Текст книги "Kill City Blues"

Автор книги: Richard Kadrey

Соавторы: Richard Kadrey,Richard Kadrey
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“So you lost the preacher.”

“You noticed.”

“Too bad. He seemed like an okay guy.”

“He was.”

“I saw them take him away.”

“Who?”

“The soul-sorting crew. I’ve been spending a lot of time looking around Downtown. You know, business research. Remember how I said souls go off the radar for a while when they’re being processed into Hell?”

“I remember.”

The ache behind my eyes feels less like monkeys trying to hammer their way out of my head and more like guppies with rubber mallets.

“Turns out it’s not the same for everyone. Murderers and rapists and your run-of-the-mill baby-eating dictators are white bread and mayo Downtown. They can take a while to get inside. But sinners against God? They’re filet mignon and get priority sorting.”

I rub the ache from my temples.

“Your boy Traven was in and out faster than a microwave burrito.”

“Where is he now?”

Kasabian leans back in his chair, giving me a funny look.

“You were Lucifer. Don’t you know?”

“I wasn’t very good at the job.”

“Color me surprised.”

“Do you have a name?”

“He’s in Helheim. A frozen patch of paradise way up north of Pandemonium. It’s where everyone who has a beef with God goes. It’s a lot like Antarctica, but instead of penguins they have armed guards.”

“Thanks,” I say, and try to stand. It almost works. I get up on the second try.

“Too bad you didn’t take me up on my business offer. You could find my hoarder and say hi to the father on the way back.”

“I’m going to do better than that.”

“FedEx him some mittens?”

“I’m going to get him out of there.”

Kasabian picks some fried shrimp off a plate someone abandoned on the coffee table. The sight of food almost makes me heave up my crab cocktail.

“I think certain people might be resistant to that idea,” he says.

“I’ll persuade them. Can you see Helheim? How many guards are there?”

“Not many,” he says through a full mouth. “Not many. Eight maybe? The prison is in the middle of nowhere. Not many places to escape to.”

I touch my stomach. Ferox’s incision is closed and almost healed. Allegra did some good work on me. I’ll have to thank her. And check on her ex-boyfriend she told me about. But after this. Everything can wait for this.

“What are you two talking about?”

It’s Candy. She took my advice and cleaned up from her tree climb. She’s beautiful. But I don’t want to have to say what I’m going to say.

“You’re going to love this,” says Kasabian.

She sits on the end of the sofa.

“I’m going to get Traven.”

She lays her hands flat on the backs of her knees, a tense gesture. She nods.

“Okay. I thought you might say something like that. I’m going with you.”

“Not this time. This won’t be like going to see Muninn. It’s a hit-and-run trip and I need to move fast. I know Hell and half the population is already scared of me. Let me do this.”

“But you promised.”

I nod and slide down next to her.

“Understand something. I’m not going as me. I’m going as Sandman Slim. No stopping. No deals. No games. Anyone gets in my way dies.”

She looks down at her hands.

“I hate it when you get like this.”

“This is the only way it’s going to work. I’ll be in and out in a few hours.”

“Last time it was only supposed be three days,” she says. She gets up and moves to the chair across from me, putting space between us.

“I know.”

“I’m not waiting for you again, you know. You have one day to get in and back. After that I’m gone.”

“I understand.”

“Don’t tell me you understand. I don’t care if you understand. I care what you do. And you have a day to do it.”

She looks through the bottles by the food carts and finds a bottle of whiskey. She pours herself a drink.

“Anyway, Brigitte shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“Don’t tell her what I’m doing. In case it doesn’t work out.”

She takes a belt of whiskey.

“I don’t even know if you’re coming back. You think I’m going to tell her about Liam?”

“One more thing.”

“What?”

“Loan me your knife.”

She’s not happy at all to hear that request.

“This is a loan,” she says. “Bring it back to me.”

“I promise.”

“You better.”

She finishes the whiskey and goes back into the bedroom.

“You sure have a way with women,” says Kasabian.

“Shut up.”

I TAKE THE elevator down to the garage. I’m wearing a hoodie under my coat. I’ve reloaded all my guns with bullets dipped in Spiritus Dei. No need to worry about whether it’s silver bullets or garlic or white oak you need in order to kill something. Spiritus Dei on a hollow point cutting the air at twelve hundred feet per second will kill anything dead.

The Hellion hog, a damned version of a ’65 Harley Electra Glide built for me when I was Lucifer, is stashed in the back under a vinyl cover. I pull it off and look it over. There’s no lock to undo. Who would steal something like this? Who except someone who’s hard to kill would ride it? It’s built like a mechanical bull covered in plate armor. The handlebars taper to points like a longhorn’s head. The exhaust belches dragon fire and I can get the hypercharged panhead engine glowing cherry red on a long straightaway. I’ve only ridden it a few times in L.A. because it’s like wearing a neon “Arrest Me” sign on my back and LAPD doesn’t need any more encouragement.

Vidocq’s potion cleared my head and Allegra did a good job healing my gut. Despite Candy being pissed at me for passing out, the sleep was good and deep. I feel strong enough to try a little hoodoo.

I whisper some Hellion, wait a few seconds, and touch my face. It isn’t my face anymore. I’m just another ugly Hellion. I kick the bike into gear and it roars like a hungry Tyrannosaurus at an all-you-can-eat buffet. There’s a nice shadow at the far end of the garage. I pop the clutch and lay rubber. I hope there aren’t any parking attendants coming down with someone’s Lamborghini because it’s about to get all scratched up.

I disappear into the wall.

And blast out of the other side of the Room into Hell. I’m on the Hellion version of Sunset Boulevard, near Fairfax. The streets are in better shape than when I was Lucifer. Mr. Muninn must have the repair crews working round-the-clock shifts. The pavement along Sunset isn’t buckled and I don’t see a sinkhole in sight. I don’t even smell any of the nauseating blood tides bubbling up from under the city. Nice work, Lucifer 3.0. I hope it’s getting you some goodwill from these Gloomy Guses.

I aim the bike east, out where the street markets are clustered. The last time I was there I got into a scuffle with some army deserters when the 8 Ball went nuts and killed them all. Ground them up like fresh sausage. I’m hoping to keep a lower profile this trip. Which doesn’t include worrying about stoplights and pedestrian crossings. Most of the vehicles on the road are still Unimogs and troop trucks. I’m the fastest thing in the afterlife. Eat my dust.

I SHOULD HAVE guessed that most of the changes to Pandemonium were cosmetic. Fix up the main streets to boost morale. But get off Sunset or Hollywood Boulevard and the city is still a wreck. Never recovered from when Samael, the first Lucifer, deserted the place for Heaven. Most of the regular bars, restaurants, and stores are still closed, so the big street market is packed. This is Harry Lime territory. Some of the goods are legit but just as many are black-market items, mainly from the legion’s supplies. There’s anything a handsome young Hellion out on the town might want. Clean clothes. Guns. Health and hex potions. High-end Aqua Regia and wine. But most of the goods are the same flea-market junk you see from L.A. to Tijuana to Narnia. Knockoffs. Stolen goods. And the things no one else wants anymore. The same goes for the food. But at least the portions are large.

I hide the hog in the same abandoned garage I did the last time I came to the market. I pull up my hoodie, still not convinced my hoodoo is a hundred percent yet. I don’t want to turn back to my handsome self in the middle of a crowd. I’m a little twitchy being back here. It brings back bad memories. Not just of being Lucifer. It wasn’t far from here that I got my left arm hacked off. And I know that if I head due south, I’ll hit the arena, where I spent eleven years learning over and over again how close you can come to dying without ever quite making it. It’s where I learned to be Sandman Slim. I don’t like to think about him too much when I’m back in the world, but tonight I’m prepared to let him run wild and fancy-free.

It doesn’t take long to find a bar. And then spot an officer. What I need is an officer drinking by him– or herself. At the far end of a small, tented joint I see one. A captain. Leaning on the bar with a whole company of shot glasses by his elbow. Perfect. I take out a Malediction and circle around so I come up behind him.

I get close with the cigarette out so he’s looking at it and not me.

“Hey, General, got a light?”

He turns and gives me a bleary look. I must look all right because he glares at me like any other Hellion.

“I’ve got an extra for you if you have some flame,” I say.

He pats himself down and stands when he feels a lighter in his pocket. As he gets up, I clip him on the jaw. Not hard enough to knock him out. Just enough to make his knees wobble like he’s even more loaded than he really is. I get my arm around his shoulder and walk him around the back of the tent, between the market stalls where no one can see us. When I’m sure we’re alone, I grab him by his collar and slap him a couple of times until he comes around.

“What happened?” he says.

“I hit you.”

He looks up at me, trying to put a face and a memory together.

“You did. Didn’t you?”

He reaches for his gun and I let him get it. I want him to feel it in his hand. Then I slam the pommel of Candy’s knife into his temple and down he goes again. Now he knows his weapon isn’t going to help. I put his pistol in my pocket and slap him again. When he comes around this time, he remembers me.

“Helheim,” I say.

“What?”

“Helheim. Do you know where it is?”

“I can read a damned map.”

“Take me there.”

He looks at me like he didn’t understand what I said. I haven’t spoken Hellion in a while. Maybe I’ve gotten rusty.

I say, “Do you know where Helheim is?” while dragging the knife across his cheek. The sight of his black blood wakes him up fast.

“Yes. Of course. Only the lowest damned souls and the worst troops go there. Which are you?” he says. I smack him with the pommel again.

“I’m prepared to beat the brains or the attitude out of you. Which do you think will go first?”

He holds up his hands in front of his face.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you where it is.”

“No. You’re going to take me there.”

He looks up at me.

“It’s days from here.”

“Not for me. And now not for you.”

I put the blade under his chin and stand him up. Move him toward a shadow against the side of the tent and pull him in.

We come out by the garage where I hid the bike.

He looks around. Touches his head, wondering if he’s even drunker than he thought.

“How did you do that?”

With the knife against his throat, I pull him into the garage and push the hood off my face. Say a few hoodoo words, and the glamour winks off. I’m me again.

“I did it because I’m Sandman Slim and I’m two seconds from turning you into a bologna sandwich.”

He lurches back, more surprised than afraid. I grab him.

“What’s it going to be, General? Helheim or I can leave your carcass here for a vendor to cut up and put on the spits in the market.”

He says, “I’m telling you. It’s days from here.”

“I’m guessing there’s light there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Light. Enough light to throw shadows in the crevices in ice and mountains.”

“Sure. Lots of shadows.”

“Then it won’t take days. Turn around and lean your back against the front of the bike.”

I hand him two short lengths of rope.

“Tie each leg to the front forks.”

“What are you going to do?”

I punch him in the solar plexus. It doubles him over and motivates him to stay down and tie himself to the bike.

“What’s happening is this. I’m going to try something because I’m on a tight schedule. What you’re going to do is think real hard about Helheim and I’m going to click my heels together and we’ll be there in no time flat.”

He finishes tying his legs and stands up.

“You’re as crazy as they say.”

“No. Crazy is when I break your arms and legs and bury you alive just to see if you can dig your way out. Want to play that game, General? Bet I can find a shovel or two for sale.”

He shakes his head, clear-eyed. There’s nothing better to sober you up than the certainty of your own imminent death.

I hand him a strip of cloth.

“Tie that around your eyes. Tight. If I don’t think it’s tight enough, I’ll just slice your eyes out so you can’t see how we’re getting there.”

“I’m tying it,” he says through gritted teeth.

When I’m sure he isn’t playing possum, I push one of his arms out over the handlebars.

“Tie your arm on. Do it tight. If you fall off, you’re going to get run over.”

He has to use one other hand and his teeth, but he gets it done. I have to help him tie the other side while keeping the knife to his throat. It isn’t easy for either of us. When we’re finished, he’s spread-eagled over the front of the Hellion hog.

“How you feeling up there? Snug as a bug?”

“You are crazy. People will see us. You’ll crash the bike and kill us both.”

“The only thing that’s going to hurt us is if you don’t think of Helheim. If we end up anywhere else, you’re going to be road gravy. Understood?”

“Understood.”

I start the bike and check that my new best friend’s legs are clear of the wheels and the road. When I’m sure, I get on the bike and ease it into first and do a one-eighty turn. There’s a nice fat shadow across the street on the side of a burned-out grocery.

“Thinking of Helheim?” I shout over the rumble of the engine.

“Yes.”

“You better be. Here we go.”

I hit the throttle and accelerate all the way across the street, almost clipping the rear end of a pedicab on the way. When did they get those? Too late to worry. The wall comes up fast. I hope we don’t end up in Hellion Fresno.

And then we’re skidding on ice. The rear end starts to fishtail, so I hit the accelerator to straighten out. When we do, I throttle down and creep forward in second gear.

I’ve been in cold places, but this is ridiculous. The wind comes down from high snowy peaks. Every time I exhale, the frost from my breath almost covers my face. I can already feel ice forming in my nose and the corners of my lips. My hands are numb. If we don’t get someplace soon, I’m going to end up with frostbite.

“What’s happening?” screams Captain Sunshine.

Around the next corner I see it. Like Butcher Valley, Helheim is a deep depression surrounded by hills and watchtowers. And like the other valley, most of the towers are dark and look like they haven’t been used for years. The main difference between the two places is the temperature. Butcher Valley burns with open lava pits. Helheim is a glacier, a moving river of ice scouring the valley and increasing its size forever. There will always be room for racy nuns and naughty heretics down here.

I stop the bike by a Quonset hut encased in so much snow and ice it looks like the bottom of a life-size snow globe. There are a couple of snowcats outside and a hellhound. I can’t tell if it’s in working order or not.

I put down the kickstand and go around the front of the bike to cut down the captain. It only takes a second to see why he stopped yelling. His lips are frozen shut. I give him a little pop in the mouth. Not to hurt him. Just to break up the ice. And to hurt him a little. Remind him whose game this is. I take off his blindfold and he looks around in wonder.

“We’re here,” he says.

“Looks like it. Here’s what’s going to happen next. You’re a captain. We’re going inside and you’re going to do the meanest, most hard-ass officer impression of your life. Order people around. Make them salute and kiss your ass. Then tell them you want to see the new arrivals.”

He shivers in his thin city coat. So do I. I put up my hoodie.

The captain shakes his head.

“What if it doesn’t work? Are you going to kill me?”

“Why wouldn’t it work?”

“They might be in a different regiment. They might not take my orders. Sometimes soldiers stationed this far out for too long can go a little wild.”

“Do your best,” I say, and whisper the hoodoo that resets the glamour on my face. The captain shakes his head.

“This will never work.”

“Maybe not, but isn’t it more fun than getting drunk all on your lonesome?”

“No.”

“You’re welcome. Now go up there and be an asshole, Captain Bligh.”

He moves so fast for the door to the Quonset hut I have to trot to keep up. He bursts inside with all the subtlety of a mammoth on roller skates.

Six guards stare at us. One is standing by an old wood-burning oven and the others are scattered around several tables. There used to be more guards here. The ones that remain don’t like one another much. All good information to have.

The moment we get inside and the captain gets warm air into his lungs, he starts looking like an officer. He stands up straight, giving the scruffy guards the hairy eyeball. The bad news is that they give it right back. No one gets up when they see him. No one salutes. The Hellion by the oven nods and pours something thick and sludgy from a pot into a coffee cup.

He says, “Well, what did you do to get this shit duty?”

The captain doesn’t answer for a few seconds.

“I don’t believe I heard you say ‘sir’ at the end of that sentence, did I, soldier?” he says.

The soldier at the oven seems genuinely shocked.

“I guess not. Sorry. Sir.”

“Quiet,” says the captain. “I’m not here to correct your grammar or manners. This is an inspection. I want one of you to escort me to the new arrivals.”

A scrawny recruit with a crooked nose sitting at a table by himself says, “Who’s your friend?”

“Again, I didn’t hear ‘sir’ at the end of the sentence when addressing me.”

Crooked Nose sits up straighter but not because he’s obeying the rules. It’s sheer tension. This is how barroom brawls start.

“Who the fuck is that with you, sir? He doesn’t look like any officer I’ve seen. Sir.”

“Don’t worry about him. I’m the one who can assign you to even worse duty than this.”

“Worse than this?” says the guy by the oven.

“Do you enjoy the smell of rotten and congealed blood, soldier? Would you like to spend a few years patrolling the Styx?”

Crooked Nose raises his hand like he’s in first grade. He’s having a good time with us.

“Excuse me, sir. What general do you serve under?”

“Are you interrogating me, soldier?”

“It’s a simple question, sir. Under whose authority are you here? Who the fuck would send an officer out here to the middle of nowhere in dress shoes and no heavy coat? Sir.”

I can see where this is going. I lean in and whisper to the captain.

“Keep them talking,” I say, and go outside.

I find a good shadow behind the closer of the snowcats and slip back inside.

I come out by the stove, so I slit that Hellion’s throat before he can throw the hot cup of sludge on the captain. Let his body fall. Then step back into the same shadow. Outside, I can hear shouting over the sound of the wind. I go back in through another shadow and arrive with the SIG in my hand. I put bullets into the heads of the two guards closest to the captain. Crooked Nose stands and watches me disappear.

This time when I come in, I do it under the table where he was sitting. I spring up from underneath, using the table as a battering ram and cracking his head against the wall. One of the other two guards gets off a lucky shot and knocks the SIG from my hand. I grab Candy’s knife and throw it, hitting him square in the left eye. He falls into the last guard still on his feet. The stunned guard steps back, letting the dead one slide to the floor. I pick up the SIG and aim it at him. Retrieve the knife from his dead friend’s eye and wipe the black muck off on the soldier’s leg. When I look around for the captain, I notice the door is open and he’s gone, daddy, gone. Have fun trotting home for days through a blizzard.

I put my gun to the soldier’s head.

“Guess it’s just you and me, sweetheart. That okay with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m not an officer, so don’t sir me. But you are going to obey that other officer’s order, aren’t you?”

His eyes scan the room, lingering on his dead and dying pals.

“Sure. Whatever you want. The new arrivals are easy to find.”

He takes a set of keys from the wall and picks up a heavy coat. He points to the soldier I got in the eye.

“It’s cold outside. You might want a coat.”

“Don’t worry about me. Just go.”

Twenty yards down a road rutted with snowcat tread marks there are heavy iron double gates. Like something you might see outside of an asylum in an old B movie. Icicles hang from the fence, as thick as a man’s leg and twice as long. The old lock on the gate is as big as a pumpkin. The guard has to bang it against the metal a few times to break the ice off before he can insert the key.

“The new ones always stay by the gate. High up here on the hill. The wind isn’t as bad in the valley, but they always stay up here at first. Some ice over and never make it down.”

I see what he means. Down in the valley, millions of dots mill around. Damned souls. Some huddle together in the waste like penguins in a snowstorm, guarding their brood. Down the nearby hillside are the frozen souls of the ones who never made it as far as the valley floor. Among those pathetic forms are men and women, some in suits, some in jeans and T-shirts, others in rags or stark naked, standing or sitting on the hill. The wind picks up. The temperature drops and it’s hard to see anything. I’m sorry now that I didn’t take the dead soldier’s coat.

“Traven. Father Traven,” I shout. But the wind is loud enough that I’m not sure how far my voice carries.

I grab the guard.

“You shout too. Go that way and shout. The soul’s name is ‘Traven.’ ”

The soldier wanders off looking as lost as the damned and yelling, “Raven. Raven.”

I get out the SIG and fire a couple of shots.

“Traven. Father Traven. Up here.”

The wind keeps blowing. Visibility is shit. If Traven was standing right in front of me in a prom dress, I don’t know if I’d notice him.

A figure comes trudging up the hill. It’s tall and haggard, with its coat wrapped tight around it. I start down toward it. His face is still pale and blotched with the same broken blood vessels from when he died.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he yells.

I push down the hoodie and kill the glamour. His eyes narrow.

“Stark? Is that you?”

He touches my shoulders, my face, still trying to figure out if I’m real.

“Ready to get out of here, Father?”

“To where?”

Oh. Right.

“I hadn’t really thought that part through. Why don’t we get out of the wind and we’ll figure it out.”

“I’d like that.”

We start up the hill. Stupid me. I’m so happy to see Traven that I forgot about the guard. He comes charging out of the blizzard with a knife in his hand. Slashes my left arm, my Kissi arm, which means he only manages to ruin yet another one of my coats. I take out the SIG and shoot him in the legs. That gets the attention of all the mobile souls on the hillside. They look around at us. Some start up the hill. When I take Traven out the gates, I leave them open. The guard crawls after us. He’s yelling something but I can’t hear him over the sound of the wind. Besides, he’s surrounded by freezing, damned souls. I don’t think he’ll be shouting much longer. I throw the keys into a snowdrift.

I take Traven into the Quonset hut. He stops for a minute by the door when he sees the dead guards.

“All this death just to save me? Why?”

“Because I’m Sandman Slim. A monster and damned and those are the kind of choices I make.”

Traven goes to the oven and warms himself.

“I pulled you out of that hole because I like you, but I don’t want your gratitude. I did it because sending you here was as much a sin as anything you ever swallowed on earth. And saving you is a message to the people who make the rules.”

“And what is that message?”

“Don’t be such assholes.”

That makes him laugh a little. It’s good to see his face in anything but a frown or lined in deep thought. This isn’t a guy who’s had a lot of fun in his life. I think this last month with Brigitte might have been his best days. I suppose there are worse times to die. But it was still too soon for him.

I take a coat from the soldier I stabbed and wrap it around Traven.

“There’s only one place I can take you right now. The Room of Thirteen Doors. No one can touch you there. That includes Lucifer and God. I’ll figure out what to do after you’re safe.”

“Can I see Brigitte?”

“No.” It’s a hard thing to say. “You’re dead and you’re not coming back. Let her grieve and deal with it.”

“You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Don’t sweat it, Father. It takes a while to figure out the rules of being dead.”

“You died and came back to life.”

“I’m not human.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“Thanks.”

I look out the window. The wind has died down.

“Listen. When I get you in the Room, I’ll bring you some of your books. Maybe pens and paper, if you want. Not regular stuff. Like necromantic school supplies. Stuff to occupy yourself until I figure out the next move. I already put the 8 Ball there. Think of it this way. You’re not some poor schmuck stuck in a room. You’re what’s-his-name. The knight who guarded the Holy Grail.”

“Arthur was supposed to have guarded it in some legends. The descendants of Joseph of Arimathea in others. There’s the story of Parsifal. Also stories about the Templars.”

“Damn. You do know some trivia. No. I mean the three knights who guarded it.”

Traven looks at me.

“I think you might be thinking of a movie.”

“Probably.”

Warmer now, he puts the guard’s coat on over his jacket.

“Thank you. I don’t know what else to say.”

“I’m sorry I dragged you into Kill City.”

“I’m not. I’ve looked into God’s face and I’ve tasted the worst of his wrath. After that, I suppose I’m prepared for a room, a grail, or whatever else might come.”

“Stay here and keep warm. I’m going to check on that hellhound outside. And maybe something else.”

I take a gun from one of the dead soldiers and give it to Traven.

“If anyone but me comes through the door, don’t ask questions. Shoot. You’re in Hell, Father. Don’t worry that you might shoot any schoolmarms.”

“I’ll think about it,” he says, and puts the gun in his pocket.

Silly me. He’ll never use it. He’s still a priest. Sentimental.

I go out and worry about him for the hour I’m gone.