The Tale of the Blood Diamond Page 3

  “Yes, and in that is yet another challenge. Like us, you have to shoot them in very specific places for it to work,” Aton explained.

  “In our case, it’s our central nerve plex. For them,” Xzion dug his finger into the pit of his ribcage, “it’s right here…right in this hollow spot below the rib cage. It has to be exact. With a Warrior eye however, wherever we cut them is sufficient. Also, Earth weaponry would work on them, so that, at least, is one advantage. Earth guns can’t kill us. They don’t have the right materials.”

  “Lead, copper and uranium don’t work on us…” one of the men said.

  “Exactly, but they work on Yuledrakes and on humans. Their bodies are fragile so they’ve compensated in other ways. That is the information you need. Now, I must be going. ” Xzion grabbed his bag again. “Aton, you will hear from me first thing tomorrow morning. I am going back to Baltimore to try to find out more information about —”

  “Um,” Aton interrupted, running his hand along his jaw, his eyes narrowed. “Before you go, Officer Khrome, Brui would like to show you something.”

  “Show me what?” Xzion turned towards the man decked out in his military attire, the glossy plates along his shoulders shining bright.

  Aton cleared his throat, bringing the focus back to his original statement. “Xzion, as a token of our appreciation for all that you’ve done, we have something we wish for you to see.”

  Xzion shot Aton a bewildered look but remained silent. Brui made short steps towards him. He had a commanding presence. Standing six foot five inches tall with shoulder length wavy brown hair, he ran his large palm smoothly over his boxy shoulder, as if dusting off his metals. He pulled at his military jacket, straightening it, causing the silver buttons to gleam and reflect a tad brighter.

  “Officer Xzion Khrome, please follow me,” the man said sternly, his pale skin a contrast to his almond-shaped, black eyes. Xzion remained quiet and followed the man two steps behind until they exited the room. Soon, the two were side-by-side, exchanging glances as they made their trek towards the master morgue and burial site. Xzion had so many questions. He was walking with a man who was almost as revered as much as Aton. A fierce combatant of high esteem. Ironically, Xzion had never shared more than two words with Brui prior to this emergency meeting. The man had been put in power after Xzion left for his first assignment: a skull collection drenched in Rich White Girl and served on silver, cocaine dust line platter…in Columbia.

  Before long, a burst of cool air hit him as the door to the mortuary slid open. Xzion stepped over the magnetic threshold and followed Brui far inside, going past the small cluster of scientists roaming about, towards the back in which a golden tomb, adorned with warrior etchings and inscriptions in their native tongue, intricately lined the sarcophagus.

  “Xzion, your father is aware you are here today. He believed that you should see this, that it would be a good idea, as a gift to you. We all voted and agreed. Very few have seen him.” The man’s voice was deep, rumbling yet comforting.

  Him?

  Xzion nodded and waited patiently as Brui made his way around the tomb, unlocking the blue-lit secure seals. The cover slowly rose. Escaping like wisps of cottony clouds, a visible cold blast filled the enclosure. Record-breaking chill encompassed the room as the white smoke continued to pour out. Once it cleared, Xzion found himself face to face with what he presumed was a well-preserved corpse. Only, it looked oddly familiar.

  “Xzion, this is your great-grandfather. He was the fiercest, most revered warrior of our time. We’ve preserved his body. As you can see,” Brui pointed to the man’s lips and closed eyes, “your physical resemblance to him is striking.”

  Xzion’s mouth suddenly became dry. He stepped closer to his ancestor and leaned in so close to the man, he almost became blurry.

  “This is unbelievable. I’d heard stories about Zahar, but I never thought in a million lifetimes I’d see him in the flesh. I just assumed he was buried in the National Zarkstorm cemetery, or kept in an urn, like most others.” Xzion looked at Brui, star struck as he was. “What is he doing here?”

  Brui’s face cracked into a faint grin. “He had become injured during a battle. The injury was life threatening. While he was still awake, he asked that one of the intellects, an amazing and well-regarded scientist friend of his by the name of Shuro, try an experimental process on him.”

  “Yes, I’ve read about Shuro as well. One of the most well known scientists of our history. Brilliant.”

  Brui nodded.

  “Shuro was in the midst of important experimentations, one of which involved deep freezing. That is what he did. He deep froze Zahar while he was still alive, his heart still beating.” Brui moved closer to the casket and roughly pulled down the tight sheet from the body, revealing massive tuffs of dark hair on the skin. He grabbed Xzion’s hand and shoved it unapologetically along the chest of the man. Xzion’s eyes widened in amazement.

  “I can feel his heartbeat…”

  “Yes.” Brui nodded. “Technically, he is still alive. There are more that we have preserved, like him, but he is the only one no experiments have been done on, as it was part of your family’s requests. He has been frozen, in this state, for over two hundred years. As far as we are concerned, this is his eternal resting spot. He will remain here, as long as we are alive, to keep the chamber running properly.

  “But,” Xzion looked at the man in confusion, “what would happen if my grandfather were defrosted?”

  “Honestly? We have no idea.” Brui pointed to other caskets in the room. “We have defrosted some that were alive prior to the freezing process, and upon that defrosting, they were dead. Their hearts immediately stopped. Some lived for a few hours, but were no more than vegetables. We prefer to leave him in this state, until we can do more research to ensure that if and when we do defrost him, per your family’s permission of course, we can keep him alive and maintain the integrity of his mind and muscle mass. This initially came to be, Xzion, because of the heat-borne illness. We were under the impression that we could possibly freeze the sick and then defrost them upon a cure being discovered, but it never worked. As stated, they were never the same after the defrosting. However, your great-grandfather is an exception. He had never fallen prey to the heat illness and volunteered for this procedure after his wound wouldn’t properly heal.”

  Xzion nodded in understanding.

  “Zahar is an important key to our history, our Warrior lineage and past, and your family. A ruthless, passionate man, he trained many others that came after him. Some of us would see that as a negative, but we know now, in part thanks to you, that it was not.”

  Xzion looked down at the frozen man, his heart feeling some kind of strange way. He studied Zahar’s form, completely fascinated. The frozen man’s lengthy, black hair draped along the rugged, muscular biceps like a poncho. His jawbones were huge, his cheekbones jetted out so far, they looked cosmetic. He looked like an exaggerated version of Xzion, and in all honesty, the man looked extremely intimidating, even scary…and he loved that. His body was adorned with tattoos, special, expensive metals and glowing jewelry, and in his frozen, peaceful state, a slight smile could be seen on the ice-covered face. This was his father’s grandfather. Zarkstormian books, movies and the like had been written about the great Zahar. This was one of Zarkstorms secrets — a prehistoric, ruthless warrior was still in their midst…

  Xzion’s phone vibrated against his thigh, snatching him out of his lovely thoughts and remembrances of heroic tales of a fierce man slashing millions with a powerful right eye. He looked at the damned phone, noting it was Jayme. His heart thumped a bit harder.

  “Um, Brui, I gave my mate a phone to reach me in case of an emergency. She isn’t an overly excitable person by any stretch of the imagination, so, if she is calling, it must be important. I should take this.”

  “Of course.” Brui stepped outside of the chamber and waited.

  “Hello,” he answered, his heart bea
ting a bit faster than before.

  “Xzion, two more bodies like our Jane Doe, whose name is actually Tina Jacobs, were discovered, killed in the exact same manner and left in the same alley. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but please get home as soon as possible.”

  “Fuck!” Xzion spun around in a circle; he gripped his hair tightly and briefly looked down at his great grandfather. The cool air swirled across his flesh, tickling it, but not rendering a slither of amusement. He ran his hand exhaustedly over his icy face. “Okay, that is another warning, to me. It is to let me know they are aware I am here meeting with the military authorities.”

  “You got all of that from me telling you about another dead woman and a man?”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “Look, be careful. I have no idea what their next move is going to be but would put nothing past them. I will be home in less than seven hours.”

  He disconnected the call and stormed out the chamber. “Brui, I must go. The Yuledrakes have murdered two more Earthlings. Let him know I have officially launched an Earth bound investigation.”

  Brui nodded as he locked the morgue doors.

  “Do you have any further thoughts about the direction you are going in, Xzion? What shall I tell him about the status of your pending analysis based on our meeting and your briefing?” the brawny man asked as he turned back towards Xzion, a slight look of concern on his face.

  “Consider this the beginning of the combat. We are officially at war.” Xzion stormed away, eager to get back to Earth as soon as possible…

  ****

  Fragments of chewed peanuts lined Lorenzo’s tongue and the remnants of the strongly flavored beer left a yeasty residue on his palate. Despite his thick gray, winter coat and the black leather gloves constricting his flexing fingers, he could still smell himself. He’d pickled his body in liquors at a local Baltimore watering hole before proceeding to the graveyard. It was the one thing he couldn’t stomach. The sight of a fresh blood bath, mangled bodies and the screams and pleas of motherfuckas who just didn’t know how to act never caused him a moment’s unrest, but the damn graveyard, well, that was all together different. He continued to stare down at his brother’s tomb. A dried leaf, one that should have been turned to brown dust weeks ago, clung to its flimsy, dry-rotted form and rolled past his dark brown shoes, flirting with partially melted snow as it committed suicide against the frigid streams of melting ice. He reflected on his travels, and how his life had drastically changed over the course of the previous year.

  He’d been living a playa’s fantasy while residing in Brooklyn, New York. Being back home still hadn’t set well with him, but he had to stay on a bit longer. He’d gotten away from the heat and a potential murder case being pinned on him at the fresh age of fifteen. Running away from home at the time seemed like a nightmare. He’d left his mother and two brothers behind in East Baltimore, Temple Hills. That was all he knew, then Brooklyn came and slapped his un-street savvy self right in the face. Regardless of the rough transition, his older brothers and mother sent money to him on a regular basis while he lay in hiding at his aunt’s place. Information came in little by little and he latched tight to it; it kept him in touch with the beat of the Capitol Height streets. He felt trapped; he simply wanted to go home but every time he questioned the possibility, he was met with the same old thing.

  “Lorenzo, man, we will get you back here. Just chill…” his brothers would offer, but they never did fulfill their promise. The heat didn’t totally dissipate and after all, they were looking out for their little brother, the youngest of the clan. After another winter had come and gone, Justin, the second eldest, was dead. He’d been the one everyone — addicts especially — called, ‘Justice’, due to him being fair in his transactions. Even when Justice sent out for someone to be chopped off the block, he’d do it with respect, reminding the man who would have tried to burn him for money or promises that his actions came after he’d tried other means. Murder was as common as tying one’s shoes, as catching a bus to attend school, or ordering a meal for a lunch to go. Aunt Jess didn’t have any damn money for hardly any of those things, but of course, murder was free.

  The woman was constantly complaining about the rent in her run-down, cluttered apartment being sky high; how no one was sending her anything to take care of his ‘white ass’ while she moved her big, wide hips around in the tiny kitchen, slanging lard grease in a skillet and calling him a stringy headed son of a bitch who was nothing but trouble. At first, the shit kind of hurt his damned feelings, but after a while, her repetitious insults lost their sting and luster. She talked too much; she had no man, just like his mama, but had all the love advice in the world for other bitches while she sat at home, cobwebs growing between her legs.

  She’d walk out of her brownstone, her shiny, round, brown face jammed in peoples’ way, asking their business and threatening others as if she owned the whole damn block. He knew she’d only let him live there because she was sure she’d have her pockets lined with mean green. Lorenzo came from a family of self-made men, after all and his mother had been good with her money. She taught her sons well. They understood how to make a dollar out of fifteen cents. Yes, he’d ran into some trouble; a man tried to make a fool of him over a small dope deal back in Baltimore, which resulted in his prompt relocation. But once he got back in the swing of things, everything would be shiny, smooth and oh so right, like a glass of cognac. Or so he thought…

  He swallowed the last bits of peanuts roaming in his mouth and thrust the tip of his tongue over his bottom teeth, working it over as he delved into deeper thoughts and stared holes into that damned gravestone. He’ d left New York for this — the place he once hated, because it separated him from the two people in the world he held most dear until finally, he no longer wanted to return or see anything associated with the damned place. After a few years rolled by, he realized he could never go back to Baltimore. He was still wanted, and his brothers had made a name for themselves. Justin had as well, even after death. They had organized teams of runners, had blocks locked with cocaine covenants, and got themselves a team of paid-off police to turn the other way. A crew of women with the faces of movie stars, the bodies of porn stars and the hearts of tigers worked those streets even in single digit temperatures, bringing that trap money home soiled from the heated lure of their big breasts and the swarthy lair between their thick, hot thighs.

  His brothers had owned the dope game in East Baltimore and after the death of Justice, things didn’t stop — his one sole living sibling had built an empire and he rocked on, his empire shining, and striking back. Even as the years passed, Lorenzo was reassured, told to not worry, that he could come home soon and join in the ranks, but by then, he had other plans. New York had given him a key to the city of Brooklyn. He was an adopted son of a bitch. He’d let bygones be bygones and those same cruel years turned sweet on him by allowing Aunt Jess to croak. How befitting that it had happened while she was on the toilet. He remembered looking down at her slumped body half bent on the commode, her satiny white panties around her ankles and the stench of stale urine in the air. It must’ve happened in the wee hours of the morning. He’d been in his slither of a room and awoke later to take a shit, only to see her in such a way. As she had no children of her own, he debated staying quiet for a bit and collect a check or two of hers, just for the hell of it, though his money rolls were coming in pretty nice. He decided against it, suddenly giving a fraction of a damn as he nonchalantly gripped the dirty, yellow cordless phone and called the police. A hot panic burrowed inside of him as he spoke to the 911 Dispatcher. He’d just turned seventeen; he’d be a ward of the damn state, be linked to Baltimore and extradited back home to face the music, regardless that the tune was dated and worn.

  He’d been staying there under a false name to attend school, but it wouldn’t take long for some to unravel the mystery now that he had no alibi, no cover. Before the police had arrived, he frantically tossed all that he could into t
wo duffle bags and a plastic grocery sack, and headed out into the Brooklyn autumn day. Despite the dead woman on the john, the morning was unbelievably serene. To him, it smelled of promise as he marched up the street, prepared to make his own way. He saw this as a sign. It was long overdue for him to live on his own and show his brothers what he was really made of. Justice, God rest his soul, would be proud. He made some nice stash cash on his weed deals, but he needed a bigger prize, something he could really mix up and bake to perfection.

  His brothers were the masters and though he wasn’t going back to Baltimore to stay, he needed some training from someone he could trust. Once news hit that Aunt Jess had expired like a carton of spoiled milk, his brother and mother made their way to New York for a month long trip. That was all the time he needed to be schooled in the fine art of true cocaine and crack slanging. He spent most of his time with his older brother, showing him around like a tour guide, leaving their mother behind. After the funeral of Aunt Jess, they even helped him find a decent place in Brooklyn to lay his head and work his deals.

  It disturbed him how his mother, with her dark eyes and even darker bags under them, had examined him. Her sooty skin, wrapped around the thinness of nothing but bone, made him realize she wasn’t in the best of ways. He hadn’t seen her in such a long time. He barely recognized her. He surmised all those years of being a bottom bitch for two ruthless Baltimore pimps had done that to her. She was old now, out of the life. Not by choice, but her body wouldn’t allow it any longer — the same body that brought him into the nasty, twisted world.