Devil Said Bang (36 page)

He picks up a chair, limps over, and sets it down a
few feet from me.

“Don’t get lost over there. Candy will find me and
break my other leg.”

“That’s the trick. Anyone can go over. It’s the
smart ones who come back.”

“I never thought of you as one of the smart
ones.”

“Me neither. That’s why there’s Plan B.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll let you know when I think of it. Hand me that
bottle of Aqua Regia.”

He does and I take a big swig.

“One for the road.”

I put the bloody blade between my teeth. Normally
I’d use a crow or raven feather for something like this but the wet knife will
have to do.

Bleeding myself has left me light-headed. I lie
down and wait for a little touch of death. I drift and sink and it swallows me
up.

I
open
my eyes underground in a subway tunnel. L.A.’s subway system isn’t a system so
much as a miniature golf course spread over a few miles and connected with
trains. New Yorkers laugh when they see our puny line but it’s ours and we love
it and mostly ignore it. This is L.A. Sitting in traffic in your own car is much
more chic than actually getting anywhere. Only squares want to be places.

The tunnel looks clean but unused. There’s a layer
of dust on walls and platform. I climb down to the tracks and walk toward a
light maybe a quarter of a mile ahead. I bounce off the walls a couple of times
and trip on the damned rails. I’m still woozy from the trip down, but when I
reach the platform, it’s worth it. The sign above the tracks reads
TENEBRAE STATION
.

The escalator has come completely off its track, so
I take the worn stone stairs up to the street.

Travelers only ever go to the open deadlands. No
one except necromancers and fetishists ever goes to the populated areas. Now I
see why.

I’m still in L.A. The Tenebrae might be another
Convergence. Whatever it is, it looks like all the landfills west of the
Mississippi have been dumping their trash here since the beginning of time. I
stumble through debris like an arctic explorer in a snowstorm. Garbage drifts
down the long boulevards of abandoned buildings and forms loose drifts of
newspapers, parking tickets, menus, and shopping lists. Swarms of flies move
through the streets like flights of migrating birds. I’m on Broadway near the
old Chinatown gate. Burned-out cars lie everywhere in heaps like a giant kid got
bored and dropped them here. If I can’t save a few of the dreamers, L.A. is
going to look like this place soon. If we don’t fall into the Twilight Zone like
Catalina.

Ghosts are funny. They have a lot of self-esteem
issues. The Tenebrae place looks like some of the shittier neighborhoods in
Hell, which is ironic since most ghosts are here because they’re afraid of
crossing over.

It doesn’t take long before I’m noticed. Ghosts
lying curled up on benches or sitting in windowless coffee shops stare at me.
Some take a few tentative steps in my direction before losing strength or
interest or both. Most look as windblown and worn out as the empty buildings.
Most but not all.

I recognize Cherry Moon from all the way across
Chinatown Plaza. Her spirit is still strong enough to look better than the other
ragged ghosts. Closer to her ideal form, which for her is a walking, talking
anime schoolgirl complete with loose socks and pigtails. That kind of thing was
creepy enough when she was alive, but it looks worse now that she’s dead. Her
skin is a pale gray and her eyes are bloodshot. She looks like Sailor Moon’s
evil twin. Cherry comes over and looks up at me coquettishly like she’s
practiced the move a thousand times in front of a mirror. At least she doesn’t
smell as bad as she looks.

“You came. I can hardly believe it. My slightly
smudged white knight.”

“Hi, Cherry. It’s nice to see you with a face.”

“Are my eyes still the mirrors of my soul?”

“Sadly, yes. Having skin must be nice. I love what
you’ve done with the place.”

“God’s little acre.”

“Of shit.”

She touches my nose with the tip of her index
finger.

“Don’t be mean, James.”

She loops her arm in mine and we walk through the
endless garbage dump.

“This isn’t the afterlife. This isn’t anywhere. You
can leave anytime you like.”

“Is that how it works? How kind of you to
explain.”

“If I’m inconveniencing you, I can go.”

She tightens her arm around mine.

“Please, James. Play nice. You don’t know what it’s
like here. We all died once and now we have to do it again because of that
little bitch. It looks like it hurts even more the second time around.”

“I’m not killing the Imp until I talk to her, so
don’t get your pigtails knotted up if I don’t go in like Bruce Lee.”

We turn out of the plaza and head downtown.

“She’s a monster. She kills us. Hurt her for me,
James.”

“You know that back in the world I’m lying in a
pool of my own blood. I’d really like to get things rolling before I muss my
hair.”

“Cool your jets, jet boy. We’re almost there.”

A mob is following us. I must be the most
interesting thing that’s happened here since the girl. How sad for these dopes.
How terrified do you have to be to put up with this dismal trailer-park
universe? If I had time, I’d make every one of these assholes a deal. Let go.
Come to Hell. You can camp out in Eleusis, the town God built for righteous
pre-Jesus pagans. It’s still the nicest place down south. Crap parking but no
torture and other reasonable souls to pal around with. I’d do it just to clear
out this shit sink. But none of them would do it. They’re too chewed up by the
demons in their own brains. I want to blame God for these losers. For not making
Himself known and available to humans, but I wonder if it would make a
difference to this crowd. There’s something willful about this kind of
self-punishment. Without realizing it, they’ve made their own second-rate sitcom
Hell.

Cherry says, “I hear you killed Mason.”

“Nope. He killed himself.”

“But you helped.”

“Russian roulette is a hell of a game. Second place
sucks as much as, well, there isn’t anything worse than second.”

“You cheated, didn’t you?”

“I’m not stupid enough to play Russian roulette
with Mason for real.”

Up ahead, it looks like a small nuke went off. A
deep crater is spread over four square blocks. Buildings and the remains of cars
and street signs lie in heaps on the edge of the blast zone.

“What’s Hell like?”

“It’s not as bad as this. Normal people would
rather be inconvenienced by Hellions than be this bored for the next billion
years.”

“They don’t have any imagination. We make our own
fun. Did you ever lie on your back, look up at the sky, and make garbage angels?
It’s very cathartic.”

“You tunnel in the dirt and play in garbage. You’ve
come a long way since the Lollipop Dolls.”

“I miss the old gang. I wonder how they are.”

“I’m dating someone with an anime and manga fetish.
I’ll ask her.”

The crowd behind us keeps growing. It’s officially
a throng on its way to becoming a mob. Off to the side are groups of kids in
dirty rags—eight, nine, and ten years old—standing off by themselves.

“Who are they?”

Cherry doesn’t even look at them.

“They’re lost kids. Ones that all died badly.”

I think she’s telling the truth. The kids look
worse than I do. They’re crisscrossed with knife slashes. Long straight cuts
along their throats. More slashed and crescent-moon marks on their arms and
faces.

“Does anyone do anything for them?”

“They’re not exactly chatty. Little savages. They
keep to themselves and we leave them alone.”

Cherry stops and points down into the crater.

“There she is.”

Our ghost escort backs away from the hole and keeps
going to the end of the block.

The only things in the bottom of the crater are the
Imp and the burned and rusted chassis of a school bus. She sits on the bumper in
her blue party dress, idly stabbing the ground with the knife.

I start down the steep crater wall, walking
sideways to keep from sliding. Pieces of broken pavement and loose dirt tumble
down around me. The Imp looks up and screams. A full-on animal scream, nothing
held back. She raises the knife and rushes me. I get down to level ground as
fast as I can and pull the 8 Ball from my coat.

She freezes in her tracks. Takes a couple of steps
back. I stay frozen. In a few minutes, she decides I’m not going to charge her,
so she goes back to the bus bumper and stabs the ground harder than before,
digging up fist-size clods of packed dirt.

When I get close enough to hear her, she says, “Are
you here to kill me?”

“You think that because of the 8 Ball. The 8 Ball
kills you?”

She looks at me.

“Qomrama Om Ya.”

“What is it?”

“It’s not yours.”

“I know. It’s Aelita’s.”

“No. She had it but it’s not hers either.”

“Is it yours?”

She shakes her head.

“You’re not one of his. Who are you?”

“One of who’s?”

“The cruel one.”

“King Cairo?”

She jams the knife angrily into the ground. It goes
in up to the hilt. I forgot how strong she is.

“I’m not allowed to say.”

“You can tell me. I’ll make sure the cruel one
doesn’t hurt you.”

“I can’t.”

“Tell me which who and I’ll stop it.”

“The old one. He watches through the dark.”

“Lucifer? Is it the old Lucifer’s?”

She gets up and walks away. I follow her.

“If it’s not Lucifer who watches you through the
dark . . . Another ghost? God?”

The crowd of spirits spreads out around the rim of
the crater. They back away from whichever direction the girl faces like she’s a
four-foot-tall icebreaker.

“It’s God, isn’t it? I’m Lucifer, so I’m not one of
His. That’s what you meant. That’s why you didn’t hurt me.”

“Why would I?”

“Is that who you kill? Anyone who isn’t damned?
Kid, even in L.A. that’s a lot of people.”

She shrugs.

“Them first. Then the others.”

A rotten telephone pole lies lengthwise, half
buried in dirt. She swings the knife, knocking out a chunk of wood the size of a
basketball.

“Mostly I do what I’m told. Mostly that’s all I
do.”

“Someone sends you to kill the dreamers.”

She nods, digging into the pole and prying the
metal rungs out of the side.

“And sometimes other bad people.”

“Who tells you to kill them?”

“He does.”

Talking to ghosts is like pulling eels out of a
tank of motor oil. Pointless. And anything firm you grab onto is hard to hold.
Most aren’t as direct as Cherry. Most have brains dustier and more barren than
the shittiest parts of Death Valley.

“He? Okay. What man tells you to kill?”

She stares at the ground for a minute.

“The one with the flowers.”

I’m looking for a homicidal florist. Sure. Why not?
Getting stuck with rose thorns all day. And the height of your day is sticking a
Mylar balloon on a basketful of daisies. That will make you moody. Then it hits
me. Not a florist. A gardener. Cherry said it. She’s just one of the “pretty
flowers in his garden.” Teddy Osterberg. My favorite freak. Color me shocked.
But there’s a problem.

“You’re not his ghost. I know that for a fact. How
can he tell you what to do?”

She stands up. Hair has fallen across her face. She
brushes it off with the back of her hand, leaving a dirty smear across her
cheek.

“He just does.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“Should he? I don’t know.”

“You’re killing the whole world, you know.”

She nods. Giggles.

“It’s fun. I like the funny skies.”

Talking about destroying the world has changed her
mood completely. She comes over, takes my hand, and leads me to another school
bus buried on its side. Hands claw at the windows. Faces scream silently. Ghosts
that weren’t able to get out when she did whatever she did to blow open this
crater. If I was a betting man, I’d say she fell from the sky and landed here
like a meteor.

“My name is Stark. What’s yours?”

She leads me past the bus and lets go of my hand.
She kicks up clods of dirt with the heel of her Mary Janes. Picks up a stone and
throws it. It looks like she’s thinking.

“Lamia.”

“Hi, Lamia. What kind of name is that?”

“Mine.”

“I mean where is it from? Where are you from?”

“I’m not really me. I used to be but I’m not. I
lived here.”

“Do you mean Spain? Or here in the Tenebrae?”

“No!” she yells. She’s angry now. “It was a long
time ago. It was dark and there wasn’t anywhere to stand.”

“Were the streets broken? Was there an
earthquake?”

“I don’t remember any streets. I floated.”

She puts out her arms and twirls around like she’s
a toy balloon.

“Sounds like fun. Were you on a boat?”

She stops. Gets on her knees and stabs the windows
along the side of the bus. The ghosts inside shriek and crowd to the other
side.

“All I remember is the cold and the wind and stars
twinkling.”

She’s really worked up now. She turns to the ghosts
at the edge of the crater. Screams and charges at them. She’s only run a few
yards and they’ve all disappeared. She turns on the first bus, stabbing the
metal. Kicking it. Crushing the roof and sides. This kid is pure power stuck in
a broken mind. I don’t know whether to feel sorry for her or to run like
hell.

She turns and looks at me like she forgot I was
there.

“Are you here to kill me?”

“You already asked me that.”

“You’ll kill me later.”

“Only if I have to.”

“Mostly I do things because I have to.”