What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [54]
“Ooh.” Liam ran his hand along the body of the car.
Festus shook his head again. This was how it always went. But today there were naked crazies and armed militia men about. “So I need to tell you about what the guy told me.”
Liam glanced up. “What?”
“I need to tell you—”
“Yeah, yeah. Why do I need to know?” He squatted down to pick at a dust mote or something on the front fender.
“What’s that sound?” asked Festus.
Liam popped back up. “What sound?”
Festus tilted his head to listen, and then pointed back the way they’d come. “That,” he said. “That rumbling sound.”
Liam stepped around the car. “Maybe it’s those military trucks.” He nodded in the direction of what appeared to be a second, much faster, much larger, and much more menacing parade coming up behind the first.
They watched for a second, listening to the rumbling sound made by a very large swarm of Humvees coming down the road. They watched as the first of the trucks overtook the parade and stopped about a block away. Naked guys scrambled everywhere. The flannel-clad guys just kept on marching, albeit in a somewhat more irregular pattern as they picked their way around the trucks. Soldiers began pouring out of the trucks and running after the naked guys.
Festus stepped forward, squinty-eyed and hunched over like a little old lady as he tried to see something more clearly. “What is— Does that say ‘Texas’ on the side?”
“Yeah,” said Liam.
Festus pointed a look of surprise at Liam. “Do we have a military?” Liam always seemed to know these things.
“Apparently we do.”
A naked guy sprinted past. “Freeeeeee-doooooom!” Two soldiers turned away from the fray and gave pursuit.
“Liam,” said Festus, “I think we should go.”
“I think you’re right.” Liam unlocked the car and the two climbed in.
Liam cranked the ignition. The car sounded like the demon love child of a rough-idling lawn mower and a 747; as if it were powered by a rageaholic Tyrannosaurus Rex who preferred to spend its days downing cocktails made from gasoline and liquefied oxygen.
“Dude,” said Festus, glancing down at the arm Liam had used to put the car into gear, “what happened to your arm? Is that a… a tattoo?”
Liam looked down. “Shit,” he said. There were three bright, unnaturally red spots – little circles with tails. It almost looked like he’d had an unpleasant encounter with a badger (though one would expect such marks to appear lower on the body – perhaps on the shins) or a kangaroo (again, not a terribly likely scenario, given that kangaroos are not indigenous to Central Texas.
“I don’t know what that is,” he said.
“Does it hurt?” asked Festus.
Liam tried out his arm, flexing this way and that. “Nope.” He looked at Festus and shrugged.
But Festus was already over it. “We’re going to need some tacos,” he said.
Liam nodded. It was getting a little late for breakfast, but Festus had uttered an undeniable truth; a Euclidean first principle: When all else fails – or pretty much whenever you have time – get tacos. Especially on a morning like this. “All right,” he said. “Tacos.”
Chapter 20. Clyde Parker Mortuus Est
“Fine,” said Dick Whitford. “Yes, I understand. No, that’s quite alright. No.” He slammed the phone down in its cradle and sighed. It was shaping up to be a very shitty morning.
Fuck, he thought. Parker was dead. His trip to DC had been a complete waste. More than a waste – it was a complete mess that he’d have to deal with. A big mess, and absolutely nothing on the stupid Baphomet thing. And, worst of all, there were fucking angels everywhere, apparently. And not one of them was on his side.
The Governor was not your typical, modern-day politician. These days, most political hacks come vacuum-packed with an overabundant supply of charisma and charm. They make their way by smiling and making everyone they meet feel special and important.
Dick Whitford didn’t do special. And charisma and charm could go fuck themselves, as far as he was concerned. No, he’d made it to the top the old-fashioned way – backstabbing, blackmail,