The Thin Black Line Between Infernal and Divine

by Andrew Seiple

  “Whoa.” Moynahan looked impressed. “I didn't know you could cut deals with angels. You always hear about deals with the devil, but never the other way around.”

  “Heh,” Kingsley smirked. “Without saying too much... if you ever get the chance to do something like that? Don't. Angels are mostly dicks. Trust me on that count.”

  Moynahan looked puzzled, but nodded. He waited for more explanation, but Kingsley kept her peace, driving a bit more reasonably now that they were in fast-moving traffic. After a minute he coughed, and glanced over to Coleman. “And you?”

  “I cut a deal with the other side.”

  “Other—” He shrunk back into the seat, as realization hit. Coleman turned and grinned at him, letting a little red light leak out from under his glasses.

  “For the record, don't go and do that, either,” he said. “I'm spending the rest of my life trying to make up for that particular bit of stupidity. In my defense I was a dumb kid at the time.”

  “They put both of you on the same team?” Moynahan looked puzzled.

  Kingsley slowed to a stop at a light, drummed her fingers on the wheel. “Yep. Smartest thing the Director ever did. See, our powers aren't exactly diametrically opposed, but they're equal enough. If one of us ever goes rogue, the other can maybe take them down, if the circumstances are right. And the close proximity lets us keep an eye on each other. We can't hide from each other's senses, not for long.”

  “Is-” Moynahan swallowed. “Do they think you're a significant risk?”

  “Ever hear of the Nephilim?” Kingsley asked. “There's a reason angels and humans were never intended to mix. And as far as demons and humans go... well, you've heard the stories. Probably seen the movies. They're not far off.”

  “They don't go far enough,” Coleman corrected. “When you get your clearance, I'll show you some of the casefiles. Check out the truth about Carthage, if you never want to sleep again. So yeah, it's part of our duty to keep an eye on each other. The MRB's supposed to be a general minder and watcher for the supernatural anyway. Part of that thin-black-line-business.”

  They rode in silence for a long few minutes, turning south on I-3. Moynahan finally stirred. “Are there many of you in the MRB? I mean, people with supernatural deals? The academy didn't say much about this. They told us that sometimes costumes ended up joining, but, ah, there's not much about supernatural agents out there in the handbooks.”

  “Eh. There's actually not that many of us,” Kingsley said. “The ex-costumes outnumber us, I find. The only other confirmed supernatural I know of who's local is Gudrun down in the morgue. She makes no secret of it.”

  “Kind of hard to conceal the whole grendelspawn thing,” Coleman said. “Sweet girl, though, just stuck with harsh dietary needs and nonstandard looks.”

  “But enough about us!” Kingsley said in a high-pitched voice, as she cut across three lanes of traffic, took out a strategically-placed orange barrel, scared the piss out of a pack of bikers, and made her exit while missing the concrete divider by an inch. “Tell us about yourself!”

  After a while, Moynahan stopped screaming. And by the time they stopped for coffee, he was feeling talkative again.

  They'd stopped at Coleman's favorite coffee shop in the upscale neighborhood called Muse Mews. It was known for an excess of college students who attended the universities of the area, and a number of bars, cafes, clubs, and other fun little establishments that were supported by them.

  Back in the eighties it had been a bad part of town, and the district was known as 'The Rows'. But with the nineties and an injection of investment into the area from the dot com boom, the low rent and prevalence of empty, cheap storefronts had led to an unexpected result: The artists of Icon City had found a new haven here, and galleries sprouted up like weeds. It fast got a reputation for being the most Bohemian part of the city. Though the dot com money was gone now after the horrific crash of Y2K, the artists were still around. And the storefronts, sidewalks, and loft apartments were still here and still decorated with the fruits of their work.

  That said, it was also one of the easiest places in the city to find drugs, and prostitution was a constant issue that never died out, no matter how many raids the overworked cops conducted. Sometimes they were stuck overlooking the least of the crimes, a situation that left no one happy save for the criminals that thrived here. On the upside, the local gangs tended to eschew violent crimes, in favor of more profitable and low-key business.

  And Kingsley was slightly disappointed to hear that Moynahan's background had been about what she expected. A young kid, fresh out of college, with a dual-degree in mythology and law enforcement. The usual year in Academy, and a lot of book-learning, but no real experience. Had probably never fired his gun outside of the range.

  Coleman leaned forward, resting his elbow on the small, rainbow-painted metal table under the spreading blue umbrella. “So why the MRB?” he asked. “Resume like that, you could have gone pretty much anywhere in the agencies.”

  Moynahan looked into his coffee cup for a minute, took a frothy sip before replying. “I guess I could say something about how Crusader saved me when I was a kid. But that wouldn't be right.” He put the cup down and shook his head. “No. I mean he did, he saved everyone when Ginormozilla rampaged through Decatur. And when I saw him, saw that golden streak up there in the sky, it changed my life. It did. But it's more than that, I guess...”

  He sighed. “I guess I wanted to know. I wanted to know the why of it. Why do superpowers even exist? Why did Tesla get them first? What causes kaiju, and other things? Where the hell were all the magical things before the Nazis started weaponizing them?” He smiled. “You must get a million guys like me. All wanting to see Tesla's secret grave, or hear the true secrets of the Atlanteans, or stuff like that.”

  Kingsley sipped her cocoa, considered him, then shook her head. “Nah. We don't get enough like you.”

  His cheeks flushed and he smiled, clearly flattered. She raised a hand. “Ah, now, don't let it go to your head, Moynahan. You still have to prove you've got what it takes, but it's nice to have someone around who's still got that wide-eyed sense of wonder.”

  “That said, I'm kinda hoping it survives the week,” Coleman grinned. “You kind of lose your awe for a hero when you have to take him in on a drunk and disorderly, or fate forbid, break up a super-powered domestic fight. But that's kind of what we do. The police aren't equipped to handle magic, or powers, or super-science. So when something like that comes up, we get the first call. Which is why we're out here today.”

  Moynahan looked around. “We're not on coffee break?”

  “That's a happy side benefit,” Kingsley said, before tipping her cup to her lips and killing the rest of her cocoa. “But no, we're here because this is one of the hotspots of Icon City. Especially for supernatural trouble, which we're uniquely equipped to handle.”

  “Angels and demons are kind of the big dogs of the local supernaturals,” Coleman explained. “Even though we're only equivalent to low-grade costumes at best, a lot of the monsters and haunts and worse things out there will hesitate before taking us on. And sometimes that's all you need to do to resolve a situation, is make the perp sit back and reconsider causing a fuss. Usually it's not worth pissing off heaven and hell at the same time. Not that they actually would, if they fought us, but most of them don't know that.”

  “Why's this place draw a lot of magical activity?” Moynahan asked, standing as they did, and following them back to the car.

  “It's the artists,” Kingsley explained. “A lot of the nonhuman things out there got shorted in the imagination department. They can admire art, but they can't make it themselves. Some don't care, but others? Artists make new things, things they've never seen before. And since a lot of supernaturals are really long-lived, they'll do quite a lot to stave off boredom and find new things to experience.”

  “All right,” Moynahan frowned. “But what—”

  Shrill no
ises erupted from the general vicinity of Kingsley and Coleman's pants. With a glance at each other, they pulled out their phones, checked the messages. “Case in point. C'mon, Moynahan, we're on.”

  “What? What's happening?”

  “Remember the procedures, kid,” Coleman rumbled. “We'll get details over the mil-grade vox in the car.”

  They found their places, taking their seats as Kingsley clicked on the white noise generator before speeding out into traffic. Coleman fiddled with the controls, until he got the Voxcaster over to the proper frequency. “Dispatch? This is Team Shoulders. Got the trainee in tow. Sitchrep?”

  “Acknowledged Team Shoulders. Respond to code nine-ten at Carver and Emberlane drive.”

  Kingsley and Coleman stiffened in their seats, looked at each other.

  “Now what are the odds?” Kingsley muttered.

  “In this town? Pretty damn high,” Coleman confirmed.

  “Huh?” Moynahan was lost. Kingsley chuckled, as she nearly ran over a fat man on a bike, and missed a school bus by inches.

  Coleman glanced back. “Sorry kid. It's classified. Besides, we don't even know if it's the same thing.”

  “It's totally the same thing,” Kingsley whispered.

  “Nine-ten's a possible undead manifestation,” Coleman confirmed. “And the most that I can tell you right now is that we just had one of those. Fortunately, if this one goes as well as last night's does, it'll be an easy case.”

  “Coleman...” Kingsley warned. But it was too late, he'd said it.

  And sure enough, ten minutes later, things had gone straight to hell.

  CHAPTER 3

  The gravestones spread out in even rows, interrupted by crypts that loomed out of the fog as the agents ran past. The Emberlane Cemetery was a sprawling, chaotic mess during the brightest of days. Under the choking cloud of damp mist, and this strange false light that was neither day nor night, it was worse.

  Matters weren't helped much by their silent pursuers, loping along at the edge of the fog, with tireless legs, emitting a continuous wheeze as useless lungs jerked and drew in air they didn't need. It was hard to tell with the fog, but it sounded like there were a lot of them.

  Moynahan was wheezing too, and Kingsley shot concerned glances at Coleman, until the latter finally grunted, matched speeds with the rookie, and scooped him into a fireman's carry.

  “Hey!”

  “Save your breath.” Coleman's eyes started to leak crimson light around his sunglasses. “Needs must as the devil drives...”

  There was that low growl in his throat, that he didn't even know was there. Kingsley hid a chuckle, even as her eyes scanned the horizon. With her angelsight up, the fog was only a distraction, for all she had to do was look for the break in the pattern. “There!” She pointed, and shifted to run in that direction, pausing to throat-punch a lunging corpse that leaped at her from the shadows of a crypt. Thrown to the ground, it snarled and tried to rise. Coleman's foot came down on its neck without breaking the agent's stride, and the crunch of a spine breaking echoed through the fog.

  “This don't make no sense,” Moynahan muttered.

  “Of course it doesn't, Moynahan.” Kingsley squinted, leaped a row of tombstones, and slowed a bit as the ground ahead of her sloped. They were heading up a hill. “And careful, your accent's showing.”

  “We were looking at the graveyard.” His voice got firmer, as he started sounding it out. “It looked empty. And then we walked around the crematorium, and the fog came out of nowhere. And when it let up, we were... here.”

  “Yep. Fog central. With zombies coming out of it.” said Coleman. “Not the fun kind, either. Fast zombies this time. Also, the details are more gruesome than last night, did you notice?”

  “Yeah. Definitely a dream, though. I haven't been able to read a single tombstone,” Kingsley confirmed.

  “Like last time. Only this one hit around ten in the morning. Odds that our kid from last night is asleep again?”

  “I doubt it. It's a school day,” Kingsley said. “We're almost there.” Rising to the summit of the hill, they found the fog peeling aside. The distant wheezing behind them had fallen quiet.

  Ahead of them an old, twisted tree pierced the mist. A tattered corpse hung under it, impaled by gnarled wooden branches.

  And then the corpse rolled its one non-impaled eye around, and considered them with an irritated look. “About time someone showed up.”

  “Hey Grim,” Kingsley said, pulling her Desert Eagle out. Behind them, Coleman eased the rookie onto the ground. Uncertain, he drew his own pistol, but Coleman waved his hand. The rookie hesitated, but returned it to his shoulder holster as the 'corpse' spoke.

  “Urg. Great... look, I haven't done anything. Lately. That you know about. Or can prove even if you did.”

  “Yeah. See, that's the thing, when I hear Emberlane Cemetary and possible zombie sighting, then I think huh, wonder how my old pals the Graveyard Gang are doing! Especially when they happen to have, oh, a corpse animator as one of their teammates!” Kingsley whipped the gun up and fired, and wooden branches blew to bits. The tree gave a shudder, and Grim jerked and fell a few feet, howling in pain.

  Moynahan watched, fascinated, as wooden thorny tendrils were jerked free of the corpse's body, and the wounds they left behind started to heal. But only to a point. Exposed bone was rapidly covered over by muscle, regrown tendon, and a few blobs of what could be subcutaneous fat... but then it stopped. The skin remained torn. Come to think of it, the entire 'corpse' didn't have much in the way of skin.

  “So you tell me, Grim.” Kingsley hopped up to sit on a nearby tombstone and drew her knees up to her chest, roosting like a black-suited bird. “Do you guys have anything to do with this? Because seriously, from the way you got Evil Dead-ed by that tree, I don't think it's working out too well for you.”

  “No!” Grim yelled, then coughed up a few twigs, along with a bright-red smear of blood. When he continued, his voice was less raspy. “Ah. Good, that's out of my lung then. Ah, look, we might have something to do with this, but it sure as shinola ain't deliberate.”

  “We're listening,” Coleman said.

  Meanwhile, Moynahan took the opportunity to sidle closer to Kingsley. “You know this guy? What's his deal?”

  “Grim. He's a supervillain, leader of a gruesome bunch called the Graveyard Gang. He's a regenerator, down to the molecular level. Thing is, it gets slower the more complete he is. So organs and bones regenerate fastest, tendons and muscles are slower, skin and other stuff is always last. Pretty sure he hasn't had a penis in months.”

  “Hey! That's just offensive. Look, do I speculate on what kind of glitter you bleed every month, angelcakes?”

  Without looking, Kingsley fired.

  “OW!”

  “You had it coming. Now spill.”

  “Christ. Fine. Get me down from here at least.”

  Three more shots into the branches, and he dropped to the ground with a wet thud.

  “Ah, guys?” Moynahan craned his neck, looked about. “I think they're coming for us again. Don't think they liked you letting him loose.”

  Grim stood to his full six feet of height. He was thin and gory, with two perfectly-formed bloodshot green eyes peering out from a face that had only bone and the occasional patch of wet membrane covering it. “So. Last night we're sitting around and drinking and shooting the shit, and right in the middle of it, Deadweight just goes quiet. Then he starts snoring. We don't think much of it at first, figure he'd just put away too many, so we make little beer-can pyramids on him and carry on with the card game.”

  Wheezing echoed from around the hill, and Coleman swept his gaze back and forth. A sea of rotting forms were stepping out of the fog. Slow this time, not fast, their pace unhurried. They knew there was no escape.

  Coleman frowned. “Wall of fire?”

  Kingsley considered, shook her head. “Nope. These are more realistic ones. Burn zombies and you get burning zombies. Keep
going, Grim.”

  The eyes slid wetly inside the skull, as Grim looked down the hill. “Huh. Well, anyway then the power goes out. Gravedigger goes out to turn it on, we hear a scream, and then a wave of these bozos roll in through the door. I grab my scythe and I'm cutting them the hell up, Epitaph is crushing skulls, but more come in for every one we kill. Finally we barricade them, and we discover that we can't wake Deadweight up. He's having one hell of a nightmare, but nothing we try gets him up. We realize he's causing it. And I don't wanna kill the guy, you know? Don't have enough friends to be doing that. Fortunately, Whippoorwill saves our asses. She starts singing her song, and sets it to 'calm'. Mellows us the fuck out, I tell you that. Also mellows him. And that's when the noises of the zeds ripping through our barricades stops. When we look, they're gone like they never were. We go outside looking for 'Digger, and thankfully he's okay too, just tombed himself down in the soil. Got away with only a few scratches.”

  “Guys?” Moynahan pointed. The zombies were halfway up the hill. “Um, do we have a plan?”

  “Yep,” said Coleman. “Keep going. You said this happened last night?”

  “Yeeeahhh...” Grim looked around, before continuing.

  “Whippoorwill kept him out for hours, singing. She had to take breaks, though. And he just wouldn't wake up. So Gravedigger and Epitaph went to see if they could scare up help. I stayed here to evac 'Will if things went to shit. But then during one break the fog rolled in out of nowhere, and I wound up hanging from the tree. Don't know where the others got to.”

  “Okay. Well, we can do this.” Kingsley nodded. “Grim, you're a flier, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Getting ready to do that, to be honest.”

  “Take Agent Moynahan here, and go wake up your friend.”

  “That's your plan?” Moynahan shouted. “That is a horrible plan!”

  “Your funeral Angelcakes,” Grim said, and stretched bony, red-tendoned arms out to the rookie.

  “It won't be. Coleman, toss me your gun?” He complied, and flexed his hands. A red glow started to appear around them.