The Devil Will Come

by Justin Gustainis

  And there was the time I heard Phil Tompkins, the office manager, ask her if she could work later on Monday nights, to help handle the backlog of claims that always came in after the weekend. I was close enough to hear Suzanne, with that same wicked lilt in her voice, say to him, “I’ll be happy to— and it will only cost you a little piece of your soul.” They’d both laughed at that, but I’d thought that Phil’s contribution to the merriment had sounded kind of forced.

  I did some thinking over the next couple of days. Then, when Phil announced that he was looking for another adjustor to work late on Mondays, I went to see him and volunteered.

  Next Monday evening around 6:30, Suzanne and I were the only people in the office, and I decided to make my move. I walked over to her desk and plopped down in the visitor’s chair.

  Suzanne looked up from her computer, said “Hi” with a low-wattage smile, and went back to work. She wasn’t going to make this easy.

  I cleared my throat. “Uh, Suzanne, what you were saying the other day about wanting me to sell my soul— were you, uh….” I let my voice trail off.

  She regarded me for a few moments before clicking the mouse, to save what she’d been working on. She slowly swiveled her chair to face me.

  “Was I what, Marty— serious?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess.”

  The smile she gave me wasn’t her usual wicked grin. It was something almost gentle. “Is your soul on the market now, Marty? Is there something you want, you need so badly, that you’re willing to trade that insignificant bit of ectoplasm for it?”

  “I guess, maybe.” I swallowed. “Yeah, there is.”

  She nodded sympathetically. I bet a $500-an-hour shrink would have given a lot to be able to produce that nod just the way she did. “What do you have in mind? Just generally— we can talk about the specifics later.”

  “Well, see, it’s my Mom. She got… pancreatic cancer. The docs think maybe they can save her, but she’s gonna need at least three operations, and I don’t know how much hospital time in between. A lot. My health insurance doesn’t cover her, and as for Medicare….” I made a disgusted wave of my hand.

  “So you need a lot of money, and pretty fast, I’m guessing— to save your Mom’s life. How much? Give me a ballpark figure.”

  “The lady at the hospital business office said 200 K, maybe more.” I covered my face with one hand, but I did not cry. I’d left tears behind a long time ago.

  “Well,” Suzanne said pensively, “why not cut out the middleman and just get your Mom cured?”

  I looked up and stared at her. “You can do that?”

  This time the smile contained a small measure of pity, a quality I never thought I’d see on that beautiful, cold face. “Marty, you’re willing to accept, for the sale of argument, that I can get you two hundred thousand dollars, just like that” — she snapped her fingers imperiously — “but you have trouble believing that I can arrange to have your mother cured of cancer?”

  “Yeah, well, when you put it like that….” I sat up straighter. “So, you’re saying you can do it?”

  “Oh, yes. Most definitely. And if for some reason we didn’t come through, any contract you sign with us would, of course, be null and void.”

  “We?” I said. “Us?”

  “The parties I represent.”

  “Who is that, exactly?”

  “Oh, come on, Marty. Who do you think would be interested in acquiring your soul? The Boy Scouts? The SPCA, maybe?”

  “So, you mean….” Eyebrows raised, I jabbed my forefinger toward the floor a couple of times.

  All I got in response was the evil smile, and a shrug.

  “Okay then, that’s all I need to know.” I gathered my strength and threw a blast of power at Suzanne that knocked her out of her chair. It sent her tumbling, beautiful ass over teakettle, to end up on the floor, her back against the wall behind her.

  I stood up then, and quickly assumed my natural form. I grew to twice my human size, the scales quickly covered my skin, black wings grew from my back and spread wide, and I could feel the horns sprout from my forehead and grow to their proper length of nine inches.

  Suzanne was gaping at me. Her stupefied look may have been due to the impact of her head against the wall, or to seeing my true nature— or more likely, both.

  “Transform!” I growled, my voice sounding nothing like Marty, my human facade.

  When Suzanne continued to sit sprawled there, staring, I said, in a voice that rattled the windows, “Transform yourself, fledgling! Let me see your true nature!”

  Suzanne scrambled to her feet and quickly abandoned her human guise. Within seconds, I saw her as she had been before being sent forth from the bowels of Hell. I thought she was sexist demon I had ever encountered in my long existence, but I kept that opinion to myself.

  “Who sent you to poach on my territory, wretch?” I thundered. “Who is your Liege Lord?”

  Eyes downcast, she said, “I serve my Lord Baal, sir.”

  Baal. I should have known. That ambitious schemer was no respecter of territories, and no ally of my own Master.

  “Know you, then, that I am in the service of the great Lucifuge Rofocale, you miserable creature. By what right do you hunt in this territory, which has been mine for decades, as humans reckon time?”

  “My Lord Baal sent me to this place, sir. He did not say that another, greater, demon already sought souls in this city.”

  No, of course not. He wouldn’t— the impudent prick.

  “Well you understand now, interloper. There will be consequences in Hell for this, once my Lord Lucifuge Rofacale is informed. But as for you, you will cease to hunt in this territory forthwith. Your Lord Baal’s successor will assign you a new area, in time. But unless your pathetic, technique, which is about as subtle as a pitchfork in the eye, is improved, you will bring very few souls to your new Master, and will suffer accordingly. Do you understand me?”

  She kept her eyes downcast. “Yes, sir, I do sir.”

  “Return now to human form, as shall I, lest some janitor come in here and die of heart failure. I do not wish the inconvenience of disposing of a body tonight.”

  Soon, we were, to all appearances, Suzanne and Marty again. I looked at her for a long moment, then said, “Now, there is one more thing I wish to know.”

  “Y-yes, sir?”

  I took in a breath I didn’t really need, and let it out. “‘Black Sabbath’ is playing a reunion concert at the Coliseum this Saturday night. They’re part of a triple-bill with ‘Judas Priest’ and ‘Iron Maiden’. A minor imp got me tickets for a couple of great seats. Would you like to go?”

  * * * * *

  Janus

  “You guys don’t wanna to go in there,” the junkie said. “Take my word for it.”

  There were three of them, all young, tough-looking and white — although, in that neighborhood, they could just as easily have been black or Latino. The local predator population was nothing if not diverse.

  The young men strutted over to where the junkie was sitting, his back resting against the rear wall of the burned-out building that might have been a drugstore once.

  The three of them formed a semi-circle around him. It was a menacing formation, and they knew it. And there was menace in the leader’s voice when he said, “Don’t think I caught what you said there, dude. Were you maybe tryin’ to tell us what to do, you worthless piece of shit?”

  The other two grinned and gazed down at the junkie with contempt. Even before they were close enough to see the tracks running down the arms that were revealed by the sleeveless leather vest he wore for a shirt, they’d known what he was.

  The junkie looked up at them, squinting as the hazy sunshine stabbed his eyes. He probably wasn’t much past thirty, but his face had the used-up look that all mainliners get eventually. And t
he gray eyes were old, older than God.

  “Just givin’ you some friendly advice, is all,” the junkie said calmly. “It’s worth your life to go inside this place. Don’t do it.”

  The leader hooked his thumbs through his studded leather belt. “Worth our life, huh?” He pretended puzzlement. “But, like, who’s gonna kill us if we do go in? You? You some kind of real bad-ass, or something? You ain’t even strapped, man.” His companions snorted with amusement, right on cue.

  “Nah, not me. But there’s a fuckin’ monster inside, man. I don’t know what the hell else to call it, looks like nothing I’ve ever seen before. But I know this much: you go in there, you’re lunch. Literally. Fucker’ll kill you, all three of you. Then eat you.”

  The leader laughed with delight. “Well, ain’t you a fuckin’ piece of work,” he said. He dropped into a crouch, then looked at the junkie more closely. “Ain’t seen you around before, man. What’s your name?”

  An indifferent shrug. “These days, I go by ‘Janus.’”

  “‘Janice?’ That’s a chick’s name, ain’t it?” The leader grinned at his two companions for a moment. “You a chick, is that what you’re sayin’? Maybe you got a pussy hid under that shit you’re wearin’, huh?’”

  The junkie shook his head wearily. “No, it’s J-a-n-u-s. That’s an old Roman name for a guy who was kind of a doorkeeper.”

  “Doorkeeper? Shit, that’s kinda like what you do now, ain’t it? Try to keep people from goin’ through that door over there, huh?”

  Another shrug.

  “So, how come you picked some old Roman name for a handle, dude? That what you really are, maybe? Some kind of old Roman? You look like you been around the track a few times, I’ll say that much.”

  There was more laughter. The junkie looked briefly at the other two young men before returning his bleak stare to their leader. “Yeah, you got it right,” he said evenly. “That’s exactly what I am.”

  There was silence then, until one of the minions broke it by muttering “Fuckin’ psycho.”

  The leader held up a hand, as if to stifle further abuse. His expression combined amusement with curiosity. After a moment he said, “I didn’t do too good in school, but I know them Romans ain’t been around for a long fuckin’ time. Somethin’ like, what, two thousand years?”

  The junkie absently scratched a bare arm, knocking the scab off one of his needle tracks. “The Empire finally went down for the count in the Fifth Century,” he said. “But I’d already been around for quite a while by then. Near as I can figure, I was born about 2 A.D., the way they reckon things now.”

  The leader nodded solemnly, as if it all made perfect sense. Then he studied the junkie’s face, or pretended to. “You don’t look too bad, for somebody that old. What’s your secret, man? Clean living?”

  There was more laughter.

  The seamed face twitched in what might have been a passing smile. If so, it was a bitter one. “Wasn’t my doing. I made a mistake, is all. Pissed off the wrong guy.”

  “Mistake? Shit, most guys’d give a lot to live that long.”

  “Yeah, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

  “Frank, come on, man,” one of the others said. “Why don’t we just—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” the leader told him. “I wanna hear this.” Turning back to the junkie, he said, “So what happened? Who’d you get all pissed off?”

  “Since you asked, I’ll tell you,” the junkie replied. “But how about a smoke, first?”

  “Yeah, sure.” The leader turned to one of the others, the one who had complained. “Dino, give him a butt.”

  Once he had the Winston going, the junkie took a deep drag and let the smoke hiss out between his teeth.

  “Growing up, I had tutors— a couple of Greek slaves,” he said. “Real smart guys, from Athens originally. They said I did pretty well, especially with languages. So when they’d taught me all they could, my old man got me an appointment in what today you’d call the intelligence service. The Empire was a big place, and there was always work for a young guy who was smart, and tough, and could learn the local lingo. I made myself useful in quite a few trouble spots— Asia Minor, Greece, Samaria, places like that.”

  “Hey, say somethin’ in Latin, you’re so fuckin’ smart,” the one called Joey said.

  “Civis Romanus sum,” the junkie replied, with unexpected dignity. “And there was a time when no prouder words existed.”

  “Don’t fuckin’ interrupt, Joey,” the leader said, and turned back to the junkie. “Go on with what you was sayin’.”

  “Well, eventully they sent me to this shithole province that had been giving them a lot of grief— place called Judea. The locals weren’t taking to Roman rule very well, and they were always being stirred up by some nut group or other— revolutionaries, nationalists, religious cults, they had all kinds down there. The local Procurator had told Rome he was having problems getting the taxes collected, and that got their attention. Money always does. So they sent me in, as a kind of agent provocateur.”

  “What’s that mean?” the leader asked. “That ‘agent’ thing?”

  “It’s a guy who stirs up the hornet’s nest while somebody else is standing by with a big can of Raid,” the junkie said. “I’d dress like a local and hang around the marketplace until I could hook up with one of the malcontents. Then I’d get to know his buddies. Eventually, once they trusted me enough, I’d talk them into some act of blatant stupidity— robbing a tax collector, or maybe trying to ambush some Centurion. Once they made their move, a bunch of Roman soldiers would move in and arrest everybody for treason, or sedition, or whatever. They’d all end up riding crosses along the side of a road someplace.”

  The junkie ground out the stub of his cigarette. “Any chance of another smoke?”

  “Yeah, sure, no prob.” The leader looked at the one called Dino and made a gesture with his chin.

  After the new cigarette was going, the junkie said, “One morning, I had just watched from a safe distance as a bunch of my former ‘comrades’ got nailed up. Truth is, I got kind of a kick out of it. I was a vicious bastard back then. Then I headed back to the crummy little room I was renting, to catch up on some sleep. I managed to get a few hours shuteye, despite the heat and the noise from the street outside. Soon as I woke up, though, I knew someone was in the room with me.”

  “Some crucified guy’s friend came for a little payback, huh?” the leader asked.

  “That’s what I figured, at first. Thing is, I’d barred the door before lying down. Always did— I wasn’t stupid. I don’t say that nobody could have got in, but he would’ve had to make a lot of noise to do it. Or so I would’ve thought.

  “I always kept a gladius, a short sword, hidden between my bedding and the wall. You know, just in case. I was reaching for it casual-like, trying to look like I was just stretching, when this quiet voice comes from the corner. ‘You will not need a weapon,’ it says.

  “So I’m staring in that direction, and I can just make out the shape of someone in the gloom. Then he comes closer, where I can see him better. And the thing is, I recognize this guy.”

  “Who was it, the ghost of one of them dudes you sent to be crucified? Somethin’ freaky like that?” The leader was smirking.

  “No, man, it was no ghost— just this crackpot preacher that I’d been keeping an eye on for a while. He’d been starting to attract a following around Judea, but he’d been real careful not to say anything against Rome publicly, so I hadn’t made any kind of move on him, so far.

  “He just stands there looking at me, and I’m about to tell him to get the hell out when he says, ‘You are like the serpent in the garden, promising deliverance but bringing only destruction. Your lying tongue has led many unwise men to their deaths, but I say that you shall deceive no more. Nothing but truth shall issue forth from your mouth,
for as long as you walk the earth.’

  “And these spooky eyes of his are like boring into me, I’ve never seen anything like it. Then he goes, ‘And you shall walk the earth for days without number— until I come again.’

  “Then he steps back into the shadows. Well, I grab the sword and jump out of my rack. I figure I’ve got to kill the son of a bitch before he blows my cover all over the damn province. So I throw back the curtain to let in some more light. And he’s gone. Just— gone. Then I notice that the door’s still barred, exactly the way I left it.”

  The one called Joey made a mocking “woooo” sound. Frank silenced him with a sharp gesture, his eyes never leaving the junkie’s face as he asked, “So, is that all of it?”

  “Almost. The crackpot preacher got nailed up himself a few months later. I wasn’t involved— his own people set him up, had him accused of blasphemy, or something. He’d never said a word about me to anybody, far as I could tell, so I figured I was home free. Turned out, though, there was one little problem. Well, two, actually.”

  The junkie took one last drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out. “Seems I just can’t lie. I mean about anything. Ever since the day that damn preacher laid his mojo on me. And the second problem, well that one’s kind of obvious.”

  He looked at each of them in turn, and his gaze was bleak. “I’m still alive. After two thousand motherfucking years.”

  “Yeah, then how come you’re nothin’ but a fuckin’ junkie, instead of, like, head of IBM, or somethin’?” This was from Dino, the dark-haired one.

  “I’ve been lots of things, in my time,” the junkie told them. “But when you’ve seen all the shit I’ve seen, sometimes all you want is to turn the world off for a while. And for that, smack is the best thing there is.”

  The leader stood up, supple as a cat. “Yeah, well, it’s been a thrill and all, but we’re lookin’ for a dude who owes us some money. We heard he was crashin’ in one of these burnouts. Scumbag’s name is Lawford, Pete Lawford. You know him?”