Everyone Dies in the End #39

Katarina

The mass of humanity grew tighter as she climbed the Cathedral’s concrete steps. Tonight was Vader’s Court, as it was called by the denizens of Philadelphia. Each week, Vader held this court. It was when those accused of serious transgressions against his society were presented for judgment and public punishment. The punishments were quite popular, and the Cathedral was full. Katarina intended to use that fullness to mask her reconnaissance.

At the door hulked four guards, two with side arms, and two with assault rifles. The guards with holstered side arms checked everyone entering, frisking the women a little more enthusiastically than the men. One was blonde and lanky, the other short and stubby. She drew the stubby one, and he was thorough, allowing his hands to linger on her buttocks and cup her breasts.

“A lot of people tape guns to their chests?” she asked with a glare.

He shrugged unapologetically. “You’d be surprised, babe. Some folks even stuff grenades up their ass. You want me to check yours?”

She held his gaze for a moment before dropping her eyes. She didn’t need a fight. Not here. Accepting her submission, stubby man laughed. “Get on in there.” And she did.

Inside, the Cathedral was bawdy, bright, and noisy. And it stunk. Philadelphia might have power three days  a week, and the city still had water, but the people, or at least the people that enjoyed watching Vader’s public court, didn’t use it to wash their bodies. The Cathedral was built to hold a thousand worshippers, and Katarina guessed it held almost that many now. The smell of sweat, unwashed clothes, and fetid breath nauseated her. Furthermore, her heightened senses only magnified the smells, but it didn’t matter. She was here to observe, not enjoy the aroma.

Katarina chose a seat three pews from the back of the church, not by accident or tardiness, but by design. She wanted to study the whole of the interior. To her left stood a lumpy, stringy-haired man whose skin shown dully with unwashed sweat. He leered at her, she glared, and the leer evaporated. In front of her were row upon row of Philadelphians, loud and eager for the night’s entertainment. Movie theaters, the ones that were open, showed nothing but pre-apocalypse films. Made sense, no one was making movies now. No one would make movies again, not for a very long time. Sports were dead, theater was dead, and Vader’s Court was all that was left. Katarina chuckled softly, and the humans call me evil. The chuckle elicited a response from the limp-haired man to her left.

“What’s funny, darling?” he drawled. Slow, like something held his tongue.

Something like a lack of brainpower, thought Katarina. She ignored him.

“You’re kind of cute, “he persisted.

Also lacked the brains to quit while the quitting was good.

She turned her face to him. Slowly she looked him toe to face, settling at last on his red-veined eyes. She spoke simply, malevolently. “I don’t do cute. If you don’t shut up, you want be able to even say cute thirty seconds from now.”

The red-veined eyes widened, the thick-lipped mouth opened, but nothing came out. A spark, some dim spark of intelligence flicked across his face. A primeval, unconscious realization of what stood next to him. The thick lips closed, the stringy-haired head gave a quick, almost apologetic, nod, and he turned away from her.

Katarina smiled. Humans were stupid, at least most humans. But then again, one of these stupid humans held her kind hostage, so what did that say about Ramzke and his coven? She supposed it said a lot of things, none of them good. She, however, was in Philadelphia to end that bondage, and she was here, right here, to devise a plan. And the first stage of that devising was to observe. So she did.

The church was full now, and loud, and the audience—for that’s what the rabble was, an audience—were talking, laughing, and jeering. Hanging lights blazed, reflecting brightly off the not-quite-clean marble floors. A low stage had been erected on the altar, the structure well-made, but the wood still unpainted. Stairs led to the dais from each side. There was also a set of steps that dropped to the rear of the altar. A pulpit stood at one side, and a pair of jean and leather-clad toughs flanked the stage, rifles in hand. They, however, were the least of her worries. A pair of toughs hadn’t been made that could handle her. What could handle her were the guards, weapons, and elevated platforms that jutted from the church’s walls.  

There were four on each side. Constructed of the same thick wood as the stage, the stands jutted from the wall supported by four-by-four buttresses. On each platform stood a pair of men, on every other platform, she could see the perforated barrel of a tripod-mounted machine gun. It was bad stuff. She was fast, inhumanely fast, to be sure. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she could leap to a platform and kill its guards before they could bring their weapons to bear. Neither was there a doubt that she wouldn’t be able to continue her assault without drawing the fire of the other seven stations. And that fire would kill her.

The humans’ vampire legends have their basis in fact. Vampires burn in the light of day, they require blood to live, and they are nearly immortal. But the word “nearly” was a big qualifier. Kat had amazing recuperative powers. A bullet, perhaps even two or three bullets, would hurt, but her body would quickly heal the hurt. A stream of bullets, a stream of bullets such as the machine guns, the multiple gun platforms, and the many guards could pump her into her body would kill her as dead as dead could be. If she was to kill this Vader, free her brother’s coven, she would first, and most importantly, need a plan to neutralize the guns platform lining the walls. They were the biggest threat. At least that is what she thought. She thought wrong.