CHAPTER 5: A SUREFIRE WAY TO WIN AT BINGO

  “The best way to predict your future is to create it.”

  —Abraham Lincoln

  SS America, Pacific Ocean, International Waters, October 5th, 1945, 1750 hours.

  Lucius Armstrong had decided that he didn’t like bingo very much. The days had gone by relatively undisturbed. At the rate of a high speed ship like the SS America, they could reasonably have cut their 30 days estimate by half to reach Australia, however anxiety about the Cambions had prompted the captain to sail near the South American coastline before they could make the hail mary to Australia from Patagonia. Not that it mattered to him, though. That was still enough time to make it back for Judas’ birthday. Besides, he didn't mind the prolonged view of the sea and the rare luxury of the ocean liner.

  As for Anthony Amaru Jr., he was having a harder time it seems. They were all jam packed into a communal dining hall for the Third Class, and the mixing pot of races had produced more than a few close calls.

  Then there was Dr. Hansel Zimmermann who had changed into spare clothes all a shade darker than black and went off exploring for hours at a time. Only returning to their room for the food Ant and Lucius would bring back to him. He’d be missing even at night. One time Lucius and Ant would grow suspicious of him then and tail him but would only find him relaxing somewhere and watching the starry sky. When they dragged him back all he said was that he didn’t want to take up too much of their space.

  Then came this fateful day. October 5th 1945. It was time for Lucius and Ant to go off for the communal dinner. The Doctor had left them hours before and had yet to return. So they left him a note saying that they’d be back with his dinner at around six.

  The pair headed off to supper. The salty breeze hit them right as they opened the door, tugging playfully at their esteemed outfits.

  When they seated for the communal dinner on their upholstered chairs, they had their fill of the pleasant scenery as usual. Classical paintings hung on the wall. Rich and Greco-Roman in their stern form and angles and manner. More real than real. Down to the shadows and lights. Rounding the corners of the room were marble sculptures, straight out of ancient Greece, white and pristine. The perfect depiction of what the Federation calls the ‘Ideal Form of Man.’ Or as one President or other had said, ‘Invocative of Friederich Nietzsche's Ubermensch.’

  Lucius nudged Ant on the shoulder, “Y’know, they actually painted those statues in the ancient days right? Leaving them white is just a poor imitation.”

  “And they claim to have culture!” he laughed, “I thought these pure white folks hated Romans!”

  “That’s actually a big debate right about now. Some of the Nordic/Germanic-purists try to side-step the Romans completely. Though the European-purists claim that the grandiosity of Roman culture is what proves their inherent superiority over other races. Nonetheless that’s another flaw in race realism. They go from killing all non-whites to killing all non-pure whites to killing all whites who don’t have eye colour X or exact skintone Y, until all that remains is a bunch of inbreds.”

  Ant laughed, “That’s why you're the words guy and not me.”

  Lucius sighed. He tried his best to keep these rants spilling out of him, but even to him the tension of a mixed-race room was too much. Instinctively he had laid himself groundwork for any upcoming debate a bystander might throw at him.

  This had happened a few times before. A slavic man came slurring at him for spilling some food as a sign of racial inferiority. A Chinese man overheard his and Ant’s conversation once and decided to explain the Tang Dynasty’s excellence over every other contemporary civilization. A Muslim who cursed the Christians of the room and started preaching of the Islamic Golden Age’s contribution to modern science and math. A Jew who said something unheard but then hurriedly vanished from the room as everyone eyed them with suspicion simply for being a Jew. Such things weren’t unexpected in this world.

  Then came a black man suddenly claiming that indeed white culture had to be superior as everyone in the room was speaking English. The whole room promptly raced to throw him overboard, Ant included. He had shouted something along the lines of ‘because it’s the only damn language they can understand!’ but Lucius just slumped into his own seat, knowing it was the only language he could speak. He wasn’t like Ant who had worked to preserve his ancestry. He was ‘American.’ That thought scared him.

  So today he was on edge. Ready for an exchange to get ugly. Instead it was eerily peaceful. The coming sunset in the Western seas was particularly blinding this time around. And under those painted skies no one had had the will to fight.

  They sat for a hearty dinner, chatting with some nicer folk they had found. Two black laborers, an Indian physician and three Bulgarian immigrants. It was an odd bunch to be sure but welcome company.

  Lucius enjoyed a Roast Sirloin of Beef whilst Ant stuffed a Baked Sugar Ham into his digestive tract, both of them washing their meals down with some Budweiser. The rest of the room seemed to be treating themselves to a Fried Chicken Southern Style but an unspoken pact among the Black men had stopped any of them from taking the option. No one wanted to risk even an off-hand remark.

  When it was time for desserts, Ant noted a peculiar number of robed individuals entering the room. Yes, it was that exact cloak he had seen on that Dr. Zimmermann. He kept a close eye on them but they simply seated themselves near the entrance of the hall and ate their choice of food.

  Lucius paid them no mind.

  But Ant watched them knowingly. There was something about them that triggered his flight or fight response.

  ***

  Meanwhile, in the Tourist Class dining hall.

  Nicholas Branch was staying out of the Pastor's way as much as possible. Every time they were together he had an unshakable grim feeling that they would come to blows, until one of them lay dead on the floor. And somehow he thought that would be him.

  It wasn’t the Italian in him that scared Nicholas, no, there was something more. Nicholas’s instincts had never failed him before and it flared near the Pastor.

  This made sleep uncomfortable, he always kept the shotgun in arms reach. The Pastor however never seemed to care, in fact the Pastor himself seemed somewhat afraid of something. Of what Nicholas could not be sure. But he could not avert his eyes from the bible he held.

  At dinner the two went separately. Nicholas went with a group of younger navy guys and played poker every night over their meals, chatted politics and traded war stories.

  “We lost another man just as we were returning to Cali,” said the one with two peg legs.

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  “We tried to save him,” said another man with a bandaged face, “but the Cambions had ambushed us in the middle of the night and we were more than unprepared.”

  “He lost an eye,” Pegleg said, pointing his thumb at Bandages. Then he dropped his voice, “Old Jackie never stood a chance on his own. We held a viking funeral for him when we got back, just as our ancestors did.”

  “Viking Funerals, eh? Heheh! Good call. The halls of Valhalla, fitting for a warrior,” Nicholas parroted some speech or other he’d once heard. Christian as they were many were still proud of their pagan ancestry. That in and of itself was another point of contention and Nicholas tried to switch the topic.

  Nicholas thought for a moment then an unspoken question finally tore its way through his larynx, “Speaking of… the Pacific… Any of ya ever met a boy by the name of Dick? Or err… Richard? Richard Branch?”

  Silence.

  Contemplation.

  “I think,” said Bandages, “I once read a newspaper article about someone with that name… yes… he died in the Pacific Theater, fighting Cambions… But… no… there was something else. Why would I remember the name of a random man? Who was he? This Richard Branch?”

  “Ah,” Nicholas heaved a heavy sigh, drinking a glass of thick golden alcohol to cover for his shaky voice, “Some poor kiddo that made the news dying in the Pacific… thought I’d bring it up ta stir some more conversation, that’s all.”

  Pastor Abatangelo on the other hand was eating alone. He never moved without his new bible. He reexamined every word of it thrice over in excruciating detail. It was certain by this point. This was blasphemy. Blasphemy against Catholicism. But he held his wrath and put on the face of a Protestant. Flipping through the pages without a vein popping, and that took much effort.

  Meanwhile, his serving of Broiled Maine Lobster was untouched and perfect. Red exoskeleton heated to flaming orange, meat cooked enough to bear hints of char yet clean enough to be soft and white, tinted a buttery golden. It was embellished with flaxen lemons and sprinkles of fresh parsley. Beside it was a glass of water drained half-empty.

  Several times the Father had to force himself to pull back into the real world and begin his materialistic process of dining.

  At a certain point in time, some cloaked men flooded into the room and stationed themselves at the exits. No one paid them any mind. No one except Nicholas Branch. His instincts have flared once again.

  He eyed them with certainty, itching for his shotgun. The navy guys shrugged it off. PTSD they said, nothing crazy was going to happen. Go take a rest, they said.

  Then suddenly, a horrid screech echoed through the halls of the SS America, paired with flashes of crimson light flooding in through the portholes.

  There was a moment of panic as people rushed to assess the situation, screaming in terror. The navy vets’ faces paled. They’d recognize the signature sound anywhere. That torrent of cries that pierced the Pacific night. The scream of the Cambion Heat Ray.

  Yes. Light. Let there be light.

  And light exploded from the Western sunset, engulfing the world in a primeval sea of red. The glassy mirror-like water seemed to bleed a sharp red. As stray Heat Ray blasts pierced the heavens and the waters. Slicing the clouds clean in half and vaporising the waves into white steam.

  The panicked hoard tried to push away from the portholes, storming the exit of the dining hall, when suddenly—

  THUD! THUD! THUD!

  A series of tables toppled over, barring their way. Cloaked men surrounded the exits, hoods over their faces, menacing in their silence.

  “What the hell d’you think yer doin’!?” someone screamed, trying to punch one of the cloaked men.

  Bzzvtt! A noise like a buzzing saw cracked the palpable commotion into hushed fear.

  When the crowd returned their gaze to the unfortunate man rushing the dark cloaks, they found his arm detached, tumbling onto the ground with a wet thud. Blood leaking from the orifice where his shoulder once was. The man cried a ghoulish cry and was kicked back into the crowd.

  The passengers pulled back. Terror had overtaken their senses.

  The cloaked men slowly produced from each of their robes a large, flamethrower-like machine. Heat Ray Culverins.

  “WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE!? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM US!?” a woman shrieked, clinging tightly to her husband.

  One of the cloaked men stepped forwards, culverin tightly gripped between gloved fingers. Behind him, two other members of the cloaked troop unfurled a large black banner with a sigil of an elongated human skull bearing razor-sharp teeth and curved sickle-like horns.

  “We are the Cambion Church.”

  ***

  “Bastards!”

  “Stop! No!” Lucius shouted—but it was too late.

  Ant drew his Smith & Wesson Model 10 at the cloaked men barring their exits. The Heat Ray battle on the horizon still bathing the room in brilliant crimsons.

  Bzvt!

  Instinctively, Ant fell back. Dodging the scarlet ray a split-second before it hit. The gun exploded above him. And a hole was torn through the back wall.

  The passengers screamed, moving as an unrefined, chaotic unit. A stampede of wild beasts all fearing for their lives.

  “These guys…” Ant huffed from the floor to Lucius, “These motherfuckers… They’re with him!”

  “Him?” Lucius stood his ground, trying not to be killed in the pandemonium.

  “That German Bastard!” Ant coughed, trying to stand, “They’re wearing the same cloaks godammit! Remember what he said!”

  The words raced back into Lucius’ head. “I’ve got friends in here… somewhere. Or at least I’m supposed to have friends here.”

  He stumbled back, “No. It can’t be.” “This ship has a zero percent chance of making it to Australia. That’s my prediction. And also my bet to you. If I win, I get ten billion dollars, if I lose we all live happily ever after. Sounds good?”

  Then, as if on cue, the SS America’s speaker systems began to rumble and scratch. A voice came through, all too familiar, “Greetings, ladies and gentlemen of the SS America~! I am your new captain Hansel Zimmermann speaking and we are the Cambion Church!”

  Voices turned manic in the chaos.

  “The Cambion Church!?”

  “We’re doomed! They’ll eat us all alive!”

  “Christ save us from these heathens! Please Christ O’Lord save us from Satan!”

  The announcement continued, “As you may have noticed this vessel has been… compromised. Not by us per se but if you would direct your attention Westwards and—Oh! Would you look at that! A Heat Ray battle! How interesting! Shall we go see what’s going on out there!? Heheheh…”

  The pleas of the passengers continued.

  “Christ! Please ensure us all a safe passage to Heaven!”

  “These monsters, send them all to hell! Please, Christ O’ Lord!”

  “I repent! I repent for all my misdeeds, please let us go, O’ All Mighty, just this once!”

  Again, as if on cue, the speakers responded, “Wow, you guys are no fun at all are you? Relax~! We aren’t actually gonna do that. Unless you guys want to of course, but I’m willing to bet that most of you don’t want to die. So my first decree as captain of this O’ so mighty vessel, will be to change course from Australia to the Argentine Republic!”

  Lucius gritted his teeth. Of course you’d win at bingo if you rigged the fucking game.