by Bryan Smith
“Why would you want to help me?”
The devil groans loudly and rolls his head about on his shoulders in apparent deep exasperation. “Dude, I’ve told you this, too. A bunch of fucking times. I meant what I said. We’re friends. I feel like we bonded in a real and very deep way when we made that glorious fucking mess of Crazy Sue. And I know you felt the same at the time. You even came out and said it, but you were so wasted off your ass that you don’t remember.”
I shake my head. “This is such unmitigated bullshit.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“Is not.”
“Is.”
“Is not times infinity. Now shut the fuck up. Time to get you out of here.”
He abruptly seizes me by an arm and mutters words in a language I don’t understand. A nauseatingly thick-headed feeling suffuses every bit of my being for an awful-beyond-comprehension fraction of a second. Then there’s a brief blank period. It’s like I’m in a dreamless void. No idea how long it lasts. Maybe an instant. Maybe an eternity. Who the fuck knows and what difference does it make at this point?
The world and existence itself have simply gone away.
Then it’s back.
And with it, a momentarily jarring sense of displacement, because now we’re outside on the grounds of the facility. This is at the rear of the building, in the employee parking lot I glimpsed earlier when looking out that stairwell window. Only now there’s a car down here I didn’t see before. It’s a vintage red Mustang from the late 60s. A convertible with a white top, which is down now. In the back are two gorgeous women clad only in tiny bikinis. One’s a blonde, the other a redhead. The blonde has enormous floppy tits. They jiggle every time she laughs, which is a lot. She and her companion are having a whispered conversation punctuated by constant giggles. Each woman is drinking some manner of alcoholic concoction from a cocktail glass.
Zombies are milling about in the lot, but none of them are within several feet of the Mustang. The dead fuckers don’t even attempt to approach the vehicle. Which is weird. It’s as if there’s some kind of invisible protective bubble around it. And, hell, there probably is.
Some of the zombies turn our way when we appear.
They begin to stagger toward us.
The devil waves his hand and they fall over.
I’ve got to admit, it’s pretty impressive.
The devil takes a swig of beer and glances at me. “What do you say? Want to hit the road with me and the girls?”
I frown. “Where would we go?”
The devil laughs and waves an arm around. “Anywhere. Everywhere. It’s the apocalypse out there, buddy. There’s a whole world of fun, fucked-up shit to see. It’ll be an adventure. A road trip for the ages. I’ve been meaning to get away from it all for a while. Running things in Hell has gotten kind of stale after so many millennia. I’d like to spend a few years running wild here on earth. And, hey, look at those girls. Smoking hot, aren’t they? How long has it been since you got laid?”
I think about it. “Um . . . I don’t know. I don’t even know how long I was in this place.”
The devil shrugs. “Me either. Hey, I would have come for you sooner, but I got preoccupied and distracted by all kinds of shit. You know how it is. Anyway, those babes are yours for the taking any time you feel like it. And there’s more where they came from. An endless supply. Come on, man. That’s gotta sound pretty fucking awesome after what you’ve been through. Right?”
I can’t deny it.
I don’t fully believe everything else he’s told me, but he’s right about that. It does sound pretty fucking awesome. I’m sure there’s some sinister underlining behind his motives for inviting me to come along on this trip, but I decide I don’t care. The world is over. Everyone and everything I’ve ever cared about is gone. I decide to accept the devil’s invitation. What else would I do?
I shrug. “Whatever, man. Fuck it. Let’s go.”
The devil laughs heartily and claps a hand on my shoulder. “My man! You are not going to regret this decision. I promise you. Good times await, buddy.”
I nod. “If you say so.”
“I do say so. And, hey, don’t forget this other perk.”
He tosses back the rest of his beer and throws the empty over his shoulder. Then he snaps his fingers and a new can appears in his hand. He passes it to me unopened. I accept it with only a slight degree of trepidation. Now that I’ve resigned myself to whatever eventual grim fate this creature has in mind for me, the idea of drinking magical beer no longer troubles me much. I pop the tab on the can and shiver in pleasure at the familiar sweet sound of air escaping.
There’s nothing better than that sound.
I put the can to my mouth, tilt my head back, and drink deeply from it. By the time I take the can away from my mouth, more than half of its contents are gone.
And I’m smiling.
Hello, oblivion. My old friend.
The devil claps me on the shoulder again. “Good man. That’s what I like about you. You don’t drink like a pussy. And now . . . our chariot awaits!”
We get in the car.
The devil settles in behind the wheel and I climb into the back with the girls. They’re all over me. Bikini tops disappear. I lose myself in their flesh. I’d describe it as heavenly, only that doesn’t seem appropriate given the company I’m keeping now.
I’m in ecstasy as we drive off into the night.
That’s weird.
It was still full daylight only a second ago, but now night has fallen. I’d worry about it, but the blonde is right on top of me by then and in that moment nothing else matters.
Up front, the devil is laughing.
BIO
Bryan Smith is the author of numerous novels and novellas, including 68 Kill, Slowly We Rot, Depraved, The Killing Kind, Last Day, Dead Stripper Storage, Dirty Rotten Hippies and Other Stories, and Kill For Satan!, which won a Splatterpunk Award for best horror novella of 2018. Bestselling horror author Brian Keene described Slowly We Rot as, “The best zombie novel I’ve ever read.” A film version of 68 Kill, directed by Trent Haaga and starring Matthew Gray Gubler from Criminal Minds, was released in 2017. Bryan lives in Tennessee with his wife Jennifer and their many pets.
Follow him on Twitter at @Bryan_D_Smith and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/bryansmith
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