Devil Said Bang (Sandman Slim 4)

“It’s God, isn’t it? I’m Lucifer, so I’m not one of His. That’s what you meant. That’s why you didn’t hurt me.”

“Why would I?”

“Is that who you kill? Anyone who isn’t damned? Kid, even in L.A. that’s a lot of people.”

She shrugs.

“Them first. Then the others.”

A rotten telephone pole lies lengthwise, half buried in dirt. She swings the knife, knocking out a chunk of wood the size of a basketball.

“Mostly I do what I’m told. Mostly that’s all I do.”

“Someone sends you to kill the dreamers.”

She nods, digging into the pole and prying the metal rungs out of the side.

“And sometimes other bad people.”

“Who tells you to kill them?”

“He does.”

Talking to ghosts is like pulling eels out of a tank of motor oil. Pointless. And anything firm you grab onto is hard to hold. Most aren’t as direct as Cherry. Most have brains dustier and more barren than the shittiest parts of Death Valley.

“He? Okay. What man tells you to kill?”

She stares at the ground for a minute.

“The one with the flowers.”

I’m looking for a homicidal florist. Sure. Why not? Getting stuck with rose thorns all day. And the height of your day is sticking a Mylar balloon on a basketful of daisies. That will make you moody. Then it hits me. Not a florist. A gardener. Cherry said it. She’s just one of the “pretty flowers in his garden.” Teddy Osterberg. My favorite freak. Color me shocked. But there’s a problem.

“You’re not his ghost. I know that for a fact. How can he tell you what to do?”

She stands up. Hair has fallen across her face. She brushes it off with the back of her hand, leaving a dirty smear across her cheek.

“He just does.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“Should he? I don’t know.”

“You’re killing the whole world, you know.”

She nods. Giggles.

“It’s fun. I like the funny skies.”

Talking about destroying the world has changed her mood completely. She comes over, takes my hand, and leads me to another school bus buried on its side. Hands claw at the windows. Faces scream silently. Ghosts that weren’t able to get out when she did whatever she did to blow open this crater. If I was a betting man, I’d say she fell from the sky and landed here like a meteor.

“My name is Stark. What’s yours?”

She leads me past the bus and lets go of my hand. She kicks up clods of dirt with the heel of her Mary Janes. Picks up a stone and throws it. It looks like she’s thinking.

“Lamia.”

“Hi, Lamia. What kind of name is that?”