by J. R. Mabry
The color had drained out of both the guards’ faces, and perhaps sensing that a proclivity for young dogs might be their only hope for clemency, they both nodded. “Bullshit. Any of you got families?”
“I do,” one of them said.
“Any reason why I shouldn’t kill your partner here then?”
“Uh…” the two men looked at each other, the apparently single man’s eyes grew wide and pleading.
“He cooks a hell of a chili,” the apparently married man suggested.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Susan said. “I’m not going to kill you because I love Jesus and he wouldn’t like it and I’m more afraid of him than you.”
The men nodded, hands still raised.
“I see you got two radios. You’re gonna throw those on the ground. Then you’re going to throw your pistols on the ground, and any other guns you might have stashed in your socks or underoos, and Chicken is going to collect them. Then you’re going to get in this van of yours—”
“It’s a Ford Expedition,” one of the men corrected.
She ignored him. “—and you’re going to go to the east side of the island where there was just a huge gunfight with the Oaklanders. They need help. Nod if I’m making sense to you.”
Both men nodded.
“Okay, radios first.”
Susan raised the shotgun to her shoulder and took aim as the men removed walkie talkies from their belts and threw them on the ground. Chicken shouted, “Okie dokie” as she ran in and scooped them up, laying them on the ground near Susan’s feet.
“Okay, now guns.”
Both men unclipped their side holsters and slid their side arms out. Then they gingerly tossed them onto the pavement. Chicken ran up to collect them. Just as she bent to grab them, one of the men lunged for her. Susan didn’t blink or hesitate or protest. She squeezed the trigger and the lunging man’s head exploded. His body wavered momentarily, then crumbled in the dust.
Chicken hesitated but only for a moment. She scooped up one gun, then moved the dead man’s arm so she could get at the other. She ran back to Susan with both guns, dropping them at her feet like a hound presenting a pheasant.
Susan kept the shotgun trained on the remaining guard. “What, asshole? Did you think I wasn’t serious? I’m as serious as a day of bad cramps in the heat of summer—but you penis Americans wouldn’t know what that’s like, would you?”
The man was visibly shaking and did not respond.
“All right, don’t piss your panties. You move slow, you get in your fucking Ford Expedition, and you go to the other side of the island without passing Go! or collecting two-hundred dollars. Are we in agreement or do you need more convincing?”
“No ma’am. I got it.”
“Then get the fuck out of here and have a blessed goddam day.”
“Yes ma’am,” the man said weakly, tottering toward the SUV as if his legs were made of jelly. He succeeded in climbing into the driver’s seat and a moment later Susan heard the engine roar to life. She aimed the shotgun directly at the driver’s side window until he backed up and turned off toward the base entrance. The tires squealed as he punched it.
Susan lowered the shotgun, not feeling its weight anymore. She noticed that Chicken was covered with dots of blood and tiny bits of brain and hair. “You okay, little one?”
Chicken smiled and nodded.
“You are either going to turn into a helluva justice warrior or a sociopath.”
Chicken smiled and nodded.
“I’m sorry you had to see that. I had hoped that both of those men would live to pet puppies another day.”
“I miss Toby,” Chicken said.
“So do I, honey-pie. But until we find out what has happened to him, we just have to trust Jesus that he’s okay.”
“Who’s Jesus?” Chicken asked.
“Oh, you’ll like him,” Susan said. “He’s a cheery cuss.”
“Cheery cuss!” Chicken repeated.
“Okay, back on the trail. We’re here to find Dylan, remember?”
Without another word, Chicken opened the door the men were guarding and held it for her. Susan ejected the spent shell, made sure there was another lined up in the chamber, then followed Chicken into the building.
Once inside, she felt blind. She could barely make out Chicken walking ahead of her, and she willed her eyes to adjust quickly. She knew it didn’t work like that, but they adjusted soon enough. The hallways were dark. There were lights, but they didn’t seem to be on and she didn’t bother to test any of the switches as they passed.
They walked the length of one long building in silence. Then Chicken ducked to the left, and Susan realized that the connection between one building and the next was jerry-rigged in such a way that the passage doglegged. Before Chicken could turn right into the next hallway, Susan called her back. Placing a hand on the girl’s head, Susan directed her behind her as she hugged the wall near the corner. Placing one eye to the wall Susan edged it to the corner and beyond. No one.
“Okay, it’s clear. Let’s go.” Stepping around the corner they resumed their hunt.
They passed what seemed like endless doors on either side. Susan couldn’t guess what the purpose of this building had been in its heyday. Offices? Storage? Classrooms? Who could know?
At the end of the building was a door with privacy glass set into the top half of it. Chicken paused before it and held her forefinger to her lips as she pointed to it.
“In there?” Susan asked.
Chicken nodded.
“Okay, behind me,” Susan said. Holding the shotgun against her arm she raised her meaty thigh as high as she could manage it. Then she kicked at the door with every ounce of force she had.
85
Richard spun around wildly, almost losing his balance, hoping to catch a glimpse of either children or the dog. “Mike!” he shouted. “Sophie!” He heard nothing but the breeze and the distant crack of gunfire. “Toby!” Nothing.
He felt his knees begin to buckle, and a cold sweat broke out around his neck. He nearly fell down the steps and steadied himself against the porch rail. “O Jesus, what do I do now?”
As if in answer, he heard a vehicle behind him. Turning, he saw a flatbed truck rolling slowly down the middle of the street, followed by several beat up cars. As the truck got closer, he heard distorted music playing from large, boxy stereo speakers clumsily fixed to the roof of the truck.
Transfixed, he wandered out to the street to get a better look. The truck stopped, and Richard’s mouth gaped. On the truck was an altar, an upside down pentagram fixed on one side, centered tastefully. Behind the altar, slightly elevated, was a chair. No, it was more than a chair, he realized. It was a throne. And on the throne, sipping from a silver goblet, was a young man—perhaps thirty-five? His hair must have been dyed black, because he had rarely seen such a deep, jet black in nature—although Terry’s came close. His sideburns were cut to a point, almost like they were in Star Trek, but even sharper. The effect was striking and slightly creepy. He was flanked by a skinny dreadlocked woman and a much younger man in black jeans and a ripped t-shirt.
The man on the throne was wearing a black ceremonial robe over red velvet and paisley satins. Very Berkeley, Richard thought, but there really wasn’t much incense and peppermints about him. He was obviously a magickian, but strangely not one that Richard recognized.
“You look like a priest,” the man said, holding his goblet forth.
“I am,” Richard said. “You look like a magickian.”
“What a good guess,” the man smiled.
“I’m looking for two children,” Richard said. “A girl about seven, and a boy about five.”
“Yes, our advance scouts found them. They’re safe. For now.” He grinned broadly, revealing several blackened teeth.
Good God, thought Richard. How clichéd is that? Magickians and deplorable oral hygiene.
“Did you pick up my dog, too?”
The you
ng man feigned a sorrowful response. “Oh, dear. Did you lose your dog, too? You are having a bad day.”
Richard remained impassive, trying to suss out what kind of demon had the magickian in its grip. Sloth? He certainly knew how to lounge.
“For now?” Richard asked.
“What?”
“You said the children are safe for now.”
“Yes. Not to worry.” He took another sip from his goblet and held it out to the girl with dreads. She lifted up a box of Merlot and thumbed the spigot, topping off his cup.
“Gosh, I hope you’re having Spam and Velveeta for supper, too,” Richard commented.
The young man blinked, apparently not getting the joke. “I like Spam and Velveeta.”
“No doubt. Listen, thanks for keeping the kids safe, but I need to get them back to their mother.”
“Blond woman? About thirty-five or so?”
“Yeah. Her name is Rachel.”
“Too bad. She’s dead.”
Richard’s teeth clenched and he balled his fists. “What happened?”
“I can’t know everything. My scouts came by, and she rushed out into the streets. They thought she was attacking them.” He mimed firing a gun at his temple. “Don’t worry. It was quick.”
In his peripheral vision, Richard saw two figures approaching. He couldn’t get a good look at them without turning his head, and he didn’t want to give the magickian the satisfaction.
“You amuse me, Mr. Priest. I think you will dine with us tonight.”
“Us?”
“That would be the royal ‘us,’” he said.
“Are you a king, then?” Richard asked, raising one eyebrow.
“I am. My subjects call me the Goat King. I am Hell’s viceroy.”
“Nice,” Richard said. “Have you been to Hell?”
The young man narrowed his eyes at him. “Of course not.”
“I have. You know what it’s like?”
“Non-stop partying and orgies, I imagine,” he grinned and the kid next to him gave him a thumbs up.
“It’s a joyless military bureaucracy,” Richard said. “Endless high-rise buildings, office drones, cubicles, ringing phones, Starbucks—you get the picture. You know what I’ve never seen even once in Hell? A party.”
“I think the priest is having us on,” the Goat King said.
“Well, at least you watch BBC America,” Richard said, “so you’ve got some cultcha.”
“You will come with us. And you will amuse us at dinner.”
“And if I fail to…amuse?”
“Then I suppose you’ll never see those children again. Besides,” he waved dismissively. “You don’t really have a choice.”
One of the two goons behind him grabbed his arms, while the other duct-taped his hands together.
“You may walk behind my palanquin.”
“This is a flatbed truck.”
“Remember, priest, that I suffer you to live only so long as you amuse me. Onward!” He rapped on the cab and the truck began to roll forward again at parade speed.
“Why are we moving so slow?” Richard asked the goon nearest him.
The man was big, with a red beard and a sizable belly, reminding Richard of a Viking or a motorcycle gang member. On the other side of him was an angular woman who seemed almost impossibly tall. She was sturdily built, but not fat. She just seemed…strong.
“The king wants to greet his subjects. Most of them don’t know he’s king.”
“True enough. I didn’t,” Richard rocked his head back and forth.
“You see? He needs to get out and meet his people.”
“So, by what right is he king, anyway? And just what is he king of, exactly?”
“He rules earth on behalf of our Father Below.”
“He rules earth? Not Berkeley? Earth?”
“He does.”
“And he’s qualified to be king because…?” Richard let the question hang on the air.
“Because he says he is king, and he is the king, so what he says is law.”
“Ah. So, one of those circular administrations.”
“You ask too many questions. You really a priest?”
“I am. Are you a magickian, too?”
“Nah. I don’t mess with that stuff. I just like to be on the winning side.”
“I wouldn’t play the horses if I were you,” Richard said. “How about you?” he asked the woman on the other side of him as he walked. “Are you into the whole hail-Satan thing?”
“Satan never fucked me,” she said.
“Huh. That’s cryptic,” Richard said aloud. “I’m just gonna leave that alone. Where are we going?”
“We got a camp at the Marina. It’s nice. You’ll see. We’ll get dinner as soon as we get there.”
“And what’s dinner like?” Richard asked.
“It’s different every night,” the Viking said. “So far we’re still raiding the restaurants out there at the point. Gonna have to move to the grocery stores soon.”
“Do you know what demon rules out there?”
“Demon?” The man looked confused. “I don’t know anything about demons. I just know the king holds a Goat Mass every night after supper.
“And what happens at this Goat Mass?”
“He makes a sacrifice to our Father Below.”
Richard felt a watery chill run down his spine. “Aaaand…just what does he sacrifice?”
The man shrugged. “It’s different every night. One night it was a businessman. Another time it was a lesbian. Last night we got a shock-jock from the radio station. It was cool to see a real celebrity up there thrashing around.”
Richard had to force his feet to keep moving. “How many in your camp?”
“Couple hundred,” the man answered.
“And us…he wants us because…?”
“Because I don’t think we’ve ever seen a priest sacrificed. That would be a hoot.”
“And the kids?”
The man shrugged. “Relax. They probably won’t do you all on the same night.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“Don’t really care how you feel, mister. Or is it Father? Is it Father? ’Cause I want to be respectful.”
Richard didn’t answer him but forced his feet to move, one in front of the other. His brain was spinning, trying to fathom how he had arrived there, what his mistakes were, and how he could manage to turn this around. “Okay. Leaning on you, Jesus,” he whispered. In his mind, he saw his hand slipping into Jesus’ hand. He felt Jesus’ hand tighten around his own. A feeling of comfort flooded through him. He squeezed back.
Darkness was descending on the Berkeley streets. The shadows lengthened and then took over, creeping into every space, filling the sky behind him. In silence, they walked due west, toward the last glowing scrap of light.
86
Mikael’s shoulders slumped as he approached Castro Street. He had been walking aimlessly, lost in thought and occasionally cursing himself out loud. Seeing a Peets Coffee shop, he checked his watch and decided that it wasn’t too late for double espresso. The line was blessedly short and before long he found himself sitting in a faux leather Victorian armchair before an electric fireplace, looking out a plate glass window at the citizens of the Castro as they hurried past, some of them laughing, but more were clearly arguing with their companions. The sun was out of sight and the sky glowed a foggy orange-gray, the dropping temperature causing many folks to huddle into their coats.
Mikael glanced at a discarded newspaper on the table in front of him. He leaned over to read better. “China vows to go 100% green,” the headline read. “That can’t possibly be true,” Mikael whispered to himself. He turned the paper over. “Presidential candidates promise fair fight.” Next to that was a boxed feature that said, “Fanged bat-boy elected to State Assembly.” Mikael checked to make sure the paper was the San Francisco Chronicle and not Weekly World News. It was, the late edition. He shook his h
ead and opened to the second page.
“You know my favorite thing about this time of year?” Mikael looked to his left and saw a man sitting in the matching Victorian chair next to him. He sported an eccentrically ornate mustache and was wearing a black leather civil war cap. His eyes were small and dark, nested beneath large, busy eyebrows that sat like caterpillars on his brow. “The pumpkin spice lattes,” he gingerly took a sip from his cup and then uttered a satisfied, “Aaahhhh.” Mikael wasn’t sure who the man was taking to, but then he addressed Mikael directly. “You look glum. You just catch your lover with the masseuse?”
Mikael smiled sadly, politely. “Everything I have touched today has gone to shit.”
“One of those days.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, welcome to the club. My partner and I went to bed fighting last night. I mean, we literally fell asleep while we were arguing. Woke up and started into it again.”
“Yeah, but everyone’s doing that,” Mikael said.
“It doesn’t make it less icky,” the man said.
“No.”
“And then, when he came home for lunch, he asked me what I was planning for dinner—I cook, you see—and I was so angry with him from earlier in the day that I…I told him I was leaving.”
“Like, leaving him?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to leave him?”
“Hell no. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“So why did you say that?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just…wanted to hurt him.”
“And did you?”
“Oh yeah.”
“And how did it feel?”
He sighed and looked at the plastic lid of his cup. “It was exhilarating—for about five seconds. Then I just felt incredibly sad. But I couldn’t take it back.”
“And you couldn’t back down without your pride taking a hit,” Mikael said.
The man’s small eyes met Mikael’s and then danced away. “Sounds like you’ve been there.”
“More than once,” Mikael said.
“You’re dressed strangely,” the man said. “Are you an Orthodox priest?”
