Aloha from Hell (Sandman Slim #3)

Aloha from Hell (Sandman Slim #3) Page 30

The worktable in front of them projects a floating 3-D map laying out different routes around the universe from Downtown to Heaven. It looks like a schematic of the coolest ride since Space Mountain.

I want to go right at them, but I need to lay out a little hoodoo first. Unfortunately, a good hex needs to be spoken out loud. Black juju likes to be mixed in with a little sputter and spit. However, it’s easy to toss off white magic inside your head. Instead of wishing Mammon’s backup band ill will, I do the opposite and throw a protective shield up around the entire room. Aside from saving them from torch-carrying peasants, it’ll soundproof the place and keep any nosy guards from getting in.

Quiet as I can, I get out the na’at, snap out the business end like a bullwhip, and give it a little twist so it goes rigid. It hits the closest Hellion at the base of his skull and comes out his extremely surprised mouth. The officer next to him goes for his shoulder holster. Bad idea. He’s left his front exposed. I bounce the sharp end of the na’at off the worktable and flick it up, catching him just above his crotch, slicing him open to his chest. He has an excellent view of his Hellion guts spilling onto the floor before he follows them down. I step back into a shadow as the rest of the crew tries to process what just happened. In a brilliant tactical maneuver, the three remaining officers decide to rush the spot where I’m standing just as I’m not there anymore.

I come out of a shadow behind Mammon, pull the black blade, and pig-stick him in the spine about six inches above his waist. His legs suddenly stop working and he smacks onto the floor like an Easter ham.

One of Mammon’s brighter officers figured out my shadow trick and stayed close enough to Mammon to jump me.

She’s a huge red-haired Hulk Hogan beast trying to get the barrel of her .50 pointed anywhere on my body. She gets off a couple of shots as we wrestle, but she can’t hit me without hitting herself, so she’s just blowing holes in the floor. I drive the na’at’s pommel into her temple and knock the gun out of her hand while she’s still cross-eyed.

Two officers, one in a slick black Hugo Boss and one in a white ice-cream suit, take potshots at us, but they can’t really open up without hitting Mrs. Hogan. She lunges at me. I kickr, t me. I out at her, but she tagged me hard enough that I trip over a pricey antique chair and smack the back of my head into the wall. My brain feels like a Shamrock Shake. Mrs. Hogan is on her hands and knees, pulling a knife the size of a leg of lamb from under her suit jacket. Hugo Boss and the ice-cream man come in behind her, closing the distance so they can shoot me a hundred percent dead. I flick the na’at at the ceiling, knocking out one of the overhead lights. There’s a feeble shadow behind the chair I tripped over. It’s not much, but I dive for it just as a wave of bullets blast fist-size chunks of polished wood and plaster from Mammon’s office wall.

I stay in the shadow for a minute, letting my head clear, when I hear Mammon say, “The battle plan, lady and gentlemen, is simple: Do better.”

The officers go back-to-back, forming a protective triangle around Mammon, which means they’re stuck there while I can move around. I’m lucky that none of them can manifest a Gladius. Besides Lucifer, only a few of the heavyweight fallen angels still have the power. None of this crew has or they would have used it by now.

I duck into the room, moving from shadow to shadow, swinging the na’at at the overhead lights. I take them out one by one, creating more shadows for me to work from. The white suit shoots at me, but Hugo Boss is busy reloading. I feel two shots go through my coat just above my leg and dive back into the dark.

Half the room is in shadows and Mammon’s officers are nervous. Mrs. Hogan doesn’t have her gun, so I go for her first. Keeping most of my body in the shadow, I snap out the na’at, leaving it loose until it wraps around her ankle, then I pull it tight like a snare. I fade back into the wall while retracting the na’at and it pulls her across the floor like she’s tied to a freight train. When she hits the wall I grab her lapels and pull her upright. The sight of even just my hands gets Hugo Boss itchy. He blasts away, only I’m back in the shadow and his redheaded teammate is suddenly full of holes. I pull back my hands and let her fall. The ice-cream man checks her body and I get the distinct feeling that he had something going with Mrs. Hogan, because when he sees her back full of smoking craters, he levels his pistol at Hugo Boss and blows his brains out.

Now it’s just the ice-cream man and Mammon. He grabs Mammon by the back of his collar and drags him into the biggest pool of light, shouting for the guards. No one shouts back. He keeps shouting until Mammon backhands him from the floor.

“Stop shouting in my ear. If backup were coming, it would be here by now. You might consider shooting him yourself before he kills us.”

I step out behind the pillar where I first entered the room and shout, “He’s right. No guards get in here without a permission slip from me.”

The ice-cream man blasts into the dark.

“That’s a clever ploy. Use up all your bullets shooting at nothing. Did they teach you that at military school?” says Mammon. But the ice-cream man isn’t listening. He’s not a soldier anymore. He’s an angry f s;s an aboyfriend looking to get back at someone who got his girl killed. Join the club, fucker.

The ice-cream man shouts, “Show yourself!”

“I am,” I say. “Don’t look at the shadows. I’m right out in the open with you. Come and get me.”

He’s pissed enough about Mrs. Hulk that he lets go of Mammon and prowls around the edges of the light, listening, trying to figure out where my voice came from.

“Get back here,” shouts Mammon. “He’s goading you.”

I take out Mason’s lighter from my pocket and toss it onto the nearest couch. The ice-cream man spins and blasts the enemy furniture.

I throw the black blade. He sees it at the last second but can’t get out of the way, and the blade buries itself in his right eye. He’s dead before he hits the floor.

Mammon finally sees me as I step out from behind his floating map of the universe. The room is empty except for us. Mammon’s dead officers have all winked out of existence and are on their way to Tartarus, the Hell below Hell.

I get Mason’s lighter off the couch and put it back in my pocket.

From the floor, Mammon gives the room an expansive wave like he’s addressing the multitudes.

“Lo, the prodigal coward returns. It’s been a long time, assassin. How have you been? Enjoying your life upstairs? That’s a breathtaking tan.”

I take my time getting to him.

“You’ll notice I’m not rushing over. I want you to get used to seeing the world from floor level.”

He looks me over.

“Nice coat. But I hate the shoes.”

“I like what you’ve done with the place. Is that why you threw in with Mason? He got you a good decorator?”

“I’m with Mason because I appreciate winners.”

“Like the five I just slaughtered? Or was it that time when you threw in with Lucifer to take over Heaven. Face it. You’re completely shit in the picking-winners department.”

Mammon’s legs are splayed at funny angles. He’s propped on his elbows, trying to look comfortable. I circle him so half the time he’s talking to empty air.

He shrugs.

“We were young back then and swept up in the excitement that we could throw out the old ways and rebuild the world. I’m older now and understand. Our plans weren’t thorough enough back then. This time they are.”

“I’ve got my fingers crossed for you, doughboy. I have a feeling if you fuck up one more time, there’s nothing left for you but Tartarus. Unless you know somewhere lower than that?”

He keeps smiling, but his lips do a little involuntary micro-twitch. Tartarus is the only thing that truly frightens all these Hellion bastards. Even they don’t know what’s down there. Maybe Lucifer does, but he’s not around to ask.

Mammon manages a little mocking laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. It’s a private joke. You wouldn’t understand. There’s wine and Aqua Regia on my desk. I hear you’re quite the drunkard these days.”

“Did you hear that when Kasabian was still spying for Lucifer? That intel is out-of-date. I’m strictly a social drinker these days.”

“That’s what all drunks say. In any case, enjoy yourself.”

I give the bottles on his desk a sniff. They don’t smell poisoned, but it’s hard to tell with Aqua Regia since it’s already mostly poison. I start going through his desk.

“Where are the Maledictions? I’d strangle the Pope for a smoke.”

“Sorry. I quit.”

“You’re a Hellion. All you do is torture and smoke.”

“You’re right. I lied. But I’m out of cigarettes. Maybe if you let the guards in, one of them could bring some.”

“How’s the view from the carpet, Tom Thumb? Does the world smell different down there?”

I go through the rest of the drawers. There’s a silver flask in a bottom one. I take it out, admiring Mammon’s family crest on the front. I hold it up and he says, “Be my guest.”

While I’m pouring Aqua Regia into the empty flask, Mammon says, “You’re going to be dead tomorrow, you know.”

When the flask is filled to the top, I tighten the cap and slip it inside my coat.

“Dead, huh? That sucks. How are your legs? Any pain yet?”

Mammon shakes his head.

“None, thank you.”

“It’ll start soon.”

Metal scrapes near the wall.

I snap out the na’at to its full length and twist it so barbs sprout along its length. A scared, muffled voice screams where the na’at is pointing. It sounds like it’s coming from a weird metal sculpture across the room. It’s about six feet tall and covered in hand-hammered silver in roughly the outline of a human body. It looks like something from Muninn’s discount bin. I get closer, letting the na’at keep some distance between us.

There are openings in the sculpture, like eye slits. There’s movement behind them. I shove the na’at right up to the opening. The muffled screaming starts up. When I get closer I can see eyes inside the helmet. They’re brown. The pupils wide and dilated with fear. They’re human.

I point at the caged man.

“Who’s the gimp?”

Mammon pushes himself up a little higher on his elbows.

“That’s Mr. Kelly. Say hello, Mr. Kelly.”

The Hellion upper classes love to talk about the damned with mock formality.

The slaved soul in the metal restraints squeezes out what I guess is a muffled greeting.

“Why’s he locked up? Is he dangerous?”

“Only to your kind. He’s a murderer.”

“Is that what’s in this year? Collecting killers instead of baseball cards?”

He tightens his lips in a look of mild disgust.

“It was Mason’s idea. He issued senior officers ‘interesting’ souls so we might become more acquainted with human minds. The one he gave me was a bore, so I put him in storage.”

The soul is in something like a Hellion suit of armor welded inside an external cage. I put away the na’at and start slicing through the bars with the black blade. With a little force the bars come off easily. When I get the front clear, I start slicing off the armor.

“Just out of curiosity, where’s General Semyazah these days? I know he’s on the run, but I also know you have spies. Where’s he hiding?”

“You admire the fool, don’t you? ‘Semyazah, the lone Hellion general brave enough to hold out against Mason Faim, the dread usurper of Lucifer’s throne!’ ”

“I just asked where he was. I don’t need a campaign speech.”

Mammon pulls himself around so we’re looking straight at each other again.

“Remember the private joke I mentioned? I’ll share it with you after all. When you so subtly threatened me with Tartarus, I laughed because that’s where your hero is. Semyazah is Tartarus’s newest and I daresay most famous guest.”

If Mammon is telling the truth then the game is over. There’s no game at all. With Semyazah out of the way, another general will have claimed his troops and there won’t be anyone to stop Mason from launching his war. It was a long shot that Semyazah could do anything anyway. Now even that slim chance might be gone. Mammon could be lying, but the first thing I have to do is find Alice. I don’t have time to run all over Hell checking out Mammon’s bullshit. I wonder what happens to a non-damned soul if it’s killed in Hell? If I can’t find Alice in time and Mason murders her again, will she end up in Tartarus? Or worse, she might be saved from Tartarus but end up too far from Heaven to find her way back, and wander in the Limbo between them forever.

“Who killed Semyazah?”

Mammon shakes his head.

“That’s the best part. You inspired Semyazah’s fate. He wasn’t killed. Mason said that we should send him to Tartarus alive, and so we did.”

What a bunch of gold-plated idiots we are, Hellions and humans alike. Somewhere God is laughing at us. We’re his private joke with himself. Why didn’t he just wipe us all out and start over? Maybe it’s more fun watching us run around bouncing off the walls.

“What? No more jokes, Sandman Slim? Here’s an idea. Run back to your cozy home upstairs. Drink. Watch movies. Fuck whomever it is you fuck these days and let the grown-ups get on with their work. We’re really awfully busy.”