Fuck it. I was headed for Hell the day I was born. A nephilim Abomination and natural-born killer. Where else was I going?
I take one of Traven’s matches and light a cigarette. Hold it out to him. He hesitates, doing calculations in his head. Sins versus cigarettes. How many wheezing angels can smoke on the head of a pin?
Finally he takes it and I light one for myself.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he says.
“Yep.”
“It’s a sin.”
“Smoking is part of God’s great plan, Father.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“I inferred it.”
“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” he says.
“He forgave Cain for cracking open Abel’s head.”
“No. He didn’t.”
“No? I thought he did.”
“No.”
“Funny. He said he did.”
Traven coughs.
“You knew Cain?”
“Yeah. He was the doorman at Second Death. Nice guy.”
Traven taps some ash into an overturned jar lid.
He says, “Lying is a sin, my son.”
“I’m an angel. Sin washes right off.”
“Half angel. Part of you is still human.”
“Not the fun part.”
“I wish I could say the same about myself.”
“We’ll get through this and you’ll have a billion years to repent.”
“I’m not sure that’s enough time.”
I tap some ash into the lid.
“If Brigitte was here, what would she say?”
“I don’t know.”
“She’d say shut up and smoke.”
He thinks about it.
“Yes. I suppose she would.”
So he does and we do. I lie down on the floor when I finish the Malediction. He blows out the lamp.
In the dark he says, “Do you think we could burn that gallows truck before we leave?”
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
We stay on the ley line the Magistrate plotted. It’s nice to be on a bike again.
Travel is like Traven said. What happened in the little town isn’t an everyday thing. Sometimes we travel for days without seeing anything, and even if we find a town, chances are it’s deserted. The Magistrate, Cherry, and Traven check the map each morning, but I think it’s all for show. We’re just going to follow this line until the Magistrate changes his mind or we fall off the edge of Hell into a deep, dark void. Some days, that doesn’t sound half bad.
Then we hit a string of populated ghost towns along a range of mountains so dark they could be piles of black powder ready to explode everything in sight. Not a bad idea.
In some of the towns we even find a few Hellions, fallen angels who’ve run away from the chaos of Pandemonium to the monotony of the desert. But it doesn’t matter who’s there. Each town is the same horror show we had the other day. The Magistrate interrogates a few bigwigs, pulling more languages than I thought possible out of his ass. Then the gallows come up, and someone—sometimes more than one—gets the rope. The only difference is that I don’t have to choose again.
When we camp, the Magistrate has a regular swami session with Cherry. I get the feeling that whatever he’s after, he’s been looking for it for a long time. What the hell could pull someone like him all the way through Hell, Blue Heaven, the Tenebrae, and who knows where else? I need to see what’s under the tarp.
Now that I can walk around more I can get my own food at center camp. Even though I’m theoretically part of the group now, no one seems to want to buddy up to me, which gives me a lot of time alone. Fine with me. It gives me a chance to watch the guards around the tarp truck.
Daja acts friendly enough, but she or the other woman—Wanuri is her name—always seems to be around. I don’t know if they’re spying on me, or now that I can sit at the cool-kids table, Daja wants to draw me deeper into the havoc. I’ll go along with whatever happens for now and see where it gets me.
The problem with the Tenebrae isn’t just the monotony of the landscape, but how your sense of time evaporates. A few days in, it occurs to me that it might be more than a few days. A week. Two? Hell, months, for all I know. I wonder how long some of these bastards have been riding with the Magistrate. Maybe years and they don’t even know it. Maybe that’s what’s going on with all the funny languages. Some of the townies—and even a few in the havoc—could be goddamn antediluvian.
We pull into a town a lot bigger than the others. Not quite a city, but it’s more than the usual scattering of buildings. Around us are dead neon signs and dusty hotels sporting roulette wheels and slot machines. A post-apocalyptic Reno.
These days, I ride up front with Daja, Wanuri, and some of their dog pack. They don’t talk to me much, but I don’t let it hurt my feelings. I get to see a lot more up here. Some days more than I want to. Like today.
The routine is the same. Round up everyone—not an easy job considering the size of the place—find the leaders or the least brain-dead, then settle in for an afternoon of twenty questions. The Magistrate does a bang-up job today, playing for a larger crowd than usual. His gestures are bigger, his voice louder. He laughs like a hyena and snarls like a Bengal tiger when anybody gets out of line. He practically dances up and down the line of mopey skeletons he’s decided to interrogate.
A dozen members of the havoc run crowd control on the losers crowded along the road. I try counting them, but give up after ninety and leave it at an even shit ton of walking ghosts.
The Magistrate pulls two people from the silent mob and has them hold up the map. One by one, he walks the leaders over and questions them. Sometimes he puts an arm around their shoulders. Sometimes he whispers or laughs with them. Sometimes he slaps the shit out of the ones who can’t stop crying. In the end, everyone answers his questions. When they’re done, he politely escorts each one back to the line. The problem—and the one way today is like the others—is that no one knows a goddamn thing.
For the first time on the trip, he looks genuinely annoyed. Plunging into the crowd, he shouts orders, questions, threats, promises, and, for all I know, Bundt cake recipes. Daja pulls her gun and plunges in after him. She and the others on crowd control clear a circle around him as he preaches to the dead-eyed townies.
Nothing. They shuffle and stare at their shoes, stoned emo kids playing in the dirt.
Suddenly he gets quiet. Throws out his arms and starts talking again, faster this time. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but it doesn’t matter. I can see him just fine. He pulls things from his sleeves. Gold coins. Doves. Playing cards. Each disappears as quickly as it appeared.
The lunatic is doing a magic show for these mummies.
When the havoc catches on, they begin to laugh. I have to admit, I do, too. It’s all so mad, pathetic, and weirdly beautiful at the same time.
He links and unlinks rings. Breathes fire. Pulls a rabbit from his hat. He actually gets the mob to pay attention. A few even clap.
He puts a finger to his lips, clearly getting everyone ready for the climax of the show. Slowly, he opens his duster and takes something from inside. With one hand he points at the map. Shouting nonsense in a dozen languages, he uses his other hand to hold up what he took from his coat.
A bottle of water.
The crowd surges forward, but Daja pops a couple of shots in the air and they back off.
The Magistrate does a theatrical half bow with a hand to one ear. Waits.
From the middle of the crowd, an old woman shouts something. He points at her, and without a word the crowd parts, letting her up front. Her wild hair hangs down like dead weeds and she’s wearing a dress that looks like she took it off a Disney princess, tossed it in a grain thresher, and got an ape to sew it back together.
Gently taking her hand, the Magistrate leads her to the map. They talk for a couple of minutes. He points out landmarks and she points out others. He list
ens, cocks his head, and studies the woman as she chatters away. When she’s done, she looks at him shyly, like a dog hoping it fetched the master’s right slippers. Guess she did. The Magistrate opens his arms wide and pulls her into an embrace. He hands her the old water bottle as he releases her. Daja leads her to the havoc. The woman drinks greedily, dribbling all over herself, not caring where she’s going or who’s moving her away from the others. When the Magistrate turns back to us, he’s smiling in a way I haven’t seen before. I don’t like it.
Walking to his Charger, he gracefully hops over the hood and onto the roof.
“My friends, this is an auspicious day. Our new friend, the lovely Empress Consort Hristova, a wise woman who wants only to do God’s will and advance his just cause during these troubled times, has given me information that I believe will propel our crusade into its next stage. Soon, perhaps just a few days from here, lies the treasure we have sought for so long. With God’s blessing and this good woman’s help, we are one step closer to paradise,” he says. A dramatic pause. “And war!” he shouts.
The havoc loses its fucking mind. It’s like every Motörhead fan in the known universe stomping and screaming for an encore.
Me, I clap politely.
The Magistrate holds up his hands and the cheers die down.
“But there is still work to do. We will camp here tonight.”
That gets a round of cheers.
“Empress Consort Hristova will be my guest,” he says. “As for the others . . .”
He looks over the rest of the poor slobs he’s gathered together.
“Kill them all. Take everything useful from the town and then burn what is left.”
I thought the first round of cheers was loud, but this one makes my head hurt. All around me, the havoc surges forward. Humans and Hellions pull guns, knives, and swords. They rush the townies before they know what’s going on. The only good part is that their shouting covers up any screams. And when the slaughter is over and the townies have blipped out of existence on their way to Tartarus, there aren’t even any bodies.
When that’s done, there’s a second surge of motion as the havoc rushes in to loot the town. I let them go around and some slam into me. I stand my ground. As the Magistrate climbs down, I circle around to him.
Someone grabs my arm.
I whirl around, my hand closing on a throat. It’s Traven. He grabs my hand and I let go of him, but he holds on to me. It takes him a moment to get his breath and speak.
“Not now,” he says. “I know how you feel. But not now. He’ll see you coming. He probably expects it.”
I look over at the Magistrate. He has the map spread on the hood of his car. Cherry and the Empress stand on either side of him, moving their hands along roads and lines I can’t see.
I turn to Traven.
“Who the fuck is this guy? How does he do all those things?”
“I don’t know.”
There’s a distant whoomp as a couple of small buildings catch fire.
“And why kill everyone? Why burn the town?” I say.
“He found something crucial today. My guess is that he doesn’t want to take a chance on someone else finding it.”
I look around at the chaos, and something hits me. “I’m getting a look at what’s under that tarp.”
“This might not be a good night. It will be well guarded this close to an unknown town.”
A soul with no ears and no nose runs by with a Molotov cocktail in his hand.
“That might be a good reason to do it. It’s the last thing they’d expect.”
“I had a feeling you’d say that. Please be careful.”
“I’m always careful. It’s the whiskey that isn’t careful.”
I get on the Harley.
“Where are you going?” Traven says.
“I’m going back for my stuff.” I had left my coat, cigarettes, and the little knife I took off Doll Man in Traven’s camper. “In case things go wrong, I’m leaving you a pack of Maledictions. You should stay away from me for a while.”
Traven looks at the fire.
“If that’s the way it has to be.”
“It is,” I say. “Don’t worry. We have unfinished business.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
I gun the bike and grab my stuff out of the camper. When I get back to the road, I leave the Harley by a giant earthmover covered in spikes like a prehistoric porcupine. I walk into the town as members of the havoc carry out furniture and craps tables. The smart ones grab armfuls of chips and cases of whiskey. I wave and give a thumbs-up to some of them as they go by. I look like an idiot, but that’s okay. I want to be seen. I want to be part of the group. The more they’re used to me, the more invisible I can be later.
Outside a burning bank someone dropped a torch. I pick it up and light a Malediction. Then I stroll downtown to join in the animal fun.
Survive. That’s all that counts. Survive and find a way home.
The havoc has been looting clothing stores. They’re dressed in golf shoes, wedding dresses, and tuxedoes. I help a group in marching-band uniforms set fire to a library.
Walking along the main road through town with my torch, I hum an old Circle Jerks song, “Wild in the Streets.” I think of Candy. What would she think of me now? I like to think she’d understand, but who knows? Anyway, this is no time to contemplate that. Tonight, smile like a shark and mean it.
I help some Hellions push a fire truck through a casino lobby. They don’t steal anything. It’s just good fun.
On a side street is a gun shop. I push my way through the crowd and grab a Colt Peacemaker. Stick it down the back of my waistband. Of course, by the time I get to the ammo case, it’s been picked clean.
Fuck my luck.
Pretty soon the whole town is burning.
On the way back to camp, a Christmas elf hands me a bottle of good whiskey and runs off hand in hand with a Playboy bunny.
I drink enough of the bottle that there’s liquor on my breath. Throw the rest through the window of a drive-through chapel.
Fuck you, Elvis.
“Wild, wild, wild, wild
Wild in the Streets”
The Magistrate and the Empress are holed up in his motor home while the kids play kid games. Everyone is drinking. I pick up an empty bottle and weave a little as I walk, hoping to look a lot more drunk than I feel.
It looks like half of the havoc is gambling at the casino tables while the other half is fucking on every conceivable piece of looted furniture. Some are fucking on the tables while the games go on around them. Everything else that isn’t useful or fun gets tossed into a giant bonfire at the center of camp. The cooks burn big haunches of meat in the flames. I’m sure I don’t want to know where they got it.
I head back to the earthmover, where I left the Harley. Settling down on the edge of the bucket where I can be seen, I nurse the bottle against my chest. Havoc members weave by drunkenly, dance or run by. I give a tipsy wave to anyone who looks at me.
When the first wave of elation settles down into the kind of steady low-level craziness that can go on all night, I slip out of the earthmover’s bucket and stagger closer to the flatbed.
Traven was right. Six souls are on guard. However, people have been running booze to them all night. Five of them look pretty wasted and the sixth is trying to catch up. But even this fucked up, they’re too awake to sneak past. I can’t spike their drinks because Vidocq isn’t here with one of his sneaky potions. All I can think of is to try some hoodoo. I consider putting them to sleep, but I’m not good at subtle stuff. More than likely I’d pop their heads like a shotgun in a jack-o’-lantern. And that gives me an idea.
When you can’t go subtle, go loud.
I hold up the bottle like I’m taking a swig and whisper some Hellion hoodoo. Across the camp, a Lamborghini explodes. I never did like those cars. Show ponies for day traders with more money than taste.
Whatever part of the havoc that isn’t fucking or rolling dice rushes over. The ones that stay put . . . well, they’re fucking and gambling. The flatbed’s guards come to the front to whoop it up at the flames.
I slip into the shadows around the back of the truck and crawl under the tarp.
The material is something like canvas and all the fire outside lights things up pretty nicely inside. I walk the length of the dual flatbeds, running my hand along the Magistrate’s secret. It’s a long iron tube mounted on a metal turntable. Along the sides are bas-relief scenes of angelic warfare. There are heavy wheels and at the back is something that looks distinctly like a breech.
Shit.
It’s a gun, and a fucking huge one. What the hell did the Empress point out to the Magistrate? An ammo dump? That doesn’t make sense. He could find it or make it back in Hell.
This is one huge goddamn disappointment. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this popgun. The thing doesn’t even look Hellion made. More like the too-pretty stuff I’ve seen angels carrying from Heaven.
Wait. How did the Magistrate get a gun from Heaven? Okay. That’s a lot more interesting. But I can’t fuck around forever under here.
I crawl back to where I got in and drop down to the ground. Right in front of me is the sixth guard, pissing on one of flatbed tires. He squints at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m real or a whiskey phantom. He must decide I’m real because he springs into truly inept action, fumbling for his rifle with one hand while finishing his piss with the other. It’s not a pretty sight, nor is it sound decision making because before he can complete either task, I grab him and slam his head into the side of the flatbed. Now I hope my decision making is better than his.
I could kill him and he’d disappear without revealing that he’d seen anyone skulking around the tarp. Or I can leave him and hope, one, that he can’t identify me, and two, that he’s wasted enough that no one believes anything he says. Of course, there might be a third option—I could always try some of the subtle hoodoo I was afraid to use earlier. The more I think about it, the more it’s the only thing that makes sense. Killing him would raise too many questions and leaving him means he could rat me out. That’s it, then.