Kill the Dead (Sandman Slim 2)

Shit. I didn’t mean to blurt that out.

“Forget it. So, how about giving me the Drifter gig? Between Brigitte and me, we can clean up your zed and zot problem fast.”

“You shouldn’t see Brigitte again, even for work.”

“I know, but I’m going to. Give us something to pass the time. Maybe it’ll keep us from doing something reckless and stupid.”

“I’ll think about it.”

An alarm goes off outside. Not an alarm. It’s like fifty sets of truck brakes screaming as they all lock up at once. It takes me a few seconds to figure out that it’s human voices colliding in a terrifying animal wail. The old Chinese witches are screaming and running, converging at one point of the stage perimeter where they’d splashed oil and blood. The sun glares off raised knives and white banners scrawled with ancient spells.

Ritchie sprints onto the stage and right at us. A big man, he looks more like an ex-cop than ever. Without a word, he loops one arm around Lucifer’s shoulders and half drags, half pushes Lucifer to the back of the stage. I get on the other side and push them into a small office in back. Ritchie kicks over an armchair leaning against the far wall revealing a barely visible crease running up the seam between two sheets of paneling. He slams the heel of his hand on a point halfway up the wall and it pops open. Ritchie pulls Lucifer inside. I follow them and Ritchie slams the door closed.

Ritchie huffs his words, winded and bent over.

“You’ll be safe here.”

Lucifer turns in a slow circle. There are comfortable chairs. A stack of five-gallon water jugs. Packets of dried food. Two queen-size inflatable beds. A cabinet against the far wall is marked MEDICAL. I open it. The cabinet is divided into two tall vertical compartments. The left side is stocked with enough drugs and medical junk to open your own hospital. The right side is all guns. Mostly flashy action-movie hardware. HKs, Berettas, and Desert Eagle automatics. There’s a foot-high stack of ammo at the bottom of the cabinet.

I say, “Shoot, a fella could have a pretty good weekend in Vegas with all that stuff,” but no one gets it.

Lucifer nods. Ritchie drops down into an office chair in front of a bank of video monitors.

“I never took you for the panic-room type, Simon.”

“You weren’t here for the riots in ’92. Hollywood looked like Dresden after the bombs. We kept waiting for the mob to get this far north, but they never made it. Lucky for us. Back then our security was a gate, a few off-duty cops, and a new sprinkler system. All we were safe from was shoplifters and people smoking in the bathroom. I swore that would never happen again.”

“Good for you,” says Lucifer. “I love a take-charge coward.”

Ritchie flips a switch on the console and all the video screens come on, giving a 360-degree view outside and inside the soundstage. The witches are on the center screen. They’re manhandling someone who looks almost human, but not quite. His arms and legs are too long. His skull is too flat. Uniformed security people push through the mob, cuff the Lurker, and perp-walk him away. The old women still yell and slap his shoulders as he goes by.

A couple of minutes later, a phone on the console chirps. Ritchie picks it up.

“Yeah? You’re sure? Take him to one of the special cells downstairs. No one gets in or out until I get there.”

He swings around in the chair and smiles at us.

“Looks like a false alarm. A Lurker maintenance worker, one of the water nixies we keep around to clean the pipes, decided he wanted a closer look at the set and crossed the old ladies’ protection circle. We’ll question him and probably let him go with a warning.”

“At least you know you’re getting your money’s worth out of the old dears,” says Lucifer.

I ask, “What’s to keep a magician or a few of your witches from marching up to the door and lobbing hexes in here?”

Ritchie shakes his head.

“The room is shielded from outside spells. We’re like a roach motel. Magic goes out, but it doesn’t come in.”

“That makes us the roaches,” says Lucifer.

“I guess so,” says Ritchie.

“At least they’re survivors.”

“Are we done in here or do we need to show a permission slip to the teacher?” I ask.

Ritchie nods to the gun on my hip.

“Slow down. Not all of us are packing as much heat as you.”