Kill the Dead (Sandman Slim 2)

She resists a little as I pull her into the shadow. And then again when I pull her out of the Room and through the Door of Restless Ardor.

“What was that place?”

“What did I say about questions?”

“You’re no fun.”

“Yes, I am.”

We follow the map to the rear of the hospital, beyond where the crew is filming. We’re on a side hall and can see the lights and cameras where they’re shooting in the wide central corridor. The director yells, “Action!” A woman screams. Voices moan. A bloody nurse runs by, chased by a mob of filthy, groaning patients. Fuck me. They’re making a zombie movie.

One more turn and we’re in the morgue. The white tile walls are cracked and streaked with grime. There’s a banged-up gurney against one wall. Someone went at the padding with a knife and left it scattered on the floor like white tumbleweeds. I don’t want to know what’s inside the pullout coolers in the walls.

We head into the big freezer. It’s dark inside and—surprise, surprise—the lights don’t work. Just as I’m trying to think of some hoodoo that makes light without blowing something up, the place brightens. Brigitte’s turned on a small LED flashlight she had in her pocket.

She asks, “What are we looking for?”

“We’re not. I am. Unless someone left the door open, you need to be Sub Rosa to find these things.”

I feel along one wall and then another. It’s between the seams running down one row of tiles. The wall swings open silently.

Brigitte coos.

“I love magic. You must show me more.”

“I think you’ll see plenty before this is over.”

The door swings shut behind us and we’re in a low stone passage. Yellow light outlines a curtain up ahead. I go through first and hold the curtain back for Brigitte.

Cabal understands Sub Rosa chic. This location is even shittier than Springheel’s shack.

The place looks like the house of the month in Better Homes & Monsters. It’s all dark stone walls. There’s a huge fireplace with andirons the size of parking meters. The furniture is made of old stained mahogany. Most of the varnish has been worn off the armrests on the chairs and they’re covered with water stains and glasses and cigarette burns. Traces of half-eaten food and empty liquor bottles are scattered on every surface of the room. There are tapestries of hunting parties and war scenes hanging on the walls. One shows horsemen with scimitars slicing up a village of women and children. The men are already dead, tossed on a bonfire in the lower right corner of the tapestry. Cabal is going for a Vlad the Impaler look, but he’s ended up with a Slayer album cover.

Cosima, Cabal’s sister or wife or both, comes through a curtain that runs the length of one wall. On the curtain is an image of a Black Sun wheel. Ancient, hard-core hoodoo that supposedly gives dark mystics power over the material world. The Nazis loved the Sun wheel. Of course, things didn’t work out so well for them, so maybe they forgot to plug theirs in or something.

“You can’t just walk in here without an appointment. Cabal won’t like it,” says Cosima.

“We met at the Geistwalds’ party.”

“I know who you are and he still wouldn’t like it.”

“I don’t like having to walk in here and I’ll like having to walk out even less, so you can let him know I’m here or I will.”

Cosima looks Brigitte up and down and goes back through the curtain. Brigitte and I follow.

The next room is similar to the one we just left, but the furniture is a lot more comfortable. Plush sofas, love seats, and pillows on the floor. At least a dozen people are passed out asleep around the room, some dressed and some not. They were really living it up. Wonder what they were celebrating?

Cabal comes out of a door that looks like it was looted from Lucifer’s broom closet. He’s wearing a stained floor-length black robe, a little like a cassock. He looks skinny out of his rags and is cleaner than he was at the Geistwalds’, but he still smells like he uses sewage for aftershave. He’s holding a half-empty wine bottle in one hand. Cabal smiles, showing big yellow teeth, and holds out his hand. He knows I don’t want to shake it. I’ve met guys like this before. Everything is a test with them. Will I shake his hand? Do I get mad when he makes a dumb joke at my expense or weepy when he insults me? Alpha-male bullshit. But I can’t get too mad. I’ve done it plenty myself. I take his hand and shake like we just bought Manhattan for some M&M’s and a carton of Luckies.

Cabal waves us back into the other room and away from his snoring guests. He stumbles and sways trying to step over them and almost dumps his wine on a naked kid sleeping in golf shoes.

Cabal waves us over to the big table and drops down into the head seat. Brigitte and I sit next to each other. He offers us the bottle.

Brigitte puts up a hand and I shake my head.

“To what do I owe the honor of such an unexpected, but charming visit?”

“I wanted to ask you something.”