The Perdition Score (Sandman Slim 8)

When we’ve run through it enough times that Bill can do it smoothly, he pulls a crooked smile.

“I guess this ain’t such bad iron after all.”

“I hate to tell you, but there’s not much iron in there.”

He sights down the barrel.

“Iron enough for my purposes.”

I look around the bar for a clear spot. Over by the wall there’s a long table where we served food when I was Lucifer.

“You mind if I lie down for a while? My head hurts, and like you said, it’s been a long day.”

He hooks a thumb over his shoulder.

“I have a cot in the back. You’re welcome to it. Don’t use it much myself. I lost the habit of sleep when I came to this elegant burg.”

I shake my head.

“Thanks. The table is fine.”

I take off my coat and shoulder holster. Set the black blade and the na’at on a corner of the table. Wad my coat into a lumpy pillow.

“Good night, son.”

“Night, Bill.”

MAYBE LYING DOWN wasn’t the best idea after all. In my dreams, I’m drowning. My lungs fill with black, stinking muck so thick it pulls me down like there are cinder blocks around my ankles. I dream of the Tar Pits back home, only I’m not throwing Liliane into the black lake. I wade in myself. First, to my ankles and then my knees. By the time I’m up to my waist, it’s hard to move, but by then it doesn’t matter. The sticky stuff pulls me down like some dumb bear who didn’t watch where he was going. I pass through the preserved branches of trees. The skeletons of small animals. Birds and runty gazers. Tangle myself in a forest of wolves and saber-toothed cats, their ribs folding around me like I’m a bug in a venus flytrap. Then there are the big bones. Pool-table-size mammoth skulls. Legs the size of filing cabinets. I come to rest on the tip of a long tusk. The tar weighs me down so that the sharpened ivory goes all the way through me. I float there for years, a Flintstones shish kebab.

Hands reach down and grab my wrists. Pull me up through the muck.

I want to look around when I hit the surface, but my eyes are gummed tight by the tar. Someone holds my face. Uses their thumbs to wipe it away. When the hands let go, I cough up gallons of the thick black stuff, until my lungs work again.

Eventually I can get up on my knees, I grab hold of the tusk and pull it out of my stomach. Another bad idea. It’s like I’m back in the arena, where some fucking hellbeast has sliced me open. I have to grab my abdomen. Only the tar and my hands keep me from falling apart.

I’m not at the Tar Pits anymore. I’m by the other black filth at the treatment plant. I look around for Hesediel. She’s the only one who could have pulled me out, but I’m alone.

I stumble out of the plant and head north, crossing the freeways, then up Highland. Turn east and begin the long walk into Griffith Park.

Everything is on fire. The tar on my skin bubbles and burns as I follow the road up the hill.

By the time I make it to the mansion, the boiling tar has sealed my stomach closed. When I can use my hands again, my first instinct is to pull my gun. I reach back for the Colt, but the tar has fastened it to my body.

Shadows circle overhead.

In the sky, two flying things claw at each other. There’s so much smoke, I can’t tell if it’s angels or eagles.

I try to pull the Colt free. Turn round and round in a frantic moron dance. The gun won’t budge.

A golden, angelic knife falls blade first into the ground.

I get it now. I can help. I can make things right.

The knife sticks to my tarry hand, but the blade is clean enough to use.

I draw it through the tar and flesh holding my insides in place. It hurts so much I have to laugh. When the hole is big enough, I force my hand through the opening and cut a hole in my back. As the skin parts along my spine, I throw the blade away. Reach through my body and pull the Colt out through my stomach.

Free now, I point the pistol into the sky and shoot. Fire all six shots, but the gun keeps going. I pump round after round through the burning treetops.