Kill the Dead. Richard Kadrey

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      “What good news?”

      Kasabian goes back to where he’d been working, leans over the table, and sets the bucket underneath, next to the minifridge. Then he finally looks at me.

      “You have an actual job. Starting tonight. Something a lot better than stepping on bugs for the Wells.”

      “I’ve already got a job tonight. Straight consulting for the Vigil. No killing.”

      “When are you supposed to do it?”

      “Around three? Why?”

      “Good. You’ll probably be done by then.”

      “Done doing what?”

      He smiles at me exactly the way you don’t want a dead man to smile at you.

      “The big man is in town. He wants to see you tonight at the Chateau Marmont.”

      Damn. I finish my drink.

      “What’s Lucifer doing in L.A.?”

      “What do I know? I’m just the answering machine.”

      “And snitch.”

      “That, too. He knows every time you jerk off. Unfortunately, so do I. You really need to get a girlfriend.”

      “What time am I supposed to be there?”

      “Eleven. And be on time. He hates late. It’s a real thing with him.”

      “Christ. I don’t even have a jacket anymore. I need to get cleaned up.”

      “Don’t freak out, man. You’ve got hours. This is a good thing. We need the money. Doing the deed for the Vigil tonight and picking up some new work from Mr. D might just let us keep the lights on for another month.”

      I go into the bathroom, close and lock the door. I’ve never been a shy boy until recently.

      I peel the Evil Dead shirt off over my black shoulder. The pink flesh under the peeling black skin looks like the worst sunburn since Hiroshima. I kick off my boots and jeans, and check myself in the mirror.

      A pretty sight, I am not. I turn the light on over the sink and lean close to the mirror, turn my head from side to side. The thousand tiny cuts from the flying glass at the theater are mostly gone. I tilt my head forward and back. Run my hands over my face and neck, looking at the shadows of the lines and creases from my neck to my forehead, feeling familiar contours.

      Maybe not so familiar.

      I felt the changes before, but over the last month they’re undeniable.

      I’m pretty sure my scars are healing.

      The one thing I brought back from Hell that I wanted. The one thing I counted on. I spent eleven years and shed a thousand pounds of blood, flesh, and bone to grow my armor, and after six months of living in the light, I’m losing it.

      I hate this place.

      Hell is simple. There are no friends, just an ever-shifting series of allies and enemies. There’s no pity, loyalty, or rest. Hell is twenty-four-hour party people, and the buddy you shared a foxhole with yesterday is a head on the end of a stick today, letting everyone in shouting distance know, “Abandon all hope ye who piss me off.”

      Back here in the world it’s all soft, fish-belly white, “normal” people with jelly for backbones and not even the basic kill-or-be-killed honor of the arena. The L.A. sky doesn’t turn brown because of smog. It’s the metric tons of shit coming out of people’s mouths every time they open them to talk. Know the old joke, “How do you know when a lawyer is lying?” “He’s moving his lips.” Up here, everyone is Perry Mason.

      Little by little, I’ve been preparing for this moment, when I couldn’t lie to myself anymore.

      I upgraded my guns. Easy.

      Before I got my ass kicked by malt-liquor-swilling teenyboppers this afternoon, my new working policy has been to duck when I see bullets, knives, and/or two-by-fours coming at me.

      I’ve been shifting back more to hoodoo and hexes and relying less on muscle. It isn’t as fun, but so far, the change has helped me keep my internal organs internal, where they fit better and don’t attract flies.

      A scalding shower helps to scrub off Eleanor and Ziggy Stardust. With an old hand towel, I scrape off as much of the burned skin as I can.

      I even shave. It’s a good, mindless activity and I’m sure the boss will appreciate me looking like I live indoors when I go to his hotel.

      I wish I hadn’t given Wells that body armor back after the shoot-out at Avila. The next time I’m at the Vigil’s playhouse, I’m going to have to steal some.

      Of course, to wear armor in the street, I’m going to need a new jacket. But not now. Not this second.

      I go back into the bedroom with a towel around my waist, leaving my clothes on the bathroom floor. The dead girl’s ash sifts onto the tiles. Except for the boots, I doubt that I’ll ever wear those clothes again.

      The bedroom reeks of cigarettes, whiskey, and tamales. I crack open a window.

      Kasabian is back working at the computer.

      “Careful, you’re going to make L.A. smell funny.”

      Walking back to the bed I feel dizzy. All of a sudden I’m very tired. I shove the weapons to one side of the mattress, lie down, and pour a little bit of Jack.

      “Do me a favor and watch that with headphones. I need to lie down for an hour.”

      “No problem.”

      Kasabian takes a set of earbuds, plugs them in, and the movie sound cuts out. He takes another beer from the minifridge and pops off the top.

      “Before you zone out, have you heard anything about Mason?”

      Ever since he became Lucifer’s conduit to Hell, Kasabian has learned to overhear and “accidentally” stumble on a lot of information he’s not supposed to have. He’s Lucifer’s personal ghost, so he doesn’t really exist Downtown. Even Hellions can tell the truth when they think no one is listening.

      He says, “Not much. He’s in deep with some of the boss’s old generals. Lucifer’s original bunch. Abaddon. Baphomet. Mammon. They’re trying to recruit the younger officers for a full-on revolution. But I haven’t heard anything from Mason himself. He’s pretty well insulated. He’s the man with the plan, so they’re keeping him out of harm’s way.”

      “Is that the truth?”

      Kasabian sets down his beer and looks at me.

      “I wouldn’t lie to you about Mason. I want him as dead as spats.”

      “Okay.”

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