The Getaway God

by Richard Kadrey

  “Killed,” says Chaya.

  “Right. Killed. I wanted to check in and see what the situation is.”

  Chaya says, “He wanted to know if we’re all right. What a sweet murderer you are.”

  “Truth is, I was really checking on these other two. You I don’t know from a hellhound’s asshole.”

  Chaya’s face turns kind of a dark fucked-­up purple, which I guess is him turning red.

  “Listen to him, Muninn. You let a mortal speak to you like that?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” I say, “I’m not exactly a mortal.”

  “No. You’re Abomination. Why didn’t we kill you as an infant?”

  “Maybe because you spent a billion years trying to find your ass with two hands and a sextant? I mean, you can’t even keep your own angels in line. What chance did you have of finding one little kid?”

  Chaya doesn’t say a word and I’m pretty sure he’s working up to a good smiting when Samael tugs on my arm.

  “Why don’t you take James to the kitchen,” says Muninn. “I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  Samael heads out of the library, dragging me by the arm like a dog that just shit on the Pietà.

  I half expect him to chew me out, when he lets go of my arm and says, “Thank you. I couldn’t take one more minute of that old maid’s squawking. He hasn’t shut up since he got here.”

  “Sure. It was all part of my plan.”

  “Of course it was.”

  In the kitchen, Samael finds an open bottle of wine and pours us both a drink. He raises his glass in a brief toast and downs it. I sniff mine. Hellion wine. If Aqua Regia is battery acid, the local Cabernet tastes like the runoff at a Hellion slaughterhouse. I take a polite sip, but that’s as far as I’m willing to go.

  “Having three fathers here was bad enough,” Samael says. “Then one gets killed and it’s the wrong one.”

  “Sorry.”

  Samael pours himself another drink.

  “At least you’re here to be Chaya’s punching bag for a while. Ever since he got here he’s been going at me the way he went after you tonight. He’ll never forgive me for rebelling.”

  “Fathers can be like that.”

  “I seem to remember you having some kind of father drama.”

  “Yeah. He tried to kill me. Good thing he was a lousy shot.”

  Samael sits down at the kitchen counter.

  “I remember. And he still got into Heaven. That’s got to sting. Now imagine having to sit next to him while he lists off all your faults for everyone to hear over and over and over for eternity. That’s my life.”

  “I guess we both got lucky escaping to Hell.”

  “As you can see, even Hell isn’t an escape anymore.”

  Samael shakes his head, gets up, and prowls the kitchen looking for more wine. I swirl mine in my glass like I’m contemplating its enticing bouquet. The reek just about makes my eyes water.

  “So, what happened to Nefesh?”

  “Exactly what it looks like. He was approached by what he thought were loyal soldiers. But they were part of Merihim and Deumos’s suicide cabal. They were all over him. He didn’t stand a chance.”

  “I don’t understand. Aelita needed the 8 Ball when she killed the first brother, Neshamah. How could a bunch of grunts kill Nefesh with a few knives?”

  “Ah,” says Samael, taking down a bottle from the top shelf of a cupboard. He brings it to the table and takes a corkscrew from a drawer. When he gets the cork out of the bottle and pours himself a glass, he looks at me.

  “The longer my fathers are separate entities, the weaker they get. No one can know, but Nefesh’s death proves that you don’t need—­what’s the Angra name for the Qomrama?”

  “Godeater.”

  “Yes. You don’t need the Godeater to kill a God anymore.”

  “All the blood and body parts in the lobby. Was that you?”

  He takes a sip of wine and shakes his head.

  “That was all Muninn. The only other time I’ve seen him like that was when he knocked me out of Heaven with a thunderbolt. He blew those traitors to bits with a wave of his hand. Good for you, Father.”

  He clinks his glass against mine and I have to sip more of the Hellion swill.

  “Good for which one of us and for what?” says Muninn, coming into the room. He sees the open bottle of wine and gets himself a glass. Samael fills it for him.

  “Your righ­teous wrath,” says Samael.

  “Oh. You mean the lobby. It was certainly wrathful, and I don’t apologize for it. But I’m not so sure about righ­teous.”

  “Righ­teous enough,” says Samael. “Those pissants got exactly what they deserved.”

  “Perhaps. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” I say.

  “Which one?” says Muninn. “The one who died or the one who lived? They’re each a different problem.”

  “Both?”

  “Good boy,” says Samael.

  “My secret shame is that I would have preferred that Nefesh be the one who lived. Sometimes I think I’m no better than Ruach.”

  “You didn’t look to kill either of your brothers,” I say. “I’d say that puts you ahead of Ruach in the asshole department.”

  “Thank you,” says Muninn.

  “Samael told me that the longer you’re in pieces, the weaker you become. What happens when parts of you start dying?”

  “Exactly what happens to any organism when it loses limb after limb. I get weaker faster.”

  “That means Ruach is getting weaker too.”

  “Yes, but not so much that Chaya and I can take Heaven from him, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I’m surprised Chaya can feed himself,” says Samael.

  “Enough of that,” says Muninn.

  He looks at me.

  “Now you know the sorry situation down here. And as much as I appreciate you stopping by to check on us, I think Chaya and I need to be alone for a while to mourn our brother.”

  “I understand. But I need to ask you something before I go.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t ask me how, but Mason Faim is back on Earth. He has information I need to operate the 8 Ball, but to get it I have to play something he calls the Infinite Game.”

  Muninn puts his hands flat on the counter.

  “Mason Faim,” he says. “I hoped I’d never hear that name again.”

  He takes a long breath.

  “I’ll tell you right now that you have no chance of winning that game against someone like Mason Faim.”

  “Can’t you teach me?”

  “The Infinite Game is like its name. Infinite. It has no boundaries. The rules are impossible to explain and harder to learn. It’s life, with all its complexities and contradictions. It takes longer than a human life-­span to become proficient at it. If Mason has become adept at it in the few months he was in Tartarus, he had help.”

  “Deumos or Merihim or one of their Angra toadies,” says Samael.

  “Where did they learn it?”

  “If they’re in contact with the Angra they could have learned from them.”

  “If I killed both of them, would this thing be over?”

  Muninn shakes his head.

  “I wish it were that simple. But I can’t say I’d object to seeing them gone.”

  Chaya stops by the kitchen door and looks us over.

  “What’s this thing still doing here? I thought you were sending him back to wherever it is he wallows.”

  “I wallow in L.A. And yeah, it can smell funny on a hot day, but at least it’s not raining fucking blood.”

  “This is what happens when you don’t discipline earthly trash regularly. That was su
pposed to be your job. Wasn’t it, Muninn? But you hid in your cave, playing with your toys while mortal vermin ran wild over the world.”

  “Calm down,” says Muninn.

  “I won’t. Nefesh is dead because of you. You doted on humans and coddled an Abomination. Nefesh is dead and Ruach will finish us all.”

  Muninn gets up. I’ve seen this kind of family square dance before. One parent tries to talk the other one down and it just makes the batshit one even crazier.

  Muninn says, “Let’s talk this over in private.”

  “Look at you. Taking this monster’s side over your own brother’s. Maybe I should have stayed with Ruach. Maybe I should go back. He’d gladly accept me as an ally against you, the family traitor.”

  Light flares up in the room. I have to cover my eyes, and when I take my hand away, Samael is standing in front of Chaya with his Gladius blazing.

  “Do you recognize this, old man?” he says. “It almost laid you low once. You’re not half the power you were in the old days. Should we test that with a rematch?”

  “Samael,” says Muninn. “Stop it.”

  Samael keeps the Gladius blazing for a few seconds before letting it go out. Chaya leaves without saying a word.

  “You should go and apologize,” says Muninn.

  “Among the many things I should do, that’s at the bottom of the list.”

  Muninn runs a hand through his hair.

  “The two of you are making me old faster than Ruach and Chaya combined.”

  “Listen,” I say. “I’m sorry to stomp into the middle of this Hatfields and McCoys thing you have going with yourself, but you were saying something about how I could play the game with Mason.”

  Muninn looks at me like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I can’t tell if he’s distracted by the fight or getting slow as he gets weak. Then his eyes focus and he nods.

  “You can’t beat Mason, but maybe you can play him to a draw. Win a few small victories here and there. With that, you might get enough information that you won’t need it all. Bring me whatever you find and we’ll see what we can do with it.”

  “And how am I supposed to win these small victories?”

  “Don’t fight him. Play with him, not at him. When you don’t understand what’s happening—­”

  “That’s all the time.”

  “Mimic him. Move the way he does. Move for move, if you like. He’ll catch on but he won’t be able to stop you because to get you to play badly he’ll have to play badly himself and risk losing.”

  “That’s not exactly the plans for D-­Day.”

  Muninn looks at the kitchen door like he’s expecting Chaya to come back and apologize.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “As you can see, there are a few things going on here too. I’ve given you all I can for now.”

  “Thanks. It’s more than I had when I got here.”

  “Now I really think it would be a good idea if you left. I’m going to see if I can calm Chaya down.”

  “I’ll see you around, Mr. Muninn. Sorry again about Nefesh.”

  He walks out like he didn’t even hear me.

  “Let him go,” says Samael. “Neither one of us can help him fight himself. I hate all this talk about brothers. It just covers up the fact that Father is slowly killing himself.”

  “You think he’s going to make it?”

  “I don’t know. I just hope that a piece survives and that it’s not Chaya.”

  “Maybe I should get out of here before he changes his mind and reincarnates me as a tapeworm or something.”

  “Don’t be so glum.”

  “What should I be? Candy’s in jail. Muninn is coming apart. The Shonin is poisoning himself. Wells is busy corralling chop-­shop corpses. And Mason has me thumb-­wrestling scorpions. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m losing. We’re all losing. Muninn and you and all the good little angels in Hell and Heaven.”

  “Take a walk with me,” says Samael. “You haven’t seen much of the palace since you gave up the throne. The hellhounds miss you.”

  He goes to the elevator and I follow him.

  “I think I could use some hellhounds in L.A. before all this is over.”

  The elevator doors open and we get in. He touches the brass plate and we start down.

  “Take a few,” Samael says. “Take them all. You taught them to love you. They’ll follow you anywhere.”

  The elevator shudders to a halt underground. The door opens to the unmistakable machine-­lube-­and-­raw-­meat smell of the kennels. But there’s a faint trace of something else too.

  Hellhounds are clockwork dire-­wolf-­size war dogs, run by a brain suspended in a glass globe where their heads should be. They’re smart and deadly and, like all dogs, loyal to their master, which they still think is me. I roofied them a few months back when some of Hell’s legions were seriously contemplating my demise. The addled dogs imprinted on me and even those hard-­core Hellion soldiers backed off when I strolled out of the palace surrounded by my mechanical hounds. It looks like the imprinting stayed strong. When the hounds smell me they move to the front of their cages and press their heads to the bars so I can pet them as we walk past.

  Samael would never admit it, but I know he’s eating his heart out seeing his hounds so loyal to me. It’s his fault for leaving me in Hell on my own way back when. How long ago was it? Just a few months. This year, ever since I escaped from Hell, time has been like a carnival midway. Loud, twisting, and confusing. Full of dead ends and dark, empty places. I look at Samael for a second. Does he know what I’m thinking? Maybe. Not much I can do about it, off kilter like this. Anyway, pride isn’t the issue here. But I don’t think it’s hounds either.

  “What are we doing here? It’s nice to see the pups, but I don’t have time to skip down memory lane.”

  Samael says, “Of course you do. It just depends on what you’re skipping to.”

  He leads me around a corner of the kennel to where a man is shackled to the floor. The slave collar around his neck is attached to chains with links as large as a man’s arm. They’re so heavy, the man is slumped on the floor. Samael walks over and kicks him in the ass. The man’s head jerks up like maybe he was asleep.

  “Up, pest. You have company.”

  The man slowly rises to his feet, the heavy chains clanging against each other. He staggers a bit when he’s up, trying to get his balance. His clothes are shredded and he’s filthy, but I’d never forget that face. It’s Merihim.

  “How did you find him?”

  Samael takes a Malediction from a silver case and offers me one. I take it. I get out Mason’s lighter and spark our cigarettes.

  “I’m the bad angel, remember? I hurt ­people until someone told me where he was,” Samael replies.

  “Welcome back, Lord Lucifer,” says Merihim.

  I get closer and blow smoke in his face.

  “You know, I didn’t like the ‘Lord’ thing when I was Lucifer, but now it’s growing on me. How’s destroying the universe going? It looks like you started with your clothes.”

  He closes his eyes for a long few seconds, then opens them again.

  “I thought you were better than this one,” says Merihim, glancing at Samael. “But you’re just alike. Naughty children. You once mistook your mischief for rebellion. Now you mistake it for bravery. Stand with this fool and you’re going to die, Stark. The longer you fight us, the worse your death will be.”

  “Let’s have a show of hands. Who isn’t chained to the floor?”

  Samael and I both raise our hands. Merihim rattles his chains.

  “That’s exactly the kind of empty gesture I was talking about. You run off to Earth, fight a ghost here, a demon there, and you think you’ve saved the world. This one tracks me down and thinks he’s saving his dear addled father. Neither of you
can admit that what’s coming cannot be stopped.”

  “I’ll stop the Angra,” I say.

  “No you won’t and you know it. The game is too far along. Death is coming. We’re all going to die at the hands of the old Gods. The only question is how your death will come. Those of us who brought them home will die quickly and easily. While those who fought on the side of the beast in Heaven will die over aeons in unimaginable pain.”

  “You watched The Exorcist a lot when you were a kid, didn’t you? You’ve got the whole spooky ‘hail, Satan’ patter down cold.”

  “Don’t talk like a fool,” Merihim shouts, rattling his chains loud enough to get the hellhounds growling. “You sound like Samael, the spoiled son, when you do that. Listen to me, Stark. You don’t have to play the brave soldier anymore. That time is over. You’re more on my side than his. You always have been. I know you have the Mithras hidden away. You could have burned the universe on your own, and you came close a few times, didn’t you? Admit it. You hate this place. This universe that calls you Abomination. But you’re not the Abomination. It’s God. All the pain there ever was he started by exiling the Angra. He invented our doom that day. And he compounded the torment for creatures like you and me and even Samael, the fool, by exiling us in Hell. You owe angels and mad Gods nothing. The Angra will embrace you as a brother.”

  “And then they’ll kill me.”

  “Death is our only release.”

  “I was just thinking about that. You know the one good thing about Mason Faim being back on Earth?”

  “What?”

  “There’s a vacancy in Tartarus.”

  I pull out the Colt and shoot Merihim right between his bloodshot eyes. The Spiritus Dei–coated bullet blows the back of his stupid Hellion head apart. The hellhounds howl and paw the floor with their metal claws, tearing up stone and mortar.

  “Did that feel good?” says Samael.

  “Yeah. It did. Why don’t you come back to L.A. with me? There’s lots more ­people to shoot and I could use the help.”

  Samael smiles and crushes his cigarette with the toe of his perfect shoe.

  “Before tonight I would have said yes. But with Nefesh’s murder and Chaya’s impending breakdown, I need to stay here and protect Father.”