Mercury Falls (12 page)

"Oh yeah! Wasn't there some kind of scandal. . .?"

"They caught him skewing plague statistics. Trying to beat the spread, you know."

"That's right! What's old Bammy up to these—"

"Please!" Izbazel interjected. "Can we get back to the matter at hand? Mercury, all we need from you is an assurance that you won't interfere with our plan to eliminate the Antichrist."

"Oh, right," Mercury said. "As I was saying, there are different levels of noninvolvement. On one level, I let you take Karl and have your way with him. Another. . ." Mercury sat back and smiled broadly. "Another is that I sit here talking to you about that first level, not to mention ketchup angels, just long enough for Christine to get Karl back on the interstate. That's another possibility."

Izbazel stood up. A white Camry peeled out of the parking lot. "Damn you, Mercury! I told you to stay out of this!"

"I am," said Mercury. "Completely uninvolved. You guys want cheesecake?"

"Let's go," barked Izbazel. He started for the door, Gamaliel following. "We'll catch them on the bikes."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Mercury said.

Izbazel stopped and turned, fuming. "
More noninvolvement, Mercury
?"

"If you guys leave, I won't have anybody to talk to. I was thinking of calling Uzziel."

Izbazel growled, "What's Uzziel going to do? He doesn't have the authority to—"

"Forget it," Gamaliel said. "He's got us."

"How's that?" Izbazel asked.

"Angel Band. They'll trace it right here. They'll be on us in seconds. Of course," Gamaliel said, looking sideways at Mercury, "they'll get him, too."

"Yeah, they'll get me," Mercury said. "But where am I going to hide when this place is gone anyway? They were always going to get me. Now or a few weeks from now, what's the difference?"

Izbazel was furious. "So you're going to let the Antichrist live? You're just going to let it happen. The Apocalypse, Mercury. The end of your precious world."

Mercury shrugged. "None of my business," he said. "Have a seat, boys. It's just the three of us, stuck in Lodi again."

Gamaliel sighed. "I always hated the Allman Brothers."

There were thirty-eight Charlie's Grills on I-5 in between Yreka, California, and Los Angeles, spaced so that on a road trip from one end of the state to another one could eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner—not to mention brunch, linner, and several other meals to be named later—from a completely standardized menu of entrees that ranged in quality from passable to mediocre.

This proliferation of family restaurants was not, despite the protestations of anti-sprawl advocates and concerned cardiologists, part of any kind of diabolical plan. This isn't to say that there was no plan, or that there weren't demonic entities involved in its inception, but the actual marketing strategy and franchise agreements were no more intrinsically satanic than was the norm for the hospitality industry. Charlie's Grill was evil only to the extent that it concealed the unremarkable character of its food with a facade constructed of faux brick walls and artificially weathered signs promoting no-longer-existent brands of soda and/or motor oil with slogans like "The smoothest yet!" That is to say, it was about as evil as Applebee's.

Charlie's Grill was, pure and simple, a moneymaking operation for Lucifer, who had long ago come to terms with the fact that while spreading depravity and ruination was his true calling, it didn't always pay the bills. Lucifer was a true believer in the adage that no one ever went broke overestimating the number of times a day that Americans can pull over for cheeseburgers. It wasn't an exciting or particularly sinister way of making money, but it did make possible all sorts of other costly but worthwhile diabolical schemes, so Lucifer expanded the operation at every opportunity.

Thus it was not really all that surprising that precisely as Izbazel and Gamaliel sat fuming at Mercury in the Charlie's Grill on the outskirts of Lodi, another fallen angel was just finishing up a grilled cheese sandwich in a Charlie's Grill just north of Los Angeles. The angel's name was Nisroc.

Nisroc, as I believe I've established, had a habit of eating grilled cheese sandwiches when he was nervous. He was in the process of developing another bad habit, that of rebelling against the Divine Plan—although to be fair, this was at present more of a vague inclination that was in danger of gelling into habit than a full-blown habit, per se.

Nisroc pulled out of the parking lot in his green 1987 Chevrolet El Camino, sipping an extra large Diet Dr Pepper. He had no particular reason for choosing diet soda, but drinking unpalatable low-calorie beverages eased his guilt somewhat at indulging gustatory cravings that had no basis in his angelic biology. He turned north on I-5, traveled for 6.2 miles, and then, slavishly following the GPS unit he had been given, made an abrupt right turn into the middle of nowhere.

He drove due east—or as close to due east as the terrain would let him—for another 1.8 miles, kicking up so much dust that, even with his superhuman vision, he could hardly see to avoid the rocks and occasional specimen of brillo-pad-like vegetation. Meanwhile, the GPS was imploring him to please make a U-turn at the earliest opportunity, because it did not at all like where this was going. Nisroc didn't particularly like where it was going either, but he was pretty sure he no longer had much of a choice. At last the El Camino coasted to a stop as near as he could get to the coordinates he had been given. Taking a deep breath, Nisroc grabbed a silvery briefcase from the passenger seat and got out.

Spying the horizon, he saw that he was not alone. A big white refrigerated truck—the sort used to deliver frozen fish to restaurants—sat perched on a plateau about two hundred yards away. Next to it stood a lone figure. Nisroc walked toward him.

They met atop the plateau, Nisroc and another angel, who introduced himself as Ramiel. Nisroc knew the name—Ramiel had recently been classified as Fallen. Nisroc wondered how long it would take for his own paperwork to go through. His superiors had undoubtedly noticed his disappearance by now.

"So this is it," said Ramiel, taking the case from Nisroc. The case was plain except for a small insignia of a skull.

"The one and only," said Nisroc, feeling less certain than ever of his decision.

"Do they know it's missing?" Ramiel asked.

Nisroc shrugged. "I've been out of contact for a few days. They've probably classified me as AWOL by now. I imagine finding the case is going to be a fairly high priority."

Ramiel smiled. "Don't worry," he said. "We'll put this baby to good use."

Ramiel carried the case to a flat area of ground that had been marked with orange spray paint and set it down. He dialed the combination 6-6-6 and popped open the case. The device's screen came to life, displaying an hourglass while it readied itself.

Nisroc considered leaving but suspected that this course of action would be taken as cowardice. No, now that he had come this far, he would have to see it through.

"Let's see what this baby can do," said Ramiel. Nisroc got the feeling that Ramiel was the sort who used the word
baby
to refer to inanimate objects a lot. He sighed.

Nisroc was at this moment supposed to be on the other side of the globe, in southern Asia. He was supposed to have delivered the Attache Case of Death to an Australian relief agency working in Kashmir, but he didn't understand the reasoning behind this decision, and his requests for justification went unanswered.

When an agent of Lucifer approached him, offering him anything he wanted in exchange for the case, he had initially said no. He was not one to be swayed by material things—although the eternal membership in Lucifer's exclusive golf club and resort on the Infernal Plane was sorely tempting. What finally pushed him to Lucifer's side was that while Heaven only offered unsatisfactory bureaucratic answers to Nisroc's questions, Hell had at least explained to him what they planned on doing with the case. He would have preferred that their plan be something other than reducing Earth to an uninhabitable ash heap, but at least they were up front about their motivations. One had to respect that.

He still had mixed feelings about the whole business, but he supposed it was too late to ask Heaven for a do-over at this point. He had heard that the Almighty was infinitely merciful, but the bureaucracy was eternally unforgiving—and it was the latter that signed his paychecks.

"Mind helping me with the corpses?" said Ramiel.

Nisroc grunted assent. He imagined that as one of the Fallen, he would be subjected to questions like that more often.

They walked to the refrigerated truck and opened the back. The truck was parked facing up a slope, and as the doors swung open, a pile of corpses tumbled out onto the dusty ground. There must have been a baker's dozen of them, in an assortment of shapes and colors.

"Robbed the city morgue last night," said Ramiel. "You'd be amazed how many people LA goes through in a day."

Having been to LA, Nisroc was not at all amazed. He nodded, feeling a bit squeamish. "I don't suppose we could just—"

"No miracles," said Ramiel. "Can't take a chance on somebody picking up our signature. We've got to move them by hand."

"Won't Heaven pick up the signature of the case anyway when we use it?"

"They might," said Ramiel. "Although I understand these cases have a surprisingly small energy footprint. But yeah, we've got to do this fast. Five minutes and we're out of here."

"OK," said Nisroc. "Which one first?"

"Doesn't matter," said Ramiel. "Let's drag them all over and line them up. Hopefully we've got enough."

They dragged the corpses to a spot near the case, lining them up side by side.

Ramiel opened a panel inside the Attache Case of Death, pulling out a pair of what looked like defibrillation paddles. They were connected to the case by thick coils of wire.

"Ready to see this baby in action?" asked Ramiel.

Nisroc smiled weakly.

"Grab that shovel," Ramiel commanded.

"What do I need a shovel for?"

"What do you think? These guys are going to be popping up like gophers. I need you to whack them as soon as they wake up."

"What? We're going to kill them again?"

"Kill, stun, whatever. I just don't want them wandering around and asking stupid questions while I'm trying to work. We don't have time for that."

"It seems unsportsmanlike," said Nisroc, observing the row of corpses piteously. "Cruel, even."

"Look, they're already dead, OK? They're
supposed
to be dead. You can't do anything to them that's worse than what's already happened."

"But doesn't bringing someone back to life give you some responsibility for them? It's like adopting a puppy. You can't just whack the puppy with a shovel when you're done with it."

"Why not?"

"Because you can't! It's just not done!"

"Whatever," said Ramiel. "Just grab the shovel."

"Fine," grunted Nisroc. He had to admit that having the un-dead wandering around was not going to make things any easier. This was no time to be developing scruples. If they were going to do this, it had to be done right.

Ramiel flipped a switch on the case, took hold of the paddles, and knelt over the first corpse, a bloated drowning victim in her late twenties. The case hummed ominously.

"Clear!" yelled Ramiel, pressing the paddles onto the woman's chest. A surge of interplanar energy surged through her body, causing it to jerk wildly. As the case channeled mysterious energies, its inner workings moved on a logic of their own, dictated by the numerical constant 0.666. . .

The Attache Case of Death is so named because it allows the user to exercise power over death itself. A device that can
cause
death is, of course, hardly revolutionary. Humankind has been perfecting such devices—from the flint-tipped spear to the triple bacon sausage burger that had briefly graced the menu of Charlie's Grill—for thousands of years. The remarkable thing about the Attache Case of Death is that by channeling supernatural energies in a precise way, it can actually
reverse
death.

The power of the case is nearly unlimited, but like its brothers, the Attache Case of Death was built with an intentional design flaw. Every use of the case is a roll of the dice. Two-thirds of the time it will work exactly as hoped, bringing the subject back to life. There is always a 33.3 repeating percent chance, however, there will be what can mildly be described as "side effects." Sometimes these side effects include freak lightning storms or flash floods. Sometimes they include spontaneous combustion. And sometimes they are something altogether unexpected.

The Attache Case of Death is not without logic, however, and it tends to take advantage of naturally occurring phenomena to maximize damage while minimizing the amount of energy it uses. If used in a wooded area, it might cause a forest fire. If used on a boat, it might cause a hurricane. If used at a precisely determined spot directly on top of the San Andreas Fault, it might cause an earthquake.

Which is exactly what Ramiel, minion of Lucifer, was hoping for when he reanimated the late Isabella Gonzalez, age twenty-eight, of Venice Beach.

"Dios mio!" screamed Isabella, sitting bolt upright. She was wearing a lacy white dress.

"I'm really very sorry about this," pleaded Nisroc, and smacked Isabella on the head with the shovel. She fell limply back to the ground.

Ramiel sat quietly for a moment, his ears straining for any sound.

"Nothing," he said. "Next!"

They moved to the next corpse, a heavyset older gentleman.

"Clear!" yelled Ramiel.

"Where. . .is this heaven?" gasped the old man, his eyes blinking in the desert sun.

"I'm sorry," said Nisroc, and smacked him with the shovel.

Still nothing happened. They moved to the next corpse, a middle-aged woman.

"Clear!" yelled Ramiel.

The woman let out a terrified scream.

"Really, I'm
very
sorry," said Nisroc, and smacked her with the shovel.

Still nothing.

"Clear!" yelled Ramiel.

"Oh my God what—"

"Sorry!"

Twang!

This went on three more times before the El Camino spontaneously exploded, showering them with bits of trim and pieces of its engine.

"I'll be needing a ride," said Nisroc.

Ramiel nodded. "We're running out of time," he said. "They may already have pinpointed our location. We've got to get out of here. Clear!"

"Holy sh—"

Twang!

"Sorry," said Nisroc. Then, to Ramiel: "I don't think this is going to. . ."

The earth began to shake.

"Thank God," said Ramiel, forgetting himself.

Nisroc grunted agreement. He was glad to be done with the shovel-smacking business.

"Let's just hope that does it," said Ramiel. "Otherwise we'll have to come back with more corpses in a few hours and fire this baby up again."

"So we're not going to load these back into the truck?" said Nisroc, motioning to the corpses. He couldn't fully hide his relief.

"No time. We gotta split."

They hopped in the truck and sped off through the desert.

Not long after, Isabella Gonzalez awoke in the desert north of Los Angeles with seaweed in her mouth and one hell of a headache, surrounded by corpses. This was not how she had expected her honeymoon to end.

On the other hand, having just married the second Sedgwick in the personal injury law firm of Sedgwick, Sedgwick and Golaska, it probably couldn't have been expected to end much better. The best that could have been expected was a long and uneventful marriage with a second-tier Sedgwick, a prospect that she now realized—thanks to her brush with death and a smack on the head with a shovel—did not interest her in the least.

Isabella was a paralegal in the firm of Sedgwick, Sedgwick and Golaska, having been hired for her intimate knowledge of personal injury law, her attention to detail, and her fantastic breasts. Isabella was used to her breasts factoring into all of her interpersonal relationships; she was, in fact, thrilled when she learned that they were only two of four qualifications taken into account by the hiring committee at Sedgwick, Sedgwick and Golaska. Sadly, she could not be so certain about the motivations behind the marriage proposal of the second Sedgwick.