f.u.c.k the Mundanes.

With a silent word, the command was given.

And without any warning at all, Danny and Crew went into warp-speed h.e.l.l.

Chapter 48.

Giant wet gobs of snow fell and gathered on the shoulders of a quiet Tony Levin as he sat and studied the unconscious form of Death lying before him. He wore nothing heavier than his black winter trench coat, the one he got compliments on just about everywhere he went back in Halifax. If he waited with his a.s.s freezing to the ground he sat on, the heavy material of the coat would be covered in white and Tony would simply become one with the landscape. He felt numb all over and wondered if the crash had anything to do with that. Or perhaps being covered in blood had something to do with it? Or was it that he just knocked out the man known as Death? Did he do the right thing? Death had commanded him to do it, so how could he be at fault? And then there was the s.h.i.t that Frank screamed at him about being found by someone. That made Tony think. Whoever it was, it might have been an idea to let him find them, just so they could use his car or truck or whatever and get the h.e.l.l out of the country. Tony looked up then. The sky was grey, overcast and freezer-cold looking. He'd have to start moving soon and drag Frank's unconscious a.s.s with him. That was something he really looked forward to. He took a deep breath and considered the time. How long before dark? And where were they anyway? There was no sun above, and Tony's sense of direction was totally unreliable. He looked back to the wreck of the car and the highway beyond. It wasn't even a highway. It was a two lane road.

A two lane road.

The thought stuck in Tony's head. He got to his feet and stretched, testing his limbs. Everything seemed to work fine, but he could smell the blood on his person. Tony made a face as he took himself in. He was a mess. Completely covered in the life juice of four very dead men.

That thought made him pause.

He looked back at the car.

Jesus Christ.

Those guys were dead.

What was up with that? Tony's right hand came up to rub his jaw as he stared at the car and the corpses within. Did Frank lose his power or something? Did it have something to do with his knocking Frank out? Was Frank really out? Tony gazed down at the still form of the man, an angry grimace on his face. Even while unconscious, Death still managed to look p.i.s.sed off. Wondering if he was faking it, Tony kicked him in the ribs, shaking off the snow that had gathered.

Death did not move.

His grimace was still there.

Tony kicked the man again. Harder.

Nothing.

"You suck on donkey c.o.c.ks," Tony shot off. There was no reaction at all. He was convinced. Death was done. For the time being, anyway. But it still did not solve why their abductors were currently deceased. Muttering oaths under his breath, Tony supposed it was no big deal. Right now he had a bigger problem on his hands, namely the carca.s.s of one dead to the world Death.

Tony made his way back to the car, not really wanting to, but he felt drawn to the gruesome display within. Four men with their heads blown up and off. Tony shook his head in amazement. That was power. He supposed that was all right since Frank was Death and all, and should have some sort of special power to go along with the job but f.u.c.k! Say your name and whoomf! Lay out all within hearing range. Un-f.u.c.king-believable.

Tony studied the b.l.o.o.d.y remains inside the car. He knew what he had to do, and set about going through the coats of the headless dead and pulling out everything he could find. He found a cell phone in the chest pocket of the driver's shirt, which was good as he could not find the one Tim had given him not so long ago. His relief at finding the phone did not lastthe thing would not work. Tony opened it, held it up to the sky as if it might improve the chances of it working, but it remained dead. It looked like Death had power over inanimate objects, as well.

Making a face, he tossed the phone and rummaged through the four bodies in the car. He pulled out wallets and gathered out a collection of three hundred and forty six dollars, which he stuffed into his own pockets with a hateful thought of f.u.c.k 'em. One of the bodies had a mean looking knife with the word Beretta stamped on the side of the short, three-inch blade. It came in a belt sheath, which Tony removed from the owner and attached to his own. There was a long military boot knife, complete with sheath, on another body, and he pocketed it, as well. He found a cheap palm-sized flashlight in the glove compartment, the kind that did not need batteries but generated its own light by squeezing its sides. He stuffed that into his coat, too. There was a lighter which he pocketed. He found maps and McDonalds' coupons, which he also took. When he got out of this mess, a couple of discounted cheeseburgers would go down just fine.

There was nothing else in the car.

On impulse he reached in under the front seats. He felt the b.u.t.t of something. He stretched, wrapped his hand about it and withdrew a worn but still venerable baseball bat. Tony bared his teeth and stood with the bat before him, samurai style. With the knives and the bat, he was ready for a small war. He took a swing and grimaced almost instantly. There were parts of him, all in his back it felt, that did not want him to be exerting energy just yet. He placed the bat to one side and got down on his hands and knees, and stuck his head under the legs of a body, peering up under the front seats to see if there were any other surprises.

There were not.

Tony got to his feet, and then remembered the trunk.

He reached back into the car, baring his teeth again at the destruction Death had wrought amongst his captors and retrieved the blood and goo sticky keys from the ignition. One of them would open the trunk. A part of Tony hoped to G.o.d above there wasn't a body in there. He didn't think there would be, but it was one of those weeks, so he hoped just in case. He walked around to the trunk, slogging through the gathered snow and held the keys up to his face. There were three on a b.l.o.o.d.y rabbit's foot keychain. He stood in front of the trunk and inserted a key. Tony paused for a moment, hoping to G.o.d above that maybe, just maybe, there would be something of some good use in there. He looked to the road and swore softly. Which way was which? North? South? Which way were they headed? Where were they now? Tony sighed heavily.

And turned the key.

The trunk popped and opened. Tony lifted the lid and hoped again to G.o.d that there wasn't a body. There wasn't. Instead, there were a number of things of interest. There was a five-litre, red plastic container containing gasoline. There was a small black briefcase which caught his attention, and a forty-ounce bottle of Jack Daniels still in a decorative box with ol' Jack himself showing a rather distinguished profile. Tony smiled at the bottle, picked it up and held it at arm's length. Of all the weird s.h.i.t that was happening in his life at the moment, of all the chaos, this one bottle of sour-mash whiskey put a grounding smile on his face. Tony sighed deeply, patted the bottle and deposited it into one of the deep pockets of his coat. The pocket wasn't quite big enough, but he didn't care. Ol' Jack was going with him, and he patted the bottle again, happy with its comforting weight.

There was a set of booster cables in the car, which was of no use. As was the car jack. There was an old blanket, which he took and draped over his shoulder. Then, he held up the briefcase. He turned it over, inspecting it in the grey gloom of the afternoon, and plopped it back into the trunk. He fumbled with its latches but finally popped it and threw back the lid. He blinked at the contents.

Staring back at him was the biggest syringe he had ever set his eyes upon in his life. What was it that the leader had said to Death just before he had introduced himself? Something about painkiller? Tony picked up the syringe. The needle was a good four inches long and as serious looking as any of the knives he removed from Death's victims. It was packaged in plastic and had wording that read "Spinal Needle-spinal needle Quincke type point." There was a little black and white picture beside the name, showing a needle that was hollow and making Tony think of a gigantic, mutant proboscis. A small fifteen-millilitre bottle of a clear liquid called bupivacaine lay in the case. He placed the syringe back beside the bottle and picked up another other item. It was a black holster of sorts, but it contained six black plastic tubes with writing. Tony extracted one. It read "Zyomet Autoinjector."

What the f.u.c.k was a Zyomet Autoinjector?

He looked at the writing beneath the big words, muttering "Morphine injection" and squinting at what he had. He didn't know what he had at all, but he wondered if it were anything that Frank might be interested in after he woke up. He hoped it would be. He inserted the injector back into the holster beside its brothers and dropped it back into the case. On second thought, he grabbed it all up, and stuffed everything into his pocket opposite ol' Jack. His coat felt heavy, but he wasn't worried about anything tearing under the weight.

That was it for the treasures of the trunk.

Not even anything to eat.

Tony shook his head. Were those guys actually serious about the barbeque? They had the right choice of booze for it. But only the one bottle. Tony sighed. Weren't the bad guys supposed to be boozers or crack-heads or something like that? Why did he have to get the equivalent of p.i.s.sed off Mormons? p.i.s.sed off Mormons that walked around with what looked to be combat knives. And Zyomet Autoinjectors of morphine. Something which Tony had a hard time p.r.o.nouncing and hoped to Lord above it didn't bring on the s.h.i.ts.

Then, something he thought of made him pause.

Mormons.

Mormons liked to stick together.

s.h.i.t.

Tony looked back to the road. Where were they going? He broke into a lumbering run, the snow rising up and over his ankles. He reached the side of the highway, and looked to the left and right. He had no clue as to which way was back to civilization. He saw no road signs, only a long road that twisted off into a white, snow-covered forest. Snow, large fluffs of it, floated on the air. Grey clouds hung low in the sky, pressing down on mountaintops in the distance and obscuring the sun. Where could they be? Panic started to swirl up inside Tony then, and he growled with effort to control it. He had to think. He would stick to the road. Listen for cars. Maybe if he could see the driver or drivers, he could wave one of them down for a ride. He could not stay here. Here was where people might come looking; the buddies of the four dead douche bags of the Apocalypse. And if no one did come by, they would not make it anyway. The cold would do them in. He remembered something about staying active, that people could live for a long time in cold temperatures if they just kept moving. It was when they stopped it was dangerous. The thought occurred to him of dying in BC due to exposure, and it made him snort with morbid humour. Then he realized that he could not die. But the dudes in the car had died easily enough. What would happen then? He straightened and decided he did not want to find out. He did not want to think about not dying as weird as that sounded. He would follow the road and simply get to where it led, and he would take care with approaching cars. Just in case.

Checking his gathered items and patting the bottle of Jack Daniels for luck, Tony chose a direction, stomped his feet clean of snow on the pavement, and started walking.

He stopped not three steps, turned and looked back in the direction of the crashed car.

"Well, f.u.c.k," he cursed.

He had d.a.m.ned near forgotten about unconscious Death.

Chapter 49.

Something was wrong. Something was really wrong. Peters had not contacted Maia in a very long time. The last time they called, they had an unconscious Death in their clutches along with a somehow important Mundane. They were heading north, as far away from civilization as possible, to a little cabin Maia knew of and maintained especially for times like these. That was where they were going.

And that had been roughly three hours ago.

A feeling of wrongness wormed around in Maia's guts, trying to get into his brain. Could something have gone wrong? What could have gone wrong? The thought made him curse. They were transporting Death for Christ's sakes. Everything could have gone wrong! Maia had explicitly told Peter to take precautions when handling the Boatman. Had that infernal weasel somehow escaped?

Maia stomped around his office like he was searching for flesh to smash. Not finding anything to his liking, he threw back his head and growled in absolute disgust. There was a knock on his office door. Maia whirled on it and glared enough heat to laser a hole through the metal surface.

"Get in here!" Maia commanded.

Marvin entered. He looked nervous in the presence of a very agitated fire chief. Maia focused his stare of h.e.l.lfire at the Minion and rooted him to the spot. He pursed up his mouth and debated whether he should kill Marvin just out of rage. He had the feeling he had sent four of his best into battle, and all of them had fallen. The thought put enough colour into his face that Marvin thought it could potentially burst under pressure.

When he spoke, Marvin was listening.

"Peters and Wash didn't make it," Maia informed him, feeling the truth behind his words even though he had no way of knowing. Marvin's mouth dropped open with shock.

"Gather up the rest of the boys," Maia went on. "We're heading to the cabin."

Chapter 50.

A dry-looking TCH lay before the Stickman. Mounds of snow were on either side of the strip of highway, suffocating trees whose tips could just barely be seen. It was an overcast sky, and beneath it was a grey strip of highway splitting craggy mounds of white. The emptiness of the land around him did nothing to dampen Stickman's disposition. He was jubilant to be free of the thing that had taken him a captive. He hoped it was minus fifty out there, so the creature's a.s.s would freeze to the asphalt, and hold him there long enough for a transport trailer to run over it.

The Stickman felt great. Just great. He didn't even feel the ache of his face or any of his bruises and wounds from the battle with Boomer. He was so happy that he actually had fond thoughts of Levin. Perhaps he would let the man live, but only after Stickman did a dance on the man's legs. What he did to Badger could not be completely forgotten. Then again, thinking further on it, perhaps Levin was the type of person that would try and exact revenge on the Stickman for breaking his legs. Maybe Levin would even go as far as hiring someone or calling in a favour to deal with the Stickman to even the score. The idea had merit, and it made Stickman chew on the inside of his cheek in thought. He finally decided it was safest just to dispose of Levin. Stickman was glad to have thought the whole thing through. Badger would have been proud of him.

He continued driving and considered putting on some music. He glanced at the empty road ahead, looked down at the radio and reached for it. When he looked up to watch the road again, he saw that there was a hitchhiker ahead, standing with his arm outstretched and holding onto his head. A head that was topped off with a yellow and black toque.

Just like a bee.

Lucy saw the approaching car and stuck out her thumb. It was freezing on the roadside, and she didn't know why she had to be exactly here anyway, except this is where ol' Father Time wanted her to be. Maybe it was punishment for something? Who knew? The faster she got picked up, the faster she could get on with her task. And that was getting back to Tony. Right now, she figured Tony and Frank were getting on just swell. It was a gamble they were taking, a big gamble, and not even Lucy was certain of where or how it was all going to play out. When it came to the Mundanes alone, she could influence it. When it came to the Ent.i.ties, she had no more influence than a flea in a dog's decision of which way it wanted to turn.

The car approaching her was a Sunbird, but she didn't know the year. It slowed down, and Lucy did a little appreciative hop. Her a.s.s was freezing in this weather. The car pulled up alongside of her and stopped, its exhaust fumes shooting out from behind and blowing about her. The pa.s.senger window was frosted over. She could not see inside, and when she tried to open the door, she discovered it was locked. That was strange, Lucy thought.

"You gonna let me in or not?" Lucy said over the loud rumble of the engine.

There was a pause.

Lucy then saw a hand distorted by the ice unlock the door. Lucy opened it immediately, and a gasp of foul air went by her. She bent over at the waist to look inside at the driver. The driver regarded her with a face that looked as if it had been bashed in with a baseball bat. A black eye, a huge cut on his forehead that had scabbed over with black blood, two cheeks that probably were a hair away from being shattered, and a mouth rimmed with a fighter's fat lips. Lucy hesitated, staring at the face before her, before smiling sweetly and glancing down.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to stare. You're like the first person I've seen out here all day, and here I am staring at you. Very sorry about that. Anyway, can you give me a lift?"

"Where's ye goin'?" asked the driver. His teeth were small, but looked undamaged.

"West," Lucy answered.

"Get in."

Lucy did so, thankful to get out of the cold. She did not see the driver sizing up her legs as she did so. "Thanks. Lucky me you came along when you did. I was freezing!"

The Stickman's head lilted to one side as he put the car into drive.

"Lucky I," he said with a greasy smile.

Chapter 51.

Walk, Tony told himself. March.

He looked up at the long, open throat of a road, grey and wintry, stretching out and eclipsed between two forest-covered hills with dark mountains all around them, mountains whose girth was hidden by a low, overcast sky and the constant falling of great, lazy snowflakes. It all looked and felt cold to Tony, who walked the white road, one foot moving stiffly after the other. He shrugged his shoulder, feeling the weight of Death's unconscious form slung over it. He felt the weight of Mr. Jack in his coat pocket, and all of the other things he had taken from the car. He felt dirty from the freezing blood on his person. He kept the baseball bat in his left fist, which was also draped over Death's legs. March, he told himself again.

Or die.

The thought brought a stiff grin to his face. It made Tony realize how d.a.m.n cold it was. But he would not die. He could not die. He had Death over his shoulder like a great sack of potatoes. How could he die? It would not be from exposure. He was moving along fast enough to prevent that. But he was getting so tired. Everything was so heavy. And the snow covering the edges of the road, the same snow that quickly became huge banks of whiteness that looked so soft to him, so incredibly soft, tempted him to just drop his load, just dump Death into the fluffy bank.

And join him.

They could sit and wait for the first car or truck to happen along. Maybe even have a nap while they were waiting. That would be so nice. Just sit and... sleep. A huge sigh left Tony. Old Frankie boy was heavy. b.a.s.t.a.r.d had eaten too many f.u.c.king chicken fingers. Tony was getting a workout, however. He noted how he was taking big strides when he left the car wreck, heading where he thought was north. He realized, as time moved on, that his strides had become more like shuffles. He looked up again at the distant road. It was unwavering and simply ceased to exist over the approaching hill. Tony thought it would be too lucky to find a town just over the rise, and it seemed that he just did not have that sort of luck, not since Lucy, anyway.

At one point, Tony stopped and exhaled a mighty gust of breath. His breath was no longer visible on the air. His legs ached. His shoulders ached. He wanted a short breather. He lowered Death to the side of the road, easing him into a snow drift. Tony plopped right down beside him. The snow was high enough that he was in a reclining pose with a pleasant brace of cold snow at his neck. It felt wonderful. Tony wiggled a bit and regarded his legs stuck straight out onto the highway. He wondered how that would look to oncoming traffic, a pair of dark legs sticking out of a drift. He closed his eyes. Tony hoped, dreamily, that whoever did find them didn't sound their horn. That would be just too d.a.m.n noisy. He breathed in and felt the icy air fill his lungs. He would catch a nap. Just a little nap. And then, he would get up and continue on. Honest to G.o.d he would.

s...o...b..a.l.l.s.

He dreamt of s...o...b..a.l.l.s.

"s...o...b..a.l.l.s," a voice to his right said.

Tony's eyes cracked open.

"Hey... s...o...b..a.l.l.s. Wake the f.u.c.k up before I b.i.t.c.h slap you!"

With a jolt, Tony looked at the face of Death. He was grimacing.