The Kill Society (Sandman Slim)(35)

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.

The motel office door opens and a couple of Hellions in dust masks and bandannas walk out. Then more. It looks like we found a whole damned Hellion town. The dog pack’s Mohawked Hellion—I finally learned her name is Lerajie—looks restless.

I lean to the twins.

“You ever seen a town like this before?”

They shake their heads.

“Never,” Babetta, the brown and blue one. “But I suppose there had to be one.”

“Pandemonium profiteers and politicians sometimes escape the city,” says Barbora, the gray and green one.

“Arseholes will commune with other arseholes in times of strife,” says Johnny.

“Obviously,” I say. “Just look at us.”

He smiles, then shakes his head.

“Christ, how long is it going to take to get all these timid bunnies into the street? How many cabins are there?” I ask.

“The town isn’t small,” says Lerajie. “We could be here all day clearing it.”

“Oh dear,” says Doris, our knife-happy PTA mom.

“Welcome!” calls the Magistrate. He lets go of the Empress and goes up to press the flesh. He looks like a real politician out there, shaking hands and cracking jokes. I bet the fucker knows every Hellion dialect around.

It only takes him a couple of minutes to zero in on one Hellion in particular. He looks vaguely human, but with bloodred eyes and goofy vampire fangs. His right arm is in a sling. He must be the leader. The Magistrate laughs and jokes with him like they’re exchanging muffin recipes. When the Hellion points at the havoc, the Magistrate waves at it dismissively. That’s right. Don’t mind a bunch of lunatics with a million horsepower’s worth of vehicles and enough guns to invade Normandy.

Cherry gets out of the ambulance. She looks twitchy. What’s going on with her? I wonder if there are drugs in the ambulance. She always did have a taste for anything speedy.

The Magistrate walks the Hellion bigwig to the Charger. The Empress spreads the map on the hood as he takes a flask from inside his coat. He pours a shot for the Hellion, then takes a pull directly from the flask. The Hellion downs his and the Magistrate pours him another. They look at the map together. The Empress runs her finger across the map from spot to spot. The Hellion gets twitchy. The others by the motel office get restless, too.

When the Hellion tries to walk away, the Magistrate takes his arm and steers him back to the map. He’s still smiling, but he’s not letting Fang Boy go.

One of the bunch by the office yells something, but I’m too far away to hear. Fang Boy looks at us, then back to his people. The chatty Hellion in the back moves forward. Two more come around from the other side.

Fuck. I recognize the uniforms.

I yell at Daja.

“They’re Legionnaires! Deserters.”

“So am I,” says Lerajie.

“And what if you get caught? Is there a bounty on you?”

She curses in Hellion.

“This isn’t good,” she yells to Daja.

“Stay put. Let the Magistrate handle it,” Daja says.

Which is when he stops handling it.

A gust of wind blows up, tearing the canvas from the sides of the gallows truck. One of the uniformed Hellions points and shouts. Then they’re all shouting. The Magistrate waves his hands like it’s all a big mistake. Those aren’t gallows. That’s where we hang our laundry. Fang Boy isn’t buying it.

The sling was a gaff. He pulls out his arm and comes out with a pistol. He points it at the Magistrate’s head and drags the idiot back into the motel office.

“Magistrate!” yells Daja. It’s the last thing anybody says for a while because the Legionnaires up front pull their own guns and start shooting. So do the snipers hiding on the bungalow roofs. Plus, others from the bungalow windows.

Around here is where Daja shouts “Fire!” though she really doesn’t have to. Half of the havoc already has their weapons out and is shooting back.

While the others spray bullets all over the motel, I pull the Colt and take aim. I pop off all six shots and take down two Legionnaires and wound two others. Not my best shooting, but not bad with a shitstorm of lead aimed at my face.