The Getaway God. Richard Kadrey
anything about the guy working here and most people when they’re scared head as far from the front door as possible. That’s back here. Still, after staring at row after row of dead cow, I’m getting bored and hungry. Then I spot a different kind of light a few rows ahead. It’s softer and more diffuse than in the rest of the freezer, and tinged in pink. I head for it and find Mr. Charger. He’s not alone.
Thirteen of them stand in a circle in an open area in the back of the freezer. By open area, I mean there aren’t any sides of beef hanging back here, but there’s a hell of a lot of meat. They’ve made a whole cathedral of the stuff. Arches made from ribs, livers, hearts, and leg bones all frozen together. A vaulted ceiling from muscle trimmed from sides of beef hanging on high hooks. Their flesh church even has nave windows made of stitched-together sheets of pig caul. The light back here is a milky crimson.
All thirteen of them, six men and seven women, smile at me. Big and toothy.
“It took you long enough to find us,” says Mr. Charger.
“Sorry. I took a wrong turn at the pork chops.”
“No worries. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
I know I should watch the crazies, but I can’t take my eyes off the meat Notre-Dame.
“I love what you’ve done with the place. Ed Gein chic.”
“Thank you. It took some time to get it just right.”
“Who’s your decorator? We’re finishing my new place and there’s all this leftover chorizo. Maybe we could use it for a rumpus room.”
Mr. Charger doesn’t say anything because he’s watching me as I see it.
Not all the meat in the church is animal. There’s a human body cut into six pieces—arms, legs, torso, and head—hanging like nightmare piñatas over the smiling circle of freaks.
Mr. Charger says, “Do you understand why you’re here?”
“If you think I’m going to be the next one hanging from those hooks, you’re extremely mistaken.”
Normally, I could probably handle a flock of unarmed fruit bats. Hell, the freezer is big enough that I could just run away if I broke a nail. But these particular fruit bats are all armed. Each holds a wicked-looking motorized meat saw, like an oversize electric knife. Outwardly they all look calm, but they’re sweating, even in this cold. They smell of fear and adrenaline. The sweat steams from their bodies and collects at the ceiling like incense in their mad church.
Mr. Charger shakes his head.
“We’re not here to hurt you. You’re here to help us.”
“How did you know I was coming?”
Mr. Charger looks around at his friends.
“God told us.”
I shake my head.
“I’m kind of acquainted with God and I don’t think he told you dick.”
A thin redhead from the back says, “We mean the true God.”
“Oh hell. You’re Angra worshipers, aren’t you? Is that what this is all about? I don’t mean to cramp your little chautauqua, but my boss wants a word with you. How about you put down the saws and you can come and be crazy where it’s warm?”
A chuckle goes around the circle.
“I’m not going with you because I’m not here for you. You’re here for us,” says Mr. Charger.
“If you’re selling candy bars to go to summer camp, I’m tapped out right now.”
Mr. Charger raises his meat saw. I move my weight onto my back leg, ready to move when he tells them to rush me.
“We don’t want anything from you except to be our witness.”
“To what?”
“The sacrifice.”
Without another word or a signal, all thirteen of them raise their meat saws to their throats.
Mr. Charger is the first to shove the buzzing saw into his neck. He screams, but just for a second before the blade rips through his larynx and his throat fills with blood. He goes down twitching as the others fire up their own saws, following their leader’s example. It’s the same for all of them. A small scream as the blade tears into them. A gurgling as their voice box goes, the blood fills their throat and jets from their severed arteries. It only takes a few seconds and all thirteen are on the floor, their blood steaming on the cold metal. Their saws rattle and buzz where they dropped them.
I’ve seen some cold moves in my time, I’ve fought and killed in Hell and on earth, but I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.
Over the sound of the saws I hear voices. All the screaming got someone’s attention. That’s all I need. A warehouse of hysterical meat packers with big knives and cell phones. Imagine explaining this to a 911 operator. It might take awhile to get a patrol car. But still, it’s the principle of the thing. I’m not in the mood to deal with another crazed mob right now.
They’re getting near me now and I let them. When the first few tough guys emerge from the rows of beef and see me in the meat cathedral surrounded by freezing corpses, they stop. Good. They’re not going to rush me but they’re still between me and the door. I pull the Colt and shoot three rounds into the floor by their feet. That alters their mood and sends them scurrying like sensible rats out of there.
Only one person is still coming in my direction. Candy shoulders her way between the beef rows, her gun up, sweeping the room. But when she sees me, even she stops. For a second I can see it in her eyes. She wonders if I did this. Then she sees the meat saws and relaxes. She lowers her gun and comes over to me.
“Oh man,” she says. “I mean. Oh man.”
I go from saw to saw and turn them off. The sound is giving me a headache.
“Yeah.”
“What were they …?”
“It was a sacrifice to one of their idiot Angra gods.”
“Couldn’t they have just had a bake sale?”
I walk over and put my hand on her gun, lowering it to her side. I put my arm around her. I haven’t seen her this freaked out before. She presses against me.
I say, “Wells is going to be pissed.”
She nods.
“He can’t blame you for this insanity.”
“Wells blames me for tooth decay. He can sure blame me for this. But maybe there’s something I can do. Help me find a cooler and some dry ice.”
There’s a stack of Styrofoam coolers just outside the freezer. I grab one and Candy gets plastic packets of dry ice. We go back into the cooler. I have to work fast. Someone’s called the cops by now. For all I know, one of the workers has a pistol in the back of their truck. There’s a lot of that going around these days. When we get back to the suicide circle, I tell Candy to go back and guard the door.
“You just don’t want me to see you do it,” she says.
“You’re right. But I also want you to guard the door.”
“Okay.”
She runs back to the freezer entrance. I turn on one of the meat saws and get to work. It doesn’t take long. Mr. Charger did the hard part himself. All I have to do is get through some gristle and the spinal cord so I can twist his head all the way off.
When I do, I put it in the cooler and pack ice around it.
Candy shakes her head when she sees me with the container.
“I’ve dated some messed-up people in my time.”
“Write ‘Dear Abby.’ Let’s get out