What Would Satan Do? (19 page)

“Doubt it.  But I couldn’t say for sure.”

“Third, either he or his companion will claim to be Jesus.  That’s that Camdon guy, right?  And fourth, he will appear to survive a fatal injury.  Well, he’s had all those heart attacks, right?  Right?” 

There are only so many things you can say to a raving lunatic, none of which appealed to Liam particularly at that moment.  So he sat back again, put his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes, waiting for it to be over.

“And the Antichrist is supposed to start taking over the world.  Whitford invaded Louisiana, right?”

“He didn’t invade Louisiana,” said Liam.

“Well, maybe he didn’t actually invade with tanks and stuff, but you said yourself that he now controls most of the oil supply of the most powerful nation in the world.”  Festus did the shrugging and hand-waving equivalent of writing “
QED
”
under a proof, and slumped back into his chair, spent. 

The bird came back.  But now he landed right in the middle of their table, sliding and flapping his wings as he slipped on one of the taco wrappers.

“Whoa,” said Festus, scooting back in his chair.  “What the hell?”

The bird turned his head to the side to regard Festus.  He took a step forward, toward Festus’ drink.

Festus knocked his chair over as he stood up, evidently feeling a little nonplussed.  “Seriously,” he said.  “What the hell?” 

Liam seemed unfazed.  “Oh, relax.  It’s just the Thirsty Black Bird of the Apocalypse.”  He waved his hand in the general direction of the bird.  “Totally fits in with your theory.” 

Festus glanced around for a bit of guidance, but found none.  The taco lady had disappeared from her window, and there seemed to be absolutely nobody else around, not even out on the Drag.  It was as if this little corner of Austin had suddenly turned into the stark, empty set of an Alfred Hitchcock movie, leaving just Festus, the wacko bird, and the arguably more wacko version of Liam, who’d obviously been the victim of some heinous alien body snatchery.

“Just relax, Festus.”  Liam waved him back over to the table.  “Sit down.”

Festus took a tentative step back toward the table.  The bird took another step too, and then, after giving Festus a couple more of those scary, one-eyed looks that only creepy black birds can give, took one more step and closed his beak over the straw in Festus’ beverage.

Festus declined to take any further steps toward the table, opting instead to stay right the hell where he was. 

Liam, having apparently accepted the bird situation and moved on with his life, picked at a scrap of leftover taco filling and plucked it into his mouth.  “Tell me more about what the guy told you in jail.  Did he give you any kind of details about what the attack would be?”

“No.  Just that it’s supposed to be some kind of poison gas or something.  I dunno.” 

“Not real helpful,” said Liam.

“He kept saying stuff about the Army of God.  And talking about how everything’s supposed to be all crazy.  And I’m starting to think he was r—”

“Okay, you’ve had your fill,” said Liam, waving a hand at the bird.  The animal turned to Liam, gave what for all intents and purposes appeared to be a nod, and flew away. 

“You know,” said Festus, “you always seem to be the epicenter of all the weird shit that happens around here.  Weird shit really only happens when I’m around you.  I think we may need to stop hanging out.”

“You called me to get you out of jail, boner.”

“Yes, well… still.”  Festus shuddered.  “Weird shit.”

Liam looked at his watch.  “I’ve got to go.” 

“Where?”  Festus apparently could not fathom either the fact that Liam actually had somewhere to be, or the possibility that Liam had found Festus’ conversation to be anything less than absolutely riveting. 

“Lola is stopping by the shop.”

“The girl from your date?  All right!”

“No, it’s not like that.  We didn’t hit it off at all.  She’s—she’s with the FBI.”  He stood, surveying the taco-paper devastation they’d wrought.  “I’m going to help out on something...”

“What?  Tell me you’re not getting involved with all of that again.”

“I ... think I just told you that I was—am.”  He scooped up the greasy wrappers and stepped to the garbage can.  “Anyway, it’s just a little thing.”

“What the hell?  I thought you didn’t like shooting bad guys.”

Liam turned.  “What?  No.  I love shooting bad guys.”

Festus was generally the shocker, not the shockee.  He didn’t know what to do, so he just stared at Liam.

“Shooting bad guys is fun.  It’s not like you see on the movies…’”  Liam made his voice high-pitched and feigned consternation.  “‘Oh
no
!  I shot him!  He’s dead.  And now he’ll never go to the can again!  I feel so sad.  Boo hoo.’”  This was a side of Liam that Festus had never seen.  “No, it’s more like, ‘Yeah!  I just
shot
that fucker.  Now he won’t go around blowing shit up in the name of God or Jesus or Allah or whatever unicorn-tree-god he believes in.”  Liam punctuated this statement with a subtle fist pump.

“Well, there are a lot of unicorn-tree-god jihadists,” said Festus.  “I’ll grant you that.”

Liam swatted at a fly as he tried to shove their breakfast garbage into the can without actually touching it.  “Besides, I’m not going to shoot any bad—” 

“You come back here!”  The taco stand man-lady had appeared again, having wedged her ample self halfway out the window this time.  She caught Liam’s eye.  “He’s stealing the tacos!”  She pointed and Liam followed the line of her finger.  A man with no shirt weaved his way past the tables, planted a hand on the low brick wall, and threw his legs over.  Or at least, that’s what he attempted to do.  He caught his foot on the edge of the bricks and ended up rolling sideways over the top of the wall and onto the ground.  But a second later he was up again, clutching a pile of tacos to his chest.  He glanced around, apparently more concerned about being convicted of klutziness than petty larceny, and resumed his flight. 

The taco stand lady started to yell again, but was interrupted by the sound of screeching tires.  The sound was from a shiny, black Lincoln Town Car attempting to come to a quick stop, which it did, right after hitting the man with no shirt.  He doubled over, smacking his head on the hood, and then slid off the side of the car onto the ground. 

The car doors swung open and two old men in engineers’ coveralls stepped out.  They stepped around to the front of the car and stared at the shirtless man, talking quietly to one another for a moment.  They stopped talking and, after some looking around and some nodding at each other, the two old men crouched down, picked the man up, and carried him around to the back of the car.  They then proceeded to put him into the trunk.  He went in without much of a fuss – probably on account of having just been run over – and so the two old men, each brushing his hands together in the way one does after a job well done, climbed back into their American-made leviathan and drove away.

Sometimes, when really screwy stuff happens, the casual observer finds it difficult to mount a coherent or logical response.  Sometimes there’s just not much you can say or do.  Liam and Festus did the only thing they could.

“What.  The.  Fuck?” said Liam.

“Yeah...” said Festus, nodding his head very slowly.  The earthquakes, locust swarms, and weird, apocalyptic weather events of late were one thing.  But now, things really seemed to be getting out of hand.

The taco stand lady bustled out to the edge of the porch, a broom in her hand.  “You don’t steal my tacos!” she shouted, waving the pole end of the broom at the world at large.

“Should we call someone?” asked Festus.

“Nah,” said Liam.  He looked at his watch again.  “Let’s go.”

“Okay.”

They were too full from the tacos to attempt full, sliding-across-the-hood stunts, and so they just got into the car like normal guys, and drove a couple of blocks over to the guitar shop. 

When they arrived less than a minute later, Liam was disturbed to see that the lights of the shop were already on.  They went inside, and found Raju asleep on the floor behind the cash register, looking bored.

“Raju,” Liam gave him a love tap with his foot.  “What are you doing?”

Raju sat up, wiping drool from his face, and looked up from under droopy eyelids.  “What?”

“Are you high?”

“No,” said Raju.  “I don’t think so.  Why?”

“There’s a woman coming here.  She should be here any minute.  Don’t act like an idiot.”

Chapter 23.
          
Whitford Flosses, Calls in the Secessionists

The angel talked and talked.  He made everything sound so easy.  He told them where they could get the sarin gas, and about the demon who was on his way to Texas to try to screw everything up, and all the things they needed to do to ensure the plan succeeded.  His words seemed to flow, warm and comforting.  Cadmon watched the anger drain out of Whitford’s face, and found himself nodding along with the rhythmical cadence of the angel’s speech.

Cadmon snapped awake.  The angel was saying something to him.

“He is in charge now.  You will do as he says.  Your resources are his.”  The angel turned away and rose to his full height, lifting his arms out to his sides.

“What?  Wait a minute!”

Ezekiel dropped his arms and turned, flashing Cadmon a dirty look.  “He is in charge now,” he stabbed a finger toward Whitford.  The Governor, still a little dazed, managed a weak smirk.

The angel gave a curt nod and took a deep breath, regaining his composure.  He started to spread his hands again.  But Cadmon persisted. 

“I don’t understand?  Why is he—?

The angel’s eyes flashed red as he spun.  “What do you want?”  There suddenly seemed to be a lot more air moving around the room than is typically the case indoors.  The wooden blinds that covered Whitford’s windows rattled.

Cadmon sat startled, his eyes wide.  “Well, I—”

Whitford leaned over to peer around the angel.

“Nothing,” said Cadmon.

“Good,” said the angel.  The room flashed and shook, and Ezekiel disappeared without bothering with the whole arms-raising thing this time.

They sat in silence for almost a full minute.  Whitford picked at his teeth absentmindedly.  Cadmon caught up on some sighing he’d been meaning to do.  Neither seemed to know what to say.  But then Whitford snapped to attention, apparently having figured something out.  He yanked open a drawer of his desk, and rummaged through papers, pens, and other office paraphernalia.

“Damnit,” he said.

He rummaged some more, and finally settled on a pen.  He tore the cap off, tossing the pen itself aside, and wedged the pointy end of the pen cap in between two teeth.

He glanced up at Cadmon, his face contorted. 

The preacher waited for him to say something, and tried not to let the revulsion he felt show on his face.  “Well,” he said.

Whitford said nothing.  He continued to pick at his teeth. 

“Hello?” said Cadmon.  But the Governor said nothing, so the preacher stood to leave.

Whitford grunted.  “Okay,” he said, pulling the pen cap out briefly to examine it.  “Alright.  Lots to do.  So you’ll send your men after the demon—?”  The last word was garbled, as if the Governor were trying to talk while picking at his teeth.  Which he was.

“What?” asked Cadmon.  “Some of my men?  What demon?  What the hell are you talking about?”  He sat back down.

Whitford smacked both hands down on the desk.  “The demon?  Hello?”

Cadmon stared blankly at the Governor.

“Were you even listening, dumbass?”

“Well, yes.  I thought… but I—”

“The demon,” said Whitford.  “The one who’s on his way here.”

“Oh, right.  Right.”

“You’re supposed to send some of your men to get him.”

“My men?  What are you—?”

“Unk,” said Whitford.  He’d tossed the pen cap aside and was now just using a his finger.  Finally he stopped, removed his hand – which had been lodged halfway into his mouth – and held something up to look at it in the light. 

Cadmon nearly gagged, but felt a little relieved now that the episode appeared to be at an end. 

But it wasn’t.  Whitford stabbed a button on his intercom.  “Withers, bring me some goddamned floss.”

Ms. Withers came in with the dental floss.  “Minty, just like you like it,” she said, and bustled out. 

Cadmon really, really did not want to watch this man floss.  But if this, he told himself, was what it took to do God’s work, then so be it.  He tried to think of Jesus’ suffering.  Then he thought about how Jesus probably never had to watch the Blob floss.

When it came to Whitford, Cadmon generally tried to avoid being around for anything that even remotely resembled a bodily function.  Today, however, was a total catastrophe – Cadmon had already watched the man eat, and was about to have to watch him floss. 
At least we’re not at the gym
, he thought, and then immediately shook his head to erase the disturbing image of post-workout showers that popped into his head.

“My men?” asked the preacher.

“I know about your little army.”

Cadmon decided to ignore that one.  “Why can’t you send some of your people?”

Whitford spread his arms.  “Do you see anyone here?”

Cadmon glanced around, slightly confused.  “I see you.  What about those soldiers I’ve seen around town?”  He gestured at a closet which, even on a day when Whitford’s soldiers hadn’t run off naked, probably would have had few, if any, serviceable military men, clothed or otherwise.  “You’ve got tons of people – soldiers, staff, whatever – that you can send.  Why can’t
you
do it?”

“You fuckwit.  My entire staff ran off this morning.  All of them.  Every single one.  Along with half of our – my – soldiers.  Ezekiel said it has something to do with the demon.  But whatever.  Apparently they’re out there, just… just running around naked.”  He too waved a hand at the closet, even though he’d just opened it this morning and hadn’t found a single naked guy in it.

“Ms. Withers is still here.”