The Devil's Graveyard (27 page)

Both creatures were now effectively dead but, to the Kid’s annoyance, the second one had landed awkwardly on his knife. Turning the creature over with his foot, he bent down, grabbed the knife’s protruding handle and yanked it out of the corpse. Blood spurted in all directions, some of it spraying on to his hand. Of far greater concern to him was the state of the knife. Due to the impact of the handle against the ground, the blade had bent almost at right angles to the handle. He took a look at it. Besides being bent it was covered in zombie guts. The knife was ruined, and he tossed it to the ground in frustration.

Another weapon gone
.

Not only was he now down to his last two bullets, but he had no knives left. If ever there was a sign that he should head home, this was it. But as he turned to head back to his car where his cigarette was burning away on the hood he spotted something on the first zombie’s polo-neck sweater. It looked like a cloth patch. He bent down and took a closer look at it. Sewn into the patch in black lettering was a name.

Buddy Holly
.

He turned back to the corpse in the once-pink dress. It had flopped back on to its front, so he used his foot again to turn it over. It too had a nametag, this time sewn on to the right breast of the dress. He grabbed it and took a closer look. Again, a name he recognized.

Dusty Springfield.

The escape from the zombies was still fresh in Sanchez’s mind when, having parked the bike, the three of them eventually entered the hotel. The night ride would normally have been exhilarating, but after the horrors of what he’d just seen in the desert, it seemed completely inconsequential. He was still coming to terms with the fact that he’d just been digging a shallow grave for himself and his friend, and had seen two men coldly executed. And that had taken place before the undead showed up, climbing out of the ground and trying to eat him. With all these thoughts running through his mind, it was a decidedly sombre Sanchez who followed Gabriel and Elvis into the hotel lobby and through to the bar.

Gabriel’s huge, bulky frame, leather biker gear, shaved head and tattoos made him stand out from all the other hotel guests. From his own experience as a bartender, Sanchez knew Gabriel would be served quickly. Never keep the big, nasty-looking fuckers waiting.

‘Three bottles a beer,’ Gabriel called out to the girl behind the bar. Valerie took one look at him and, muttering something under her breath, quickly turned to the small fridge behind her. She grabbed three bottles of Shitting Monkey, flicked the caps off with an opener hanging from a key chain on her belt, and placed the bottles on the bar.

Gabriel tossed a fifty-dollar bill at her, picked up the beers and turned to Elvis and Sanchez. ‘Let’s get us a table and talk through why we’re all here.’ He nodded at Elvis. ‘You can start by tellin’ me who Invincible Angus was hired to kill.’

‘Sure thing, Gabe.’

Sanchez took a look around the bar. The layout of the place, with its widely scattered tables, made private conversations less likely to be overheard. And this was definitely going to be a private conversation.

There was a raised area at the end furthest from the bar. Elsewhere in the room, many of the tables had one or two people sitting at each, but here they were all empty. Elvis led the way towards one in the corner. A large black speaker on the wall a few feet above the table played gentle background music, which would help to mask their conversation from anyone who might be interested in what a huge biker, an Elvis impersonator, and a chubby bar owner might have to say.

Sanchez seated himself next to Elvis in one of two cream-coloured armchairs. Their backs were to the bar, while Gabriel relaxed on the other side of the table with his back to the wall. He seemed to want to be sure that he could see all that went on in the bar. His eyes constantly darted back and forth, looking for anything of interest or out of the ordinary. After checking out all of the other drinkers (of which there were about twenty seated around the place) for any potential danger, he picked up the nearest beer and held it out to the others.

‘
Salud
,’ he said. Elvis and Sanchez followed suit, and all three men chinked their bottles together. Then each took a swig of beer.

‘So,’ said Gabriel, after swallowing a huge mouthful of beer. ‘D’ya know why Angus was here?’

Sanchez had no idea. It was a question best left to Elvis.

‘Well,’ the King began uneasily. ‘We don’t
exactly
know. Sanchez here ended up bein’ given Angus’s room an’ found a hit list in an envelope. There weren’t nothin’ to say who it was from. Just photos of the four targets.’

Gabriel placed his beer down on the table. ‘Let me guess. He was supposed to kill Otis Redding, Kurt Cobain, Johnny Cash and Judy Garland, right?’

Sanchez was impressed. This guy was a whole lot better than the Mystic Lady. ‘Whoa! How the fuck d’ya know that?’

‘I think Angus was my back-up guy.’

‘Your what?’

‘He said “back-up guy”, numbnuts,’ Elvis chipped in dismissively. ‘What are ya, deaf, as well as plain dumb?’

‘Right,’ said Gabriel. ‘He was my back-up. That hit was supposed to be mine. These four people in the photos were due to be martyrs. Killed for the good of mankind. When I didn’t make it here on time, the guy who hired me would have switched the job to Angus as back-up. Kinda like emergency cover.’

Gabriel stopped, picked up his beer and took another swallow. He paused reflectively, before continuing, ‘Y’see Angus was one of the best hitmen in the world some years back, but he’s gotta gamblin’ problem. Makes him unreliable. He owes a lotta people a lotta money and it’s clouded his judgement. He gets real personal about being paid up front, an’ that means he often ends up shootin’ the messenger rather than takin’ the goddam job. Real tetchy fella these days.’

‘Gamblin’, huh?’ said Sanchez, tutting. ‘What a loser. How much does he owe?’

‘His business, I figure,’ said Gabriel, picking up his bottle of beer and taking another swig.

‘I guess,’ said Elvis, taking a pull at his own beer bottle. ‘But why d’ya say those four people’re martyrs? An’ who’s the guy who wants ’em dead?’

Gabriel leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘The guy who wants them killed is the Godfather of Soul.’

Sanchez frowned. ‘Nah. You’ve lost me.’

‘He means James Brown, ya dipshit,’ Elvis snapped.

‘Huh? James Brown? Why? Just to win a singin’ contest? Kinda extreme, ain’t it?’

Gabriel continued, his voice still hushed. ‘Ain’t too extreme at all. Not for what’s at stake.’

‘You mean the prize money?’

‘No, I mean the souls of many innocent people. James Brown, or Julius, as he’s better known, is here on behalf of God.’

A peculiarly heavy silence greeted this last piece of information. Even Elvis looked like he was having doubts about this. Speaking slowly and distinctly, he drawled at Gabriel, ‘Why’s a man a God payin’ to have contestants in a TV singin’ competition killed? That don’t seem right. Don’t make no kinda sense, man, whichever way ya slice it.’

‘’Cept it’s much more’n a singin’ competition,’ Gabriel replied. ‘You ever seen the film
Crossroads
?’

Sanchez had. It was a favourite of his. ‘Britney Spears? Good fuckin’ movie, man.’

‘No, it ain’t. It’s shit. An’ I ain’t talkin’ about no Britney Spears bullshit. I’m talking about the Ralph Macchio movie.’

‘Macchio? The Karate Kid?’

‘Yeah. He did a film called
Crossroads,
back in the eighties.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Elvis said. ‘I saw it.’

‘Remember what it was about?’ Gabriel asked.

‘Road movie. Had Steve Vai in it.’

‘Who?’ asked Sanchez. He was having great difficulty in relating to what seemed to be an increasingly confusing conversation.

‘Steve Vai. One o’ the greatest guitarists of all time. I jammed with him once, some years back.’

That at least was something Sanchez could relate to. ‘Cool,’ he said. ‘Reckon you kin get him to play at the Tapioca?’

Gabriel rocked his beer bottle on the table to get their attention again.

‘Listen up. What I’m getting’ at is this. That movie,
Crossroads,
was based on an urban legend ’bout a guitar player name of Robert Johnson. Rumour is that, back in the nineteen-thirties, he sold his soul to the Devil. In exchange, Satan gave him the ability to play guitar better than any man on earth. Basically, this Robert Johnson guy was the first musician or singer ever to sell his soul. Thousands’ve done it since.’

‘Yeah, I saw Bart Simpson do it once,’ said Sanchez, agreeing.

Gabriel sighed. ‘Can’t you get him to shut the fuck up?’ he asked Elvis.

‘Sure,’ said Elvis, glaring at Sanchez. ‘But I still don’t get what all this Robert Johnson stuff’s got to do with what’s goin’ on here.’

‘Because it’s pretty much exactly what’s happenin’ here. An’ it’s happened every year of the
Back From the Dead
show. The winner gets a million-dollar singin’ contract. When they sign it, they’re signin’ away their soul.’

‘To Nigel Powell?’ asked Elvis.

‘Nope. To the Devil.’

‘Does Powell know ’bout this?’

‘Yeah. He’s in on it. See, he sold his soul to the Devil years ago in exchange for immortality, an’ this hotel and its casino.’

‘Sweet deal,’ Sanchez remarked.

Gabriel shook his head. ‘Ain’t really. In return, he’s gotta get someone new to sell their soul to the Devil every Halloween. An’ that’s what the winner of this competition is doin’. Sellin’ their soul to Satan in exchange for wealth an’ fame. ’Cept they don’t know that, o’ course.’

Sanchez frowned. ‘It’s all kinda far-fetched. Sounds like bullshit to me.’

‘An’ zombies?’ said Gabriel sternly. ‘D’ya believe in them? Or are they a bit fuckin’ far-fetched too?’

Sanchez had to admit the big biker had a point. ’Yeah,’ he said. ‘See what ya mean. But why kill the four singers? I don’t get it.’

‘Me either,’ said Elvis.

‘I’m just gettin’ to that part.’

‘Like, can you get to it a bit quicker, man?’

Gabriel looked irritated. ‘Okay,’ he said heavily. ‘First off, this show is rigged. The whole damn’ shootin’ match.’

Elvis slammed his beer bottle down on the table. ‘I fuckin’ knew it! I toldya, Sanchez, didn’t I?’

Gabriel ignored him and carried on. ‘Five singers were selected for the final months ago. In secret – only they an’ Powell know, But only the four best singers are bein’ killed. Like I say, they’re martyrs. They’re better off dead than winnin’ this competition and sellin’ their souls to the Devil.’

Sanchez, still confused, couldn’t help interrupting. ‘So the four best singers are dead. Surely that just means that the fifth best singer wins it and signs the contract?’

Gabriel’s face burst into a big beaming smile. ‘Boy, you catch on quick, fat guy. Yeah, that’s right. An’ Julius – the James Brown impersonator – is the fifth best singer here. So, with the other four gone he’s got a pretty dam’ good chance of winnin’.’

‘And sellin’ his soul to the Devil?’ Elvis queried the logic of it. ‘Why would he wanna do that?’

‘It’s a sacrifice.’

‘No shit.’

‘But it’s one he can make.’ He suddenly seemed to change the subject. ‘D’ya know what this hotel is built on?’

‘The desert?’ Sanchez suggested, redundantly.

‘Nope. It’s built on top of a gateway to Hell.’

Sanchez looked down nervously at the black hardwood floor and lifted his feet up. ‘Shit. I thought it was kinda warm in here,’ he said.

Elvis slapped him on the back of the head and signalled for Gabriel to carry on.

‘Julius’s soul belongs to God. He signs that contract, he’s sellin’ somethin’ he don’t own, so the contract’s gonna be null an’ void. And if Powell ain’t got someone to sell their soul by the end of the witchin’ hour on Halloween, his hotel an’ him will go straight to Hell. This fuckin’ place, an’ everyone in it, will sink down under the ground like it was never here.’

‘What’s so special about Julius?’ Elvis asked. ‘Don’t God own everyone’s soul?’