Chris Holm - The Wrong Goodbye

“You gotta understand, Sammy, coming down off a skim, you tap into something. Something greater than yourself. Something greater than the soul you’re skimming off of. It’s like, for a little while, you’re tapped into the whole of human experience or some shit. Past, present, future —who knows what the fuck you’re gonna see or why? Call it chance, call it the hand of God —from where I’m sitting, they’re the same damn thing. But whatever you call it, I just figured that’s where Danny got all this —and hell, maybe it was. I didn’t think for a second he understood a word of it. Yeah, maybe I fucked up, but if I start poking around now and then the shit goes down, it only increases the odds it all leads back to me —which is precisely what I’m trying to avoid. So sorry, champ, but you’re on your own. But hey —there’s a chance you’ll come through and save the world. A very, very narrow chance.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, and then he smiled. “Hey, I think you and me, we just had a breakthrough in our relationship. Hashing things out all civil-like —me not killing you, you not killing me. Feels good. Feels right . Feels like maybe we oughta hug it out.”

He spread his arms. I shook my head.

“Suit yourself. How ’bout a word of advice instead, on account of how we’re such good friends now.”

Friends my ass, I thought, but what I said instead was: “I’m listening.”

“If it were me tracking Danny down, I’d be trying my damndest to figure out where worlds draw thin.”

“Yeah. That’d be more helpful if I had the tiniest idea what the fuck it even meant.”

Dumas shrugged like what’re you gonna do ? “Hey, you know as well as anyone that the whole of Mankind’s prophecies and scripture amount to nothing more than a ten-thousand-year-old game of telephone. Half the time, they don’t mean shit at all, and the other half–”

But before he finished his thought, there was a muffled boom from somewhere overhead, and the very cave around us shifted, raining dust upon us both and forcing me to steady myself with one hand against the wall. The movement was unthinking, reflexive, and of course it was my bum arm I reached out with; when my palm connected with the chamber wall, a jolt of queasy, white-hot pain shot up my arm, settling in my shoulder and throbbing like an impacted molar.

Another boom, right on the heels of the first. This one loosed more than dust —the darkness above rattled as small rocks bounced off the walls on the way down, and then a not-so-small rock whizzed past my head in the darkness, parting my hair and damn near doing the same to my skull before burying its pointy self six inches into the dirt at my feet.

“The hell?” I said. “Did Psoglav–”

“No,” Dumas replied, his face set in a frown. “If Psoglav had cracked a soul, he’da brought the whole damn cave down. And whatever that was, it came from outside.”

“It couldn’t have been the storm,” I said, thinking aloud, “lightning doesn’t make the fucking ground shake. Besides, it sounded like a goddamn bomb went off. It sounded like…”

Dumas watched me talk myself out. Then he supplied the same words my brain had. “An angel’s wrath? That what you were gonna say?”

I said nothing, my mouth moving for a second like that of a dying fish before I took notice and closed it. Dumas was glaring at me now, and the frown that graced his face deepened into something harsher, angrier, more sinister. His squat, round frame seemed to swell until he dominated the narrow room, and his eyes raged with black fire. “ You did this.”

“What? No! Why the hell would you think–”

“Why? Gee, Sam, I don’t know —maybe because when you came marching in here, you were pretty sure stealing Varela from you was my idea. Maybe because you blame me for the eternal predicament in which you find yourself. Maybe because despite all the havoc that you wreaked in life, and in the decades since you up and died, you still fancy yourself a Good Guy, and thought turning stoolie on me would be your fast-track into the Maker’s good graces. And here I thought you and I were getting on so well.”

Dumas, a full head shorter than me when we crawled in here, dropped the torch he’d been carrying and grabbed me by my lapels, lifting me until I was a good foot off the ground and we were nose to nose. The room seemed to elongate as the torch lit it from below. Dumas’s face had elongated as well —to twice its normal size, it seemed —and when he spoke, I saw his mouth was now filled with row upon row of blackened, jagged teeth. “Tell me, Sammy,” he said, his striated, spiked tongue lashing at his front teeth with every word, and rasping out the sibilant in my name, “did you ring up one of your angel-friends before you sauntered over here, maybe let ’em know where you were going? Did you promise to deliver me if they’d make your missing-soul problem go bye-bye?”

My feet cast wild shadows as they scrabbled for purchase, but it wasn’t any use. “I didn’t —I swear!”

He slammed me into the rock wall behind me. My head hit so hard I thought I’d puke. Then I did puke, so, you know, yay for being right.

“I think you’re lying to me, Sammy,” he said, and slammed me into the wall again, so hard my vision swam. Not that I minded much. In the best of times, Dumas wasn’t much to look at, and these weren’t the best of times. From what little I could see through the darkness and the circling cartoon birds, Dumas’s current visage put Psoglav to shame. “But it hardly matters, does it? Either you called in the cavalry, or you were so fucking incompetent in get ting here they tracked you. You’ll pay dearly either way, I assure you. But now, unfortunately, I have to delay the pleasure of flaying you alive, so I can deal with this fucking mess you’ve made. Don’t worry, though —I’ll be back before you know it.”

A leathery rustle, the click of claws on stone, and Dumas was gone —gone so quickly that he was through the narrow aperture of Danny’s hovel and out of sight before I even hit the ground.

Which I did.

Hard.

And then got whacked square in the back by a stone the size of a fucking cantaloupe falling from above.

This week was not my favorite ever.

The cantaloupe brought friends. Like half the fucking roof. Shit pelted me like this was a game of dodgeball and I was the last kid standing, only harder, meaner, and from above. OK, maybe it wasn’t so much like a game of dodgeball as it was a game of try-not-to-get-stoned-to-death. I’d never played that one before, but I hoped to God I’d catch on quick.

Got up. To my knees, at least. Felt like an accomplishment, till I got knocked back down. Figured maybe up wasn’t the way to go. Figured instead I’d stay low.

I protected my head as best I could with my bum arm. The tendons in my shoulder hurt like hell, holding it up like that, and the old bean still got clocked a couple times, but I deflected enough blows to stay conscious, so we’ll call that a win. Tried to snatch the torch with my good arm, but the steady rain of dust from above proved too much for it, extinguishing the flame.

That was OK. I’d seen darkness aplenty those past two days. I was starting to get used to it.

What was harder to get used to was the constant battery outside —like London in the fucking Blitz —and the deadly hail of rocks it set upon me.

A stone dagger shook loose from the ceiling and sliced along my side, through fabric and skin both. The wound burned white hot, the only light in the room —and I could see it even when my eyes were closed. Hurt enough it made me lower my shieldarm for a moment. Then a quick shot to my temple reminded me why that was a bad idea.