The Everything Box (36 page)

“You know. Vampires and shit.”

The men laughed and Mr. Lemmy stared at him. “You really believe that shit?”

“Lots of people have talked about it,” said Baker. “Even my grandma. And she heard about it from her grandma.”

Mr. Lemmy closed his eyes for a minute, picturing bloody snow globes. “It's a fucking fairy tale. The bogeyman,” he said. “Something to keep you in line. Guess that didn't work out so well, you crooked prick?”

The men laughed and shook their heads.

“If it's okay with you I'm going to bring some garlic,” said Baker.

Mr. Lemmy dropped his hands to his sides. “Bring a whole fucking salad for all I care. Just bring your gun, too. Because Coop and the guy in the other room? Both of those Mouseketeers are going to die.”

Steve checked Giselle's voice mail and his blood pressure shot up like a Saturn V, but he didn't want to let the rest of the congregation see. Still, it wasn't the kind of thing he could let pass entirely. “That Coop jerked called,” he said. “And he hung up again.”

“Of course he hung up,” said Susie.

“No. I mean aggressively. Like he doesn't take any of this seriously.”

He turned to Jorge. “How's the boar coming?”

“Real good. He'll be ready later tonight.”

“Good. Because Coop wants to meet tomorrow night.”

“How late? Cause I have jury duty in the morning,” said Janet.

“And I have to take my mom to the airport,” said someone from the back. Others muttered.

“Fine,” said Steve. “You don't get to be there for this final battle. In fact, the only people going are me, Jorge, Jerry, and Tommy.”

“Me? Why me? You ditched me the other night,” said Tommy.

“And now we'll make up for it,” said Steve. “You get to be our point man.”

“What's a point man?” said Tommy.

“It's a basketball thing,” said Janet.

“That's a point guard, I think,” said Susie.

“They're playing basketball for the summoning box?” said someone in the back.

“I'll come. I played varsity in high school. Until I blew my knee out,” said Freddy, one of Steve's plaster men.

“We're not playing basketball. Tommy is going to lead the charge,” said Steve.

“I feel sick,” said Tommy.

“Just make sure you don't have to pee tomorrow. We're going somewhere called ‘the dark floor' in a place called Jinx Town.”

“See! I told you it was real,” said Jerry.

“We'll see.”

“Should we bring flashlights?” said Jorge.

“We'll have the boar. The boar won't need a flashlight. Tomorrow is zero day, people. We're going to get the box and bring our lord back to Earth,” said Steve. “Hail Caleximus.”

“Hail Caleximus!” shouted the congregation.

Tommy made a sound like someone stepping on a puppy's tail and bolted out of the trailer.

“Will someone go and get that idiot?” said Steve.

A few hours later, when he was home safe in his bedroom, Tommy dialed a number. He barely spoke above a whisper. “Hello?”

“Hello. Who is this?” said the Magister.

“It's me.”

“Speak up. You sound like you're talking through a goose's ass.”

“It's me, High Dark One.”

“Dark High One.”

“Sorry. It's me. Carol,” said Tommy.

“Carol. Do you have news for me?”

“Yeah. It happens tomorrow night at a place called Jinx Town.”

“Junk Town? What is that? Like Walmart?”

“
Jinx
. Jinx Town.”

“Ah, yes. I've heard of it. Lord Abaddon will smile on you for this, Carol.”

“You've got to get me out of here,” said Tommy, his voice cracking.

“Of course. Listen. When I give the signal, you forget everything and run to us.”

“What's the signal?”

“‘Marvin Hamlisch banana sandwich.' You might want to write that down so you don't forget.”

“No. I'm pretty sure I can remember that.”

“Good girl. We'll see you tomorrow night. Soon, Lord Abaddon will drown the world, saving only us, his true believers.”

“And me, too.”

“Of course, Carol dear,” said the Magister.

“Okay,” said Tommy, “I've got to go. Good night, Dark High One.”

“It's High Dark One. No, wait. You got it right. How about that?” No one replied. Tommy was gone. The Magister dialed Adept Six.

“How is Fluffy doing?” he said.

“He's hungry,” said the adept.

“Good. Keep him that way. His first meal will be the Caleximus traitor.”

“Yes, Dark High One.”

The Magister's stomach rumbled. “Do we have any shrimp left?”

Adept Six shouted something, then came back to the phone. “I'm afraid they went bad and we had to throw them out.”

“Damn. I can't wait to be done with this awful planet.”

“Should I send up some cod?”

“No,” said the Magister. “My show is coming on.”

“Show, Dark High One?”

Crap, thought the Magister. “Shoes. I'm putting my shoes on.”

“Of course.”

“Send some cod up in an hour,” the Magister said. “Then I'll come down and pay my respects to Fluffy.”

“Be sure to wash your hands well. Fluffy likes cod.”

“Are you saying I'm unhygienic?”

“No, Dark High One. My apologies. It's just that being this hungry, Fluffy has a tendency to bite.”

The Magister went across the room and uncovered the TV. His back twinged when he bent over.

“Now I'm annoyed,” said the Magister. “Send up the cod now, but leave it outside the door.” He hung up, not waiting for Adept Six to say good-bye.

He tuned in to
The Price Is Right
and even turned up the volume a little. It was a special occasion.
This might be the last showcase I ever see,
he thought.
It better be a good one.

“Privyet.”

“It's me,” said Salzman. “There's been a complication.”

“What kind of complicated?” said Zavulon.

Salzman had to take a second. The Russian's dubious accent was really starting to get to him. “The box has fallen into criminal hands. I'm going to need some help to get it back.”

“What kind of help you need?”

“How about some of those armored troglodytes of yours?” Salzman said.

“No problem. I will come, too.”

“That's not necessary. It might be dangerous.”

“Good. I'm too long away from dangerous,” said Zavulon.

“All right. The rendezvous is at eight tomorrow night. I'll come by your hotel at six thirty. Be ready.”

“We'll be armored to the mouth.”

“Teeth. Armed to the teeth,” said Salzman.

“Spasibo.”

“Until tomorrow.”

Salzman poured himself a drink and wondered which one he should murder first. Eventually, he concluded that it should be the Russian. Coop was a nuisance, but that goddamn accent, he thought. If he wasn't dead already, he might have to kill himself rather than ever hear Zavulon again.

Qaphsiel slept, despondent, on the top of the Griffith Park Observatory, his keen ears hearing the voices of people passing in the city below and hobos having sex in the bushes.
Another perfect night,
he thought. How many had there been in four thousand years? He
started to add them up, but all the zeroes just made him even more depressed.

The box had seemed so close earlier, but Coop didn't have it and wouldn't look for it. Worse even than that, the map had stopped working again. And here he was, with nowhere to go and nothing to do but wander the city like all the lost screenwriters, failed directors, and stoned guitarists who'd come to L.A. with high hopes, only to be crushed under its giant, Technicolor, open-toe boots.

To cheer himself up, Qaphsiel tried to remember even worse times. There was that incident during the Inquisition when a Spanish priest tried burning him at the stake. Of course, angels don't burn and neither do angelic maps. Unfortunately, his mortal clothes did, and it was quite embarrassing at a church in the thirteenth century. Qaphsiel had to wrap himself in the map like a sarong until he could find suitable attire again.

And there was that time on the
Titanic
. He had felt he was very close to the box then. In fact, he was certain that one of the well-heeled families on board had it. Then there was the iceberg and he wasn't able to make it into any of the lifeboats. Qaphsiel sank to the bottom of the Atlantic with fifteen hundred other people. The difference between him and the others was that he didn't drown. However, by the time he hit bottom, he was so waterlogged he wouldn't float. He was forced to walk across the bottom of the ocean to land, trying not to think bad thoughts about you-know-who, God's show-off son. That guy could have roller-skated the whole way to England. But no, Qaphsiel had to trudge through the silt the whole way, fighting off giant squid, confused sharks, and amorous merpeople. It took him weeks, and when he made it back to land and checked the map, he found that he'd been wrong the whole time. The box was back in America. For a fleeting moment, Qaphsiel considered walking back across the ocean bottom, but he'd had quite enough of that.

When he looked back on it, he wondered if it was the freezing ocean stroll that caused the map to malfunction in the first place. It took Qaphsiel weeks to make it back to America, a stowaway in the belly of a tramp steamer, the map stuttering and sizzling the
whole way. He gave up and slept most of the way across the Atlantic. Once in New York, the map behaved for a while, and he started west, sometimes buying his passage with gold and sometimes riding the rails. He was very lonely. By the time Qaphsiel reached California, things seemed to be looking up. That was over a hundred years ago. And now that he was so close . . . of course the map had gone completely dark. Really, it was too much. He might spend the next hundred years on top of the observatory, refusing to get down and hunt for the stupid thing. How would Heaven like those apples? But he wasn't going to do that. Qaphsiel was a good angel and not programmed for long-term tantrums. He'd start looking again in the morning. Maybe he'd get hit by another car. His leg still hurt from the last one, but the map had worked for a while. Maybe getting hit by a bus would make it work longer. That felt like the first good idea he'd had in a century. Tomorrow, he'd let a bus run him down and then check the map. In his sleepy state, the logic seemed flawless.

At that happy thought, Qaphsiel felt a small vibration in his pocket. He rolled over and took out the map. The stars and the landscape of the world were laid out before him, glowing and streaking with life and power. The map was working again. He wondered if someone upstairs had heard his misery and was throwing him a bone.

Qaphsiel studied the map and saw, dead center, something that pulsed and glowed. It was like a sun, but wasn't. It was his prize. It moved slowly, a shooting star that hadn't quite made it to its destination. All Qaphsiel had to do was watch and wait. This was it. This was
the
sign. Tomorrow, the box would be his. He clutched the map to his chest and lay back down, falling into a deep and happy sleep. He was finally going home.

COOP, SALLY, AND BAYLISS GOT TO JINX TOWN AT
seven, a good hour before the others were set to arrive. Sally and Bayliss had oohed and ahhed like kids on Christmas morning when they'd arrived, but Coop didn't give them much sightseeing time. He steered them up the escalators to the top dark level. Coop kept on a serious expression. A little darker than “How's it going?” but not quite as off-putting as “We're all going to die tonight.”

All three of them were wearing silver around their necks and enough DOPS holy water on their clothes to make them feel like they'd run through lawn sprinklers on a sunny day. But this wasn't a sunny day. It was an underground day, possibly the last day the world would exist, he reminded himself.

“Everyone know what to do?” he said.

“Yes,” said Bayliss.

“Affirmative, sir,” said Sally, saluting him. Coop gave her one second of a half smile.

“Okay. Fan out and let's put up the party decorations.”

Coop knelt and started taking things out of his bag.

“Do you really think this is going to work?” said Bayliss.

“It doesn't seem like one of your more top-of-the-line plans,” said Sally.

Coop handed gear around. “It only has to work long enough to get everyone out of here alive,” he said.

“You're an inspiration. Will you be my life coach?” said Sally.

The three of them fanned out, laying down surprises for their guests. A few Jinx Town denizens watched the odd mortals work. Then a few more. By eight, they'd attracted a curious crowd of assorted creatures and ghouls.

Then the guests arrived, one by one. Mr. Lemmy and his crew were first. The short man stood in the center as they stepped off the escalator like a pack of wolves in suits. Baker had already been wearing garlic around his neck when they'd arrived, and he was carrying a big bag of the stuff with him. By the time they made it up to the dark floor, the whole crew of six were wearing garlands, even Mr. Lemmy. Morty was with them, gagged and with his hands held together with zip ties. He gave Coop a little wave. Coop nodded back.

Steve and the Caleximus congregation were next. Their black boar, the size of a small horse with a double set of tusks and red coal eyes, wouldn't fit on the escalator, so they came out of an elevator by the fountain. Jerry was holding Giselle's arm, looking as guilty as a kid shoplifting his first
Hustler
. As the group came over to Coop and the mobsters, there came a little laughter and murmurs from the crowd.

“Hiya, Coop,” said Giselle. She had gauze and tape sloppily wrapped around her head. “I got bonked a little. I can't do my mind thing right now. Sorry.”

“Don't worry about it. Everything is going to be fine,” he said, hoping it wasn't a lie.

“What the hell is this?” said Steve, holding the boar by an enormous chain and collar. “Who are these people?” he said, pointing to Mr. Lemmy's gang.

Coop held up a finger. “I'll answer that question in one minute,” he said.

Seven robotlike armored things clanked up the same escalator Mr.
Lemmy had used a couple of minutes earlier. The crowd gasped at the sight. A smiling Salzman and a frowning Zavulon followed.

“What kind place is this?” said the Russian.

“For fuck sake. You can drop the accent,” said Salzman. “We're here for serious business.”

Zavulon stared at him. “You think my voice is faking?”

“Very much.”

“I'm hurt,” mumbled the Russian. “But yeah, it was getting old, wasn't it?” he said in a light voice with a slight English accent.

“American exchange student at Oxford?” said Salzman.

“Cambridge,” said Zavulon.

Salzman gave him a sympathetic look. “Better luck next time.”

“I'm still curious what this is all about,” he said.

“And who all these muppets are,” said Salzman, eyeing the other groups. He didn't like the hungry looks of the Jinx Town crowd either. For the first time in years, he was happy he was dead.

“Thanks for coming,” said Coop. “And right on time. It means you can take orders and instructions. That's going to be important tonight.”

“What is this freak show?” said Mr. Lemmy. “I want my box.”

“Your box?” said Steve. “Fuck you. We've been waiting for that box since the dawn of time. It's ours.”

“Guess again, pig farmer. But I like your girlfriend. You make a lovely couple,” said Mr. Lemmy, pointing at the boar.

“Excuse me,” said Salzman. “The little man—”

“Fuck you, too!” yelled Mr. Lemmy.

“—asked the pertinent question. What is this freak show?”

“It's a contest,” said Coop. “Like an Easter-egg hunt, only more fun. You see, there's only one box and three assholes who want it. So, you get to race for it. I'm going to text each of you a clue to where the box is. The first one who finds it wins.”

“Hold on a second,” said Mr. Lemmy. He pulled a .357 magnum from under his jacket and pointed it at Morty's head. “Stop this bullshit right now and give me my fucking box.”

Steve pulled a gun and pointed it at Giselle.

“Dad. What are you doing?” said Jerry.

“Serving the Lord, son,” said Steve. “Like the midget said. Give me my box.”

The armored Russian guards and Zavulon leveled their guns at Coop.

“I forgot to mention one more thing,” Coop said. He help up his hand so that everyone could see the small silver box he was holding. “The lovely Ms. Bayliss brought along something that goes boom. If anyone gets shot—and I mean anyone—I blow up the box.”

“You wouldn't fucking dare,” said Mr. Lemmy.

“You're threatening to kill my friends. I don't have a lot of friends. So yeah—boom,” said Coop. “Any other questions?” Sally took a few steps off to the side, disappearing by one of the shops.

“I have one,” said Salzman. “What's to stop all of us from shooting you when this is over?”

Coop smiled. “I guess I can't count on your goodwill?” he said.

“Probably not,” said Salzman.

“The bomb stays put until we're gone and clear. When we are, I'll text the winner the code to remove it from the box.”

“There's a special kind of Hell Caleximus has for assholes like you,” yelled Steve. He put his gun away. So did Mr. Lemmy.

“Put them down for now,” Salzman told Zavulon.

“I agree.” He signaled for his men to lower their weapons.

Coop's heart slowed down a little. A whole two minutes into the plan and no one was dead yet. “Now, is everyone ready to get started?”

“Where's the broad?” said Mr. Lemmy, craning his head around.

Coop nodded to Bayliss. “She's right here.”

“Not her. The other broad.”

“Oh, her. I don't know. Why don't you ask Morty?”

Mr. Lemmy looked to his side. Stepped back, turning his head this way and that. “What the fuck? Where is he?” It took Mr. Lemmy's men a few seconds to understand what he was talking about.

Morty was gone.

“Where is he?” Mr. Lemmy howled, pulling his gun again.

Coop held up the silver box. “Away is where he is,” said Coop. “But
he's not your problem right now. The box is.” Mr. Lemmy put his gun away.

From the side of the store, Sally walked back over to Coop and Bayliss.

“How did you do that?” Mr. Lemmy yelled to her.

“What?” said Sally. “I was just freshening my makeup.”

Mr. Lemmy jabbed a finger at the circle. “You're all dead. Every one of you is dead,” he said.

“Big talker,” said Steve.

Mr. Lemmy threw him a look. “You're right after him, Porky.”

Steve let the boar out a few links and Mr. Lemmy backed off.

“If everyone is ready, the three of us are going to text each group one clue to where the box is hidden,” said Coop. “After that, it's up to you. Look. Don't look. Just don't forget the magic word.”

“Boom,” said Sally.

“Boom,” said Bayliss.

Coop and the others got out their phones. “On three we send the texts. You might want to get your phones out, boys.”

Salzman, Steve, and Mr. Lemmy all took out their phones.

“One. Two. Three.” Coop and the others hit send. The three group leaders stared at their phones. Then at each other.

“Remember. It's a race,” said Coop. “You might consider running.”

“Come on, boys!” yelled Mr. Lemmy. He and his men took off running to the fountain in the distance.

Salzman glanced at Coop, with enough venom in his gaze to bring down a rhino. “This way,” he said, and the Russians followed him.

The Caleximus congregation looked around, trying to get oriented.

“Where the hell are we?” said Steve.

The Jinx Town crowd laughed.

“What's it say?” said Jorge.

“Look for the butcher shop. It's behind that.”

“There,” said Jerry, pointing into the distance. He took a step, stumbled, and was yanked through the air the other way. Giselle had disappeared.

Jerry's hands looked like they were holding on to empty air. “Dad! Dad! She's gone, but I can feel her.”

“Hold on, son,” said Steve.

“She's invisible,” said Jerry.

Steve looked around. “It's that other woman,” he yelled. “She's doing something with mirrors again.”

“I don't think it's mirrors,” said Jerry. He fell on his side and was dragged across the polished tile floor. The crowd hooted and laughed.

“Let up on the girl and my son,” yelled Steve, “or I'll set my boar on you!”

With Sally clouding their minds, she and Giselle dragged Jerry a few more feet.

“One last chance,” said Steve, letting the boar's leash out a few more links.

“Heretics!” yelled an old man from the top of the escalator.

Coop turned and saw a dozen robed figures pouring into the crowd.

“Who's that?” said Bayliss.

“I have no idea,” said Coop.

“Should we tell Sally to stop before he lets the boar go?”

“I don't think we have to,” said Coop.

Steve turned his demon boar around toward the robed mob running toward him. They pulled up short at the sight of the animal, but the old man wasn't intimidated. He had his own beast: a six-foot-tall, iridescent pink puffer fish, with sharp, bony spikes and white steak-knife teeth. A gasp went up from the crowd. A few people applauded.

“How did you get here, you Abaddonian assholes?” said Steve.

“Marvin Hamlisch banana sandwich!” screamed Tommy. He sprinted, slipping, falling, and getting up again, across the mall to the Magister. “Marvin Hamlisch banana sandwich!”

“Tommy!” yelled Steve. “You traitorous asshat.”

Salzman and the Russians were ripping apart the façade of a vampire bar. When Salzman heard the commotion, he stopped searching for a minute. “This looks interesting,” he said.

“Who cares? Keep looking,” said Zavulon.

“I'm not so sure. Coop is up to something. I'm going to check it out,” Salzman said.

“Fine. Go. We'll do the real work back here, shall we?”

“Tommy?” yelled Jerry, still being dragged around the floor by invisible forces. “Is it true?”

Tommy reached the Abaddonians and cowered behind them.

“Carol?” said the Magister, squinting at Tommy. “You're not a girl.”

“I tried to tell you that,” Tommy said.

The Magister glared at him. “What have you done with Carol?” he said.

Tommy yelled, “I'm Carol!”

“Hold him. We'll figure this nonsense out later,” said the Magister. He turned back to Steve. “As for you, feel the wrath of Lord Abaddon!” he bellowed. The Magister thrust his arms forward and Fluffy growled, glowing with incandescent fury. He began to roll, picking up speed every second, ripping up the marble floor as he headed straight for the Caleximus congregation.

“Fuck you and your guppy!” yelled Steve as he let go of the boar's chain. It took half a dozen steps forward and stopped. Fluffy glowed a hotter red with each revolution.

Salzman crept up on the spectacle, quietly laughing at the scene.

The black boar skittered on its hooves, turned, and ran in the opposite direction from Fluffy.

“No!” yelled Steve.

“Dad!” yelled Jerry.

“Shit,” said Salzman as the fleeing boar thundered straight at him. He turned and ran back to the Russians. “Shoot it,” he yelled. “Shoot it!”

As Fluffy bore down on the congregation, Jerry became aware that all of a sudden no one was pulling his arm. He turned back to the demon fish bearing down on him, knowing that the invisible women were gone and that all of his father's shouts and prayers weren't going to save him.

Mr. Lemmy and his men splashed around the black fountain, making a formidable amount of noise, enough that they didn't hear any of the fight going on at the other end of the floor.

“Boss, I don't think this is red water we're in,” said Baker. “I think it's—”

“Shut up and keep looking,” screamed Mr. Lemmy.

A crowd stood around them, laughing as they crawled around in the liquid, feeling the bottom and sides of the fountain. In fact, Mr. Lemmy and his men were concentrating so hard, they didn't notice when invisible hands cut the garlic garlands off their necks and tossed them into the dark.

When all the garlic was gone, the crowd's laughter went with it. They moved in closer, forming a tight circle around the fountain. Mr. Lemmy looked up and slipped onto his ass. He'd never seen that many fangs outside of a Gothic whorehouse he'd once visited in New Orleans. It wasn't a very convincing Dracula scenario—none of the girls could get the accent right—but it had been a fine way to spend an evening. This crowd, though . . . well, this crowd was different.