Richard Kadrey - Kill the Dead: A Sandman Slim Novel

KILL THE
DEAD

RICHARD
KADREY

For G and K

Where all life dies, death lives, and nature breeds
Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things
Abominable, unutterable, and worse

P ARADISE L OST , B OOK 2

I dont want to achieve immortality through my
work. I want to achieve it through not dying.

W OODY A LLEN

I MAGINE SHOVING A cattle prod up a rhinos ass, shouting April fool!, and hoping the rhino thinks its funny. Thats about how much fun it is hunting a vampire.

Personally, I dont have anything against shroud eaters. Theyre just another kind of addict in a city of addicts. Since most of them started out as civilians, the percentage of decent vampires to complete bastards is about the same as regular people. Right now, though, Im hunting one thats trying for a Nobel Prize in getting completely up my ass. It isnt fun work, but it pays the bills.

The vampires name is Eleanor Vance. In the Xeroxed passport photo Marshal Wells gave me, she looks like shes about seventeen. Probably because she is. A pretty blond cheerleader type with big eyes and the kind of smile that got Troy burned to the ground. Bad news for me. Young vampires are all assholes. Its part of their job description.

I love older vampires. A hundred and fifty, two hundred years old, theyre beautiful. The smart ones mostly stick to the El Hombre Invisible tricks that urban monsters have worked out over centuries. They only feed when they have to. When theyre not hunting, theyre boring, at least to outsiders. They come off like corporate middle management or the guy who runs the corner bodega. What I like best about old bloodsuckers is that when youve got one cornered and it knows its coffin fodder, theyre like noble cancer patients in TV movies. All they want is to die quietly and with a little dignity. Young vampires, not so much.

The young ones have all grown up watching Slayer videos, Scarface, Halloween, and about a million hours of Japanese anime. They all think theyre Tony Montana with a lightsaber in one hand and a chain saw in the other. Eleanor, tonights undead dream date, is a good example. Shes got a homemade flamethrower. I know because when she blasted me back at the parking garage, she fried one of my eyebrows and the left sleeve of my new leather jacket. Ten to one she found the plans on the Web. Why cant vampires just download porn like normal jailbait?

Its Sunday, about a quarter to six in the evening. Were downtown. I follow her along South Hill Street toward Pershing Square. Im about half a block behind her. Eleanor is wearing long sleeves and carrying an umbrella to keep the sun off. She strolls along happy, like she owns the air and everyone has to pay her royalties whenever they breathe. Only shes not really relaxed. I cant read a juicers heartbeat or breathing changes because they dont have them. And shes too far away to see if her eyes are dilated, but she keeps moving her head. Microscopic twitches left and right. Shes trying to look around without looking around. Hoping to catch my shadow or reflection. Eleanor knows she didnt kill me back at the garage. Eleanors a smart girl. I hate smart dead girls.

At the corner of Third Street, Eleanor shoulder-butts an old lady and whats probably her grandkid into the street, in front of a flatbed truck carrying a backhoe. The driver slams on the brakes. The old lady is on the ground. Cue the screaming and squealing tires. Cue the sheep who stand around pointing and the Captain Americas who run to help. They pull the old lady and the kid back onto the sidewalk, which is great for them, but it doesnt do anything for me. Eleanor is gone.

But its not hard to find her. Fifty people must have seen her pull the stunt and half of them point as she sprints down Third before cutting right onto Broadway. I take off after her. Im fast, a hell of a lot faster than the flat-footed civilians trying to chase her down, but Im not quite as fast as a vampire. Especially one whos lost her umbrella and wants to get out of the sun before she turns into chicken-fried steak.

Shes gone when I hit Broadway. This part of town isnt that crowded on Sundays. I have a clear view in both directions. No perky blondes running down the street in flames. Its mostly stores and office buildings down here, but all the offices and most of the stores are closed. There are a few open doors in the small shops, but Eleanor is too smart to get cornered in one of those little cracker boxes. Theres only one place a smart girl would go.

God said, Let there be Light, and cheap take-out Chinese, and the Grand Central Market appeared. The place has been on South Broadway since before the continents divided. Some of the meat they use in the burritos and Szechuan beef is even older. I think I once saw Fred Flintstones teeth marks on some barbecued ribs.

Inside, Im facing down tacos and pizza. Theres a liquor store to my left and ice cream against the far wall. Every spice known to man is mixed with the smell of sweat and cooking meat. Not too much of a crowd at this time of day. Some of the shops and kiosks are already counting up receipts. I dont see Eleanor down the central walkway or either of the side ones. I start down the middle of the place, cut to the right, and walk by a fish stand. Im reaching out. Listening, smelling, feeling the movement of the air, trying to pick up any tiny vibrations in the aether. Im getting better at this kind of hunting. Ambush predator stuff as opposed to my old Tyrannosaurus-with-a-hard-on moves that dont go down quite as well in the streets of L.A. as they did in the arena.

Subtle hunting, acting like a grown-up, I really miss Hell sometimes.

A tourist dad asks me how they can get back on the freeway to Hollywood from here. I ignore him and he mumbles something about his taxes and how come we dont have more cops to clear out these drug addicts.

Six months after the New Years bash at Avila and Im still not used to this place, these people. In a lot of ways civilians are worse than Hellions because at least Hellions know theyre miserable sacks of slaughterhouse shit. More and more, I want one of these mortal types to have to face down a vampire, a Jade, or a bat-shit demon elemental. Not a ghost glimpse in the dark, but having to stare straight into a beasts red meat-grinder eyes hungry for the souls of the terminally clueless.

Be careful what you wish for.

A long orange jet of fire rains from overhead and theres Eleanor, standing on top of the glass-and-chrome cases at a spice kiosk. The business end of the flamethrower is a little thing, no bigger than a .45 semiauto. A tube runs from the pistol to an Astro Boy backpack, where the gas and propellant are stored.

Eleanor moves her arm in a wide arc, torching produce, signs, and the backs of a few slack-jawed market workers. Shes smiling down at us. Annie Oakley and Charlie Mansons demon baby, jacked up on that sweet and special prekill adrenaline.

Then shes down and running with a small bubbling laugh like a naughty six-year-old. I take off after her, running deeper into the market. Shes small and fast and a second later she cuts left, down the far aisle, and doubles back toward Broadway.

I cant catch her or cut her off, but theres an empty utility cart by a produce stand. I give it a kick and send it through the empty dining area. Tables and chairs go flying. The cart slams into her legs at the end of the aisle, knocking her through the counter of Grand Central Liquor. Suddenly its raining glass and Patrn Silver. Right on cue, people start screaming.