The Kill Society (Sandman Slim)(94)

I wipe myself down and then someone takes the towel away.

A man says, “Open your eyes. What do you see?”

I can’t quite make out the voice. “Light. Just bright light.”

A shadow moves across me.

“Can you see that?”

“A little.”

“Good.”

“Alice?”

“What did he say?”

It’s a woman.

“Alice?”

“That name I know,” the woman says. “It’s his lover.”

“The old one?” says the man.

“Yes. The new one’s name is Candy. Or Chihiro, depending on who you ask.”

I reach out for them.

“What the fuck is going on?”

I try to stand, but my legs are string cheese and I fall on my face. It’s not so bad, really. There’s less light down here. I can see furniture. It’s nice stuff. Maybe antiques. They probably have good yard sales in Heaven. I can also see feet. Around a dozen of them.

Hands grab me and help me up.

I’m wearing some kind of gown. Great. Mr. Muninn put me in a fucking choir. I’m definitely not in the mood for that. I don’t even do karaoke.

“Is this Heaven?”

Whatever bunch owns the twelve feet laughs. Someone helps me sit down. It’s goddamn hard and uncomfortable.

“We like to think so,” says the woman. “You keep closing your eyes. You have to open them so they get used to the light.”

I do what she says and this time I can make out faces. They’re not distinct, but I can see enough to know that there are four men and two women.

“How are you feeling? You already look better. You’re getting some color back,” says one of the women.

“Can I have some water?”

“Of course.”

A few seconds later someone presses a paper cup into my hand. I down the whole thing. My throat spasms a little. It’s very dry.

“Feel better?”

“Yeah. That helped. Where am I?”

“You said it yourself. Heaven.”

“Then why do I feel like such shit?”

“You’ve been dead a long time.”

“How long?

“Eleven months, two days, and three hours,” says one of the men.

“That’s not so long in Heaven.”

“It depends on how you define Heaven,” says the woman. “We’ve always felt that Los Angeles is as close to Heaven as you can find in this funny old world.”

I open my eyes and look around the room a lot harder. Faces come into focus. One in particular.

“You’re Eva Sandoval.”

“Very good. I see death didn’t scramble your brains completely.”

I look around the room. There’s the nice furniture. Old, pricy-looking paintings on the walls. White lilies in a crystal vase on a side table. I’m lying on a pool table covered in plastic sheets.

I look at Eva.

“You’re fucking Wormwood.”

“That’s a complicated notion these days, but you’re not entirely wrong.”

I swing out an arm to grab her, but my body doesn’t want to cooperate. She steps back and I almost fall off the table. Again.

“Where am I? What’s happening?”

“I already told you. You’re in Los Angeles.”

“I’m alive?”

“More or less.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll explain later. See if you can walk.”

A couple of the men help me up and I take a few feeble steps to a chair. It’s as far as I can go, so I give up and flop down.

I look around for Eva again.

“Nice chair.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Never felt better. A second ago I was in Heaven with my friends and now I’m here with you creeps. What, did you bring me back so you can kill me again? Hurry up. I have places to go.”

“In Hell?”

“Don’t sell me short, Eva. I made it all the way Upstairs. Right to the pearly gates. Only they’re not pearly. They’re gold and really ugly.”

“Heaven,” she says. She speaks to the others. “That makes sense. We completely lost track of him in Hell. He must have found his way to Heaven somehow.”

“I just said that.”

“Ask him how,” says the man, ignoring me.

“My sparkling personality, you Wormwood prick. All of you can fuck off. If this is the world, prove it.”

“Of course,” says Eva. She goes away and comes back with the little box in her hand.

“What’s your greatest fear?” she says.

“Flan.”

She presses a TV remote into my hand. There’s a flat panel the size of Raziel’s motor home on the wall. I hit the power button. A crisp hi-def picture of some women appears. They’re all wearing too much makeup and lots of ugly jewelry and most have had mediocre plastic surgery. They’re arguing, all shrill and fake and over-the-top. I have to watch for a couple of minutes for it to make sense. Then it does and I feel as cold as when Michael’s Gladius was burning me up.

“This is one of those angry-housewife shows.”