by Victor Koman
"Why'd they do it?"
"Huh?" I tried to keep the torch beam steady for both of us. The steps were part of a broken escalator-we walked down it as slowly as debutantes at a coming-out party. I grasped the handrail just as the little sign on my left commanded. Gritty dust covered everything. A dank, sickening smell soaked the air, like the odor of dead lilacs in a forgotten tenement where someone lonely had died. Water dripped in a corner.
"The terrorists." She guided her feet carefully between mounds of rubble. "Why'd they blow up the towers?"
"Why ask me? I'm no expert." We'd made it halfway down the escalator. The air grew even thicker-a humid presence that clung like stale fog.
"Aren't you part of the whole terrorist scene?"
My foot jerked, sending a blue square of tile skittering down the steps. It ended its clattering descent with a weak splash.
Great-the Plaza's flooded.
I wasn't considering that problem at the moment. I didn't want to be down there, with or without Ann, and she'd just hit a sore spot.
"What I do is the exact opposite of terrorism." If a whisperer can snarl, I almost snarled. "Terrorists kill innocents and noncombatants to create fear. They hope to use that fear to gain or keep power. They're always wrong. That's where I come in. Sure, I take pay from ruling class statists and secret conspiracies-yet I've managed to interrupt the careers of far more ambitious generals and would-be tyrants than anyone else in the business. I've never killed anyone who didn't clearly demonstrate that he'd had it coming. I've kept the world safe for... well, for whatever. I've stopped a dozen wars before they reached the shooting stage. And
yes
," I hissed, "I've assassinated
terrorists
of every political stripe. I've even taken the trouble to determine the consequences of my actions."
I paused to fume silently. At the bottom of the stairs, something splashed and slithered. Ann said nothing.
"I can say that I've consistently been on the right side, because killing tyrants for any reason is always a net good."
She smiled without mirth. "Is that why you took the contract on god?"
A shadow drifted at the base of the escalator. I wasn't sure whether it was the result of my wavering light beam or not. I stopped. My hand reached out to squeeze Ann's wrist for silence.
The shadow moved again, even though I held the beam as steady as a corpse's smile. Slowly I lifted it, playing the ellipse of white across the first level of the Plaza. A thin layer of water covered the floor. The blast years ago had imparted a distinct tilt to the mall, dropping it away from us in a gradual slope. I wondered how deep it might be a few hundred yards ahead.
I'd worry about that later. It was the thing a few feet in front of us that occupied my immediate concern.
The shadow stopped moving, even though my Magna-Lite hadn't. It took a deep, rattling breath as the pool of light approached. I flicked my wrist up-it didn't look as if it would scare easily. The thing stood in the clear white light.
A thing that had once been human.
8
Red Mass
It grasped a piece of metal as twisted and scarred as it was. I suppose it was a man.
He stared into the beam with squinting, dull eyes, his right hand clutching the contorted piece of steel as if it were a club.
I eased the Colt out of my waistband. I had the advantage, hiding behind the flashlight's glare.
We stood there, frozen, like a couple of mismatched gunslingers in some cheap gothic western. I waved the beam back and forth. The wet eyes in his deathly white face followed the movement. Perhaps
face
wasn't quite the right word. His head consisted of a lumpy mass of swollen pustules and ulcerated wounds. No hair grew anywhere on his naked body. One shoulder sloped lower than the other. Loose bits of flesh clung tenuously to his sunken chest.
A rat half-swam, half-scampered through the floating garbage. It bumped into the derelict's leg and angrily bit it. If he noticed at all, he owned a great face for poker. His pale eyes continued to watch the beam.
"Hypnotized by it," Ann whispered, pulling up so close behind me that I could almost smell her exhausted, womanly scent through the stench around us.
"Or crazy," I said, "from being down here since the blast."
"
Been up!
" The croak issued from beneath the fleshy lumps. He didn't seem to be addressing us in particular. "Been up when I get hungry. Lots of food if you know where to look. And I can catch it."
He lowered his club to lean on it, using it like a cane. A rheumy glaze coated his eyes, what I could see of them.
"Did we beat the Reds?"
I didn't know whether he referred to baseball or battlefields, so I kept quiet. I felt as embarrassed as anyone would feel, dropping in on Hell uninvited.
His free hand twisted around behind him as if to scratch at his back but fell feebly to his side. He took a tremulous step forward, sloshing water aside with his bare feet. The sorts of welts that covered his face were all over his body in small lumps and festering nodules. Here and there grey-white strips of dead skin hung like rags from a beggar.
I wasn't sure what to do next. Was he the one we were after? If not, did we have to get past him first?
He solved the problem conveniently.
"Fire down below," he murmured in a matter-of-fact way. His eyes glazed over sightlessly. They'd be sightless forever.
He fell forward, the steel strut slipping out under his weight. Slowly, as though savoring the moment, he slid along it. He didn't notice the jagged edges tearing chunks of bloodless tissue from under his arm.
The thin sheet of water parted to make way for him, flowing back an instant after impact to surround his body. At the base of his spine protruded the wavy blade of a flame dagger, placed there, no doubt, by someone who wanted privacy. Light bounced from it to a mirror on the wall, which reflected it to an unbroken piece of mirror on the opposite wall, and so on forever.
Nothing moved. Ann made the sound they usually make in the movies-that sort of half-gasp that catches and holds in the throat like a butterfly waiting for a chance to escape.
I turned to face her. Sure enough, she had the back of her hand against her open mouth, her eyes wide with shock. The only difference between her and a thousand Hollywood cornballs was the carving knife she grasped with a physician's steadiness. She lowered it slowly, her mouth still agape, nostrils flared as if to catch the scent of his departing soul.
I stepped over his inert form into ankle-deep water. "The answer to your next question is, `He's dead, all right. As dead as a campaign promise.'" I extended my hand to her. "Let's go."
She took care to step over the corpse and avoid the area where some clumps of loose skin had splashed down. Once over, she did something that I'd only ever seen myself do. She crouched over the body to yank the flame dagger out of the dead man's back. She examined it for a moment, then let it dangle loosely in her grasp.
"Did the radiation turn him into that?" she asked, slipping the strap of her purse over her opposite shoulder to enable her to carry a knife in either hand.
She'd bounced back fast.
I shrugged noncommittally. "Whatever was killing him sure didn't work as fast as that blade."
I shined the Magna-Lite over the walls. Most of the colored tile had cracked and fallen away under the force of the blast years ago. A sign hung slantways on a single peg.
"Welcome to Bond Street," I said to the darkness. "Enjoy your walk. Watch for rats and mutants."
We sloshed past shops that had been hastily evacuated years ago. Their silent doors hung open, merchandise scattered. Not even looters wanted anything
that
hot.
We passed a travel agency. Mildewed, rotting posters exhorted us to visit faraway countries, some of which no longer existed.
My feet squished inside my shoes. The water level hadn't increased much. Most of it was pro
bably waiting for us below.
"Down the stairs," I said when we reached the next escalator. On either side of us, cracked mirrors reflected us to infinity.
My shoes crunched over broken glass and tile. The humidity increased with each descending step. I talked in an attempt to ignore the chill that crept up inside me.
"You're expecting some sort of sacrificial ritual down here, right?"
"All the psychic clues point to that." She fussed with the purse's narrow strap.
"What if
I'm
the sacrifice? We could be walking into a trap."
"Perhaps," Ann whispered. "The psychic images, though, seemed to come from the intended victim, not from the sacrificer. The blood symbols were feminine."
"So are you. You're not planning to play mumblety-peg on me with one of those toys, are you?"
She stopped at the third step from the bottom-the last step above the level of the stagnant, crusted water.
I took the extra step and slogged into the mess, shin-deep in the atomic sewer.
"What do you mean?" she demanded. In the overspill of the MagnaLite, her eyes glowed savagely.
Hmm. Maybe I
could
get her to leave, I thought, if I got her worked up enough.
"Sister, for all I know you could be leading me here for a little sacrifice of your own.
You
own a black blade-"
"The
hilt
is black-"
"You seemed a bit too eager to help a stranger do something as odd as hunt down God and kill Him. Either you're crazier than I am or you're not playing your full hand. Which is it?"
"We all have aces up our sleeves in this game, Dell, but I'm not the only player. Let's keep going."
I drew my automatic and held it at my side. The heat and the cloying atmosphere were getting to me. I wanted her to get the hell out.
"I've never plugged a dame," I said. "At least, not without a contract." I turned wearily, held the muzzle pointed ahead of me, and stepped further into the brackish, cool water. It sloshed against my thighs.
Ann made no sound following me in. She slid the flame dagger into her purse, leaving the black-hilted one in her right hand. She grasped it in the correct position for both gutting and pommeling.
The little hairs along the back of my neck stood nervously at attention.
Between the water and the floor rested a layer of scum-coated metal and masonry. I walked over the terrain as gingerly as a pickpocket stepping past a precinct house. Sometimes my toes or heel hit something soft or rolled across a formless, pulpy mass. I didn't want to know...
We veered off to the right. I stopped.
"Welcome to Fifth Avenue," she said, looking up at a peeling sign.
"Shh." Something buzzed in the silence. Rats cavorted off in the distance. How they could stand the smell was beyond me.
I flicked off the flashlight. We stood silently in a pitch darkness thatafter a few moments-didn't seem so black. I must be getting old. Blondie was the first to see the light.
"Over there." She pointed.
I glanced squintily around until I saw a faint sliver of light illuminating a corner of the far wall.
"Could be light from the hole where South Tower stood," I whispered.
"Not at this hour. Come on." She slogged forward. "That's what we're looking for." At least we were heading toward shallower water.
Ann's foot stepped on something and slipped out from under her.
I was close enough to catch her just by reaching toward her sounds in the darkness. My arm tightened around her waist as though both had been built for that single purpose. I pulled her close. She smelled like summer would smell to someone who'd spent his entire life in winter.
Her arms wrapped around me-fists that clutched a purse and a knife thumping lightly against my back. She pulled me even closer. Her hair brushed against my cheek, softly as a fawn's touch.
Somewhere, someone began to recite poetry. It didn't fit the mood. It wasn't particularly romantic.
"That's him," she whispered.
She untangled herself quickly to crouch low, listening.
Off in the dim glow ahead of us, a deep voice rumbled in loud, fearless tones. He must have surmised that no one would be around to hear him. He'd taken deadly enough precautions.
"In the name of the Ruler of Earth and the King of the World, I command the Forces of Darkness to gather and heed my call!"
Whoever was in there sounded insanely serious. And just a shade too familiar.
I thumbed on the flash and dripped forward as quietly as the first rays of dawn sneaking into a war zone. Ann kept by my side, holding her pigsticker with tight knuckles. We followed the buzzing noise and the light.
"The time of the Usurper is nigh!" the voice bellowed. "I call upon the Legions of the Night to rise up around me! Throw open the Gates of Hell! Come forward from the Abyss. Serve
me
, your brother and ally, your Father and Master!"
We rounded an oblique passage to wade through a small atrium. Twin open stairways cascaded into the slime pooled at their bases. The light from around a low corner at the far end of the corridor grew more intense.
The buzzing sound grew louder. An acrid aroma of some exotic incense filled the damp, oppressive atmosphere.
"Flies," Ann said, waving her knife around as if to slash them away.
The voice droned on, louder and more imperious. "By all the Gods of the Pit, I command these things to come to pass! Fire and Death! Blood and Victory!"
His voice cracked and boomed in a rich baritone, with all the force of a general marshaling his troops.
We splashed closer, wading through calf-deep water and insects. The flickering light turned a shade more orange. I took another step forward and the swarm of flies closed behind me like a curtain. Ann followed me into the clearing and gasped as if she'd been stabbed in the stomach.
"Come on," I said. "We're almost out of the water."
The silt-smeared floor had bulged upward sometime in the past, leaving the part of the mall called Place de Bruxelles high and dry. We passed a jewelry store that some maniac had looted in spite of the radiation danger; I marveled at my
own
lunacy quotient.
I doused the torch again to concentrate on the harsh stream of light angling out of a wooden doorway ahead of us.
"In the names of the Princes of Hell; Satan, Lucifer, Belial, Leviathan! I summon forth the Powers of the Night! Crush the Enemy! Take this sacrifice, that His blood should drain as hers. Let His essence be cast to the eternal Winds as her life is thrown to the Void! As she dies, so dies my Enemy!"
I edged toward the doorway. My shoes had picked up an irritating squishy sound.
The place had been a chapel, years ago. Now, in the glow of a hundred black candles, a variation of Mass worthy of Disney County was in full swing.
A hooded figure in robes of unrefulgent black loomed over an altar draped in the same jet material. Atop the oblong slab lay the body of a girl, her face turned toward him, away from my view. I couldn't tell if she was alive or dead.
The chapel's decor had undergone a few minor modifications. The heavy wooden cross behind the altar had been inverted. From the cross hung a red and black image of an upside-down star. Inside the star was a stylized goat's head. Scores of black candles burned on the pews and railing. Their light flickered in the stifled atmosphere.
The robed figure continued to face the pentagram. I had a pretty good idea what was going on.
A long, thin dagger appeared from the folds of his outfit. He raised it high to the symbols above him. Its blade was as black as his intentions.
"In the name of Ahriman and Marduk," he thundered, "of Coyote, Baphomet, and Sekhmet! Take this virgin blood and
drink!
I command thee to rise forth in beauteous terror to impale my accursed Enemy on the bifid barb of Hell!"
He wh
irled about with a rustle of fabric, raising the blade to drive it home.
I saw the man I most expected to see. I took aim with my pistol.
The girl turned her head away from the blade, screaming toward the door. And I saw who
she
was.
I almost burst out laughing. He had managed to pick an astoundingly inappropriate victim!
"Drop the sticker, Zack." I raced up to the railing and crouched to one knee, waggling my automatic as if I were a real threatening character.
Zack's soft eyes curled up from gazing at the kid. He snarled like a cornered animal. Knuckles tightened to glint like polished bone. Under his hood, his face ran through a spectrum of colors ending with purple.
"Get out of here!" he shrieked. "This doesn't concern you!"
I took one step up toward the altar. "Not that I like to kibitz or anything, but if you need virgin blood, you're in big trouble in L.A. That little tart you've got is about as pure as the whiskey in a skid-row bar."
The kid looked really scared. She stared up at Emil and the dagger. I figured I could shoot him on the downswing without her getting cut. The hilt looked heavy enough to upend if he dropped it.
The kid shouted, "It's not true, mister! He knows it's a trick. I never made it with anyone!" She looked straight at me.
The room faded away in a grey whirl. I felt abysmally cold and lost. Suddenly I saw the girl standing before me. She wore a leather outfit that on someone older would have been a federal offense. On her it looked silly.
"
I tricked them all,
" she shouted at me so rapidly that she stumbled over the words. "
We can talk here, a lot faster than in real time. I can do this with anyone. Or so I thought. I used it to get money. The old farts thought they'd got laid and I didn't even have to touch them.
Honest.
That's why you caught me off guard. I couldn't grab your mind like that.
"
My voice came from somewhere else, as if I weren't talking. "
I got your distress call. You could have given us more explicit directions.
"
She looked terrified. "
What distress ca-