The Perdition Score

  “I don’t have the words for what a low scoundrel you are,” says Wild Bill. “I thought I’d seen the worst in men back home. Clearly I was wrong.”

  “Thank you, Bill. In Wormwood, we aim for excellence.”

  I don’t want to think about Quay’s story. There’s no way to prove it from down here. It could all be lies. Then again, why would he tell a lie he knows might piss us off so much that we kill him?

  “What about the war in Heaven? Why is Wormwood picking sides?”

  “We’re not. And I’ll explain all that in just a few more minutes. Until then, let’s take in the sights, shall we?”

  We continue across the I-10 freeway, all the way down to the 105.

  On the other side are the ruins of an old water treatment plant. Quay parks the van by the entrance and starts to get out. I move the gun back to his head.

  “Hold it. Bill, I’m going around to Quay’s side. Keep him covered.”

  “With pleasure.”

  I move around the van slowly, looking for shooters or traps. When I get to the driver-side door, I pull Quay out. He doesn’t resist. Bill steps out, then Candy—still holding her gun on Holly, though she’s not even trying to look like she’s serious.

  The wind changes direction and the stink from the water plant is blinding. Quay just takes a deep breath and smiles.

  “Here we are.”

  “Are we going for a dip?”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

  He heads into the plant and we follow, me with my gun on him.

  “Is this what you’re telling us, Norris? That black milk is water? I don’t believe you.”

  “Of course it’s not water,” he says.

  He walks straight to the edge of the closest holding pond.

  “Come closer, Sandman Slim. Take a whiff of the future.”

  I have to hold my hand to my face until I get used to the stink.

  “What are we doing here, Norris?”

  “Here’s the story. We’re not in a water treatment plant. We’re in Hell. Who cares if Hellions have clean water? Yet as awful as this place is, what’s the one thing Lucifer, you included, wouldn’t tolerate in his streets?”

  Holly coughs like she’s going to throw up. Candy pats her on the back.

  “Effluent,” says Bill. “Even these Hellion pig fuckers don’t want shit on their boots.”

  Quay points at Bill with one hand and taps his nose with the other.

  “You win,” he says. “Behold. The only source of black milk in the universe.”

  I go up with him to the holding pond.

  “Black milk is Hellion shit?”

  “Of course not. This is a sewage plant, not a shit plant. There’s every kind of Pandemonium trash and runoff in here. It’s the complete brew that’s the secret. It’s Pandemonium itself. But you’re right to the extent that Hellion shit is the most essential ingredient. Think of it like saffron. Every squatting, sitting, diarrhea-ravaged fallen angel is leaking the most valuable substance in the universe from their puckering assholes.”

  I look down into the black, clotted mess. Then point the Glock at Quay’s head.

  “This is a joke. When I met you in L.A., you were surrounded by all kinds of death totems. You were looking for a way not to die. If you’re in Wormwood, why weren’t you in the immortality program?”

  “I wasn’t in Wormwood then. Not until right at the end.”

  “What changed?”

  He clasps his hands behind his back.

  “I gave them my son. You didn’t know I was married, did you? One dead wife. One living child. I was in. On my way to eternal bliss.”

  “Then why did you follow me into Kill City if you were set up with Wormwood?”

  “Well,” he says, “you were hunting for a mystical object. One likes to hedge one’s bets with these things. I died before I could use my dose of black milk. But I was repaid for my good works.”

  “By making you head of their branch headquarters.”

  “Exactly,” he says, giving me the most beautifully smug smile in history.

  I lower my gun. Hesediel is on the other side of Quay listening to everything. She doesn’t look happy.

  “You sold this filth to my kind. You polluted celestials with the bowels of the fallen.”

  “They polluted themselves with black milk. And the corrupt blood of poisoned children, don’t forget,” says Quay merrily.

  I tap the Glock against the side of my leg, trying not to use it.

  “I still don’t get it. Why take sides in the war?”

  “I told you. We’re not taking sides. We’re just working the odds.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course not. Hush and let me explain.”

  “Hush” is a funny word. It makes me want to cut someone’s head off. But I let it pass for now.

  Quay continues: “Heaven is a closed market without the war. Very little profit to be made there. Hell, on the other hand, is wide open. Think of it as Wormwood’s offshore bank account,” he says.

  “What if the rebel angels lose and souls can enter Heaven?”

  “Then Hell will remain a haven for Wormwood. The damned who reject Heaven will stay and the rebel angels will ally with us. Who doesn’t want an army of angels on their side? Think of what they could do for us on Earth.”

  “What if the rebels win?” says Hesediel.

  “Then human souls and Hellions will be exiled to Hell forever. And, again, Wormwood will be in charge. And as long as there are Hellions in Hell, we’ll have a steady supply of black milk.”

  I finally get it.

  “And Wormwood on Earth stays immortal.”

  “Exactly.”

  “They need a steady diet of the stuff to stay alive.”

  “Yes. It’s an unpleasant brew, from what I understand, but immortality is the lollipop one gets after the medicine.”

  I turn him around to face me.

  “That means all we have to do is destroy the source of black milk and your whole plan falls apart. The rebel angels lose. No one in your Boy Scout troop stays immortal. And if Wormwood comes apart down here, how long will it take to fall apart back home?”

  Quay gives Holly a big grin, then looks back at me.

  “Is that your plan, Sandman Slim? You’re going to murder all the millions of Hellions in Perdition?”

  “If I have to.”

  “You really are an egomaniacal child, aren’t you?”

  I want to say something clever, but nothing comes out.

  Quay goes up on his toes for a second, then back down, happy but restless.

  “Now that I’ve kept my part of the bargain, I assume Holly and I are free to go?”

  I look at him. Then the storage pond.

  “Are you a good swimmer, Norris?”

  Hesediel looks at me.

  “We gave our word,” she says.

  “She’s right,” says Candy.

  “A man’s word, son. It’s all we have in this putrid swamp,” says Bill.

  I know all this. And yet.

  Quay never stops smiling.

  And I really want him to stop fucking smiling. Or to see his head rolling into the parking lot. It’s tempting.

  After a moment, though, I take a step back.

  “You and Holly are free to go.”

  “Of course we are,” he says. “The odds were always in my favor, you know. Someone upstairs just made a big profit from your wise decision.”

  I take the van keys from his pocket.

  “We’re keeping the van. You can walk back.”

  “Don’t you worry about us. I had my team leave a van for us on the other side of the plant. You’re so predictable, Sandman Slim.”

  He walks over and takes Holly’s arm.

  “Oh, Geoff Burgess and Charlie Anpu say hi. And no hard feelings.”

  As they walk away, I call after them.

  “If you’ve rigged our van to explode or something, when I get
back to Hell you know I’m going to track you down.”

  Quay turns to us, but doesn’t stop walking.

  “Don’t worry. There aren’t any bombs or tricks. You’ve done enough damage to yourselves already.”

  He and Holly walk away and no one says a word because we know he’s right.

  IT’S A LONG drive back to Bill’s place.

  We park the van and go inside without a word. Bill lights some candles and uncorks the bottle. Pours three shots.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll be joining us,” he says to Hesediel.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “No need. This ain’t exactly a celebration.”

  Bill and I drink. Candy just stares at hers. I don’t think she likes the stuff any more than Hesediel.

  “What do we do now? Go home?” she says.

  I pour me and Bill another.

  “We can’t. We didn’t just come for Wormwood. We came for Vidocq.”

  “Who is that?” says Hesediel.

  “Just another mortal to you. A friend to us. One of Wormwood’s people poisoned him with black milk.”

  “And he lives?”

  “He’s in the Winter Garden. It’s like a hoodoo coma.”

  “Did you really think that Norris Quay and his kind would help save your friend?”

  “No. We came here hoping to find an angel.”

  She comes over to the bar.

  “For what?”

  “A little blood. It’s the one thing I know of that will cure pretty much any civilian disease.”

  She picks up the bottle. Sets it down again.

  “Bill. Do you have an empty one?”

  He finds a dusty pint bottle under the bar. Hesediel takes it from him.

  “How much will your friend need?”

  “Just a few drops,” I tell her.

  She stretches out her arm, pushing her wrist just past the edge of her armor. I offer her the black blade.

  “Hellion made?” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll use mine.”

  She takes a dagger out of a sheath at her side. Puts the tip to her wrist and lets blood dribble into the glass until it covers the bottom.

  “Is that enough?”

  “More than enough.”

  She puts the cork back in the top and hands me the blood.

  “I hope it helps your friend.”

  “Thank you. This means a lot to us.”

  She nods. Lets the blood flow a little longer. Some kind of strange penitence.

  I give Candy the bottle.

  “You should take care of it. I break things.”

  She puts it in her pocket with the shoes.

  “Thank you, Hesediel,” Candy says.

  “I was wrong before,” says the angel. “This thing you’re doing, it won’t help just mortals, but celestials too. I didn’t want to say it before because I didn’t want to reveal any weakness on our part. That was foolish. After seeing Norris Quay’s secret, weakness is all I feel.”

  “Me too,” says Bill. “Weak, foolish, and low. These Wormwood folks, they’ve run rings around us.”

  “What are we going to do?” Candy says. “Just sit here and drink?”

  I nod. “For now. We’re waiting.”

  “For what?” says Hesediel. “There are no more of my kind coming.”

  “We’re not waiting for angels or anyone else to rescue us.”

  “Then what are we doing?”

  “We’re waiting for old Norris to get home.”

  I finish my drink.

  “Then we’re going to go up there and kill every one of them. Send them all to Tartarus.”

  “Isn’t that what they’re expecting?” says Bill. “We all saw Norris goading you on.”

  “I was wrong before when I said we had to go through the front door. I was angry and I was dumb.”

  “So what do you want to do now?” says Candy.

  “Me and Hesediel, we’re going to burn the whole damned hill they’re sitting on. You up for that, angel?”

  She stares into the candle at the end of the bar.

  “The rebel angels, misguided as they are, fight for a cause they believe in that’s greater than themselves. This Wormwood fights for nothing.”

  “That’s it, then. We go up and set off some fireworks. Kill anyone who makes it out of the mansion.”

  “What about the Legionnaires?” says Bill.

  “They’re mercenaries. What are the odds they’re going to stick around when we burn the whole damned forest?”

  “And we have Hesediel,” says Candy.

  “Exactly—we have our own angel. That should give some Hellions bad dreams.”

  Hesediel smiles wanly.

  “After Lucifer’s defeat, I never thought I’d be fighting my own kind again. Even fallen angels. Each death is a knife to the heart.”

  “Don’t worry. Look at me. I’ve been stabbed plenty of times. Scars just make you look distinguished.”

  She looks at the ceiling.

  “I don’t understand you. One moment you show courage and compassion and the next you’re as cruel as the rebels we fight above.”

  “Because I tell a few jokes? It’s how we pass the time on Earth waiting to die. You angels are immortal. Mortal life is just one long square dance in rotting meat.”

  “That explains nothing. The Abomination isn’t a mortal man.”

  “Maybe if you angels ever did anything but try to kill me, I’d be more like you. From where I sit, celestials are all Eddie Haskell. Pretty lousy role models.”

  Candy goes over to her.

  “He doesn’t mean you personally,” says Candy.

  “She right. You’re the only angel that didn’t take a dump on my head the moment you saw me.”

  She turns and stares into the dark.

  “What a world we’ve made. Samael, the betrayer, is now Father’s staunchest ally, while my sister Hadraniel is my sworn enemy. And here I am with a damned mortal, an inhuman, and a jesting monster as my companions in battle. It’s all so confusing.”

  “I felt the same way when they changed Darrin on Bewitched.”

  She shakes her head like she’s trying to wake herself up. I actually feel sorry for an angel.

  “Look, nothing ever makes sense. I’ve never met a happy angel. Even at the beginning of time when you could pretend it was just you and Mr. Muninn, you knew the Kissi were hiding in the dark. Monsters under your bed. But you pretended like they weren’t there. That kind of thing makes mortals crazy too. It’s called denial.”

  Hesediel looks at me hard. I scratch my head.

  “Mortals, angels, and Abominations, all we get are moments between shit storms. So, have a fucking drink or have a fucking laugh or go sit in the fucking dark and pout because the universe forgot your birthday.”

  Hesediel stares at the blood on her wrist.

  “No one has ever spoken to me like that before. Not even Hadraniel.”

  “It’s a habit. How do you think I got all these scars?”

  She does the universe’s tiniest laugh.

  “Do you think Quay is home yet?” says Bill.

  “Only one way to find out. Let’s go light a barbecue.”

  “Thank the Lord. I thought you’d never shut up.”

  WE LEAVE THE van on Franklin Street and head up into the park. Instead of taking the nice, smooth, probably-not-going-to-break-your-ankle-in-three-places road, we duck into the vegetation and climb through Hell’s little Eden.

  Griffith Park back in the world is a lot of brittle scrub, annoying bushes, and thirsty trees covering what’s essentially a big rock hemorrhoid looming over Hollywood. Most people go there for the big observatory. Others for the zoo. Still others like the view, though they’re the strangest bunch of all. Hollywood in broad daylight is a miserable place. Maybe sixty years ago some vestiges of golden-age glamour still clung to the place, but even then it was less like romance and more like a particularly enchanting strain o
f tuberculosis.

  Now the Boulevard is a parched dump full of tourist T-shirts and mournful bars, with a few expensive restaurants so out of place it’s like they crashed to Earth on a meteor. At one end of Hollywood Boulevard, you’ll get your pocket picked outside an all-night liquor store, and at the other end, you’ll be outright mugged by alcoholics who couldn’t get SAG cards, but could afford secondhand Spider-Man or Wonder Woman costumes. They’re clingier than lampreys and scarier than ticks, and the only cure is to give them twenty bucks for a shitty Polaroid.

  But Hollywood at night is a different story. Hollywood has always been a night city. A place built for vampires and insomniacs. It’s all blinking lights, neon, the dully glowing stars on the Walk of Fame, and the outlines of not-so-healthy palm trees, but it’s okay because they’re as spectral as the rest of the place and more alive because of it. Hell, on the other hand, doesn’t have real nights. Just an endless, dirty twilight, perfect weather for a teen goth tea party. Because of this, when we go up the hill, we have to move far from the road; otherwise there might be just enough light to see us.

  Of course, Hellion Griffith Park doesn’t have the same stupid trees and irritating bushes as regular Griffith Park. No, this park is more twisted, vicious, and thorny than Sleeping Beauty’s bastard castle.

  There are bushes with poisonous berries that burst if you make the slightest contact. Black, twisted trees drop rotten fruit full of venomous centipedes the size of dachshunds. There are shallow pools of toxic algae and deep pools full of deadly puffer fish that look like balloons covered in tiny chain saws instead of spines. A miasma blows through the forest that corrodes your lungs and stings your eyes. Basically, everything in the fucking place is infectious, malignant, noxious, and lethal.

  I fucking hate nature.

  We have to go slow to minimize our contact with all the vicious vegetable bullshit. And by “we” I mean everyone but Hesediel. Yeah, the stroll makes her as filthy and foul-smelling as the rest of us, but angels are immune to these Downtown poisons. While the rest of us are hopping around roots and barbed vines like we’re in the finals of a St. Vitus dance contest, Hesediel tromps ahead like the world’s most annoying Sherpa, blazing the trail, but leaving us in her virulent dust.

  I run a few steps to catch up to her, snagging my coat on mustard-gas seed pods and tromping on flowers that smell like an alligator’s ass.

  “Slow down a little. Goddammit.”