The Devil's Graveyard

by AnonYMous

  ‘What’s so special about Julius?’ Elvis asked. ‘Don’t God own everyone’s soul?’

  Gabriel downed the rest of his beer in one long swallow before giving his answer. ‘Julius is the forgotten thirteenth Apostle.’

  There followed an even more uneasy pause as both Elvis and Sanchez waited to see if he was serious. Eventually the King spoke. ‘You sure ’bout that?’

  ‘Rex believes it. If Rex reckons it’s so, it’s good enough for me.’

  Elvis nodded. He and Rodeo Rex went back years. They had done some serious jobs together over that time and were good buddies.

  ‘No shit. If Rex believes it, I’m with ya, but that still don’t explain why the goddam hotel’s gonna sink into the depths of Hell. Just ’cause this Julius guy’s an Apostle.’

  ‘Look, man,’ said Gabriel. He was growing impatient with having to justify everything. ‘I don’t know ’xactly how it works, do I? I didn’t write the Bible. An’ last I heard, God wasn’t callin’ me up, askin’ for advice.’

  ‘It’s still all kinda far-fetched, though, ain’t it?’ said Sanchez, plaintively .

  ‘Listen, buddy. One of the basic – “tenets”, they call ’em – one o’ the first tenets of religion an’ God an’ all that stuff, is faith. You gotta have faith.’ He sighed, trying to sound reasonable. ‘I b’lieve we just saw zombies comin’ outta the ground an’ tryin’ ta eat people tonight. That tells me that there is such a thing as life after death, if’n ya can call that life. An’ that means there’s gotta be a God. Far’s I’m concerned, God has sent one of his guys, Julius, over here to save us all again. I’m not gonna sit around complainin’ that I’m not bein’ given the full facts. I suggest you do the same. Those without faith will be the first to go when things turn ugly.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ said Sanchez. ‘But while you’re helpin’ the thirteenth Apostle to send this place to Hell, I’m gonna get a cab outta here. You comin’, Elvis?’

  Gabriel shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t do that, if I were you.’

  ‘Why the fuck not?’

  ‘First off, you won’t get a cab. An’ you won’t find a single cop that’ll come to this hotel, neither. Right now there are zombies risin’ up outta the ground all over the desert, an’ they’re all headin’ this way. They’ll be here in less than an hour. You walk out that door ’fore they get here, an’ you’re gonna be eaten alive.’

  ‘Lemme see if I’ve got this right. You’re sayin’ we should wait here for them to arrive? Shit, man, that’s just as stupid.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ To Sanchez’s shock, another man’s voice suddenly spoke from behind him. ‘Gabriel,’ it continued. ‘Come with me. You’re just in time.’

  Smiling broadly, the massive biker got up from his seat. Sanchez and Elvis both turned to see who he was looking at. Behind them, wearing his bright purple suit, stood Julius. The James Brown impersonator.

  Thirty-Two

  Nigel Powell was always a little uptight on Halloween. Actually, that was an understatement, for in reality it was without doubt the most stressful day of the year.

  For starters, the Back From The Dead contest took a heck of a lot of organizing. The schedule was tight, and there were lots of performers to see, some good, some bad and others so downright awful it would be funny, if it weren’t Powell’s money that paid for them to be here. Getting the show finished by the deadline of one o’clock the following morning was the toughest part. No one else seemed to appreciate the urgency of finishing on time.

  So far, this year had been worse than ever. There was something untoward going on. People had tried to fix the competition before – that is, fix it without knowing that Powell had already had it fixed – but this year someone was having one hell of a good crack at it. Powell had three dead contestants already. He also had a psychotic assassin with the ridiculous name ‘Invincible Angus’ working for him. ‘Angus’, for Chrissakes. What was this? Fucking Braveheart?

  At least Angus had proved to be useful. The red-haired assassin had apparently captured both the guy who was killing off the contestants and the person who’d hired him. Powell hoped that he had taken them out into the desert and executed them, as agreed. In the interests of obtaining some confirmation of this, he headed for the men’s washroom on the ground floor. Once there, he was pleased to find Cleveland, one of his security team, guarding the entrance. He was a big, muscular black guy who took no shit from anyone. The perfect person to stop anyone from getting into the washroom, no matter how badly they needed a piss.

  Powell had hired Cleveland on Tommy’s recommendation. Apparently, he had spent time as a prisoner of war and had been traumatized by the whole experience. As a result, after his release he had been unable to continue to serve as a soldier, but was perfect in a less demanding role as a security guard in a hotel. As he approached him, Powell noticed he was eating an ice cream. A strawberry ice cream in a cone, by the look of it. He was about to take a lick of it when he saw his boss approaching. Discreetly, he lowered it to his side.

  ‘Cleveland. Hi. How’s it going in there?’ Powell asked.

  ‘All good, sir.’

  ‘Is the mess cleaned up?’

  Cleveland lowered his voice. ‘Almost, sir. The bodies have been moved. Sandy’s in there now, just cleanin’ the floors and stuff.’

  ‘Good, good. Is Tommy here?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘In the desert, sir.’

  Powell frowned. ‘What’s he doing there? I told him to stay here.’

  ‘He’s gone with that Angus fella to make sure he kills the two guys who made the mess in the washroom, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure that was necessary, but I suppose Tommy knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Powell had hoped to get a look at the men responsible for murdering three of the singers he had hand picked for the final. Were they other contestants? Members of the audience? Or just bastards trying to ruin the show for their own benefit, or even for their own amusement? Tommy was supposed to be here to tell him who they were. Still, maybe Cleveland would know. ‘Did you see the two guys responsible for the – uh – mess?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What did they look like?’

  ‘I didn’t notice.’

  ‘You didn’t notice? How come?’

  ‘’Cause I didn’t.’

  Powell was rapidly revising his formerly good opinion of Cleveland. The man was turning out to be even dumber than most of the other security guards in the hotel. He was all brawn and little else. Where once he might have been a fine and enterprising soldier, he was now a brain-dead muscle man, seemingly devoid of intelligence or personality.

  Powell tried a different line of questioning. ‘Okay. So, do we know how Kurt Cobain and Johnny Cash died?’

  ‘You mean the singers?’

  ‘No, I mean the planets.’ God, this was so exasperating. ‘Of course, I mean the fucking singers.’

  ‘Well, Kurt Cobain’s death was drug-related. Johnny Cash was just old, I guess.’

  Powell stared hard at Cleveland to see if he was being serious, or was trying to make fun of him. Eventually he decided the answer was neither. Cleveland was just a dumbass. This assessment was backed up by the way the security guard was staring vacantly at the wall opposite him, with his mouth slightly open.

  ‘Okay,’ said Powell, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. ‘What about Sandy? Can he say who these guys were and what they did to Cash and Cobain?’

  ‘I can’t speak for Sandy, sir.’

  ‘Cleveland.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘You’re an idiot.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘And I’m taking your ice cream.’ He reached out and snatched the ice cream cone right out of Cleveland’s hand. He took a big lick of it, right in front of the disappointed-looking security guard, then snapped, ‘Right. Now get out of my fucking way.’

&nb
sp; ‘Yes sir.’

  The burly guard stepped aside and pushed the door open to let his boss walk through it. Powell was pleased to see that, inside, the washroom was virtually spotless. That was largely thanks to Sandy, a typically brutish-looking guy with dark cropped hair. He had a mop in his hand and had just finished cleaning the blood off the floor. He saw Powell enter and nodded his head.

  ‘Hi, boss,’ he said.

  ‘Good evening, Sandy,’ the hotel owner replied, looking down at the floor. There was no sign of blood anywhere. ‘Looks like you’ve done a good job.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Here, I got you this.’ He held out the ice-cream cone, which Sandy accepted tentatively with his free hand.

  ‘Looks kinda like Cleveland’s,’ he said.

  ‘Well, it’s not.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  ‘So, tell me what happened here earlier. You were talking on the radio to Tommy and the line went dead. I was concerned.’

  ‘Someone jumped me an’ Tyrone. All happened real quick. We came in here, saw the bodies in the stalls and called Tommy. Next thing, someone just came outta nowhere. I really dunno what happened.’

  ‘How’s your head?’

  ‘It’s better.’

  ‘Did Tommy tell you who the guys were that jumped you?’

  Sandy took a lick of the ice cream. ‘Nah. I was still out cold when they took them two away.’

  ‘Uh-huh. What about Tyrone?’

  ‘He went with Tommy. Out to the desert. Least, that’s what Cleveland says.’

  ‘Yeah, well… Cleveland thinks that Johnny Cash died of old age. What do you think?’

  Sandy took another lick of the ice cream. He seemed to be thoroughly savouring the taste of it. ‘Me? I reckon someone put Johnny Cash’s nose through his brain, boss. Last time I checked, old age don’t do that.’

  ‘I agree. What about Cobain?’

  ‘Yeah, that was drug-related.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There was cocaine everywhere, and he had blood pissin’ out of his mouth, nose, ears – you name it.’

  Powell walked past Sandy and peered through the open doors of the toilet stalls to see if they were still showing any evidence of violence. All of them were empty and spotlessly clean. Sandy really had done a good job.

  When he reached the last stall, Powell looked up at the mirror above the nearest washbasins on the far wall. He saw his own reflection staring back at him. Behind that, he could see Sandy with his mop, wiping it around the floor by the first stall. Then, suddenly, he saw another figure.

  Behind Sandy stood a tall black man wearing a red suit, a red bowler hat and pointed red shoes, grinning at him. Powell’s heart jumped into his mouth. He whirled around.

  ‘Sandy,’ he said urgently. ‘You’ve done a good job. I’m grateful. You can go now.’

  ‘I ain’t quite done, boss.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Go on. Get out. Leave the mop and bucket. I’ll finish up.’

  ‘Yeah? You sure?’

  ‘Take that fucking ice cream and get the fuck out.’

  Startled by the venom in his employer’s voice, Sandy leaned the mop against the wall by the door and walked out, licking the ice cream lovingly as he went.

  Powell turned back to face the mirror. Once again, he saw behind him the black man in the red suit and hat. The man walked towards him.

  ‘Having a little trouble this year, Nigel?’ he asked. His voice was dark and rich in tone, oozing urbanity tinged with irony, like an aural rendition of a quizzically raised eyebrow.

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ In contrast, Powell sounded almost surly.

  ‘Really? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s all done now. Just some dickwad trying to fix the contest. If only they knew what the winner really got, huh? Don’t suppose they’d be trying to rig it, would they?’

  The tall man’s yellow-coloured eyes lit up. He threw his head back and bellowed out a hearty laugh. ‘You know, you grow more uptight every year, Nigel.’

  ‘And you love that, I suppose?’

  ‘I love chaos. You know that.’

  The man was now standing right behind Powell. Looking over his shoulder into the mirror, grinning at him, his warm breath blowing lightly on to the back of the hotel owner’s neck. He had a neatly trimmed, tight, black goatee beard. Which, on either side of his mouth, joined an equally neat moustache. Powell wanted to be rid of him as soon as possible. He wasn’t a fun person to hang out with. In fact, he was bad news in every conceivable way.

  ‘Nice beard,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘Very kind of you to say so,’ the man replied. ‘You know, you’re only one facelift away from having a beard of your own.’

  ‘Well maybe I’ll consider it – when they come back into fashion,’ Powell replied with even heavier sarcasm. ‘Have you got a contract for me, or what?’

  ‘But of course.’

  ‘Well, just leave it by the washbasin, please.’ He did not add, as he would have liked to: ‘And then get out.’

  The Man in Red reached inside his jacket and pulled out an inch-thick wad of paper. It was good-quality paper, white, standard business-letter size, and densely printed in black ink. He placed it beside the washbasin next to Powell’s left hand.

  ‘You know, you’re not out of the woods yet, Nigel,’ he said.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘A man has arrived in the hotel, and he’s trying to ruin your show. The clock is ticking. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.’

  ‘What man?’ Powell turned around sharply, only to find that the Man in Red had disappeared. He turned back to face the mirror and his visitor’s reflection appeared behind him once more. Grinning. ‘What man?’ he repeated.

  ‘You know I can’t help you. Those are the rules. But I can tell you that there’s a man out there trying to destroy your show. A man of God. I can’t interfere with that. You had best keep that contract in a safe place. Don’t let it fall into the wrong hands, hmm?’

  ‘Well, can you at least tell me who it is that’s fucking with my show? Is it this Bourbon Kid guy? Did you send him?’

  The Man in Red laughed again. ‘I’m on your side, naturally. I’m not sending anyone to mess up your plans. I like your casino. It’s a fun place. You just have to keep a lookout for someone who’s been sent by the Man Upstairs. That’s who you have to worry about.’

  ‘So this Bourbon Kid guy works for God?’

  ‘Ha-ha-ha! No, no, no. Oh dear me, no. The Bourbon Kid, he doesn’t work for either side. Strange fish, that one. You must look closer than that. He’s not the one you have to worry about.’

  ‘So who is?’

  ‘Haven’t you figured it out yet?’

  ‘No. I’m not that clever. Obviously.’

  ‘Then you’d better wise up fast, my friend. You’re running out of finalists. At the last count, you had only two left.’

  Powell was struggling to keep his cool. The arrival of this man with his grinning face had unnerved him, though this was by no means the first time they had met. ‘Why don’t I just get some random nobody to sign the contract this year?’ he suggested.

  ‘Oh, no, no, no, no! That simply wouldn’t do,’ said the Man in Red. ‘This contract has to be earned. You know that. I want it to go to someone with talent. Someone desperate for fame and fortune. Someone who will do almost anything for it, no matter what the cost.’

  ‘You finished?’ Nigel asked impatiently.

  The Man in Red smirked. ‘No. There is one other thing, although it may seem trivial in the circumstances.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘They have run out of ham sandwiches in the casino.’

  ‘So eat the tuna.’

  Without waiting for a response, he looked down at the contract lying on the faux-marble surround of the washbasin. It was the same contract the Man in Red brought him every year. He picked it up and looked back up at the mirror. His visitor had vanished. Sh
it.

  Powell glanced down at the contract again. According to his now departed visitor, there was someone in the hotel desperate to ruin his show. Who the fuck was it? And why? He only had two finalists left, James Brown and Judy Garland. The only clue he had was that the person trying to fuck up his show was a man of God.

  A man of God.

  Thirty-Three

  Emily had been alone in the dressing room for almost twenty minutes. All five of the finalists were supposed to meet back there after their performances. The other four hadn’t showed, and she was becoming increasingly concerned about their whereabouts. Had there been some sort of change to the schedule that she didn’t know about? Probably not, but she didn’t want to hang around for too long on her own.

  Maybe the four guys had decided to go for a drink and had chosen not to invite her? Didn’t they like her? Did she smell? Worse than Cobain? It was unlikely, but all kinds of theories were going through her mind, and all were making her a little paranoid. Better to think about something else for a while, she thought, like whether she was doing everything she could to win the competition.

  As she sat at the dressing table, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Should she do something different with her hair for the final? Or stick with the pigtails that the real Judy Garland had worn in the movie The Wizard of Oz? Her mother had always said that how you styled your hair was the most important detail, and one that so many other tribute performers overlooked. She was contemplating this and several other matters when there was a knock on the dressing-room door.

  ‘Miss Shannon ? You in there?’ a man’s voice called from the other side. She recognized the voice straight away. It was Nigel Powell’s.

  ‘Coming,’ she called out.

  She got up and opened the door. Powell was standing outside, flanked by two heavies from his security team. Emily smiled nervously and stepped back to allow them to come in. The two guards made no move to enter the room, but Powell walked in without waiting for a verbal invitation. He was still wearing his bright white suit with the black shirt. His hair was still perfectly in place, but something was definitely amiss. He didn’t look quite as unruffled as usual. It was clear from the look on his face that he was troubled about something.