Devil Said Bang (Sandman Slim 4)

“Duck-and-cover weird. Take the lady downstairs. She can fill you in.”

Brimborion wants to ask more questions. Deumos takes his arm and leads him away.

The Hellion hog rumbles to life. I slip out the back of the hotel and head north on Rodeo Drive. There’s always a pang of nostalgia here. Once upon a time I got into a kaiju smackdown with Mason’s attack dog, Parker, and almost burned the street to the ground. But that was almost a year ago and I’ve forgiven it for being so crowded with rich assholes. And for being so flammable.

I blow up Sunset heading north. My burned hand aches from working the throttle but that’s just how it is.

Off the Boulevard, the road is a mess. Earthquakes tore up the asphalt. Fires melted what was left, and when it cooled it was like a lava bed, full of frozen waves and sudden dips. There aren’t a lot of repairs going on up here. No percentage. There’s nothing but scorpions and lost Tartarus ghosts out this way.

People don’t go where I’m going for fun. It’s not smart to take the direct route, so I turn off the main street onto winding two-lane roads that circle scorched hills and abandoned movie-mogul estates before dropping off into hidden canyons. It’s midnight in a coal-mine dark out here except for the bike’s headlight. I open up the throttle and the roadbed shakes and cracks under my wheels. Lines spread around me like thin bolts of black lightning. The edges of the road sag. Chunks break off and fall into the dark. Most roads north of Hollywood are suicide roads, streets so fucked up by underground blood tides and quakes that they could collapse into sinkholes at any minute. This is my way of keeping things interesting for whoever is following me.

I’m working from the idea that coming out to no-man’s-land will encourage my assassin to make his or her move. And being in the boonies will give me a better chance of running the hell away without any freelance shooters or red leggers in town taking potshots at me when I go down. I might have spooked my assassins by not lying down and dying. If I give them a head start on the deed, let them get to me half dead, maybe it will encourage them to come out in the open to finish the job.

That’s the idea. Truth is, I’m not even a hundred percent sure that I’m being followed. I hope I am. I better be. I don’t want to have to do any of this again. I’ll know soon enough.

There are lights ahead. I kill the bike’s headlight and ease off the throttle.

Back home, Coldwater Canyon is a pretty green slice of Heaven where nice parents take their happy kids for weekend hikes to expose them to the joys of nature, rabid coyotes, and Lyme disease. In Hell, the canyon walls are hundreds of feet high and impossible to climb. Twisted spires of wind-smoothed granite are the only things that break up the bare landscape. Millions of shadows swarm across the valley and up the sides of the spires and walls. They beat, slash, shoot, and boil each other in open lava pools again and again and they’ll do it until the end of time. Butcher Valley. This is where I found Wild Bill.

A couple of hundred yards around the valley is a guard station. We have these all over Hell. I have no idea why. No one has ever done a dine-and-dash out of any of Hell’s punishment territories. My theory is that the stations are for the guards. You have to be a real fuckup to get dumped out here. The legions don’t have brigs or courts-martial. They have babysitting dead assholes for ten thousand years with no days off. Worse, every year in Hell is a leap year.

Considering tonight’s itinerary, I didn’t bother putting on a shirt. Why throw good clothes after bad? I heel down the kickstand and cut the bike’s engine before the lowlifes at the guard station notice me.

I’m wearing the leather jacket that prick Ukobach ruined with his sword. It seemed appropriate. I unzip it and toss it on the ground by the bike. All the way up the canyon I’ve been debating whether or not I should take off Lucifer’s armor. It would make what happens next more dramatic. On the other hand, without my angel half, Hell’s fetid air is like Kryptonite to my lungs and the armor is the only thing that lets me breathe. Without it I’ll probably choke to death before anyone finds me. Which brings me to the other point I’m going over. In a life full of dumb stunts, am I hitting a new level of idiot behavior? I’m alone and trusting my life to people who had me in a barbecue pit a couple of days ago.

The burns on my right hand are just about healed but I’ve never tried invoking a Gladius with an injured hand. I take a half-empty bottle of Aqua Regia from one of the bike’s saddlebags, have a long drink, and decide to keep my armor on. There’s going to be drama galore even if I’m in my Tin Man zoot suit.

I could use just a little help  right now, Saint James. I swear to God if I live through this, we’re going  to have a frank and honest talk about our feelings while I cut the Key to  the Room of Thirteen Doors out of your chest with a chop saw.

I’m feeling light-headed. Fear will do that. I got it sometimes in the arena when I knew they were going to throw something special at me but I didn’t know what. I pick up my leather jacket and bite down hard on the sleeve. It would be a shame to live through this having bitten off my tongue.

I don’t know what to say, Candy. We only had a couple of days together but they were a hell of a couple of days. Sorry for letting myself get stuck here. Talk about a long-distance relationship. If I live through this, I’ll tell you all about the new big stupid thing I did. If I die, just add it to the long list of bullshit you don’t need to hear.

I always wondered what Lucifer felt when God hit him with the final thunderbolt. The one that scorched and dented his theoretically invulnerable angelic armor.

This should be interesting.

I manifest the Gladius. It burns my injured hand but not enough to stop. I hold it out and count to three. Then swing it.

Whatever it is I feel when the Gladius hits my chest, it’s not pain. It’s something so far beyond pain that my human brain can’t register it. The only way I know I’ve made contact is that I’m knocked flat on my back with a heady bouquet of burning skin and seared metal in my nose. I don’t think the Middle Way smells like this. Missed it again, Bill.

I’m done fighting and looking for answers. I got mine.

What did that last thunderbolt feel like?

Nothing at all.

Good night, moon.

I drift for a million years. I’m in Mr. Muninn’s cavern. Samael is with him. They’re playing Operation. The buzzer goes off when Samael tries to take out the funny bone.>“I was there.”

She clasps her hands in front of her.

“You shouldn’t have been so shy. We would have welcomed you into the circle.”

“Thanks, but I’m allergic to seeing myself executed.”

She makes a tsk sound with her teeth.