Old Sammy
Sammy was still passed out on the couch. It was the same couch that he’d been on for nearly eight hours now. The mix of fear, travel, and emotional isolation had taken its toll on him. Jules remarked at how fragile Sammy looked in the soft light coursing in through the windows. His hair was matted from sweat, and tussled from sleep. His shirt was bunched and wrinkled, and his pants were still dirty around the cuffs from trudging through the Golem tunnels.
Jules left the post where he’d been watching the human sleep. His beach house was quiet, all of
Oh, how the fall did come. And it took a great deal more from Jules than Joanna had promised him. He had been wrong to trust her. Now, now he had a human who had lost a great deal, and yet whom he could not yet let go. Now he had a human who was drained and unconscious on his couch. The sleep should do him good. Jules knew that Sammy deserved it. But where was Jules’ rest? Where was the break that he had fought so long and hard for? Where was the rest that he needed a month ago, when he held that pistol about to kill the Golem he sold out and the human who was just trying to do what was right?
Jules strode through the small house filled with natural looking wooden furniture, earthen upholstery, and white, whicker cabinets. Outside the sun was loosing its battle with the sea, falling into oblivion. Darkness was taking over and Jules knew that he could not sit around the apartment forever. He had wandered himself into the kitchen and flicked on a light. The mosaic floor tiles flickered back a shine of reflected florescent light. Jules found the fridge and a Heineken. As he cracked the beer he heard a soft pat behind him, the pat of bare feet on tile. Sammy was standing there, albeit barely under his own freewill.
Sammy looked like hell. His hair was still a ragged mess. His clothes hung from him as if he’d been sleeping in them for years instead of the better part of the day. His arms hung limply at his sides, his fingers sprawled as if he was waiting to grab something, though what he was waiting for wasn’t quite obvious. Jules wondered if Sammy even knew.
“Where are we?” Sammy’s question barely slipped from between his lips.
“
“And…,”
“Corbin? He’s dead, by his own hand.”
Sammy nodded and took a seat at the table, pulling back the white painted chair and putting his head down on the table.
“Lucky bastard,” Sammy mumbled into his arms.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you,” Jules said, taking a sip of his drink.
“Nothing. Forget it.”
A long silence built between the two. Outside the waves rolled in, carrying with them the temperate breeze that pounds
“Sammy. I know this all has been a terrible shock. That the last six months have changed your entire world. But you’re not alone in this.”
“Oh lord. Spare me,” Sammy looked up as he sneered. “You have no idea what I’ve gone through. You haven’t lost anything.”
“You can take your bloody pity back to the couch. I’ve lost a lot. A lot of people have. Do you have any idea who Danilo Metucchi is? No? I didn’t think so. How about the Neon Haze? Ever been there? Does the Writ of the Dead ring any bells?” With the English accent, Jules’ words were all the more biting.
Sammy sat there blankly, staring at a wall, staring at his wall.
“I’m not denying that you’ve been hurt, physically, emotionally, mentally. But I am saying that there is a lot more going on here. It might not seem like much more than a string of battles to you, but I’m about to lay down the whole war. The Golem Council enacted what is known as the Writ of the Dead, a declaration of war on a race; on my people. They sought to kill Sirens and anyone who associated with us. The Dead marched into the Neon Haze, a Siren run and Siren visited night club in-,”
“
“Yes. Thank you. The Dead, a euphemism for a dozen machine-gun-toting Golems, shot the place up and then burned it to the ground to hide the evidence. Now, why did they do this? They were jealous of the positions that Sirens hold in the world of man. They felt that we too should adhere to a policy of non-contact. They wanted us to cower and hide as they have since the dark ages.” Jules paused in his slow, metered, sharp lecture to take another swirl of Heineken. He crossed his arms across his chest and continued. “A group of Sirens, of which I admit I was one, and led by a woman named-,”
“Joanna?”
“Yes, she called herself Joanna. Set the Golems up to burn by their own matches so to say. We found a target, and supplied the information that was wanted to someone we knew would take his actions to the extreme. I believe you remember Ken Morrison?”
“You set Pruent up? Why? Then why the hell did you try and stop the shooting? Or did you? You son of a bitch-,”
“Easy. Hold on now. Lower your voice and stop jumping to conclusions. I did try to stop the shooting because I had a sudden change of heart. Others had a lot of leverage on me to let it go down. But you saw me, you know that I did my best to try and save Ken Morrison’s life.”
That almost tangible silence built in the kitchen of that beach house. Sammy’s head hovered just above where it had been resting on his arms, right above the table top. Jules remained motionless, his arms crossed and his beer still in his hand.
“What kind of leverage was it?”
Like a rock hitting a glass window, the silence cracked but hovered there for a moment. It stayed just long enough to make Jules and Sammy alike wonder if it was really going to crumble and fall. It did.
“A group, called the Hatter’s Guild. They’re Sirens that sit in the Parisian underbelly like a cancerous growth. They set me up, drugged me, and took very compromising pictures of myself and a girl who, I’m told, was fourteen. They said if Morrison didn’t die those pictures would “meet the press” as you American’s say.”
“I guess it’s a good thing for you that your best wasn’t good enough.”
“No. No it wasn’t. Because now I’m faced with a giant what-if. What if those pictures had come out, and ruined my life, would Danilo Metucchi have risen to power? Would the entire
“I’m not following…”
“Danilo Metucchi rose to become the Siren Duke on a platform of sweeping reform amongst the
“Isn’t that why you came over here?”
Water flowed in, drowning the conversation which had blossomed between the two. Jules fought to hide the shock which erupted inside of him. Slowly he counted. He wanted to help this human, to drag him out of his land of self-pity and denial by showing him the light, by clueing him into the bigger picture which, until now, he’d only seen glimpses of. Yet the little bastard did not want to listen. That’s the bloody problem with Americans.
“No. That’s not why I came here,” Jules hid the resentment as much as possible, but his words still possessed a razor’s edge.
“So I guess Joanna screwed you all then?”
“Something like that. But no one can do anything about it. She hid her identity well. No clues. She could disappear now and no one would ever know who she was.”
“Brian Corbin never will.”
Jules took a long pause before he started speaking again. Perhaps this time Sammy would be more open to listening. “We’re at a war here Sammy. We’re all casualties. I’m sorry that you’ve been cut so deeply, and so often, but you must understand that since you’re in between the two races, you have a distinct advantage. That advantage can mean peace, if we use it properly.”
Sammy looked up from where his head had fallen onto the table again. The human’s eyes burned.
“Do you remember how you wondered if you had what it took to be that sacrifice? To give it all? You were just talking about it. Well, I don’t have to wonder, I’ve already given it all. And it’s not even my fight. Do you understand that? I didn’t ask for this. You say advantage, but I’m stuck with one word: tool. I’m tired of being everyone’s tool, tired of living in pain just so that others can chance peace. I’m tired of sacrificing. I’ve got nothing left. Find another advantage.” And with that, the human left the room.
Rank truly has its privileges. Though Jeremy Potts didn’t know whether he wanted to have this one or not. There had been a constant flow of information pertaining to the captured “beings” as they’d been labeled. Preliminary results said they were definitely not human, but what exactly they were had yet to be determined. The FBI team who had drawn them out were still in quarantine. But the walls, suits, and tests that trapped them were not stopping the debriefing process. Interviews had been recorded and transcribed, flowing into the White House through every secure means possible. A dozen or so stories had been collected from both the assault team and Bach’s team. The tops in
“Damn it’s late,” Potts grumbled as he rubbed his eyes. “And on a Sunday too.” He was still having a hard time dealing with all of this. To make matters worse, it seemed that the President was more than content to let Bush handle this one. Of course, the situation wasn’t just going to sit there and wait. The President Elect had been notified and flown to
Potts didn’t know if he liked it. He didn’t know what he’d do, but the President Elects’ rapid initiative seemed a bit premature, at least in Potts’ professional opinion. There was simply no precedence on a situation like this, never before had a foreign race, because there was no denying that they were a race of their own, been encountered. This was not Marco Polo slipping along the
That report struck a bit of fear into his marrow. They knew so much about mankind. They knew about current events and the way that humans act, interact, feel, think. Hell, they even spoke English and read the newspaper. They had credit and ordered items off the internet. They had internet access. These were not cave-dwelling Neanderthals; these Golems were as advanced as any American. And they were content to hide in the shadows, watching and waiting. It was too sneaky, too suspicious, the whole damn situation bothered Potts. And Bush was schedule to travel to the
That trip brought about dozens of complications. The press was still a major problem. They were buying the Chinese sweatshop cover for now. But if the President and the President Elect were sneaking down to a Marine Corps base in
January 15, 2001
The white walls of the sterile room seemed to actually be closing in on the team. Bach and his men had been shut into the quarantine unit for almost thirty six hours now. They’d been subjected to test after test. They’d been pricked, poked, prodded, weighed, measured, bathed, x-rayed, and thrown into some rather uncomfortable plastic shirts, pants, and slippers. It made
It’s not as if Bach didn’t understand the gravity of this situation. This was big. This was probably the biggest thing he’d ever see in his lifetime. If the little information he was actually being provided was true, and their present situation seemed to support it being so, this was the first time that mankind has ever met anything like these, those, things.
The hum of a pump caught Bach’s attention and he turned to see a glass door open. The door was the interior one of a pair that formed a contaminate-stopping chamber between the team’s quarantine zone and the rest of the
“I hate this place. They just made me shit in a cup!”
“Eeee. I’m sorry, Ben.” Timmy looked up from the mattress he was laying on, letting his arms dangle and his fingers brush along the cold white floor.
“I mean. How many tests are they going to run, all coming up negative dammit, before they realize that we’re clean?”
Bach turned back to the wall he’d been staring at. He could see his own dark reflection in the slight sheen of the white. Sterile. Trapped.
“What time is it?” Denny mumbled. He was dead on his back, an arm tossed over his eyes.
“Does it fucking matter?”
“Easy there, Benny.”
“Shut up, Smitty. You didn’t just shit in a cup.”
“Jeez.”
“It’s a little after twelve.”
The time was blatantly evident for anyone sitting up. One wall of the room had a large, long window cut into it. The glass was visibly thick, almost an inch, and sealed heavily with a thick, black epoxy. On the other side of the window was the operations room. From inside a group monitored everything that happened to Bach’s team. They had charts, cameras, microphones, thermometers: they had the team on display. In the middle of the room was a large digital clock showing the time down to the second. Somewhere Bach recalled something about the clock making this that much more sane. It wasn’t.
Jules had found a quiet table in the bar. The bar itself was crowded but he’d managed to find his own bubble of seclusion, enjoying the isolation for as long as it would last. He couldn’t stay there with Sammy any longer. His attitude, his apparent animosity towards life was contagious and Jules didn’t need that right now. An expensive import cigarette rested in his hand. He couldn’t run, and it was getting to him. He knew his avenue of escape would come, but he didn’t know when, and that not knowing was digging at his stomach. He hadn’t told Sammy where he was going, partially because he didn’t care, and partially because he didn’t want the anger which surely would have been launched at him.
Jules didn’t look up when she came in. He’d never been quite friends with Beth Meyers, but he needed one of his own now. Jules had reached out for some sympathy, someone who could, at least on some level, empathize with him. Besides, she was local.
The blond sat down at the table, one of her chic drinks already in hand. She smiled meekly.
“Is it something I said?”
Jules shook his head and reached for his own drink. The dark brown liquor was warm, but the anger which had such a strong grip on him right now was cold.
“Just a long couple of days I guess.” He looked up at her. He wasn’t sure whether he was glad to see her or not. Damn him. Damn him and the foul mood he’s put me in.
“It’s a tough time for all of us. Especially after Brian’s death,” her comment was slow, measured. She seemed to be probing Jules, looking for what was wrong.
“Yeah. I didn’t expect you to be around. Taking a break from your busy filming schedule?”
Beth nodded, she turned away from Jules, looking over the bar. The paranoia of the famous. “We’re on a break for the winter. I haven’t been here in ages.”
“That’s surprising. Your house isn’t too far from here.”
“True. But I’ve been enjoying my extended vacation.” She turned back to Jules with a more sociable smile and started to sip at her drink.
“What’s that like?”
“What’s what like?”
“A vacation.”
“Jules, love, you can’t be that busy at Whitehouse. You’re here aren’t you?” She sipped again. The idea seemed good to Jules; he took a bit of his own drink. A palpable silence descended on their table despite the local din that seeped from the bar.
“What put you on an extended vacation?” Jules’ question was met with a brief, blank stare. Beth quickly composed herself.
“Have you,” she paused and took another, larger sip of her drink. “Have you been having trouble with Old Worlders at Whitehouse?” Her voiced dropped dramatically in volume around the words Old Worlders. Jules had had to lean in just to hear her.
“Personally? No. Susan took care of the one who was ordered to work into Whitehouse. I haven’t really thought about it. She said she took care of it, why?” A slight bit of distress worked around the blue eyes of the Siren.
“I’m just seeing how far they’ve gotten. This entire plan of theirs. It bothers me.”
“I know. How far have they gotten?” Beth signaled for another drink.
“I don’t know exactly. You can’t map that sort of thing out on a map,” his accent was tired. “Have they been troubling you?”
“Not me. Some Sirens’ agents have been being muscled, not brute force of course, but moves are being made.”
Jules nodded and took another swirl of liquor. The drink hit the back of his throat with a burn that seemed to drag fire down into his stomach where it rested in a small, hot ball. He tried to get as close to the fire as possible, tried to stay as warm as he could.
“I just can’t trust the Old Worlders any more Jules. Not after…”
Jules turned back to the conversation, only half hearing what the blond had said.
“Pardon?”
“What?” Beth’s brows shrunk down, a look of concern complicating her Californicated features.
“I didn’t hear what you said.”
“Oh, I was just mumbling something about how I can’t seem to trust Old Worlders any longer.”
“I thought you said…”
“I did. I mean. I’m here aren’t I? They haven’t gotten to me yet. But, they’re getting to others and what happens if they suddenly want a part of me? I don’t want to end up like Brian.”
“Beth…they didn’t get to Brian. The ghost of Joanna got to Brian.” His words were washed back by a ball of burning comfort. Beth just nodded, slowly, and took a rather large gulp of her freshly arrived drink.
“Of course. I’m just stressing I guess. I didn’t think his death would get to me like this.” Beth looked away again, her eyes drifting over the bar and its microcosm of quiet southern
This time it was Jules’ turn to nod. After a handful of heartbeats and a smack of contemplation chased with alcohol he replied.
“From what I understand. She’s really pissing Danilo off. She must be. No one likes a trouble-maker.”
“Didn’t you English-types call the colonies trouble-makers?”
Jules nodded.
“And we called them patriots.”
“There’s a fine-line between causing trouble and patriotism.”
“Who decides what that line is?”
“Whoever is writing the history books.”
“I see. Susan isn’t getting any trouble from this is she? No…?”
Jules didn’t like where this was going. The oddities of the entire conversation had begun to mix with the alcohol, and that was a combination that proved to not sit well with him.
“I think this is a time to politely change the subject.”
“Is it the Hatter’s Guild?” Beth’s voice dropped into an almost frantic whisper.
“I wouldn’t have any idea. Now drop it,” his English accent took on a biting, authoritative tone while maintaining a low volume.
“You invite me out for a drink and then snap at me. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Jules, but I think you should consider a vacation. Thanks for the drinks though.” Her smile was curt, forced, and somehow angry. Beth Meyers rose to her feet, and with that, she was gone.
From where he sat Jules watched her leave. She drifted into the crowd, said something to the bartender and pointed towards where Jules was sitting. And with not so much as a good-bye, she walked out the door. Jules felt his own dark cloud drift over him. He lit up another cigarette and looked at his watch. It wasn’t even ten yet.
Nathan Wilde lay on his bed. Across the dark room the television flickered as it had been since his escape from the Townsquare just over three days ago. He hadn’t left Headline News except to switch to CNN during commercial breaks. He hadn’t left his apartment period. Sleep had come in spurts, and work hadn’t come at all. Nathan had no idea what to do, no one to turn to, and no clue as to where Sammy was at the moment. He’d seen that Brian Corbin was dead, and he’d seen Sammy’s picture on the news. There were so many things that he was looking for: news on the Townsquare events (still listed as a sweatshop operation), news on Sammy, news on Jules, and news on where Warren Bach had disappeared off too. That agent had been a thorn in Nathan’s side since he failed to stop the assassination. And in the past few days he’d dropped off the scope, and that in itself was dangerous. Parents get nervous when children get quiet, Nathan was getting down right worried now that the FBI was quiet. Know thy enemy…
The phone jarred Nathan’s train of thought, and caused his long, crippled, form to twist and crawl up the bed to where the phone lay on the bedside table. The screen glowed a sickly green color and the words George Pruent were formed in black dots.
“What?”
“I’m crawling back with my tail between my legs.”
George’s comment caught the crippled Golem off balance and he didn’t speak for a second out of fear that he would audibly stammer. Political rules mandated that he did speak though, too much silence would tip the other Golem off. “Where are you going with this, George?”
“Towards the realm of treason.”
“Now that is something that is going to take a great deal of explaining.”
“And it will come in due time. But I need to know this now, can I count on your voice?”
“My voice?”
“Yes. I need you to trust me.”
“In the years that I’ve known you, and the maneuvers that we’ve made together, and against each other, I’ve seen you do a great many things. Few of those things are ones that I’d consider trust-worthy.”
“I know. Which is why I have my tail between my legs. I put you in jail. I’m responsible for so many horrible things, not just to you, but to other Golems, and arguably the entire situation that the Hidden Races are faced with now. But I’m trying to make amends. I need to know, that when the time comes, if I ask you, will you lend me your voice in support?”
“You’re asking me for blind support now?”
“It’s too risky to give any details. Nathan, please, will you help me? I need to know.”
“Have you been drinking?” There was a bit of dead air on the phone.
“I…I don’t see what that has to do with this situation.”
“Dammit, George, if you’re drunk…”
“I’m not. I haven’t touched alcohol in days now.”
“I’m going to need some time to think about it, George.”
“I’m going to count on you. Even if you don’t say you’re going to be there for me. I’m going to trust in your faith and commitment to what’s right. I know how stupid that is. I know that you have every reason in the world to just turn on me in my moment of need like I did to you so many times. But I’m going to do it anyway.”
“I can’t promise blind support. It’s a fools errand.”
“Well, I’m tired of being a fool. I was hoping for something better to come from all of this. But now’s the time to make things happen. It’ll all make sense in the end. Good bye Nathan.”
“Good night George.” And with that the Golem’s long, boney fingers pressed the end button on his phone and the screen went blank.
Susan breathed for perhaps the first time in just over 12 hours. He was finally gone. Mathew Marques. He’d traveled a long way to deal with her, and finally he was gone. Susan was still shaking, the thiopental sodium finally releasing its grip on her system. It was out there somewhere, the answer, if she could only stop the cough that was building. It erupted from deep with in, spilling over her in slow waves. She could still see him. A cough rocked Susan where she lay on the floor. He had taken her by surprise. The cough rippled off from the Siren, but the shaking was still there. He’d sat her down, not at all gently, and she watched in horror as he pulled the yellow grey power from his jacket. Susan continued to shake as another fit of coughing bumped her into the chair. He tied her arm down to the chair and run an IV. It hadn’t taken long. She just started talking. Her lips shook uncontrollably, flecks of blood catching on them and the outside of her mouth. Her fingers dug into the plush carpet and her eyes stared at the door, but she didn’t see. She couldn’t see. She didn’t know what he wanted. She didn’t know what to say so that he would stop. Plug after plug dotted her arm; cocktail after drug-laden cocktail; He kept digging, kept asking questions, kept feeling for more. She couldn’t see the door, her eyes glazed over and empty, and she couldn’t stop the coughing, the shattering waves coming in an almost staccato burst now. The coughs paired with the shaking, leaving the Siren Susan White a heap on the floor. She was sputtering blood and trying her damnedest to recall what he wanted. She wanted to know the why. Unconsciousness gripped Susan before she ever found her answers.
“Are you a doctor?”
The wind was cool, but it felt good. It was the only thing that felt good right now to Sammy. He hated feeling like this, hated being miserable, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He couldn’t just tell himself to snap out of it. He’d stopped walking a few minutes ago, he’d been walking for ages, taking aimless and slow strides because now he didn’t know where he was going. He’d started walking, walking away from Jules’ house because he didn’t want to stay there and walking had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Maybe he thought he could find answers spread along the sands, rolling in the waves, or blowing in the wind. Maybe he just wanted fresh air. But nothing was helping. He was still hollow and he could feel the emptiness growing. It was eating at him.
“Just one more day.”
Sammy had never considered himself a bitter, angry person. But he did now. He had never thought of himself as selfish, but that’s all he wanted to be right now. And it wasn’t so much Lexi as it was everything. Right now he doubted that he had even loved her, he didn’t know what he had felt, he just knew that now he was angry. He’d been used by everyone and everything and the only thing he got out of it was a hole. Long days and long nights, strange sights, beaten, bruised. Sammy had been the focus of abuse for the entire world and all that the world could offer him was the promise of a better tomorrow. That promise seemed as hollow as Sammy felt.
A sudden surge took Sammy. He wanted to hurt something, anything. He wanted something in the world to be able to relate to the pain that he felt. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Why is it that no one ever tells you this?” Sammy yelled out, asking the wind. He didn’t get a reply, just a rush of cool air against his cheek, a taunting whistle in his ear. No one has this kind of bad luck, and because of that, no one can empathize. Jules had tried, rather miserably. He hadn’t gotten to this level yet. He hadn’t lost. He was still in the fight. Sammy had. Sammy wasn’t.
“If only…,”
If only Sammy had someone to relate to. He wanted to cry, but he wanted to laugh. This whole situation was just so absurd. Sammy slunk down, falling onto his rear and facing the rolling morning waves. He’d forgotten that he was on the West Coast. In
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