“I found a way out.”
He gives me a puzzled look.
“Out of where? The havoc or the Tenebrae?”
“Both. I found L.A. Ghost L.A. From there, I can navigate us into Hell and away from these lunatics.”
“That’s . . . astonishing.”
“From Pandemonium, we can go anywhere or just stay in the city until we come up with a plan. The point is, we’ll be free.”
He rubs his chin.
“I wish it were that simple.”
“What do you mean?”
I look around and spot two meat mountains, a bandaged soul, and a Hellion in a Legionnaire military coat full of bullet holes. They’re both carrying rifles.
I turn back to Traven.
“I never pictured you as the entourage type.”
“It wasn’t my idea. The Magistrate arranged it. Now that we’re this close to the crusade’s first goal, me, Mimir, even the head mechanics . . . we all have bodyguards.”
“Or surveillance.”
“No. I believe the Magistrate is sincere in wanting to protect us, but I’m afraid that for now protection and surveillance amount to the same thing. I can’t go anywhere without an armed escort.”
“Fuck.”
He looks me over.
“That’s a nice coat.”
“You like it? I lost my other one. Also my cigarettes. Do you have any?”
He stops and takes out a couple of Maledictions. Lights mine.
“I’m sorry things have become complicated,” he says. “But think of it this way: in the mess and confusion here, there’s no better time for you to go. I might even be able to help. Create a diversion of some kind.”
I shake my head, blowing smoke in the direction of his goon squad.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not going without you.”
“I appreciate that, but you might not get another chance.”
“I won’t. We won’t.”
I uncork the Aqua Regia and take a nice pull. Turning, I hold it up in the direction of the meat mountains. They both shake their heads.
“That means that wherever the Magistrate’s rolling this shit show, we’re going to ride it through to the end.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
I look down at myself.
“You really like the coat? I don’t look like a kid thinking about shooting up his high school?”
“You always look like that.”
I have to laugh. I can’t help it, we are so truly fucked.
Me and Traven sit by the fire. I drink and smoke his cigarettes. I don’t rush the bottle, but eventually it’s gone. I toss it into the flames.
“Are you all right?” says Traven.
“Never better. But I’m in the mood to kill someone. Who don’t you like around here?”
“Please don’t talk like that.”
“What about your bodyguards? Which one should I do first? The one on the left looks extra stupid.”
“They’re as much my responsibility as I am theirs, so please don’t try.”
I get up.
“You’re right. They’re too obvious.”
I stagger a few steps away from the fire.
“Where are you going?” says Traven.
“To pick a fight.”
“With who?”
“Anyone.”
Instead, I fall into a drunken sleep in the cab of a half-dismantled backhoe.
I wake up with a bad headache, a sore back, and aching stitches. But I’m all right.
I didn’t pick a fight last night, but I am keeping my other promise. My mind is a complete blank. No memories. No sorrow. No more bad dreams for me. This is Day One. Just like when Mason Faim first sent me to Hell. Only this time, I’m not the scared, privileged little shit who fell into a world of monsters. I’m Sandman Slim. The monster who kills monsters. And I’ll kill every one of these road hogs if it gets me an inch closer to home.
Repairs take four days. It gives the havoc time to heal, but it also gives them time to become restless and bored. Hunter-gatherers need to hunt and gather. Sitting around, people drink too much and shoot off their mouths, enough that fights break out all over camp. Even the conscripts, usually a pack of passive little bunnies that keep to themselves, form a few gangs that prey on the weaker ones. The camp is about to explode. There’s practically no one at the next religious service.
On the third day of sitting on our asses, the dog pack runs the Magistrate out to see the obelisk. Gisco can’t ride a bike anymore, but with some trucker speed and Cherry’s potions, he’s okay enough to drive a car. Daja scores him a silver Hellion chop-top convertible that looks like the love child of a giant squid and a torpedo. The Magistrate rides with him into the desert.
When we reach the obelisk, he’s the first to get to it, gently running his fingers over the thing like it’s made of parchment and not marble.
“It is stunning. Even more beautiful than the Empress said it would be.”
“It’s wonderful,” says Daja.
Wanuri, Johnny, and Frederickson mumble “Yeah” vaguely in a way that sounds more like “This is what we killed and died for all this time?”
“So that’s an obelisk,” says Doris. “It reminds me of the marker on Tootsie’s, my cat’s, grave. Though it’s a bit taller, of course.”
I wash the dust out of my mouth with some water and hand the bottle to Doris. She drinks and passes it on.
I call to the Magistrate, “What does it say?”
“I have no idea,” he says brightly. “It is very old. The markings are an early, degenerate form of Hellion that I do not know.”
“Then what the fuck good is it?” says Johnny in a tone that visibly annoys Daja. I don’t say anything, but I definitely agree with his sentiment. “You brought us all this way and almost killed Gisco, and for what?”
“Calm down, Johnny,” Daja says.
“No. It is all right,” says the Magistrate. “I knew all along that there was a chance I could not decipher the markings. That is why we have a specialist.”
Now I understand the bodyguards.
“You mean Father Traven,” I say.
The Magistrate turns to me. “Of course. While I have some facility with languages—”
“No shit.”
“—he is an expert in ancient mystical tongues that even I am not acquainted with.”
“Then let’s fucking get him out here and be on our way,” shouts Johnny.
Daja walks over and gets right in his face.
“Not. Another. Word. I mean it.”
He holds up a hand and makes a gesture by his mouth like he’s turning a lock.
“All in good time,” the Magistrate says. “You have noticed the tension among the havoc. We will bring the father out here quietly and at a discreet hour. Should anything go wrong—if, for instance, he does not have the proper reference books or needs time with a proper translation—we will deal with it among ourselves and no one else. We must do nothing to further damage morale. Does everyone understand?”
We nod and grunt grudging affirmatives.
“Good. When we return to the havoc we will smile. We will be cheerful and optimistic. But we will reveal nothing else for now. Leave all revelations to me.”
Everybody agrees, but it’s a bullshit plan.
I say, “Shouldn’t we give them something? Otherwise they’re going to be suspicious.”
“I hate to admit it,” says Wanuri, “but he’s right. There’s bad talk around camp. That we’re lost. That the crusade itself is a kind of punishment.”
The Magistrate thinks about it for a second, then says, “Since you brought it up, do you have any bright ideas, Mr. Pitts?”
I point back the way we came.
“In one of those towns we passed, there was a roadside store. Let’s see if there’s anything left. It isn’t much, but everyone likes candy and presents.”
“That’s pretty fucking optimistic of you,” say
s Daja.
“I know. Maybe the place is picked clean. Maybe there was never anything at all. But it’s worth a look.”
“Indeed it is,” the Magistrate says. “And since you noticed the shop, you will lead us there.”
“Okay.”
Fuck. There better be something there. M&M’s. A pecan log. Some goddamn bubble gum. Anything.
The Magistrate gets back in the car with Gisco and yells, “‘Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him who first cries “Hold!”’”
“What?”
“It’s a line from Macbeth.”
“What does it mean?”
He beams at me.
“It means lead the way, Mr. Pitts, to sweets and glory.”
Wanuri shakes her head. Johnny gives me a “don’t blow this” smile. Doris winks. Gisco gives me a thumbs-up.
I don’t bother looking at Daja.
Gisco guns the convertible. I kick the bike to life and take off. Hit the throttle and take point.
I look cool and keep my eyes peeled for the right town, but inside all I’m thinking is Give me one damn box of Tootsie Pops.
A half hour later I spot the shop. An hour after that, we pop the trunk on Gisco’s convertible and it’s goddamn Christmas day in camp. You’d be surprised how much handfuls of stale chocolate, bubble solution, stupid hats, and cotton candy can improve the moods of even the most psychotic killers. I’m not saying it’s a party in camp that night, but it’s the most relaxed night in the havoc since we looted the casinos.
I find a couple of dried-out fortune cookies in plastic wrappers. As Traven walks up, I hand him one. We crack them open.
He says, “You go first.”
I hold the fortune up so it catches light from the fire.
“‘Your smile will tell you what warms your heart.’”
“Dear God,” says Traven. “I’m an optimist and even I think that’s awful.”
I agree. “What’s yours?”
“‘With a cheerful demeanor, career opportunities abound,’” he says.
“Aren’t we the luckiest assholes in Hell?”
“Without a doubt.”
I take a bite of my cookie.
“Thank you for not saying ‘in bed’ at the end. I always thought that was a stupid joke.”
“Me too,” says Traven.
The cookie is terrible. It tastes like sugary dust. I eat every bite.
Instead of waiting to sneak Traven out to the obelisk, we move camp the next day while people are still on a sugar high . . . and of course the chains on the flatbeds break just a few miles down the road. Later in the day, a semi boils over and needs to have its radiator replaced.
Just like that, everybody’s mood goes black again. The evil gremlins are back at work. A cut here. A slice there. And the whole crusade dies in its tracks. At least no one is looking at me anymore. Especially Daja and Wanuri. I’m still not sure what would have happened the other day if Doris hadn’t called Wanuri out. I doubt I’d be around to worry about it. That leaves the sixty-four-dollar question: If I’m not the rat, who is?
And why?
After we make camp for the night, the Magistrate, Traven, and the rest of the dog pack pile into Gisco’s car and drive to the obelisk. Traven moons over it almost as much as the Magistrate.
“It’s amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it,” he says.
The Magistrate stands next to him.
“But do you recognize it, Father?”
Traven nods, not taking his eyes off the marble.
“It’s a proto-Hellion script. Pre-Pandemonium, I’d guess.”
“Guessing is not good enough, I am afraid. Can you translate it?”
“Yes,” says Traven. “But I’ll need my books and a day or two. Some of the figures are worn and I’ll have to work out what they are by trial and error.”
“But you can do it?”
“I can.”
The Magistrate claps his hands, and for the first time in days, you can feel the pack relax. Doris hugs Barbora and Wanuri.
Daja goes to the Magistrate.
“You did it. You’ve brought us through the first step of the crusade,” she says. “Thank you.”
He puts an arm around her and gazes at the obelisk.
“Thank you for believing in me.”
He turns to the rest of us.
“Thank you all for believing. The next two days will be momentous for us all. It is time to tell the others.”
I still think the Magistrate is crazier than a clown car full of rats, but I keep that to myself. As the others head back to their vehicles, I hang back with Traven.
“You sure you can do this?”
“I’m positive.”
“Does it say anything about why we’re lugging a howitzer through the Mojave?”
“With luck, I’ll be able to tell you soon.”
“You’re going to need more than luck. If these lunatics don’t get some good news, they’re going to tear each other apart.”
He looks at me.
“Isn’t that what you want? For the havoc to destroy itself?”
“Not when we’re in the middle of it. A riot is like a tire fire. Only fun if you’re seeing it from a great distance.”
“Shake a leg, lovebirds,” shouts Wanuri.
On the way back to camp, I take out the butcher knife Doris gave me and slice off my bandages. Toss them in air and let the breeze carry them away.
Daja looks at my bullet wound.
“It didn’t heal up so bad.”
“One more for the collection.”
“You should learn to duck.”
“No one tells me these things until it’s too late.”
She gets up and dusts herself off.
“I’ve decided not to kill you,” Daja says.
“Why’s that?”
“You helped with Gisco and haven’t been entirely useless around camp.”
“When were you going to do it?”
“Tonight. Now that we know the father can do the translation.”
“That’s funny,” I say.
“Why?”
“I was going to do the same thing to you and make it look like Wanuri did it.”
We look at the other woman. She frowns at us.
“Let’s just keep that between us,” says Daja.
“Yeah. It’s probably for the best.”
I get out the water bottle I filled with Aqua Regia. We both have a drink.
Wanuri is still looking at us. I offer her the bottle. She sniffs it and hands it back.
To Daja she says, “I told you this one is crazy. Don’t let him make you crazy, too.”
“We’re celebrating,” Daja says.
“What?”
“It’s our anniversary,” I say.
“Anniversary of what?”
“Not murdering each other.”
Wanuri shakes her head.
“It’s too late for you, girl. He’s dragged you into his madness.”
Daja takes out a chocolate bar and gives it to her.
“Relax,” she says. “It’s going to be all right. Everything is going to be all right now.”
Wanuri looks at the obelisk, not entirely convinced, but she gobbles down the chocolate anyway.
We move camp the next day and set up the havoc around the obelisk. A paddy wagon takes some conscripts back to the roadside store. They drag a desk and chair from the manager’s office and set it up by the obelisk for Traven. He lays out his old books and begins copying the symbols from each side of the obelisk. The damned thing is so tall he has to use the Magistrate’s spyglass to copy the highest carvings. This isn’t going to be a quick job.
The Magistrate knows it and is a one-man pep squad. He wanders around the havoc with his map, pointing out to anyone who’ll hold still where we were, where we are, and, maybe, where we’re going. It’s pure hustle, like those celebrity bus tours of L.A. Dumb as they are, they make people feel warm and special and closer to thei
r TV gods. It’s the same thing here. He points out the thrilling sights, the exciting points of interest, and hints that maybe if we’re lucky, the ghost of James Dean will swing by to give us all rides in his Porsche Spyder.
Traven has been working for around eight straight hours when a storm blows up in the distance. He’s sketched all four sides of the pyramid and copied all the symbols from one. Everybody stops what they’re doing to watch the approaching clouds.
“Is it a sandstorm?” says Doris.
“It sure isn’t rain,” says Wanuri.
“Do you think it ever rains in the Tenebrae?” says Barbora, who’s hardly said a word since her sister died.
I say, “Nothing happens out here because nothing is supposed to be here. That’s why it’s so boring. It’s the Fresno of damnation.”
“That doesn’t mean it never rains,” says Johnny. “Back home, even the deep desert gets the occasional monsoon.”
“Have you seen any wallabies down here? This isn’t back home.”
“What makes you such an expert on the Tenebrae?” says Daja.
“Maybe God told him. Or the Devil,” says Wanuri.
“Who’s been with the Magistrate the longest?” I say.
Daja and Gisco raise their hands, along with a couple of grease monkeys who were wandering by.
“How long have you been with him? Months? Years?”
Gisco and Daja look at each other.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Time is funny here. But I’d say a few months.”
Gisco nods in agreement.
“In all that time have you ever seen anything like that?”
Gisco mutters something like “Nuh,” and shakes his head.
Daja shakes hers, too.
“Never.”
“It’s a funny bugger, don’t you think?” says Johnny. “It keeps changing size and shape.”
Frederickson says, “More like a swarm than clouds.” He looks puzzled. “They don’t have locusts down here, do they? I hate those wiggling bastards.”
This chatter is pissing me off. I take a drink from the water bottle.
“I told you. There’s nothing alive out here.”
Doris shields her eyes and stares into the distance.
“I have to agree with Johnny. It’s more like a swarm of bees or flock of birds than storm clouds.”