The Getaway God

by Richard Kadrey

  “He’s got his own problems.”

  “Like me,” he says, waving around his crushed arm.

  “A little while ago, you told me I was the 8 Ball’s uncle. Is there some way we can use that?”

  He picks up the teacup and studies it.

  “You have something that the Angra need. And I don’t mean the Qomrama.”

  “I have a gun, a knife, and a video store. What the hell do they want with me?”

  He sips the tea.

  “Tell me about your old Hellion master, Azazel.”

  “He bought and paid for me when I was still in the arena. I still had to fight sometimes, but from then on I also had to play slave boy to one of the most powerful Hellions Downtown.”

  “You were his assassin.”

  “Yeah. Mainly other upper-­crust Hellions. Anyone with pull. Anyone who pissed him off or got in his way.”

  “His political enemies.”

  “Right.”

  “He told you this?”

  “No. But it was obvious. I was only killing off other generals and blue bloods. Hellions that had Lucifer’s ear. Hellions are like Sub Rosas. Heavy into social status. Azazel wanted to be number one. Right behind the boss himself.”

  “And all the years you were killing for him you had the key to the Room of Thirteen Doors inside you. You could have escaped Hell at any time.”

  “He told me that my old girlfriend Alice was safe as long as I stayed. Then she was dead and I knew he’d been lying. So I killed him, came home, and went after Mason. What’s this got to do with anything?”

  He tries to pick up the tea, but his hand is shaky. He bumps it and the cup lands on the floor.

  “Shit,” he says.

  “Don’t cling to things,” I say. “That’s Buddhism 101.”

  “Fuck you, fatty. Talk to me about clinging when the last of your tea is gone.”

  “Why do you care about Azazel?”

  “The universe is a very big place,” he says. “Even Gods need roads to cross it. Do you understand?”

  “What? The Angras need a good deal on a rental car? Let them join AAA.”

  The Shonin tries to pick up his broken teacup. I get it for him.

  He says, “Think about it. Thirteen Angra. Thirteen roads. Thirteen entrances and exits. Now does it make sense?”

  “The Room of Thirteen Doors? The Angra want it?”

  “The book implies that it was the Angra who built it. It’s their crossroads. They lost control of the key when God, your friend Muninn and his ilk, banished them. In the long aeons since, the key ended up in Hell.”

  “And then it ended up in me.”

  The Shonin wipes his cup on his torn robes.

  “I wonder if Azazel knew what the key really was.”

  Things are falling into place. My whole past.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Hell, he might have started the whole Angra cult in Hell. He put the key in me to keep it from his enemies. Used to me to kill off all the Hellions who fought him on his plan to commit mass suicide.”

  The Shonin looks at me with his big empty eye sockets.

  “He invented you. He invented Sandman Slim to destroy the universe.”

  I feel a little queasy inside, like when I was looking at Mason’s game board.

  “It would probably have worked if Mason hadn’t killed Alice.”

  “Now Mason has brought down the Angra to destroy us all. And he used you to do it. Quite a revenge.”

  “Mason was right all along. He was the better magician.”

  “That’s all you have to say, fatty? No bluster? Nothing clever?”

  “How do I stop it?”

  He sets the teacup on the desk. There’s a fine crack running from the lip to the base.

  “Lock yourself in the Room and blow your brains out so no one else can use it. You can’t stop the Angra from coming, but you can stop them from spreading across the universe.”

  “As long as I can burn all of creation with the Mithras, I’m not offing myself.”

  I look up at the rain coming down through the ceiling. The clouds open to reveal the stars beyond. The twinkly bastards look kind of ominous to me right now.

  “On the other hand, your stupid idea gives me a good one.”

  “Tell me,” says the Shonin.

  “Later. If you eat all your vegetables. Right now I need all the protective wards and sealing charms you have.”

  The Shonin waves a bony hand at me.

  “Idiot. You can’t seal the Room. You need it to fight the Angra. Or are you going to barricade yourself in and let the rest of us die?”

  “Crawl back in your tomb, Imhotep. As long as Candy is alive, you assholes get to live. But I need something else now that Mason is dead.”

  “What?”

  “I stopped the 8 Ball from letting all the Angra in. That was a mistake. The only way to beat them is to get them here. How do I do it?”

  “I won’t help you do something that insane.”

  I reach across him to the vials sitting on his desk.

  “Fine. I’ll drink the rest of your damned book. I hope it doesn’t kill me before I find what I need.”

  The Shonin reaches for the potions.

  “Tell me your plan and maybe I’ll help.”

  I hold the bottles out of his reach.

  “First you tell me: Who are you working for? The Vigil or the world?”

  He looks at me.

  “I didn’t sit in a tomb for four hundred years to be a dog for bureaucrats. I work for the world.”

  I give him back the vials and tell him my idea. He isn’t happy, but he doesn’t say no.

  Another tremor shakes the building. ­People scream. Rubble shifts. I have to grab the Shonin and the book to keep them from falling on the floor. The lights go out.

  I look up at the cracked ceiling. Lightning rips across the dark and something huge tears the sky open. Stars flutter and wink out. The sky around the rip is pitch black. It doesn’t last long, but something like smoke and bones slips out of the breach before it reseals itself.

  The lights come back on.

  “You’re with me on this?”

  “Go. Do what you need to do,” says the Shonin.

  With all the rubble around, there are plenty of nice shadows. I step through one and head Downtown.

  I COME OUT by the elevators in Mr. Muninn’s penthouse. Lucifer’s penthouse. I’ll always have a hard time thinking of him as the Devil. I should never have guilted him into taking the job. He’s not cut out for it and now I might have to ask him to do something worse.

  Chaya is by the big picture window watching the red rain fall. I clear my throat and he turns my way.

  “How dare you break in here?”

  “I didn’t break in. Mr. Muninn said I could come in whenever I wanted.”

  “Muninn. You don’t even know his real name.”

  “He goes by Muninn and that’s good enough for me.”

  “Not for me.”

  Chaya sweeps his hand across the room and I’m Peter Pan doing a clumsy air pirouette, before slamming into the far wall and hanging there like a mounted moose head.

  “I’d say this is what all you ungrateful mortals deserve, but you’re not a mortal, are you? Still, you’re good practice.”

  My throat closes up. I try to get some air. Can’t. The world shrinks to a very small dot and I can’t believe that after all I’ve been through I’m going to die because some metaphysical buzzkill is having a tantrum.

  I hear Muninn’s voice.

  “What’s all the commotion?” Then, “Chaya. Put him down now.”

  “I’ve had it with this one. Don’t you see? Sooner or later he’ll turn the Godeater on us.”

  “Let him go.�
�

  I know what’s going on. I’m right on the edge of fainting, but Chaya wants me to enjoy every minute of this game, so he won’t let me. Even when he crushes my windpipe and all the air goes, I’m still awake and pinned to the wall like a greasy garage pinup.

  Muninn steps in front of his brother and slaps him. Chaya is surprised enough to drop my sorry bones on the carpet. Muninn makes a small gesture at me and air floods into my lungs. I take a long, cool breath of it. Even stinking Hellion air tastes good right now.

  Chaya rubs his cheek, glaring at Muninn. If looks could kill, the Angra would have once less piece of God to deal with.

  Muninn says, “Stark has had more than ample opportunity to turn on us and he hasn’t done so.”

  “He’s a killer.”

  “He’s my friend.”

  “Don’t talk like that. It’s disgusting and demeans us all.”

  Muninn comes over and helps me get on my feet.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I could use a drink.”

  Muninn pours me something from a decanter on the coffee table. I sniff the stuff. It smells good. Muninn must have snuck back to Earth and raided the cavern with all his hidden treasures. I can’t blame him for being homesick. That’s Hell all over. I swallow the drink. It tastes like good whiskey and honey and burns like an August wildfire all the way down my mangled throat.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Samael comes in wearing a silk bathrobe, like Cary Grant looking for Katharine Hepburn.

  “I heard noise. Did I miss anything fun?”

  I give him the finger. He looks at me slumped on the couch and Chaya’s red face.

  “I did. Damn.”

  “Shut your mouth, child,” says Chaya to Samael. “You never did know your place.”

  “My place? I’m quite comfortable in Hell, Father. You’re the one who looks like a peacock in the Sahara.”

  “Enough, you two,” says Muninn.

  He takes the empty glass from my hand and sits down across from me.

  “Why are you here, James?”

  I cough a ­couple of times, trying to get my voice back.

  “The Angra are on their way. Mason did the summoning ritual. I stopped it before he was done, but something still got through.”

  Muninn turns and looks out the window.

  “It had to happen. It was just a matter of time. Still, if we had a little longer maybe there’s something else . . . I don’t know. We’d be so much stronger if we could reunite with Ruach.”

  “He’d rather die and see us dead first,” says Chaya.

  I set down my glass.

  “I might have a way to beat them, but it’s going to cost someone big.”

  “What’s your idea?” Muninn says.

  “The Angra want you dead and they want the Room. I can give them the second thing. Herd them in and seal it forever. The trick is getting them inside.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “Not me. One of you two. The Angra hate you. They’ll follow you anywhere. One of you leads them into the Room and I seal it so no one gets out.”

  That quiets everybody down. Samael looks at me. He isn’t happy. I just told him that one of his dads has to die and he knows I’m right. I think the only other time I shut him up was that time I stabbed him. That was fun.

  “You’re asking us to commit suicide,” says Muninn.

  “Technically, just one of you.”

  “See?” Chaya says. “It’s exactly what I told you. He wants us dead.”

  “It’s not what I want. If one of you big brains can figure out a better way to guarantee the Angra get in the Room, please tell me.”

  “There might be an alternative,” says Samael.

  “What’s that?” says Muninn.

  “Reunite. You fell apart because you couldn’t bear the weight of all creation. Reunite now to save it.”

  Muninn looks at Chaya and Chaya looks at Muninn. They can’t stand each other.

  “We would be stronger reunited, Chaya,” Muninn says. “Perhaps strong enough to convince Ruach to join us. Even force him if we have to.”

  “We’ll still be incomplete. Nefesh and Neshamah are dead.”

  “The alternative is for one of us to die and we’d be weaker still.”

  “I don’t trust the Abomination. He is made of lies.”

  “We should try.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “Yes. You will.”

  Muninn lunges at his brother. Grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him into the wall hard enough that they leave a dent. Chaya grabs Muninn’s arms and spins him around. Now he’s against the wall and Chaya tries to push him away, but only succeeds in driving him farther into the drywall. Muninn hugs his brother, pulling Chaya’s body onto his. Their bodies blur, like a camera going out of focus, then sharpening again. They’re drained of color. Just a ­couple of round gray men settling a family squabble that’s been festering for aeons. Muninn lays his hands on Chaya’s face, and when he pulls them back, Chaya’s skin comes with him, stretching like warm taffy. Chaya pushes away, but Muninn leans in like he wants to head-­butt his brother. Everywhere Muninn touches Chaya, they sink into each other. Chaya fights back, pulling away from Muninn so their half-­melted flesh rips and snaps. But each time he does, Muninn moves in again, and they sink into each other. They fall on the floor, a writhing gray mass of furious protoplasm.

  Then it stops. The mass breaks apart. The two brothers lie sprawled on the carpet, each regaining his color. Muninn sits up first. He tries to talk, but he’s out of breath.

  “It won’t work. Chaya is too resistant and I’m too weak.”

  Samael says, “Forget Stark’s idea. There has to be a better way.”

  Muninn shakes his head.

  “No. We tried it your way and it didn’t work. And Chaya is right. Even if we two came together, we wouldn’t have the strength to hold off the Angra for long. They would destroy Heaven, Hell, and Earth. And who knows how much of the rest of the universe?”

  Chaya stands up and goes across the room, trying to put some distance between himself and his brother.

  “You’re a fool to volunteer.”

  He looks at Samael.

  “And you’re a fool to let him.”

  He looks at me.

  “You. Get out. Now.”

  Samael helps Muninn up off the floor.

  He says, “Chaya is right. There are things we have to take care of. When do you think you’ll want to do this?”

  “Soon. Tonight.”

  Muninn looks at the bottle on the table. He goes over and pours himself a stiff one.

  “All right. I’ll be ready.”

  I get up and go over to Samael.

  “Take a walk with me?”

  “Of course.”

  He turns to his fathers and for a second I see how strange this whole thing must be for him. The only father I knew was a bastard who tried to shoot me. Samael has to balance two versions of the same father simultaneously. Muninn, all compassion, but who’s spent most of his existence pretending not to be a deity. And Chaya, dog shit in a tight suit, but one who’ll never give up. He’ll fight forever to stay alive.

  Samael and I get in the elevator and go down to the basement and the kennels.

  “Do me a favor and make sure the hounds are hungry and ready to go. I have a feeling we’ll need them before the night is over.”

  He looks around at the beasts pawing at their cages.

  “I’ll make sure. And I’ll join you in Los Angeles when Father settles on how he wants to handle things.”

  “We should talk about that.”

  “How so?”

  “Later. When you come to town. For now work on the dog
s. I need to make a stop before going home.”

  “I’d give you one of the cars, but you don’t want to be seen in the streets. Neither do I. Not after what we did to Merihim.”

  “You sorry about that?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Good. See you Uptown.”

  “Don’t destroy the world without me.”

  I step into a shadow and come out by the deserted market across from Wild Bill’s bar.

  PANDEMONIUM IS AS waterlogged as L.A. and just as deserted. Are all the little Hellions huddled in their grimy Hobbit holes or, like L.A.’s scaredy cats, on the run, hoping to find a haven less obviously doomed?

  I walk through the bloody downpour and push open the door to the bar.

  In all the time I’ve been coming here I remember very few moments without noise from the jukebox, from arguments, from laughter, and from deals and schemes being hatched. But tonight it’s quieter than a Texas graveyard on Super Bowl Sunday. Bill and Cindil are seated at a table on the far side of the room. Each has a glass in front of them, but neither is drinking.

  “Is business so grim you don’t even go behind the bar anymore?”

  Bill’s eyes flicker to something over my shoulder. I reach for the Colt but get a whiff of the room and listen for the scraping of boots. I don’t bother with the gun then because I know I’m surrounded. One of them moves around in front of me. I look left and right. Four more Hellion legionnaires. Lucky me. It’s not a whole platoon, just some hotshots looking for a bounty. I put my hands up.

  The solder in front of me gets his Glock right up in my face and reaches under my coat, feeling around for my gun. When he locates something solid, the idiot tries to snatch it, but ends up screaming. What he got hold of was my knife and now his fingers are bloody bratwurst cut down to the bone. I punch him in the throat and, while he’s gagging, pull the Colt, shoving the pistol under his chin.

  Unfortunately, I miscounted the number of creeps in the room. One must have been crouched nearby under the tables. Before I can turn, he coldcocks me. I stumble, trip over a chair, and land on a table still holding on to Mr. Sausage Fingers. The clumsy landing knocks the Colt out of my hand and it slides across the room, too far for me to dive for.

  I shove the maimed Hellion away and slump over a chair, looking a lot more hurt than I really am. I wish I could reach my gun, but I can’t, so I pull the na’at. I feign a fall, and as the coldcocker moves in to hit me again, I swing the na’at, extending it into a barbed spear. It goes deep into the soldier’s gut, and when I pull it back, a fair amount of insides comes with it. The sight freezes his buddies long enough for me to get out the black blade and toss it through the eye of a soldier by the jukebox.