The Kill Society (Sandman Slim)(22)
When we camp, the Magistrate has a regular swami session with Cherry. I get the feeling that whatever he’s after, he’s been looking for it for a long time. What the hell could pull someone like him all the way through Hell, Blue Heaven, the Tenebrae, and who knows where else? I need to see what’s under the tarp.
Now that I can walk around more I can get my own food at center camp. Even though I’m theoretically part of the group now, no one seems to want to buddy up to me, which gives me a lot of time alone. Fine with me. It gives me a chance to watch the guards around the tarp truck.
Daja acts friendly enough, but she or the other woman—Wanuri is her name—always seems to be around. I don’t know if they’re spying on me, or now that I can sit at the cool-kids table, Daja wants to draw me deeper into the havoc. I’ll go along with whatever happens for now and see where it gets me.
The problem with the Tenebrae isn’t just the monotony of the landscape, but how your sense of time evaporates. A few days in, it occurs to me that it might be more than a few days. A week. Two? Hell, months, for all I know. I wonder how long some of these bastards have been riding with the Magistrate. Maybe years and they don’t even know it. Maybe that’s what’s going on with all the funny languages. Some of the townies—and even a few in the havoc—could be goddamn antediluvian.
We pull into a town a lot bigger than the others. Not quite a city, but it’s more than the usual scattering of buildings. Around us are dead neon signs and dusty hotels sporting roulette wheels and slot machines. A post-apocalyptic Reno.
These days, I ride up front with Daja, Wanuri, and some of their dog pack. They don’t talk to me much, but I don’t let it hurt my feelings. I get to see a lot more up here. Some days more than I want to. Like today.
The routine is the same. Round up everyone—not an easy job considering the size of the place—find the leaders or the least brain-dead, then settle in for an afternoon of twenty questions. The Magistrate does a bang-up job today, playing for a larger crowd than usual. His gestures are bigger, his voice louder. He laughs like a hyena and snarls like a Bengal tiger when anybody gets out of line. He practically dances up and down the line of mopey skeletons he’s decided to interrogate.
A dozen members of the havoc run crowd control on the losers crowded along the road. I try counting them, but give up after ninety and leave it at an even shit ton of walking ghosts.
The Magistrate pulls two people from the silent mob and has them hold up the map. One by one, he walks the leaders over and questions them. Sometimes he puts an arm around their shoulders. Sometimes he whispers or laughs with them. Sometimes he slaps the shit out of the ones who can’t stop crying. In the end, everyone answers his questions. When they’re done, he politely escorts each one back to the line. The problem—and the one way today is like the others—is that no one knows a goddamn thing.
For the first time on the trip, he looks genuinely annoyed. Plunging into the crowd, he shouts orders, questions, threats, promises, and, for all I know, Bundt cake recipes. Daja pulls her gun and plunges in after him. She and the others on crowd control clear a circle around him as he preaches to the dead-eyed townies.
Nothing. They shuffle and stare at their shoes, stoned emo kids playing in the dirt.
Suddenly he gets quiet. Throws out his arms and starts talking again, faster this time. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but it doesn’t matter. I can see him just fine. He pulls things from his sleeves. Gold coins. Doves. Playing cards. Each disappears as quickly as it appeared.
The lunatic is doing a magic show for these mummies.
When the havoc catches on, they begin to laugh. I have to admit, I do, too. It’s all so mad, pathetic, and weirdly beautiful at the same time.
He links and unlinks rings. Breathes fire. Pulls a rabbit from his hat. He actually gets the mob to pay attention. A few even clap.
He puts a finger to his lips, clearly getting everyone ready for the climax of the show. Slowly, he opens his duster and takes something from inside. With one hand he points at the map. Shouting nonsense in a dozen languages, he uses his other hand to hold up what he took from his coat.
A bottle of water.
The crowd surges forward, but Daja pops a couple of shots in the air and they back off.
The Magistrate does a theatrical half bow with a hand to one ear. Waits.
From the middle of the crowd, an old woman shouts something. He points at her, and without a word the crowd parts, letting her up front. Her wild hair hangs down like dead weeds and she’s wearing a dress that looks like she took it off a Disney princess, tossed it in a grain thresher, and got an ape to sew it back together.
Gently taking her hand, the Magistrate leads her to the map. They talk for a couple of minutes. He points out landmarks and she points out others. He listens, cocks his head, and studies the woman as she chatters away. When she’s done, she looks at him shyly, like a dog hoping it fetched the master’s right slippers. Guess she did. The Magistrate opens his arms wide and pulls her into an embrace. He hands her the old water bottle as he releases her. Daja leads her to the havoc. The woman drinks greedily, dribbling all over herself, not caring where she’s going or who’s moving her away from the others. When the Magistrate turns back to us, he’s smiling in a way I haven’t seen before. I don’t like it.
Walking to his Charger, he gracefully hops over the hood and onto the roof.