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He pats me on the shoulder and I skulk out of the camper, right to where Daja is waiting for me on her Harley.
She gives me a crooked grin.
“You’re not getting it on with the father, are you? I’m not sure the Magistrate would approve.”
“Then it’ll have to be our little secret.”
She scoots forward on her seat.
“Get on.”
I settle on the back of the bike.
“I guess it’s official now. I’m your bitch.”
“Now you’re getting it,” Daja says.
She guns the engine and rides us back to the dog pack.
That night my dreams are all back in Pandemonium. I’m in a mansion in Griffith Park going from room to room using my na’at, my knife, and my gun to slaughter so many Wormwood members that I lose count. This time, though, I don’t just murder them in the mansion. The havoc finds a whole town of them in the Tenebrae. I lead them to the gallows truck and pull the lever to drop them. But I must have done something wrong because I fall, too. I feel a sharp pain in my throat as my neck snaps. Then I’m on the Tenebrae plains. I’m alone. I look at the sky and there are eyes staring down at me. I look at the mountains and see more eyes. There are eyes in the cracks in the road and every crevice of every rock in the wasteland.
I wake up and there’s a cold wind coming down from the mountains. When I settle down to sleep again, I can’t escape the feeling of all those eyes. The havoc is watching me, wondering if I’m their saboteur. And Wormwood is watching me, too. I can feel it. Between the two groups, I don’t know which scares me more.
Chains replaced and trucks repaired, we get moving in the eternally dull Tenebrae morning. The Magistrate doesn’t consult the map anymore. Before we move out, he gives us a pep talk from the roof of his Charger, waving the rolled-up map like Glinda the Good Witch’s wand. I have to stifle a yawn. We used to get pep talks before fighting in the arena. They weren’t much different from the Magistrate’s. One for all and onward to glory and all that crap. The problem with glory is that it seldom trickles down to the slobs doing the actual fighting. Glory is for generals, popes, and today, the Magistrate.
Before we move out, there’s another religious service. Creeps in robes. Burning crosses mounted on a couple of dead cars cannibalized for parts. Unlike the last service, the Magistrate decides to put in an appearance, so the dog pack has to shuffle over and sit through to the magic show. With the Empress and Cherry by his side, he blesses the havoc in so many languages that I lose count. It’s like watching TV preachers with my mom when my father was on the road and she’d been drinking. I keep waiting for the Magistrate to lay hands on a sham cripple who can suddenly, miraculously walk, and then pass the hat for donations. It’s all I can do not to spit, but the crowd eats it up. I want to hate them for it, but I can’t. When you’re drowning in Hell, even a cement life jacket can look good.
Finally, he shuts up and heads for his Charger. The dog pack goes back to our bikes and cars and mounts up while the havoc roars and grinds to life around us. A few minutes later we’re blasting down the road, and for the first time, motion feels good. The wind and dust scour the holy bullshit off my skin. It hurts and I like it. I’m already healed from last night’s stomping, but I don’t want the others to know, so a little scorched skin will help that. But mostly, I enjoy going blank. The total Zen mind of speed, noise, and exhaust fumes. We travel for hours that way. Hell, it could be days, for all I know. I’m a blissful nothing in the center of a holy shitstorm, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I am one with the hot-rod universe, the angel and meat part of me in sync as the road blurs under us. The mountains crawl around us. I could do this forever. I want to do it. But nothing beautiful lasts long Downtown.
A blue flare pops up from the roof of the Charger and the havoc begins to slow. The road is dustier than usual today, so it takes me a minute to see why.
There’s a small town ahead. Great. How to go from Zen bliss to a massacre in three easy steps. I don’t want to do this today, but there’s no backing down while I’m in the dog pack. And now I have a ringside seat.
The Magistrate climbs out of the Charger with his telescope. The Empress, who’s riding with him, gets out and he hands her the spyglass. Cherry climbs down out of the ambulance and totters over. Whispers something in the Magistrate’s ear. She points hard in the direction of the town. The Magistrate takes another look and sends her back to the ambulance. I get the impression she doesn’t love being sent home, but she does it anyway. What’s she so anxious to tell him about and what’s he so exci
ted about that he practically shoves the Empress back into the car?
A second later a red flare explodes above us. The havoc spreads out across the desert as the Charger speeds off. The dog pack and the others roar off after him. It takes just two or three minutes to reach the town and we spread out in a semicircle out front. There are vehicles by some of the buildings. Mostly soccer-mom and golfer-dad passenger cars. A couple of SUVs. Some of the hoods are up and a lot of the tires are flat. Even with our breakdowns, this bunch is in a lot worse shape than we are. Johnny points out the outlines of other vehicles parked in a half-collapsed garage on one side of town and in the front-booth area of a burned-out café on the other. Probably some of their few working vehicles. Smart move keeping them out of the dust in this shittier than usual area of the desert.
Unlike the other towns, no one comes out to see what all the noise is about. We sit for a couple of minutes until the Magistrate gives the signal to cut our engines. He steps out of the Charger gently, like Dad picking up his little girl at ballet class. He’s all smiles and no sudden moves. When he lets the Empress out, they walk arm in arm out in front of the havoc. Daja starts her bike to go up front with him, but he holds up a hand for her to stop.
I go over to her.
“What’s he doing?”
“He has to do this every now and then. Some towns are more chickenshit than others. He’s good at it. Let him do his job.” She looks at me. “And you do yours. Get back on your bike.”
I go back to my Harley. Take out the Maledictions and offer one to Gisco on my right. He shakes his head. The twins are on my left. I offer them a couple. One shakes her head and the other waves an admonishing finger. I roll my eyes, but put the cigarettes away.
The Magistrate and Empress stand arm in arm like the monster-movie American Gothic.
“Greetings,” he calls. “Like you, we are travelers through this strange country. It would be our privilege to meet with you. We’ll be dining soon and are quite well stocked. Would some of you care to join us?”
We’re in front of a run-down little motel, the kind you see along Route 66, but not the quaint kind you stay in. It’s more like the ones where you check in for an hour and come out with crabs or what in gentler times they called a “social malady.” It’s a series of separate bungalows painted a shit brown as dull and dead as the land. It’s the Bates Motel for desert rats and lost souls more afraid of staring at the bruised Tenebrae sky than of knife-wielding mama’s boys in the shower.
The motel office door opens and a couple of Hellions in dust masks and bandannas walk out. Then more. It looks like we found a whole damned Hellion town. The dog pack’s Mohawked Hellion—I finally learned her name is Lerajie—looks restless.
I lean to the twins.
