The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two (35 page)

“Angel,” Felon barked at the Marquis, “is he
involved?”

“He is always involved, but we Angels are his
ministers, and of course the faithful among the Second-born, the
humans, act as his servants.” The Marquis sniffed nervously.

Driver had a growing realization in him.
Ministers? “This all reminds me of the time the Castiglioni
brothers went up against the Papedakos, clan out in Old Vegas just
after the Change.” He looked at Bloody and laughed. “It’s gangs!”
Then Driver realized the ridiculous nature of the whole situation.
“Oh Christ! I’m startin’ to believe this shit.”

“Gangs.” Felon nodded over at Tiny. “Balg
said two groups of Fallen Angels were involved. There are three.
The third group is the majority.”

“What group is that?” Driver adjusted his
grip on his guns.

Felon grabbed the old transvestite by the
shoulders. “Take us to Lucifer!”

Driver noticed a wild look in the assassin’s
eyes. The Texan looked over at Tiny, and then around at Bloody.
Both wore blank looks.

“Second-born,” the Marquis said haughtily,
“you ask too much.”

“Take us to Lucifer,” Felon smiled wolfishly.
“Or you’ll be
Élan
.”

Panic registered on the Marquis’ face. His
lips traced the word “no.”

“
Élan
.” The assassin gripped the
Angel’s throat. “I’ll paint this place with your blood.” Felon
glared. “Take us to him, and I’ll let you go.”

“Lucifer?” Driver felt like someone cut his
break lines.

“Why?” Tears started from the Marquis. “We
are ruled by the Bible, and they by the Unholy Compact. None but
the Fallen can tread those damned paths lightly.”

“Bullshit.” Felon sneered. “You’re Firstborn.
You’ll survive.”

“I must have your word that you will not harm
him,” the Marquis insisted, hands out and begging. “You cannot even
try.”

“I swear it,” Felon said quickly, left hand
over his heart.

“Then I will take you,” the Marquis
whispered, brushing at his dress, eyes on Felon’s gun. “It is not
far, and few protections lie between.”

“You’re going to see Lucifer?” Tiny asked,
his eyes wide. “The Devil.”

“I can trust him.” Felon stared.

“We’ve got to talk danger pay,” Tiny
said.

“Don’t come.” Felon grabbed the Marquis’ arm.
“Fifty thousand extra if you do. Or go—now.” The assassin smiled
painfully. “Lucifer might be your only chance. You’re marked
men.”

“I didn’t expect the Devil too,” Driver said
sideways to Bloody. “Wish we’d brought some bigger guns.”

48 – Whistles’ Bar

“Come on, Jughead!” said the Quinlan twin in
the lead with a laugh and giggle. He swung a brick-covered panel
out of the way to expose an opening in the foundation. Inside the
building, dim light and a wooden floor waited. Muffled music jumped
in volume and vibration when the hatch opened.

“Shut up, Pearface!” snapped the other, who
flicked a look behind.

“That’s enough,” hissed Mr. Jay, “would you
both please…God! Give it a rest.” He crawled into the cramped space
with grumble and headshakes. Conan just snickered in the rear since
he knew the nasty-verb was how the Quinlans worked in the dim dark
and around war. Great friends of friends, but everybody else—watch
out!

Conan thought it giggly that as remarkable as
the strange new man—the magician—was he suffered the same red-face
impatience as all grownups. Didn’t he know you just punch boys in
the arm to shut them up or love them?

The Quinlan twins couldn’t believe it you
could see and all that laugh-yak was coming strong on because of
it. Why waste chitchat on the lip zip? But they’re looking and
wondering where’s the punch-punch-punch enough already lads.

The Creature told the Nightcare fighters to
take Mr. Jay to Whistles’ Bar. That was a place where a
friend-in-need to the Nightcare’s cause and sniffle lived.

Conan knew the place and the fake grownup
midget-type in charge. In fact, he knew more than anybody guessed.
But, he only visited the place once in a long while, and kept his
distance like he’d been told. The dangers were too great for such
easy tea parties. Forever kids took trouble wherever they went.

But Conan knew that Whistles was not a dwarf
like he pretended and everyone thought. Whistles was a forever girl
about pre-Change ten with a gift for disguise under moustache,
makeup and padding. Visitors to the bar came up with the nickname
after the “dwarf” tried to kick a ten cigar a day habit by chewing
a plastic whistle. Whistles picked the whistle up drinking, and
couldn’t put it down. The little “man” never blew on it—just spit
and chew.

Because of Whistles’ secret, she was a friend
to Squeakers and Nightcare fighters, and had helped forever kids
when she could. Especially if it came to hiding from Toffers and
Sheps and scumbags that fucked forever kids.

The Quinlan boys were supposed to take Mr.
Jay quick to Whistles because it was close to the Tower, and
because if there was trouble, it was the closest place that might
help on the long road home.
Wah
!
Wah
!

So they hurried up curving tunnels, shimmied
through sewers and waded in gunk until the path led upward through
a series of City maintenance ramps and stairs and gangways to the
hidden door that opened onto Whistle’s basement. It was all uphill
from here.

At first Mr. Jay grumbled about delays, but
got it shortly later, thinking Whistles had to know they were
around and might need help. A minute shuffled by on its knees and
they were hidden behind some big beer kegs. Liz hurried up a pile
of boxes and through a trapdoor that opened into Whistles’ office.
Conan, like most fighters, knew the system. Get into the office and
wait until Whistles comes in. Never be seen!

So they waited, the three Nightcare fighters
in a dangerous wedge around the magician. Conan spent the time
flying his murder-bloom through the air. About twenty minutes
glided by on blades and Liz dropped through the trapdoor nodding
and winking upward.

Weapons got sharp and dangerous when a door
opened at the top of the stairs. Music came thumping down and the
fighters got ready for war. But the throb of music sank with a bang
and everybody
phewed
like there was no tomorrow. Mr. Jay
craned to see the top of the stairs and boots came tromping
down.

Whistles’ hair was black and stuffed up under
a bowler hat of the same coal color. A bushy caterpillar moustache
covered his chin, and the eyebrows were thick as a wrist. His
shoulders cranked out wide and his belly was marshmallow puffy. He
carried a big wooden box, and a red plastic whistle hung from his
thin neck on a crackerjack chain.

“Liz!” the short man whispered in a deep
voice. Conan was always spooked by the hidden-girl’s man-impression
and had to breathe fast or
wah wah
start cutting—the voice
was gravelly and deep.

“Here!” whispered Liz, who stood and motioned
for the others to follow.

Mr. Jay stepped forward, and Whistles tipped
his head back to extend the hand of howdy-do.

“I’m a friend of the Creature,” Mr. Jay
hissed. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You too,” Whistles grumbled, frowned and
then popped the whistle into his mouth. “Joints still hopping
upstairs and it’s midnight. Nobody can hear you.” He tapped his
foot and looked Mr. Jay up and down. “Not often Creature trusts
anybody your height. You a Nightcare worker?”

Conan knew that the Creature allowed some
trusted grownups to help protect the Nightcare: sawbones and
teachers and others who could go on the open Levels and get
information or money. Conan kept his distance.

“No,” Liz blurted. “He’s traveling with a
girl we’re trying to help.”

“All right,” Whistles grumbled, then smiled
at the little fighter. “Conan, it’s been a long time.”

And Conan couldn’t contain himself. The
magician had sprung something true enough, he was bubbling up all
over. The little fighter leapt forward and carefully hugged the
barkeep. Whistles’ eyes softened with surprise—keeping a close
watch on the fighter’s death-bloom.

Whistles couldn’t hide a smile though, and
hugged him back. The fighter with the murderous fist snarled at the
Quinlans and took his place at Mr. Jay’s side. He caught Whistles’
look though, and saw the tear.

“Well,” the barkeep cleared his throat. “How
can I help you?”

“We had to let you know we were close,” the
magician said. “And we need to eat and rest.”

“I’ll do anything I can,” Whistles tapped the
brim of his hat.

“Hopefully, you’ll never see
me
again,” Mr. Jay said removing his pack.

“Okay,” the bartender mumbled, looking
confused. “And the buses?”

“Buses?” Mr. Jay shook his head.

“Yeah,” Whistles said, nodding. “The Creature
contacted me three weeks ago. Wanted seven buses fueled and ready.”
He shook his head. “I’ve got them—they’re junkers but they run. The
Workers she sent to drive have been sleeping in them. They’ve got a
couple trucks too.”

Mr. Jay looked at Liz. She shook her head.
The Quinlan boys shrugged. Conan shook his helmet and twitched his
murder-mitt.

“You don’t know about it?” Whistles asked
looking up at Mr. Jay and then back to Conan. “It cost me a pretty
penny too.” Then he leaned in whispering, “I was hoping you could
tell
me
what they’re for.”

49 – The Nova SS

“His lair is in the lowest part of the Maze,”
the Marquis said, aware that the assassin’s gun followed his every
move. “Under Zero—the sewers.”

Tiny covered the transvestite with his .357
magnum. He noticed with a laugh that Driver had both automatics
pointed too.

They took the door beside the stairs to the
basement where Felon said it opened on the driveway. The Marquis’
hands fluttered lifting his dress clear of the golden bows on his
slippers.

They’d already agreed to take Driver’s
car.

“It’s the fastest thing in this city,” the
Texan said with calm certainty. “And I drive it fast.”

“You do,” Tiny had agreed, glancing back at
Bloody. The dead gunman was carrying the nun. The Marquis had
promised that her “spell” would wear off soon but the salesman was
getting tired of the Marquis’
soon
. He’d already delayed
their departure by about six dangerous hours. They’d spent the time
huddled in the basement taking turns covering the “Angel” while
Driver popped out to gas and oil the car. The Marquis said he
required time to create the necessary doorway past Lucifer’s
defenses and salutations were essential. He’d spent the hours
cross-legged on the bed doing a quiet inward chant, eyes rolled up;
but that had just put Felon more on edge, if that was possible,
expecting another double cross.

Tiny couldn’t believe his luck.
Lucifer
! If this crazy shit was true then the salesman was
on his way to meet the father of all salesmen. Felon grunted
“dangerous” and nothing else. That left Tiny to discuss it with his
partners and they weren’t religious scholars by any stretch. He
wanted to pick the Marquis’ brain on the subject but that was still
a sticky idea.

He just didn’t want to blow this opportunity
on a cold call.

The slowing drizzle and mist from Level Five
overhead suggested that the rain had let up. That high up in the
City, leaks and bleeds from sewers and runoff were more likely.
Tiny looked at it optimistically: since it hadn’t percolated
through quite as much human misery, what fell on his suit was
cleaner.

They crossed the driveway and made their way
to the side of an oversized garage where the Marquis kept several
limousines. Driver had parked his car in the shadow there.

“A classic Nova SS—that’s 375
real
horse!” Driver whispered proudly as he climbed in. “Metallic black,
steel fenders and mags. If the engine weren’t so damned heavy I
could put her up on her back wheels and dance.” The Nova was the
child of another nostalgic wave that passed through the comfort
seeking imaginations of the doomed, this one a re-design of the
pre-Change seventies muscle car. Driver loved the Nova because it
was roomy inside and its souped-up suspension was rugged enough to
take the broken down roads of the Change.

They scanned the courtyard for signs of
trouble as they piled in the passenger door. Felon hissed and
snarled, still climbing the walls about a trap. Tiny didn’t bother
reminding him he was about to cross the City in a car full of
gunmen with enough outstanding warrants to choke a whale.

There was a sudden rumble of power and then a
harsh rev that brought a girlish sigh from the Marquis. The Nova’s
throbbing muffler echoed giving its monstrous voice. The wide
muscular vehicle rumbled, its tailpipe making hot, wet noises.

Driver rolled his tinted window down. “Let’s
go.”

The Angel was manhandled into a rough spot in
the back seat between the angry handguns of Felon and Bloody. Tiny
slid the sleepwalking nun onto the front seat beside Driver and
climbed in. She was waking up but was blinking and still a little
dull like she’d been smoking cheap Mexican weed.

Driver pointed the car down the drive and the
Nova rumbled smoothly into life, quickly gliding onto the street
and flying down the avenue toward the guard post for the gated
neighborhood. The Marquis played along real nicely and just flirted
with the guard and talked about going “clubbing.”

The Nova passed the gate and hit Currency
Boulevard. That took them south to the main Skyway ramp. There were
a lot of cars out, but that was to be expected. Day and night meant
little in the covered city. Some cars bore the designs of other
nostalgic waves, but about half had the squat shapes of Skyway
riders. These were small vehicles with wide set tires and powerful
engines designed for the challenging angles and precipitous drops
presented by the Skyway designers.