Kill the Dead (Sandman Slim 2)

“You remember the way?”

He laughs.

“I remember where Beverly Hills is. Do you have a car?”

“I can get us one.”

“Great.”

He turns to Fiona and Tracy.

“How do I look? Will I pass?”

“You look good, Johnny,” Fiona says. “Stick close to Stark, especially if there are people around. And don’t talk to anyone. If anything happens, you come right back here. Okay?”

Tracy looks at me.

“He hasn’t been outside without us since he’s been here. I don’t know if he’s ever been outside without one of his minders. You’ll take care of him, right?”

“We’re going to his territory, so he’ll be fine. In between here and there I’ll look after him.”

Tracy gets close and whispers.

“As far as I know, Johnny’s never seen one of his kind get put down. If you gut a zed in front of him, I don’t know how he’ll react.”

“I don’t think it’ll come to that. I’m getting better at talking to Drifters.”

“I hope so.”

I try to ignore them as they say their sappy good-byes. I look out the window and listen to corpses digging L.A. out from under our feet. Maybe we’ve been lied to all these years. The San Andreas Fault doesn’t exist. Maybe earthquakes are just the dead turning over in their sleep.

Johnny is next to me.

“Should we go?”

I nod.

“Sure.”

He follows me outside. A moment later the door closes and someone throws the dead bolt. I take Johnny downstairs and boost a Hummer parked in the lot by McQueen and Sons. Normally, I hate these suburban G.I. Joe land barges, but tonight seems like a good night to be surrounded by three tons of metal.

“Where to?”

He gives me an address on West Pico at the edge of Beverly Hills. I pull out into traffic and head for the Jackal’s Backbone.

THE FIRES AREN’T just to the south anymore. They’re spreading all over the city. LAPD chopper searchlights rip up the sky. I turn on the radio. It’s exactly what you’d expect at the end of the world. Panicky chatter about mass murder. Something new and bad running wild in the streets. Is it a CIA experiment gone wrong—super crack seeded into “undesirable” neighborhoods—or a new strain of Book of Revelation rabies? The freeways are bumper-to-bumper. Nothing’s moving. Just one big box-lunch buffet for flesh eaters. Cop cars and ambulances tear through the city like speed-freak banshees. I turn off the radio. People sprint through the traffic in ones and twos. Sometimes small groups. They aren’t going anywhere. They’re just running.

My cell rings. I know it’s Kasabian or Lucifer, so I don’t bother checking the ID.

“Where are you? Why aren’t you home?” comes a harsh voice.

“Doc?”

“No. It’s Jim Morrison’s ghost,” says Kinski. “Tell me you aren’t running around in that goddamn madness out there.”

“I’m not running around in the madness. I’m driving. Tell me you aren’t in L.A.”

“I could, but I’d be lying. Did you know there’s a head living in your closet? And it’s pretty pissed off.”