The Kill Society. Richard Kadrey

dive into unstable. She refused to leave her dead body for a long time and lived as a jabber—an animated corpse—clawing her way through the dirt and filth under L.A. When I finally got her to leave her body, she lived in the bombed-out version of L.A. in the Tenebrae. She played a sexpot ghost for a while and I don’t know what else since I’ve last seen her. And now she’s here with a whole new act. I don’t think she’d deliberately let on who I am, but who knows what twisted stuff she might blurt that could make things a lot more difficult for me.

      When my mind drifts back to Candy and home, I push the thoughts away as hard as I can. I’m dead. There’s no going back now. None that I can figure, at least. But fuck everyone down here if they think I’m staying. All that matters is getting through this mess and figuring out what to do after that.

      I lose track of the time on the plains. Bits of paint flake off the truck’s crisped body and stick to my face and hair. That’s fun. Traven rides beside me. He seems like a real natural. Maybe I’m selling him short. Maybe he likes being out of the library. He used to help us track bad guys back home before he died. Maybe this is like that and I should ease up on the guy.

      About the time I’m wondering which of the babysitters I’m going to run off the road so I can steal their vehicle and save my aching ass, there’s something new on the horizon. The ruins of a town. Of course, everything is ruins in the Tenebrae, but this looks more ruined than most. I wish I could get a look at the Magistrate’s map. If I could place the town, maybe I could navigate my way back to Hell. That’s something else to think about. The map.

      Up front someone, probably the Magistrate, sends up a red flare. The havoc spreads out across the plain, zeroing in on the town. Me and Traven are at the rear of the joyride, between the main havoc and the trucks pulling the tarp. When the flare goes up, our babysitters peel off to join the main group. I look at Traven and point out into the open desert. He shakes his head. He’s right. I’m getting ahead of myself. There’s nowhere to run to yet. Sit tight and learn how the havoc works. Then disappear at the moment of maximum confusion. For now, though, I hit the gas. At least if we stop somewhere, maybe I can get out of this damned truck for a while.

      By the time us stragglers reach the others, they have the town surrounded. But no one is going Hell’s Angels on the place yet. They’re just sitting in their cars, gunning the engines and looking like hard desert bandidos. It isn’t exactly a stretch for them.

      At a signal from up front, all the engines cut off at once. I pull to a stop and shut mine down. While the dust settles, I crawl out of the driver’s seat. My ass and back ache like someone gave me a baseball-bat massage. I stretch, trying to work the kinks out, when Traven comes over.

      “What now?” I say.

      “It depends. It isn’t always the same.”

      “But this is where the havoc gets to havocking.”

      “Maybe today will be different.”

      “Sure. Maybe today.”

      We’re pretty far back in the pack, so I climb on the hood of the truck trying to see something. I can’t make out much besides a crowd gathered at the edge of the town. Nothing happens for a while. I think the Magistrate is having a nice chat with whoever runs the burg. After all the driving and the last day of abject terror and confusion, frankly, it gets kind of boring. Traven climbs up on the truck with me.

      “See anything?” he says.

      “The Wizard gave the Scarecrow a heart. I hope he has something for Dorothy.”

      Traven points into the distance.

      “What’s that?”

      There’s a plume of dust winding its way through the havoc in our direction. A few seconds later I hear the roar of a bike engine. A sweaty soul on a dirty Hellion Ducati stops next to the truck.

      He pushes up his goggles.

      “You Pitts?”

      “Last time I checked.”

      He moves up on the seat.

      “Get on. You’re riding bitch.”

      “What makes you think that?”

      He looks up at me.

      “The Magistrate wants to see you right fucking now. So get on, bitch, before you get us both in trouble.”

      “When you say it nice like that how can I resist?”

      I climb down and head over to the bike. The rider is a big bare-chested sweat pig. To be clear, I mean he’s literally a sweaty, upright pig—busted snout-like nose and everything. I stand there for a minute looking over his wheels.

      “You checking out my ass? Get on, faggot.”

      “Sure.”

      I move like I’m getting onto the seat, but instead I swing my leg around and kick him in the back of the head. He falls forward and dumps the bike. I drag his sweaty ass off and haul the Ducati upright. I didn’t hit him hard enough to knock loose anything essential, but he’s going to have a long, embarrassing walk when he comes to. Traven comes over but doesn’t say anything. He just raises his arms and drops them again like he’s exhausted. I give him a little salute, gun the bike, and head for the front of the pack.

      No one tries to stop me as I weave through the havoc. When I spot the Charger, I open up the throttle and hit the brakes just right to land in a nice stoppie up front.

      Daja looks at me blankly while the Magistrate frowns.

      “Where is Billy?”

      “Taking a nap.”

      The Magistrate comes around the car.

      “Then he is alive?”

      “I’m not that dumb.”

      “I’ll go check,” says Daja, but the Magistrate lightly touches her arm before she can get on her Harley.

      “No. I want you here with Mr. Pitts and myself.”

      He waves to a couple of riders in an El Camino covered in Nordic runes.

      “Bring back Billy and the father,” the Magistrate says, and they peel out.

      I know the Magistrate added Traven to his delivery list just to fuck with me, so I brush it off. Don’t give him the satisfaction or the ammunition.

      When the car is gone, the Magistrate gestures for me to follow him over where the residents of the town are gathered. Daja comes, too, hooks her arm around mine, and—smiling like a blushing bride—drags me with her.

      The Magistrate waits by a small group of the least pathetic souls in town. That said, they look like they spent the night in the drum of a cement mixer. Tattered clothes hanging off their bodies in gray rags. Dust in every crease on their desiccated faces. They sag in front of the havoc like kids who know they’re about to get a spanking. Another twenty or thirty souls are bunched behind them. They look even worse.

      The Magistrate says, “I am a student of human nature, did you know that, Mr. Pitts?”

      “It beats beekeeping, I guess.”

      He smiles infinitesimally.

      “I sent Billy to you knowing exactly what you would do.”

      “You sent one of your own people to get his ass kicked? That’s not the way to build brand loyalty.”

      “Everyone in the group has their role,” he says. “Some are more demanding than others.”

      “You mean, me turning out Billy’s lights was some kind of prize?”

      “I told you he wouldn’t understand,” says Daja. “He’ll never understand.”

      “She’s right,” I say. “I never got fractions either.”

      “Come now, Mr. Pitts. Everyone is a good student with the