Текст книги "Kill City Blues"

Автор книги: Richard Kadrey

Соавторы: Richard Kadrey,Richard Kadrey
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Candy carries each soaked sheet and towel into the bathroom and throws it in the tub. The wall looks like a musk ox exploded while taking a soak.

“Where are you taking the body?” says Candy.

“Teddy Osterberg’s place.”

“Silly question.”

Kasabian moans and groans, but he does his bit getting up the blood. I bag as many of the sheets and towels as I can carry, figuring I can come back for the rest later.

I kiss Candy on her bloody cheek. She smiles but I can tell she’s still a little sore. I toss Declan’s body over my shoulder, grab the bags of bloody sundries in my hands, and tuck the shovel under my arm. No one in recorded history has looked more like he’s going to dispose of a body than I do right now.

I step through a shadow and come out in the garage. It only takes a couple of minutes to find Declan’s Beamer. I pop the trunk with the black blade, toss Declan inside and the other goodies on top of him.

The black blade opens the door, and when I jam it into the ignition, the car starts right up. I back up carefully and drive out of the garage, giving the attendant a friendly wave as I leave.

THERE ISN’T MUCH traffic on the road at four A.M., but with a dead guy in the trunk the roads still feel crowded. All it will take to spoil the rest of the night is a bored cop pulling me over or a drunk driver plowing into me. I’m more worried about the cop. Yeah, I know I can get away from them. I’ve done it before. It’s the dash cam that bothers me. I don’t like the idea of LAPD having any more footage of me, especially with a corpse in the trunk and the murder weapon behind my back. It’s a long drive out to Malibu when you have to stick to the speed limit.

I turn off the headlights when I head up the hill to Teddy Osterberg’s place, driving by moonlight. I haven’t been out here since I burned the place down. Teddy’s mansion is a pile of rubble and some scorched beams surrounded by police tape. Teddy was a ghoul. Someone with an appetite for dead flesh. In his spare time he was a cemetery buff. He collected them like other people collect model trains. At the top of the hill, I pop the trunk and haul out the body and the shovel.

There are hundreds of grave sites sprawled in every direction. Marble tombstones and rotting wooden markers. Angel-topped mausoleums and rocky burial mounds. I take Declan out to the far end of the collection where Teddy has an old-fashioned potter’s field. It’s invisible from the road and seems like a good enough place for Declan to spend his retirement years.

The ground has baked hard under the California sun. I should have brought a pick to break up the soil. After about an hour of digging, I have a hole just deep enough to hold Declan. I push him over the edge with my boot and fill the hole back in, packing down the earth on top of the grave and scattering the leftover dirt around the cemetery.

Back at the car, I toss the shovel in the trunk and head down the hill, not turning on the lights until I’m back on the main road. I’m trying to decide if I should burn Teddy’s car or push it into the ocean when I hear a horn behind me. I put my arm out the window and signal for whoever it is to go around, but the car just keeps honking. It’s a late-sixties’ cherry-red Mustang. Probably the property of some movie star’s kid. At least it isn’t a cop.

When the road widens enough to have a decent shoulder I pull over to let the car pass. Last thing I want is to attract attention when my coat is covered in cemetery dirt and another man’s blood. Imagine my glee when the car pulls off on the shoulder behind me. I pull my gun and put it in my coat pocket.

I get out and wait. The other car’s headlights are in my eyes, but I can hear the driver’s door open and someone start my way. It’s a woman and she’s walking with purpose. All I can see is her outline. She’s wearing spike heels. I cock the hammer on the pistol.

“I don’t always expect tribute, but can’t a girl say hello around here without every nervous Nellie pulling heat on her? You boys do love your guns.”

I recognize the voice.

“Mustang Sally?”

She steps between the headlights and me and I can finally see her face. She’s smiling, knowing how much she spooked me. I smile back.

“Is that a guilty conscience you’re wearing tonight?” she says.

“Not guilty. Just tired. I buried a guy up at Teddy Osterberg’s place. What are you doing here?”

“What I always do. Driving.”

Mustang Sally is the highway sylph. The queen of the road, a spirit that’s been around in one form or other since the first humans left the first mud ruts in the ground with their feet and then wagons. She drives L.A.’s roads 24/7 every day of the year and only stops when bums like me lure her over with tributes of cigarettes and road food. But tonight she stopped me.

“It’s nice to see you. Thanks again for the help last time.”

“Getting you into Hell or keeping you from getting run down when you got back?”

“I’m grateful for the first and pathetically grateful for the second.”

She doesn’t say anything for a second. I’m not the one who stopped her, but she’s still a spirit that needs feeding. I pull out the closest thing I have to a tribute. Half a pack of Maledictions.

“It’s all I have. I didn’t expect to see you.”

“That’s okay. I didn’t expect to see you either, but kismet,” she says, and sniffs the pack.

“These must pack a wallop.”

She taps out a smoke and holds it to her lips. I get out Mason’s lighter and spark the cigarette for her.

“So this is what they smoke in Hell these days. A tribe that used to worship me—who was it?—they liked sage sprinkled with wolf dung, so I suppose I’ve had worse smokes in my time. So, what can I do for you tonight?”

I open my hands. Sally makes a face and brushes some graveyard dirt from my shoulder.

“I wasn’t looking for you. You stopped me.”

She shakes her head.

“Use your brain. You’re on this road. I’m on this road. Spirits and mortals don’t just bump into each other outside a Stuckey’s without it meaning something. So, we’ve exchanged pleasantries. You’ve paid me this ludicrous tribute. All the formalities are taken care of. What’s on your mind?”

I’m not sure what to say at first and then it comes to me.

“I’m going into Kill City.”

“You do go to the most interesting places. Why?”

“I have to find a ghost.”

“That’s probably a good place for them. How many people died there?”

“In the accident, a hundred give or take.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know anything about the place or where we’re going. We have a guide but I don’t trust him. I’m not sure what to do about it.”

Sally puffs the Malediction, pulling the smoke as deep into her lungs as any Hellion.

“Here’s the thing: Kill City isn’t really my kind of road. I’m an open-road gal. Kill City is more of a labyrinth. You know any labyrinth spirits?”

“No.”

“I know a few but they won’t be any help. They’re all as dizzy as clowns in a clothes dryer.”

“Do you have any words of wisdom before I go in?”

She nods her head from side to side, thinking.

“You could get one of those little Saint Christopher statues for your dashboard.”

“You’re the only traveling saint I believe in.”

She smiles. A few other cars pass us as we talk. You’d think us standing here in the middle of the night would attract rubberneckers. But no one slows down or even looks at us. It’s like we’re invisible.

“What I can tell you is what I tell anyone in your position. When you get lost, and you will get lost, keep going and don’t stop till you hit the end of the road. There will be something there, even if it’s not what you were looking for. And something is always better than nothing, isn’t it?”

“That depends on how pointy something’s teeth are.”

She blows out some smoke and drops the Malediction on the ground, grinding it out with her shoe.

“Sorry I can’t be more help,” she says.

“You’re always fine by me, Sally.”

“I mean really sorry. I’m a spirit of the earth. Something bad is coming, and if it gets here, it will eat me like a ripe peach. And I don’t want that. I love my roads and the funny people I meet along the way. I saved you once. Now you’re going to return the favor, right?”

“I’m going to do my best.”

“That’s all a lady can ask. I’ll see you around, Mr. Stark.”

She turns and heads back to her car.

“I’ll see you, Sally. Drive safe.”

That makes her laugh. She guns the Mustang’s engine and peels rubber back onto the road.

Some days are harder than others in the kill-or-be-killed game. Some days are stranger. This day might have set some new records.

I WAKE UP around noon and start calling people, telling them to come to the penthouse around three. Candy and I spend an hour rearranging furniture so the sofa, which now covers the remains of Declan’s sizable bloodstain, doesn’t look too out of place. Kasabian’s gimp leg makes him useless for this kind of work, so he hangs out at his desk kibitzing the whole time, like a half-crocked Martha Stewart.

Candy takes me into the bedroom and gets a box down from the top shelf of the closet. It’s flat and square, sealed with packing tape.

“I didn’t wrap it yet because it’s only Thanksgiving.”

“Remind me which one that is.”

“You don’t know what Thanksgiving is?”

“I’m aware of its existence but I don’t remember the details. We had different holidays in Hell.”

“It’s the one with turkey and stuffing and pumpkin pie and everyone eats and drinks too much and people fall asleep watching football or making fun of people watching football.”

“Right. The one where my father broke things because he bet on the games and always lost. Always. My whole childhood, I don’t remember him winning once. Shouldn’t a man win once, just out of sheer statistics?”

“He wasn’t your father. Doc was,” says Candy.

She’s right, but what difference does it make? I don’t want to think about it or get into an argument about it. Doc Kinski means a lot more to Candy than he does to me. He took care of her. Got her started on the potion that makes it so she doesn’t have the hunger to drink people. She loves him and I only met him after the point in my life when meeting your real father isn’t much more than a technicality. Something to check off a life list. Smoke your first cigarette. See your first porn flick. Meet your real father.

Candy sees I’m not happy with her bringing it up. She picks up the box and puts it in my lap.

“I was keeping this for Christmas, but saving the world is a good time for presents too.”

I unwrap the box and take out a gun.

“Do you know what it is?”

“I think so. I’ve seen pictures of them. It’s a presentation pistol.”

“It’s from Tiffany’s, the old jewelry place. They made fancy pistols since before the Civil War. I couldn’t find one of those. This one is, like, from the eighties.”

It’s a Colt, with a matte-black finish and gold filigree on the cylinder and golden eagle wings along the barrel. The ivory grips are carved with talons.

“Does it work?”

“I don’t know. Test it.”

I pull back the hammer and dry-fire it several times. The action feels good. I know these things are supposed to be for show, but it feels like a good piece of hardware.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s great. Where did you get it?”

“Doc had it. A civilian gave it to him when he fixed him up on the sly.”

Now I see why she brought him up. Don’t get me wrong. Doc was a good guy, considering he was a deadbeat dad and, worse, a goddamn angel. He’s the one who filled me in on my background. Told me I was a nephilim, an Abomination in both Heaven and Hell and the only one of my kind left alive on earth, so, you know, lucky me. Back in Doc’s prime he was known as Uriel, one of the warrior archangels. He fought in the Heavenly war against Lucifer and the other rebels. Knowing all that, I still find it hard to picture him with a gun in his hand, even if he was just stashing it in a box, never to be fired.

“Is that okay?” says Candy.

“Yeah. It’s great. You’re great. Thanks.”

I kiss her and put thoughts about where the gun came from out of my head. I’m good at that. And I’m damned sure not going to let a good gun’s origins stop me from using it.

She smiles and sits up straight.

“So, where’s my present?”

“What makes you think I have one? It’s only Thanksgiving.”

“People have been bribing you all over town, and not just with money, I bet.”

I look at her. She’s still smiling, but there’s something in her eyes.

“You didn’t give me this because I’m trying to save the world. You did it became you don’t think we’re going to make it to Christmas.”

She lets her shoulders fall.

“So? What if I did?”

“Assuming I have anything for you, you’re not getting it now.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m more optimistic than you. You can wait for Santa.”

She throws a pillow at me.

“You dick.”

“If I have to twist the head off every Angra freak in L.A., we’re going to make it to Christmas.”

She takes the Colt and levels it at objects around the room. Snaps the gun back each time she pretend-shoots it.

“Head twisting. You know how to sweet-talk a girl. At least give me a hint.”

“It’s red and it doesn’t fit in your pocket.”

“Fuck you. That’s not a clue.”

“It’s all you’re getting.”

“I repeat, you’re a dick,” she says, setting the gun back in the box.

We call downstairs for food. Order a real spread, like we did when we first got to the penthouse. Ordering one of pretty much everything on the menu. But not the duck. The waiters line the food carts along the wall, and because this is the Devil’s room, they don’t ask questions. When I sign the check, I always add a nice tip after one of these blowouts. I still don’t know who pays the bills here, if anyone. Maybe Lucifer having a room on standby is just part of the cost of doing business in L.A. For all I know, there could be other hoodoo penthouses where Odin, the Easter Bunny, and Amelia Earhart are living as large as we are and not paying one red shekel.

PEOPLE START COMING through the clock around three. First Vidocq and Allegra, then Brigitte and Father Traven. I want to grab them and start talking right away, but I keep my mouth shut. There’s plenty of food and wine and beer for everyone, though I notice that Father Traven is just drinking coffee. Brigitte stays close to him. Smiling. Talking to him. Making sure he remembers to eat. She’s not watching him to keep him off the booze. You can see it in her eyes. She’s trying to protect him from the world.

I pass the Tiffany pistol around and everyone tells Candy about what great taste she has. She loves it. Then I can’t stand waiting anymore.

“I’m going on a ghost hunt in Kill City.”

That gets people’s attention.

“I’ve been looking for the 8 Ball for over a month. All it’s gotten me is tall tales that I have the shitty thing. Yesterday, the Dark Eternal told me that there’s a ghost hiding in Kill City that might know where the 8 Ball is, so I’m going in to check it out.”

“Do you believe what they said?” asks Vidocq.

“I have to go in and find out.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean do you trust them? You have not harassed the Dark Eternal the way you have other gangs, but what’s to stop you from doing so?”

“If they think you’re coming for them, they might be sending you into a trap,” says Brigitte.

“I don’t think so. The Dark Eternal and I have steered clear of each other for a while.”

“Is it true that’s because they paid you a large sum of money?” asks Traven.

“Yes. And because they mostly feed on crooks and the fools that come crawling to them and I don’t have a problem with that.”

Traven nods. I don’t know if he exactly understands, but he seems to accept that I’m not a simple sellout. I’m a complicated sellout.

“If the Dark Eternal wanted me gone, they could have sent an army. What I think is really going on is that Tykho knows the 8 Ball is valuable and that it gives whoever has it power, so she wants it. She’s sending me in with a Dark Eternal rep, a guy called Paul Delon. He’s the one with the map.”

“Tell me about this Paul,” says Vidocq. “Do we really need him? Couldn’t we take his map and use it ourselves?”

I shake my head.

“First off, Paul isn’t human. Candy and Brigitte would recognize him. He’s another Trevor. An automaton built by a Tick-Tock Man named Atticus Rose.”

“What?” says Candy. “The last two tried to kill you.”

“And we killed them. There’s no choice here. Robby the Robot has the map in his head. Without him I could wander around the place for weeks. All I want is to find the 8 Ball and make sure Paul never even touches it. I think I can handle that, but having more people would help. Is anyone willing to come into Kill City with me?”

Everyone except Kasabian raises their hands. I look over at him.

“You like horror movies, Kas. Aren’t you interested in seeing a real-life House of Usher?”

Kasabian shakes his head. He’s working over the food like he’s Muhammad Ali and the buffet is Sonny Liston.

“I’ll leave it to you prima ballerinas. My dancing days are over,” he says, tapping his bad leg with his fork.

“You’re missing all the fun.”

“Bring me back a snow globe so I’ll know what it was like.”

“I guess that just leaves us,” I say. “But I don’t want all of us. Allegra, I’d like you to stay behind.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re basically going to the moon and that means someone is going to get hurt. If that was you, none of us knows how to fix you. And if one of us gets hurt, everyone would feel better knowing that the best doctor is at the clinic and not one of the second stringers.”

“He’s right, my dear,” says Vidocq. “I know it’s not what you want, but it’s the smart thing to do.”

Allegra crosses her arms and leans back in her chair.

“Fine. I’ll stay.”

I say, “You can also keep an eye on that other thing we talked about.”

She nods.

“Yeah.”

“If there are any problems with that, you can crash here with Kasabian.”

Kasabian gestures with a chicken wing like he’s conducting a goddamn orchestra.

“Sure,” he says around a mouthful of food. “It’ll be like a campout. We can set their bed on fire and roast hot dogs on a stick.”

“What are we taking?” says Candy.

“Guns and lunch. I don’t plan on window-shopping.”

“Anything else?”

“Lights,” says Brigitte.

“And water. We’ll be in there for at least a few hours. Anyone with boots should wear them.”

“You’re going to need a first-aid kit,” Allegra says. “I’ll put one together.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“I’ll bring potions,” says Vidocq. “And some of my other tools.”

Vidocq might just be the best thief in L.A. That could come in handy.

Father Traven says, “I’ve been doing more research. I believe I’ve found some runes that will keep the Qomrama’s magic in check. I can put them on a vessel for it if I knew how big it was.”

Candy gets the fake 8 Ball from the coffee table and tosses it to him.

“Thank you.”

“There’s a couple of rules we’re going to live by. The first is that everybody sticks together no matter what. If you’re pee-shy, don’t come. Second rule is that no one gets more than ten feet away from anyone else. Last rule is if we run into locals or loons, let Paul do the talking.”

“You’re telling us to keep our mouths shut? You?” says Candy.

“We’ll meet at Bamboo House of Dolls at eight tonight.”

“Why can’t you take everyone in through a shadow?” says Allegra.

“I’ve never been inside Kill City. It’s not the kind of place I want to stroll into blind. We’ll go in together, one step at a time, everybody looking out for everybody else.”

“Still, going in at night,” says Traven.

“Less chance of being seen. And the place has been dead for years. There probably isn’t much light inside, so we’ll be carrying our own light night or day.”

From over at his desk Kasabian says, “And what’s Plan B?”

“Plan B?”

“You know, for when Plan A goes wrong. No offense, but it took your fearless leader over there eleven years to find his way out of Hell. When Plan A goes tits up, what’s your backup plan for getting out of Kill City?”

Everyone looks at me.

“Thanks, Kas.”

“Just being a team player, boss.”

I TAKE A Toyota SUV off a parking lot on North Cahuenga. It’s brown, a few years old, and with a couple of dents in the fenders. A vehicle like this is practically invisible to the highway patrol. Yeah, I could take everyone through a shadow right to Kill City’s front door, but there’s no way I’m letting Delon in on that trick. I figure that anything he knows, Norris Quay will eventually know, and I’m not ready to share that secret with the richest prick in prick town. If things go sideways inside, I’ll drag everyone else out through the Room and leave Delon’s Tick-Tock ass behind.

The others, including Delon, are waiting at Bamboo House of Dolls. Candy is waiting by the curb. When she sees me she calls inside and jumps in the shotgun seat. The others pile in the back. I head for the I-10 and turn west to the land of seashell art and crab salad. Santa Monica.

Delon sits behind me, next to Vidocq.

He leans forward and says, “So what’s the plan?”

“The plan is we go in and we get out ASAP. And why are you asking me? You’re Mr. Insider. What’s your plan for getting us to the ghost?”

“We’re going to have to deal with at least a couple of groups of crazies inside Kill City. Families and federacies.”

“What’s the difference?” says Traven.

“There are some intact old Sub Rosa families. Ones that have fallen so low they’re completely off the map. We’ll be meeting one of them when we get there. The Mangarms.”

I say, “Do they know we’re coming?”

“How would they?” says Delon.

“So, your plan is that we walk into their house and ask for a handout?”

Delon rustles a bag at his feet.

“I have shiny stones and beads to trade. Barter is very big in Kill City.”

“Are you sure the Mangarms know anything useful?”

“If they don’t they’ll know who we should talk to. In any case, they’re a good bunch to make nice with. They’re the family closest to the outside world, which keeps them vaguely civilized.”

“And how many uncivilized families will we be meeting?” says Candy.

“None if we get lucky. If we’re not, who knows?”

“What are the federacies you spoke of? Are they the uncivilized groups?” says Vidocq.

“Not necessarily, but they’re the ones most likely to be dangerous. They’re not families. More like dog packs. Random groups of down-and-out Sub Rosa, civilians, and Lurkers. The good thing is that they’re big on marking their territories, so if we keep our eyes open, we’ll be able to steer clear of them.”

“Luck is for suckers,” I say. “Keeping us out of crazy country is your number one job. If we have to take the long way around, fine. I don’t want to cage-fight a bunch of head cases where I don’t know the exits.”

“Understood,” says Delon. “I don’t want any close encounters either.”

“But we might have to meet them,” says Traven.

“It depends on where the ghost is hiding.”

“That means we might have to.”

“Yes.”

“Is there anyone here who doesn’t have a gun?” I say.

“I don’t,” says Traven.

“Do you want one?”

“No, thank you. You and Brigitte know guns. I’ll end up shooting myself in the foot.”

“Anyone else?”

“I don’t, but I have my own defenses,” says Vidocq.

Vidocq wears a custom greatcoat with dozens of pockets inside. Each pocket holds a potion he can toss like a mini-grenade at anything that needs its attitude adjusted.

“Good. What about you, Paul?”

He nods.

“I’m fine.”

Great. That means the fucker is armed. At least now everyone knows. The trick is going to be keeping him in front of us the whole time we’re inside.

WHEN WE REACH Santa Monica I park the van in the back on the top floor of a shopping-center parking lot. Before we ditch it, I wipe down the steering wheel and the front driver-side door, something I don’t usually do. In the past, I just left the vehicle and walked away. But now that LAPD has a file on me, I don’t want to make it too easy for them to track me.

We head for the beach with our bags and packs over our shoulders. Slung low on someone’s back is a kid-size vinyl Kekko Kamen pack, featuring a mostly naked female superhero in a red mask.

“Thanks for being discreet,” I say.

Candy smiles and keeps walking.

“This is discreet. I turned off the red LEDs in her nipples. And speaking of discreet, you have so many gun bulges under that coat you look like the Elephant Man.”

It’s just a few blocks to the beach. We stroll along past cafés and high-priced clubs with doormen in Hawaiian shirts, like just one more group of shitheel tourists.

“What’s so special about this thing we’re looking for?” says Delon. “Tykho says it might be a weapon, but you don’t look like the kind of person who needs more weapons.”

“You can never have too many weapons.”

“It is a weapon, then?”

“I didn’t say that.” I’m not sure how much this asshole knows, but I don’t want him knowing any more than he has to. “I don’t know exactly what it is, if you want to know the truth. All I know is that a very bad person wants it and that’s reason enough to keep it from her.”

“What’s so bad about her?”

“Well, she killed me once upon a time.”

Delon stops walking for a second. He has to take a couple of big steps to catch up.

“You’re not a vampire, are you?”

Delon has to sidestep a gaggle of drunk bachelorettes pouring out of a limo, dragging a bewildered-looking soon-to-be bride into what’s probably the third club of the night.

“Tykho said you were hard to figure out. Like whether you’re just making things up to keep a mysterious image. Did you really go to Hell?”

“Many times.”

“What’s it like?”

“It’s dark, full of monsters, and it smells bad. The upside is that people don’t ask too many questions.”

Delon gives me a quick look and adjusts his shoulder bag.

We reach the long street that runs parallel to the beach and he says, “There it is.”

Of course, there it is. It’s pretty fucking hard to miss.

For about ten minutes Kill City was the biggest shopping mall in the country. It was called Blue World Village back then and was supposed to demonstrate peace and harmony for all the countries on the planet through high-end retail consumption.

The developers stole the basic layout from the Santa Monica Pier tourist trap—upscale vomit rides for the kiddies, shit restaurants, T-shirt and crap jewelry shops, a rip-off arcade—and tacked on a glitzy mall bigger than the biggest Vegas casino. It was a whole damned Smurf-size city. Hell, if the amusement park outside wasn’t enough, there was another smaller one inside.

Then, in thirty head-cracking seconds, the place went from Blue World Village to Kill City when part of the roof collapsed, taking down a couple of walls and a hundred construction workers with it. Took down a lot of investors too. The only reason the great white whale is still standing is because of all the lawsuits. The builders claim force majeure, that an act of God, an earthquake, brought the place down. A lot of investors have a lot of detectives claiming that the builders were skimming money off the top by buying inferior construction materials and using unskilled labor. Even the state and the city are fighting over who should pay to knock the damn thing down. Then there’s the families of the dead, suing everyone in sight. The mall was such a mess that they never even found a lot of bodies. They just sort of vaporized under all the concrete and steel.

If anywhere in L.A. is full of ghosts and feral shut-ins, it’s Kill City.

The lights by the mall, even the security lights, burned out a long time ago. There’s a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence around the whole site. I take out the black blade and slice through the wire and we move inside. We stay on the concrete sidewalk around the mall. The amusement park is out on a wooden pier. Half a Ferris wheel and enough of a roller coaster left to make a nice nesting site for birds. But every Pacific storm loosens the pylons a little more. One good blow and the pier will go down, maybe taking the rest of Kill City with it. I checked the weather before we started out tonight. Clear, calm skies. Warm Indian-summer air. Just the weather for a little B&E.

In a circular courtyard by the front doors is the sky-blue globe that gave the mall its name. If they reopen the place they might have to call it Bird Shit City. Most of the northern hemisphere is buried under the white stuff and South America isn’t looking so good. It’s like half the world is encased in a gull-crap ice age.

The glass entrance doors are nothing but bent aluminum frames. We step through and into the pool of light on the floor. This mall lobby is pretty intact. The collapsed section is a football field’s length back. The stars shine down on the rubble of a dead indoor garden.

The L.A. heat and wet ocean air have turned the inside of Kill City into a kind of hothouse. The air is warm and thick. Water drips from the ceiling. Green fungus grows on every surface where it can get a hold. The floor is slick with the stuff. Mold leopard-spots the walls and storefronts. In the center of the lobby is a fifty-foot Christmas tree. The outside lights glitter off enormous ornaments almost lost under a layer of furred fungus.

Something crashes to the floor on the other side of the lobby, hitting hard enough to shake the Christmas tree. Candy and Father Traven have their flashlights out and shine them in the direction of the sound.

A hundred feet away, an enormous helmet has crashed to the floor. The ceiling of the lobby is twelve stories high. A mannequin Santa and reindeer, dusty chrome cherubs, and a shooting star dangle precariously on the few support wires that haven’t snapped yet.

“Did anyone see it fall?”

Heads shake and people mumble no or shrug.

“An auspicious beginning,” says Vidocq.

“One of the crazies might have dragged it here from another part of the mall and left it leaning against something,” says Delon. “They used to have a grand bazaar up here once every couple of months. It was supposed to be neutral ground during the market, but someone always violated it. With all the violence, eventually the market died. That’s when things really fell apart. The last vestiges of an organized society. Now when the crazies trade, the groups do it one-on-one and try to avoid each other the rest of the time. They’re about one inch from tribes of jungle headhunters.”