions flowing from their heads, and beneath them a legion of membraneous mutated creatures devouring humanity. Cavernous mouths in the sky as clouds or stars swirled, unleashing bounteous oceans of excrement and blood into the seas. This was a lost city, Tlatelolco, and Nawinawi called its people the ‘piled under earth tribe,’ a lost empire that served unspeakable gods. Antideluvian abominations which slumber beneath us yet all around us, awaiting their time to return.

It was then I knew that this city was no great capital, this crumbling megalith was but one of many cities spanning a vast worldwide empire that had been washed away, eroded by time. This place, whatever it had once been, was meant to keep humans. To store them. To what end, I could not know.

At the summit was a canopy with an altar beneath. ‘Door of offering, hole of God,’ the old Incan let out with a timid shudder, his gnarled finger pointing it. Cursory inspection revealed that this was no ordinary sacrificial block, but also tomb. Removing the lid to the altar we found the corpse of a child. Mummified and desiccated as it was, we knew that it was not human. At least, not entirely human, as none of us had yet to encounter a human with both skin and scales.

Clutched in the child’s hand was a fat, black bulb of bone carved into the shape of a skull: an Aztec Death Whistle. When I blew it, this same swirling fog which surrounds Penelope overtook us. What I saw next rivaled every horror I had previously seen, just as it does for my sister now.

The vampire’s mouth begins to creep up one side in a wolfish grin, it’s tongue rapidly flapping back and forth, up and down, until it unleashes another bestial wail. The one in front of Doctor Arthwitte howls in response like a pair of wolves signalling their pack. Penelope takes a step back, but that slight movement sets the vampires off. Arms wildly lashing out, slicing at the air with their talons, they pounce off the ground from their haunches. Each stomp of their feet shakes the earth with the weight of elephants charging.

With gritted teeth, Penelope takes a deep breath in and pulls her pin back. She has practiced her shot for years, and one bullet is all that it takes to fell the horror. The trigger releases and sends a slug right between the abomination’s brows. With a jerk of its head and a gurgling rattle, the vampire falls to its knees at her feet.

The body quakes, gurgles, and then the inhuman glow vanishes from its eyes. After I returned to their village, the tribe shared stories of these creatures, how their kin had once hunted them. Their legends spoke the truth about these feral horrors, their cunning and strength, but ancient vampire hunters discounted the effectiveness of American small arms manufacturing.

Doctor Arthwitte is not as fortunate. His first shot misses the target, whizzing overhead when the vampire crouches down to pounce. The second bullet lodges in the beast’s shoulder and its arm goes limp in mid-air. But one strong arm is all that it needs to force a stout man like the doctor flat on his back.

The vampire digs its talons into his shoulder then snaps at his throat. Doctor Arthwitte delivers a swift clap to the monster’s temple from the butt of his gun and repels the attack moments before the creature’s teeth pierce his flesh. The vampire recoils with an ungodly yowl that rattles up from the hollow depths of its belly and rings out through the mist.

“Penelope,” Doctor Arthwitte sputters as he readies another shot.

The vampire shakes its head and blinks. A succession of gasps choke out from the holes where a nose must have originally been before its owner tore it off.

Doctor Arthwitte’s hands tremble and he fires, this time missing the vampire altogether. Luckily, another bullet soars through the creature’s left eye and the hellish lout collapses on top of him in a bloody heap, seeping a sticky, black ichor out of the wound.

“Is it dead?” Penelope asks, holstering her pistol.

Doctor Arthwitte laughs as he heaves the stinking corpse off with a weary grunt. “It would appear so.” He rolls the body over with his foot, the vampire’s face frozen in a look of animalistic hunger. “Is yours… aherm, terminated?”

“My hypothesis is that catastrophic head injuries are fatal,” Penelope says. “Based on a sample of two.”

“Well, put a bullet in any man’s head and your hypothesis holds.”

“Look at the talons: the long black growths at the extremities.”

“The report said the bodies they dug up in the graveyard kept growing their nails and hair,” Penelope says. “But decomposition doesn’t look anything like this.”

“Count the fingers and toes,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “Three and two, respectively, fused together in some sort of alchemical transmutation.”

“I don’t think this has anything to do with alchemy.”

“No sign of regeneration either. You haven’t a specimen case on your person, have you?”

“No,” Penelope says. “Should we bring one of the bodies along to the car? We could take samples there.”

“I haven’t the energy to lug one of these foul curs a step in this damned fog,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “The stench was malodorous enough when it was alive.”

“Shame,” Penelope says. “Dissecting these would be a great place to begin studying the outbreak. At least a blood sample, to see how the vampirism spreads.” She inspects the one that attacked Doctor Arthwitte. It’s wearing the same black crucifix pendant. “Do you recognize this?”

“I do. That’s a rare sight.”

“What’s so uncommon about rosaries?”

“Those are no ordinary charms. These men were from the Vatican – exorcists, elite ones at that. Demon hunters.”

“Why would the Vatican care about this?”

“Why indeed,” Doctor Arthwitte grumbles. “Vampires are bad enough, now we’ve Papists in our midst.”

Brilliant minds have a tendency to become enamored of their own intellectual reverie. It is why intellectuals are a product of civilization, the noble lie that forgot nature, for as they discuss their fallen attackers, a third vampire slinks up from behind them. A great sheet of flesh has been shorn from its face, the rest dangling loose on exposed sinew and jagged bone. Its shoulders are hunched and its talons excitedly click, eager to slice open their bellies and bathe in their entrails.

“Do you think the Vatican could be behind the vampires?”

“Who can say for sure – but we can’t discount it: they’ve got their hands in everything.”

“It’s hard enough to accept this as real but… shouldn’t the rosaries burn them if they were real vampires?”

“I’m as perplexed as you, it defies all cultural assumptions. No charring, scarring, no marks of any kind.”

Faith and doubt are but different forms of ignorant contentment. Neither bear witness to that which can repel the Fallen. Ever the skeptic, certain fears and doubts now enter my sister’s mind.

“What about your holy water?”

Her curiosity betrays the answers she has failed to question.

“If those rosaries have no effect I fear my sanctified serum will prove just as ineffective. I’m left to wonder whether these are even vampires at all or if I’m trapped in some sort of dream.” He turns to his student. “I demand that you slap me at once.”

The vampire lets loose a bloodcurdling screech and lunges for the doctor. Fleet and feral, its maw latches onto his arm and the both of them tumble forward, landing on the ground in a pile before Penelope can unholster her gun.

Try as she might, she can’t get a clear aim on the vampire. It and the doctor are locked in a vicious tussle. There’s no way to shoot the monster without the risk of shooting Doctor Arthwitte, so she takes the path of least resistance and target’s the creature’s leg.

It is a masterful hit: the bullet lands in its biceps femorus – not enough to fell the creature but enough to force it to release its captive. Casual observations also reveal that a bullet in the back of the leg is sufficient to shift a vampire’s attention from one prey to another. It snarls at my sister and flies towards her, teeth and talons swiping in fury.

As the revenant rears back to pounce, the sharp end of a spade slices through the fog and lands in its throat. The force of the blow sends the creature prone on its belly, nails twitching and acrid bile weeping from its neck.

The one eyed giant of a man emerges next, spade back over his shoulder, and greets them with a nod. He notices that the vampire still lives, and so delivers a killing blow with the sharp end of his instrument and a foot on top of it for good measure. The vampire’s head severs from its torso and rolls a few inches away.

“Are you alright?” Bapo Hrobar asks. “Are you bitten?”

“No, I wasn’t,” Penelope replies. She’s still not sure whether she should categorize the lumbering titan who saved her as a different sort of cryptid. Bapo Hrobar shakes the ooze off his shovel with another nod, this time solely to Doctor Arthwitte.

“Did vampire bite you?”

Doctor Arthwitte’s hair is frazzled and his glasses are cocked to the side. He retrieves his hat then returns it to his head, straightening it with a knock to the brim. “Ever the portrait of virility,” he chokes, face red.

Bapo Hrobar’s one eye narrows to a thin slit. “It bit arm.”

“So it did,” Doctor Arthwitte chuckles. He touches the hole and his hand comes back sticky with blood. “Quite the unfortunate happenstance.”

“Is not time for waiting, is time for running.” He nods to Doctor Arthwitte. “You are doctor? We have doctor. Is medical one, is real one.”

“My thanks, sir,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “It appears I am indebted to you, but I fear I will still have to charge full rate for our services. You see, we are but–”

“No time,” Bapo Hrobar says. He takes them by the arms and leads them away into the fog. “Is this way.”

“But what about Dorian?” Penelope asks. “He’s still in the car.”

“Who?” Bapo Hrobar asks.

“My secretary,” Doctor Arthwitte mutters. “He files my taxes and taxes my patience.”

“Is strapping young man,” Bapo Hrobar says. “He must defend self.”

“Eh,” Penelope says, prolonging the ‘h’ until her lungs are voided of all air.

“He is safer in car than outside. We will come back when fog leaves,” Bapo Hrobar says as they march into the mists with him at the helm, their legs fumbling to keep pace with his yard-length steps.

“How long does the fog last?” Penelope asks.

“If you have watch, look,” Bapo Hrobar says. “Time is dead. Is alive maybe later, maybe not.”

“Now see here,” Doctor Arthwitte says. “Pain in my keester or no we won’t leave the boy to die. We certified Alchemists take a solemn oath to never–”

“Inside fog, world is different,” Bapo Hrobar says. “You walk in circle and straight line at same time. Inside fog, time is fast for some, maybe slow for others. But when fog leaves, has been less than quarter of hour. Vampires are stronger in fog. Only hunt in fog. Therefore first rule is don’t be in fog.”

“Then we’ve plenty of time to–”

“Ne,” Bapo Hrobar says. “After bitten, is precious moments until infection sets in. If cure does not work, we must lock you up with others. Is rules.”

“With the others?” Penelope says. “What do you mean with the others?”

“We get you to Herr Raubtier,” Bapo Hrobar says. “He is Austrian, was doctor in Great War. He understands vire-er-virooses.”

“Vampires, Papists, and now Austrians,” Doctor Arthwitte grumbles. He retrieves his flask, unscrews the top, and takes a deep swig. “Nothing in the letters mentioned any this.”

“We put more in some letters than others,” Bapo Hrobar says. “Longer letters got less answers. How you say, brevity is soul of success?”

“Those vampires used to be exorcists for the Vatican,” Penelope snips. “How long was the letter you sent to them?”

“Is not time for questions, is time when questions make dead. We get back to village, then is time for questions. Right now is time to look for light.”

Penelope comes to an abrupt halt. “Why a light?”

“Light is special,” Bapo Hrobar says. “Any light will do, but fire is best.”

Penelope freezes. Bapo Hrobar releases her. “What is wrong?”

“Why is it special?”

“Light makes fog more apparent,” Bapo Hrobar says. “Light makes it harder for fog to turn you around, or to turn four steps into four kilometers. But is not perfect: flashlight is good, carries long beam, can make four kilometers into one. But sturdy torch works as well. Gives wide sae area.”

“Good to know,” Doctor Arthwitte coughs, having downed the rest of his flask.

“There,” Bapo Hrobar says, pointing.

A faint orange glow burns straight ahead, like a smoldering ember at the bottom of a fire pit burnt down to ashen powder. Penelope and Doctor Arthwitte cautiously make their way on towards the light. As for Dorian, Penelope can only hope that he is safe inside the Black Beetle.

She is half correct: he is still inside the car.

#

“Abdon,” Mami Hrobar calls out. For a moment, she thinks that she can see him in the distance. A chill wind blows in but the undulating brume that surrounds them is unaffected. The torchlight flickers and Mami Hrobar almost drops it. “Fool husband, running off to save outsiders.”

Angelica Mathers has her back to them with Marcel in her lap. The boy is curled up in a fetal ball, blood weeping from his arm, dripping onto her fox fur-lined cloak and the dirt. He is babbling something incoherent and feverish.

“You should stay away from boy,” Mami Hrobar says.

“I don’t need your warnings–”

“Is not warning, is fact,” Mami Hrobar says. “You expect good to come of this?”

“He’s been injured. He’s likely going into shock. Watch him, I will go fetch Herr Raubtier.”

“You can doubt faith, little andel, but do not doubt Mami Hrobar. He is source of all wickedness in town. Mami Hrobar can sense these things.”

“I doubt you can ever sense much of anything,” Angelica mutters.

“What?”

“I doubt anyone can sense much in this fog.”

“Torchlight will burn out before he returns,” Mami Hrobar says mournfully. “Abdon, you old fool.”

Angelica Mathers brushes Marcel’s sweat slicked hair away from his forehead. “Can you hear me?”

Marcel’s whispered babbling abruptly stops. Next his back and forth rocking comes to a creeping halt. Slowly, he turns his head up to look at Angelica, eye to eye. His pupils are so wide that his eyes are almost solid black. He smiles, the sort of forced smile that spreads the jaw down and tugs the cheekbones out, a lunatic’s grin. Teeth clenched, he starts to breathe again, ecstatic panting and gasping.

“Marcel?”

As if propelled by the apocalypse, careening towards oblivion to a fanfare of angelic trumpets, the boy lunges at Mademoiselle Mathers and pins her to the ground by the throat. He whispers in her ear, “This one is ours, not yours. You are but a moon that stands in our light.”

“Get away from her, Devil,” Mami Hrobar commands, swinging the torch like a cudgel.

Marcel rolls off of Angelica then makes a mad dash into the fog. His feet slap on the wet mud and betray his trail until they too are swallowed up and sink into the grey nothing with him.

“Did he hurt you, little andel?”

“I’m fine,” Angelica says, rubbing her neck. “We should go after him.”

“Ne,” Mami Hrobar commands. “My husband is bad enough, I will not have both of you running off unprotected. You must forget what you have learned in school, in books and newspapers. This is sorcery. Old and evil. And its grip is on that boy, same as it held his father. He is of wicked seed–”

“Stop,” Angelica says, coldly.

“My husband will find him,” Mami Hrobar reassures her. She gazes out into the grey soup. Then she steps back for fear that Marcel has returned. Instead, her husband breaches through the mist, with Penelope and Doctor Arthwitte in tow.

“Did you see Marcel?” Angelica asks.

“Boy is gone?” the old man asks. “I thought he was with you.”

“Devil took him,” Mami Hrobar sighs. “He attacked then ran of to join demons.”

“He ran away in that direction, you must have seen him,” Angelica says.

“It was in fog, little andel,” Bapo Hrobar says. “Who knows where devil boy is now.”

“You don’t understand, he…” Angelica’s voice trails off. Marcel’s parting words still linger. They are not as easy to dismiss, even for a mother. “I don’t know.”

“Still she defends boy,” Mami Hrobar says. “Yes, illness, we will call devils ‘illness.’ And not even your ‘good health’ can save him.”

“Bapo Hrobar?” Angelica asks.

The one-eyed giant shifts his weight from one foot to the other and sucks on his teeth, his eye preoccupied anywhere except Angelica’s, which remained fixed on him. “Devil preys upon human sympathy,” he says after a beat.

“He also preys upon fear and mistrust.”

Mami Hrobar gasps, pointing at Doctor Arthwitte. “Al-keem-ist is bitten. He has turned!”

“Am I beset by a gypsy tribunal? I have been bitten, true, that much is certain. But there is no reason to trapeze off into hysterics,” Doctor Arthwitte snaps, his face wet and blotched. “If this is the customary procedure of your court then I’d sooner take my chances with the Austrian. Or the Pope!”

“Dorian is still out there,” Penelope says. “He’s in the car. We have to get him.”

“Dorian?” Angelica asks.

“Is brother to little girl,” Bapo Hrobar says. “Doctor’s secretary.”

“Ne, we go back to mansion, is only safe house,” Mami Hrobar says. “We search for brother when fog is gone.”

“But he’s out there alone,” Penelope begs.

“Agreed, we’ll fetch lanterns and brave this fog,” Doctor Arthwitte says as he reaches for his gun. “I’ve a theory about marking a trail with–” His arm goes limp and his gun plops handle-first into the mud. Doctor Arthwitte grimaces, his good hand going white from his grip on the bite wound.

“Are you alright?” Penelope asks.

“Perfectly posh and prim, dear,” Doctor Arthwitte says with a spit. “Naught but a twinge of the humours.”

“Is infection,” Mami Hrobar says as she lifts her crucifix between her and the doctor. “Is painful toxin that seeps into flesh. Is only short time before change begins.”

“You’ve but only half the idea,” Doctor Arthwitte says.

Bapo Hrobar shepherds him ahead before the old man can resist. “No more talk, is waste of time.”

Mami Hrobar mutters, “You are either brave man or foolish one to have come here.”

“Madame,” Doctor Arthwitte replies, sweaty and pallid as a ghost. “I am both – I am an alchemist.”

“How much oil is left on the torch?” Penelope asks.

“I do not know,” Mami Hrobar says. “Is already burned down. Is time to go. You too, little andel.”

“Come along, Penelope,” Doctor Arthwitte calls, but it takes all of his energy to dab at his flushed cheeks. “Besides, the car is home to a ghost – these dastardly beasts can’t go in without invitation. Isn’t that what the boy would say?”

“Delirium is first sign of change,” Mami Hrobar hisses.

“Ne, fat man is drunk,” Bapo Hrobar adds. “He has breath like hands of surgeon.”

Penelope doesn’t move. She stands transfixed by the orange glow of Mami Hrobar’s torch as it fades away into nothing. Oon the inky syrup of the fog is all that surrounds her. Somewhere in the immeasurable distance, a vampire howls.

Only now does my sister understand the wisdom of the old woman, how hopeless a rescue attempt was. If it were not her standing where she is, under my watchful protection, she would surely perish.

Then a new light appears in front of her, a dim little beacon penetrating the fog. It shifts momentarily to an iridescent rainbow, flickering green to yellow, to pink. Penelope rubs her eyes then blinks.

The light is gone. Then she hears a sound like hollow tubes of glass tinkling together in a gentle wind. Pivoting on her heels, she sees the light again, glittering brassy hues of pink, green, and blue. This time, when she blinks, the light remains.

It bobs from side to side then darts off into the distance, parting the fog like a curtain. Penelope races towards it with one determined foot in front of the other. She does not know that the light is my messenger, my servant, that is guiding her back to our brother.