Aloha from Hell (Sandman Slim)

by Richard Kadrey

  Kelly just stares.

  I look at Mammon.

  “Does he speak English?”

  Mammon nods.

  “Quite well. He needs my permission before speaking to you.”

  “Give it so we can get moving.”

  “You may talk to him, Mr. Kelly, but be careful not to get too friendly. He’s a monster. Isn’t that right, Sandman Slim?”

  I look at Kelly.

  “You really can drive, right?”

  Kelly nods. His gaze flickers from the floor and back to me.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I never operated an automobile when I was alive, but I’ve been well instructed since then.”

  He sounds English. Cockney maybe. Michael Caine playing Harry Palmer. A working-class guy.

  “Good enough. And don’t call me ‘sir.’ ”

  “What should I call you, sir?” He cringes when he says it like he thinks I’m going to hit him. “My apologies.”

  “Stark’s fine.”

  “Why not Wild Bill?” says Mammon brightly. “I hear he likes that even less than Sandman Slim.”

  Mammon turns to me.

  “He’s here, by the way. Your great-great-great-granddaddy, Mr. Hickok. I could arrange a tête-à-tête.”

  There’s no wheelchair in the room and there’s no way I’m carrying this charred creep to the car, so I push Mammon into his office chair.

  “Introduce me, and when this is all over, I might let you keep the other arm.”

  Mammon brightens.

  “You see what I mean, Mr. Kelly? He wants us to see him as human, but what’s the first thing he does when he gets in here? He takes my legs. And I didn’t even attack him. Then he takes my arm and threatens me with further mutilation. That sounds much more Hellion than human, doesn’t it? I don’t think you’ll be wanting to turn your back on this one. Not for one minute.”

  “Where’s the garage?” I ask Kelly.

  “Directly below, Mr. Stark.”

  “Mister.” It’s better than “sir.”

  I don’t want either of them to see the Room, so I blindfold them both and take them downstairs through a shadow.

  MAMMON’S BARGE TURNS out to be a pristine early-sixties Lincoln Continental limo with a drop top and suicide doors. I think more than a little of this world is put together straight from my unconscious. I’ll know for sure if I end up in a motorcycle race against Steve McQueen.

  The Lincoln isn’t like a modern limo. The car is wide open on the inside. No partitions or sliding windows separating the passenger compartment from the driver. It’s like a club or a prison cafeteria. Candy would love this heap. I can see her in the passenger seat with her feet up on the dash hitting the button on her robot sunglasses in time with the radio.

  It still feels strange to have left her behind while I go chasing after another woman even if it’s not for a romantic kind of love, but the kind that says if you’ve ever been deeply connected to someone, you don’t let them get snatched to the underworld without doing something about it.

  When this is over and if the universe is still standing, maybe I’ll bring her down here. I wouldn’t take her to the Hell I knew, but I could see her getting off on a weekend in the Convergence. It would be like the adventure vacations yuppies go on where they get to experience the great outdoors from air-conditioned buses and ten-thousand-dollar tents. We’ll take over a floor of the Roosevelt Hotel and shoot paintballs at the wildlife.

  I take Mammon from his chair and belt him in behind the driver’s seat. Kelly and I get in the front. He starts the ignition and drives us smoothly through the garage to the gatehouse, where a guard is waiting.

  I show Mammon the knife in my hand.

  “Be cool or you lose the other arm.”

  “Of course,” Mammon says.

  We pull up and Mammon rolls down his tinted window just low enough to show his face. He nods at the guard and the guard pushes a button that rolls away the gate. Kelly steers us out of the palace and on to Hollywood Boulevard. It looks like even in Hell I’m destined to travel in stolen cars.

  “Turn right,” I tell him. “Things are messy the other way.”

  He makes the turn.

  It’s funny seeing Mammon sitting calmly with his bad legs and crispy arm. I got lucky back at the palace. I had no idea he could manifest a Gladius. Azazel didn’t bother to mention that when he sent me to kill Mammon more than ten years ago. I don’t know why he wanted me to do it and I don’t know why he changed his mind. Maybe his TiVo was out.

  “To the Phlegethon, Mr. Kelly,” Mammon says.

  Sinkholes and fault lines slice up the streets, making them impassable. Kelly cuts down La Brea and takes a roundabout route through residential streets and apartment-building parking lots to the 101.

  Mammon tells Kelly to head south. The breakdown lanes on both sides of the freeway look like sets from old driver’s-ed films. They’re a solid mass of twisted and burned-out vehicles.

  In regular Hell, the Phlegethon is a river of fire that flows and ebbs like water. The flames are just a light breeze from on board a barge. You don’t get burned unless you’re in direct contact with the river.

  The Phlegethon does double duty in Hell. It’s one of the big five rivers, so it carries a lot of traffic, mostly barges, passenger boats, and freighters. It’s busy enough that it needs docks, buoys, depth markers, and all the other Moby-Dick bric-a-brac I don’t understand. This is Hell. Why get artisans to make all that stuff when you have millions of dead souls lying around? Down the length of the Phlegethon, the damned float in the eternal fire as channel markers and buoys showing depth readings. Entire docks are made from spirits lashed together. There’s similar creativity in this Hell. The freeway guardrails and the median fence in the center are staked-out souls. The reflectors separating the freeway lanes are the heads of souls who’ve been buried up to their necks in Hellion concrete. What happens if you blow a tire down here? Hellion AAA probably comes out and ties a few souls around your axle so you can get to a damned garage.

  “So, who are you?” I ask Kelly.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Tell him to talk to me. Tell him he doesn’t ever need your permission to talk again.”

  Mammon says, “Talk to him, Mr. Kelly. Talk to him to your heart’s content. But first take this exit and merge left.”

  Kelly says, “I’m Master Mammon’s servant and resident human. I do whatever he asks, from talking about my life to performing whatever tasks I’m instructed to do in a way that best exemplifies human habits and behavior.”

  “I told you he was a bore,” says Mammon. “You remove creatures like this from their environment and they wither. He might still be interesting if we let him loose as a killer down here like you.”

  “I wasn’t a killer until I got down here.”

  Mammon makes a dismissive gesture with his good hand.

  “Just because a baby spider hasn’t bitten anyone yet doesn’t make it any less of a spider.”

  Kelly steers us down the fire road. Mammon occasionally tells him to change lanes or follow a road that splits off from the main one. We’re driving for at least an hour but we don’t seem to be anywhere yet. If Mammon is leading us anywhere but Eleusis, I’m going to tie him to the back bumper and drag him to Mexico. If I can find it.

  “What makes you so special that of all the souls down here, you rate being handed off to a general?” I ask Kelly.

  “I don’t know, sir. Stark, I mean. I’m sorry. It’s a wretched habit to break.”

  “Don’t sweat it.”

  “There are so many people down here more accomplished than I. I’ve accomplished nothing compared to some I’ve met.”

  “Don’t be so modest, Mr. Kelly. Mr. Kelly was a murderer, and after some practice he became quite adept. More than even his pursuers knew,” says Mammon. “But it was only dumb luck that kept you unincarcerated after those first few, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, Master Mamm
on. Just as you say, sir.”

  We drive for what feels like another hour. Every now and then I see a flash behind us, like a light going out or a reflection off a mirror, but when I turn there’s nothing there.

  I’ve driven the 101 south to San Diego a hundred times, but I don’t recognize this road at all. We could be driving to Oz or right into a trap.

  “We’re getting off here,” says Mammon.

  I look around, trying to get my bearings. All the road signs have been torn down or hacked to pieces. More of Lucifer’s paranoia or just another example of L.A.’s ever-expanding nervous breakdown?

  The exit sign has been torched and lies in a little slag heap at the edge of the road. I swear I see another flash behind us, but then I’m bracing myself against the dashboard. Kelly takes the exit too fast and has to tap the brakes hard when we come to a hairpin curve. That’s when Mammon stabs me.

  I should have stripped the fucker down at the palace, but the angel in my head felt sorry for all the maiming and frying I did. I went easy on him and this is what I get.

  The inverted-cross medal he’s been wearing comes apart and the lower half is a razor-sharp golden blade. He was probably going for my neck, but when Kelly hit the brakes, it ruined Mammon’s aim. The knife went into my left cheek. A little higher and it would have hit my eye.

  Mammon pulls the knife out of my face and slashes me in the shoulder before I can turn and grab him. He stabs me a second time in the cheek before I can pin his good hand. I have one hand braced on the roof as we turn under the freeway. Mammon lunges at me and buries his teeth in my hand that’s holding him. I pull back reflexively and he gets his hand free. He swings the blade at me as the car fishtails, but ends up slashing Kelly’s arm.

  Kelly screams and we plow through a guardrail and down an embankment. The car flips and rolls. When we stop moving I’m not sure which way is up or down, but when I elbow open my door, my foot touches the ground, so I’m guessing we’re right side up.

  I step out and fall onto the dry dead grass. When my head stops swimming, I go around to Kelly’s side and pull him out. His arm doesn’t look too bad. I don’t bother with Mammon. His neck is twisted 180 degrees, so he’s looking out the back window at the road we just left. Probably nostalgic for when he wasn’t dead. I guess he’s technically not dead since he hasn’t blipped out of existence to Tartarus, but if I was his secretary I’d cancel all his appointments for tomorrow.

  I carry Kelly around the car and set him down leaning against the car.

  Human souls don’t breathe or have beating hearts, so I don’t know how to check if he’s okay. The angel in my head can see souls, but the dead are all soul, so that doesn’t help much. But a double-dead human soul will end up in Tartarus as fast as any Hellion, so Kelly still being here is a good sign.

  The side of my face burns. I touch it where Mammon stabbed me and my hand comes away bloody. Shit. Exactly what I don’t need right now.

  Kelly moans and starts to move.

  It takes him a few minutes to get his bearings. He rubs the back of his neck and stares at the ground. When he sees the car, he sits up straight.

  “You bloody berk!” he yells into the car at Mammon’s broken body. “This is fucking perfect.”

  “Get a grip, man. This really isn’t the moment to freak out.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  He holds his arm where Mammon stabbed him. It clearly hurts, but is more of a shock than a wound.

  I say, “Wait here while I look around.”

  I walk up the slope to the freeway to see if there’s any trace of a town or a sign or wandering Boy Scout with a compass. Three strikes. I’m out. We could be in Egypt for all I know.

  When I get back to the car, Kelly seems a little more coherent.

  “The master is still in the car,” he says.

  “Yeah. He doesn’t really need any fresh air, if you know what I mean.”

  “But he’s not dead, is he? I mean he’s still there.”

  “He’s still with us, tough old bastard. Do you know where we are, Kelly?”

  He gets to his knees and looks around.

  “Roughly,” he says.

  “Can you get us to Eleusis?”

  “I believe so.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “On foot? If we cut through the flats and we don’t have to detour too far around holes and faults, less than a day. But it’ll be rough going.”

  From the freeway I hear the unmistakable sound of tires. I grab Kelly and pull him to the ground beside me. A heavy Unimog rolls slowly by, running without lights. That’s what I’ve been seeing behind us all night. Mammon must have signaled someone before we left the palace and they’ve been tracking us ever since. A spotlight flashes from the Unimog, playing over the dying trees and cracked road. The car is on the downhill side of an embankment. The light moves back and forth across the exit, but I don’t think they can see us down here. A second later the spotlight goes out and the truck drives away.

  We’ve got a posse after us. More good news. Like Mammon said, it’s a good idea to err on the side of caution. I need to do something in case they catch up to us.

  “Kelly. Will we be passing through any towns or settlements? Anywhere someone might see us?”

  “It’s hard to say. Things can change so quickly here. It’s best to assume we will.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  I open the car and drag Mammon out.

  Don’t die on me now, you prick. Give me a few more minutes.

  I pop the lock on the trunk with the black blade and start tossing things. It’s full of the usual car junk. A tire iron, spare tire, jumper cables. But there’s also military gear. I go back to where I left Mammon with a sturdy leather satchel and drop it beside him. With the knife I cut a large square of fabric from his suit jacket and lay it out flat on the grass.

  Kelly creeps over closer to see what I’m doing.

  “You might not want to watch this,” I say.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather stay. This looks like it might be quite interesting.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Here’s the situation. We have to walk to Eleusis and then get all the way to the asylum and back out again. I’m wearing a glamour so I don’t broadcast that I’m alive, but I’m bleeding, so I need more. And if Mammon signaled a posse, he might have told them I was the one who took him. I can’t look like me. Are you getting my point?”

  Jack gives me a big wolfish smile.

  “If you’re about to do what I think you are, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Okay, but if souls puke, don’t do it on me.”

  “I’ll remember that, sir.”

  “And don’t call me ‘sir.’ ”

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  I close my eyes and try to remember any binding spells I picked up along the way, something to keep Mammon here with us a little longer before he croaks. My head is still a little foggy from the crash, but I come up with a minor bit of hoodoo that should hold if I work fast.

  The next part I’ve never actually tried myself, but I saw it done a couple of times by old juju priests I met through some Dharma bums in a New Orleans Sub Rosa clan.

  I try to get the words and rhythms of the old houngans in my mind before I start working. The real spell is a complex combination of Yoruba and Louisiana Creole and I’ve forgotten a lot of the words, so I have to do a lot of bebop improv, but bullshitting hoodoo on the fly is my specialty. As I chant, I rub my temples, and when the words are flowing fast enough and the time feels right, I grab my face just below the scalp line and pull. The skin comes off like I’m peeling a banana. It sticks in a couple of places and I have to snip them with the knife, but it’s not a big deal.

  I put my face, bloody side up, on the cloth I cut from Mammon’s suit.

  I hear Kelly gasp. It’s not in horror, but in a kind of fascination and awe. He’s probably never seen high-quality Merlin stuff
. This must be a hell of an introduction to magic.

  I do the whole ritual again. When I peel off Mammon’s face, I drape it over the raw and bloody place where my face used to be. The new flesh burns as it attaches itself. I close my eyes and breathe, working through the pain. I’m dizzy and slide over onto an elbow. I feel Kelly grab me so I don’t fall. The inside of my head swirls around once more and then it’s over. I touch my new face. There’s no pain at all. Mammon’s skin feels like it’s been there forever. I open my mouth. Move my lips in mock smiles and frowns.

  I look at Kelly.

  “What do you think? I don’t look too much like Mammon, do I? It’s his skin, but my bones and muscles, so we shouldn’t be twins.”

  Kelly shakes his head.

  “You don’t look at all like him,” he says. He stares at me with a kind of beatific smile plastered on his face, like Saint Peter just gave him an invitation to the Christmas after-party in Heaven.

  He says, “If it isn’t being too forward, I’d like to say that you might have just become my personal hero, Mr. Stark.”

  “Okay.”

  He looks up at the rolling black clouds that cover the sky.

  “I once thought that I was a master of flesh. But I see now that you have surpassed me in every way.”

  As my new face settles in, I wrap my real face in Mammon’s cloth, put it carefully in the leather satchel, and sling it over my shoulder.

  “That’s real nice of you, Kelly, but what the fuck are you talking about?”

  He stands. Looks at me and then at Mammon. The Hellion finally dies and his body disappears.

  “I prefer Jack, if you don’t mind,” says Kelly. “That’s what people called me in older, merrier days when I was still alive. Jack the Ripper.”

  Some crazy people must stay crazy even after they’re dead. I met dozens of Judas Iscariots, Hitlers, and Jack the Rippers in the eleven years I spent Downtown, but always one at a time. I always wondered if they steered clear of each other out of professional courtesy.

  There’s one thing that makes me think Kelly could be for real. Mason chose him. Picking a simple back-alley cutthroat with delusions of grandeur isn’t a mistake Mason would make.