by Tim Marquitz
The thing closed as my brain clicked into gear, and I smiled as my power welled up. Unlike a gun, magic is all about imagination.
Before the little monster could get close enough to put its pincers to use, I summoned a giant, medieval flyswatter and brought it down on top of the thing. Spikes of energy ripped into it before the full force of the spell slammed down. There was a brittle pop and gooey, yellow-green juices squished out from beneath the swatter. The thing squirmed for a second or two before going limp, bubbles of pus seeping loose as I released my magic. There was a quiet hiss, and then silence.
The door creaked open at my back, and I heard Rala’s footsteps as she came over to stand alongside me.
“That’s…disturbing,” she muttered as the spider-thing goop slowly spread across the stone floor.
Before I could agree, a subtle glimmer drew my gaze to the portal. It pulsed, glowing brighter and then fading, beating its last as though it were a dying heart. Then it disappeared altogether, its tingling presence gone in an instant.
“Can you bring it back?”
Rala shrugged. “I’m not even sure what I did to make it open in the first place.” She stared at the place where the portal had been and rubbed at her temples. “Besides, I don’t think this place is helping.”
Not sure what she meant, I motioned for her to go on.
“I don’t know how to describe it, but I could feel the energy building, but it was awkward, slow…like walking through dragsand.”
“Quicksand?”
A quiet sigh slipped loose, her eyes drifting in their sockets as she searched for the right word. “A swamp,” she said after a moment.
While the translators were great for allowing us to understand each other, they weren’t very good when it came to cultural differences, and there were a bunch of those. I often found myself yelling like that would make what I said easier to understand.
Regardless, though, I knew what she was getting at. I glanced around the room and nodded. The main reason I’d set her up in there was to ensure no one got a whiff of what we were doing with the book. Not knowing what we were getting into, I didn’t want DRAC or Heaven to come sniffing around, but by putting her up in the God-proof room, I was likely limiting any success she might have. The fact that she’d been able to do anything at all with it, even there, was a good sign. I glanced back at the door and wondered if she’d have more luck somewhere else in Hell when a thought hit me.
Why bother?
“You up for a road trip?”
Rala looked at me, nothing remotely resembling excitement plastered across her face.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” I told her, putting a hand on her shoulder and spinning her around so she faced the door, not giving her the option of saying no. “Pack the book and tell old Vol you’re stepping out. I’ll meet you back here in twenty minutes.”
I left her there while I went off to collect my own things. Cooped up for two months with nothing but dread fiends, a disembodied zombie on a Stryper kick, and two aliens to keep me company, it was time to stretch my legs.
Besides, the coffee in Hell sucks.
Two
Thirty minutes later, Rala and I were up on Earth, Chatterbox in tow inside a modified picnic basket that the alien had slung over her forearm, his eyes peeping out of the open lid.
“And you complained about Desboren?”
I shifted my gaze Rala’s direction but couldn’t find it in me to argue. She was right. The city of Desboren was a slum hidden away on the alien planet of Feluris, far, far away in a universe torn to shit by God’s inter-dimensional war. A quick survey of Old Town, from where we’d popped out of a local gate, made me wonder if I’d plugged in the wrong coordinates and had sent us back there.
Chatterbox hummed the funeral march, dragging out the notes as his eyeball maggots swished back and forth in slow motion sync.
“Shhh,” I told him, drifting forward to look past the edge of the alley we’d arrived in. The view wasn’t any better from there.
Never much of a tourist destination—outside of folks looking to hide out or do something that was illegal pretty much everywhere else—Old Town still had a charm all its own. Key word being had. While it’d only been a few months since I’d been here last, shit had changed; a lot.
From where I stood, I could see scorch marks on several of the taller buildings. Pieces of brick and stone littered the sidewalks, wounds of obliterated urban landmarks. Cracks spider-webbed the cement and potholes dotted the streets. Some were deep enough to swallow a Great Dane whole. The streetlights, what few still functioned, flickered and lit the evening scene with a sickly yellow pallor.
Despite it all, Old Town had always been a party destination for the disenfranchised. There were people out on the streets, flitting between the bars and strip joints that populated the neighborhood, but there was little sense of excitement. Maybe I’d been too caught up in the good times to notice it had always been like that, but it didn’t feel right. It was like the people of Old Town were going through the motions. I hadn’t seen the area so subdued since Baalth nuked the damn place.
Chatterbox harrumphed. Even he sounded disappointed at what he saw.
“You dragged me out of Hell for this?” Rala shook her head. “Even Vol can see this place sucks.”
I muffled a chuckle against my sleeve and waved at her to be quiet. As I glanced back toward the street, I spied something that had slipped my notice before.
A man hovered near the entrance to one of the strip clubs. Dressed in dark clothes, a beanie on his head, he stood rigid, his eyes scanning the crowd. At first I thought he was one of the bouncers, but the second I saw the strap hanging across his shoulder I knew better. He was toting an AK-47, which seemed a bit extreme for club security even in Old Town.
“You sure know how to show—”
That was all Rala got out before I summoned a mystical finger and pressed it against her lips. Her eyes went wide, but she shut up. I jabbed two fingers at my eyes with my other hand, and then pointed at the man carrying the rifle. Her gaze followed, and understanding washed across her face.
“Looks like there’s a bunch of them,” I whispered, pointing out several more men dressed exactly the same, who lurked near the edge of the crowd, each with their own rifle. I counted ten before I gave up. I didn’t really feel like taking my boots off. Besides, my brain was throbbing.
“Commmmmiiieeessss,” Chatterbox whispered with conviction.
“Uh, sure, buddy.”
While I couldn’t entertain CB’s Cold War insanity, it really didn’t matter who the men were. All that mattered was the fact that they were walking the streets of Old Town with automatic weapons right out there in the open. As lawless as the place had been before, that kind of shit had been kept to the shadows. Texas might be lenient on its gun laws, but it’s never been that lenient. Even Baalth didn’t have obvious soldiers out on the street when he ran the place. And given their choice of weaponry, the men clearly weren’t cops,
Something had happened while I was off planet, but I didn’t feel like chatting up the gunmen to find out, at least not with Rala and CB along for the ride. I needed to get the book someplace safe before I started a fight and drew attention to myself. It was almost a guarantee that Rachelle would spot my energy signature the minute I started flinging magic around. I’d have to face DRAC sooner or later, but my preference was definitely later. Rala was too close to figuring things out with Lucifer’s little gift. If Rahim wanted to bitch at me, he could do it tomorrow as well as he could today.
I motioned for Rala to follow me as I slipped deeper into the alley. Baalth had tons of hidey holes scattered about Old Town on top of his more well-known ones. We just needed to find one that was still secure and away from Fiesta Street where the majority of the nightlife congregated.
As we made our way through the rough and tumble streets of Baalth’s old territory, it was clear there’d been some sort of military action in the area.
I hadn’t heard anything about it, but I guess wouldn’t in Hell. It’s not like we get great TV reception.
A number of buildings had been toppled. Charred rubble covered the roads and black soot filled the crevices where more flammable substances had fed the fires that darkened the wreckage. Bullet holes graffitied the walls. I didn’t see any bodies along the way, but to be honest, I didn’t look very hard. We might as well have been walking through Beirut for all the collateral damage. Armed men prowled everywhere.
The first two of Baalth’s hideouts I searched out were empty. Both showed signs they’d been scavenged but not ransacked. Whoever raided them knew where everything was. They’d only taken what appeared to be essentials, leaving behind books and computers and household type stuff, but all the food and weapon stores were gone. That made it clear they were friendlies. Unfortunately, all of the mystical safeguards and wards had been tampered with.
The third, fourth, and fifth locations were pretty much the same, though all of them were still supplied despite the soldiers who wandered the streets nearby. Someone had stopped by to sabotage the magical defense but had left everything else alone inside, which didn’t make any sense. Regardless, it made all of the places useless to me seeing how I needed them to be shielded from detection. While I’d managed to use my newfound power to swat bugs and bad guys easily enough, the fine focus stuff like setting up wards and empowering sigils was beyond me. Half the supernatural community would know I was in town if I tried it, which kinda defeated the purpose of hiding out.
Rala paced behind me while I stood there wondering where to try next. She kept shifting the basket to keep CB from seeing her as though they were playing hide and seek or something. Chatterbox’s zombie tongue slapped at the edges with moist and scented splats. I yawned and started off. It was like babysitting the Addams Family’s mentally challenged cousins.
After a couple more dead ends, I found what I was looking for. I stepped up to the door of yet another one of Baalth’s getaway locations and felt a vague tickle just as I reached out to touch the knob. It was so faint, I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t been looking so hard. The wisp of mystical energy fluttered against my senses as lightly as the flap of a moth’s wings. Rala must have seen my eyes light up because she glanced over at me.
“This it?” she mouthed.
I nodded and glanced down the street to make sure we were alone. No armed men in sight, or anyone for that matter, I tapped gently on the door, willing the barest sliver of my essence to mingle with the wards. As I hoped, there was a muffled click and the door swung open. I grinned and stepped inside.
A part of Baalth’s world for so long, it didn’t surprise me he’d set the wards with me in mind. I doubt the bastard had done it because he gave a damn, though. It was more likely he was afraid of what Lucifer might say should he return and find his favorite child crispy fried because Baalth didn’t want me breaking in on him. Regardless the reason, we were in. I waved Rala on and shut the door behind her, sensing the soft touch of the wards sealing after us.
The first thing I noticed was the overwhelming bouquet of cheap booze and unwashed flesh.
“Whoa!” Rala muttered through the hand that covered her mouth. “What died in here?”
A loud crash in the adjoining room drew our eyes to the half-open door that separated us from the sound. Incomprehensible curses filled the air as heavy footsteps stomped in our direction. There was the unmistakable clack of a round being chambered in a pistol as the door was flung open, a massive shadow filling the doorway. The sordid funk we’d smelled as we came in was suddenly much thicker.
Rala stepped behind me. “All yours, big guy.” Chatterbox ducked as low as he could inside the basket.
The gleam of a chromed pistol caught the light before figure stumbled into view. I recognized the gun an instant before I did the guy holding it in his trembling hand.
“Marcus!” I shouted. “My man.” Baalth’s former enforcer swayed before me, a mountain of meat ready to topple over.
His eyes narrowed at hearing his name, the pistol twitching like an epileptic dance partner. “Who?” He took a stiff-legged step closer, one eye clenched as he tried to force the other one wider. “Ah, fuck—” The gun drifted my direction, but it was so slow I could damn near see the thought traveling from his brain to his finger, telling it to pull the trigger.
I stepped in and slapped the pistol—my pistol to be precise—out of his hand and put my palm to his chest. He flew backward, crashing into what looked like a lifetime supply of empty pizza boxes, crushed beer cans, and discarded liquor bottles. They covered every available inch of open space in the neighboring room. The .45 dropped to the dingy carpet with a thump. I scooped it up and laughed at seeing the safety still on, slipping it into my waistband.
“Friend of yours?” Rala asked, making sniffy noises in Marcus’ direction.
I ignored her and went over to the guy, lifting him upright so we were face to face.
“You look like crap, Marcus.” And he smelled like an outhouse at a chili cook-off.
His normally bald head hadn’t been shaved since I’d seen him last. The hair was growing in Vin Diesel style, more of a salt and pepper wreath than a full coat. Crow’s feet were chiseled alongside his eyes, the lines running damn near back to his ears. The same gray-black fluff that erupted from his head had sprouted from his cheeks. In all the years I’d known the guy, I would never have imagined him capable of growing a beard, but there it was. Crumbs and dirt and who knows what else had nested in the wild growth, its tangled mess crusted stiff. He had hobo chic down pat.
“Motherfu…” he started, the curse gurgling into incoherence. Frothy spit bubbled up at the corners of his mouth. His breath was easily a hundred-proof with a hint of squirrel ass on the side. I only hoped the relationship had been consensual.
I knew he was in a bad place after Poe died and Baalth went off to find God, but I hadn’t realized how messed up the guy was. Not that I cared enough to check on him. I had more feelings for my morning shit than I did Marcus, but seeing him like that struck a nerve. I never realized how lost he was until right then. Without Poe or Baalth, he was all alone. His world was gone, and I had more to do with that than anyone. Shit, he didn’t even know Baalth was dead. Wonder how he’d be when he found that out?
I sighed and lifted him up, clearing a spot on the ragged, stained couch before plopping him down, which kicked up a mini storm of pizza crusts and bottle caps. He stared at me through swirling eyes, his tongue worming around in his mouth as though he were speaking, but nothing came out but a tiny river of drool. The dude was fried. Put a fork in him.
“Welcome home, Frank.”
I spun around at the voice, recognizing it the instant she said my name. Veronica stood there, hands on her hips. Nothing defines buzzkill better than having your succubus ex-wife sneak up on you out of the blue.
Rala eeped and jumped back, clutching to the basket. “Don’t you know anyone with manners?”
Veronica glanced at the alien and shook her head. “Apparently not, hobbit.”
“I would have gone with Gelfling, personally.”
Rala just stared back and forth between us, the references lost on her.
Chatterbox’s eyes peeked over the edge of the basket. “Luuuuvvvvvvv bbbbuuunnnnyyyy.”
Veronica’s face paled at seeing the zombie head. The two had a moment once, and CB had never forgotten it. Apparently Veronica hadn’t either.
She put her hand over her mouth, her grimace visible between her fingers. “What the hell is that thing doing here?” She shook her head, her gaze shifting to me. “Never mind. What the hell are you doing here?” She pointed at me, the colorful tattoos that covered her bare arm standing out bright against her pale skin.
“I’m looking for a vacation home and heard the prices were good out here.”
Veronica growled and went over to check on Marcus, pushing me aside. “Seriously, Frank, what do you want?”
It was then that I noticed her face. Her cheek was swollen and bruised, a dark swath running down her neck. She’d layered on makeup to cover it, but up close, I could easily see the purple leaking through. Someone had worked her over good. Veronica turned away when she caught me looking at it.
I stepped back and waved Rala off. She sneered at me and went over to a table half-buried under fuzzy green-black trash. Using the basket so she didn’t have to touch anything with her hands, she cleared a spot and hopped up onto it once she was satisfied she wouldn’t catch anything.
“Happy?” she asked. I sighed as she looked down at Chatterbox and started talking as though I weren’t there. “I don’t know what he sees in her.”
“Tooooonnnggguueee piieeeeerrciiiiing,” CB answered without skipping a beat.
Rala snorted, and I turned away to see Veronica glaring at me.
“You didn’t have to hurt him, you know?” She glanced over at Marcus as the big ape snored.
“I didn’t. He was like that when I found him.”
“Which brings us back around to why the fuck you’re here.”
The sharpness in her voice set me off. “I didn’t come here to fight with you, but I can damn sure make an exception if you keep talking to me like that.”
Veronica took a half step backward, her eyes narrowing as she planted her feet. I hadn’t meant to be so rude, but something about her attitude was pissing me off. Her voice was a persistent fly’s buzz that wouldn’t go away. It didn’t help that she’d set me up for Baalth. She’d been the one to tip Gorath off to Karra. No matter what was going on between Karra and me—whatever it was—that shit was unforgivable.
