I nod. “Sure.” He follows me outside. A moment later the door closes and someone throws the dead bolt. I take Johnny downstairs and boost a Hummer parked in the lot by McQueen and Sons. Normally, I hate these suburban G.I. Joe land barges, but tonight seems like a good night to be surrounded by three tons of metal. “Where to?” He gives me an address on West Pico at the edge of Beverly Hills. I pull out into traffic and head for the Jackal’s Backbone.
THE FIRES AREN’T just to the south anymore. They’re spreading all over the city. LAPD chopper searchlights rip up the sky. I turn on the radio. It’s exactly what you’d expect at the end of the world. Panicky chatter about mass murder. Something new and bad running wild in the streets. Is it a CIA experiment gone wrong—super crack seeded into “undesirable” neighborhoods—or a new strain of Book of Revelation rabies? The freeways are bumper- to-bumper. Nothing’s moving. Just one big box-lunch buffet for flesh eaters. Cop cars and ambulances tear through the city like speed-freak banshees. I turn off the radio. People sprint through the traffic in ones and twos. Sometimes small groups. They aren’t going anywhere. They’re just running. My cell rings. I know it’s Kasabian or Lucifer, so I don’t bother checking the ID. “Where are you? Why aren’t you home?” comes a harsh voice. “Doc?” “No. It’s Jim Morrison’s ghost,” says Kinski. “Tell me you aren’t running around in that goddamn madness out there.” “I’m not running around in the madness. I’m driving. Tell me you aren’t in L.A.” “I could, but I’d be lying. Did you know there’s a head living in your closet? And it’s pretty pissed off.” “That’s Kasabian. Be nice to him. He has a hard enough time just existing.” “He’s doing fine. We were chatting about finding him a body so he doesn’t have to crawl around this room forever.” “Where’s Candy?” “She’s having a beer with the head. He’s telling stories about you. He’s a real cutup.” “Why are you in town, doc? I told you to stay away.” “Candy and I came back to drag your ass out of here. You can’t stop what’s coming. This isn’t about zombies or the Vigil or Lucifer. It’s about the city eating itself. This train’s been coming for a long time and you don’t want to be here when it crashes into the station.” “Thanks, doc, but a dead buddy and me are on our way to the Jackal’s Backbone for drinks and a lap dance.” “Dammit. If you go in there you’re never coming out. Do you understand that? You’ve been bit. You’re already halfway to becoming one of them. Come back and we’ll see what we can do for you.” “You’re wrong and you’re wrong. I’ll come out of the Backbone and I’m going to stop whatever’s going on because whoever’s doing it has really pissed me off. You’re wrong about the other thing, too. I’m not turning zed. I’m turning into you. Stark’s going bye-bye. In another day or so, the angel part is all that’s going to be left.” That shuts him up. “Listen to me. You’ve got to stop whatever it is you think you’re doing and come back here right now. We can fix this and put you back like you were.” “Why would I want that? Get Allegra and Vidocq out of town. If you can’t take Brigitte or Kasabian, then hide them someplace safe.” He doesn’t say anything. “Doc?”
