Aftermath (15 page)

I went to hit the giant again and he backhanded the sign and snapped it in half, the mangled yellow triangle bouncing across the asphalt. Before I could adjust and stab the guy with the rough edge of the metal pole, he punched me again.

The next wall I crashed into felt all soft and fuzzy. Or maybe that was my head.

My insides reminded me of a bowl of mashed potatoes as I squirmed, looking to determine up from down and my head from my ass. I was having a hard time. Clint, clearly having decided I’d crossed the line by bitch slapping him with street sign, closed in to finish the job he’d started, his knuckles white with his fury. If I hadn’t been about three pubic hairs away from unconsciousness I might have been scared.

The giant loomed over me, his swollen lips peeling back in a malevolent, bloody grin. “The angel will reward me well for your death.”

I stared up at all five of him and nodded. Well, it was more like my head lolled but whatever. I wasn’t going out on my knees like some chump. It was more like on my back since I hadn’t managed to get even that far before he caught up to me.

He raised his arm and I heard his knuckles pop just before his fist careened toward my skull. I contemplated ducking and dodging and blocking the punch but my body had other ideas. It lay there waiting, twitching and shuddering and contemplating shitting itself.

Fortunately not everyone was as brave as me.

There was a bright flash of light beneath me and gravity took over where my noodly appendages were incapable. Then there was a sudden drop that sent my stomach plummeting and the giant’s fist, not but a foot away, disappeared as a seam of energy was woven together, sealing the dimensional wall between us.

Then I hit the ground and everything went black.

Chapter Thirteen

Consciousness sucks.

The world popped into focus with a painful jolt. My eyes fluttered open and did their best to translate the images they were receiving. It wasn’t a very good job. Everything was blurry and swayed side to side. The only real good news reported to my brain was that there wasn’t a giant standing over me getting ready to pummel me into oblivion.

I sat up, my gaze resolving on the people hunched over me. Rahim stared at me impassively while Rachelle actually appeared concerned, her lips pursed and eyes narrow. Poe actually looked happy to see me for once.

If that wasn’t a sign of the apocalypse I didn’t know what was.

My head swiveled a little further around only to realize that was all of them. “Shit! Mike?”

“We couldn’t get to him in time,” Rachelle answered, her words hitting me harder than the giant had.

“Oh, hell…” I slumped back to the floor.

Rahim helped me to my feet. “No, he’s not dead, Frank. At least as far as we know,” he told me. “They took him, same as they had with Alexander.”

My eyes shifted to Poe.

“It was him they were drawing out with their trap,” he said. “I only managed to tell him that just before they took him.” Poe sighed. “It was too late by then, of course.”

I groaned, my body not like the concept of being vertical. “What the hell do they want with him? For that matter, what the hell did they want with you?” And just for effect, I added, “What the hell?”

Rachelle scavenged a chair and Rahim set me in it. My skull throbbed and every nerve ending in my body screamed rebellion but I felt a teensy bit better than I had standing. Fortunately my injuries would heal quickly. It takes more than an ass whupping these days to shake me loose of my mortal coil.

Good thing.

“One of their people, the old man, suffers from a serious case of dementia,” Poe said. “Which is rather interesting considering who he is. Or who he was, I should say.”

“Which is?”

“His name is Abaddon, and he was once a close ally to Lucifer; one of his top lieutenants.”

Hey, look at that. A great big pile of shit shows up on my doorstep and it’s attached to my father. What are the odds? Apparently way better than those of someone making it out of the first round against Ronda Rousey.

I vaguely remember hearing about Abaddon but he was gone long before I came around. While Daddy Lou butted heads with just about everyone—he was a charmer that guy—he and Abaddon had apparently taken it to places that even Longinus hadn’t dared go. There wasn’t a real consensus as to what had happened to Abaddon but it was clear from what I heard that no one really wanted to know. It was safer that way, lest they end up in the same boat.

“So, let me get this straight. Masked boy wanted an example of how someone can grow old and not go
entirely
crazy so he kidnapped you? Are you the new poster child for the sanity movement?”

Poe shook his head, clearly not amused. “His insanity, likely caused by whatever Lucifer did to him, has impacted every aspect of his mind. He apparently knows something the masked man requires but they have been unable to pry it loose from his chaotic thoughts.”

“Which explains why they kidnapped you,” Rachelle said.

“Indeed, though their reasoning was faulty. My skill at mind reading is barely on the scale of empathy. I can offer rudimentary telepathic connections between willing minds but I have no ability to enter another’s head and learn what is inside.”

“But Mike can,” I said, sinking deeper into the chair.

“What does the old man know that is so important?” Rahim asked.

“I do not know any of the specifics. They gave me little information, realizing very quickly that I was inadequate to the task they had intended me for. Whatever it is, though, their schemes appear to hinge upon that information. The man in the mask was furious when he realized my shortcomings and immediately set about capturing Mister Li.”

“Which makes sense,” I said “Seems the old man has the last piece of the puzzle regarding who or what they’re looking to find in the interstice.”

“It also means they’re done with the prisons.” Rahim groaned, though from my point of view that was a good thing.

“It would appear so. They have all their associates in place from what I could tell,” Poe answered.

“A giant, a witch, and a psycho, oh my. What more do they need?”

“Can you contact Michael?” Rachelle wanted to know.

“I have been trying since I was freed of the neural shield but so far I have been unable to reach him. That said, being in Hell limits me greatly in that aspect. My range is well exceeded here.”

“We’ll have to get you back up to Earth then,” Rahim told him. “First though, we need a plan.”

“Don’t die?” I offered.

“Preferably one a little more informed than that, Frank.” Rahim sighed. It probably wasn’t the best time for jokes.

“Anyone know what Mike did with the papers I sent him to look after? There’s could be something in that batch that might help us. I dug them out of the old man’s cell.”

Rachelle nodded. “He tasked one of our people to examine them once he realized he was needed with us.” She started off. “I’ll collect them and see if anything was discovered.”

“Should we reach out to Shaw?” I asked.

“She would be of little help at this point,” Poe answered. “If you were not already aware, she is at odds with the DSI’s upper management. While she has every intention of laying the blame for the bombings on your shoulders, Mister Trigg, it will not absolve her of the responsibility. The government will hang her out to dry alongside you.”

I didn’t know whether to be annoyed or pleased by that. Last thing I needed was more grief in my life but imagining Shaw taken behind the woodshed brought a smile to my face. And for once it had nothing to do with me picturing her being bent over. Well, not entirely. I filed that information—and image—away for later use.

Rachelle returned right then, interrupting my ruminations.

“Here are the pages our people determined were of importance.” She held a handful of them out to me.

“Well, if Abaddon’s sanity was in question earlier I’m sure this puts that argument to rest.” The artwork was an interesting jumble of post-modern impressionism and art nouveau masturbation mixed with a good dose of Parkinson’s twitch. If I were an art critic I would have pissed on it all.

Still, despite the quality of work, there was an underlying consistency that made it hard to discount the papers as unimportant. Most of them were drawings of what appeared to be a singular individual, sketched out like some old Egyptian comic book. The man depicted—and I was sure it was man seeing how his cock was sketched in rough comparison to the Washington Monument—came across very simply but quite similar at the same time.

“Anyone know who Long Dong Silver is supposed to be?”

“Our people have narrowed the time frame to somewhere in between the Mesopotamian era and ancient Egypt based on the illustrated clothing style. With no access to the internet and limited resources here it’s the best they can do.”

“So no real clue as to who the endowed fellow is supposed to be,” I said, grumbling. “Maybe the old man thinks it’s a self-portrait.” Wishful thinking I’m sure. I handed back most of the art, holding onto a couple pieces. “We need to send someone topside to see what they can find out. I know someone who might be able to give us some information regarding who this guy is supposed to be.” I tapped the image. “They say knowing is half the battle, right?”

“It’s the actual fight that matters,” Rahim said, dumping an ice-cold glass of fuck you on top of my attempted optimism.

“This is why I’m never positive.” I waved. “Be back in a bit. Don’t let the world end while I’m gone.” With that, I took my leave.

#

I returned to Earth, this time landing in far west El Paseo, a barren suburb that had long ago given in to entropy’s wily ways. The church where Lance presided might well have been a relic in a post-war museum given how poorly maintained it was on the outside. It looked ready to lay down and die, the paint peeling and the wood warped so bad the roof looked like the ocean. The stained glass windows had lost their shine and could barely be deciphered and only because I kind of knew what to expect. Out of context I wouldn’t have stood a chance at recognition, everything having long since faded to a dull gray. To complete the derelict image shoots of weeds burst through the asphalt in places, tiny trees of green and yellow making it closer to a jungle than a parking lot. At the main doors, I pushed them open easily, no hint of rust, and slipped inside, reminded once more that looks can be deceiving.

But not always.

Just like the last time I’d been there a million candles flickered in every corner of the building, casting dancing shadows across the room. My eyes scanned the historical symbolism lining every inch of space upon the walls and settled on the image of Longinus spearing Christ. It didn’t weird me out as much seeing it this time but it was still such an odd thing to come into. Nothing like seeing the man I killed plastered in an iconic pose upon the wall. And of course seeing him reminded me of Karra.

I sighed, wanting nothing to do with that thought right then. If I let myself go down that road I’d never come back again. It was still too fresh. The months of heroin and booze had barely put a dent in my misery. If it hadn’t been for masked boy nuking Pitkin I would still be there, drowning my sorrows and wishing for a dark, deep hole to crawl into. My cheeks warmed and I felt tears welling in my eyes.

“Can I help you?”

I blinked away my self-pity and turned to see and older man approaching me, his wispy white hair losing the battle against his pink scalp. He was dressed in the traditional uniform of the clergy: black slacks and shoes with a black shirt that allowed his white collar to stand out.

“I’m looking for Father Lance,” I answered, surprised to note my voice betrayed none of my sadness. There wasn’t much hope my face played along but whatever. I wasn’t there for confession.

“And you are…?”

“Tell him Frank’s looking for him. He’ll know who I am.” I suspected announcing myself as the Devil might not go over too well given my current environment.

The priest nodded. “Please, have a seat. I’ll give him a call. It will be few moments.”

“Thank you,” I told him and watched as he drifted through a small door at the far end of the church; what I presumed was an office.

No idea how long it would take I started to wander. I made my way to the front of the church as if drawn by the statue there. As I’d noticed last time—the statue cluing me in to it being Judas pulling Trinity’s strings—the image looked so much like the traditional image of Christ that I had only realized it wasn’t by looking at the small plaque attached at its base. I stared up into Judas’s bronze features and growled. He hadn’t looked the same way when I was pouring tons of cement on his head but there was no mistaking the resemblance now.

“The sculptor did an amazing job, did he not?”

I turned to see Father Lance standing behind me, the barest whiff of mystical essence tickling my senses. He no longer wore his armor, choosing once more to be the down home preacher in work boots, jeans, and a loose fitting T-shirt that did just enough to hide the muscled frame underneath.

“Been meaning to ask you,” I started. “Why the hell do you have a statue to Judas on the altar?”

“Odd, right?” He grinned. “As it turns out, Judas plays a far greater role in the formation of Christianity than he’s given credit for. It’s hard to have a hero if there is no villain.” Lance came over to stand alongside me, his smile fading, shadows creeping into the seams. “If you’ve come to see if I’ve found Morgan le Fay then you are begging for disappointment.”

“That was part of it, yeah,” I said. A part that might have made everything else easier but I’d learned long ago not to expect that kind of help from the world. I held up the papers. “Mainly though, these are what I came about.”

He glanced at the pages and motioned toward the same door the other priest had gone through. “Let’s go into my office where I can examine them under something other than candlelight. While it’s great for setting the mood, it’s horrible for actual sight.”

He led the way and opened the door, leading me into a small, cluttered office with another door at the rear. The bolts on it told me it led outside. Lance motioned for me to take a seat on a small, battered chair set in font of the desk. I dropped down, noticing the clutter that covered the office: books and papers and all sorts of religious memorabilia tossed haphazardly about the place.