The Kill Society (Sandman Slim)(49)

“Right now?” he says.

“Now.”

We head back to the bonfire, taking our time, not staying in any one place where people can hear us talk.

“I found a way out.”

He gives me a puzzled look.

“Out of where? The havoc or the Tenebrae?”

“Both. I found L.A. Ghost L.A. From there, I can navigate us into Hell and away from these lunatics.”

“That’s . . . astonishing.”

“From Pandemonium, we can go anywhere or just stay in the city until we come up with a plan. The point is, we’ll be free.”

He rubs his chin.

“I wish it were that simple.”

“What do you mean?”

I look around and spot two meat mountains, a bandaged soul, and a Hellion in a Legionnaire military coat full of bullet holes. They’re both carrying rifles.

I turn back to Traven.

“I never pictured you as the entourage type.”

“It wasn’t my idea. The Magistrate arranged it. Now that we’re this close to the crusade’s first goal, me, Mimir, even the head mechanics . . . we all have bodyguards.”

“Or surveillance.”

“No. I believe the Magistrate is sincere in wanting to protect us, but I’m afraid that for now protection and surveillance amount to the same thing. I can’t go anywhere without an armed escort.”

“Fuck.”

He looks me over.

“That’s a nice coat.”

“You like it? I lost my other one. Also my cigarettes. Do you have any?”

He stops and takes out a couple of Maledictions. Lights mine.

“I’m sorry things have become complicated,” he says. “But think of it this way: in the mess and confusion here, there’s no better time for you to go. I might even be able to help. Create a diversion of some kind.”

I shake my head, blowing smoke in the direction of his goon squad.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not going without you.”

“I appreciate that, but you might not get another chance.”

“I won’t. We won’t.”

I uncork the Aqua Regia and take a nice pull. Turning, I hold it up in the direction of the meat mountains. They both shake their heads.

“That means that wherever the Magistrate’s rolling this shit show, we’re going to ride it through to the end.”

“I’m afraid you’re right.”

I look down at myself.

“You really like the coat? I don’t look like a kid thinking about shooting up his high school?”

“You always look like that.”

I have to laugh. I can’t help it, we are so truly fucked.

Me and Traven sit by the fire. I drink and smoke his cigarettes. I don’t rush the bottle, but eventually it’s gone. I toss it into the flames.

“Are you all right?” says Traven.

“Never better. But I’m in the mood to kill someone. Who don’t you like around here?”

“Please don’t talk like that.”

“What about your bodyguards? Which one should I do first? The one on the left looks extra stupid.”

“They’re as much my responsibility as I am theirs, so please don’t try.”

I get up.

“You’re right. They’re too obvious.”

I stagger a few steps away from the fire.

“Where are you going?” says Traven.

“To pick a fight.”

“With who?”

“Anyone.”

Instead, I fall into a drunken sleep in the cab of a half-dismantled backhoe.



I wake up with a bad headache, a sore back, and aching stitches. But I’m all right.

I didn’t pick a fight last night, but I am keeping my other promise. My mind is a complete blank. No memories. No sorrow. No more bad dreams for me. This is Day One. Just like when Mason Faim first sent me to Hell. Only this time, I’m not the scared, privileged little shit who fell into a world of monsters. I’m Sandman Slim. The monster who kills monsters. And I’ll kill every one of these road hogs if it gets me an inch closer to home.



Repairs take four days. It gives the havoc time to heal, but it also gives them time to become restless and bored. Hunter-gatherers need to hunt and gather. Sitting around, people drink too much and shoot off their mouths, enough that fights break out all over camp. Even the conscripts, usually a pack of passive little bunnies that keep to themselves, form a few gangs that prey on the weaker ones. The camp is about to explode. There’s practically no one at the next religious service.

On the third day of sitting on our asses, the dog pack runs the Magistrate out to see the obelisk. Gisco can’t ride a bike anymore, but with some trucker speed and Cherry’s potions, he’s okay enough to drive a car. Daja scores him a silver Hellion chop-top convertible that looks like the love child of a giant squid and a torpedo. The Magistrate rides with him into the desert.

When we reach the obelisk, he’s the first to get to it, gently running his fingers over the thing like it’s made of parchment and not marble.

“It is stunning. Even more beautiful than the Empress said it would be.”

“It’s wonderful,” says Daja.