I can see a couple dozen Drifters from where I’m standing to the next corner. Most are just doing the dead-guy shuffle, but a couple of dumb-ass civilians are belly-crawling behind parked cars. What is it with regular people? They don’t seem to get the idea that extremely bad things can happen to them until they’re on fire at the bottom of a ditch or handcuffed in the back of a cop van on their way to central lockup and their first night as a prison bride to a three-hundred-pound crack dealer.
Plus, they don’t know how to do anything. These geniuses think they can scuttle along like crabs and not get spotted. A good belly crawl is slow and steady, moving like a tree sloth. Why? Because you’re simultaneously moving and fucking hiding from the fucking enemy. Zeds might have kitty litter for brains, but I’ve seen them in action, and like all predators, they have a good sense of smell and their eyes pick up motion before they see anything else. The moron twins doing the dog paddle from the VW Bug to the Camry are sending out every prey signal in the book. Just ask the Lacuna who’s spotted them and is scrambling over the Camry’s hood.
Whoever owns the car keeps it in good shape. It must be waxed because the Lacuna is slip-sliding back and forth and lands right on his head between the cars. Even if he’s clumsy, he’s fast enough to run down a couple of panicky idiots.
When the civilians stand, the Lacuna finds his footing, which alerts the other Drifters, who move in on them. I pull the Smith & Wesson and turn the Lacuna’s head into a pretty pink-and-bone-colored cloud, which gets everyone’s attention.
“Run home, assholes. And don’t go out again or I’ll feed you to these shit sacks myself.”
I don’t have to tell them twice.
At this point, I could just use Eleanor’s buckle to get the Drifters to lie down, crack each other’s skulls, or square-dance. But I don’t. I put away the gun, get out the na’at, and let them come at me.
I’m not too subtle, but I’m not too greedy either. I only gut a few of them. The angel inside me is getting impatient, but Stark loves the sound of their spines snapping and watching them fold in half when there’s nothing left to support their upper bodies. Seeing a Drifter come at you with just its legs working, dragging everything from the waist up on the ground like a bag of dirty laundry, is a sight I recommend to anyone who gets the chance to see it.
But the angel finally wins the argument and I grab the buckle and tell the Drifters, “Sit,” and they do. “Good doggies. Now wait there until someone comes along to burn you like Yule logs.”
I step through a shadow under a streetlamp and come out by the hospital that’s the entrance to Cabal’s place. It’s dark enough that I can only make out the hospital’s outline with the angel’s vision. The darkness extends for blocks in all directions. A blackout. That means no decent shadows to get inside. No problem. This place has glass doors, too.
The locks are strong, but the doors are the usual crap aluminum that most institutional places use. One good kick and they swing open like the saloon doors in My Darling Clementine.
I’m halfway to the morgue when my cell rings. It’s Kasabian.
“Druj Ammun.”
“Gesundheit. You might want to put the snakes down. You’re speaking in tongues.”
“Actually, I am. Druj Ammun is from the same old angelic language I saw on your belt buckle. It means ‘Sleepless Aegis.’ It’s a seal of protection that was on the gates of Heaven.”
I duck and go around TV cameras and microphone booms the crew left in the hall.
“Protection from what?”
“Who else? Lucifer and the fallen frat boys. God put it there to keep them from sneaking back into Heaven. It mind-fucks any fallen that get near it. Turns them into Muppets.”
“You dug all this out of the Codex?”
“Well, Kinski helped. He pretty much knew what it was when I showed him the drawing. I found the rest after.”
“So what’s the Druj Ammun doing here?”
“You know how the Kissi like a little chaos with their morning coffee? The story is that they stole it off the gates and dropped it on earth just to see what would happen.”
“Okay. That still doesn’t explain how Eleanor got it or why it affects Drifters.”
“I don’t know about Eleanor, but the zed thing makes perfect sense. Remember the story that the first zombies were civilians who’d been attacked by the fallen angel that landed on earth? It must be true. Zeds were made by that dying angel’s blood and saliva. They have a direct blood link to Hellions, so the Druj affects them the same way it affects any of Heaven’s rejects.”
I make it to the morgue, but don’t go in since I might lose the phone signal.
“Nice work. It’s good to know what this thing is. I’d hate to end up gnawed to death because the batteries ran out.”
“Hey, man. I don’t know if you’re zeroing in on the big picture. Not only can you control those coffin jockeys from skull-fucking tourists, but the Druj is kryptonite to Hellions. That means you can stroll into Hell, make one of Lucifer’s generals tell you where Mason is, go right up to the son of a bitch, and put a bullet through his head and no one is going to stop you.”
I get out the gun, push open the morgue door with my foot, and take a look around. I don’t want any surprises when I step inside. The room is empty.
“Speaking of strolling into Hell, have you talked to Lucifer?”
“No. He’s not answering his phone. I’ve left messages, but the way things are, I don’t even know if my calls are getting through.”