Route 666

'You can vocalise that again, preachie.'

Varoomschka and So Long Suin went among the resettlers and their ve-hickles, dropping scav into wire baskets as if spreeing down at X-Mart. The haul was pathetic. Josephites abjured rings, necklaces and earrings, so there was no jewellery. Their clothes didn't even have buttons. Only about one in ten had a watch, mainly cheap American Century dial-faces. The Brother who handed over a $5,000 Swiss Chronex was almost relieved, as if he no longer had to worry his fellow pilgrims would find out about his hoard. The mishkin even thanked Varoomschka for teaching him a valuable lesson.

'I could teach you a more valuable one if you'd let me, Studley,' Varoomschka said, wriggling inside her cellophanelike wrapping, tongue-touching the tip of the Josephite's nose. From the man's crawling reaction, Jazzbeaux gathered these people abjured more than pockets.

She opened the Elder's jacket and found a wallet hanging on tags. It had a few meagre cashplastics and cards, but she kept it anyway.

'I don't parse you chelovieks,' she told him. 'Life has few enough pleasures. Why turn away from them?'

'One day, daughter, you will understand.'

He had pushed the wrong button.

'I'm not, not, not your daughter, old man,' she spat.

She looked at his face. It could be a half-mask under the shades for all the expression he showed.

But there was something in his voice. Soothing and threatening, sad and strange. When he called her 'daughter', there was an echo of Bruno Bonney, RIP. The word was a lash.

She had to see his eyes. She had to make him human and taste his fear.

'I'll require these,' she told him, reaching up and slipping the mirrorshades from his face.

He didn't even blink, though sun poured into his eyes. There was no fear. She couldn't read anything from the colourless ice-chips looking back at her single eye.

Jazzbeaux found she was the one blinking.

'Jessa-myn,' Bruno said in her head, 'c'mon over here and sit on Daddy's knee.'

She looked at the shades. They were ordinary. She was sure they were cheap.

'Daddy won't hurt.'

Bruno always lied about that.

The brother by Elder Seth's side – Wiggs, the Elder had called him – was burning with fear and rage. Jazzbeaux felt the brother's impotent need to hurt her, and it gave her a thrill. It almost made her feel sexy.

She had not been able to enjoy acts of love until her father was dead. She had needed to outgrow guilt and pain.

Elder Seth didn't show anything. Jazzbeaux could swear he didn't feel anything. She had thought her father was like that, but, in the end, she had made him feel too many things.

If the only way of getting a reaction out of someone was to rip out their throat, then Jazzbeaux was willing to go the distance. She tried the same stunt on Officer Rachael Harvest once and wound up with a cracked wrist.

She had to make the Elder's face flicker.

'Andrew Jean,' she called out. 'They must be hiding something. Bread-fruit trees or coffers of gold. Their whole lives are in the motorwagons.'

Andrew Jean considered the question and agreed.

'Find the scav,' Jazzbeaux ordered. 'By any means necessary.'

Andrew Jean saluted, shocking pink fingernails tipped to a beehive hairdo.

Jazzbeaux's lieutenant had a mean streak which sometimes went a mile too far. The paper on Andrew Jean listed a couple of murders Jazzbeaux would have been ashamed of. So she was usually careful about tasks she assigned in that directon.

Now Jazzbeaux was being wilful. What happened next would not strictly be her fault – she had issued no specific orders – and, indeed, Elder Seth would be as responsible as anyone else for the blood that was bound to be spilled.

Andrew Jean cut out a couple of the pioneers and jostled them into a bunch. Three men, youngish, anonymous, good-looking. Andrew Jean always had good taste in men. One was the cheloviek Varoomschka had shaken down for his watch.

'These pilgrims have names, preacher?'

Elder Seth nodded.

'Brother Akins, Brother Finnegan, Brother Dzundza.'

'Cosy.'

The Josephite's face was stone over a skull.

'Do you feel like divulging the whereabouts of your fabled stash? A fabulous treasure must he hidden in your transports. Think not that you can dupe the Psychopomps.'

Without pleading, he told her, 'There is no treasure.'

She drew her Magnum LadyKill and hefted the pistol, resting the sight against the Elder's throat apple. The gun was a Christmas present from the ganggirls, with a sentiment inscribed on the grip.

'If wishing makes it so, tell yourself there's no ScumStopper in the chamber.'

The LadyKill was a single-action weapon; it cocked and fired with one pull. A light touch and Elder Seth's head would vanish. Also, considering recoil, Jazzbeaux would crack her wrist again, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Andrew Jean prowled around the three Josephites, inspecting them, feeling up butts, flicking ears, tugging sleeves. Akins, the youngest, muttered a prayer.

One of the sisters struggled forwards to plead for the Elder's life. She was pushing forty and abjuring make-up was not a good policy decision for her.

'Sister Ciccone,' Elder Seth said, silencing her, 'take comfort. The Lord will know His own.'

The sister sniffled but got back in line. There was something about her squinty eyes that didn't fit with the God Sqaud.

'Any final thoughts?' Jazzbeaux asked.

Elder Seth did not even pop sweatbeads. He looked as if he were sure his throat was bullet-proof.

With three precise stamps, Andrew Jean broke three knees, stepping down on legs as if breaking sticks for kindling. The brothers screamed and fell to the blacktop.

'Vroomsh,' Andrew Jean said, 'the Klash.'

Varoomschka tossed the Kalashnikov over. The gun fell into Andrew Jean's hands and discharged almost by itself.

A stitching of bullet-holes raked across the asphalt and opened bloody cat's eyes in the Josephites' backs. Akins screamed painful prayer. Dzundza of Swiss-watch fame was shocked instantly dead. Finnegan, modelling himself on the Elder, held in his yelps.

Jazzbeaux did not know how she felt. Years ago, Officer Harvest had tried to brainwash a conscience cop into her skull. Sometimes the dumb bitch wouldn't shut up.

Bruno Bonney and Buddy Wayne Meeker, OK; but what about these three pilgrims? They had done her and hers no harm. Jazzbeaux shook her head and swallowed the thought. She would have to squelch Redd Harvest one day, then maybe she'd get some peace. If only people wouldn't stick things in her head that screwed up her thoughts.

Andrew Jean levelled the rifle and pantomimed a massacre, making bang-bang sounds as the barrel raked across the flinching crowd. Sweetcheeks cheerled with a few killercalls and a couple of bump 'n' grind steps. So Long, uncomfortable with this sort of action against civilians, kept her opinions to herself.

It had gone further than Jazzbeaux intended.

Elder Seth watched without even showing interest. It would be easy to shove the LadyKill past his teeth. If she shot a ScumStopper through the roof of his mouth, she'd explode his graymass. Then she'd see a reaction.

Andrew Jean switched the Kalashnikov from automatic, and shot Akins in the foot, the ankle, the calf, the knee, the thigh, the hip…

A woman in the crowd was sobbing. Sister Ciccone.