Hollywood Dead (Sandman Slim 10)

I fire a few more rounds, this time at her head and her feet. She has to curl up into a fetal position on the chair to not get hit.

I say, “Tell me about the faction.”

“No. Tell me about Hell, Sandman Slim.”

One of her chair legs explodes when I shoot it. She goes down on her side. It knocks the wind out of her.

I grab another folding chair and slide it down the lane to her. She opens it and sits down.

She says, “I think the woman upstairs is going to be mad if you keep shooting her furniture.”

“After what I did to your men, you really don’t think I’ll hurt you?”

“I think you’re a killer. I think you’re vicious and an animal when cornered. But, no, you’re not going to hurt me. It’s not something you do or you would be doing it already instead of playing William Tell.”

“I’m not Sandman Slim. I’m not a torturer. Damn. I don’t impress you at all.”

“Not much.”

I put the gun in my waistband and walk quickly down the lane. She tries not to react, but her shoulders stiffen when I get close.

“If I proved to you that I was Sandman Slim, would you talk?”

“But you’re not, so what does it matter?”

“But if I did?”

“Not even then, Boy Scout.”

“Let’s test that.”

I yank her to her feet and pull her into a shadow at the end of the alley.

When we’re in, I push her ahead of me into the streets of Pandemonium.

The smell hits her first. It’s what gets most new arrivals. Sulfur. Burning blood and shit. The sour fear sweat of a billion losers. I don’t like being here. I sure didn’t plan on it and now that I’ve done it, I wonder if it’s a huge mistake. But there’s one thing I have going for me. I’m used to this misery. Marcella isn’t, and so far, she’s not handling it well. She’s a few feet ahead of me, on her knees, puking into a ditch full of burned vehicles and charred Hellion bones. I sit down on the collapsed wall of a deserted building.

When she’s done, she takes off her jacket, uses it to wipe her mouth, and throws it into the ditch. She tries to stand, but her legs are too shaky.

“How are you doing this?” she says.

“Doing what?”

“The special effects. They’re good. Did you get Disney to build it?” She staggers to her feet and sweeps her arm at the ruins. “Mr. Stark’s Wild Ride, right next to the Matterhorn and the spinning Sleeping Beauty’s castle.”

I’m actually impressed at her bullheadedness.

“You don’t believe this is Hell.”

“Not for a second,” she says.

“How do you imagine Hell?”

“Two more minutes with you.”

“What would it take to convince you this really is the bad place?”

She kicks a stone away with the toe of her shoe. “You can’t. This is nothing God would make or permit.”