Kill the Dead

There are lots of theories about fighting and warfare, from Sun Tzu’s Art of War to Der Fuhrer’s Total War to when you’re a Jet you’re a Jet all the way. The one thing all these theories have in common is this: Know your enemy. His tactics, strengths, and weaknesses. When you do, ninety-nine percent of the time you’re going to make him squeak like a church mouse and run away like the Road Runner. Of course, if you get it wrong, you’re going to be a ten-foot banana and the guy you’re fighting will be King Kong with the munchies. That sort of describes the glimmer twins with the oversize Tasers. Seeing the rest of their team dead, they do the only thing they can. They fire at Lucifer and keep pumping the juice into him, hoping to knock him down by themselves. This whole time, all I’ve seen Lucifer do is watch what’s happening like he’s at the zoo and wondering what funny thing the monkeys are going to do next. When the Taser darts hit and the electricity starts to flow, though, he flinches. Then he stands stock-still and for a second I think that they’re zapping him with so much current that his brain has short-circuited. A moment later he holds his arms out in a way that brings back bad memories. Bodyguard or not, I’m not getting anywhere near him. Lucifer, once upon a time the greatest angel of them all, conjures up not one, but two flaming gladius swords. He sweeps them down in a smooth, simultaneous overhand attack that slices both Tasers in two. The swords are between the shooters and down low. He brings his arms up at an angle and hits the gunmen just above their waists, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps going until he’s drawn the swords all the way through them. Their bodies are nothing but towers of burned meat and they fly apart like suicide bombers at a backyard barbecue. Lucifer stands with his head bowed, staring at the ground, studying the smoldering mess. I wonder how long it’s been since he’s used those swords. They probably bring back funny memories for him, too. Finally, he looks up and heads toward me. On instinct, I snap the rifle up to my shoulder, sighting in on his left eye. He freezes. Looks at me hard, wondering what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. Finally, he lowers his arms and the swords flicker out. I drop the rifle to my side. He comes over like he’s going to say something, but two unmarked vans are roaring down the street toward us. Backup for the first team. I toss the empty rifle away and sprint to the limo, start it up, throw it in reverse, and floor it. The vans are doing about forty and I’m doing the same when we hit. Van number one smashes through my back bumper and up onto the trunk. Then van number two crawls right up number one’s ass, knocking it and the limo another ten feet down the road. Good thing I wasn’t doing anything important with my vertebrae or my neck would probably hurt. Both vans are smoking and silent, but the men inside won’t be for long and I’m not waiting around for Lee Marvin and the Dirty Dozen to come out shooting. Half a block from us, two limos are at the curb to take other guests home from the party. I gesture for Lucifer to head for the lead car and I take off after him. I can feel it now. The heat in my muscles and bones whispering to me like an old forgotten friend. I’m not Lucifer’s anymore. I’m not the Vigil’s night janitor, sweeping up bloodsuckers and demon fuckers. I’m back in the arena where the air tastes like blood and dust. Something is screaming at my feet because I’m making it scream. Then I make it stop. I throw its head into the grandstands to remind the crowd what a real monster looks like and it’s just like coming home. I get to the limo first and put my fist through the driver’s-side window to pull out the chauffeur. A jelly-bean- size chunk of my frontal lobe is firing just enough to remind me that the driver is probably just a terrified slob doing a shitty job. I pull him through the window and shove him hard enough that he lands on the opposite curb, out of harm’s way. Lucifer is already in the limo when I slide behind the wheel. As we take off I can hear gunfire popping behind us. The crowd from the party is screaming and running back toward the water. Overhead, there’s the whup-whup of helicopter blades and a floodlight hits us from above. At the far end of the reservoir, two vans are parked side by side, blocking the road. I turn off the headlights and look at Lucifer. “I hope that’s not your favorite suit.” “Why?” I floor it and crank the wheel right, fishtailing the limo up over the curb and across the grass. While we’re still under the trees, I push open my door, grab Lucifer, and roll left. We hit the ground hard, but not as hard as the limo when it hits the water. The hood snaps back and smashes through the windshield. It only takes a few seconds for the car to disappear into an oily froth of bubbles. The helicopter hovers over the crash, its bright belly light turning the scene into a Vegas floor show. By then, Lucifer and I are hunkered down behind the cars on the opposite side of the street. While the vans and chopper concentrate on the spot where the car went into the resevoir, we head down a side street into a residential area. I must have pulled a muscle or something when we rolled out of the car. My side is cramped and burning. Down a block or so, I spot an old Jeep Wrangler in a weekend warrior’s driveway. I get it open with the knife,