Walter Greatshell - Apocalypticon

Sensing their hesitation, Voodooman said, "Don't be shy, boys. Listen, we're all family here. Things ain't like they used to be, with folks all fired up at one another, steppin' on each other's toes. Them days are over. What reason do we have to fight? There's enough here for everybody! Look yonder, you'll see Bloods dancing with Crips, Muslims with Mormons, Latin Kings chillin' with White Pride. Those labels don't matter like they used to in the joint. We're all brothers now, and we got us a whole world to carve up, like the Twelve Tribes of Israel. Here, let me take you to meet El Dopa."

Dragged through the room like starstruck peasants, the boys gaped at truckloads of wine and champagne, cigarettes and cigars, whole hams, sides of bacon, sausages and other cured meats, every kind of canned and dry goods, imported chocolates and cheeses, a huge trove of prescription pharmaceuticals, enough designer clothing to stock a Fifth Avenue department store, and endless cases of cheap beer and expensive liquor. There was also a huge arsenal of military weapons and ammunition. But what really caught the boys' eyes were the Christmas decorations everywhere they looked: a large street display made of lights spelling MERRY XMAS as well as ivylike profusions of red and green bulbs, giant glowing candy canes, fake Christmas trees covered with flock and silver and gold tinsel, images of angels, reindeer, bells, gold stars, gold ornaments-gold everywhere they looked, even hanging overhead. Real gold: golden lamps and chandeliers, gold jewelry, gold goblets and tableware, gold eggs, gold coins, gold bricks. Several Oscar statuettes. At the center of it all, a massive golden crucifix with a bloody, tortured Christ.

Sal noticed other gory Christ images as well, valuable-looking paintings and museum pieces, and asked, "Are you guys Catholic or something?"

"Some are, not me. We don't trouble much about each other's religions since El Dopa turned us on to Bhakti-Yoga."

"Yoga?"

"I know what you're thinking. But it ain't like that; it's a kind of philosophy-the spiritual glue that's held all us different groups together and carried us through a lot of bad shit. It was invented hundreds of years ago by a dude in India, man by the name of Ramakrishna. He basically said that it don't matter what religion you are-all religions are paths to God. He said, 'All rivers flow to the ocean.' That's what's helped us get along so well up to now. Which ain't to say Jesus Christ don't have a special significance. As someone who was raised from the dead hisself, he reminds us what it's all about."

"What's that?"

"The promise of eternal life."

"Like a Xombie?"

"Whoa, now. Jesus wasn't no Xombie. Xombies are devils; we want to be angels. That's what Uncle Spam has promised us as the reward for our labors, and I've seen enough to know it's true. There are angels roaming the Earth again, folks immune not only to Agent X but to the rigors of sickness and death. They're out there, and if we serve them faithfully, we may even earn a place at their table. In Valhalla."

Working up his nerve, Sal asked, "What do you guys know about Valhalla?"

"I expect you boys would know better than we would. It's the last capital-the New Jerusalem. The City of Angels, and I ain't talking about no damn Los Angeles." Voodooman eyed him intently. "Why? You been there?"

Rushing to cover his tracks, Sal said, "No! Just… curious, I guess."

"I hear that. It's the only paradise left in this world, the last and most ideal government. It's where all of man's wisdom is being kept safe, in preparation for the Savior's return. And it's the place we send our dead, so that someday they can live again."

"So you believe Christ is coming back."

"Some folks do. Personally, I don't know if it'll necessarily be Christ himself, or some other redeemer. I never been religious, but I believe that something is coming. Some higher power. We've all heard tell about it from the Harpies we catch: a glowing light in the sky, getting bigger and bigger. We call it the Big Enchilada. It's comin' all right." Suddenly the electric lights flickered off, and a brilliant spotlight winked on over their heads. "Oh shit, hold up-the Thuggees are on."

The boys had arrived at the center of the room. At the front, rising above a wall of truck batteries, was a platform in front of a blue velvet stage curtain. A carpeted ramp rose to the dais, which was empty except for a fancy wingback chair and a microphone, both gleaming in the spotlight. The crowd cheered as a fur-coated man mounted the ramp. "Welcome to the Thug House!" he called.

Speakers on the walls began throbbing with a familiar beat.

"Is that 'Funky Cold Medina'?" asked Sal.

"Seriously, dude," Kyle said, rolling his eyes. "Learn your history. It's 'Going Back to Cali,' by LL Cool J."

Making up his own lyrics, the man onstage mumbled along to the beat, listlessly punching the air. "I'm singin' 'bout Vedanta, Vedanta, Vedanta-I'm singin' 'bout Vedanta-Kill your ego-"

Kyle whispered in Sal's ear, "Yo, it's the Grinch."

Sal shushed him… but the man did resemble the Grinch: a prune-faced faux Santa, prematurely old, with bad teeth and jaundiced eyes. He was dressed in a fur-collared red cape over a red velvet suit, with gleaming black platform boots and a peculiar furry cap that was more Attila the Hun than Kris Kringle. In his rich brocades, the man was a strange fusion of Hollywood hustler and Russian Orthodox priest-half pope, half pimp.

One by one, as at a beauty contest, a line of extraordinary figures began to sashay out from the wings, making strange shapes with their arms and singing a high-pitched chorus. The room erupted in cheers and wolf whistles.

Oh my God, Sal thought, heart pounding. The boys around him gasped.

Women. Women of every shape and size, only their stage costumes identical. All were barefoot and bare-limbed, bodies painted coal black from head to toe, with peculiar skirts of gnarled roots or sticks, beaded breastplates, and great quantities of gold bangles and other jewelry, including jewel-encrusted crowns or tiaras that held back tremendous manes of wild black hair. In their hands they carried wicked-looking curved blades and objects that resembled withered fruit. It took Sal a second to realize that their disturbing black faces-red eyes popping, red tongues protruding-were only masks.

It didn't matter that they were weird-looking; what mattered was that they were women. The boys were rapt, drunk on music and incense, their frozen hearts thawed with childish yearning for this impossible bounty from a dead world. Some of them started to cry, reminded of what they had been missing, keeping buried in their hearts: every woman they had ever known. The sight of these unearthly black goddesses dredged it all up.

Hearing the other four sniffling, Kyle leaned over and hissed, "Hey! Assholes! They're dudes!"

Freddy Fisk physically recoiled, blinking tears. "What? No, their voices-"

"It's a recording. Just look, stupid!"

It was true. As soon as Kyle spoke, the illusion fractured and their wistful soft focus sharpened to a painful resolution: These were not women at all, but frightening caricatures of women. Under their masks, ebony body paint, and fake boobs, they were nothing but transvestites.

Parading above the boys was the unlikeliest female of them all, a gangly, chicken-necked character, his face disguised but his leathery Adam's apple bobbing as he lip-synched along. Like the others, he was wearing a necklace of shrunken heads and skeins of teeth that swayed like rosaries as he danced languidly to the beat. A separate blackened head dangled from his fist, leaving a trail of perfumed smoke as he waved it around by its long hair. The tuberlike objects that made up his skirt were desiccated arms-children's arms. Viewed closely, they were every bit as real as the shrunken heads.