The Kill Society by Richard Kadrey
Daja says, “Now, Pitts. You give him something.”
I pat my pockets. There isn’t much there. I don’t want to give him the butcher knife because it might piss off PTA Mom and I have policy against pissing off women with that many knives. And I’m sure not going to give him my Colt. I reach into a pants pocket and find a thousand-dollar poker chip. I put it on my thumb and flip it to him. He catches it and looks it over.
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” I say.
He holds it up and looks at me, apparently satisfied with the trade and that I didn’t rat him and Saint Christopher out.
“Now shake,” says Daja.
I put out my hand and he wraps his big mitt around it. It’s a fast, limp shake. He’s not fucking with me. Now that I know his secret, he just wants to get things over with.
We both look at Daja.
“Now both of you sit down and no more of this shit tonight. You make us look bad in front of the havoc. People look up to us. They’re afraid of us, and that’s how it should be if we’re going to take care of the Magistrate.”
She looks at me.
“And that’s job number one for us. Everyone is expendable. Except him. Understand?”
“I got it.”
“Good. Now everyone eat your fucking dinner.”
Billy picks up his spilled plate and goes to get more food. Everyone else eats in silence for a while. In a few minutes Johnny says, “A video-store clerk, eh?”
“Owner,” I say. “Completely different thing.”
“Well, that explains it, then.”
Gisco signs something.
“He wants to know your favorite movie,” says the twin with the green and gray eyes.
I look over at him.
“They have a lot of movies in Carthage?”
“No, stupid,” she says. “We find them here sometimes. Some of the truckers have players.”
Hellions bootleg movies. They steal cable, so why not?
“What’s your favorite?” I say.
Together, the twins say, “The Red Shoes.”
“What’s his?”
Gisco signs something.
“Spartacus,” says one of the twins.
“I agree. Those are my two favorites, too.”
“Oh God, a diplomat,” says Wanuri.
“Or he’s trying to get into someone’s trousers,” says Frederickson. He looks from the twins to Gisco to me. “The question is whose.”
“How do you know it’s not yours?” says PTA Mom.
Frederickson shifts in his seat so his ass is aimed in my direction, and lets rip with a tremendous fart.
“That’s what I think of that idea.”
I point at him.
“He’s your fucking diplomat.”
He laughs.
I look at Daja.
“I don’t suppose there’s a special, secret toilet reserved for us, is there?”
She waves an arm at the horizon.
“It’s the Tenebrae. Nothing but toilet for as far as the eye can see.”
I get up.
“In that case, I’m going to take a walk and defile this little slice of Heaven.”
Wanuri says, “Careful. There’s sandworms out there. They’ll swim right up your ass.”
“Don’t worry. I had a buzz saw installed. My ass can chop wood.”
“I’ll remember not to let you sit on my lap.”
“But you said you’d tell me a bedtime story.”
“That’s your Heaven, but my Hell. Next lifetime, Suzie Q.”
“I’ll take you up on that.”
I head out well past the edge of the camp and piss in the direction of hills spiked like upturned knives.
Or are they more Heaven rocks? Or was the Magistrate just screwing with me? He climbs like a cat, can read maps, do magic, and speak Carthaginian. And has a flock of psychos hauling a gun to who knows where. Oh, and maybe the bastard can read minds. Nothing scary about that. I’m going to stay as far away from him as possible from now on.
I’m circling the camp, heading to Traven’s camper as discreetly as possible, when, out of goddamn nowhere, Gisco runs up and grabs my sleeve.
“Hey, Gisco. How’s it going?”
He says a few unintelligible words and signs with his hands.
“Sorry, kid. It’s going to take me a while to understand the hand stuff.”
He waves and makes a face. I think telling me it doesn’t matter.
He points to me, then points to himself.
“Pandemonium,” he says in a thick accent I’ve never heard before.
“Pandemonium? You were in Pandemonium . . . and you know I was, too?”
He nods and signs.
“Yeah, I was in Pandemonium,” I say. “We were all in Pandemonium at some point. No big deal, right?”
He shakes his head like he’s frustrated and points a finger at me.
It takes me a minute to understand through his accent, but I finally get it.
“Sandman Slim,” he says.
Great. Now I’m going to have to kill him, too.
I put a hand on his shoulder and lead him away from camp out to where it’s darker.
“Did you see me fight in the arena?”
He nods.
“How? Did you fight there? Work there?”
He nods and signs at the second question.
“Have you told anyone else about me?”
He shakes his head no.
“You sure? ’Cause if I have to kill a bunch of people, I’m going to want a list.”
His eyes go wide and he tries to take a step back, but this time I grab his sleeve.
He gestures wildly. I don’t break his neck right away because I think he’s trying to tell me that no one else knows. But I don’t let go of him.
“Let’s say I believe you. Why are you telling me? What do you want from me?”
He holds up his hands and slowly raises a bag. Gestures that he wants to take something out. I pull the Colt and press it to the side of his head.
“Go ahead. But real slowly.”
He does what he’s told. Reaches into the bag and pulls out a black cylinder. He holds it out to me.
It’s a na’at. My favorite Hellion weapon. I used it all the time in the arena and back home. Made a lot of kills with it. I take the Colt from his head.
“Are you giving this to me?” I say.
He shakes his head.
“What do you want for it?”
He makes a throwing gesture. The na’at is just a cylinder when you’re not using it, but when you snap it open it extends up to ten feet. You can use it a lot of ways. Shorter, you can use it as a sword or knife. Longer, a spear or a bullwhip.
He makes the throwing gesture again.
I put the Colt back in my waistband.
“You want me to teach you to use it, don’t you?”
He nods excitedly. I look at him hard.
“If I do it, you’re going to keep my secret, right?”
He nods.
“You’ve seen me in the arena, so you know what I’ll do to you if you’re lying.”
He nods again, a little nervously this time.
“Okay,” I say. “But not now. I have to go see someone. The next time we camp, I’ll show you how to use it.”
He smiles, makes a circle with a couple of fingers while moving a finger in and out of it.
“No. I’m not going to fuck anybody. I’m just going to see a friend. You go back to camp, keep your mouth shut, and we have a deal.”
He holds out his hand. I go to shake it, but he grabs my forearm instead. I grab his and we shake that way. I guess I did it right because he’s grinning from ear to ear when he runs back to camp. Hopefully he’s smart enough to keep his lips buttoned up. I’ll know when I get back to the dog pack.
Cherry is coming out of the Magistrate’s motor home when I’m nearby. No way I want to deal with her kind of crazy tonight, so I duck behind a truck where a group o
Traven smiles when he sees me.
“Come in. I saw you sneaking over here. Are you not supposed to be here?” He steps aside so I can get in.
“No. I can go anywhere I want. I just don’t want the peanut gallery knowing where I’m going. Maybe they’ll think you’re the one who’s been fucking with the gear.”
“I see your point,” he says. “And thank you for being discreet.”
“It was here or the multiplex and I’ve seen all the movies.”
“Yes. I’m sure you have.”
I look to where he’s laid out holy water, bread, and salt.
“We should probably get started. I don’t want to be gone too long. How does this work?”
“It’s very simple really. I lay the bread on your body, and sprinkle it with holy water and salt. Then I say a prayer and it’s done.”
“That’s all? It sounds like anyone could do it.”
“Anyone could. It’s just the desire to rid others of sin that’s necessary.”
“Is there any particular prayer you have to say?”
“There are several. Do you have a favorite?”
“Yeah. But you don’t know it.”
“Relax,” he says. “You look like you’re going to the dentist to have a cavity filled. I promise you, it doesn’t hurt.”
“It better not.”
Traven reaches for the sin-eater snacks, but I get there first.
He says, his smile gentler now, “It’s going to be all right. I promise you.”
“I know. Sit down and hold out your hands.”
“Why?”
“Shut up, Father, and do what you’re told.”
He sits with his hands out.
“You look like Oliver Twist,” I say.
“I feel a little foolish.”
“It’s going to get worse.”
I put the bread on his upturned hands, sprinkle on the holy water, and salt.
“What are you doing?” he says. “This isn’t a game.”
“I’m not playing. So shut up.”
I put a hand on his shoulder and recite the only thing close to a prayer I can think of: the lyrics to Johnny Cash’s “Rusty Cage.”
When I’m done, I shove the bread in my mouth and chew. It’s dry. I’d kill for some Aqua Regia, but I’d even take flounder juice right now. When I finally manage to swallow the last of it, I take a swig of holy water to wash it down.
“There. Done,” I say. “You’re absolved.”
He looks up at me.
“Why did you do that?”
“Whatever you’ve done down here, including with the Magistrate, it’s gone now.”
He sits there, looking stunned.
“I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“Someone around here has to get to Heaven, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.”
“You’re wrong,” he says. “You’re a good man.”
“I’m a good man who’s late getting back. Take care of yourself.”
He reaches out and grabs my hands between both of his.
“We’ll come through this. We’ve made it through worse.”
“Make me a list of worse and I’ll let you know if I agree.”
He pats me on the shoulder and I skulk out of the camper, right to where Daja is waiting for me on her Harley.
She gives me a crooked grin.
“You’re not getting it on with the father, are you? I’m not sure the Magistrate would approve.”
“Then it’ll have to be our little secret.”
She scoots forward on her seat.
“Get on.”
I settle on the back of the bike.
“I guess it’s official now. I’m your bitch.”
“Now you’re getting it,” Daja says.
She guns the engine and rides us back to the dog pack.
That night my dreams are all back in Pandemonium. I’m in a mansion in Griffith Park going from room to room using my na’at, my knife, and my gun to slaughter so many Wormwood members that I lose count. This time, though, I don’t just murder them in the mansion. The havoc finds a whole town of them in the Tenebrae. I lead them to the gallows truck and pull the lever to drop them. But I must have done something wrong because I fall, too. I feel a sharp pain in my throat as my neck snaps. Then I’m on the Tenebrae plains. I’m alone. I look at the sky and there are eyes staring down at me. I look at the mountains and see more eyes. There are eyes in the cracks in the road and every crevice of every rock in the wasteland.
I wake up and there’s a cold wind coming down from the mountains. When I settle down to sleep again, I can’t escape the feeling of all those eyes. The havoc is watching me, wondering if I’m their saboteur. And Wormwood is watching me, too. I can feel it. Between the two groups, I don’t know which scares me more.
Chains replaced and trucks repaired, we get moving in the eternally dull Tenebrae morning. The Magistrate doesn’t consult the map anymore. Before we move out, he gives us a pep talk from the roof of his Charger, waving the rolled-up map like Glinda the Good Witch’s wand. I have to stifle a yawn. We used to get pep talks before fighting in the arena. They weren’t much different from the Magistrate’s. One for all and onward to glory and all that crap. The problem with glory is that it seldom trickles down to the slobs doing the actual fighting. Glory is for generals, popes, and today, the Magistrate.
Before we move out, there’s another religious service. Creeps in robes. Burning crosses mounted on a couple of dead cars cannibalized for parts. Unlike the last service, the Magistrate decides to put in an appearance, so the dog pack has to shuffle over and sit through to the magic show. With the Empress and Cherry by his side, he blesses the havoc in so many languages that I lose count. It’s like watching TV preachers with my mom when my father was on the road and she’d been drinking. I keep waiting for the Magistrate to lay hands on a sham cripple who can suddenly, miraculously walk, and then pass the hat for donations. It’s all I can do not to spit, but the crowd eats it up. I want to hate them for it, but I can’t. When you’re drowning in Hell, even a cement life jacket can look good.
Finally, he shuts up and heads for his Charger. The dog pack goes back to our bikes and cars and mounts up while the havoc roars and grinds to life around us. A few minutes later we’re blasting down the road, and for the first time, motion feels good. The wind and dust scour the holy bullshit off my skin. It hurts and I like it. I’m already healed from last night’s stomping, but I don’t want the others to know, so a little scorched skin will help that. But mostly, I enjoy going blank. The total Zen mind of speed, noise, and exhaust fumes. We travel for hours that way. Hell, it could be days, for all I know. I’m a blissful nothing in the center of a holy shitstorm, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I am one with the hot-rod universe, the angel and meat part of me in sync as the road blurs under us. The mountains crawl around us. I could do this forever. I want to do it. But nothing beautiful lasts long Downtown.
A blue flare pops up from the roof of the Charger and the havoc begins to slow. The road is dustier than usual today, so it takes me a minute to see why.
There’s a small town ahead. Great. How to go from Zen bliss to a massacre in three easy steps. I don’t want to do this today, but there’s no backing down while I’m in the dog pack. And now I have a ringside seat.
The Magistrate climbs out of the Charger with his telescope. The Empress, who’s riding with him, gets out and he hands her the spyglass. Cherry climbs down out of the ambulance and totters over. Whispers something in the Magistrate’s ear. She points hard in the direction of the town. The Magistrate takes another look and sends her back to the ambulance. I get the impression she doesn’t love being sent home, but she does it anyway. What’s she so anxious to tell him about and what’s he so exci
A second later a red flare explodes above us. The havoc spreads out across the desert as the Charger speeds off. The dog pack and the others roar off after him. It takes just two or three minutes to reach the town and we spread out in a semicircle out front. There are vehicles by some of the buildings. Mostly soccer-mom and golfer-dad passenger cars. A couple of SUVs. Some of the hoods are up and a lot of the tires are flat. Even with our breakdowns, this bunch is in a lot worse shape than we are. Johnny points out the outlines of other vehicles parked in a half-collapsed garage on one side of town and in the front-booth area of a burned-out café on the other. Probably some of their few working vehicles. Smart move keeping them out of the dust in this shittier than usual area of the desert.
Unlike the other towns, no one comes out to see what all the noise is about. We sit for a couple of minutes until the Magistrate gives the signal to cut our engines. He steps out of the Charger gently, like Dad picking up his little girl at ballet class. He’s all smiles and no sudden moves. When he lets the Empress out, they walk arm in arm out in front of the havoc. Daja starts her bike to go up front with him, but he holds up a hand for her to stop.
I go over to her.
“What’s he doing?”
“He has to do this every now and then. Some towns are more chickenshit than others. He’s good at it. Let him do his job.” She looks at me. “And you do yours. Get back on your bike.”
I go back to my Harley. Take out the Maledictions and offer one to Gisco on my right. He shakes his head. The twins are on my left. I offer them a couple. One shakes her head and the other waves an admonishing finger. I roll my eyes, but put the cigarettes away.
The Magistrate and Empress stand arm in arm like the monster-movie American Gothic.
“Greetings,” he calls. “Like you, we are travelers through this strange country. It would be our privilege to meet with you. We’ll be dining soon and are quite well stocked. Would some of you care to join us?”
We’re in front of a run-down little motel, the kind you see along Route 66, but not the quaint kind you stay in. It’s more like the ones where you check in for an hour and come out with crabs or what in gentler times they called a “social malady.” It’s a series of separate bungalows painted a shit brown as dull and dead as the land. It’s the Bates Motel for desert rats and lost souls more afraid of staring at the bruised Tenebrae sky than of knife-wielding mama’s boys in the shower.