The Kill Society (Sandman Slim)(52)

The Magistrate knows it and is a one-man pep squad. He wanders around the havoc with his map, pointing out to anyone who’ll hold still where we were, where we are, and, maybe, where we’re going. It’s pure hustle, like those celebrity bus tours of L.A. Dumb as they are, they make people feel warm and special and closer to their TV gods. It’s the same thing here. He points out the thrilling sights, the exciting points of interest, and hints that maybe if we’re lucky, the ghost of James Dean will swing by to give us all rides in his Porsche Spyder.

Traven has been working for around eight straight hours when a storm blows up in the distance. He’s sketched all four sides of the pyramid and copied all the symbols from one. Everybody stops what they’re doing to watch the approaching clouds.

“Is it a sandstorm?” says Doris.

“It sure isn’t rain,” says Wanuri.

“Do you think it ever rains in the Tenebrae?” says Barbora, who’s hardly said a word since her sister died.

I say, “Nothing happens out here because nothing is supposed to be here. That’s why it’s so boring. It’s the Fresno of damnation.”

“That doesn’t mean it never rains,” says Johnny. “Back home, even the deep desert gets the occasional monsoon.”

“Have you seen any wallabies down here? This isn’t back home.”

“What makes you such an expert on the Tenebrae?” says Daja.

“Maybe God told him. Or the Devil,” says Wanuri.

“Who’s been with the Magistrate the longest?” I say.

Daja and Gisco raise their hands, along with a couple of grease monkeys who were wandering by.

“How long have you been with him? Months? Years?”

Gisco and Daja look at each other.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Time is funny here. But I’d say a few months.”

Gisco nods in agreement.

“In all that time have you ever seen anything like that?”

Gisco mutters something like “Nuh,” and shakes his head.

Daja shakes hers, too.

“Never.”

“It’s a funny bugger, don’t you think?” says Johnny. “It keeps changing size and shape.”

Frederickson says, “More like a swarm than clouds.” He looks puzzled. “They don’t have locusts down here, do they? I hate those wiggling bastards.”

This chatter is pissing me off. I take a drink from the water bottle.

“I told you. There’s nothing alive out here.”

Doris shields her eyes and stares into the distance.

“I have to agree with Johnny. It’s more like a swarm of bees or flock of birds than storm clouds.”

Barbora says, “Maybe it’s a sign from God.”

“If it is he isn’t happy to see us,” I say. “Where’s the Magistrate’s telescope?”

“Your boyfriend has it,” says Wanuri.

“Wait here. I’m going to fucking settle this.”

Traven is copying symbols on the far side of the obelisk, so he doesn’t even see me take the spyglass. I bring it back to the others, holding it over my head like a war club.

I point to each of them.

“It’s not rain. It’s not locusts. It’s not sand. And it sure as shit isn’t the Almighty.”

Daja folds her arms.

“So, what is it?”

I extend the telescope and hold it up to my eye.

And just about piss myself.

“Where’s the Magistrate?”

Daja hears something in my voice.

“What’s wrong? What did you see?”

“Where’s the fucking Magistrate?” I yell.

“He’s over in the motor home. What’s wrong?”

I speak to her as quietly and calmly as I can.

“Round up everyone and get them in the center of camp. Make sure they have guns and ammo.”

“What the hell did you see?” she says.

“The worst thing you can imagine.”

Before she can ask another stupid question, I run to the motor home and bang on the door.

The Magistrate opens it and says, “Pitts. What is wrong?”

I climb up a step.

“Do you have any Spiritus Dei?”

“Of course. It’s with Mimir.”

“A lot?”

“Gallons,” he says.

“Good. We need to pour it on all the ammo.”

“What are you talking about. What is wrong?”

I hand him the telescope.

“Look.”

He peers in the direction of the cloud. Adjusts the glass several times, then takes it from his eye.

“Are those angels?”

“Damn right. And those aren’t bouquets they’re carrying. They’re swords.”

He comes down from the motor home and we run to Cherry’s ambulance.

“Mimir will be able to tell us if you are right,” he says.

“I am.”

“What if you are? Perhaps they are angels of the Lord, come to aid us on our mission.”

We reach the ambulance and I slam open the door. Cherry is lying on the floor, twitching with convulsions and foaming at the mouth.

“I don’t think they’re coming to help us.”