The Kill Society. Richard Kadrey

up your hands,” says the Magistrate.

      When I do, he puts a corner of the map into each of my hands and lets the rest fall open, facing the pathetics. Great. I have the damned map, but I’m on the wrong side of it.

      The Magistrate pulls one of the town council over and gestures to the map. The ragged bastard raises a hand and says something in a language I don’t understand. The Magistrate answers him back in the same language. When he gets fed up with contestant one, he pulls contestant two forward. She’s dressed in a filthy evening gown like she’s heading for drinks at the Copa with the Rat Pack. Again, the Magistrate points to the map and the woman answers. Again it’s in a language I don’t understand—but different from contestant one’s—and again he answers her. How many languages does the bastard speak?

      He takes a piece of parchment from a pocket of his duster and shows it to the group. A couple touch it, then point into the distance. The Magistrate speaks to each of them, switching languages when he has to without missing a beat.

      Daja stands with me behind the map.

      “Having fun, sweetheart?” she says.

      “Always with you, dear. Did you book the cruise next year?”

      She looks behind us, searching for the El Camino.

      “You won’t last that long.”

      I turn to her.

      “Bet I outlast you, Nancy Drew.”

      The Magistrate reaches over and pulls me back into place.

      “You might not even make it past today,” she says.

      I give her a look.

      “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard that line.”

      She leans over and whispers, “I didn’t say you were going to die. Just not make it.”

      Before I can ask her what the hell she’s talking about, the Magistrate hands the map to Daja and she folds it up.

      “Mr. Pitts, would you join us?” he says.

      I go over as he pulls the town bigwigs he’s been talking to aside.

      “I have tried reasoning with these people,” he says. “I have tried cajoling them and even promising rewards, but none has taken it upon themselves to be cooperative. What do you think of that?”

      I look over the sad sacks. Shrug.

      “Maybe they don’t know anything. Look at them. I’m surprised they can even talk. Where the hell are we?”

      “On an important ley line that passes right by this town.”

      “What makes you think they know that?”

      The Magistrate brightens and sweeps his hand across the crowd.

      “Because we are in a town of holy people. Priests. Nuns. Rabbis. Mullahs.”

      I point at the woman in the evening gown.

      “Then why is she dressed like Joey Heatherton?”

      “She has been here so long that her vestments rotted away, the poor dear. She had no choice.”

      “And you think these losers know something about your crusade?”

      “I told you I was a student of psychology. I know they know something.”

      “You’re a goddamn mind reader, too?”

      “The Magistrate knows something about everything. He’s a genius,” says Daja, a proud kid who knows that her daddy can beat up your daddy.

      “Fine. Say you’re right,” I say. “Maybe you should give these poor slobs some food or water. Then maybe they could think straight.”

      “They have gone without for too long. The shock to their system might send them to Tartarus without us lifting a finger. What a waste of scant resources,” he says.

      “Why are you telling me all this? Why am I even here?”

      “This is my domain. What exists here without knowledge exists here in defiance.”

      “That doesn’t even make sense.”

      “He’s calling them liars,” says Daja.

      I look at her.

      “Again I ask: What does any of this have to do with me?”

      The El Camino pulls up behind us. Billy staggers out. Daja brings Traven over. An old military truck, its rear covered by a canvas awning, pulls up next to the El Camino.

      “Like these people, the Father is a holy man,” the Magistrate says. “But unlike them, he is not a liar. Is that not right, Father?”

      Traven nods.

      “Of course, Magistrate.”

      He doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s scared.

      “What does the Bible have to say about liars? I believe the Revelation to Saint John mentions them,” says the Magistrate.

      Traven looks blank.

      “I’m not sure which passage you mean.”

      The Magistrate smiles.

      “Do not be shy, Father. Now is a time to shine. Come. Say it with me: ‘But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters …’”

      Traven joins in.

      “‘And all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone …’”

      The Magistrate stops and lets Traven finish on his own.

      “‘Which is the second death,’” he says.

      “The second death,” says the Magistrate.

      He turns to me.

      “Do you see?”

      I look at him, wishing for a cigarette I could grind into his face.

      “I used to go to a club called Second Death,” I say. “Skull Valley Sheep Kill played there. Are we going to a show?”

      “Yes,” he says. “Yes, we are. And you shall be the ringmaster.”

      “It’s been a tough day for Billy. Let him have a little fun.”

      “Billy is a good boy. His reward will come soon enough. As will yours. Come.”

      I follow him to the town’s pitiful leaders. He pulls five forward. I look around and find Cherry in the crowd. I wonder if this freak show is because she said anything about me. I need to get her alone later.

      The Magistrate clears his throat and speaks to the five.

      “Mr. Pitts here is a man of great violence. He proved that yesterday. He proved it a few moments ago. And soon he will prove it again.”

      He repeats his little speech in several languages for the town leaders. They shuffle their feet and look at each other.

      “I don’t know what you have planned, but you can leave me out of it,” I say.

      “No, I cannot, Mr. Pitts. This is for your benefit as well as theirs.”

      “What is?”

      At the Magistrate’s signal, the canvas covering the old truck is pulled back. There are upright posts at either end of the flatbed, with a longer post connecting them. Every few feet along the horizontal post are knotted ropes. I’ve seen some shit, but this makes me blink.

      It’s a traveling gallows.

      “Which one?” says the Magistrate, pointing to the five losers.

      I look at the gallows.

      “For