He fingers the end of his scythe and tries to see into the soul of the foul weapon. The blade is still as clean and sharp as the day he got it. Handed to him by the man himself back when he still strutted around the Earth and did things for himself. Then all the damn people came along, and he had to outsource the management of the cosmos. The four Horsemen were an afterthought. The bigwigs needed someone to come in and take care of mass murder, but they didn’t want to do the dirty work themselves. They needed someone to collect all the dead, grab the souls and funnel them to the right place. Death was working his way up the chain to archangel status when he was tapped to take on the job.
They said he met a certain profile, something about all the cackling with glee when he was doing the dirty work, also known as ‘killing in the name of.’ He was good at his job, very good. Need a city razed? Just point the way, and he was at the head of the other angels. But all that changed when they gave him the scythe. They didn’t bother to tell him that every time he committed genocide, he would be marked somewhere on his body. At first it wasn’t so bad. Wipe out a few cities and get a new one. Just a few pokes. But after a thousand years, they started running out of room.
“You think I look okay with all these marks on my body?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
“Really?”
“No.”
They both tap their feet to the ZZ Top song that thumps out of the speakers.
“They said I had to wear them, you know, to remember.”
“It’s because they are shit at keeping records, so they used you as the file. I think it’s wrong, but what the hell do I know? I’m just the son of God.”
“That’s gotta be some pressure there, eh?”
“Oh fuck yeah. And the worst part is I need to get laid. Like bad. Really laid.”
“We’re in Vegas. There’s a whorehouse on every corner. Tell you what. After our little chat with the red guy, let’s find one and have some fun.”
“Sure. Why not?” Jesus slurs.
“Can you do that? You know, do a woman?”
“Sure. I have the equipment. I should have done it a long time ago, but I never got up the nerve.”
“God wouldn’t let you?”
“Nah, more a matter of timing. They didn’t leave me alone much when I was out spreading the word. Pretty much had one of those uptight jagoffs with me all the time. If it wasn’t Peter, it was Paul. I still think some of my apostles had the hots for each other.”
Death chokes on a mouthful of booze. After coughing a few times, he sits up and looks at the huge chasm. The wind crackles over the edge of the cliff. It carries the screams of those falling into it. The valley does that, makes the sounds carry. Like a bunch of banshees. Death is familiar with that sound. Way too familiar.
“How are we going to get down there?”
The men stagger out of the car. Jesus slings an arm around Death so he doesn’t fall on his face. He grips his Slurpee cup of Vodka and Red Bull in his other hand, and it sloshes everywhere as he walks. The guy has put away at least two fifths of the stuff. Death can’t keep up; he has never had booze before. But he does like it. Likes it a lot. Why didn’t he try this a long time ago?
Tumbleweeds and sand are the order of the day, and it is hot as hell out here. Death shifts his hoodie and then unzips it to let some air in. His old ratty shirt is soaked with sweat, and he would give just about anything for a cool shower right about now. That and a cup of ice. Something cold and wet to suck on.
The sun has a red haze over it, probably owing to the Apocalypse and all, but the desert is so desiccated the redoubled glare doesn’t even faze it. It does look a bit like Mars now, though. While the guardrail has fallen off in a few places, the highway stretching along the giant pit is mostly intact. Death goes to the edge and lifts his robe. He pees into the abyss far below. Jesus takes up station next to him and does the same.
“Look at us, a couple of swinging dicks!”
“I still don’t see how we are going to get down there.” Death leans forward and stares down into oblivion.
“We could jump.” Jesus grins.
“Wouldn’t we die? War got killed, so I figure we are all vulnerable.” Death wavers back and forth on that free pass issue.
“Nah. I can’t die. Last time I tried, I came back.” Jesus sputters into laughter then falls on his ass in a puff of dust and sand. A little dark gray scorpion darts out from the shade of a rock and then hauls ass away from the two madmen.
“I’m Death. So can I die?”
“Nah. That would be ridiculous. Hey… I have an idea.”
Death leans over to help the son of God get up. When he is back on his feet, he puts a hand on Death’s shoulder and leans over to whisper in his ear. Death leans back when he is done and stares at his loony traveling companion. Then he looks at the car and breaks out into fits of laughter.
The Road Runner spins a rooster tail of sand into the air as the car spins in a half-donut. Death cranks the stereo to an ear-splitting volume. Back in Black by AC/DC screams from the speakers, making his head rattle and threatening to mash his brain. The road roars past them as they get the old car up to eighty, ninety and then a hundred miles an hour. The giant engine thrums through the floorboards like they are sitting right on top of it.
The line of people being shoved into Satan’s ass comes into view so fast they go from look at those specks in the distance status to holy shit, they’re right in front of us in a split second.
“You be Thelma. I’ll be Louise next time.”
“Screw you, pal, I’m Thelma and you’re Louise!” Jesus laughs over the pounding music.
They’ve accumulated a decent pile of dirt by the side of the road. They are a good hundred yards away from the demons when Death cranks the wheel hard to the left. The car slides and threatens to spin out, but he pumps the brakes until he regains control. Faces rush past as the car accelerates under the force of his foot pressed all the fucking way to the floorboard.
When they hit the makeshift ramp, Jesus raises his hands into the air and yells as loud as he can, “I bless all of you, mutha’ fuckas,” gives the exploding demons and people the middle finger and then throws up as the car is propelled over the abyss and immediately starts to fall.
“The power of Christ compels you!” Death howls with glee. Then his smile turns upside down as the car’s nose falls forward and he gets his first glimpse of the giant red ass sticking out of the desert.
One Minute and Horse Chow the Next
Pestilence pushes his horse and his horde harder than he ever imagined. Normally riding on his steed makes him queasy, but with Jerome’s bathtub acid coursing through his diseased veins, Pestilence is in heaven. He feels at one with his horse and imagines himself as a centaur galloping toward Leon, with his sweet acid-addled brain, through the desert. As luck would have it for Pestilence and his horde, the Nevada desert is littered with hidden meth labs. They will be full of survivors for the zombie soldiers to feed upon.
Pestilence grinds his teeth and scans the horizon. Far in the distance, he sees the two massive red ass cheeks he knows from centuries of pasting his pale thin lips to them. A large section of highway is hanging above the cheeks, and little dots drop from it into the valley of ass. Pestilence jumps when General O’Coddle runs up alongside him.