Free The Getaway God by Richard Kadrey Page B

“Who else will do this if not us?”
    â€œThe government.”
    â€œSave us from our saviors.”
    I sip my Aqua Regia and Carlos moves off to serve other customers.
    â€œI don’t trust the Vigil much more than the Angra. What’s more important to them, saving the world or controlling whatever’s left when this is over?”
    Vidocq looks at his hands. Flexes his fingers. He looks good for two hundred. Not more than his forties.
    â€œI was twenty-­five when I faced my first apocalypse. When the bloated corpse of the eighteenth century rolled into its grave, making way for the wonders of the nineteenth. You should have seen Paris. Half the city praying, flagellating, and prostrating themselves before Notre-­Dame and images of the Madonna. The other half whoring and drunk while fireworks burned brighter than all of Heaven.”
    â€œI wonder which group you were with?”
    â€œThe Madonna and I had parted ways many years before that, I’m afraid.”
    I look around the room and spot Brigitte sitting at a table with a group of network executives decked out in designer faux-­military gear and safari vests like they’re running off to a Brentwood Red Dawn key party. But like a few million others, they’re just headed out of town with the family jewels sewn into the lining of their bulletproof trench coats. Brigitte laughs as the gray-­haired alpha wolf exec lays some of his survival gear on the table. Lengths of paracord. Sapper gloves. A multicaliber pistol. Condoms in Bubble Wrap. A multitool with more moving parts than a Stealth bomber. Watching her smile, I wonder if Brigitte is pulling out of her depression or if she’s just an actress playing at being all right.
    â€œThere were suicides and riots. Fury and ecstatic joy, and all for the same reason. The world would end or be transformed, and unlike now, in this age of science and desperate rationality, there was nothing we could do about it. So each of us did what made sense. Drink. Pray. Stay with loved ones or sail off to the ends of the earth.”
    â€œAnd here you are.”
    â€œAnd here I am. Alive and not quite yet mad.”
    He finishes his drink and holds up the empty glass for another.
    â€œThe point is that I believe we will survive. Or enough of us will to make the world worth fighting for.”
    â€œIt better be. I’m not kickboxing monsters so the Vigil and Homeland Security can turn L.A. into one big It’s a Small World ride.”
    One of the Luderes gives a little shriek. She’s been stung by one of the scorpions. The shrieker gives the room a little wave.
    â€œSorry. Everyone’s fine. Carry on.”
    She and her friend crack up.
    I turn back to Vidocq, but there’s someone in the way. One of the Goth boys from the table in the back has joined us. He’s dressed in a long high-­collared coat and has wild Robert Smith hair. He looks vaguely like a mad scientist disguised as a priest. There’s something funny about his eyes. I glance over at his friends. They look as surprised as I am.
    â€œNo autographs today, kid,” I say. “I’m with friends.”
    The kid takes a step. Stumbles and slams into the bar. I have to grab his arm to keep him from falling over.
    He says, “It’s not going to stop. No matter what you do.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œThat’s my message to you. It’s never going to stop.”
    I know what’s wrong with his eyes. He’s possessed. In Hell there’s a key. If you know how to use it, and not many down there do, you can temporarily take possession of a body up here. Someone is riding this kid like he’s a carousel pony.
    â€œHe isn’t Death. Or God or the Devil. He is the Hand. Cut one off and another takes his place. He is many-­bodied. Many-­handed. A hand for each soul on Earth.”
    I slap the kid. Shake him. His eyes stay vacant and