“How long now?” Lucifer asked.
“Three hours.”
Lucifer fretted some more. “How long now?”
“Holy Hera, Lucifer,” Hypnos said. “You’re worse than a 5-year old on a trip to Disney World. Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”
Absalom stirred in the laboratory, sending the group into a scurrying frenzy.
“Did you find it?” Lucifer said first, handing Absalom a sketchpad. “Copy it before you forget it. Hurry!”
Absalom accepted the pencil and pad thrust at him and quickly drew the map and handed it to Lucifer.
Lucifer’s eyes widened with delight, crinkling in child-like glee. “346!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “Well done, lad,” he grinned, pounding him on the back.
“You’re welcome,” Absalom said groggily.
“I’ll be right back,” Lucifer said. “I have to use the bathroom. Hypnos, are there any mint juleps left?”
“There’s a whole pitcher in the fridge,” Hypnos said.
“Thanks,” Lucifer smiled.
“About our friend Hey-Zeus,” Hypnos suggested.
“I lost his number,” Lucifer replied, “for good, this time.” He waved at the group and went to the kitchen.
Hypnos handed Absalom a cup of Brazilian coffee. He sat there sipping the hot java slowly and letting his legs hang limply off the side of the table. After a few minutes, he got up, walked through the taxidermy shop, and looked out the screen door.
The car was gone.
Morpheus, Agora, Phantasus, Phobetor, and Hypnos stood in the corner watching. Absalom turned to them, and the group surrounded him, hugging him. Phantasus gave his butt a little extra squeeze.
“This really isn’t necessary, fellows,” Absalom said, pushing them away. “I’m okay, but I’m going to need some transportation back home. Sam turned about to be a very odd individual.” He gazed back out the door. “What a long strange trip this has been.”
The boys looked at each other. “Let’s open with some Grateful Dead,” Agora said.
“Friend of the devil?” Phobeter asked.
“What else?” Agora answered.
Chapter 36[36]
Lucifer had rolled down all the windows in the rental car and was blasting some Led Zeppelin through the tinny factory speakers.
“There’s a lady who’s sure,” Lucifer sung.
Phase one is complete and the map is now in hand, Lucifer thought. Now on to phase two...tactics. There’s little chance of meeting much resistance using the Angel route. There are probably no Thrones, Powers, or any of the Heavenly Host guarding it how they protect the Pearly Gates. I need a surgical strike, quick, efficient, and quiet. Odin and his crew could watch my back while I track down Eve.
He flipped open his phone and sent a text message to Odin. Odin’s standard reply was “Piss Off,” which meant okay. Odin still took his Master of the Gods title very seriously, but Lucifer knew that Odin understand who was running this particular show.
Eve drifted through his thoughts. The golden hair, the enigmatic smile, the Russ Meyer breasts…
He tromped down on the accelerator. It was time to gather the troops and take care of business.
Chapter 37[37]
“Commander, there’s a ship following us.”
Lane put down his cup of tea and walked over to the Security station. The ship was a small two-man craft with no weaponry. Just some young punks in a space hummer. Lane mulled it over for a bit, picking some brain bits off his trousers.
“Pick them up. If they’re locals, maybe they can point us to somewhere decent to eat. I’m sick and tired of re-synthesized food. I hate eating my own shit, even if it’s been cleaned up and had herbs and spices added to it.”
Security nodded and powered up the space arm.
The prisoners were garishly dressed. Red plumed hats and frocks with some kind of animal skin boots. They identified themselves as Zeke and Pardner, affluent gadflies from the groovy planet Sixteen in Ursa Majoris via the University of Alioth.
“It’s a shame,” said Lane to his first mate, “that we don’t have time to attempt a conquering of their home planet.” He waved his hand. “I hope Earth is a planet full of these fops.”
“Gentleman, we’re quite sorry about pestering you and your ship,” Zeke explained. “We’re waiting for a very special moment and are being a bit celebratory. You see, our reservations for the Resort are tomorrow, and it’s the biggest moment in our entire lives!” He grinned broadly.
“Why do you say that?” Lane asked.
Pardner chimed in. “The Great Bear Resort is booked solid for the next five generations. Families pass reservations down through the years like family heirlooms. Heck, during a divorce, custody of these reservations far outweighs the fight for custody of children. As my daddy always said, ‘Hell, you can always make more children.’”
“Besides this fabulous Resort you speak of, is there anywhere decent to eat nearby?” Lane asked.
Pardner answered. “There are a couple of places in the Mizar system. Messier Burgers is good if you don’t mind a little unexplained crunching. M97 Steak and Potatoes has a blue plate special that’s good for the price conscious. What kind of budget do you guys have?” He eyed the well-dressed crew.
“We’re on expense account,” Lane smirked. “We’d like something a little more upscale.” The crew tittered.
“The only place around here like that is the Resort,” Zeke said. “They have a ‘meats of the galaxy’ buffet that is spectacular. Of course, you couldn’t get a table until you were old and gray,” Zeke laughed, until he saw no one else was smiling.
“We can be very convincing in such situations,” Lane said, drawing his blaster from his side holster and pressing it gently against Zeke’s forehead. “Would you care to escort myself and the crew there?”
“Of, of, course. Not a problem.” Zeke blanched noticeably.
“Never underestimate the subtle power of persuasion,” said Lane.
Chapter 38[38]
Zeke and Pardner looked nervously around the parking lot. They had given their names and reservation numbers to the controllers when they entered the dome gate, but they felt the probing eyes of security on them the whole time. “I don’t dig this scene,” Zeke frowned. “I was trying to be hip and cool but I think these guys have figured us out.”
Pardner nodded. “It’s not paranoid when people really are out to get you.” He took a hit from his hip flask. The acrid liquid burned down his esophagus. If it hadn’t been so hip to drink, he would have preferred lemonade. He was glad Zeke and the guys didn’t know that. How unhip.
The Great Bear Resort sat like a glittering egg on the icy surface of one of planet Seven’s moons. Completely enclosed in a clear elliptical environmental casing, it was the garden spot of the inner planets. Every whim and desire could be fulfilled, but to get the Alcorian walking crane, you had to order a decade in advance. Try the Crusted Chi Cetan river snake sautéed with root vegetables in cardamom oil. It was well worth it.
The Remusians were no strangers to fine dining and most considered themselves expert gourmets. Remusia was covered with fine restaurants that served a broad range of food common and unimaginable. There were more than 700 Remusian words for “pizza.” Even with all of this culinary background, Lane and the crew weren’t prepared for the spread they were seeing.
The dining room stretched out as far as the eye could see. Tables were populated with more gluttons per square foot than uninvited relatives at your last holiday dinner. The sounds of lip smacking and finger licking would have driven your prissy aunt to her grave, but it was music to the Remusians’ ears.
“Pardon me gentleman?” The maitre d’ appeared out of nowhere. Lane jumped. Fortunately, his crew didn’t see his reaction, focusing on the mountains of food. He hated when people snuck up on him.
“Do you have a reservation with us today, sirs?” the maitre d’ asked, arching an eyebrow.
“N
o, we don’t,” Lane answered, rubbing his stomach and staring at the dozens of giant porcine beasts turning slowly on spits. He pulled out his blaster and pointed it at the restaurant gatekeeper’s head. “We would just like a little something to go.” He grinned foully.
The maitre d’ responded with a nod. “Very good sir. I’ll have someone round up the appropriate containers for you and your associates.” He clapped his hands and stepped away quickly.
Lane was still smirking when he realized that he couldn’t move a muscle. His eyes danced from side to side but his head refused to cooperate. Even worse, he saw servers bringing out the dessert trays. The saliva was forming in his mouth and was threatening to start dripping down his chin.
“Gentlemen, I’m afraid we can’t accommodate you at this time. If you wish, please contact our reservations desk at your earliest convenience and we’ll get you on the formal waiting list.” The maitre d’ let a small smile drift over his lips. “We’ll show you the way out.”
Lane watched in horror as giant truck-like creature appeared in the lobby, huge metal claws whirring with oily precision, moving in toward him. He watched as it plucked each of his crewmen and stacked them in the back of the transport like a cord of firewood. As Lane was hauled away, he got one final look at the gigantic spread. His stomach shouted at him in distress. He told it to shut up.
The truck-like creature hauled them out of the resort and shot them one by one through the open hatch of their ship. The machine slammed the door shut, grabbed the ship with its huge claws, and flung it smartly into space.
A million miles later, Lane was finally able to move, but he was too hungry to kick anybody’s ass. I’m glad my father isn’t alive to hear about this humiliation, he thought. He told the yeoman to get him some bouillabaisse. Surely they stupid machine can’t screw that up.
Chapter 39[39]
Absalom awakened to the gloomy night of a new day.
He slipped out of his sweat-stained sheets and padded softly to his bathroom. He peered into his bloodshot eyes, stretching them open, rubbing them. Visions of crude golems attacking his old grade school dancing in his head.
What was so important about the map that Absalom dreamed up that would cause Sam to go to all that trouble? He still couldn’t get over it, parsing all their conversations that they had. Sam didn’t seem insane, but they always said that the serial killer next door was always a quiet, nice neighbor. He sloshed some mouthwash to clean out the sludge and showered.
Fat Boy was wearing black when he arrived at the bookstore. Black loafers, black leather pants, black Barry Manilow concert shirt, and black Alice Cooper-style makeup finished it off. Absalom shook his head. “What, got a date or going to a funeral?”
“Both, sad sack. I’m taking you, Mr. Depressed, on an adventure and I felt that I needed an appropriate undercover skulking outfit.”
“Why are we closed?” Absalom asked. “It’s 10:30.”
“Pshaw,” Fat Boy said. “People will just have to get by without browsing your fine shop and never actually buying anything for a few hours. It’s time for us to go to my lair.”
Fat Boy’s lair was the top floor of a discrepant looking building in the downtown area. The stairs were suspiciously creaky and Absalom could picture himself falling through them to the very bowels of the earth. Fat Boy took them two at a time and was greatly winded when he arrived at the apartment door.
“Velcome,” he said, and pushed the door open. Absalom tried to prepare himself, which was a futile effort.
The far wall was lined with pinball machines. A Bally Grand Tour, a Bally Grand Slam. “Is that an Elton John Captain Fantastic?” Absalom asked in surprise.
“Good eye, my man,” Fat Boy laughed. “Designed by Greg Kmiec. Art by Dave Christensen. 16,155 units produced in 1976.”
“What’s your high score?”
“High score? That’s so competitive,” Fat Boy said. “Pinball is like sex, everyone tends to focus on performance. To me, there is a Zen to pinball. It’s the journey, not the getting there.”
“Thank you, Yoda. So what do I need to see that’s worth my possible loss of store revenue?”
Fat Boy harrumphed, then ran and skidded on the hardwood floor, grabbing a swivel chair and plopping into it. With a flick of a finger, a dozen LCD monitors erupted to life. Fat Boy laughed and rolled toward him in the chair.
“Welcome,” he said, “to Project Swamp Gas.”
The screens flashed with information. Graphical charts, videos, pie charts, PowerPoint slides.
“Okay, I give,” Absalom, said, looking for a place to sit. “What is Project Swamp Gas?”
“I am glad you inquired,” Fat Boy answered. He clapped his hands and the lights dimmed. Absalom found a safe looking chair and leaned back. This should be entertaining, he thought.
Fat Boy fiddled with some knobs and a giant screen whirred down from the ceiling. A projector clicked on and large block-print words flashed on it. “QUESTION: WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?”
“I just don’t understand why the giant corporations of the world haven’t snapped you up yet,” Absalom said. “You have such an intuitive way with words.”
“You have no idea,” Fat Boy said. “Behold.”
A picture showed on the screen. “In 384 ACE,” Fat Boy intoned. “St. Servatius was on a pilgrimage to Rome. Here, he had a vision. St. Peter said unto him; ‘Things are going badly, it’s time for you go back to Holland.’ He handed Servatius the key to Heaven, as well as the key to forgive all sins, which happened to be on the same keychain. Servatius fled to the land of the dikes, and died mysteriously a few days later.” Fat Boy paused. “And the keys were never found.” He looked at Absalom, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pair of keys.
“Hey, those are mine,” Absalom said.
Fat Boy dangled them at eye level. “Perhaps,” he said. “And how did you acquire these keys?”
“I bought them at some garage sale,” Absalom answered. “Evangeline thought they were cool, so I got them for her to put with her other ‘interesting’ items. Hey, I had them boxed up. Have you been going through my shit?”
“Relax.” Fat Boy leaned back. “I did it for science. When your buddy Sam the Sham came by and took you on that ill-fated journey, I sensed something was amiss, so I took a still shot from the surveillance camera in the store and ran it through a number of databases that I have access to, clandestinely of course.”
“Do you that often?”
“Actually, I do it on all of our customers. The stories I could tell you.”
“Who are you?” Absalom asked.
“Conspirators think they have the edge. The people who try to trace them are labeled ‘nuts,’ ‘weirdoes,’ and ‘loonies,’ and are disregarded, making the conspirators feel safe. However, I am an unknown in the game. I work in the same shadows as the conspirators, the dark corners, and moldy cupboards. The conspirators sense me around, but they can’t put a finger on me. They know I’m there, and they fear me.” Fat Boy grinned. “I am the anti-conspirator and I am here to save the planet.”
“From what?”
“This,” Fat Boy said. On the screen, a new picture showed.
“This is what matched,” Fat Boy continued. “Satan, Sin, and Death: Satan Comes To The Gates of Hell. An illustration by William Blake. That’s Satan on the left. The facial recognition software matched it to 100%.”
“You think that I was essentially dealing with the devil?”
“Exactimundo. What did that note say that he left you in Mississippi? Wasn’t it ‘It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend?’”
“William Blake?”
“Again, exactimundo. The map he wanted must have been important to him. That was your map to Heaven, wasn’t it?”
Absalom nodded. In this high-tech conspiracy factory, he thought, this damned theory was making a little too much sense.
“So observe the screen. This slide shows your original map from th
e book. See the numbers on it? 0000000000000. That’s latitude and longitude, chum.” The next slide came up. “So if your map to heaven wasn’t right for him, let’s assume that it’s a map he doesn’t really need because he is already familiar with it.”
“A map to what, Hell?”
“Give Absalom a ceegar!” Fat Boy shouted triumphantly.
“Good gravy, Fat Boy,” Absalom said. “A map to Hell. Therefore, he talked me into a dream where I came up with a map to places unknown. Why?”
“That’s where we run out of slides and pristine presentations,” Fat Boy said, clicking off the projector. “And we proceed to the wild world of shoe leather and face-to-face paranormal investigations.”
“All that’s missing is Scooby and the Mystery Machine,” Absalom said, rolling his eyes.
“Rooby-dooby-doo!” Fat Boy yelled.
Chapter 40[40]
The moon was waning, or possibly waxing, Absalom never knew which. Either way, it was a perfect summer night. Fat Boy’s mix cd, death metal interspersed with Yanni, aurally stood in stark contrast. Absalom turned it down a notch.
“This is the place,” Fat Boy said, turning off his lights. “Code Twelve, no lights, no sirens.” They stopped in front of a red brick ranch house. Dogs started barking, slamming themselves against the chain-link fence, sharp white teeth gnashing furiously.
“I’ll just mace them,” Fat Boy said.
“Not necessary,” Absalom said. “If that burst of rapid-fire staccato barking didn’t raise the alarm at Casa De Hell, nothing will.”
“Agreed,” Fat Boy said. “Let’s approach.”
They both got out of the car and crept up the broken sidewalk, stray weeds reaching for the sky, tickling their ankles. Fat Boy was in a walking crouch, eyes blazing under a black fedora. He motioned several times at Absalom.
“What?” Absalom asked.
In The Lap Of The Gods Page 10