Then rubber once more gripped pavement, and the Hummer flipped.
That first roll was the longest second of my life. The Hummer was so tall, and the speed it had been traveling so fast, that it got three-quarters of a rotation around before it ever touched the ground. I went from right-side-up to upside-down to sideways as smooth and silent as if I were underwater – and then my world exploded in shattered glass, spent airbags, and rending metal as the passenger side slammed into the roadway.
I didn't have much time. I tried my damndest to ignore Asshat's myriad cuts and scrapes, the shuddering of the Hummer as it skidded along the freeway, and the shriek of steel on pavement. Instead, I visualized the meat-suit I'd left back in the Caddy. The way it moved. The way it smelled. The way my thoughts rattled round its brain. See, every meat-suit's different. Every one I've ever inhabited has left an imprint on my soul, and in every one of them I've ever abandoned, I've left a little of what makes me me behind. It's one of the bitches about being a Collector – eventually, subjugating vessel after vessel chips away at you until there's nothing left but a ghost, a shadow, a feral creature that knows nothing but this cursed existence. But today, I was counting on that fact to save my ass.
See, hopping bodies is a bit like picking a lock. You need to hit all the right tumblers on your way in, or no dice. It takes concentration, focus: two things in short supply when you find yourself smack-dab in the middle of a traffic accident.
OK, maybe "accident" is the wrong word. But who's ever heard of a "traffic on-purpose"?
Anyways, I was banking on the fact I'd been in the Jonathan Gray body long enough – and left it recently enough – it'd be like coming home. That my key could find the lock in total darkness. That I could stroll on in without whacking my shin on his metaphorical coffee table, or some shit.
Gimme a break – metaphors aren't my strong suit.
Lucky for me, crazy-ass stunts like this one are.
I closed my eyes. Stretched my consciousness. Latched onto the meat-suit in the Caddy like it was a life-preserver. I'm pretty sure it was.
The transition was fast. Crazy fast. Almost no time at all spent in the Nothing that stretched between. Which is why, even as I was doubled over the Caddy's driver's side door puking, I could feel the impact of the cop cars slamming full-bore into the roof of the Hummer.
Holy hell, was it a sight to see. The Hummer was lying on its side in the road, its undercarriage facing us. When the cops slammed into it, it leapt a few feet off the ground and lurched toward us as if by magic, the remainder of its airbags deploying and filling the cabin like oversized popcorn. Then a cop car launched over it, twisting sideways in the air in a strangely balletic turn, and two others, trying to flank the automotive carnage, slammed into the concrete barriers on either side, loosing a flurry of sparks. One flipped, one didn't, and when all was said and done, the Hummer, two dozen cop cars, and God knows how many civilian vehicles were unwitting accomplices to our escape.
Eh. The civilians were likely all locals, and they were headed into LA proper. This probably ain't even the worst traffic they've seen this week. I just hoped the douchebag in the Hummer was OK.
But we weren't out of the woods yet. The night was filled with the sound of sirens, and the low whump of the chopper was getting louder. I scanned the sky, and saw it slide in over the roadway behind us, a spotlight surveying the pileup behind us – but then, on orders from below I assume, its spotlight swung our way, a jittery circle of white tracking across the empty freeway, reflecting off the dotted yellow lines. Its wasp-like body tilted after it as though chasing its own light.
So much for shaking them.
I laid my hands on the wheel as my meat-suit's urge to vomit subsided, and felt Gio yank it wildly to the right. I kicked his foot away from the gas, and yanked the wheel back. "Gio, what the fuck are you doing?"
"Atlantic Boulevard!" he shouted.
"What?"
He waved the chicken-scratch directions he'd copied down from the laptop back in Vegas. "This is our fucking exit!"
Fuck. More like was. By the time I got the message, we were past it. I yanked the wheel. Hopped the curb. Ran across a triangle of exhaust-browned grass, took out a smallish shrub. Hopped another curb, and wound up back on track.
Above us and about seventy yards behind, the helicopter followed, its spotlight skittering over us every now and again, only to slide off once more with a jerk of the wheel, a random tap of gas or brake.
The exit ramp ended at a light. Perpendicular to the exit was a broad commercial stretch, four lanes of traffic surrounded by strip malls, sidewalk storefronts, and auto dealerships, their brightly colored signs pushing back the falling night. The ocean to the west had doused the sun's blaze by now, leaving the sky overhead that starless royal blue that passed for dark within spitting distance of any major city. Beside me, Gio shouted to be heard over the oppressive din of the approaching chopper, and gesticulated wildly. Though I could barely hear him, my eardrums throbbing from the thrumming of the helicopter's blades, the gist was clear enough. Our destination lay on the other side of the intersection.
The light was red. Traffic flowed past us in both directions, dense and steady. But waiting for the green was not an option.
I laid on the horn, and goosed ol' Bertha into action. She leapt forward like she'd been born to, and we shot out into the intersection like a bullet from a barrel.
Horns blared. Shouted curses peppered us in Spanish and English both. The chopper gave chase a moment, and then pulled back, mere inches from a tangle of power lines. The streetlight to its left was not so lucky – it wound up a fine dice as the helicopter peeled away. Sparks rained down. The mangled streetlight pole toppled, yanking free a phone line as it fell. Amidst the swerving, honking chaos, the chrome and steel seas parted. I saw my opening and took it. For a moment, I thought we were gonna make it. But the moment didn't last.
You wanna know the problem with goddamn UHauls? I'll tell you what the problem is: the fucking "U". I mean, sure, most truckers the country over are jacked up on coffee or meth or Pixy Stix or whatever, and not a one of 'em you encounter on the road has had a full night's sleep in weeks, but at least they know how to drive their fucking trucks. I've seen the commercials late at night on cable; they've got to go to school and take a test and everything. But all you need to drive a U-Haul is a license and a bunch of shit to move, and it seems to me neither of those qualifications is a reliable indicator of your ability to successfully pilot fifteen tons of truck and cargo down a busy city street. Which is to say, OK, I ran the fucking light, but I still maintain that bastard should have swerved the same as everybody else when the streetlight came down, and he never would have hit me.
He did, though. Hit me. Well, hit Bertha, at least. Smack in the rear right tire. Spun us around like this behemoth of a vehicle was nothing more than a children's toy, leaving the three of us clinging for dear life so as to not get thrown.
Could've been worse, though. If I hadn't seen him and cut left at the last minute, Theresa would've wound up pasted to his grill. I'm guessing getting Gio's woman killed would've made him a whole lot less cooperative – and, you know, I would've felt bad and stuff, too. So thank God for small favors.
Anyways, when our Sit'n Spin stopped going round, we found ourselves facing back the way we came. The chopper hovered wobbily above the offramp, its rotor damaged – more keeping watch than giving chase. That bought us some time till the cavalry arrived. Seconds, not minutes.
The Caddy was straddling a low hedge in front of a Staples and a Taco Bell, and tottering like a seesaw. Woozy and out of sorts as I was from the crash, all I could think was what kind of an idiot drops a Taco Bell smack in the middle of one of the largest Mexican populations in the country? I mean, I like Chalupa Supremes as much as the next guy – preferably with some of that caulk-gun guac they put on 'em if you ask – but seriously? Putting a Taco Bell here is like plopping a Red Lobster on the coast of Maine. The si
ght of it depressed me so, I half wondered if I should let Danny do his thing, and wait for the rising waters to wash the world clean.
But of course then I wouldn't be around to enjoy it. So to hell with it, I thought – let's go save the world.
Again.
Problem was, the Caddy wasn't moving. I must've thumbed the ignition a half a dozen times, but she just sat there, engine ticking, refusing to move.
Poor Bertha, I thought. She gave her all. Of course, every war's got its casualties – I hoped to God Bertha would be the only one tonight. I stole a glance at Gio and Theresa, and muttered a silent prayer to that effect. I'd lost enough friends in my life already.
Yeah, I called them friends. Shut up.
I glanced at the clock on the dash – an old, round analog dealie with light-up numbers at three, six, nine, and twelve. The second-hand was stopped dead, and the display read nine-thirty. Which meant I had no more than two hours and change before Charon plunged me into Nothingness. And that's assuming bug-monsters are on Pacific time.
"You two OK?"
"Yeah," said Gio, though he didn't sound it.
"Never better," said Theresa. "Did you really die back there?"
"This body did," I said. "But only for a sec."
"A sec. Right. 'Cause that's a lot less fucked up than dead for good."
"Not saying it's less fucked up. But from where I'm sitting, it's sure as hell preferable. Looks like we're on foot from here. You up for it?"
"You askin' 'cause I'm blind? That's discrimination, friend."
"Actually," I said, "I was asking Gio."
But Gio didn't hear me. He was just sitting there, one hand to his chest, his face pained and slick with sweat.
I put a hand on Gio's shoulder, tried to rouse him. "Gio?"
"I can feel it," he muttered, more to himself than to me.
Theresa leaned forward, put a hand to Gio's cheek. "Feel what, hon?"
"I can feel his hands around my soul! Clawing,
gouging, tearing it free of my flesh… Jesus, Sam, is this what it's like to be collected?"
"Afraid so. And when we take you, we feel everything you've ever felt – up to and including your collection. Which means that's what it feels like to collect as well."
"But why… why didn't I remember?"
"Shock," I said. "But that particular get-out-of-jailfree card only comes up once a deck – next time, you'll feel it, and you'll remember."
"If there is a next time," Theresa said.
"Right," I said. I didn't have the heart to tell her sooner or later, there was bound to be a next time. "But right now what matters is that feeling means Danny's close."
Theresa cocked her head and frowned. "Let's hope he's closer than those sirens," she said.
I listened for a moment. She was right. They were distant, but approaching fast. "We need to move."
We set out at a trot past the strip mall down a gently curving street that some overzealous city planner likely thought of as "organic." Arc-sodium orange from the streetlights lit our way past lowslung ranches on modest lots, and put me in mind of faded sepia photographs, pale golden-hued mementos of better times that never were. The night air was cool and crisp, low seventies at most, and was alive with mariachi music, spiced meats, and something more sinister – the faint ozone scent of magic. At first, we saw no signs of celebration save the makeshift altars set out on stoops and sidewalks: votive candles, marigolds, children's toys, and sugar skulls surrounding pictures of the departed both young and old – the flowers, sweets, and trinkets intended as ofrendas to the dead. But as we ran – me out front, the shotgun held tight to my chest so as to attract less attention, Gio and Theresa hand-in-hand behind me – we happened upon passersby bedecked in their Dia de los Muertos finery: their outfits a garish funhouse reflection of their Sunday best, their faces painted up as skulls, or hidden behind ornate calavera masks. As they made their way westward toward the festivities, they laughed and hooted and whooped, and shot off rapid-fire Spanish at one another. If they noticed us, they gave no sign. It was as if we were the spirits that walked invisible among them.
Invisible to them, perhaps, but not to all. For all around us – on every streetlight, every rooftop, every fence post and power line in sight – were the jagged silhouettes of thousands upon thousands of crows. Their heads turned as one as they tracked our progress, their ink-black eyes unblinking as they watched us pass.
We'd lost the chopper when we abandoned the commercial strip right off the freeway and disappeared into the relative darkness of the neighborhood beyond, but it hadn't given up on us. It hovered low over the rooftops, its searchlight tracing out a grid below. Searching. Probing. Advancing ever toward us. But the costume-clad around us paid it little mind. Even blocks away, the music from the festival was loud enough to drown out the thrumming of its rotor, and perhaps the sight of searching helicopters was all too common to the residents of LA.
"What exactly are we looking for?" asked Theresa. "Uh, metaphorically speaking, of course."
"I'm not sure," I admitted. "Gio, where are we going?"
He considered the question, his face sweat-slick and deathly pale. "That way," he said, indicating the direction most of the foot-traffic was headed – the direction of the festival.
Theresa frowned. "How do you know?"
"'Cause my gut is screaming bloody murder to run the other way."
"Yeah," Theresa said, flashing a wan smile, "you never were one to listen."
We pressed on. As we did, what had begun as the odd passerby coalesced into a crowd. Into a party. Into a sea of deathly faces staring back at us. The neighborhood to our right gave way to a city park, its rolling lawn flush with people dancing, its parking lot a makeshift marketplace where booths sold sugar skulls and loaves of pan de muerto, cheap sombreros and calaca figurines.
The rooftops of the booths and tents were alive with crows – silent, watching. Tree limbs sagged beneath their weight. Occasionally, some celebrant would snap a cell phone pic of them, the flash piercing the night and reflecting off the liquid black of their feathers – but still, they did not move. They remained as stock-still as the Yeomen Warders who stood guard before the Tower of London, Charon's own dark sentinels of the In-Between.
"Why come here?" Theresa said. "What attracted your Danny to this place?"
"Belief is a powerful thing," I said. "If everyone you see here tonight believes a little bit – even if it's only in that deep, primal place in their mind that still fears the dark and makes them cross themselves when lightning strikes – that this night provides a window between the land of the living and of the dead, their combined force of will is enough to nudge the universe such that it's closer to being so. Believe me when I tell you," I said, my thoughts turning to my encounter with Abyzou in the nightmare realm I'd traveled through to return from my unintended skim-trip, "you have no idea what might be pressing up against the glass right now and looking back at us. Or how easy it might be to crack that glass and unleash a cleansing fury on this world. And I hope to God you never find out."
"Dear Lord," she said, "I bet you're fun at parties."
Gio clutched his chest and took a knee. A woman in a tattered orange ball gown and a matching veil looked down at him as she pressed past us through the crowd, a churro in each hand. As she noted his obvious distress, her bone-white painted face creased with worry.
Her eyes met mine, her intent clear – does he need help? – but I shook my head and smiled what I hoped was a reassuring smile, the shotgun tucked behind my back out of her line of sight. She hovered for a moment until Theresa took Gio by the elbow and helped him to his feet, and then she disappeared into the teeming throng.
"You OK, hon?" Theresa, her voice tinged with worry.
"We're close," he said, sucking wind like he'd just run a marathon, his face gray and slick with sweat. "Too close, if you ask me."
I caught a glimpse of flashing red and blue two blocks to our east, and sho
ok my head. "Not close enough," I said.
"Could he be masked? Mixed in with the crowd?"
"I doubt it. The kind of ritual he'd be working would require space. Someplace where he wouldn't draw too much attention. Somewhere he wouldn't be disturbed."
"So… somewhere like that?"
My eyes tracked to where Gio was pointing. Diagonal across the park from us stood a construction site, three-odd floors of half-finished building – all concrete, steel girders, and plastic sheeting, which billowed like curtains in the breeze. It was surrounded by a high chain link fence topped with three lines of barbed wire, which slanted outward overhead. Floodlights shone at ground level to deter any would-be trespassers. I shouldered through the horde of celebrants to get a better look, drawing my share of half-hearted Spanish curses – and shouts of alarm from those few who noticed the shotgun in my hands. One passerby, who looked for all the world like an undead bullfighter, shouted "¡Escopeta!" and panic rippled through the crowd. As I've said, I don't know a lot of Spanish, but that's one word I understand. Means shotgun. Means our chances of staying hidden in the crowd just dropped to nil. So I said to hell with hiding, and took off full-bore toward the building – the crowd parting before me, Gio and Theresa following close behind.
The Wrong Goodbye Page 25