Kill the Dead

AFTER I DROP Allegra back home, I wander the streets for a few hours. I can’t go back to Max Overload. Kasabian’s fear will leak through the door and give me a headache. Too bad. I’d like to see him. I’m definitely seeing beyond the normal spectrum. I might be able to see in the dark. The streets are made of light. People are the most interesting thing to watch. Their glow is different. Their light doesn’t come from the particles of their physical form, but from silver-colored balls of plasma inside each of them. I think it’s their souls. I’d like to see if Kasabian has one of those balls bouncing around behind his eyes. I’m careful to avoid mirrors and windows as I walk. I don’t want to see my reflection and what might or might not be there. I walk down to Wilshire and follow it all the way out to Sunset, where it skirts the hills leading up to the canyons and the strongholds of the old super rich. I hit Lucifer’s number on the cell. After a few rings it goes to voice mail. “The Vigil is using Drifters. I just got braced by two of them. Stay inside and don’t let anyone in. If you have to let someone in, make sure it’s someone you know a hundred percent. I’ll check in later.” If the city falls apart, will the elites be better or worse off in their hilltop mansions than the rest of us down here in the flats? The Drifters will clear us out first, but at least there are possible escape routes on the freeways and even the ocean. When the dead are through with us, they’ll wander into the hills and the canyons will fill up with nouveaux Drifters. The civilians up there won’t have anyplace to go. The mansions won’t hold and the woods will be death traps. Once again the future has screwed us because we never got the jetpacks we were promised as kids. I dial Kasabian. He won’t answer when he sees it’s me, but I leave a message about the Vigil and tell him to keep calling Lucifer until he gets through. I circle back into Hollywood. Bamboo House of Dolls is closed, so I go to Donut Universe. Someone is smoking in the parking lot. The part of me that isn’t Stark smells the industrial processes that created the cigarette, the injected nicotine, the fog of carcinogens. The Stark part of me smells whiskey, music, and pretty girls. He’ll be gone soon enough. “What’s fresh?” I ask the counter girl. Everyone on staff at Donut Universe wears springy antennae. Hers bob charmingly as she answers. “The apple fritters and the bear claws just came out.” “I’ll take a fritter and a black coffee.” As she gets my food I wonder if I should tell her what’s coming. That she should turn off the lights and close early, but I know what she’d think. The concept of zombie hordes is something regular people have to experience to believe. Maybe she’ll be one of the lucky ones who gets to see it from a distance and makes it home in one piece. Maybe I’ll be ripping out her spine tomorrow. I hope she makes it home first. It would suck to be killed and reanimated while wearing corporate antennae. Though, it wouldn’t be as bad as reanimating dressed like a crab or a taco because you were pimping a new restaurant when you died. There’s a difference between a bad death and the universe stopping by to take a great big shit on you. I pay her and sit in a booth by a window at the far end of the place where it’s quiet. I sip my coffee and dial Lucifer again. No answer. There are sirens in the distance. Cops and fire trucks. Three, then four plumes of black smoke curl into the sky south across the city. The aether twitches and twists, giving off a metallic smell of panic. If I hold my breath and sit very still, I can hear the Drifters moving underground. They sound like ants scratching at the packed dirt walls of their caves, digging out new tunnels, undermining the soil until they pull the whole city down into the Jackal’s Backbone. “Are you okay?” I look around. Antenna Girl is standing by the booth. “What?” “Are you okay? Do you know you’ve been sitting here for two hours and you haven’t moved? I mean totally haven’t moved.” I glance up at the clock over the counter. She’s right. Two hours have passed. My coffee and fritter have long since gone cold. “I got lost. I have a lot on my mind.” “I guess so. I’ve never seen anybody sit that still that long before. I couldn’t decide if you were high or meditating.” I smile. “Both. Neither. If I told you something unbelievable, would you listen without running away?” “Okay.” “You hear those sirens? See that smoke? Something is going to happen. Maybe tonight. Maybe sooner. But something is going to happen and it’s going to be bad. Go home. Lock the door and turn on the TV. Call your friends and tell them to do the same. Most of them won’t listen, but some will and later you’ll know you saved them.” She squints. “Are you a cop?” “Never.” She curls her lips in a smile. “Maybe you’re my guardian angel.” “Could be. Of course, not all angels are created equal.” “What does that mean?” “There’s those kinds of angels.” I point up. “And those kinds of angels.” I point down. She leans her hip against the table. “Which kind are you?” “I haven’t decided yet. Probably neither. But please don’t tell Dad I said that.” “Angels have daddy issues, too?” You have no idea, Antenna Girl. The silver light inside her glows brightly. I say, “You think I’m crazy. What else can you think? But being crazy doesn’t automatically mean I’m wrong. Stay in tonight and be safe. What have you got to lose? It’s one night. By tomorrow night, it’ll be done one way or another.” “Are all angels as serious as you?” “I’m sober and I think I just quit smoking. That’ll depress anyone, even an angel.” “Please don’t tell me you’re vegan, too.” “Even God isn’t vegan.” “That’s a relief.” She looks at me. The wheels are turning in her head. I can almost hear her thoughts, but not quite. “Okay, Johnny Angel. Maybe I’ll order in Chinese tonight. How’s that?” “Or you could pick some up on the way home. Don’t want to put the delivery guy in danger, right?” “Fine. Go and tell Freddy I said to refill your coffee. The stuff you have is turning to paint varnish.” “Take care of yourself, Janet.” “How did you know my name is Janet?” “You’re still wearing your name tag.” She looks at her blouse. Unclips the tag. “For a second I thought you were psychic.” “No. I just like donuts.” A helicopter shoots by overhead heading south toward the smoke. Janet puts on the coat hanging over her arm, gives me a little wave, and leaves.