The Getaway God

  Dedication

  This book was finished on William S. Burroughs’s

  one-­hundredth birthday. This one is for you, Bill.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my agent, Ginger Clark, and my editor, Diana Gill. Thanks also to Pamela Spengler-­Jaffee, Kelly O’Connor, Caroline Perny, Shawn Nicholls, Dana Trombley, Emma Coode, and the rest of the team at Harper Voyager. Thanks also to Dave Barbor, Sarah LaPolla, and Holly Frederick. Big thanks to Martha and Lorenzo in L.A. And thanks to Suzanne Stefanac, Pat Murphy, Paul Goat Allen, and Lustmord for the sound track to Hell. As always, thanks to Nicola for everything else.

  Epigraph

  They stood on the far shore of a river and called to him. Tattered gods slouching in their rags across the waste.

  —­CORMAC MCCARTHY, THE ROAD

  “I’m very brave generally,” he went on in a low voice: “only to-­day I happen to have a headache.”

  —­LEWIS CARROLL, THROUGH THE LOOKING-­GLASS

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  The Getaway God

  About the Author

  Also by Richard Kadrey

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  YOU’D THINK THE end of the world would be exciting, but this apocalypse is about as much fun as dental surgery.

  Take the current situation. Sitting at a dead stop in traffic, as lively as a stone angel over a tomb. Not one car has moved in ten minutes. It’s bumper to bumper on Sunset Boulevard, which is nothing new, but this kind of traffic is 24/7 these days, as it seems like half the city is hightailing it out of Dodge all at once. And the rain. It’s been coming down nonstop for two weeks. It’s like L.A. lost a bet with God and the old bastard is pissing his Happy Hour whiskey all over the city. Which, when you get down to it, isn’t far from the truth. This isn’t how I figured I’d ring in the apocalypse.

  “Any time now, Jeff Gordon,” says Candy from the passenger seat. “I thought this was supposed to be a car chase.”

  “By current L.A. standards, this is a car chase.”

  “Current L.A. seriously blows. And I think my boots are starting to grow gills.”

  We’re in an Escalade I stole in Westwood. I hate these showboats, but it can handle the flooded streets and gets me high enough over the other cars that I can keep an eye on a cherry black ’69 Charger up ahead. There’s a guy inside that U.S. Marshal Wells, grand high shitbird boss of the Golden Vigil, wants to talk to.

  “I should go up there, rip the fucker’s door off, and stuff him in the back of the van.”

  “And you could take a brass band so no one misses the show. Your boss would love that.”

  “He wants discreet, but he knows I’m not good at discreet. I swear he did this to me on purpose.”

  I reach for the Maledictions in my coat pocket. Drop them and the lighter on the floor on Candy’s side. She picks them up and taps out a cigarette.

  “Marshal Wells is a man of God,” says Candy, grinning. “He only has your best interests at heart.”

  “Abraham was a man of God and he almost did a Jack the Ripper on his kid to prove it.”

  “See? You get off light. Your father figure just sends you out in the rain to drown.”

  Candy flicks the lighter and sparks a cigarette. Hands it to me and rolls down her window to let out the smoke.

  I say, “Wells is a father figure like I’m one of Santa’s elves.”

  “There you go. You’re getting into the Christmas spirit. I’ll have to get you a pointy hat with a bell so you feel like a real elf.”

  “You already gave me the Colt. I thought that was my present. And I gave you the guitar.”

  “That was different. Those were ‘We might die tonight’ presents. And it was November, so they don’t count.”

  “This is just you angling to get another present.”

  “It’s the end of the world, sweetheart. Crack open the piggy bank.”

  “We spent the piggy bank on Max Overdrive.”

  She shrugs.

  “That’s your problem. I already have something picked out for you, so don’t try to weasel out of this. I want a real damned present on real damned Christmas morning.”

  I puff the Malediction. Brake lights go dark in the distance.

  “Yes, ma’am. Anything else? Eight maids a-­milking maybe?”

  “Are they hot maids? ’Cause I never had a nine-­way before, so, yeah.”

  Somewhere far away a car moves. More brake lights go off ahead of us. In the distance, I actually see a truck inch forward.

  “It’s a Christmas miracle,” shouts Candy. “God bless us every one.”

  Like some great wheezing machine no one has fired up since D-­Day, cars around us begin to creep tentatively forward. I take my foot off the brake and let the Escalade roll.

  At that moment the sky opens up. I hit the windshield wipers, but a second after the glass goes clear, it’s drenched again. I roll down my window and stick my head out. The Malediction is instantly soggy. I spit it out. The sky has gone dark gray, dulling the colors on all the cars. In the downpour I lose sight of the Charger.

  “Do you see it?”

  Candy has her head out her window.

  “It’s about a block ahead,” she says. Then, “Wait. It’s got its signal on. I think it’s turning. Yeah, there it goes.”

  Traffic lurches to a stop. Horns honk. ­People shout at each other.

  “Wait. He’s gone?”

  “Yeah, around the first corner.”

  It’s a sea of brake lights again. No one is going anywhere.

  “Know what?”

  “What?” says Candy.

  “I’m about to call in that brass band. Get your head back inside the car.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  Traffic is ass to nose again. I put the Escalade in reverse and ram the car behind me. Put it in drive and ram the car ahead. Reverse again, then drive the van up onto the sidewalk. I hit the horn and floor it.

  Angelinos are used to desert heat and chocolate-­colored smog skies. Rain is kryptonite to these ­people, so there’s hardly anyone outside. The few rain birds hear me coming and jump out of the way. The only casualty of my sidewalk Le Mans is a sign outside a café and a bench outside a Chinese restaurant. No one’s used the damned thing in weeks and no one will until the world ends, which means it shouldn’t even be there, so fuck it.

  I turn hard at the corner. The rear end of the van fishtails and hits a mailbox. Letters explode like New Year’s confetti over the stalled cars.

  “Jerk,” says Candy. “Now ­people’s Christmas cards are getting wet.”

  “Will you shut up about Christmas and help me look for the car?”

  Traffic is a little lighter on the side street, so the Charger could still be ahead. Or have pulled off into a parking lot or another side street.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  On the next block is a row of warehouses. Distribution points. The kind of places that get goods from big warehouses and parcel them out to regular stores.

  “There,” says Candy. “By the open loading dock.”

  I look to where she’s pointing and spot the Charger. It’s sideways to the dock and the driver-­side door is open; not parked, but abandoned. I stop the Escalade and get out. Instantly, I’m soaked. My frock coat, motorcycle pants, and boots weren’t made for this Noah’s ark bullshit. It feels like I’ve gained twenty pounds before I take a step.

  Candy comes around the van. I start across the street.

 
“You got your gun?”

  She holds up her Swiss folding pistol. Unopened, it looks kind of like a skinny lunch box. She’s covered it with stickers from some of her favorite animes. FLCL. Ghost in the Shell. Blood. Appleseed. She pushes a button and the lunch box unfolds like a matte-­black Transformer into an extended 9mm pistol with a shoulder stock. She grins. She always grins when she gets to use her gun because she thinks she’s Modesty Blaise and who am I to tell her she’s not?

  “I’m going in the front. Go around the side and see if there’s a back way in. If you can’t get through it, make sure no one gets out.”

  As she starts away she says, “Be careful.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  “Right. That’s how you got all those scars. From being careful.”

  I wait for her to disappear around the side of the building before I go in. I jump up onto the Charger’s hood and from there onto the dock platform.

  It’s at least twenty degrees colder inside the warehouse. I spot maybe fifteen ­people working. Carrying boxes and driving forklifts. It’s a meat-­packing plant, prepping orders to take to butcher shops. I can see my breath in front of my face.

  Wells gave me a photo of the man I’m supposed to follow but I don’t see him among the faces up front. I head into the back of the plant to the big freezer. The entrance is covered with a thick plastic curtain with slits every ­couple of feet so forklifts can pass in and out. I grab a clipboard off a nail on the wall and stroll past a forklift coming the other way.

  Inside the freezer the real cold hits me. This isn’t muggy L.A. showers weather. This is penguin country. I swear my wet clothes start freezing to my body.

  They must be doing good business at the warehouse. The freezer stretches away in both directions, full of sides of beef on nasty-­looking meat hooks. I don’t want to go in unarmed, but I might as well try the discretion thing as long as I can. I take out the na’at instead of my gun. The na’at is a weapon I picked up in the arena in Hell. It collapses to no longer than a cop’s riot baton, but can extend like a spear or a whip. It isn’t always a quiet weapon because of all the screaming, but it’s more subtle than a Colt pistol.

  I snap open the na’at into a spear shape and move through the meat forest as quietly as I can. This might be a mistake. Maybe I should have checked the office first. But Wells didn’t say anything about the guy working here and most ­people when they’re scared head as far from the front door as possible. That’s back here. Still, after staring at row after row of dead cow, I’m getting bored and hungry. Then I spot a different kind of light a few rows ahead. It’s softer and more diffuse than in the rest of the freezer, and tinged in pink. I head for it and find Mr. Charger. He’s not alone.

  Thirteen of them stand in a circle in an open area in the back of the freezer. By open area, I mean there aren’t any sides of beef hanging back here, but there’s a hell of a lot of meat. They’ve made a whole cathedral of the stuff. Arches made from ribs, livers, hearts, and leg bones all frozen together. A vaulted ceiling from muscle trimmed from sides of beef hanging on high hooks. Their flesh church even has nave windows made of stitched-­together sheets of pig caul. The light back here is a milky crimson.

  All thirteen of them, six men and seven women, smile at me. Big and toothy.

  “It took you long enough to find us,” says Mr. Charger.

  “Sorry. I took a wrong turn at the pork chops.”

  “No worries. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

  I know I should watch the crazies, but I can’t take my eyes off the meat Notre-­Dame.

  “I love what you’ve done with the place. Ed Gein chic.”

  “Thank you. It took some time to get it just right.”

  “Who’s your decorator? We’re finishing my new place and there’s all this leftover chorizo. Maybe we could use it for a rumpus room.”

  Mr. Charger doesn’t say anything because he’s watching me as I see it.

  Not all the meat in the church is animal. There’s a human body cut into six pieces—­arms, legs, torso, and head—­hanging like nightmare piñatas over the smiling circle of freaks.

  Mr. Charger says, “Do you understand why you’re here?”

  “If you think I’m going to be the next one hanging from those hooks, you’re extremely mistaken.”

  Normally, I could probably handle a flock of unarmed fruit bats. Hell, the freezer is big enough that I could just run away if I broke a nail. But these particular fruit bats are all armed. Each holds a wicked-­looking motorized meat saw, like an oversize electric knife. Outwardly they all look calm, but they’re sweating, even in this cold. They smell of fear and adrenaline. The sweat steams from their bodies and collects at the ceiling like incense in their mad church.

  Mr. Charger shakes his head.

  “We’re not here to hurt you. You’re here to help us.”

  “How did you know I was coming?”

  Mr. Charger looks around at his friends.

  “God told us.”

  I shake my head.

  “I’m kind of acquainted with God and I don’t think he told you dick.”

  A thin redhead from the back says, “We mean the true God.”

  “Oh hell. You’re Angra worshipers, aren’t you? Is that what this is all about? I don’t mean to cramp your little chautauqua, but my boss wants a word with you. How about you put down the saws and you can come and be crazy where it’s warm?”

  A chuckle goes around the circle.

  “I’m not going with you because I’m not here for you. You’re here for us,” says Mr. Charger.

  “If you’re selling candy bars to go to summer camp, I’m tapped out right now.”

  Mr. Charger raises his meat saw. I move my weight onto my back leg, ready to move when he tells them to rush me.

  “We don’t want anything from you except to be our witness.”

  “To what?”

  “The sacrifice.”

  Without another word or a signal, all thirteen of them raise their meat saws to their throats.

  Mr. Charger is the first to shove the buzzing saw into his neck. He screams, but just for a second before the blade rips through his larynx and his throat fills with blood. He goes down twitching as the others fire up their own saws, following their leader’s example. It’s the same for all of them. A small scream as the blade tears into them. A gurgling as their voice box goes, the blood fills their throat and jets from their severed arteries. It only takes a few seconds and all thirteen are on the floor, their blood steaming on the cold metal. Their saws rattle and buzz where they dropped them.

  I’ve seen some cold moves in my time, I’ve fought and killed in Hell and on earth, but I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.

  Over the sound of the saws I hear voices. All the screaming got someone’s attention. That’s all I need. A warehouse of hysterical meat packers with big knives and cell phones. Imagine explaining this to a 911 operator. It might take awhile to get a patrol car. But still, it’s the principle of the thing. I’m not in the mood to deal with another crazed mob right now.

  They’re getting near me now and I let them. When the first few tough guys emerge from the rows of beef and see me in the meat cathedral surrounded by freezing corpses, they stop. Good. They’re not going to rush me but they’re still between me and the door. I pull the Colt and shoot three rounds into the floor by their feet. That alters their mood and sends them scurrying like sensible rats out of there.

  Only one person is still coming in my direction. Candy shoulders her way between the beef rows, her gun up, sweeping the room. But when she sees me, even she stops. For a second I can see it in her eyes. She wonders if I did this. Then she sees the meat saws and relaxes. She lowers her gun and comes over to me.

  “Oh man,” she says. “I mean. Oh man.”

 
; I go from saw to saw and turn them off. The sound is giving me a headache.

  “Yeah.”

  “What were they . . . ?”

  “It was a sacrifice to one of their idiot Angra gods.”

  “Couldn’t they have just had a bake sale?”

  I walk over and put my hand on her gun, lowering it to her side. I put my arm around her. I haven’t seen her this freaked out before. She presses against me.

  I say, “Wells is going to be pissed.”

  She nods.

  “He can’t blame you for this insanity.”

  “Wells blames me for tooth decay. He can sure blame me for this. But maybe there’s something I can do. Help me find a cooler and some dry ice.”

  There’s a stack of Styrofoam coolers just outside the freezer. I grab one and Candy gets plastic packets of dry ice. We go back into the cooler. I have to work fast. Someone’s called the cops by now. For all I know, one of the workers has a pistol in the back of their truck. There’s a lot of that going around these days. When we get back to the suicide circle, I tell Candy to go back and guard the door.

  “You just don’t want me to see you do it,” she says.

  “You’re right. But I also want you to guard the door.”

  “Okay.”

  She runs back to the freezer entrance. I turn on one of the meat saws and get to work. It doesn’t take long. Mr. Charger did the hard part himself. All I have to do is get through some gristle and the spinal cord so I can twist his head all the way off.

  When I do, I put it in the cooler and pack ice around it.

  Candy shakes her head when she sees me with the container.

  “I’ve dated some messed-­up ­people in my time.”

  “Write ‘Dear Abby.’ Let’s get out of here.”

  “Let’s.”

  There’s a nice dark shadow by a stack of boxes on the loading dock. I start to pull Candy through and stop.

  “What you said before. Eight maids and you. That’s a nine-­way. Where am I in all this?”