The Getaway God

by Richard Kadrey

  Head games within head games.

  Mason makes the first move. He closes his eyes and picks up a few Go stones.

  Three black and two white.

  “Three times two,” he says. “I move six.”

  There’s a three-­inch-­tall metal Empire State Building with the game pieces. He moves it six spaces along a piece of a Candy Land board. Then he growls, “Power to you.”

  It’s my turn. I reach for the Go stones. He shakes his head.

  “The rules change, remember? Try spinning the wheel.”

  I spin a flat plastic wheel from another game. It’s numbered one to twelve. I get a seven.

  Mason says, “Good. The number of your players and it’s a prime. Move two of your pieces, splitting the seven. Four and three. Five and two. Six and one. You get the idea.”

  I move two pieces.

  “What’s the magic word?” he says.

  I stare at him for a minute. Then remember. I bark a Hellion “power to you.” He grins and throws a set of poker dice. He gets a full house and moves the Scottie dog from a Monopoly set in the opposite direction of the Empire State.

  How do I describe the next few hours? It’s not a game. It’s some kind of stoner Dadaist performance art. The rules shift and turn back on themselves, sometimes in the middle of a move. Mason spins a dreidel. Rolls one of the dice. Or two. Or all of them at once. He moves three of his pieces, all in different directions across the board, always careful to follow the move with “power to you” because sometimes if you forget, you have to start over and I might blow my brains out if this goes on much longer.

  I make the same moves as Mason, or as close I can imitate him. I pick cards. I toss stones and dice. I move my pieces forward, or backward when Mason says I lost a round. After an hour I get bored and knock one of his pieces off the board like we’re playing marbles.

  He applauds.

  “Bravo! That’s the first original thing you’ve done since we started. It’s good to see you getting into the spirit of the game. I was getting worried.”

  We play a ­couple of more rounds. Dice. Stones. Sometimes rock-­paper-­scissors.

  The game goes on for another two hours. I know that somewhere Wells and the Shonin are watching us. I’d love to know what they’re thinking right now. Especially the Shonin. Does he have any more of a clue about the game than I do?

  Mason says, “Feel free to keep imitating my moves if it makes you feel better. With the rules changing, the move that hurts me might bring you luck.”

  He deserves a “fuck you,” but I give him a “power to you” instead and he gives it right back to me.

  The things we do to stay alive for another year. Another day. Another hour. The deals we make with the universe and ourselves. You start to feel dirty. I made plenty of deals Downtown. Found tricks to kill my way out of most of them. Why not? What’s a deal with a Hellion worth? It’s like a joke the Irish used to tell.

  “What do you call a dead Englishman?”

  “What?”

  “A good start.”

  Where has all the killing and all the deals left me? Worse off than ever. I stopped Mason’s Hellion war with Heaven, but looking back, maybe I should have let them go ahead with their attack. Let Ruach and his angels slaughter the legions from their golden fortress. The Hellions would have satisfied their suicide fetish and maybe that would have been enough to stop this apocalyptic freak show before it got rolling.

  But I also stopped the war for my own selfish reasons. I wanted to get hold of Mason and kill him myself. Then I abandoned Hell to come home when I could have stayed and maybe stopped Merihim and Deumos and their Angra games before they came to Earth. When I left, I made a deal with myself. I didn’t want to die Downtown. I’d go to Earth and see Candy. Restart my life, then go back to rescue all the lost souls from the big bad Angra cult. Only I never did it. The moment I set foot in L.A. I knew I’d never go back. And it gave Merihim and Deumos all the time they needed to invent Saint Nick and bring dead-­as-­a-­doornail Mason back to life. That means I’m the one responsible for Mason coming home so he could goad me into replaying our Russian roulette game by his rules.

  It would make me laugh if it wasn’t all so pathetic. I’ve wasted this whole year. I even started thinking I was some kind of good guy. A one-­man Seven Samurai out to save the innocent rice farmers from the marauding bandits. I should have stayed in Hell and done my job. My father, Doc Kinski, laid it out for me one night, simple and clear. I’m a natural-­born killer and nothing more. If I’d have killed everyone in Hell that needed killing, this Angra horror show wouldn’t be happening. I won’t make that mistake again. Mason coughs up the information we need or he dies and I follow him Downtown. Babysit him at the entrance to Tartarus and personally make sure he never gets out until the end of time. Maybe I’ll see if Candy wants a summer home on the River Styx. The weather isn’t any worse than L.A. these days. Maybe she and Cindil can work at Wild Bill’s bar. I’ve heard worse retirement plans.

  But first there’s the game. I walked away from Mason before, but not again.

  “Earth to Jimbo. You in there somewhere?” says Mason.

  Beautiful. I got lost in my head and he saw. Not a good start to my dramatic comeback.

  “Is it my turn?”

  “There’s just the two of us.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “It’s an easy round. Draw a card. Move that many spaces. Eleven for a face card. Twelve for an ace.”

  I draw a five. I move a white checker across five countries on a Risk board. I don’t know if the move is legit, but Mason doesn’t say anything.

  “Don’t forget,” he says.

  I growl, “Power to you.”

  “Good boy,” he says, eyeing his next move.

  He spins the number wheel and moves a Go stone.

  “Now that we’ve been playing for a while, are you figuring out the game?”

  “I’ve got it down. I’m going to write a goddamn book about it.”

  “I’m not sure I entirely believe you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I just won.”

  I look over the board. He’s moved each of his six pieces into one of the six circles on the tips of the star.

  “But you didn’t touch all the spaces on the board.”

  He gives an exaggerated sigh.

  “You didn’t really think I’d play something that tedious, did you? I told you I might lie as part of the game. I’m just sad you weren’t paying more attention.”

  “I’ll fucking kill you.”

  “Too late, Sandman Slim.”

  He slams his right hand down on the metal Empire State Building. It goes all the way through. Blood splatters the board, pooling under his palm.

  He shouts, “Power to you!”

  The building jolts in one direction and back the other way, like the aftershock following a big quake. I hear shouts from outside. Something massive scrapes and crashes with a twisting metallic sound.

  I look at Mason.

  “What have you done?”

  He drags his hand off the Empire State. Bone and torn muscle peek out of the hole between his knuckles.

  “You locked me away in the Abyss and took away everything I ever had or ever wanted. I’m just returning the favor.”

  Please no. Tell me I’m not that stupid. I wait for what I’m afraid is coming next.

  There’s an explosion at the far end of the cell. Steel shards and concrete from the wall pepper the room and my arms as I cover my face. I look and the Qomrama Om Ya is hanging over the table. It spins, glowing like a ruby with a black sun captured inside. The black nonlight shoots out of the faceted sides in sharp rays, like the spokes of a wheel. I get up and move away from the table.

  “What’s happening?”<
br />
  “The ritual is almost complete. I told you the Qomrama isn’t that complicated to use. Break down the process into parts. You catching me and bringing me to it was one part. The game was the other. There’s only one part left.”

  He said it right to my face. The 8 Ball is transdimensional. Your desires for it must also be transdimensional. These nonsense games were what a transdimensional summoning ritual looks like to three-­dimensional assholes. “Power to you.” That wasn’t a dig at me. We were mainlining speed into the Angra for the whole game. Mason needed me because I control the Qomrama. He used me because I’m an idiot.

  I shout, “Stop it. Or I’ll make you stop.”

  “I told you I’d rather die than go back to Tartarus. You let these ­people and their rules muddle your head. You could have killed me when you found me, but you didn’t. More fool you.”

  Gunshots crack against the cell door. More shots as the guards return fire. Then it stops. The door opens. Wells comes in.

  “Wells. He started the ritual. We have to stop it.”

  “You can’t stop it,” says Mason. “I’m the only one who knows how. That’s why I’m the end of the ritual.”

  Mason closes his eyes.

  Wells brings up his Glock and empties the clip into Mason’s head. Keeps pulling the trigger even after the last bullet is gone.

  I knock the gun out of his hand and shoulder-­butt him. He hits the steel wall, but he doesn’t go down.

  This isn’t over. I still have time to use the Metatron’s Cube ritual to find Mason before he goes to Hell. I’ll crack his arms and legs until he tells me how to stop the summoning.

  Like everything else today, that plan doesn’t work out so well.

  I grab the 8 Ball, hoping that will slow down the summoning. It responds like it did when the Shonin and I used it on the chop-­shop body. First, it wraps itself lovingly around my Kissi hand. Then it draws Mason’s soul out of his goddamn corpse. I swear the fucker is smiling as it happens. And just like it did with the Qliphoth, it eats Mason’s soul.

  The last of the ritual. The Angra’s stooge sets off the summoning, then sacrifices himself so that no one can stop it. A hell of a fail-­safe. And Mason’s last laugh at me.

  The building lurches again, harder this time. A steady rumble builds under us. The walls shake and buckle. A hairline fracture rips across the ceiling and rain pours in.

  Wells is still standing against the wall where I tossed him. I get a good look at his eyes. He’s possessed. Someone is having a grand old time playing with the Vigil tonight.

  “Enjoy what’s coming,” said Deumos. I’m not enjoying it one tiny bit.

  Now that it’s eaten Mason’s soul, the 8 Ball isn’t putting out the black light anymore. I sprint back to the Shonin’s lab.

  A good part of the ceiling is down. I crawl over beams and broken furniture to the magnetic chamber. The door is blown open, but it looks like it’s basically intact.

  I run through the calming breath rituals I used before a fight in the arena, trying to relax my mind. Gradually, the 8 Ball slips off my hand. I close the chamber and lock it.

  I need to get to Candy. I start out of the lab when a hand closes on my ankle. It’s the Shonin. He’s trapped under a wooden beam. I crouch and slide it off of him. His chest has caved in and one of his arms has snapped in half and dangles by some dry cartilage. I pull him upright and lean him against the wall.

  “You calmed the Qomrama. How?”

  “I’m not sure. I did the only thing I could think of.”

  He grabs my shoulder with his good hand.

  “I know why it likes you. The book told me. You’re not human and you’re not angel. To it you’re the closet thing alive to an Angra.”

  “It thinks I’m its mother?”

  “Maybe an uncle, which will have to be enough to control it.”

  Wells come into the lab. His eyes are clear. He’s back to himself again. I don’t think he’s noticed the blood on his nice suit where he shot the Vigil agents as he broke into Mason’s cell.

  “Stark,” he says. “What happened to the Shonin? Did you move the Qomrama? Why?”

  “I was trying to save the world again. More than you’ve been doing.”

  “Mason is dead in there. Did you kill him?”

  “Guess again. You did it.”

  Wells loses his balance on the wreckage. Takes a ­couple of steps back.

  “That’s ridiculous. You smuggled in a gun.”

  He turns to the door.

  “Guards. Get in here. Arrest this man.”

  “They have you on surveillance putting a bullet into Mason’s skull. You’re fucked. Welcome to my world.”

  “Quiet,” he says. “You’re unstable. It was a mistake to ever try to work with you.”

  “You might want to start running, Richard Kimble.”

  A group of agents comes in, led by Julie Sola.

  “Marshal Sola, arrest this man for the murder of Mason Faim.”

  “I can’t do that, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  She takes out her handcuffs.

  “Because you shot him. Along with four other agents standing guard. Chief Deputy Marshal Larson Wells, I’m placing you under arrest for murder.”

  He looks at them, then at me.

  “It’s true, Wells. But it wasn’t your fault.”

  I turn to Julie.

  “He was possessed at the time. I’ll testify to it.”

  Wells gets up. Tries to look commanding. Dignity is all he has left right now. I’ll tell everyone that it wasn’t his fault, but I doubt that’s going to carry much weight with a bunch of Washington suits who think magic is Grandpa telling them to pull his finger.

  “What happened in there, Stark?” he says.

  “Mason started the summoning ritual, but I got the 8 Ball, so I think I stopped it before it finished. But the gate was open for a few seconds.”

  The agents lead Wells away.

  “Do something,” he shouts. “Fix this. Mason was your job, so it’s your responsibility.”

  I hear it, but I don’t care. I’m already running to another part of the compound.

  The door to Candy’s cellblock is jammed. I have to kick three, four times before the lock breaks.

  She’s pressed against the bars trying to see who’s huffed and puffed and blown her door down.

  “Stark?”

  “It’s me,” I say, and go to her cell.

  She grabs me when I get there and kisses me through the netting.

  “What going on out there?”

  “Just a party. These button-­down types get wild at Christmas.”

  She wraps her fingers around mine.

  “They’re putting something in my Jade potion. Doping me. I can’t think. I can barely stay awake. Take me out of here, please?”

  “There’s no going back if I do this.”

  “The world is ending. Who’s going to come after us?”

  “The Vigil will. And it won’t be an arrest. They’ll shoot you like Old Yeller.”

  “I don’t care.”

  I slip into her cell through a shadow and she throws her arms around me. Not like it’s great to see me. More like she wants to make sure I’m not a drug illusion. She feels weak and drunk in my arms. She is definitely on something. I bring her to a shadow.

  “Last chance to not be a fugitive forever.”

  “Take me home.”

  “I have to come back and talk to the Shonin.”

  “I’ll bake an apple pie to pass the time.”

  I kiss her and we step through the Room and out again into Max Overdrive.

  Kasabian is eating microwave chow mein when he sees us. He blinks at Candy.

  “I thought you were under arrest.”


  “It wasn’t any fun. And I missed you,” she says.

  I have to hold up her upright.

  “Get over here,” I say.

  “Is she safe?” he says.

  “She’s fine. Don’t be such a jellyfish and get over here.”

  He puts down the chow mein and comes over. I put her arm around his shoulders. Candy smiles at us.

  “Do-­si-­do, boys.”

  I aim them at the stairs.

  “Take her to our room. She’ll show you where my guns are. If anyone but me tries to get in, shoot them.”

  Kasabian says, “I don’t know anything about guns.”

  “You point the hole at the bad guys,” says Candy.

  “Just take her upstairs and stay with her.”

  Candy blows me a kiss as I head out.

  “Bring me some ice cream when you come back.”

  “L.A. is closed, dear. There isn’t any ice cream.”

  “Then bring me a kitten.”

  “Kittens aren’t ice cream.”

  “Oh. Then bring me some ice cream.”

  “You got it.”

  Kasabian steers her up the stairs.

  BACK AT VIGIL headquarters things are settling down. Agents are cleaning up the wreckage from the earthquake. Rain still pours through the hole in the roof. It’s gotten worse since I was gone.

  I head for the Shonin’s lab.

  The door is off the hinges and a ­couple of agents stand guard. They stop me when I try to go in.

  “Shonin. It’s Stark.”

  “Is your belly too big to fit through the door, tubby? Come in here.”

  The agents give me a look that tells me I won’t get on the group insurance plan anytime soon. I go into the lab.

  The Shonin is looking a little better than when I first found him. He’s sitting upright in a desk chair holding a cup of tea. He sets it down when he sees me.

  “Your friend. The young Jade. She’s gone, isn’t she?”

  “Must have escaped in all the excitement.”

  “Marshal Wells won’t be pleased.”