Chapter 8

The after-midnight dinner with the Baron had made me groggy. Jules seemed very eager to make me some coffee, so I happily obliged him. The way the coffee he made carried over some of his most distinctive features was uncanny; he made some mean, black coffee.

I had been briefed in hurriedly on what the current tactical situation was: Eileen was holed up around the gateway on the after-world's end. Demons and literally all hell's kinds of things kept coming at her and a few hand-picked men and women, wave after wave, again and again. More and more personnel was being stacked on this end of the gateway as well, fighting off Falconi and his own mob, a mix of a few summoned demons, wild monsters, and unscrupulous men. They were trying to get to Eileen and the gateway by the backdoor. It was looking bad, and the only bright side about the situation was that I was immortal. Which, after making sure that there was no catch - like cutting my head off or melting me in hot metal - was pretty cool, and would definitely prove a life-saver; at least for me.

It was the middle of the night, and I was an avid believer in that the faster things got done, the faster everything would return back to normal. Of course, in the Normal Bureau, normal had many meanings none of which had any similarity to the definition of the word. Nevertheless, I found it strange that I could've probably walked away right then and there, but I didn't.

I could have walked away, and Falconi couldn't - as Jules would have put it - 'pop caps in my ass'. I could have walked away and all these people with their silly hats, all they could have done was go all wild-eyed and insist that I thought about it once more, and then perhaps cry alone or en masse for the coming Revelation, Armageddon, Rapture, or whatever they wanted to call the huge bitch-slapping that was about to hit home.

But then, I thought, where would that leave me? How could I have lived with my immortal self for aeons afterward, in a barren, molten, putrefied sulfur-ridden landscape, with not another human around, and everyone's soul back in the pits of Hell, building more tar pits, and mountains made of bone, rivers of blood and bile, nd the occasional but seemingly necessary, pit full of shit to bathe in? I'd just hate the place, and there even wouldn't be anyone or anything to steal from. I'd probably end up asking demons for favors of the worse kind, and that somehow seemed like a bad idea from the very start.

So I'd decided I'd go in; use my mind, heart and soul, preferably only figuratively speaking, and destroy the gateway I'd once build myself once and for all, so then the Normal Bureau could go back to policing the odd cult, the few occultists that actually got the incantations right, and the occasional stranded demon that had forgotten to dial home. At least that's what Jules told me they used to deal with. Up until my abduction.

They were scared, actually. The people in that briefing room, with their mitres on and their black suits carried hollowed looks. It was plain in their eyes that they thought their chances - our chances - were too slim. Maybe that was because they understood what we were up against. I, on the other hand only had a faint idea, and was only partial to what they perceived as a horrific, end-of-days situation. Frankly, I thought they were overreacting, and that things weren't all that bad.

I noticed Jules was looking at me intently. Under the harsh, bright white light in the situation room at first I thought he was squinting; then I noticed everyone was looking at me like they badly needed some prescription glasses. Jules made a hand gesture that I should go on. I had been woolgathering, and I couldn't remember what I was talking about at all, so I asked no one in particular:

"Was I talking, just now?"

They all bobbed their heads up and down, and the sight of about two dozens papal mitres shuddering like that was so hilarious I'd thought I'd burst in laughter once more, which would be really bad manners, a detriment to morale, and hurt my stomach muscles like hell. I contained myself barely, and asked them to take those things off:

"Could you, please, for the love of God, take those hats off? I mean, I can't look at those things with a straight face."

Someone protested:

"But, sir! Regulations clearly state that wards are to be warn at all times!"

"Yeah, well, it's like a bad joke. The real fight's out there, not in here. If things come to that, I'm pretty sure that hat will only have an effect on demons with a sense of humor, which according to my personal experience, however limited it may be, aren't exactly a majority. So, just, I don't know, put them away. You might as well had clown hats on."

"Are you referring to Incantation Device CXR-7A?"

That made me cock my head sideways, as if I wanted to see more clearly whether or not this guy was trying to be funny. He looked too uptight and scared to be any amount of funny at all, so he was being serious, and ironically enough, I found that funny:

"You mean you actually, wear clown hats? Have a designation for them as well?"

"I believe so, sir."

"Alright, I'm new to this but I'm catching up. No hats. Whatsoever. I mean, what kind of an idiot gets these kinds of ideas?"

Jules cleared his throat and said in a low-keyed voice:

"Ahm, that was your idea, sir. With all due respect."

"Me? I must've been dead drunk. Well, that was an entirely other person. Well, not entirely. You know what I mean. Even if it was only yesterday, think of this as a new start. Okay? Wiping the slate clean."

I could see a few grins, and hear the imperceptible yet unmistakable sound of snigger.

"Did I say something funny?"

Jules threw a few threatening glances to certain people in the room and the atmosphere immediately sobered up and dried. It was like he could kill any kind of mood with his gaze. He was most helpful though when he explained:

"That might have sounded funny to some people in here," he said, still gazing around the room to indicate he knew who he was talking about and disapproved, "because you conclude every briefing with these words."

"Oh, I see. Well, I guess old habits die last. In my case, not at all," I said and grinned appreciatively as if I had been talking to myself. Probably from fear of being reprimanded by Jules no one had even so much as twitched a facial muscle.

"It was a joke, okay? You can laugh at jokes if you find them funny. It's one of those human things we're supposedly fighting for. I don't think demons are funny unless you count the horns and the barbed tail."

Silence ensued. I sighed and said, sounding slightly disappointed:

"That was a joke too. Never mind. The clock's ticking. Jules, what was I saying earlier:"

Jules looked down on his sheet of paper, cleared his throat and said:

" ... and that's why I'll make sure this piece of shit, Steve, gets his gay rights, in the form of a large male animal in heat, preferably a rhino."

"I was talking about that? Aloud?"

"Yes, sir."

"Never mind that for now. Let's get over this before the sun's up and the world's over. How is Eileen holding out?"

"It's a pretty tight situation sir. They've progressively gained more ground and right now they're about to get through to the installation itself. Commander Eileen believes that at the current rate, she'll be overrun before dawn."

"So, that's like two, maybe three hours, tops, right?"

"That is pretty much correct, sir."

"And what about the home ground on this side of things? Falconi and his cronies are gaining on us?"

"Things on this end aren't as bad. It's a sort of stalemate, but we've committed everything we can on this, and there are reports Falconi is bringing in more forces: werewolves, lycans, zombies, and perhaps a few attorneys as well."

"Wait, attorneys? You mean, lawyers, right?"

"Yes, sir?"

"They're in league with Satan, then?"

"They've done it before, sir. They're unscrupulous people and tend to work for the highest bidder, and Falconi is known to pay handsomely."

"What are they going to do? Sue us to death?"

"They'll stop at nothing, sir. They might try that as well."

"And these lycans you mentioned? Isn't that another name for werewolves?"

"Not at all, sir. It's a pretty common misconception, especially since lycans are very able shape-shifters and can transform at will, not only on a full moon. They're stronger, and more bulky than werewolves, and they urinate while -"

"Don't give me the details, please. You shoot them with silver bullets and they die, right?"

"Well, no sir. Silver has no effect on them at all. You have to sever their spines to actually kill them."

"Sever their spines, right. Note taken. Zombies are easy, right?"

"Well, it depends sir."

"On what?"

"On their numbers. In overwhelming numbers they can be quite daunting."

"But they're as cunning as a dead fox. We'll mow them down with machine guns. You have machine guns, right?"

"Any model ever manufactured, sir. And all kinds of ammunition: silver armor-piercing bullets, Holy water hollow points, miniature bronze Buddha fragmentation ammo and Qur'an-scripted explosive rounds."

"Thank God for the second amendment then. We'll see what we'll do about those lawyers. Maybe we can avoid killing the poor bastards. I'd hate to kill a man, even someone so inhuman. Do we have a legal department?"

There was some hesitation in his voice, even something faintly akin to embarrassment:

"Yes, sir. They mainly handle PR and lawsuits against our blimps."

"Lawsuits against the blimps? From who?"

"A well-known tire manufacturer, mostly. And patent trolls."

"Never mind. Suit them up as well. And keep an eye on them, they might actually find out there's a law against killing demons in the state of Kansas. Who else do we have?"

"Everyone in this room, sir. Except for Rogers over there who has to keep the xerox machines warm."

"Why, are they feeling sick?"

"They tend to jam when not in use, sir. Someone has to keep making photocopies of white papers."

The world was on the brink of turning into a wasteland, and we were discussing the need for xerox machines. It felt uncannily like something that could have only happened in the higher echelons of the armed forces. I had to clarify that, in the hope that it was actually something important for survival:

"You mean, like research stuff?"

"No, sir, actual blank pieces of white paper."

"Screw that, what do we need all those photocopying machines for?"

Jules instantly looked pale. His face went blank, and he seemed to stutter before he could actually reply:

"Well, I ... I don't know, sir."

"Good. Rogers, you're coming as well. So, what else do we have apart from guns and stuff like that? I mean, do these even work on the other side?"

"Well, there haven't been many documented cases on the usage of projectiles, sir."

I found what that implied most unsettling. Were we supposed to punch those things to death?

"You mean you don't know?"

"It has to do with incorporeality, sir. Simple mass projectiles might not be sufficient against all demonic forms, especially incorporeal ones."

"You mean you don't know?"

Unwillingly, and looking a bit flushed, Jules said it plainly:

"We don't know, sir."

"What are we supposed to do, then? Smack them until they give up? Scold them off? I thought we were in this paranormal business. Don't you people have something like those things in the Ghostbusters movies?"

"Seriously sir, that was just a movie."

"Well their guns worked, didn't they? There's got to be something. Aren't there any geniuses working here? Lab coats and everything, bad coffee, boring geek small-talk while crunching numbers? Bad personal hygiene? Greasy hair? Ever seen one?"

"Well, if you insist sir. There is something of your own design, that might prove effective."

"You don't say?"

"But it hasn't been tested before. At least, not in realistic conditions."

"Why is that?"

"The last test left British Columbia without electricity for a few hours. It's also highly dangerous, and uses all sorts of as-of-yet fringe science and technology you yourself have been known to say, and I quote: 'hell if I know how it works. Get it?'."

"Can I carry it?"

"Well, yes, it's man-portable."

"Good, how many shots does one magazine carry?"

"Just this problem, sir. There's only one shot for that equipment. It's designed as an area-of-effect denial equipment. Completely perishable, single-use only."

"What does it exactly, deny?"

"Sir, this is a highly technical matter. In fact, you'd be the most qualified to answer these kinds of questions. To put it plainly, from what I gather, it's like a nuke; only it's supposed to work in the after-world, while being rather harmless around normal people and matter. Thankfully enough, that part's been tested."

"Good, I'm packing that as well. I bet it looks cool, doesn't it?"

"Well, that depends on what you mean, sir. It's certainly original, though familiar-looking."

"Never mind that, suit up and let's get over there fast. Sulphur, Nevada was it?"

"In the vicinity, yes. Abandoned copper mine. Sir, if you don't mind. What do you mean, by 'suit up'? We are already wearing our suits."

"What, you mean you actually fight demons and assorted creatures wearing just that?"

"Well, yes sir."

"No helmets? Kevlar vests? Padding on the legs and shoulders? Any sort of protection or armor whatsoever?"

"Well, we do have the papal mitres," said Jules, and I found out I couldn't even bear the thought of those impossibly weird-looking hats.

"That's just stupid. Whose idea was that, wearing nothing but those hats for protection against evil? Never mind, I can tell. Have you people seen what these demons look like? They're twelve feet tall, and they've got claws that can cut down a tree in one swoop."

Jules looked skeptical, and definitely uncomfortable wading in unfamiliar waters:

"What do you propose then, sir? We don't have the kind of equipment you are suggesting."

"You mean you have machine guns, supersonic blimps, anti-demon ray-guns -"

"You mean convolution matrix field transducers, sir," Jules corrected me. Maybe my former self knew about these things, but it all sounded like horse-crap.

"I mean what I said. That's what it does, right? Kill demons? Anyway, you're telling me all you've got to wear is the silly hat, and that suit?"

They all nodded appreciatively, as if somehow that sounded reassuring. And these guys were our best bet against hordes of hellish creatures. What a peachy thought. I kept at it:

"No riot shields? Any kind of police or paramilitary equipment?"

They shook their heads in unison.

"Gloves? Motorcycle helmets? Anything thicker than a piece of cloth?"

Still, nothing but a 'no'.

I couldn't believe myself when I said it, but it somehow felt like it was the only option left that I just had to explore. I sighed before asking, feeling embarrassed to even consider such a thing:

"Do you ... Do you people have a football team?"

A sinister-looking red light dominated the large cabin space of the assault team's helicopter. What was left of the Normal Bureau's combatants fitted inside two helicopters in all. I was riding alongside Jules and his own hand-picked team. Everyone looked slightly ridiculous in the football jersey's, especially the women in the team who found the chest plates extremely discomforting and most had decided to just leave them behind. If it hadn't been for the constant chopping noise of the rotor blades and the grim visage on everyone's faces, the cabin could've been just the setting for an expensive, sports-themed porn film.

As we banked left and right, crisscrossing in the air along with the other extremely modified blackhawk (the modifications largely consisted of a relic bible attached to its nose, leather-bound and hand-written by a catholic Saint), it looked almost as if a couple of playful night-birds courting in the sweet, warm summer night. In fact, there was nothing sweet about the night, and as we approached the gateway location, I felt my stomach churn. It could've been the uneasy flying, it could have been something I ate. For the most part, I didn't want to think it was the shakes, the kind of fear that sometimes took over right before a job, or so my false memories told me.

It was fear of failing. Like when you're trying to pull that Jenga block without ruining everything, or when you're about to flip that omelette in the frying pan, only in a larger scale. I'd taken things up to that point in my stride; just adapting, reacting, and trying to see the silver lining. I still didn't feel sure about why I just hadn't given everyone the one-fingered salute (or in some foreign countries, the two-fingered salute - I'm sure someone like Baron Hasso-Ludwig Freiherr von Papen would have gotten the idea right).