Kill the Dead (33 page)

She grabs me and hugs me as hard as anyone ever has.

“Let’s get home. I want to blow Eugène’s mind.”

We head back to the Boulevard. I scan the backs of stores and sides of apartment buildings for a decent shadow shielded from the street. The sun is so goddamn bright at
this time of day it’s bleaching the shadows to frail patches of gray. Those pale shadows are no good to get to the Room, but they’re beautiful. I can see each burning photon and trace it all the way back to where it emerged from the sun.

We could call a cab to get home, but in the morning in this part of Hollywood we could wait an hour. I could steal a car, but that might be one colorful adventure too many for Allegra. I’d rather float home through the sewer on a raft made of medical waste than take the bus.

Fuck it. I turn back and forth looking for a likely car. That draws my attention away from the rest of the street until they’re right on top of us.

I smell them from ten feet away, but am distracted enough to think it’s restaurant trash that’s gone ripe. I know what a complete fucking idiot I am when I hear Allegra give a little yelp.

There’s two Lacunas. A man and a woman, if you can call them that. They’re pretty obviously dead. Their skin looks like bruised sandpaper wrapped around fat and muscle. The male wears a camouflage baseball cap. The female wears wraparound shades. They both have knives and are holding them at Allegra’s throat.

Even with it pressed right up to her carotid, I know I could get the knife away from one of them and pry its skull open with it before it could hurt her. But I’m not sure about two. Especially two somethings that feel no pain, are kind of dumb, and aren’t afraid of ending up any more dead than they already are.

“You going to do something, tough guy? Save the day, cocksucker,” says the female.

“No. I think I’m going to stand right here and admire the view.”

“Good cocksucker. Smart cocksucker. First smart thing you’ve said in a week,” says the male.

“Is that it? Did you come by to hurt my feelings or are muggers getting paid by the word these days?”

The female is next to Allegra, pinning one of her arms to her side while pressing the tip of her knife into her throat. The male holds Allegra from behind. He has his arm wrapped around her neck with the side of his blade ready to slice her jugular. He presses the knife harder against her neck.

“Watch your tone, cocksucker. One of us might twitch.”

“It’s nothing personal. I’m just trying to get the conversation rolling and find out what it is you walking garbage heaps want.”

“We want you to go to Disney World,” says the female.

“It’s called
Disneyland,
you stupid cunt,” says the male.

“No. There’s another one. In Florida, I think.”

“If you two want to go get a map, we can come back later,” I say.

“Shut up,” says the male. “You need to take a vacation. Stop everything you’re doing and go away. Right now. This goddamn minute.”

“I’m kind of booked up. How about Labor Day? We can all go to Hawaii together. Get a cabin on the beach and burn you two for firewood.”

The female is jumpy. She really doesn’t like not stabbing anyone. When I have to move, she’ll go first.

“That’s the wrong attitude. For you and her, but especially
her. You don’t want her to end up in pieces like the Fiddler, do you?”

“I don’t know any fiddlers, but I’ve never been into blue-grass. Either of you ever listen to Skull Valley Sheep Kill? Now, that’s music.”

“He’s too stupid to get it. Cut her,” says the female.

I say, “No. Don’t. Don’t move at all. Stay exactly where you are.”

I’m a little surprised and extremely relieved when they do it.

“Put down your knives. Let go of her and move away.”

The Lacunas do that, too. I grab Allegra, pull her away, and push behind me.

“Throw your knives into the street.”

They toss them.

I turn to Allegra.

“Are you okay?”

She steps up beside me.

“Fine. Who are they? And why are they just standing there?”

“Take a deep breath. Smell that? They’re Lacunas, pitbull Drifters. And I think they’re standing there for the same reason that Johnny said he’d come with me tonight. Because of this.”

I take Eleanor’s belt buckle out of my pocket and show it to her.

“What is that?”

“I have no idea, but it’s honey to Drifters. They can’t get enough of it and it seems to have some control over them.”

“So, you didn’t know they’d listen to you when you started calling them names?”

“After Johnny said yes so fast, I had a hunch.”

“I’m pretty sure I hate you right now.”

“But you’re not positive. I can live with that.”

Allegra goes to the gutter and retrieves the Lacunas’ knives. She pockets the male’s, but holds the female’s, a black KA-BAR. She points the tip at the male.

“What did they mean I don’t want to end up like the Fiddler?”

“It’s a kind of hoodoo. Titus Eshu is a Fiddler and this maggot pile just told me that he’s dead. Titus was looking for some lady’s kid and he’s been murdered for it. That’s one more person fucked up by whatever this is.”

“How did they know where we’d be?”

“Good question. You, Dark Phoenix, how did you know where we were?”

The female takes something the size of a matchbox from her pocket and hands it to me.

“What is it?” asks Allegra.

“It’s a tracker. This is Vigil tech. It has to be.”

I hold up my arms.

“Pat me down. See if there’s anything on me.”

Allegra stands behind me and runs her hands down my arms and sides and around my boots. She starts one leg, but stops.

“There’s something on the bottom hem of your coat.”

“Let me see it.”

I feel a tug and she hands it to me.

It’s the size of my thumbnail. A matte black beetle with six pincer legs. I check the screen on the matchbox the Lacuna gave me. The GPS map shows our exact location. Great.
The Vigil is dealing in Drifters now. Are they running this show or just piggybacking on someone else’s apocalypse, taking the opportunity to knock off people they don’t like and make it look like someone else’s fault?

“What are we going to do with them?” Allegra asks.

A garbage truck is moving our way. It looks like it’s picking up commercial loads from stores and apartment buildings.

I tell the Drifters, “Come over here,” then lead them to the parking lot attached to a self-storage place. There’s a double-size commercial Dumpster hidden from the street by a low wood-slat fence.

“Open your mouth,” I tell the male Lacuna.

He does. I toss the tracker down his throat.

“Shut your mouth and both of you get into the garbage.”

I look at Allegra.

“Go back to the street. Let me know when the truck is close.”

She knows I just want her away from here and she’s happy to oblige. When she’s out of sight I take out the na’at, twist it to expose its sharpest edge, raise it, and bring it down hard, splitting the male Lacuna from head to crotch, making sure to slice his spine in half. The two halves crumple onto the trash bags. Its blood has long since turned to dark sludge, so there’s almost no spray from the cut.

I do the same thing to the female, and when both of their bodies are laid out in the garbage, I slice them in half at the waist. Smaller parts are easier to hide and harder to recognize if some citizen happens by. The barbs on the na’at are good for hooking trash bags. I stamp the Lacuna giblets
down into the can and camouflage them by piling garbage on top.

Just in case they aren’t dead, I lean over the Dumpster and say, “If you don’t get crushed and make it to the dump site, you’re going to stay wherever you fall. You’re not going to bite or scratch anyone. Just lie there and wait for the crows to pick your bones clean.”

Allegra and I go across the street to a real estate office. We check our phones. Look around. Check the wrist-watches neither of us owns and generally try to look like we’re waiting for someone.

The truck rumbles to a stop across the street. Two bored, sunburned men hop off the back and wheel the Dumpster into place so that the truck’s hydraulic lifts can upend it. When it’s twenty feet up, the garbage slides into the big compactor. I think I catch a flash of the female Lacuna’s legs, but no one else seems to notice. One of the men hits the button that activates the compactor. It grinds through its cycle, stops, and resets. The driver guns the engine and the truck moves on to the next pickup.

I’m sick of regular people who can’t see what light is made of. I don’t care what they think or what might give them bad dreams. I take Allegra’s hand and pull her into a shadow in the real estate office doorway. An agent inside sees us coming and opens the door just as we disappear.

A
FTER
I
DROP
Allegra back home, I wander the streets for a few hours. I can’t go back to Max Overload. Kasabian’s fear will leak through the door and give me a headache.
Too bad. I’d like to see him. I’m definitely seeing beyond the normal spectrum. I might be able to see in the dark. The streets are made of light. People are the most interesting thing to watch. Their glow is different. Their light doesn’t come from the particles of their physical form, but from silver-colored balls of plasma inside each of them. I think it’s their souls. I’d like to see if Kasabian has one of those balls bouncing around behind his eyes. I’m careful to avoid mirrors and windows as I walk. I don’t want to see my reflection and what might or might not be there.

I walk down to Wilshire and follow it all the way out to Sunset, where it skirts the hills leading up to the canyons and the strongholds of the old super rich.

I hit Lucifer’s number on the cell. After a few rings it goes to voice mail.

“The Vigil is using Drifters. I just got braced by two of them. Stay inside and don’t let anyone in. If you have to let someone in, make sure it’s someone you know a hundred percent. I’ll check in later.”

If the city falls apart, will the elites be better or worse off in their hilltop mansions than the rest of us down here in the flats? The Drifters will clear us out first, but at least there are possible escape routes on the freeways and even the ocean. When the dead are through with us, they’ll wander into the hills and the canyons will fill up with nouveaux Drifters. The civilians up there won’t have anyplace to go. The mansions won’t hold and the woods will be death traps. Once again the future has screwed us because we never got the jetpacks we were promised as kids.

I dial Kasabian. He won’t answer when he sees it’s me,
but I leave a message about the Vigil and tell him to keep calling Lucifer until he gets through.

I circle back into Hollywood. Bamboo House of Dolls is closed, so I go to Donut Universe.

Someone is smoking in the parking lot. The part of me that isn’t Stark smells the industrial processes that created the cigarette, the injected nicotine, the fog of carcinogens. The Stark part of me smells whiskey, music, and pretty girls. He’ll be gone soon enough.

“What’s fresh?” I ask the counter girl. Everyone on staff at Donut Universe wears springy antennae. Hers bob charmingly as she answers.

“The apple fritters and the bear claws just came out.”

“I’ll take a fritter and a black coffee.”

As she gets my food I wonder if I should tell her what’s coming. That she should turn off the lights and close early, but I know what she’d think. The concept of zombie hordes is something regular people have to experience to believe. Maybe she’ll be one of the lucky ones who gets to see it from a distance and makes it home in one piece. Maybe I’ll be ripping out her spine tomorrow. I hope she makes it home first. It would suck to be killed and reanimated while wearing corporate antennae. Though, it wouldn’t be as bad as reanimating dressed like a crab or a taco because you were pimping a new restaurant when you died. There’s a difference between a bad death and the universe stopping by to take a great big shit on you.

I pay her and sit in a booth by a window at the far end of the place where it’s quiet. I sip my coffee and dial Lucifer again. No answer.

There are sirens in the distance. Cops and fire trucks. Three, then four plumes of black smoke curl into the sky south across the city. The aether twitches and twists, giving off a metallic smell of panic. If I hold my breath and sit very still, I can hear the Drifters moving underground. They sound like ants scratching at the packed dirt walls of their caves, digging out new tunnels, undermining the soil until they pull the whole city down into the Jackal’s Backbone.

“Are you okay?”

I look around.

Antenna Girl is standing by the booth.

“What?”

“Are you okay? Do you know you’ve been sitting here for two hours and you haven’t moved? I mean totally haven’t moved.”

I glance up at the clock over the counter. She’s right. Two hours have passed. My coffee and fritter have long since gone cold.

“I got lost. I have a lot on my mind.”

“I guess so. I’ve never seen anybody sit that still that long before. I couldn’t decide if you were high or meditating.”

I smile.

“Both. Neither. If I told you something unbelievable, would you listen without running away?”

“Okay.”

“You hear those sirens? See that smoke? Something is going to happen. Maybe tonight. Maybe sooner. But something is going to happen and it’s going to be bad. Go home. Lock the door and turn on the TV. Call your friends and tell
them to do the same. Most of them won’t listen, but some will and later you’ll know you saved them.”

She squints.

“Are you a cop?”

“Never.”

She curls her lips in a smile.

“Maybe you’re my guardian angel.”

“Could be. Of course, not all angels are created equal.”

“What does that mean?”

“There’s those kinds of angels.”

I point up.

“And those kinds of angels.”

I point down.

She leans her hip against the table.

“Which kind are you?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Probably neither. But please don’t tell Dad I said that.”