The Kill Society (Sandman Slim)(11)

“No. Mr. Pitts I would like to leave. You I would like to stay,” he says. He looks up at Daja and frowns. “And I would like a word with you as well.”

Traven pulls me to my feet. I’m a little light-headed from the pain and it’s hard to stop rubbing my hand. The father gives me a little shove to the door. I look back at the Magistrate.

“What’s under the tarp, Roy Bean?”

“The future,” he says. “Ours and now possibly yours.”

“I’ve got my own future. I don’t need yours.”

The Magistrate gives me a tiny smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Pitts. We will talk again soon.”

On the way out I bump my shoulder into Daja’s like an annoyed sixth grader. She’s already in trouble with Dad, though, so she doesn’t say a word.

Outside, I have to lean against the side of the motor home for a minute. The fire test took more out of me than I was ever going to let those assholes see.

The camp is weirdly quiet. A handful of Hellions attend to cook fires. A few others move trucks and construction equipment around. But the vast majority of the havoc is gathered by a hill of burning crosses erected on the other side of whatever is under the tarp. Their heads are down as a group of robed creeps perform some kind of ceremony.

So, this really is a crusade after all. And now I’m part of it. Hallelujah.

I listen at the motor-home door, trying to hear if Traven is all right. But if the Magistrate got the answer he wanted from the oracle, he has no reason to hurt the father. Anyway, I can’t hear a damned thing.

I walk back to Traven’s camper thinking that maybe I’d’ve been better off if there had been a storm and it snuffed me back on the plains. It would be simpler than dealing with this sideshow.



The sermon breaks up a few minutes later. Hellions and damned souls straggle back to camp. They’re pretty buddy-buddy for a bunch of torturers and torture victims. I guess there have been weirder alliances Downtown.

Grating Hellion music blasts from a tricked-out Impala lowrider. When you get down to it—mysterious religious services aside—the havoc is like any camp. The cooks start filling dinner plates. Damned souls and Hellions argue, while others laugh or barter. Shooters load up on ammo from a Hellion APC. It has massive bullhorns on top and iron shark teeth welded on the front. Someone strapped broken mannequin parts in between the jaws. Cute gag, but where did they get dressing dummies way out in the Tenebrae? They must make runs into Hell itself, maybe even Pandemonium. That’s good news for me. If I have to make a run for it, I can disappear in ten seconds flat there. All I have to do is survive until then. When I get back to Hell I can start figuring out a way to get back home.

I wonder who Daja has spying on me? No way this bunch is letting an outsider stroll around without surveillance. There’s probably a rifle sighted on me right now. Or am I just being paranoid? Being dead has thrown me off my game. I need some privacy to figure out how much of me is left. I have some hoodoo and I didn’t bleed out. Good news there. But how strong am I? How fast? Is the angel part of me powerful enough to manifest a Gladius? And yet, for all those questions, the one that’s truly bugging me is this: Why the hell did it have to be Audsley Ishii who killed me?

I’ve fought Hellions, slimy monsters, armed-to-the-teeth mortals, scary little girls, and forgotten, pissed-off gods. And it was a third-rate shitbird I got fired from his lousy job who finally did me in. Maybe it was poetic justice. Maybe it was me getting soft. Every time I decide to take things easy or deal with my PTSD, something rotten happens. There won’t be any of that down here. Hell is a Zero Slack zone. No one gets a second chance from me down here. Which means I need weapons. But first I need something to eat and a little sleep. Dying is like the worst jet lag you’ve ever had.

Rubberneckers from the havoc wander by, but none of them will meet my eye. They just want to sniff the new meat. That’s okay. I’d do the same thing. I keep still and look as oblivious as I can. Today’s lesson, kids, is to not look for trouble until I have a better handle on the situation. I’m perfectly prepared to look a little dumb if that’s what it takes.

Just as I’m getting bored and cranky, Traven comes out of the Magistrate’s motor home.

He gestures and we head to his camper.

“You were in there for a while,” I say.

“These things take time.”

“Complaining that no one responded to his birthday Evite, was he?”

Traven nods to someone.

“I was taking his confession.”

“You’re back in the priest game?”

“I don’t think excommunication counts for a lot down here,” he says.

That actually makes me smile.

“Did you do the other thing?”

A bug-headed Hellion in a sombrero and dirty serape glowers at me. I smile like a dummy and keep walking.

“You want to know if I ate his sins,” Traven says.

“Did you?”

“Of course. It’s always been part of what I do.”

I look at him.

“Even in Hell? What does anyone care about sins down here?”

“It’s an individual thing. The Magistrate’s job is difficult.”

“Believe me, I know.”

Traven looks surprised.

“You know the Magistrate?”