Chapter 32: Diogo

The evening shadows flicker and dance in the candlelight surrounding Taran as she bends over the desk I found for her, putting the final touches on her mask. She looks both hauntingly beautiful and macabre. She used a combination of charcoal and white and red paints to create a skeletal look. A thick layer of black surrounds her eyes, followed by white to represent the skull and red for her lips. She painted a small heart on her cheek.
"Beautiful," I say, walking further into the room. She smiles into the mirror as I approach and drop a kiss onto her head.
She turns in her seat to look up and me and gasps, jumping back. I grab her arm before she tumbles out of the seat and steady her.
"Diogo!" she says aghast, half reaching up toward my face. "Is it real?"
What she's seeing is a war mask. The top facial half of a skull; twisted, pierced, grooved and ravaged by time. Fifty years ago my grandfather killed the Primitive it belonged to, one of the first to arrive in North America. The first skull of many my grandfather took. The first Diogo Fuentes, named after a Spanish conquistador, had been a General in the Mexican military before the fall of the Americas. My father told me that the General killed himself rather than risk turning after he'd been attacked by a Primitive. But there were no witnesses to the incident so it's more likely he'd been turned and spent his final years roaming the Yucatan with his horde.
"Yes, it's real," I tell her.
She stands, staring up at me in wonder and fear. She reaches up to run her fingers over the cheekbones and teeth. "Yes, I can see now. The pitting where he stabbed himself in the face, piercing the bone." If a person survives the brutality of a Primitive attack long enough to turn it's common for the first person they attack to be themselves. "The poor man."
I grunt my disdain. The Primitive that'd owned this skull had been among the first. The ones responsible for many deaths, for taking down an entire dominant civilization. I won't feel sorry for such a creature.
"He was human, Diogo," she says chidingly, divining my thoughts. "He had a family, people who cared about him and who he cared about. Please, have some respect for the dead. That's what this day is about. Paying our respects."
"Once they've turned they're no longer human, Taran. I lose all respect for them. They're simply targets."
She gasps angrily and pokes her finger into my chest. The gesture is cute on someone her size. "They are our family, Diogo! They didn't choose the bite, nor the terrible things that happen to them after. Their flesh being torn and stripped from their bones, their bodies desecrated" She shudders as her voice drifts off.
"You've seen them, haven't you, baby?" I ask, lowering my voice. "Up close."
She nods and lets out a choking sound. "Yes. We saw a horde when we were following the last survivors down from Old Canada. They were everywhere. We were forced to hide under the ashes of a burnt-out cabin, wait them out. It took days. The things I saw, Diogo. It's haunted my dreams from that moment on."
My heart goes out to the young Taran who witnessed disgusting acts of cannibalism, sex, and murder. Primitive's revert back to their most primitive behaviour, which creates a mess of impulsive, angry beasts with one goal. The next victim. The next meal.
I run my hand down her hair, cupping the back of her neck and pulling her against me. "You have a big heart if you're able to forgive the same animals that took your youth."
She presses her face into my chest for a moment, before looking up at me. "There's nothing to forgive. They're a shadow of their former selves. They deserve pity and remembrance. Not disdain."
I rub my thumb under her cheekbone, blending in a smear of charcoal where she'd rubbed it against my chest. "I have to kill them, Taran. It's easier for me if I don't treat them like humans."
She studies me in the firelight, her head tipped back, rich auburn hair waving down her back. "You're much different than I imagined you'd be, Diogo. You have a conscience."
I don't tell her that she's become my conscience. That without her I can't feel. Instead I hold her against me for several long minutes, enjoying the sensation of such an exquisite creature in my arms. Finally, I let her go. "It's time to leave, especially since we're walking. The procession will be starting."
Taran had insisted we leave my jeep behind, saying it would be too recognizable. She doesn't want me discovered at this sacred event. Not when I've been responsible for some of the deaths being celebrated today. My heart warms for her even more with every moment of thoughtfulness she directs toward me.
She nods and reaches for the notes we'd made earlier. Little scraps of paper, each representative of our dead. She has a whole pile of them. I have one. Paper is difficult to come by, but somehow the celebrants of the Day of the Dead always manage to scrounge some. Us included.
We step out the door and I'm surprised to see many of my neighbors taking to the streets, masks in place, dark clothing draping their bodies. "I didn't know people from this sector join the activities."
Taran nods and tugs me in the direction of the nearest checkpoint, following a group of people that look to be some of my soldiers.
"Even elites have lost loved ones," she says. "This is a day for everyone, regardless of fortune."
A few minutes later, as we reach the first checkpoint I see a throng of people slowed down by the city police checking their papers. I frown as we're forced to wait for several minutes. It's possible that we'll miss some of the event. Then it occurs to me that the more crowded sectors will be even worse.
I take Taran's hand and pull her out of the line, striding with her toward the front. "No, Diogo!" she hisses. "They'll know who you are."
I ignore her as I approach the policeman. Just as he reaches for the papers of the next person in line, I push myself through and step in front of him.
"Hey," he snaps. "Get back in line."
I stare icily down at him, my eyes no doubt glinting behind the mask. He shifts uneasily and takes the papers I hand out to him. He glances down and then goes sheet white. His head snaps up, he gives the papers back and stammers, "Commander, I'm sorry, I had no idea"
"I want you to open these gates." I cut him off impatiently. "And once you do that, you'll radio to the other checkpoints and tell them to open up, on my authority."
The man's mouth hangs open for a second before he snaps it shut. "But Commander, how will we check identities and track movement?"
"You won't," I tell him. "Tonight, you let everyone through. You can close the gates again after midnight and ask for papers then."
The man nods his understanding and waves us through. He stops the people right after us so he can unlock the gate and call out to the crowd, letting them know they're free to proceed.
Taran slides her hand across my arm and rests it at the elbow, allowing me to lead her forward, toward the main city gates. "That was a generous gesture, Diogo," she murmurs from beside me, gripping a handful of the long black coat I'd insisted she wear. There's no disguising her tiny stature, but I'm hoping that obscuring her figure and face will make her completely unrecognizable. "You know you'll be giving the refugees, the city's undocumented, free passage?"
"This is a day for everyone," I say, repeating her words.
Giving the refugees free passage is well worth the skeletal grin she bestows on me and the tightening of her fingers against my arm. "Soon we'll have you switching sides."
"Over my dead body," I tell her, putting my hand over hers and trapping it against my arm.
"I hope not," she whispers, her voice all but carried away on the evening breeze.
We pass through one more checkpoint before reaching the heart of the city, the main gates. This checkpoint is wide open, allowing all citizens to pass through freely. The closer we get to the gate, the thicker the crowd, but it's definitely moving forward, everyone keeping a respectful order. We join the procession as it heads toward the burning pyre; a wooden tower built next to the gate.
Heat blasts us as we take our turn stepping up to it. I let Taran's hand go and press her to go ahead of me, my hand at her back. She steps away and tosses her handful of paper into the flames, watching solemnly as they burn. She turns away and steps to the side, rejoining the procession as it heads back into the city. After the last person has given up their dead, the city gates will open for just a moment, taking away the ash into the desert.
I step forward and drop my paper, watching as the breeze picks it up, tosses it and then throws it into the dancing flames.
"I'm sorry," I say, turning away as the flames seize Victoria Greystone's name, burning it to ash.