[Demonworld #2] The Pig Devils Page 8

  “Well now, I hear you been well enough lately to rub elbows with all kinds of high an’ mighty types.”

  “I was undercover, Papa.” Wodan looked down at his own hands, like unformed copies of the father’s. Smaller, softer, with inheritances from the mother. If they were ever going to be strong, he thought, they would have become so by now. “Really, I’m trying to figure out who exiled me.”

  The father hummed, then looked away.

  “I know,” said Wodan, looking down at his food. “It sounds ridiculous.”

  From the kitchen, his mother said, “Any clues, Wodi?” in an attempt to boost her son’s morale.

  “No, nothing really,” said Wodan. “To be honest, I don’t think I really know how to go about solving a mystery.”

  “You remember Girardo?” said his mother.

  “Yeah! That detective on television. He always acted nice and senile when he was interrogating crooks, then tricked them into giving themselves away.”

  While his father snorted in a kind of laughter, his mother said, “Maybe you could try something like that.”

  Wodan leaned back, put his hands on his head, and said, “I don’t even know who to talk to, though! I halfway thought I’d get some sort of information out of that dinner party I went to. Gods, there was nothing to find there but a lot of nonsense. I feel like I wasted my time, Mama.”

  “Speaking of wastin’ some time, boy,” said Walter, “we’ve got this rally to go to in a few.”

  “A what?”

  “Didn’t we tell you?” said his mother. “There’s a bi-i-i-ig political rally going on in this sector tonight. Tomasino himself is going to be there!”

  “Yeah?”

  “A-a-also,” said Walter, “there’s gonna be some big big preachers there. Guys like Brother Hinny, Benny K. R. Seniorswagger, Fawney King, and even-”

  “Wait, is it a political thing or a religious thing?”

  “No difference anymore, boy,” Walter said knowingly.

  “I don’t know how much more crazy I can handle.”

  “Politics is just as crazy as religion, son,” said Walter, slowly tapping a copy of the Holy Series.

  “It might be fun,” Wodan admitted, “but I’ve got some serious detective work that needs doing.” Wodan felt like a fool as soon as the words left his mouth.

  “You’re a Kyner man, alright,” said his mother. “As hard-headed as your Pa. You need to get dressed up if you’re going to this thing with us.”

  Wodan’s mother, Ruby Eulabelle Kyner, stood and watched her son from the entrance of the kitchen. It often amazed people to know her true age; just like her son, she seemed much younger than she actually was. She had a glow of vitality that added strength to her smile. Because she was a nurse, she was often mistakenly thought to be Walter’s live-in caretaker.

  “You know,” said Walter, “if you don’t have an idea where to start, then you might as well come on down to this rally with us. Think about it, son! If there’s people out there tryin’ to get you, they might send someone to tail you. All you gotta do is look out for someone suspicious. Then you turn the tables on ’im. Hide in a garbage can and wait for ’im to go past, then jump on his back and drag ’im into an alley. Then you tie his ass down to a chair… a sturdy chair, you know…”

  While Walter fumbled for words, Wodan laughed and said, “I’ll need to set up a chair beforehand, then, right?”

  “Then you start interrogatin’ him, find out what he knows. ‘Who sent you!’ You know, that sort o’ thing.”

  “I can at least go there and scope out the chair situation,” said Wodan, laughing. “I’ll set up a grid and get one in every alley. Alright, I’m in.”

  * * *

  Father, mother, and son walked the underground avenues. On the way to the rally they passed Walter’s grocery, the Kyner’s Buy’n’Save Valu-Mart. Product and advertisement vied for window space, and a young employee nodded resentfully to Walter as they passed. Walter had been a laborer his whole life; a story circulated that he had been caught working one of his father’s textile looms at the age of four. Walter’s father could not seem to keep him out of the dangerous, low-paying environment. Officially, the matter had been hushed up out-of-court. Walter met Ruby shortly after her parents died and left her a small inheritance. Walter used the money to buy their first business, a filthy restaurant with a filthy room in the back that he and his wife lived in. The living quarters were coated in layers of grease, and were so filthy that Ruby, unwilling to touch any of the bed’s linens, slept on top of Walter. Years later, Wodan worked in his father’s various enterprises, stocking, mopping, cleaning meat saws, arranging and re-arranging, and taking orders from his father and gritting his teeth and counting the days until he could attend the University.

  Wodan wrapped an arm around his mother as they walked, and both laughed at Walter’s antics. His father was stiff-backed and walked on the balls of his feet, continually peering into the windows of his rivals’ stores, critiquing them in a stream of endless chatter.

  Wodan had lived in the same neighborhood, even the same apartment, for the first twenty years of his life. It was comforting to see the trees in Slim Park, lit by sunlight brought by mirrors from aboveground. He saw the same old men sitting on the steps of the pharmacy, talking and tapping their canes and awaiting their fix. He saw the churchmen and the black robed Sisters Grave waving the cross-and-circle at the poor and the lame. All of this was familiar. Still, he felt like this place was no longer home, and never would be again.

  They heard the clamor from blocks away. Thousands talking, hundreds shouting. The rhymes carefully designed to be heard above the rabble were so many in number that, in the sea of interference, they all sounded like

  Mu ma-ma!

  Mu ma-ma!

  Mu-ma, ju ma, mu-ma-ma!

  They saw people holding hand-made signs, people marching in circles, people standing on crates, on tables, on other people, shouting and waving copies of holy books. And cheering, endless cheering. They reached an intersection and Walter pointed excitedly while Ruby inhaled sharply. Wodan saw that a stage had been erected. On it were many well-dressed churchmen. One of them, the famous preacher Dr. G. J. Wadd, was crumbled up into a loose heap. Two well-dressed men held him up. His microphone dangled loosely in his hand, which shone with many glittering rings. A woman stood nearby, and said, “Now, the Ghost is fixin’ to take him to places he’s never been, places that even he cannot fathom. I tell you, in the coming days, you’re going to see limbs reattached, arms and legs reattached just minutes after gettin’ whipped off,” and then a sonic wall of cheering poured over Wodan.

  “I’M GONNA WANDER AROUND A BIT,” Wodan screamed to his mother, but she stood transfixed at the sight of the holy ones, and did not hear him.

  * * *

  Wodan wandered through the crowd, marveling at the strength of the wild energy crackling in the air. What would happen if we set this power loose on the world, Wodan thought, instead of channeling it into a political arena that never really changes?

  He came upon a strange looking, wizened figure dressed in a bright red and yellow robe, a green turban topped with a rainbow feather, and weighed down by numerous gold chains jangling on his chest.

  “Agmar!” Wodan shouted, touching his shoulder.

  The old man jerked as if attacked, then smiled at his friend. He grabbed Wodan’s shoulders and shook him, excited because they had not seen one another since they had come out of the wasteland together.

  “Gods below, Agmar, that is some nutty get-up!” said Wodan.

  “This old thing?” said Agmar, running a finger along the length of one of his chains. His robes were so overpoweringly bright that he could have immediately been declared a god of the dreamworld out in the wasteland; in Haven, he could put a thousand clowns out of business. “They set me up real nice, boy, talking at the University and whatnot. Figured the least I could do with the money was try to look decent.”

 
; Wodan immediately felt bad, for he had made no effort to see his outland friends in over a week. He worked his mouth, thinking to tell a story about his sickness, but Agmar waved a hand at him and said, “Can’t hear a thing, Wodi, these ears’ve never been around craziness like this before. Let’s just walk around awhile, alright? Enjoy each other’s presence.”

  Wodan nodded, relieved. They moved on.

  They came to a stage surrounded by people who applauded at regular intervals. In the center of the stage stood a tall, handsome man with chiseled features and immaculate blond hair. Overhead, a sign read

  Senator Tomasino!

  The people’s choice in 592!

  “… and perhaps worst of all,” said the man, “many Senators see nothing wrong with funneling a laborer’s hard-earned money into a clandestine cabal who would tamper with the lives of the unborn. At the head of this cabal is a secretive little man who plays at being God and works with complete impunity. Many turn a blind eye to his evil in exchange for the drugs and opiates and promises he hands out. But I will not!”

  He seemed to be in his mid-thirties, which was very young for a Senator. His voice was gentle but firm, borderline paternal and with just a hint of vitality. Wodan saw that even though Agmar had stopped near enough to hear the speaker, he looked about and was completely uninterested in the rally. Wodan turned to another old man and said, “Excuse me, who is this man?”

  “Must be kidding!” said the old man. “Boy, that’s the Senator Tomasino!”

  “Oh yeah?” said Wodan. “You like him?”

  “Like him? Shit fire, son, this young buck is goin’ to the top!”

  “Top? Of what?”

  “He’s runnin’ for Prime Minister!” The old man waited for Wodan’s face to melt into pure joy; when it did not, he continued. “If you ask me, Peter Remus gettin’ killed was the best thing that could happen to the Stone Warren. The man was a total bottom-feeder, and if he’d been our man running for Prime Minister, the Wind would have walked all over us. Plus, he didn’t even really embody what makes us us, you know? Sure, he might have been in the Senate for a long time, but you can’t polish a turd and expect somethin’ amazing to come out of it. You know, truth be told, I freakin’ despise Peter Remus.”

  “Wow,” said Wodan. “So this is the new guy, huh? Who did you support before Tomasino?”

  “Peter Remus.”

  “You know, I actually met–”

  “Hey listen kid, can I tell you somethin’? You look like the type who wouldn’t come down on someone, even if they said somethin’… crazy.”

  “I guess we’re all kind of crazy, when you get down to it.”

  The old man considered this for a moment, then said, “Here’s what it is. I think I saw an angel the other night.”

  Wodan looked the man up and down. He seemed reasonable enough, but Wodan could feel a wellspring of hysteria bubbling just below the surface of the man. He was terrified at what he’d said to Wodan, which Wodan found odd considering the nature of where they were.

  “Is that a fact?” said Wodan.

  “Nothin’ but! And it was beautiful, so beautiful!”

  “So what did it look like?”

  “She! It was a woman... I was out walking the Reaches, north face of this very mountain. I was alone. I sat real quiet for a while, just worryin’ about money an’ pussy, and when I got up I saw this figure whirl on me. Well, I think she was just as surprised as me. She had skin pale as salt, but she was glowin’ like starshine, I shit you not!”

  “Could it have just been some hot chick?”

  “There’s more!” he said, shaking Wodan violently now that his floodgates were open. “She wore white, dazzling white, but her wings were black, and thin, and all fluttering, like. Same color as her hair, black, man, I tell you, black like...”

  “Coal?”

  “No...”

  “Flock of ravens?”

  “Not quite...”

  “Midnight?”

  “On a moonless night, yeah! And she was armed, man, armed for war! Big guns, real dangerous.” He paused, then said, “But she was hot, you’re right, no doubt about it. Breasts like... they was covered, but still... and hips, yeah, those too! And a face just sculpted out of liquid marble...”

  “You should’ve been a writer,” said Wodan.

  Agmar butted in suddenly, and it seemed to Wodan that he was very angry. “That wasn’t an angel, you old fool!” he said. “If you ever read your scripture, you’d know what an angel looks like. You’ve been looking at too many pictures! I’ve seen the pictures you people have of angels. Little babies with wings...? Total nonsense!” Agmar’s lips contorted venomously. “The angels of the Lord... they’re like monsters, beasts that speak, beasts that kill! Man, they’re more akin to demons than anything your people have ever imagi-”

  “You shut your mouth before you embarrass yourself!” the old man cried. “I know what I saw, and I saw an angel!”

  “It was a hot chick, you stupid old man!”

  “You think I don’t know the difference between a holy warrior of the blessed Redeemer and some outta control piece o’ tail, you cantankerous old fool?!”

  “Woah, guys!” said Wodan. “Let’s calm down a minute!”

  “To hell with this,” said Agmar, his red face clashing with his green turban. “I’m going to leave before I have to put some old man on the ground and hurt him.”

  Wodan had never seen Agmar so infuriated. Before he could stop him, his friend disappeared into the crowd.

  Wodan sighed, then said, “So, this angel…”

  “I don’t know anything about it,” said the old man, shaking his head as he turned and left in the opposite direction.

  * * *

  Wodan entered a dimly-lit Guardian surplus store. The tumult of the crowd softened into a dull, bass roar. Only decommissioned equipment was sold here, old-fashioned helmets and bulky armor, most gone from white-and-blue to yellow-and-gray. A grizzled vet in a military vest leaned over a case full of knives. Wodan looked about, but saw no guns. He started toward the man at the counter. The front door chimed and Wodan saw a young man in disheveled clothes but with a neat haircut enter. The young man glanced at Wodan, then quickly turned to a nearby shelf of canteens.

  “Do for ya?” said the vet at the counter.

  Wodan was about to ask about the knives, then noticed a light flickering in some curtained-off backroom. He heard the voice of a narrator.

  “What’s that?” said Wodan, pointing.

  “Mmn,” said the vet. “Some guys been working on a documentary... about the state and a secret war against its citizens.”

  “No kidding?” said Wodan.

  “Head on back, if you want.” The vet pretended not to look Wodan up-and-down, then turned away. Wodan parted the curtains and entered.

  The room was dark. Several men sat around a television. Several of the men were dressed in old Guardian vests, jackets, and boots. A man with a pony tail and goatee standing to the side saw Wodan, then did a double-take. He divided his time between watching Wodan and the documentary.

  The documentary was finishing a segment about the Guardians’ role in Haven’s history. There was a bit about the early pioneers, about the formation of the Guardians to protect against outsiders and demons. The pioneers had worked hard to escape the wasteland, and were wary to the point of paranoia regarding the outside world. There were sketches of old pioneers and the first Guardians, men wearing blue-and-white vests and yellow skull-caps, riding horseback and hunting wolves with automatic rifles. There was an old, grainy photograph of a hard-faced farmer posed beside a fence. A young Guardian leaned beside him. Dead wolves laid across the top of the fence, side to side, tongues hanging out of their mouths. Just as Wodan became interested, the segment ended.

  The young man with the neat haircut parted the curtain and entered, letting in a glare of light. He blinked and looked around warily. He saw Wodan, then took up a position away from him. />
  Is he following me? Wodan wondered, thinking about his father’s ridiculous interrogation scenario.

  The narrator spoke about a man named Rudy Seaver; Wodan vaguely remembered something about him in the news, years ago. The documentary showed images of Seaver, unshaven and wearing rough-looking clothes. He lived in the Northern Reaches, in the wooded foothills, where there used to be a lot of farms before the bovine plant came into widespread use. There were interviews of neighbors. “Frankly... the man was an asshole,” said one. “But he didn’t deserve what he got.”

  Wodan searched his memory. What was it about him... nothing. He watched.

  The man had a wife and a baby. Neighbors admitted that the man became withdrawn and paranoid. Anyone who had the misfortune of talking to him had to listen to a long diatribe about how the government was robbing him. He bought many guns, some illegally, and said that he would train his child in the use of them. He raised some crops that didn’t amount to much. In the last year of his life, he refused to pay any of the taxes that he owed to the government. He cut himself off from electronic communication, then threatened a taxman who came to his residence, and even pointed a gun at the man as he was leaving.

  “Well, if he was using a government road, and I know he did,” said a neighbor, “then he shoulda’ just paid his taxes. He wasn’t makin’ nothin’, anyway, he woulda’ got most of it back, you know?”

  Seaver attended gun shows. A man who was known to be an undercover Guardian approached Seaver about purchasing illegal firearms. Seaver humiliated the man in public, drawing a crowd as the agent retreated under a withering hail of laughter. Apparently, this was the last straw. Guardians surrounded his home and took up positions in the foothills. Seaver’s dog was shot and killed, then a neighbor was accidentally shot as well. Seaver locked his door and refused to come out.

  “We announced our presence,” said a young Guardian, clad in white armor, with trees behind him. “Said we were going to take him in, and had the right to search his home, by court order.” The man chuckled harshly, said, “He propped open his door a little, then sent a shot right near some of our guys. Hell, I heard it. I heard it.”