Delivering the package#
“Here.” Scott Navarro dropped a brown packaged box over a pile of papers after he couldn’t figure out where to put it on the desk. Piles of paper and books littered most of the surface, with a yellowed CRT monitor barely having any space to breathe.
“Have the decency to knock and ask first,” replied Cabeza de Vaca, who observed the dilapidated CRT monitor with intrigue. He turned his attention slowly toward Navarro and noticed first the small cloud of cigarette smoke, then two cigarettes hanging from Navarro’s left fingers.
“Didn’t you see the fucking signs? Jesus Christ.”
“What, this?” Navarro pointed at the two cigarettes resting between his left index and middle fingers. He grunted, then dropped them on the floor and crushed them with his left shoe.
“There.”
“Outside, pendejo. You’re going to stink up the whole place,” Cabeza de Vaca rolled his eyes and sighed as Navarro shrugged, giving him a facial expression that he could care less about.
“This is an institute dedicated to research, not a pinche congal like you usually go around in.”
“Those pinches congales you hate so much are the ones that guided me to this.” He pointed at the brown package with his left hand.
“And you better pay me right fucking now because I have to pay Ferdinando Tomas.” Navarro slurred and hissed as he spoke the name, raising both hands in the shape of claws.
“Why does a vampire need money so urgently?” Cabeza de Vaca looked at the door and motioned Navarro to close it. Navarro closed the door violently with a loud thud and took a seat in the only available chair not overflowing with papers.
“It was true all along?”
“What?” Navarro asked as he instinctively looked for his pack of cigarettes. He took two out, then remembered he had just crushed his last pair at Cabeza de Vaca’s request. He returned the pack to his pocket and threw the lighter over a couple of papers. Seeing this, Cabeza de Vaca took out an aluminum can cut in half and placed it over what he considered the least important documents, then quickly opened the large window behind him—barred as if it were a prison. The only exit was the door Navarro had just walked through.
“You have some?”
“Not cold enough though,” Cabeza de Vaca whispered as he ducked beneath his desk and removed the cover from the side of his computer. Inside were two red cans of Tecate. He took both out and gave one to Navarro, who did not hesitate to open it and light up another pair of cigarettes. Cabeza de Vaca followed by grabbing a cigarette and opening his own can of beer.
“Salud.”
As they clashed their beer cans, they drank as if they hadn’t had water for days. Navarro let go of his can with a long burp and sighed with satisfaction.
“He was right though. I shouldn’t have doubted him when he told me it was in the Lodge over calle primera,” said Navarro. Cabeza de Vaca nearly choked on his cigarette drag and looked both intrigued and surprised.
"Pinche loco, you really did go that far for me?" Cabeza de Vaca clapped and laughed, passing his right hand over the box. It had been wrapped with an old brown paper bag and duct tape. It could’ve been anything, but Navarro had never played him wrong.
“Not just for you. I went out of simple curiosity, and there’s no fucking lie about the cat though—he died out of fucking curiosity.” Navarro took another sip from his beer and instinctively set it beneath him, hiding it from plain view. Because people rarely look below them, that’s why they die in the fucking movies, he thought, remembering the many times he’d almost been caught back in high school.
“But you are not dead, Navarro,” said Cabeza de Vaca jokingly.
“I’m not a fucking cat. And I have a gun. A big gun.” Navarro replied before taking a long drag from his cigarette.
"Ah qué mamón eres," Cabeza de Vaca lowered his head. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t stop the laughter that comment had produced—it sounded more like a sickly phlegmatic giggle than actual laughter, which had always disgusted Navarro.
“But in all seriousness, Ferdinando wasn’t fucking around. Vampires—bad business, period. Freemason vampires? Forget about it.” Navarro shivered and grimaced at the thought.
“I didn’t know vampires could be Brothers.”
“I’m not surprised. Rumors in the Brotherhood have always floated around about a select group that the Council of the 33rd Degree had—or has—aside from the Strike Team.” Cabeza de Vaca remained silent for a moment, lost in thoughts about some kind of vampire army.
“It’s the perfect solution if you think about it. But I would assume it to be quite unstable unless they had a really big, tough, and short leash to keep them in check.”
“Maybe that’s why they freaked the fuck out when I walked into the Lodge in plain daylight.” Navarro made a straight-line motion with his right arm.
“Not that it helped me much, but I had a clear path from the main doorway onto the hallway and the pillars.”
“Was it open, just like that?”
“The Lodge? Of course it was open. Why would it be closed?” Navarro took another sip of his beer and continued to chain-smoke.
“And it’s been open for a long time. I could feel it. That rift is big, pero cabrón, and I could feel it going really low.”
“Years? Decades?” Cabeza de Vaca took a drag from his cigarette as he saw Navarro squint his left eye, grunting—hesitating on the answer.
“Decades. Probably even centuries. It felt like my soul was going to be sucked into it if I had crossed the pillars.” Navarro fell silent as he recalled what had transpired.
The Descent#
It was around two in the afternoon. He had just woken up, horribly hungover. He walked from his office on calle séptima over to calle primera.
Walking down those seven streets under the sun was a true challenge. He had to stop for a quick beer on calle primera near Revolution Street before proceeding.
He had vague notions of where the old Lodge was—inside an alley he and Félix, his childhood friend and only friend, had seen some fifteen years ago. Memory served barely, but he managed to find the alley, filled with bags of trash and waste, the air thick with the smell of urine and vomit that had been there for a day or two. Nothing at this point would truly catch the eye, even if one walked a couple of feet into the alley where junkies had dropped a needle more than once.
The alley could barely fit one person. Old red brick buildings flanked its sides. At the end of the alley stood an unpainted concrete wall. It was there, at the very end, that he saw the old door. Above it, hidden from view—even to those who knew—was a red brick with the sign of the square and compass. It looked more like a crack in the masonry than an intentional emblem.
The wooden door was surprisingly firm, though old and bloated as he remembered it from that initial visit. The door knob, a rusted green, bore no visible lock. He took a deep breath, which sickened him. He waited for his stomach to settle before proceeding inside.
Make it simple, I don’t feel like dropping a door today, Navarro thought as he produced his Colt 1911A1 from a badly sewn holster inside his jacket. He held it in his right hand. Slowly turning the knob, he saw no resistance. He bumped the door until it opened with the sound of cracking wood.
Navarro found himself inside a short hallway. No more than two people could pass through at the same time. The walls were made of red bricks, the wooden floor rotted, and the cheap plywood ceiling bloated—green and dark spots dotted most of its surface. A small pool of water sat in the middle of the hallway. A thick smell of humidity and rotten wood filled his nostrils the longer he stood there.
Stepping forward, he heard the floor crack beneath him and nearly fell as part of it bent with his weight. Water drained quickly through the opening left behind. Taking more careful steps and testing the planks for stability, he advanced some twenty steps and passed through a doorframe into a larger room.
The room felt familiar. It was the lobby, the gathering area before entering the temple where the Brothers held meetings. As the light dimmed, he took out his cellphone and opened the lamp app to get a better view.
The lobby held four wooden chairs surrounding a small round table that could barely fit four people. A green, ripped couch rested just to the left of the doorframe from which he had entered—enough to seat three comfortably. To the far right was a broken-down wooden door and a large window still in place, brown with dust and giving no view into the other room.
He slowly walked toward the room when something cracked beneath his left foot. Instantly, he turned the light downward and saw something scurrying away. Removing his foot, he found a large cockroach twitching. He quickly stomped it.
“Fuck,” Navarro grimaced and shivered at the sight of it. When he checked again, the cockroach’s wings flapped and legs moved as if still trying to crawl away. Something white—like intestines—surrounded it. He stomped it two more times to be sure it was dead.
Continuing, he stopped as he saw a shoe on the ground. Handgun ready, he peeked slowly into the room. There was a wooden desk next to the window and a large office chair in front of it. What made his heart race was the sight of a skull. He quickly connected it to one of the ritual initiation symbols—but as his brain processed what he saw, he lowered the gun.
The skeleton had clearly been there for a long time. Its clothing hung in rags. Navarro couldn’t fathom why someone had died here. As he stepped closer, he noticed the left arm was missing. On the ground nearby lay the arm, a rubber band looped around it, and a syringe beside it.
Pinche criko, Navarro thought.
The desk was full of dust. No papers. Two drawers—one on each side—held office materials: old pens, rulers, a clipboard, pencils, a sharpener, a small flask left open, bandages, and loose coins in denominations he hadn’t seen since childhood—likely from thirty or forty years ago.
On the far side of the room stood three file cabinets, which Navarro rummaged through quickly: documentation, old letters from the Grand Lodge of Baja California, books ranging from Freemason liturgies, training materials, philosophical and religious texts, magazines from a defunct publisher, and political newspapers printed by the Mexican government.
He returned to the lobby. The skittering and scurrying of cockroaches made him shiver again. He kept the phone light trained on walls and ceiling as he advanced, watching them scatter beneath his footsteps.
Decorating the wall were old portraits of Brothers long passed. Some names were familiar—surprisingly so—wearing hats and collars marking higher degrees he’d encountered elsewhere.
18th degree, 18th degree, 30th degree, 31st degree, 32nd degree, 33rd degree…
Above the last painting hung a double-headed crowned eagle bearing the emblem of the 33rd degree within a triangle. The triangle sat at the eagle’s core, and a crown hovered above both heads. To the left of the portraits, he spotted a list—an old parchment, deteriorating. He approached and read names from a Lodge he’d never heard of, its Grand Lodge affiliation likewise unfamiliar.
Probably a secessionist Raikonian Lodge, he thought.
He lingered, trying to decipher the symbols stamped on the parchment, but they provided little clarity about the rite it belonged to. Confused and cautious, he turned toward the temple door, took a deep breath, and sighed.
He hesitated.
Entering a Freemason temple uninvited—no matter the circumstances—could be deadly. The astral guardians of old Lodges were notoriously temperamental about such profanations. He wasn’t eager to suffer mental or spiritual backlash. Then again, it might’ve been old hat talk, told to scare him out of temples when he was younger.
The door opened without resistance and creaked loudly. The light from his cellphone cut into the checkered floor—caked with dirt—and illuminated two large bronze pillars, just three feet from where he stood.
To either side and at the far end of the temple stood thrones, seats, and desks—somehow in remarkable condition. At the center of the room, past the pillars, sat a small triangular half-pillar made of wood, with a candle at each corner and a purple pillow in the middle. Upon the pillow lay an open book.
This is way too easy, he thought.
He took one step forward and froze in front of the pillars. He couldn’t cross them. He’d been warned of the consequences. The room’s temperature dropped sharply. His breath formed visible puffs. His heart beat faster with every breath. Eyes darted left and right, searching the dark. His right hand gripped the gun tightly; his index finger hovered closer to the trigger.
Pendejo, the third eye.
Controlling his breathing, he concentrated—preparing to see what could only be seen with inner vision. He felt his body begin to displace. Closing both eyes, he maintained the rhythm until he saw it:
A floating triangle—glowing with shifting patterns of purple and orange. Slowly, gray orbs emerged around it, growing larger. Thin gray strings connected triangle to orb. From both, multicolored strings stretched toward Navarro.
He opened his eyes and held his breath.
Hijo de su puta madre.
Something was behind him.
A horrible dread filled the space.
Figures began forming in the darkness.
He lowered the light slightly to illuminate the floor and the pillars. Now, without need of third-eye vision and with his sight adjusting to the gloom, he saw them.
Astral Brothers. Vampiric.
The paradox unsettled him.
They were humanoid—cloaked in black—aprons and collars intact. Some held swords. A face formed to his left: simian and white, with sunken eyes and an inclined forehead, horns or ears spiraling backward. The gaze was dead, empty, almost idiotic—but Navarro knew this strange intelligence came from tampering with beings at lower astral levels.
He took mental stock of the situation. These beings emerged only in darkness—so light was still his ally. The temperature was a product of their presence or the energy they absorbed. The fatigue he felt wasn’t just his hangover—it was their feeding. If he didn’t act fast, he’d be dead.
Most of all, he wanted that book.
He needed it.
Astral Brotherhood#
Navarro gathered himself, feeling a surge of invasive thoughts—suicidal, depressive. If he didn’t concentrate, the dread forming inside him would kill him faster than the vampires draining his energy. He placed his cellphone in his left shirt pocket, angling the light forward as best he could.
From his leather jacket pocket, he pulled out a small silver bell, careful not to ring it. Holding it at eye level, he gently shook it.
A nearly inaudible chime rang out—echoing through him with a mental backlash: desperation, sadness, anger.
But no animalistic response followed. No hisses or snarls. That worried him.
Then: two translucent eyes manifested—one atop each pillar.
Circles of flame spun around them in irregular patterns. Both eyes stared at Navarro, pupils fully dilated.
At the far end of the Lodge, where the Worshipful Master would sit, a strange geometric object formed—a tesseract, Navarro guessed, lined with teeth at its core. The figure was hypnotic. Confusing. He felt himself being pulled in.
I just fucked this up, Navarro thought.
To his right, something green and massive lumbered toward him. A frog-like creature. It moved with its hind legs and held a ruler in one hand. A golden ruler hung from its collar, clinking with every step. It tried to march—but its bulk made straight movements impossible.
Navarro hesitated. He could shoot it and live with the consequences, or wait. Neither option thrilled him.
Before he could decide, the creature stood at his side, whistling and croaking softly.
It opened its mouth wide as if to swallow him whole. Navarro’s body froze. His mind screamed at him to move. Ask for help. Do something.
Then, the creature stopped.
Its eyes spun wildly. It croaked long and low. As it did, the body began to shrink—losing mass rapidly. Muscles vanished. The form distorted into something thin and aquatic. Light blue skin. Fins on the side of its face. A sharp, axolotl-like profile. Red irises in sunken black eyes.
Then it spoke.
Not audibly. But telepathically.
“Brother.”
The word echoed in Navarro’s mind.
“We wait… to close.”
“Close?” Navarro asked aloud, still gripping the bell and the handgun.
“The Lodge.”
“What do you mean—close how?”
“Tubal-Cain calls.”
Navarro froze.
He examined the pillars. The symbols and markings—faint, but unmistakable. Tubal-Cain. One of the most ancient Masters of the Order.
His heart pounded so fast his vision tunneled. He thought he might pass out.
“Help us,” the creature said.
Navarro hesitated. He didn’t dare form thoughts too precisely—lest the entity in front of him transmit them to everything in the room, including the tesseract.
“I will,” he finally replied.
“Follow.”
The creature extended its left hand. Ruler in the right. Navarro gripped the slimy palm and allowed himself to be guided forward. Side by side, they walked a straight path, veering left of the pillars, then right past the left column. They stopped at the half-pillar in the center of the room. The creature handed Navarro the ruler.
“Close.”
Navarro slowly holstered his gun beneath the purple pillow where the book sat.
He took the ruler and placed it in the designated space on the half-pillar. Using a cheap lighter, he lit the three candles and looked around in full terror.
A terrible battle had happened here.
Bodies lay where figures once stood. Bones and tattered clothes. Some still seated in broken chairs. Desks torn apart.
Three corpses lay at the foot of the Worshipful Master’s throne. One torn open from the stomach.
The Worshipful Master himself still sat in his seat, impaled by three spears—one through the head, one the neck, and one the heart.
Navarro couldn’t stop the tears. His heart dropped. His stomach churned.
“We await,” said the creature beside him.
Navarro looked at the book—its rusted square and compass resting atop.
“For how long have you been trapped?” he asked with genuine compassion. A rare display.
“Forty-seven years.”
Navarro stared at the book and moved close enough to read it. Small watery circles formed on the old pages.
“Psalm 133,” Navarro whispered, then gasped—barely containing his sorrow.
“How good and pleasant it is when God’s people live together in unity;
it is like precious oil poured on the head, running down the beard,
running down on Aaron’s beard, down on the collar of his robe;
it is as if the dew of Hermon were falling on Mount Zion.
For there the Lord bestows his blessing, even life forevermore.”
As Navarro finished the final verse, he saw the vampires twitch and shift.
He blew out the three candles, removed the square and compass from the book, and closed it.
The moment his fingers touched the book, visions surged into him.
Remorse. Pain. Cries for help in unknown languages. Explosions. Warships above and below water. Scarab-like machines delivering torment. Cities ablaze beneath reptilian invaders. A continent sinking—destroyed by something needle-shaped releasing an apocalyptic energy. An airborne vessel shooting from the ocean. And a face—lined in glowing purple with pulsing blue dots—half-covered by an iron respirator. Eyes dark and focused.
I can see you. We will meet, echoed a voice through the visions.
They ended.
Navarro placed the closed book back on the pillow, rusted square and compass atop.
“You may go now in peace, Brothers. The Lodge is closed.”
The vampires approached.
Navarro panicked—they were feeding more now, the core of the Lodge no longer sustaining them.
He leaned on the half-pillar, barely noticing one Brother extend his hand. A hollow voice reached him:
“Thank you for releasing us, Brother.”
He extended his hand back. Upon contact, the vampire turned to ash.
The rest followed. One by one. Each thanked him. Each vanished. With every departure, Navarro’s strength and clarity returned.
“Pillar of Light,” said the creature beside him.
“Go.”
“I need this,” Navarro said, pointing at the book.
The creature looked at it, then at him.
“It stays.”
Navarro turned to the half-pillar and set the silver bell atop the book.
Then—without hesitation—he drew his handgun and emptied the magazine into the creature. It staggered back, blue liquid splashing everywhere. Recovering, it hissed—long nails protruding from its fingers.
“Fuck you.”
Navarro rang the bell violently and hurled it at the monster. A grinding shriek came from the tesseract, now accelerating toward them.
He grabbed the book and bolted to the right, past the pillars.
A loud thud.
Terrible cries.
Flesh being torn.
Navarro didn’t stop.
He moved through the lobby, skittering sounds chasing behind him. As he approached the hallway, a thought struck him—something stupid yet honorable.
He turned toward the parchment—the old Lodge roll mounted beside the portraits—and tore it down with care. Most of it ripped on the first pull. Holding the pieces tightly, he dashed to the exit, leapt across the broken section of the hallway, and burst into the alley.
He didn’t stop.
Across red lights.
Through chaotic traffic.
He ran until he reached his office.
There, he poured himself two glasses of whiskey to calm down.
Navarro sat still.
Had he saved his Brothers—or damned them?
He couldn’t say.
But something had contacted him.
And that thing had filled him with memories—visions—that could only be from the war between Mu and Atlantis. He chose to say nothing of this to Cabeza de Vaca or anyone else in the Brotherhood.
He was enough of a black sheep already.
Worse, he feared someone—or something—might come looking for him.
Aftermath and Dissent#
“At least that is what I think,” said Cabeza de Vaca as he slowly took a sip from his beer.
Navarro snapped out of his thoughts and wet his lips before another long drag.
“Whatever. I got you what you wanted,” said Navarro, eager to end the conversation.
“You’re not understanding the point. That Lodge could be older than we think. The energy gate could have been pulled from either the south or the north,” replied Cabeza de Vaca, a trace of desperation in his voice.
“Maybe it was pulled from a native tribe. For all we know, Arguello and Echeandía could’ve known about this two centuries ago.”
“Who?”
“Two former governors of Alta California, back when both Californias were part of Mexico. I’d assume that’s why Arguello was so obsessed with San Diego and wanted to live there—so much that eventually Echeandía gave him the ranch that would become modern-day San Diego and Tijuana,” Cabeza de Vaca explained, leaning back in his chair.
“It might even explain why Arguello bought a boat to hunt seals. I don’t think he did it out of boredom like I used to think. I suspect Echeandía’s father knew something, too. If memory serves, the man was in the Imperial Spanish Navy… or was it Santiago Arguello?”
“That sounds like a load of shit coming from you,” Navarro replied, finishing his beer and lighting another pair of cigarettes.
“You wouldn’t happen to have another one of these, would you?” he asked, pointing at the can.
“I do, but they’re not cold enough.” Cabeza de Vaca took the empty can, tossed it into the trash, spilling some of the contents over scattered papers. He grunted, reached behind a mountain of documents cleverly stacked near a bookshelf, and produced another can.
“Have some decency. I’m only halfway through mine.”
"Tu pedo, no mío," Navarro replied, cracking open the can and drinking with the same urgency as before. He placed it beneath his seat and took a long drag.
"Dinero. I need it."
*"Ya voy, chingado." Cabeza de Vaca muttered.
"Paro, can you check in the plane with them?"
“I have no intentions of visiting anyone in the plane for the next few weeks,” Navarro said flatly.
“I don’t want anyone finding me and killing me while I lay catatonic—especially vampires, who have this predilection for killing toda la pinche noche.”
“Get a dreamcatcher. A piece of quartz. Salt mound. A good reliquary made of silver or a small silver bell. That should be more than enough.”
"Claro, pendejo, let me just grab all that from an Oxxo," Navarro snapped sarcastically, flicking ash into the broken can.
"Como pinche niña sin calzones, ask and you shall receive. You already went as far as getting this for me—it’s the least I could do."
“No. Do it yourself y métetelo por el culo. Let’s see how that works for you por una puta vez.”
“Not my fault you get into trouble. The last two times—it was you. I warned you what could happen, but el señor ahí va de pendejo a no hacer caso,” Cabeza de Vaca sighed, snuffing out his cigarette in the can.
“Did I ever tell you to speak with the fucking Bull? No. I said stay away. Did I ever tell you to grab the lance from the purple pedestal? No—I specifically told you not to touch it. You keep getting into this shit because you don’t listen. You keep traveling the plane like this and someone’s going to knock on your door, bring it down, and kill you—por pendejo.”
"Chinga tu madre," Navarro downed his beer in one long gulp and burped, tossing the empty can into the bin behind Cabeza de Vaca.
“I’m out of here. Give me my money.”
"Calmado." Cabeza de Vaca opened his wallet and handed over a small white-and-black plastic card.
“Five thousand, as promised. Plus a little extra for all the shit you went through.”
“Thanks.” Navarro slipped the card into his left shirt pocket. As he walked out of the building, he passed an old man climbing the institute stairs—hunched, thick glasses, moving like he was trying to run but didn’t quite manage it.
The old man stopped and sniffed hard as Navarro passed, grimacing.
"¡Ey, no puede fumar aquí, joven!"
Navarro didn’t answer. He kept walking. Through the hallways. Into the parking lot where he’d left his Camaro.
“Navarro!”
He turned. Up in the institute window, he saw Cabeza de Vaca pointing at the book.
“This is just an old Bible!”
“You’re not looking at it the right way! You need a different set of eyes!”