That slows them down, but not by much. There’s no way I can hit them with the Benelli from here, but I can do something else. I wait until I hear footsteps on the stairs. I put my hand on the metal railing and put as much power as I dare into an old stand-by, a big ass lightning spell.
The magic courses through me. I pull it back when I feel Mictlantecuhtli’s power unspooling inside me. It’s like being chained to a sleeping tiger. Wake it up too much and it’ll eat me.
Even with that the spell’s strong enough for what I need. Electricity arcs through the metal. Shrieks, the fall of bodies down the stairs, jerking from the voltage coursing through them. I don’t have a good gauge on this thing, but with the power I put into it they’ll either stay down for a while, or not get back up again.
Once I get to the car I’ll be safer. Get on the road, get down to Mexico City. If these are Bustillo’s men, it’s a pretty good bet that when they don’t report in they’ll just send more after me. A big place like Mexico City is a lot easier to hide in than Zacatecas. It’s not like I’m planning on being there long.
I back out of the exit door at the bottom of the stairs and into the parking lot, the Benelli trained on the steps above me just in case. I turn to head to the car and stop dead.
At the gas station back in Tepehuanes I saw five pickup trucks filled with Bustillo’s men in the backs. They’re all here.
They stand in a semi-circle around the exit door, guns trained on me. Smart. Knew I’d cut and run, knew where I’d come out. Couple dozen guys with automatic weapons. They can pump several hundred rounds into me inside of three seconds. No matter how many protection spells I have in my tattoos, those are not good odds.
I slowly lower the Benelli to the ground, put my hands up. “Gentlemen. How’s everybody doing tonight?” They don’t say anything.
To make matters worse the parking lot has filled with ghosts. Some Wanderers, but seeing how closely these linger around Bustillo’s men, it’s more likely that they’re Haunts who have bound themselves to their killers rather than to where they died. It happens sometimes, but not often. Which tells me these guys have killed a lot of people.
It also means that hopping over to the dead side as an escape route is the mother of bad ideas. The ghosts will shred me before I get three steps.
So the question comes down to, do I want to die from bullets or do I want to die from ghosts?
Being eaten by ghosts sucks.
They don’t take bites out of your body so much as they take bites out of your soul. The scars they leave behind aren’t just physical, they’re emotional and mental. Chunks torn out of the very fabric that makes you, well, you.
I’ve been hit by ghosts before. Hurts like you wouldn’t believe. I’ve even fed a few people to ghosts. Took them to the other side, tossed them to the Dead like chucking trees into a woodchipper.
It’s a horrifying way to go. Most of them deserved it.
The thing about being killed by ghosts is that it takes time. They’re like piranha more than sharks. Death by a thousand cuts. I’ve had to run through a crowd of ghosts on the other side before. Some of the worst pain I’ve ever felt.
But I got through them. When I popped back to the living side they couldn’t touch me. There aren’t quite as many here, but they’re more heavily clustered. I might make it through them and get to the car in relatively one piece. Provided that the spell doesn’t trigger the progression of jade and I turn into a rock on the other side.
Bustillo’s men look like they’re not in a mood to talk with anything but their guns, so I figure it’s not much of a choice. Definitely die, or probably die.
I’m about to take my chances on the ghosts when I feel a hot wind spring up around us. It grows fast. Sudden hurricane force. A wave of heat sucks the air out of my lungs, and I instinctively hit the ground and cover my head. Fiery air blasts over me. I hear screams, gunfire, the sound of torches igniting. I hazard a look and instantly regret it. My eyes singe in the hot air, but the gunmen are far worse off than I am.
Corpses lie on the ground burning. Their skin blackened and charred. There’s a stink of cooked pork in the air. The ones still alive are rolling around desperately trying to put the flames out. I feel a little warm, my skin’s a little red like I’ve spent too much time in the sun, but that’s all. Nothing else is on fire. Not the building, not the ground, not even a nearby tree.
I stand and survey the carnage, orange firelight casting dancing shadows across the building. One of the gunmen, his skin crackling, one eyeball burst from the heat, crawls across the pavement, reaching for his rifle with shaking hands. I kick it out of his reach and put a round from the Benelli into him. Better to put him out of his misery than let him die in a burn ward somewhere.
“All right,” I say to the air around me. I don’t know where to look, which way to face. “I know you’re here. What do you want?”