Gods and Monsters: Unclean Spirits (35 page)

“Sure. Whatever. Why you need the kid, anyway?”

“Like I said, I need a prince. The throne has rules, Frank. God had one of His blood with Him ruling Heaven—nobody’s seen Jesus yet, have they?”

“Nope. It was like he didn’t come to earth with the rest of the... the rest of you.”

“Mmm.” The Devil pulls himself away from the window, opens the passenger side door. “Well, whatever. I need someone with me on the throne. Someone who has my blood. Plus, that way I can leave the little prince behind as I go do... you know. Whatever it is I do. I don’t want to be shackled to that fuckin’ chair all the time, do I? No, I do not. Kid’s my proxy, he’s my blooded regent on the divine—oh, shit.”

Frank turns.

A white Dodge SUV appears down the road.

Barreling down the asphalt toward them. Erratic. Swerving like a drunk is driving.

And it’s headed right for them.

Frank cries out. He’s got the gun up. Firing shots into the car. Three bullets drive into the grille. Two more punch uneven holes in the windshield.

Lucifer growls. Mercy is not a thing he particularly enjoys—it’s a fucking
chore
is what it is, but sometimes you have to do what you have to do, so he whips open the Caddy’s back door, grabs the kid, and backpedals away—

Just as the SUV plows into the Cadillac.

The two cars, like crumpled soda cans, do a funny cockeyed waltz further down the road before both slide off and into the corn. Both cars honk—a droning horn that keeps going and going, as if each is trying to drown out the other.

The Devil sets Barney down in the weeds just as Frank stalks past him.

Frank roars, gun up. Fires another round into the SUV—the back window shatters.

The front door of the Dodge pops open.

And out comes a big sonofabitch. Black as the tar-pits of Hell itself. His gut a blood-soaked mess, the blood already turning brown and black.

The Devil stands back, decides to watch.

Frank breaks into a run, the revolver raised—

He’s pulling the trigger but it’s almost like he doesn’t realize it’s not firing. The cylinder is turning with every pull, the hammer clicking, but no bullets are coming out.

The black fellow, well, he’s got a tire iron in his hand, which he brings down hard against Frank’s skull.

Frank drops like a sack of rocks.

His body is still.

Ooooh. Ouch.

Now the big bastard has turned his attention toward the Devil. His face a contorted mask of pain and rage, he stalks toward Lucifer, the tire iron again raised.

“No,” the Devil says, then points at the man with an index finger. The SUV’s driver stops, frozen and in considerable agony. “Nuh-uh. Sorry. I’ve got plans and now you’ve gone and slowed the proceedings down. The church is five miles away, which is perfectly fast
by car
, but now I’m going to have to walk. And I’m not carrying the kid. What am I, a common mule? So, here’s what I’m offering you”—he searches the man’s mind—“Tundu? Is that your name? Loyal to my grandson, I see. Yes. Gods, even half-gods like Cason, tend to draw devotees, and I can see the connection. So that means you won’t mind helping Cason’s boy, right? Carrying him for me? Good. Great. Whatever.”

He reaches into Tundu’s mind, flips all the right switches and pulls all the wrong levers. The man is his. At least, for a time. He’ll die soon: that gut shot is pretty bad. But for now, he’ll serve. Penance for his crime.

Nearby, Frank twitches. Moans. Still alive, then.

Lucifer walks over. Kneels down in the gravel. “Your job is done, Frank. You’re fired. Pink slip. Do they still give out pink slips? Mm. Disappointing that our journey together comes to this end.” Blood pools beneath Frank’s head. “Bye now, Frank.”

He points at Tundu. “Grab the boy. Let’s walk.”

C
ASON OPENS THE
shack door, stumbles out into the light. He’s not sure what’s real anymore. He knows this is the reality, but down there in the forest maze everything felt crisper, more real than this—that tiny fracture in his expectations troubles him.

But he can’t stop to think about that, now. He’s tired. Bedraggled. Muddy.

The Devil is free, and it’s all his fault. Before he entered the missile silo, that wasn’t even an option—it wasn’t a problem he could’ve possibly imagined. And now it’s real. And the Devil is his grandfather. He has no time to ruminate on how fucked up that is.

Down there in the silo, he didn’t see Psyche.

And up here, he doesn’t see her, either.

Or
the Dodge rental.

That’s a problem.

Cason cups his hands, yells out. His voice echoes over the corn.

He yells again—for Tundu, for Psyche, for anybody.

No sign. No Devil. Nothing.

He feels alarmingly alone. A tiny seed inside sprouts a germ of fear—the Devil is free and he’s already gone and ruined the world, and this is Cason stepping out into
that
world, not the world he remembers. Or maybe he’s been down there for hundreds of years and all that he knows has passed him by.

What he knows is that he’s worried about Psyche and Tundu.

Which means it’s time to walk.

A
LISON DROPS THE
knife. It sticks in the dirt past the road’s shoulder.

She looks around like this is some kind of joke.

She’s alone. The road stretches in both directions, an asphalt ribbon parting the seas of wheat and corn.

Everything about her feels like a raw nerve exposed to the air. Alive, but stinging.

Then she picks the knife back up. And puts it back down again. A fear fantasy plays out in her mind where the cops—the
real
cops—show up and see her carrying a knife and suddenly everything goes bullet-shaped as they fill her full of lead.

But then she’s afraid that the
other
guy, the fake cop, will come back.

Him, or the Indian.

Or the strange little man.

Or the horrible narcissistic woman with the mad mane of hair and the ability to crawl inside her mind like a mouse.

She picks up the knife again.

And it’s then a voice echoes out over the corn—

Indistinct at first, but louder the next time:

“
Tundu. Psyche! Hello?
”

The voice. Familiar. All her senses awaken. It’s an overwhelming rush, a powerful flashbulb inside her head—

Rage rising—

Blood in her vision, red haze, red rage—

Cason.

Alison clutches the knife and heads toward the voice.

C
ASON STAGGERS UP
the drive and toward the road. Sees tracks on the ground—car tracks. Looks like a second set. From the Dodge, maybe. They swerve. With each turn, the rubber gets a workout—black track-streaks. If Tundu was driving, he got out of here in a hurry. What happened?

He gets to the road. Looks right. Nothing. Left? Nothing.

Knows there’s a crossroads back the way they came. Not far. So he heads that way.

Crows fly overhead, chased by a pair of smaller birds. Swifts or sparrows or swallows, he doesn’t know. They dog-fight above his head, and as he walks, he looks up and watches.

His heart jumps in his chest.

It can’t be.

Another illusion
.

It’s Alison.

Dead ahead. A hundred feet before the intersection. Marching toward him with eerie purpose and grim determination.

“Al,” he says. Again not sure if this is a trick. “Alison. Is that really you?”

She just stares. Continuing her dread march.

Something glints in her hand.

A knife. It’s a knife.

Cason’s not sure what to do. Run? Hug her? Try to dispel the illusion somehow?

He stands at the ready. Defensive position. Hands up, palms out. “Alison, stop right there. Okay? I’m going to need you to—”

He feels it even before he registers what happens. Her hand moves, and with a flick of her wrist the knife leaves her grip and... he paws at his throat, finds the hilt sticking out. His words dissolve into a gassy gurgle.

She picks up speed. Crashes into him.

Alison wrenches the knife free and brings it down again. And again. And again. The blade perforating his chest. Lungs. Heart. Everything else.

Something Psyche said scratches at his mind:

But if someone takes out your heart or your head, you’re still deader than a pocket of dust...

Heart or head.

Pocket of dust.

All goes black.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Eschatology

C
ASON FINDS HIMSELF
standing in a dimly lit tunnel. Walls of wet rock. Flickering green torchlight. He gasps. Feels his chest. His face. His throat.

No wounds. No injuries.

Ahead—the tunnel splits into two. The right tunnel heads up, the left down. A swimmy orange glow pulses in the left-most tunnel, like someone way down there is tending a forge. The right path offers a bright light—like looking into the spotlight from a helicopter flying overhead, a winking starburst of white.

A man sits between the two.

No. Not a man.

Men don’t have wings.

This man is naked. Though, given the appearance of what’s between his legs, he might not be a man at all—it’s a puckered, leathery pouch, a ruined coinpurse of flesh

The wings are white of feather, but patchy. Feathers gone, showing empty circles of gooseflesh skin—the skin white. Not Caucasian, but white. Like alabaster.

The man’s shriveled face looks up.

“How… interesting,” he says.

“Interesting. I don’t understand.”

“No. I suppose you wouldn’t.” The winged man’s voice is almost monotone. Little inflection. “I am the Archangel Michael.”

Blink, blink.

“Oh,” Cason says. He’s not really sure what else to say. “I’m Cason.”

“Are you.” The angel stands. Bones creaking and popping. He looks Cason up and down at a distance. “You’re blooded.” Suddenly, the angel’s lip twists into a sneer. “You have
his
blood. The Betrayer. The Thorn.”

Lucifer. The Devil.

“I do. But I’m not... him.”

“You’ll be wanting the Hell path, then.” The angel cocks his head toward the leftmost tunnel. “Though you won’t find much down there anymore. An empty palace. Dead furnaces. Forgotten pits and eyeless worms squirming in the deep dark, hungry for something—souls, company, amusement, but nothing there for them, nothing at all.” The angel squints. “Unless you’ve come to take the throne. One supposes that is an option.”

“The throne. Heaven’s throne.”

“Yes. Is that why you’re here? I knew someone would come eventually. It’s empty up there, too. The angels are still home, but we shrivel without our maker. We’re nothing without the Master. We’re like dried bugs now—curled up on our backs, feathers fallen, our swords gone dark. Kick one and he’ll crumble to ash. I’m the only one left standing, and I don’t know how long I’ve got left.” The angel watches Cason. “You’re still shocked from the passing. You have died. You see that, don’t you? You’re dead.”

“I can’t be dead.”

“You can, and are.” Michael waves him on. “Come. Let’s go see the chair.”

T
HERE COMES A
noise inside her head like a hard burst of radio static—a sharp dagger of noise. And then it all comes flooding back. Her husband. His face. Their wedding. Their honeymoon. Their fights.
Their
son—not her son, but
theirs
.

She remembers burning alive in a car.

Then, once it all snaps in place, she sees.

The knife in her hand. So wet. So red.

It clatters to the ground.

Her husband is beneath her. Bloodslick. Empty eyes. Mouth open in frozen horror.

She wails and falls upon him, sobbing.

C
OYOTE WATCHES HER
from the corn. Bending over the corpse, blubbering and shrieking. Grief makes him uncomfortable. It’s so real, so strong. And such a boner-killer.

He’s not sure if the golden thread is still intact. He has no sense of it. It’s so thin, so frail—it may have already snapped. And if it did, this world is in dire straits.

At least he’s got his penis back.

He whispers “sorry,” because he knows he helped bring this moment to bear, whatever it means. Then he turns around and pads away on his four paws.