The Kill Society (Sandman Slim)(25)

The sounds of the camp have settled down again. Either they put the Lamborghini out or they’re using it to roast marshmallows. Now that I think about it, I probably should have killed that guy. But ever since I got Doll Man hanged, I feel like I want to ease back on the homicide for a little while. Just a little.

That said, I probably should have picked up a bottle with a little whiskey left in it. Or gone looking for the greatest Hellion libation of all—Aqua Regia. But what are the chances of finding that out here in the boonies?

I lie in the earthmover’s bucket, staring up at the bruised eternally twilight sky wishing I hadn’t thought about Aqua Regia. My big decision now is whether I lie here until we break camp or give in to one of my mother’s favorite expressions: beggars can’t be choosers.

In the end, I decide to go and beg for a drink. Anything is better than lying here hoping I got the hex on the guard right. If I fucked up and gave that idiot superpowers, I’m going to be really pissed.

The ground at center camp is littered with empties. I walk around like a true wino, checking each one to see if there’s enough to get one good belt. After striking out a good dozen times, I drop-kick a couple of empties into the bonfire in frustration.

“Here,” someone says. “Before you hurt yourself.”

When I turn around, Daja is there holding out a mostly full bottle of . . . hell, I couldn’t care less. It’s liquor. I accept the bottle and take a couple of long pulls. When I hand it back, it’s considerably emptier than it was a minute ago.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve been looking for a while.”

“No problem. We got every bottle in town. We’re set for a month.”

“A month? How do you tell time out here? I don’t even know how long we’ve been in this town.”

She upends the bottle, drinking a good potion of what’s left.

“It’s just an expression. I count the days by when we reach a new town or the Magistrate says to camp.”

“He’s Father Time, too? The guy knows a lot of tricks.”

“That he does.”

She hands me back the bottle. The stuff we’re drinking is vile. Greasy and fishy, but even flounder-flavored turpentine will taste good when it’s the only drink in town.

I say, “How long have you been with him?”

Daja shakes her head. “I don’t know. There weren’t a lot of us back then. Hardly any vehicles.” She holds out her arms and turns in a half circle. “But now look at us.”

I hand her back the bottle.

“You’re a whole army.”

“Damn right,” she says.

“Onward Christian soldiers.”

Her eyes narrow.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s an old hymn back where I grew up . . . not that I actually spent a lot of time in church.”

“Must be a Protestant thing. What were you? Methodist? Baptist?”

“I have no idea.”

“I figured. My family practically worshiped the pope. It felt like I was in church all the time,” she says. “Four times a week at least. Not that I minded. Except I couldn’t be an altar boy, but I’d sneak in after services and put on their gear anyway.”

“You ever get caught?”

“Never. But it was still a sin, so here I am.”

I hand her back the bottle.

“You think you were damned because you played dress-up?”

“Why else?”

“You never killed anybody or robbed a bank or short-sheeted the pope?”

Daja smiles.

“Nope. I was a very good girl.”

“And here I was thinking you were Ma Barker back upstairs.”

“Nah. I didn’t learn to ride till I got here. I never even threw a punch back home.”

She looks me over.

“I bet you were exactly the way you are now.”

“Only prettier.”

She drinks most of what’s left, but offers me the last swig. I shake my head so she finishes the bottle and tosses it into the fire.

“What happened to your face?” she says. She pulls down my shirt a few inches. Spots more scars. “And the rest of you.”

“Never follow a foul ball into a wood chipper,” I say. “We didn’t even win the game.”

She ignores my stupid joke and says, “Were you a soldier? A boxer?”

“You got me. I fought a bit,” I say, wondering if she ever saw the gladiator pit in Pandemonium.

“You must not have been very good at it.”

“On the contrary. I beat pretty much everyone. Just some were harder to knock down than others.”

I flash on Hellbeasts, the ones that spit fire, the ones with pincers as big as a man, the ones with teeth like buzz saws.

Daja says, “I didn’t have my first fight until after I was damned. Isn’t that funny? I was scared as hell.”

“Did you win?”

“Nope. But I got better.”

“And now look at you. No one here would lift a finger.”

She looks at me.

“Even you?”

“I’m not looking for trouble.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, not sounding entirely convinced. “Did you hear the explosion before?”