Preta's Realm (15 page)

“I can’t worry about that. I can’t be everywhere, all the time. That will need to be another’s crucible.”

Mashoka hunched forward and lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. “If Gaki is truly here, it will not leave on its own accord. The creature will demand recompense. Are you willing to be the currency in the transaction?”

“I have studied hard, Mashoka. I believe I can banish Gaki without sacrificing human life.”

“By your count, he has already claimed two souls.”

“Which is why we cannot delay. We must start preparing, reading, writing.”

“I have seen several become lost in his spell of consumption, his disease of greed. You must understand the risk of hunting Gaki.”

Ravna pulled his laptop from his bag. “My battery is low. Where can I plug this thing in?”

***

Drew arrived at the office on Monday morning to hidden stares. His colleagues spoke in hushed tones when in the proximity of his desk. Several avoided him completely.

The time spent with Molly made him feel twenty-one again, and he had aches to prove it. She did not bring up their lunchtime confrontation from the previous week and neither did he. The make-up sex was too good to spoil by rehashing the argument. Drew did not pretend it did not happen, but he resolved the entire situation to a misunderstanding. His overreaction to Molly’s vibrator damaged his male ego, thereby creating a situation that did not exist. After all, he could grapple with the fact that his wife had needs and might seek to have them fulfilled by another man, but he could not admit defeat to a plastic, penis-shaped object. Either way, the ramifications of resurrecting the argument would do nothing but cause unnecessary discomfort for them both. Drew found it easiest to resume his life on Monday morning and push the incident to the deepest recesses of his mind.

“Hey!”

Drew turned in time to see Brian stride past his cubicle, a whirling dervish of slackened tie, splashing coffee, and conditioner on a wet head.

“He’s still AWOL,” Drew said to Brian.

“After the entire weekend?”

Drew nodded as if taking three sick days in a row was akin to armed robbery. Brian set the coffee cup down on his desk, where it began to form a perfect, brown circle of overflow on his desk blotter.

“Maybe the dude killed a hooker while on a bender and is running from Johnny Law?”

“I can’t see Johnson with a hooker, and certainly not a dead one.”

Brian slapped Drew on the back and laughed. He cackled with honesty, unbound and unfettered.

“It wasn’t that funny,” said Drew.

“I’m happy. You’re back. The old you. If I had known it would only take a night of letting you beat me at pool, I would have done that a long time ago.”

Drew’s desk extension rang, the caller ID showing one of several clients that he had shafted during his latest funk.

“Gotta take this. Chiapas for lunch?’

“Served by my sweet mamasita! I’m in.”

Drew shrugged and tossed the receiver to his ear. He cocked his head sideways and tucked his chin down in order to free both hands. He took the call and passed through the rest of his morning with the efficiency of a top-level manager, delegating tasks and wading through the ocean of emails sitting in his inbox. One day, or even one afternoon, away from the program could result in a backlog of messages stretching far into the digital horizon. Lunchtime appeared in an instant. Brian ordered a margarita with his fajitas, which fostered even more flirting with the young Latina girl who always worked the lunch crowd. Drew watched as Brian winked at the young woman who knew little English besides “Coke” and “check please.” He found himself back at his desk with five o’clock creeping ever closer.

Drew managed to slay hundreds of emails while reestablishing contact with several clients that had drifted from his attention. Brian slapped him on the back on his way out, mumbling something about Happy Hour at Chiapas followed by a night of dancing. Drew shrugged off the comment, knowing full well it would not take Brian long to bed his mamasita, if he had not done so already.

He fumbled through his internet browser, taking a last look at several social networking sites before finishing up for the day. Although the company did not filter their access, Drew knew the ways of IT and disciplined himself to dabble socially only near the quitting hour, a time often left unchecked by Big Brother. He clicked low on the screen to bring up his email client one last time for the day.

The “sender” column sat with its usual list of abbreviated last names and squiggly symbols. All except for one. Drew’s heart lurched in his throat and his mouth became dry. The single white space of the column stuck out like a missing tooth with colors inverted to reveal a white gap against black text. He glanced at the subject line of the anonymous message.

“won’t be ignored”

Drew’s hand shook and he looked over his shoulder, convinced that someone in the office would think he was surfing porn on the company dime. He began mumbling to himself and the hot salsa he had with lunch whispered at the top of his throat.

“Sticking around?”

Drew jumped and minimized the email client. He turned to look at the source of the question, his pupils dilated and his lip curled into a menacing snarl.

“Don’t think it’s any of your business,” he muttered.

The woman shrugged and rolled her eyes before pulling the glass door of the main lobby and heading toward the elevator. Drew did not recognize the woman because they all looked the same. The gaggle of newly turned thirty-somethings with highlighted hair and foundation-filled crow’s feet on their faces never ceased to annoy the shit out of him. He despised their sexual freedom and lack of true responsibility. They could go out on a Tuesday night, get drunk, fuck, and call off work in the morning. They could spend Saturday mornings watching cartoons and eating double chocolate chip ice cream for breakfast. They could “weekend in Vegas.”

Fucking slut.

He waited for the door to swing shut and looked around the office. One man at the far end of the floor stood and grabbed his coat from the rack. At the other end, another waning vixen touched up her mascara in the blackness of a powered-down computer monitor.

Drew turned back to his screen and restored his email client. His eyes drifted towards the middle of the page, in the vicinity of the anonymous email with a cryptic subject. When he clicked on the message, the body started to load an image. Like the last one from the anonymous sender, the lines filled the screen one at a time, from the top down. There were no greetings in the body, no words, no generic signature tacked on mindlessly by the sender’s program. The entire body of the email was a message that loaded like flowing honey.

The blinking cursor stopped underneath the picture. It teased him with its constant motion. Drew felt the punch of the image before he even saw it. The screen stole his breath and singed his sinus cavities like campfire smoke. He coughed and choked, reaching for a bottle of water on his desk. Drew started shaking his head as he tried to will the image out of existence.

The picture had the grainy detail of one taken from a distance with a zoom lens. The greens looked fuzzy and the blue washed out the rest of the color. Drew would have recognized the park in his neighborhood in the dark. He could feel the wood chips under his feet while sitting at his desk.

Drew put a hand over his face. He saw the swing set, the stainless steel slide, and the wooden jungle gym. Children sat in the eternal stillness of the photo in various poses of innocence. Drew’s mind skimmed past the ponytails and white athletic shoes until they fixated on a certain ponytail and a certain athletic shoe. Molly’s face anchored the photograph, her mouth open in a wide smile with the neighbor’s wife standing next to her. The photographer captured the three most important things in Drew’s life with one shot. He thought it must be the type of photographs pedophiles use when they cannot find a victim, the kind of photograph that would end up covered in semen on the floor of a bathroom in a filthy hotel.

Drew printed the message and grabbed his car keys. He knew the email was a warning, a shot across the bow, but he did not want to take that chance. Drew left the office with a trail of papers following his sprinting form.

***

Mashoka squinted and waved a hand at Ravna as if the device had summoned a cloud of gnats that threatened to infiltrate his nostrils.

“The web has been around for decades. Quit pretending you don’t know what it is.”

Mashoka grumbled.

“Unless you have a better way of tracking Gaki’s appearances in the last few decades? Maybe you can call all the Hunters in North America?”

Mashoka grumbled again.

“That’s what I thought. Should we start looking at this content or bring the search down to the region?”

The old man sat still, staring at Ravna and his wicked tool.

“Let’s start with the region.”

Ravna’s hands glided across the keyboard and his eyes shifted back and forth between them and the screen. His tongue curled out of the corner of his mouth and retreated like a lizard prowling for an insect. Mashoka sat still.

“Uh-huh,” Ravna said. “Yep.”

Mashoka pushed his frail frame into a standing position. He grabbed the edge of the plastic lid on the laptop and closed it. Ravna turned with both hands in the air, searching for a word strong enough to repel Mashoka but not offend the old man.

“Shit!”

“Tongue of Satan,” replied Mashoka.

A few of the patrons in the café turned to look at the minor altercation but not long enough to remove their ear buds or to lower their book.

“Fine. We’ll do it your way.”

“There is only one way and it belongs to no one.”

Ravna rolled his eyes and followed Mashoka to a table in the corner, farthest from the counter and the bustle of the busy coffee shop.

“You know nothing of Gaki.”

“I know. That’s why I’m online looking it up.”

Mashoka closed his eyes. He folded his arms over his chest and drew long breaths followed by steady exhalations. Ravna pulled his phone from his pocket and touched the screen until the time showed on the digital version of a classic clock face.

“Put that away,” Mashoka said without opening his eyes.

Ravna leaned in and waved a hand back and forth in front of Mashoka’s face.

“You rely too much on your physical senses, young man. It is why you depend so heavily on the plastic trappings of culture. Quiet your soul.”

In a final display of slight inconvenience, Ravna turned his phone off. He shoved the laptop into his messenger bag and closed the flap over it. He looked at Mashoka like a man with fifteen items in the ten-items-or-less lane.

“You may keep your eyes open, but I will not. I need to reach back to recount the story and I cannot do it with the hundreds of distractions in the room.”

“Count on it. If you have your eyes closed they might think you’re dead. If we both do, they’d call the cops.”

Mashoka ignored the bawdy comment and drew a deep breath before continuing.

“I was only a boy, but you don’t forget the vile memories of war.”

“Really? The hyperbole.”

Mashoka grunted and then stopped.

“Okay. Sorry. I’ll shut up and let you tell it.”

The old man paused and, once sure he would not be interrupted again, continued the story.

“Most of the villages hailed the American GIs as heroes. The Emperor had committed us all to death and we would keep our honor. But when the Marines started landing on the islands, we secretly welcomed the chance to be released from the oath our leader made on our behalf.