“Tell me the story and I will.” “The story? You’re the story. You and your kind. You fucked-up angels. The Codex says that when Lucifer’s army was cast out of Heaven, one of the fallen didn’t make it all the way to Hell and landed in a valley on earth instead. It was burned and broken, but humans still recognized it as an angel. The local blue bloods sent their doctors to help it, but the angel was sick and bloated like a tick by then. It attacked anyone who came near it. All of those people ended up turning into zeds. Those zeds attacked their families and friends. The ones they didn’t eat became zeds and attacked other people. The people who lived in the hills saw that things were getting out of control, so they started fires and burned the whole valley. They thought they’d gotten everything, but some of the zeds supposedly escaped into caves. Mostly they stay underground, but every now and then one wanders out or gets summoned by a necromancer. That’s it. They all lived happily ever fucking after. The end.” I wave him off. “You were right. This isn’t any help. Might as well say Muppets did it.” “You asked and I answered. You still owe me an autograph.” “You’ll get your scrawl. I wonder who’ll pay me more to hunt zeds and zots? Lucifer or the Vigil?” “You don’t actually have to say ‘zeds and zots’ all the time. You can say one or the other.” “I’ll stick with Drifters. Those other names make them sound like candy.” “Lucifer and the Vigil both have a stake in keeping humans in general and L.A. in particular alive. Get them both to pay.” “That’s what I was thinking. But there’s one thing bugging me.” “What?” “When those Drifters came in, I knew one of them. I mean I knew who he was. A guy named Spencer Church. I only heard of this guy the day before when someone said he was missing. I asked a couple of people about him. Then, out of nowhere, the guy shows up at Bamboo House like the place is a zombie salad bar.” “That’s a hell of a coincidence.” “Isn’t it? And if golems can’t think…” “It means someone sent him there. Probably walked him right up to the door and pushed him in.” “Somebody who knew where I was and happened to have a few spare Drifters lying around.” “You know the most interesting people.” “Guess I do have a vested interest in this after all. But I still want to get paid.” “Hell yeah.” “I need to set up meetings with the Vigil and Lucifer.” My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I pick it up and listen. It’s a short call. “Cool. See you there.” “Who was that?” “Speak of the devil. He’s out at the studio. Wants me to swing by and squint menacingly at the help.” “Next he’ll have you doing his taxes.” “I’ve never been to a movie studio. How many guns do you think they’ll let me take inside?” “You? All you want.” The .460 pistol is too big to carry in my waistband, so I wear it on my hip in a tool belt I colored black with a Sharpie and modified into a speed rig. I can have it out and cocked before an angel can say “amen.” The knife and na’at hang snug inside the coat lining.
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