The QUEEN SONG

(9)Scenes 21-22

10/31/2009

Mike W McCoy

Version 3.0

<>21<>  Grand California Resort.

The large limousine’s interior was dark, and illuminated only by the passed street lights and headlamps of oncoming cars.  Slowly and somewhat dramatically, each passenger became momentarily marked with the brighter exterior radiance.  The light exposed much more than the residual stress of the Club Uzi rooftop massacre. 

A suicidal camaraderie had begun to drift sideways across the plush red leather furnishings of the triad vehicle.  The emotion was pushed by the quick glimpses, and the undercurrent of smoldering laughs at the night’s vicarious violence. 

Jax the Firstborn sat deep inside the long vehicle, propped up closest to the driver’s dividing wall, relishing the experience, imaging it as a magic carpet ride of dusty death-dealers traveling together peaceably to see Mother.  His were closed, but his natural Alien acuity could feel the vibes exhaled by each person. 

None of the mixed readings made sense or induced a smile within him.

Boris sat closest, along with the foul smelling and beaten Ace Veilleurs slumped unconscious against his shoulder.  A larger, Hopeless appearing, stranger finished the seat’s foursome.  The special agent kept his mutilated face half hidden in the shadows, stopping the Snakes and Birds down the aisle from gawking.

There was no mistaking that the triad henchman, now spaced tightly amid the shrewd surviving Vultures of the flock, were dedicated to their leader, Xais, and his madness.  The underboss squirmed alongside the red dressed woman as she whispered something about how each loyalist was now tethered everlasting by the chains of the dead, and the extraordinary horrors they had all witnessed that night.

A smeared reality of extreme anxiety and uncertainty dominated Xais’s thoughts, actions, and reactions, at crazy Kung Fu speed.  Most of his men were dead.  Only Mahn and a few other older captains remained red, ruffed-up, and ready.  But for what?  His marriage to the sister of a demon, the son of the devil herself?  

Silently, Boris was working the angles on that same question.  His heart craved for retribution against Experiment Number 8, the clone of Ripley, but a numbing confusion of accountability stifled his body language.  Agent Yoshi, what did happen to her?  Whose Ninjas were those?  Was that whole entire plan a set-up? 

Had the creepy beach bum really called the thing of the 3D screen Mother?  The authenticity of the robot’s Memory Engram appeared real, and if so, could he actually be her son?  Was this man-child from the desert the spawn of an Alien hybrid experiment?

“That was your first time,” his words leapt with a will of their own.  “Wasn’t it?”

The volume was just above a harsh whisper, but it drew everyone’s immediate attention.  The Firstborn slowly opened his dark eyes, turned to face the man, and Boris thought he felt a vibe behind that gaze, something Alien.

“Seeing her like that,” he continued after the next passing light.  “Seeing Ripley.  Seeing that-” his breath died, as the stranger lunged.

The striking hand was combat-colored a wet crimson, and continued to apply the Darth Vader squeeze.  The cultist maintained a forced mental contact with Jax.  Boris briefly thought that Charlie M., Jim J. and David K., had nothing like this level of manipulated emotional devotion.  Not even the thick undercurrent of a suspected-suicide swerved the Hopeless man’s grip. 

“Enough,” Jax finally ordered, just as the Snakes started to stir. 

The mutilated man gasped harshly, rubbing his throat.

“That was my Mother?”

“Mother,” Boris agreed.

“Mother is different now,” Jax finished on a giggle.  “Not like then, brah.”  

“Oh, I bet she’s not,” he replied as the twisted smile returned. 

“Mother wants...” the Firstborn continued, leaning closer.  “Mother wants a family.  Mother wants you.”

Boris blinked with surprise.  “Swell, how’s that?”

The silence dragged as several passing headlights swept the limo’s interior.  The Yellow Hand tried to appear disinterested, but failed.  Their grins and gallows humor of emotion seeped into the Firstborn finally making him smile.

“You will give me brothers and sisters,” he answered.  “Before you die.”

“Go to Hell.  I want to kill her, not screw her.”

“We're still going, brah,” Jax replied.  “The Resort is my home, so play nice.  Mother doesn’t like if I have bad guests.  No running in the halls,” he finished quoting from his fresh childhood.

“No choice then?” Boris responded quietly. 

“Never.  Not even when Mother dreams.”

“Dreams?” a challenging tone, despite the fresh wounds from the bad kidnapping episode of Miami Vice.  “I only have bad dreams.”

 “I know you now, brah,” Jax said with an excited tone. “Yes I do.”

“How do you know me?”

“The same way you know him,” indicating Ace still slumped unconscious in the seat. 

Underboss Xais looked at the woman next to him, and they both leaned closer to catch the unclear words.

“You did hear Mother in your head?” the Firstborn added, running fingers thru his hair.  The special agent lost his smile. 

“The Queen Song, she calls it that.  Performs every other night, twice on weekends,” quoting from a poster at the Grand California Resort main theater. 

A brief glimpse of confusion twisted Xais’s face and the Vulture dug her talons into his arm.

“More are coming soon.  We are getting close, brah.”

Jax leaned forward and addressed the triad man and woman.  “Oh, can’t you guys just feel the energy?”

Both remained silent, too surprised to comment.

Boris grunted politely, rubbed his neck, and turned sideways to watch the final dark edge of night engulf the limo.  A low murmur of Chinese filled the inside-vehicle audio while the underboss pretended to listen surreptitiously to his lead Vulture argue something.

The oncoming headlamps faded away and the miles slipped past.  The highway charged towards sunrise, but never could quite reach it.  Shadows from the low hills and barren scrubland reached out, and ruthlessly dragged the limo back behind the ridgeline, slowly exposing the ruins of the Grand California Resort.

Around the narrow bend, and below the low canon walls, the dead lawns of a once majestic golf course surrounded the palacial placement of waterless debris-filled pools and broken cabanas.  Behind this abandoned landscaping was the silhouette of a collapsing 5-star vacation destination.

The glow of false-dawn dropped a rust tinged color across the massive Mission-Inn style buildings clustered in a slumping horseshoe shape.  Behind them waves of yellow white desert sand dunes stretched East for as far the eye could see.

The long white triad limousine sent up a rooster tail of dirt and dust while accelerating towards the Resort.  It swerved swiftly several times to avoid the large plants which randomly encroached from alongside the cracked asphalt.  They were part of a low forest of off-world invasive smart-cactus.  The non-native species covered the cracked earth with long high arching spikey tendrils in a carpet of fussy turquoise colors.

Inside the vehicle, the Snakes started to stir and fixate their T-glass shades on the nearly 100, mostly naked, refugee-rejects who crowded along the Southern approach to the building’s ruins.  The men’s mutterings became gruff one word observations as the limousine slowed and wound through the living throng. 

Up close, the sun-stained dregs were nothing more than starving wrecks of humanity.  Many were outwardly only a few meals away from being obituaries or camouflaged cultist cannon fodder.

The limo slowed along the far South end of the resort and stopped poolside.  The Olympic-size swimming structure was half-collapsed and filled partway with desert debris, bleached bones, crawling cactus, and a stench of rot. The cultist crowd began to self-segregate itself.  A more healthy smaller mix of disciples attended to the Firstborn and his entourage. 

“Wonderful place you have here, brother,” underboss Xais quipped nervously while exiting the limousine. 

The Vulture in red suppressed a choking gag, then joined him by walking with the others Birds of the Yellow Hand.

A pair of Snakes dragged, then dropped, the exhausted old man Ace Veilleurs near the car’s trunk.  The indifferent frowning Boris exited just behind Mahn. 

The elder henchman captain stood there adjusting his tie and gold colored suit.  He frowned, thinking last night’s blood stains had likely ruined the material.  He showed Boris, and got that weird smirk from the special agent in response.

The Firstborn exited last.  He remained by the door, and reviewed the cluster funk around him.  Jax’s tall frame stretched the limits of the festive green Guayabera fabric covering his torso, it too was bloodstained.  His eyes and Alien acuity reached out to ‘feel’ for Mother, but she was already there.

The tall main building of the Resort, bordered the pool’s patio.  Its back wall had partially collapsed, creating a dark cave-like entrance into the 4-story high edifice.  Around the edges, and trailing back inside, more cult followers were lined up, quivering with anticipation.

Mother, naked save for a shredded sleeveless yellow rain coat, strode forward with all the aspects of power and majesty. 

“Jax, my son.  You have done well.”

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<>22<>People to kill.

The slanted square of cracked asphalt was strangely illuminated by multiple sources, making everything a moon-shadow grey. 

Miles away, past the Wall, the electric lights of the Left Coat city’s central core sliced up the vertical sky by casting a pillar-like glimmer.  On the opposite side, a much lower glow, a third-world verity-mix, danced with firelight against the Fringes of the Sideways City. 

Finally, equally spaced around the squat, toad-shaped stone building, miraculously working street lamps outlined the parking lot of the infamous Lost Bank.

Positioned in the clearing, amid the few decomposing cars, the double rotor helicopter of Ninja Team Six held authority.  A trio of silent men in charcoal colored garb, masks, and machine guns, walked a tight perimeter around the vehicle. 

The side hatch of the massive black craft was open, and allowed a view of a woman hooked to IV bags above a puddle of her own blood.  Another pair of men continued to apply fresh bandages around her left kidney side.

“Agent Yoshi?  Agent Yoshi, can you hear me?” the taller of the Asian men gently nudged her shoulder.

The older Japanese woman’s eyes snapped open quickly, then blinked hard with a confused expression, as she scanned her surroundings.

Her once pristine hairdo was now a rat’s nest pasted to the agent’s deeply scarred face by blood and sweat.  Her naked torso was wrapped with layers of wide white bandages, and contrasted sharply against the elaborate family tattoos covering her upper arms, shoulders, and back. 

“Mr. Shinya?” her raspy voice managed.  “Mr. Shinya what-”

“Move slow Ma’am, you lost substantial blood during the flight.  Mr. Hiedo had to operate,” the young Ninja assured, indicating the other man with a bow. 

After a nod, she felt the bandaged midriff, and tried to sit up.  “Help me, Mr. Shinya.”

He bowed, then got her into a sitting position with both legs dangling over the open door’s edge.  She nodded thanks, and grabbed his shoulder tightly.

“What happened?”  He gave no response.

Both long time Team Six Ninja’s avoided her gaze, and ashamed expressions twisted their faces.  Recognizing the reaction, Yoshi changed her tone.

“Mr. Shinya, report.  Is my brother still alive?”

“Yes, we believe so,” he offered.

“Apologies, we changed plans.  If you…” Mr. Hiedo muttered.  “If you had seen you would understand.”

After several shallow breaths, she found a calm before asking.  “Seen what exactly?”

“Not totally sure,” Mr. Hiedo started.  “A large crowd converged on the target building.  Hundreds strong maybe, Ma’am.  But it did not act like a typical mob,” he paused thinking of the imagery.

“It was a quiet-riot that forced a way inside.  The location was being overrun, we-”

“It was Captain Kakihara,” Mr. Shinya blurted.  “He changed the plan.”

At the mention of that name, Yoshi began to understand.  Kakihara was the Ninja whose death Boris had avenged with a smile and a wink. 

“There was a demon calling them.  I felt it too, an evil magic.”  Both men had a surprised look as she continued.  “Madness, madness took control of that rooftop.”

They could only bow, and try to fade into the glow of the night.

“Agent Yoshi, I found him,” a triumphant voice sounded from the cockpit.  “At least a tack on the vidfone of special agent Boris,” the pilot continued, leaning past the bulkhead.

“What?”

“An A.I. satellite has a location of 538 kilometers East of our current position.  Death Valley California.”

For a moment Yoshi was unable to conceal the tremor underneath her raspy voice. The warrior woman inside sounded tired and beaten, but not defeated.  “I, I never doubted you.”

“Thank you Ma’am,” he returned with a slight bow.  “What now?”

“What now?” she paused, contemplating the question.

The Mexican guard Dogs had called her a scary bitch; and after glancing at the IV’s poking her veins, the bandages wrapped around her blue and purple bruised torso, and bucket of blood still sticky on the helicopter’s deck, Agent Yoshi decided to embrace the madness, and own the title.

“Gentlemen, we will complete our mission, and secure my brother,” she assured with a sinister smirk. 

“This is now bigger than the Yellow Hand.  Something sinister surrounds this whole situation.  It smells like death.  Yes, death.  Maybe it’s our death.”

“Gentlemen, come with me,” her devious smile beckoned.

“I have people to kill.”

The survivors of Ninja Team Six each bowed deeply as they filed inside the starting transport.  Yoshi acknowledged each man with a quick nod, then helped close the hatch as the duo-rotor design kicked on.  The slowly lifting helicopter soon sandblasted the empty parking lot surrounding the Lost Bank.

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