Hollywood Dead

by Richard Kadrey

  “Of course,” says Sally. “It’s always nice on the road.”

  She hits the accelerator and the road turns into a blur streaked with the glare of chrome and glass that looks like Christmas tree lights.

  A moment later she says, “It’s the girl, isn’t it? You’re afraid of losing her.”

  “Already lost her,” I say. “Everything that’s happened since I’ve been back makes it crystal clear how much better off she is without me.”

  “Is that what she says?”

  I don’t answer.

  “It’s the guilt too,” says Sally. “About your naughty arrangement with Wormwood. Mr. Muninn told me.”

  I’ve slid down in my seat. It takes some effort to turn my head to her.

  “You know Mr. Muninn?”

  “We’re acquainted, celestial to celestial. He doesn’t think you’re in your right mind.”

  “I sold out. Gave in to my worst enemy. Came back and made everybody I care about miserable. And almost got some of them killed.”

  “Which ones?” Sally says.

  “Candy and Alessa.”

  “Why would Wormwood want to hurt them?”

  “It wasn’t actually Wormwood that time. And it was only Alessa. She was on a kill list. Candy would have just been collateral damage.”

  Sally thinks about it.

  “But if Alessa was already on a list to die, how is that your fault? It sounds like your being there saved her life.”

  “Maybe. But that was the only good thing.”

  “And you deserve to be punished,” she says in a mocking tone.

  “You don’t understand. I don’t work for monsters. I kill monsters.”

  “And now you’re the worst monster of all.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  We tear down the roads for a few more minutes. I have no idea where we are.

  “Your friends must hate you for what you did,” she says.

  “Stop it. Please. Let’s just drive.”

  “So you can die in my car?”

  “You said you were getting a new one.”

  We go for a few more minutes, then my phone rings.

  “That’s your phone,” says Sally.

  “I know.”

  “Are you not answering it or can’t you answer it?”

  “A little of both.”

  Sally lets go of the wheel and starts going through my pockets.

  I close my eyes, getting ready for the crash. But it doesn’t happen. Of course it doesn’t. No car would dare crash Mustang Sally. The steering wheel moves by itself, keeping the Bugatti going straight and smooth.

  She comes up with the phone and thumbs it on.

  “Hello? Yes, he’s here. But he’s pouting or something. Says he wants to die. Anyway, he’s being the most annoying baby. Me? I’m Sally. Can I give him a message?” Sally listens for a few seconds more and says, “Thank you very much. I’ll tell him.”

  She hangs up and puts the phone back in my pocket.

  When she doesn’t say anything I ask, “Who was that?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Something about how everybody hates you and you’re a terrible person.”

  “Is that really what he said?”

  “No. I forget. I wasn’t listening. Let’s just drive.”

  “It’s your car.”

  “All cars are mine. You should know that by now.”

  Sally yanks the steering wheel hard to the right and we scream across the freeway as she pulls a perfect one-eighty through an open space in the concrete road divider no wider than a couple of shopping carts. If my heart was still beating, it would be going really fast right now.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Want to see a movie?” says Sally.

  “What movie?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s see what’s playing at the drive-in.”

  WE COME OFF the freeway and blow through the streets of Hollywood like a cruise missile. Red lights turn green. Lanes open before us. When the cars slow, Sally takes us down side streets I’ve never seen before and swings us back onto the boulevard well past the traffic snarls.

  I say, “Howard had a deal with a lot of badass angels and you ruined it. They’re going to be pissed.”

  She screws up her face like she smelled curdled milk.

  “How boring, worrying about what angels think of you.”

  When she spots the Devil’s Door, Sally twists the steering wheel, sending the Bugatti onto the sidewalk. The drive-in lights are off, but the gate is open. Sally doesn’t slow but blows through them and squeals to a stop by the concession stand.

  She gets out and comes around to my side. When I open my door my legs don’t work. Sally stands there for a minute looking at me.

  “Really?” she says. “You’re going to make me do this?”

  Sally likes road food. The kind of junk you find at gas station food marts. Cupcakes. Stale cookies. Potato chips. She pulls me out of the car like I weigh about as much as a bag of Twinkies and carries me in her arms to where some startled people I know are waiting for us. Sets me on the ground like I’m light as a feather.

  “Thanks, Sally.”

  “You’re going to owe me a much nicer car before this is over with.”

  I raise myself a few inches on my elbows.

  Ray, Brigitte, and Vidocq come over.

  “It’s going to be okay,” says Ray.

  Vidocq says, “It’s not quite Ludovico’s Ellicit.”

  “But we think it’s from the same region,” adds Ray. “It’s a kind of necromancy, but different.”

  “Now you’re just confusing him,” says Brigitte. She kneels down and puts a hand on my arm. “The spell is a little creative, but we think it will work.”

  Sally stands next to Candy.

  They’re a little behind me. It hurts to turn my head, so I mostly listen to them.

  “Are you Sally?” Candy says. “Thanks for bringing him.”

  “I take it you’re the one he’s running away from.”

  “Running away?”

  “According to him, he’s done something unforgivable. I think he’s exaggerating, but I’m not the one he’s in love with, so what does it matter what I think?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you do. Do you think you can save him?”

  “We’re going to try,” says Candy.

  “You might want to shake a leg.”

  Sally winks at me as she goes by and sits on the Bugatti. A wink is as close to a get-well card as she’ll ever give you, but it’s plenty for me.

  Candy comes over and props me up against her. In the distance, Flicker and some of the others are rearranging the parking spaces into a hexagram. In the center of the hexagram, Kasabian and Carlos seem to be trying to light a pile of wood on fire.

  Allegra is by me. She takes a stone from her bag and places it on my forehead. It turns black and crumbles. She rubs a purple salve on my cheek. It too turns to ash and falls off. She puts a leaf into each of my palms and closes my hands. When she opens them again, you can probably guess what they’re like.

  She closes her bag and curses quietly.

  “I don’t know what to say, Stark. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I know embalming isn’t your specialty.”

  That wasn’t the right thing to say. When she moves away, I think she’s crying a little.

  I look up at Candy and nod at the screen.

  “What’s playing tonight?”

  She says, “Saving Private Asshole.”

  “Porn? Kasabian will be happy.”

  Candy looks at Sally, then back at me.

  “Was Sally right? Do you want to die?”

  “How’s your head?”

  Candy frowns.

  “Is that what this is about? I got a bump on the head?”

  I try to push myself upright. I make it a few inches, then lean back against her. />
  “It’s your head and everyone else’s,” I say. “I was ready to fuck over the world to come back. I’m afraid if I stay, I’ll bring more trouble down on everyone.”

  “Leaving isn’t entirely your decision.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “Then get up and walk away.”

  “I can’t.”

  Candy gestures with her hand to the others working.

  “All the people you were fucking over are here to help you.”

  “That was the old me. Not the Wormwood me. Buy them a popcorn and send them home.”

  Carlos and Kasabian finally have their fire going. Are they having a cookout? Is this my going-away party?

  Candy says, “That’s a shitty thing to say after everything they’ve done for you. If you want to send them home, tell them yourself.”

  I try to say something, but my mouth doesn’t work anymore.

  Candy takes my hand, but I pull it away and drag the Colt from my waistband. It’s so heavy I can barely lift the thing.

  “Stop it,” says Candy.

  I drag it up my body so I can get it as close to my head as possible.

  “Stark?”

  It takes a lot of effort, but I pull back the hammer.

  “I’ll never forgive you.”

  Someone grabs my arm and snatches away the Colt.

  Alessa squats on her heels with my gun in her hand.

  “I already cleaned up your mess once,” she says. “If Candy wants you to live, you’re going to live.”

  Carlos and Kasabian come and stand behind her.

  Carlos says, “What the fuck was that? Was he going to shoot himself?”

  “He’s not thinking straight. Is it ready?” says Candy.

  “We’re still working on the bonfire,” says Kasabian.

  “We’re not the outdoorsy type,” says Carlos.

  “Please hurry,” says Candy.

  “You two are ridiculous,” says Sally, looking at Carlos and Kasabian. She says, “This is how you start a fire.”

  With a plastic gasoline can in her hand, she gets a few yards closer to the pitiful flames lapping up from the wood and tosses the can overhead. It makes a perfect arc through the air and lands on the pile. A second later, it explodes in a beautiful, rolling orange ball that lights up the entire theater. The wood is now a roaring pile of burning timbers.

  The others run back to us.

  “Is everyone all right?” says Brigitte.

  Flicker leans down in front of me. She’s wearing a set of dirty workman’s overalls.

  “Who is that?”

  “Sally,” says Candy.

  Flicker looks again.

  “Mustang Sally? Damn, Stark. You do have interesting friends.”

  Candy looks at Vidocq and Ray. “This all sounded like such a good idea a little while ago. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “There isn’t any choice, I’m afraid,” says Vidocq. “Look at him. How close to death he is.”

  Ray says, “Vidocq is right. I can’t give you any guarantees tonight except one: he’s going to die if we don’t do something. And by the look of him, we need to do it now.”

  Candy brushes my hair back. Some of it comes off in her hand.

  As the rigor tightens me I want to say, I don’t care anymore. Do whatever it is you’re going to do. But Kasabian does it for me.

  “Are we ever going to do this?” he says.

  “Okay,” Candy says. “Let’s go.”

  Ray nods, then says, “Stark needs to wear this.”

  He takes a length of rawhide with a pouch hanging from it and places it around my neck.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s just salt and gold dust.”

  Brigitte takes a brush, dips it into a small bowl, and flicks something over me that smells like a dead whale’s backwash.

  “I know it smells awful, but it’s necessary.”

  When she’s done, she nods and says, “Good luck, Jimmy.”

  I have a very bad feeling I know where this is heading and there’s nothing I can do about it. Rigor mortis has hit again, and I don’t have the energy to shake it off. All my limbs cramp and I can’t move.

  “I guess we’re ready,” says Candy. “I don’t think he can walk there himself. Can someone help me?”

  Everyone grabs a piece of me and carries me to the edge of the bonfire, close enough that I can vaguely feel the cling wrap harden and the adhesive on the duct tape begins to loosen and melt.

  They set me down in a salt circle, pry open my mouth, and pour brine down my throat. I choke and sputter but keep most of it down.

  As everyone stands back, Flicker pats me on the shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, Stark. We made a good hexagram for you. Number thirty. Very powerful. Radiance. The phoenix.”

  Fuck me.

  Carlos squeezes my arms.

  “Buena suerte.”

  Candy gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  “See you soon,” she says.

  And pushes me into the fire.

  I’ve used fire a lot in my fights, both in the arena and since returning to the world. I’ve been burned badly both places, but I’ve never been thrown into the equivalent of a furnace before, and a magic one at that. Let me describe how it feels.

  It fucking hurts, which is so unfair. How long has it been since I’ve felt anything at all? And now my nerves are working again just in time for me to baste in my own filthy juices.

  The cling wrap melts into my skin and the duct tape bursts into flame. My hair goes next. Then my clothes. I don’t want to tell you what happens to my eyes.

  I feel my skin crisp, then bubble and swell. That part doesn’t last long. My fat begins to melt, which is extra fun because it’s flammable and I burn even hotter. I keep waiting to go unconscious. Hoping for it. I try to think of hoodoo that will knock me out. I’ve been knocking out assholes left and right for days, but when I need to remember the curse it’s gone. Maybe because my brain is boiling in its own juices. Maybe because these are magic flames and I’m supposed to be awake to enjoy every moment of the ride. Maybe it’s part of my punishment for Wormwood.

  I don’t know how long it takes for the meat parts of me to cook away, but I’m happy when they do. Burning bones don’t hurt as much as skin. Not that it’s fun turning to ash. How hot does a fire have to be to destroy bones? Fourteen hundred, maybe fifteen hundred degrees? This is definitely a hoodoo fire. Nothing Kasabian was involved in could ever work this well.

  And then there’s none of me left to burn. I’m gone. A bodiless consciousness floating into the air as black vapor and airborne ash. Finally, I have my wish.

  I float into the sky and come down all over L.A. as wildfire debris, making people’s eyes water and throwing them into coughing fits.

  That’s it, fuckers. I saved your dumb asses more than once. Let me choke you a little as I vanish into the sky.

  I spread across the city, growing thinner as I go. I swirl around buildings, trapped by convection currents. I’m sucked into air-conditioning systems and blown out through giant vents on skyscraper rooftops. I mix with car exhaust and grill flames in food trucks. I drift into bars and churches, mixing with incense and the smell of candle wax. I envelop the hills like a fog, wrapping like Marilyn Monroe’s mink stole around the letters in the Hollywood sign.

  Then the currents change and I’m drawn into a whirling tunnel of flame—a fire devil—that drags me back to the scalding center of the hexagram.

  And then, weirdly enough, something in the fire begins to twitch. I stumble forward to the edge of the flames.

  I seem to have feet again. And hands. And they’re not burning. They’re bright like the fire. I lurch forward a few steps and trip over something.

  It’s the wood around the bonfire.

  A second later, I’m out of the flames and glowing red like a goddamn piece of charcoal.

  Everything is too bright. I can’t see anything but my own luminous body, incandescent with
heat. I don’t know what else to do, so I walk a few more steps.

  I begin to shiver. It’s a frigid world outside of the fire and I can feel my skin cooling rapidly.

  Eventually, I can see again. Nine people stare at me like I’m Jesus returned to Earth or the beast from twenty thousand fathoms.

  One more step and I fall to my knees. But it’s okay. I can get up again. And I felt the ground. It was hard and now my new damn knees hurt.

  Candy runs over and puts out a hand.

  “Stark?” she says.

  She reaches for my arm and then snatches her hand away like she touched a hot skillet.

  Ray and Vidocq throw freezing buckets of water over me. I stand there naked and steaming, white vapor curling off me as I cool.

  Soon, the steam disappears.

  Candy touches me again. Smiles. Throws her arms around me.

  That’s something I didn’t think I’d ever feel again.

  I look at my right hand. It looks like a real hand again and not a mummified tarantula. Pale scars still crisscross my body. My breath comes easily and when I touch my chest, I can feel my heart beating.

  “Will somebody give this fucker a robe or something so he doesn’t stand there feeling himself up all night?” says Kasabian.

  Candy gives me a beaten-up robe we stole from the Chateau Marmont when we squatted there last year. I can feel the soft fabric against my skin, the grit of the parking lot under my feet.

  “Stark?” says Allegra. “Can you talk?”

  It takes me a couple of tries, but I manage to get out, “I think I’m okay.”

  People crowd around me. Hugs. Pats on the back. Kasabian and Alessa stand apart from the congratulations, which is probably best for all of us.

  Behind me, the bonfire is just about out, like all of its heat went into my body and when I walked away from it, all its power came with me. In a few more seconds, it dies completely. Carlos and Vidocq dump buckets of water on the embers.

  Ray and Brigitte show me a couple of pages scrawled with tight handwriting. My eyes don’t focus well enough yet to read it.

  “What does it say?”

  “It’s the spell we used to bring you back,” says Ray.

  “What kind is it? Resurrection? Spirit binding?”

  Brigitte covers her mouth when she laughs. Ray looks a little embarrassed.

  “It’s not either of those,” he says. “It was used by farmers in Eastern Europe in times of famine.”