The Kill Society

by Richard Kadrey

  “By the time this is over I might look like you.”

  “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  She puts her hands on her knees and leans back.

  “You’re going to protect me? The guy who couldn’t even manifest his Gladius a few minutes ago?”

  Shit. “You saw that?”

  She pats me on the arm, a mischievous grin on her face. “It’s okay. It happens to guys sometimes. No one thinks any less of you.”

  “Oh, man.”

  Alice stands and brushes off her armor.

  “Come on. Bring your stupid cigarette and show me around this Popsicle stand.”

  The repairs go quickly with five angels working wrenches at light speed, but the work still takes all night. Alice doesn’t know a damned thing about engines, so she’s a kind of unofficial angel ambassador to the havoc, answering people’s questions about Heaven, God, wing maintenance, and settling bets over whether or not angels shit (apparently, it’s their choice, which is weird even for angels). Traven, on the other hand, tries to quiz her on obscure theological arguments. French hermits in caves versus traveling German Flagellants versus a day trader from upstate New York who had a vision of the Virgin Mary at the Strawberry Panda strip club in Vegas. She took all his money, but later at his hotel he found a gram of coke in the back of a Gideon’s Bible and declared it a miracle. Alice answers each of his questions with Groucho’s lines from old Marx Brothers movies I made her watch.

  “Either he’s dead or my watch has stopped.”

  “I once shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got in my pajamas I’ll never know.”

  By the time she starts singing “Hooray for Captain Spaulding,” he catches on that she’s not revealing any deep, dark secrets and settles for trading stories about their favorite L.A. bookstores.

  Cherry has been keeping a low profile since Alice blew her cover. All the windows in the ambulance are covered and smoke curls from a vent in the roof. She’s locked herself up doing her swami bit, trying to get back in good with the Magistrate.

  But even with the angels’ help, the havoc loses more vehicles. When I came along, there were twelve semis and several pieces of construction equipment towing the flatbed. Now there are four semis, a dump truck, and the AAV we took from the dead Legionnaires. Members of the havoc and the conscripts have to squeeze into buses and the smaller trucks together, which puts everyone in an even better mood.

  Before we move out, the Magistrate leaps on top of his Charger and addresses his increasingly restless flock.

  “My friends, as we move out today, we embark not on a new journey, but a renewed and more powerful one. We are blessed with the presence of six angels who will guide us in these next steps. Despite all that we have been through, all the losses and dark moments, the crusade has always moved forward, and today it will move forward again. We will reach the second step of our holy campaign in just a few days, and once there, I tell you now: we will possess the Lux Occisor, the sword the Almighty used to strike down Lucifer and his rebel angels. With the weapon and the help of our angel companions, we will enter the third and final stage of our crusade, and join in the battle for Heaven itself!”

  The Magistrate pauses for dramatic effect. I think he’s waiting for a roar of approval, but what he gets are a few whistles and a smattering of applause. I’ve said it before: Hell is a tough room.

  “Now, before we move out, I think we should thank our new companions for their presence and support.”

  He stretches out a hand to Vehuel, Alice, and the other angels.

  There’s more applause this time and even a few cheers. Lucky Magistrate. The angels might be about the only thing holding his crusade together at this point.

  The angels pile into the Charger with the Magistrate. How they manage to get in there with their wings and armor is more mysterious to me than anything in Traven’s old books. Alice gets in last, putting on a little show for the crowd, making a big deal of trying to squeeze into the car. People laugh, and as engines start around us, you can feel the havoc begin to relax.

  I’ve just settled on my bike when Daja comes over. She looks worried.

  “Are you planning on riding up front with your angel pals?” she says.

  “First off, they aren’t my pals, and second, I was planning on riding where I usually ride. Unless that’s going to be a problem.”

  I glance at the rest of the pack. Johnny, Frederickson, and Barbora, a few others won’t even look at me.

  “It’s no problem by me,” Daja says. “In fact, I was going to ask you to stay. After seeing what you did to that angel . . . well, it would be good to have your help looking after the Magistrate.”

  “I’m here and I’m ready to ride.”

  I don’t say the other thing I’m thinking, which is that despite all his charm and brains, I think the Magistrate is the worst kind of Holy Roller motherfucker. He’s a genocidal bastard with a gallows truck and a gun big enough to blow holes in Saturn’s rings and he’ll use it on anybody who disagrees with him. And now he thinks his divine destiny is proven by a gaggle of angels.

  No, I don’t say any of that. I just start my Harley and pull a bandanna up over my nose because the road ahead looks soft and powdery.

  Daja says thanks, but it’s drowned out by the thunder that’s the havoc waking up. She goes back to her bike, and as the Charger peels out, we take off after it, not a dog pack anymore. Just a lot of bikes and one car that all happen to be going in the same direction.

  We follow the Magistrate’s ley line for a few miles before turning off on a winding road that leads into a jagged mountain pass of shining black stone. The higher we climb, the steeper the road becomes. I can hear the semis grinding gears even over the sound of my engine. Everyone slows so the trucks don’t get left behind, but the road just keeps getting worse. When the trucks get stuck, members of the havoc lead conscripts to the rear so they can help push them free. I wonder if every crusade has its own slaves. It wouldn’t surprise me. If they’d decided I was an “unworthy,” I could be back there pushing with the rest of them. And what’s going through the heads of those angels? I thought friends of Hesediel’s wouldn’t be the usual angel bastards, shitting on mortals and their oh-so-boring suffering. Yet they just sit in the car, doing nothing.

  Just when I’m ready to write them off, the Charger stops and the doors pop open. All six angels take off into the air and settle down at the rear of the convoy. Each angel takes a vehicle and pushes with the conscripts. With all that angel horsepower, it doesn’t take long for the trucks to start rolling again. I want to go back and help, but I promised to stay with the pack. Plus I’m not sure I want to give up all my secrets to the havoc yet.

  The last couple of hundred yards of steep road are hard, even with the angels’ help. Most of the havoc waits at the top of the hill as the semis crawl forward a few feet at a time. It’s over an hour before the flatbed crests the hill, and when it does, people cheer like they haven’t in a long time. The applause continues as the angels fly back to the Magistrate’s car. Before she squeezes in, Alice makes a muscle in my direction and sticks her tongue out at me. I give her the finger. And we move out again.

  There’s actually some scrubby vegetation on this side of the hills, rare for the Tenebrae. The air is clearer, too. I pull down the bandanna and can feel dampness in the air. After two more hours winding down through the hills, we come to a dead end and stop.

  We’re at another of the shining black stone mountains. At the base of the peak there’s something I’ve never seen in the Tenebrae before: a small pool of water.

  From nearby I hear Johnny say, “If this magic river of theirs has dried up, I swear I’m slitting them.”

  There are grunts of agreement. Even Doris, the steadiest person in the pack, looks like she’s ready to turn Vehuel and her pals into chicken pot pies. I have my na’at in one pocket, the golden blade in another, and the Colt at my back. I know that Alice can take down any of t
hem, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give them the chance to try.

  All the tough talk and bad thoughts evaporate in the next few seconds as Vehuel gets out of the Charger and says a few words.

  The mountain begins to rumble and split open. Massive doors of black stone swing wide, opening to reveal another road leading under the mountain itself. The doors are still moving when the Charger slowly enters the passage into the mountain. Gisco in his convertible goes in second, with the rest of us on bikes on his tail. The rest of the havoc follow us underground. For a long time. When the mountain doors slam shut behind us, every vehicle with a working headlight turns it on.

  The road going down is almost as steep as the one coming up. If someone has fucked with the chains on the flatbed and they break, a lot of cars are going to get pancaked. I stay close to the Charger in case I have to pull Alice out.

  I haven’t been in this kind of dark since I was in Tartarus and I don’t like it. The big difference here is that the longer we move down, the cooler and wetter the air gets. Which isn’t to say it’s a fucking picnic tunneling under the Tenebrae’s shitty skin. The noise from all the vehicles reverberates off the stone walls and gives everybody migraines. Shadows snake and slide along the walls, thrown at crazy angles by the jagged, shiny rock formations. After the Hellion and angel attacks, you can feel everybody tense, expecting the worst. But the shadows are just shadows and it’s hard to stay scared forever. After a while, they’re just another part of the scenery.

  Just like it was easy to lose track of time in the Tenebrae, it’s just as easy here, crawling at a few miles an hour in pitch dark. Eventually, though, the road turns from a steep slope to a gentle grade, and finally eases into a flat, straight line. Better than that, there’s light up ahead. The Magistrate must have seen it, too, because the Charger roars forward. We gun the bikes to chase the car’s receding taillights, finally catching up just as the road opens into a cavern that looks to be a mile wide and just as tall. That’s not what gets everyone’s attention, though.

  It’s the three large ships floating nearby on a rushing river.

  The Charger stops by a pier extending out a few dozen yards into the water. As the Magistrate and angels get out of the car, we kill the bikes and go over to them.

  “Welcome to the Styx, the first and oldest river in Hades,” says Vehuel.

  I go to the side of the pier.

  “It doesn’t really look like a Hellion river.”

  Vehuel gives me a look.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Most of the rivers I’ve seen in Hell are a lot more Hell-y. You know. Rivers of shit or blood or fire.”

  “No. There’s none of that here. The Styx is merely water, though few know of this tributary’s existence.”

  “And that’s the way I like it,” says an old man who’d been hiding behind one of the pier supports. His eyes narrow at us, but they turn to slits when he looks at the angels. “Greetings, Vehuel,” he says.

  “Charon,” she says, a hint of surprise in her voice. “I thought you’d retired.”

  “You mean you thought I’d been retired. They tried it. Lucifer and his minions. They could pull me off the main part of the river, but I’m still the Styx’s boatman. No one gets past me without paying.”

  “But you’re alone down here,” Vehuel says. “Doesn’t that defeat the point of being a boatman?”

  “Not at all. I am as patient as the river. And as for being alone . . .”

  He looks at the long line of vehicles beginning to fill the tunnel.

  “I don’t seem to be alone anymore.”

  “Very well,” says Vehuel. “We’d like—”

  “Shh,” he says, holding up a hand. “I’m trying to count.”

  “Of course,” Vehuel says in a tone that makes it pretty obvious she’s not used to getting shushed.

  The Magistrate steps forward.

  “Hello. I am—”

  Charon holds up a finger.

  “You made me lose count. Now I have to start over.”

  “I can tell you how many are in our party, if that would help.”

  “It wouldn’t. I have to count. You might try to cheat me.”

  “We travel with angels, sir. We would never cheat you.”

  “Shh.”

  Charon waggles his finger as he counts people or vehicles or maybe both. Whatever he’s counting, it’s clear it’s going to take a while. I get out the Maledictions. Daja and Wanuri take one. I bring one over to Gisco and start to light it.

  “There’s no smoking,” says Charon sharply. “Read the sign.”

  I look around.

  “What sign?”

  He looks at the wall over my head.

  “Oh yes. I thought I hadn’t seen it for a while. It must have rotted away in the damp. Anyway—no smoking. Now quiet or I’ll have to start over again.”

  Everyone gives me back their cigarettes. Alice hops onto the back of the Charger and I sit down next to her.

  “He’s fun. One of yours?”

  “I’m not sure,” she whispers. “He could be an angel, I guess. He’s kind of a prick if he is.”

  “Then he’s more like most of the angels I’ve met. Your bunch are the weird ones.”

  “I’m glad we could broaden your horizons. You don’t want to know what a lot of angels say about you.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  “How do all of you fit your wings in the car?”

  “We tuck.”

  “You can tuck your wings?”

  “Oh yeah. They fold up real small. I’ll show you sometime.”

  “Quiet!’ shouts Charon. “You people and your noise. I should charge you double just for the aggravation.”

  Vehuel shoots Alice a look. She mouths “Sorry” back at the boss.

  A few minutes later, Charon finishes counting and goes to the support where he’d been hiding earlier. When he comes back, he’s holding a long ash staff.

  “I am Charon, boatman of the Styx—”

  “We know who you are, Charon,” says Vehuel.

  “Don’t interrupt. Now I have to start over. I am Charon, boatman of the Styx. All may pass, but all must pay.”

  “Of course,” says the Magistrate.

  “In gold,” says the old man drawing out the O.

  The Magistrate reaches into his duster and pulls out a dove. As it flies away, he’s already shooting playing cards from hand to hand. He fans out the deck and says, “Pick a card.”

  “No,” says Charon.

  “Oh, come on. You want to be paid, do you not?”

  Charon makes a sour face and points to a card. With a great flourish, the Magistrate tosses the rest of the cards into the air, where they burst into flame and disappear. With another extravagant flourish, he turns over Charon’s card for us to see. There’s a picture of a gold coin in the center. People applaud. He shows the card to Charon. The old man takes it and throws it into the river. He shakes his staff.

  “Do you see this staff which I hold? With it, I bar or open the way to the river. With it, I command the ships and the tide. But without gold, I’ll do nothing at all and you can all bugger off the way you came.”

  “Of course, dear sir,” says the Magistrate. He snaps his fingers and there’s a gold coin there, like he plucked it out of the air. People applaud politely.

  Charon takes the coin and tosses it into the river.

  “Not enough,” he says. “Gold for all of them. Every soul. Every Hellion. Every one of your pretty little angels.” He smiles sourly at Vehuel. She smiles sourly right back. “And gold for your transports. Double gold for those big bastards at the back. What’re they?”

  “Trucks,” I shout.

  “Trucks? Funny word,” Charon says. “Yes. Double for them. And double for him. He has a big mouth.”

  Everyone looks at me.

  “You’re not helping,” says Alice.

  The Magistrate looks back at the h
avoc and the angels, then back to Charon.

  “Dear sir, if we had known that we would need so much gold, we could have prepared for it. As it is, you have thrown all of our gold into your lovely river.”

  Charon slams his staff into the pier.

  “Then you can go back the way you came and take those nosy angels with you.”

  “But, sir—”

  “No!”

  Charon crosses his arms, clutching his magic staff tight.

  Vehuel says, “Be reasonable, Charon. We must pass. We are on a holy mission.”

  “Tough. Gold or you can rot on these banks like my sign.”

  The Magistrate starts talking. The other angels go over and they start talking. All you can hear coming from the mob is Charon saying, “No. No. Never. Forget it. Nope. No . . .”

  I go to the pier and push a couple of angels out of the way.

  Charon says, “What do you want, Mr. Bigmouth?”

  I take out the Colt and smack him on the head with the butt. Before he falls into the river, I grab his staff and toss it to the Magistrate.

  “You’re smart. You and the halo polishers figure out how to make it work.”

  I go back to the Charger and light a Malediction. Toss the pack and matches to Wanuri, who lights one for herself and gives out smokes to anybody who wants a cigarette. Even Johnny takes one.

  “Smooth,” says Alice. “You realize that’s not going to do your reputation in Heaven any good.”

  “Then you’ll just have to stick up for me.”

  “Believe me, I’ve tried. But it’s five of them against one of me.”

  I hold out a hand to where the other angels and the Magistrate are examining the staff.

  “You’re warriors. You’ve seen worse than that in battle.”

  “You mugged an old man!” says Alice. “That kind of thing gets around.”

  “He called me a loudmouth.”

  “Bigmouth, actually.” Alice cranes her neck, looking where I pushed in Charon. “I hope he’s all right.”

  I point about twenty yards downstream.

  “Ask him. He’s right over there.”

  The old man shakes himself like an angry cat, but keeps his distance. In a few minutes, the three ships waiting upriver begin to move toward the pier. The Magistrate and the angels smile.