The Kill Society

Traven looks blank.

“I’m not sure which passage you mean.”

The Magistrate smiles.

“Do not be shy, Father. Now is a time to shine. Come. Say it with me: ‘But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters …’”

Traven joins in.

“‘And all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone …’”

The Magistrate stops and lets Traven finish on his own.

“‘Which is the second death,’” he says.

“The second death,” says the Magistrate.

He turns to me.

“Do you see?”

I look at him, wishing for a cigarette I could grind into his face.

“I used to go to a club called Second Death,” I say. “Skull Valley Sheep Kill played there. Are we going to a show?”

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, we are. And you shall be the ringmaster.”

“It’s been a tough day for Billy. Let him have a little fun.”

“Billy is a good boy. His reward will come soon enough. As will yours. Come.”

I follow him to the town’s pitiful leaders. He pulls five forward. I look around and find Cherry in the crowd. I wonder if this freak show is because she said anything about me. I need to get her alone later.

The Magistrate clears his throat and speaks to the five.

“Mr. Pitts here is a man of great violence. He proved that yesterday. He proved it a few moments ago. And soon he will prove it again.”

He repeats his little speech in several languages for the town leaders. They shuffle their feet and look at each other.

“I don’t know what you have planned, but you can leave me out of it,” I say.

“No, I cannot, Mr. Pitts. This is for your benefit as well as theirs.”

“What is?”

At the Magistrate’s signal, the canvas covering the old truck is pulled back. There are upright posts at either end of the flatbed, with a longer post connecting them. Every few feet along the horizontal post are knotted ropes. I’ve seen some shit, but this makes me blink.

It’s a traveling gallows.

“Which one?” says the Magistrate, pointing to the five losers.

I look at the gallows.

“For that?”

“Of course.”

I point to Daja.

“How about her?”

I point to the Magistrate.

“How about you? Think I can’t make it happen?”

He laughs and turns to the townspeople.

“See? As I said, man of great violence.”

He walks over to me.

“Do not pretend that you have never done something similar in the past. Decided who in the crowd, even among innocents, should die.”

For a fraction of a second, I flash back to fighting in the arena in Pandemonium. I killed everything they threw at me back then. I never asked who they were or why they were there. But this feels different.

I shake my head to clear it. The Magistrate is spookier and spookier. I don’t want to take a chance he can read something in my face that will give me away.

I say, “What if I don’t want to play?”

“Come come. We both know the answer to that.”

Daja doesn’t go for her gun. She pulls out a tanto and holds it across Traven’s throat.

“It’s all right,” he says. Traven even smiles. “Let them have me. I’m ready.”

“What a brave man. What a great soul,” the Magistrate says. “Such a shame it would be to sacrifice him because of your inaction.”

I stare at the five quaking assholes in front of me. I hate the whole town for being here. For choosing the Tenebrae over Hell. They thought their punishment would be too much and that they could run for it. But punishment doesn’t give up, and it has all eternity to find you down here.

“Mr. Pitts?” says the Magistrate.

“Give me a fucking minute.”

He checks his watch.

“Exactly one minute.”

I glance at Traven. He nods to say it’s all right. The prick is way too eager to go to Tartarus, for my taste. I bet Cherry’s heart is doing backflips watching the Magistrate make me do his monkey dance.

“Thirty seconds, Mr. Pitts,” the Magistrate says.

I look over the townies’ faces. Spot someone trying to pretend none of this is happening. His hands are in his pockets. I can see their outline as he moves them around.

I walk over.

“What’s in your pockets?”

“Nothing,” he croaks.

I grab him by the collar and rip off a pocket. A collection of doll heads, large and small, falls onto the ground. He begins to shake. There’s something else. A small pocketknife. I squat down, pretending to examine the doll heads as I slip the knife into my boot. Then I drag the guy back to the Magistrate.

“Him,” I say.

“I’ve already picked the volunteers,” he says.

“You told me to choose. I chose.”

The Magistrate looks at his watch, then at me.

Traven shouts, “What are you doing? Let them take me.”

The Magistrate turns to him.

“You never volunteered before, Father. Are you embarrassed now that you have a friend here? Does it make you afraid that God can see you, too?” He turns to the city council. In several languages he says, “Do you understand what is happening? Will one of you take his place?”

None of them makes a peep.

The Magistrate comes closer to me and says quietly, “Why him?”

“He kicked my dog.”

The Magistrate grins.

“Then by all means let us rectify this atrocity. Bring him,” he tells to the crew on the gallows truck. They climb down and drag the doll man over.

“What are you doing?” says Traven. “Why him over me?”

I show him a couple of doll heads I picked up.

He says, “You think he hurts children.”

“He did something to get damned.”

“But you don’t know. They could belong to his own children.”

“They don’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely.”

I get close enough to whisper to him. Daja pushes the knife into his throat hard enough to draw a bead of blood, and it takes a lot to ignore that.

I say, “You’re the one who told me that when things happen not to try and stop them.”

“Not like this,” he says.

I step back.

“Then you should have been more specific.”

What happens next doesn’t take long at all.

The doll man is dragged onto the gallows, his hands are tied behind his back, and one of the crew puts the noose around his neck. The Magistrate says something to him and stands at the edge of the flatbed, a preacher addressing his flock. Charlie Manson laying out the plans for Helter Skelter.

He says, “As Father Traven reminded me, Revelation 21:8 tells us that liars ‘shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.’”

As he finishes, someone pulls the lever. The trapdoor opens. And the doll man falls through. The havoc howls and cheers, which covers up the sound of his neck snapping. Doll Man swings at the end of the rope for a few seconds before disappearing, his soul sucked into the Hell below Hell. A few last doll heads fall, bouncing out of the truck and onto the ground. Damned souls and Hellions scramble to get souvenirs.

I watch it all thinking one thing: Survive. Revenge and pity and whatever else there is comes later.

I guess my chances of getting over my PTSD just went out the window.

Daja puts her knife back in its sheath.

“Welcome to the team,” she says to me.

“I’m not on your team ever, sister.”

“You are and you don’t even know it. That’s how it was with the father. Isn’t that right, Padre?”

She smacks Traven on the ass and walks away.

I go over to him.

“Did you have to choose?”

He nods.

“In Blue Heaven. I did what you did. I picked the worst person I could find.”

“You did the right thing.”

He shakes his head. Draws in a breath and lets it out.

“I was a man of God. Now I’m just a murderer.”

“Why don’t we ask God what he thinks? Oh, that’s right. He isn’t around anymore. We’re on our own.”

“I don’t believe that and neither do you.”

“It’s done. We do what we have to do to survive and we get away the first chance we get. Right?”

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

“You can. Trust me.”

He gives me a look.

“You’re sure about the man you chose?”

“One hundred percent.”

“I want to believe you.”

“We’re in Hell. No one is innocent.”

“Especially us. Because we know better.”

“I’m getting out of here and I’m taking you with me. What you do after that is your business.”

Traven walks away as a stream of havoc members come by to pat me on the back, punch my arm, and shake my hand. I smile and nod like it’s the Oscars and I just won Best Supporting Asshole.

The Magistrate is off talking to the rest of the town. In ones and twos, they drift over to the havoc looking miserable. Reluctant new recruits to the cause.

I walk to the truck and drop back into the driver’s seat. I don’t want to let Traven see me feeling the way I feel. Did I just cross a line I can’t uncross? I know the doll man was a bad guy. I know it. This isn’t the first time I’ve executed someone. I murdered a whole houseful of Wormwood bastards just a few weeks ago. Still. This feels different.

The next time the Magistrate tries to rope me into a dog and pony show like this, I’ll kill him, no matter what.

Daja rides up on her Harley. She pulls a couple of Hellion beers out of her saddlebags and hands me one. Clinks hers against mine and takes a long drink.

“We’ll be moving out soon,” she says. “When we get settled I’ll see about getting you better wheels.”

“Don’t bother.”

“It’s no bother. Brother.”

She drives away.

I sit there for a while looking out at the desert, not thinking. Letting my mind go blank for a few minutes.

Then I drink the beer.

THAT NIGHT IN Traven’s camper, neither of us has much to say. I hear a motorcycle stop outside and go to see who it is.

It’s Daja with another woman as big and bad as she is. Her hair is buzzed almost skinhead short, her face is fine-boned and graceful. Her skin is dark and heavy with Downtown warrior sigils. She almost looks like someone I could have met in the arena. She and Daja are on spidery Hellion Harleys.

I close the camper door and say, “It’s late and we need our beauty sleep. What do you want?”

They get off the bikes.

“Nothing,” says Daja. She throws me a set of keys. The other woman gets on the back of her Harley.

“Leave that piece of shit,” she says, pointing to my burned-out dream car. “This is yours from now on.”

I look the bike over. It’s a beautiful, horrifying machine, screaming power.

“And it’s not even my birthday.”

I look at both women.

“What if I don’t want it?”

Daja shrugs.

“No sweat off my ass, but the Magistrate would take it hard. You don’t want to upset him now that you’re best friends, do you?”

I weigh the keys in my hand. Put them in my pocket. When the time comes, it will be a lot easier getting away on the bike than the burned-out shit box I’ve been driving.

“Anything else?” I say.

“A thank-you wouldn’t hurt.”

“Yes, it would. I’d have bad dreams all night.”

Daja kicks her Harley awake and revs it a couple of times. Before she pushes up the kickstand, she takes something small from a jacket pocket and holds it out.

“Here,” she says. “The bike is from the Magistrate, but these are from the havoc.”

I go to her and take what she’s holding. It’s two packs of Maledictions.

“For these, I’ll definitely say thanks.”

Daja leans back to the woman behind her.

“What did I tell you? Ugly, but at least a cheap date.”

The other woman laughs as they start away. She blows me a kiss and spits at my boots, but misses by a mile. No sharpshooter there. As they peel out, I go back inside the camper.

Traven looks up from a book. He’s been reading it all night. It looks holy. Probably trying to figure out a loophole in salvation.

“What was that about?” he says.

“Blood money.”

He makes a face and I put the Maledictions on a table well away from me. He goes back to reading and I curl up on the floor. For about five minutes. Then, without getting up, I grab one of the packs and rip it open.

Fuck it. I was headed for Hell the day I was born. A nephilim Abomination and natural-born killer. Where else was I going?

I take one of Traven’s matches and light a cigarette. Hold it out to him. He hesitates, doing calculations in his head. Sins versus cigarettes. How many wheezing angels can smoke on the head of a pin?

Finally he takes it and I light one for myself.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he says.

“Yep.”

“It’s a sin.”

“Smoking is part of God’s great plan, Father.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“I inferred it.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” he says.

“He forgave Cain for cracking open Abel’s head.”

“No. He didn’t.”

“No? I thought he did.”

“No.”

“Funny. He said he did.”

Traven coughs.

“You knew Cain?”

“Yeah. He was the doorman at Second Death. Nice guy.”

Traven taps some ash into an overturned jar lid.

He says, “Lying is a sin, my son.”

“I’m an angel. Sin washes right off.”

“Half angel. Part of you is still human.”

“Not the fun part.”

“I wish I could say the same about myself.”

“We’ll get through this and you’ll have a billion years to repent.”

“I’m not sure that’s enough time.”

I tap some ash into the lid.

“If Brigitte was here, what would she say?”

“I don’t know.”

“She’d say shut up and smoke.”

He thinks about it.

“Yes. I suppose she would.”

So he does and we do. I lie down on the floor when I finish the Malediction. He blows out the lamp.

In the dark he says, “Do you think we could burn that gallows truck before we leave?”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

WE STAY ON the ley line the Magistrate plotted. It’s nice to be on a bike again.

Travel is like Traven said. What happened in the little town isn’t an everyday thing. Sometimes we travel for days without seeing anything, and even if we find a town, chances are it’s deserted. The Magistrate, Cherry, and Traven check the map each morning, but I think it’s all for show. We’re just going to follow this line until the Magistrate changes his mind or we fall off the edge of Hell into a deep, dark void. Some days, that doesn’t sound half bad.

Then we hit a string of populated ghost towns along a range of mountains so dark they could be piles of black powder ready to explode everything in sight. Not a bad idea.

In some of the towns we even find a few Hellions, fallen angels who’ve run away from the chaos of Pandemonium to the monotony of the desert. But it doesn’t matter who’s there. Each town is the same horror show we had the other day. The Magistrate interrogates a few bigwigs, pulling more languages than I thought possible out of his ass. Then the gallows come up, and someone—sometimes more than one—gets the rope. The only difference is that I don’t have to choose again.

When we camp, the Magistrate has a regular swami session with Cherry. I get the feeling that whatever he’s after, he’s been looking for it for a long time. What the hell could pull someone like him all the way through Hell, Blue Heaven, the Tenebrae, and who knows where else? I need to see what’s under the tarp.

Now that I can walk around more I can get my own food at center camp. Even though I’m theoretically part of the group now, no one seems to want to buddy up to me, which gives me a lot of time alone. Fine with me. It gives me a chance to watch the guards around the tarp truck.

Daja acts friendly enough, but she or the other woman—Wanuri is her name—always seems to be around. I don’t know if they’re spying on me, or now that I can sit at the cool-kids table, Daja wants to draw me deeper into the havoc. I’ll go along with whatever happens for now and see where it gets me.

THE PROBLEM WITH the Tenebrae isn’t just the monotony of the landscape, but how your sense of time evaporates. A few days in, it occurs to me that it might be more than a few days. A week. Two? Hell, months, for all I know. I wonder how long some of these bastards have been riding with the Magistrate. Maybe years and they don’t even know it. Maybe that’s what’s going on with all the funny languages. Some of the townies—and even a few in the havoc—could be goddamn antediluvian.

We pull into a town a lot bigger than the others. Not quite a city, but it’s more than the usual scattering of buildings. Around us are dead neon signs and dusty hotels sporting roulette wheels and slot machines. A post-apocalyptic Reno.

These days, I ride up front with Daja, Wanuri, and some of their dog pack. They don’t talk to me much, but I don’t let it hurt my feelings. I get to see a lot more up here. Some days more than I want to. Like today.

The routine is the same. Round up everyone—not an easy job considering the size of the place—find the leaders or the least brain-dead, then settle in for an afternoon of twenty questions. The Magistrate does a bang-up job today, playing for a larger crowd than usual. His gestures are bigger, his voice louder. He laughs like a hyena and snarls like a Bengal tiger when anybody gets out of line. He practically dances up and down the line of mopey skeletons he’s decided to interrogate.

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