Part 38 (2/2)

Chapter 49.

Something was wrong. Something was really wrong. Peters had not contacted Maia in a very long time. The last time they called, they had an unconscious Death in their clutches along with a somehow important Mundane. They were heading north, as far away from civilization as possible, to a little cabin Maia knew of and maintained especially for times like these. That was where they were going.

And that had been roughly three hours ago.

A feeling of wrongness wormed around in Maia's guts, trying to get into his brain. Could something have gone wrong? What could have gone wrong? The thought made him curse. They were transporting Death for Christ's sakes. Everything could have gone wrong! Maia had explicitly told Peter to take precautions when handling the Boatman. Had that infernal weasel somehow escaped?

Maia stomped around his office like he was searching for flesh to smash. Not finding anything to his liking, he threw back his head and growled in absolute disgust. There was a knock on his office door. Maia whirled on it and glared enough heat to laser a hole through the metal surface.

”Get in here!” Maia commanded.

Marvin entered. He looked nervous in the presence of a very agitated fire chief. Maia focused his stare of h.e.l.lfire at the Minion and rooted him to the spot. He pursed up his mouth and debated whether he should kill Marvin just out of rage. He had the feeling he had sent four of his best into battle, and all of them had fallen. The thought put enough colour into his face that Marvin thought it could potentially burst under pressure.

When he spoke, Marvin was listening.

”Peters and Wash didn't make it,” Maia informed him, feeling the truth behind his words even though he had no way of knowing. Marvin's mouth dropped open with shock.

”Gather up the rest of the boys,” Maia went on. ”We're heading to the cabin.”

Chapter 50.

A dry-looking TCH lay before the Stickman. Mounds of snow were on either side of the strip of highway, suffocating trees whose tips could just barely be seen. It was an overcast sky, and beneath it was a grey strip of highway splitting craggy mounds of white. The emptiness of the land around him did nothing to dampen Stickman's disposition. He was jubilant to be free of the thing that had taken him a captive. He hoped it was minus fifty out there, so the creature's a.s.s would freeze to the asphalt, and hold him there long enough for a transport trailer to run over it.

The Stickman felt great. Just great. He didn't even feel the ache of his face or any of his bruises and wounds from the battle with Boomer. He was so happy that he actually had fond thoughts of Levin. Perhaps he would let the man live, but only after Stickman did a dance on the man's legs. What he did to Badger could not be completely forgotten. Then again, thinking further on it, perhaps Levin was the type of person that would try and exact revenge on the Stickman for breaking his legs. Maybe Levin would even go as far as hiring someone or calling in a favour to deal with the Stickman to even the score. The idea had merit, and it made Stickman chew on the inside of his cheek in thought. He finally decided it was safest just to dispose of Levin. Stickman was glad to have thought the whole thing through. Badger would have been proud of him.

He continued driving and considered putting on some music. He glanced at the empty road ahead, looked down at the radio and reached for it. When he looked up to watch the road again, he saw that there was a hitchhiker ahead, standing with his arm outstretched and holding onto his head. A head that was topped off with a yellow and black toque.

Just like a bee.

Lucy saw the approaching car and stuck out her thumb. It was freezing on the roadside, and she didn't know why she had to be exactly here anyway, except this is where ol' Father Time wanted her to be. Maybe it was punishment for something? Who knew? The faster she got picked up, the faster she could get on with her task. And that was getting back to Tony. Right now, she figured Tony and Frank were getting on just swell. It was a gamble they were taking, a big gamble, and not even Lucy was certain of where or how it was all going to play out. When it came to the Mundanes alone, she could influence it. When it came to the Ent.i.ties, she had no more influence than a flea in a dog's decision of which way it wanted to turn.

The car approaching her was a Sunbird, but she didn't know the year. It slowed down, and Lucy did a little appreciative hop. Her a.s.s was freezing in this weather. The car pulled up alongside of her and stopped, its exhaust fumes shooting out from behind and blowing about her. The pa.s.senger window was frosted over. She could not see inside, and when she tried to open the door, she discovered it was locked. That was strange, Lucy thought.

”You gonna let me in or not?” Lucy said over the loud rumble of the engine.

There was a pause.

Lucy then saw a hand distorted by the ice unlock the door. Lucy opened it immediately, and a gasp of foul air went by her. She bent over at the waist to look inside at the driver. The driver regarded her with a face that looked as if it had been bashed in with a baseball bat. A black eye, a huge cut on his forehead that had scabbed over with black blood, two cheeks that probably were a hair away from being shattered, and a mouth rimmed with a fighter's fat lips. Lucy hesitated, staring at the face before her, before smiling sweetly and glancing down.

”Sorry,” she said. ”I didn't mean to stare. You're like the first person I've seen out here all day, and here I am staring at you. Very sorry about that. Anyway, can you give me a lift?”

”Where's ye goin'?” asked the driver. His teeth were small, but looked undamaged.

”West,” Lucy answered.

”Get in.”

Lucy did so, thankful to get out of the cold. She did not see the driver sizing up her legs as she did so. ”Thanks. Lucky me you came along when you did. I was freezing!”

The Stickman's head lilted to one side as he put the car into drive.

”Lucky I,” he said with a greasy smile.

Chapter 51.

Walk, Tony told himself. March.

He looked up at the long, open throat of a road, grey and wintry, stretching out and eclipsed between two forest-covered hills with dark mountains all around them, mountains whose girth was hidden by a low, overcast sky and the constant falling of great, lazy snowflakes. It all looked and felt cold to Tony, who walked the white road, one foot moving stiffly after the other. He shrugged his shoulder, feeling the weight of Death's unconscious form slung over it. He felt the weight of Mr. Jack in his coat pocket, and all of the other things he had taken from the car. He felt dirty from the freezing blood on his person. He kept the baseball bat in his left fist, which was also draped over Death's legs. March, he told himself again.

Or die.

The thought brought a stiff grin to his face. It made Tony realize how d.a.m.n cold it was. But he would not die. He could not die. He had Death over his shoulder like a great sack of potatoes. How could he die? It would not be from exposure. He was moving along fast enough to prevent that. But he was getting so tired. Everything was so heavy. And the snow covering the edges of the road, the same snow that quickly became huge banks of whiteness that looked so soft to him, so incredibly soft, tempted him to just drop his load, just dump Death into the fluffy bank.

And join him.

They could sit and wait for the first car or truck to happen along. Maybe even have a nap while they were waiting. That would be so nice. Just sit and... sleep. A huge sigh left Tony. Old Frankie boy was heavy. b.a.s.t.a.r.d had eaten too many f.u.c.king chicken fingers. Tony was getting a workout, however. He noted how he was taking big strides when he left the car wreck, heading where he thought was north. He realized, as time moved on, that his strides had become more like shuffles. He looked up again at the distant road. It was unwavering and simply ceased to exist over the approaching hill. Tony thought it would be too lucky to find a town just over the rise, and it seemed that he just did not have that sort of luck, not since Lucy, anyway.

At one point, Tony stopped and exhaled a mighty gust of breath. His breath was no longer visible on the air. His legs ached. His shoulders ached. He wanted a short breather. He lowered Death to the side of the road, easing him into a snow drift. Tony plopped right down beside him. The snow was high enough that he was in a reclining pose with a pleasant brace of cold snow at his neck. It felt wonderful. Tony wiggled a bit and regarded his legs stuck straight out onto the highway. He wondered how that would look to oncoming traffic, a pair of dark legs sticking out of a drift. He closed his eyes. Tony hoped, dreamily, that whoever did find them didn't sound their horn. That would be just too d.a.m.n noisy. He breathed in and felt the icy air fill his lungs. He would catch a nap. Just a little nap. And then, he would get up and continue on. Honest to G.o.d he would.

s...o...b..a.l.l.s.

He dreamt of s...o...b..a.l.l.s.

”s...o...b..a.l.l.s,” a voice to his right said.

Tony's eyes cracked open.

”Hey... s...o...b..a.l.l.s. Wake the f.u.c.k up before I b.i.t.c.h slap you!”

With a jolt, Tony looked at the face of Death. He was grimacing.

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