The Demon Road Trilogy: The Complete Collection: Demon Road; Desolation; American Monsters. Derek Landy
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and they drove on.
THEY GOT TO SALT LAKE CITY the next day. Glen stared out at the snow-capped mountains that rose up behind the gleaming buildings like the backdrop of some insane science-fiction movie.
“They’re massive,” he breathed. “Are those the Rockies?”
“Yeah,” Amber replied sarcastically, “because every mountain range in America is the Rockies.”
“They actually are part of the Rockies,” said Milo, and Amber glowered. “That’s the Wasatch Range there.”
“We don’t have anything like this in Ireland,” Glen said. “Like, we have some awesome mountains, like the Sugar Loaf, and MacGillycuddy’s Reeks, and the Giant’s Causeway up north, but … but that’s less of a mountain and more of a … bit of rock. Are we anywhere near the Grand Canyon?”
Amber was pretty sure she knew this. “No,” she said, with a slight hesitation in her voice.
Milo gave her a nod, and she relaxed.
Glen lost interest in the mountains pretty fast, and started paying attention to the streets. “This place doesn’t seem that weird,” he said. “Apart from their remarkably straight roads, that is. What did you say they were? Scientologists?”
“Mormons,” said Milo.
“Which ones believe in the aliens?”
“Scientologists,” said Amber.
“I’d love to have been a Scientologist,” Glen said, “but I was never that good at science. I’ll say one thing for the Mormons, though – they love their straight roads, don’t they? I doubt Scientologists would have been able to build roads as straight as these, what with believing in aliens and all. Theirs would be all bendy.”
Amber frowned. “Why?”
“Well, because they’d be looking up all the time, wouldn’t they? Or maybe they’d try to build their cities around alien symbols, like crop circles, y’know? That’d be cool. Wouldn’t be straight, though, and it’d be hell getting from one place to the other if all their roads were circular. The Mormons had it right, I think. Straight lines. That’s the way to go. Who are the people with the beards?”
“Muslims?”
“No, the beards and the funny hats and building barns and stuff.”
“The Amish,” said Amber.
“And where do they control?”
“Nowhere. I mean, they have their communities, but they don’t build cities or anything.”
“They’d probably be better known if they built cities.”
“Yeah. I’ll mention that to them.”
A few minutes later, they pulled in across the street from a run-down bar with a faded sign out front that showed a picture of a staircase. They crossed, and Milo pushed open the door. The place was as quiet as it was empty. By the looks of things, no one had been in here in years.
Milo didn’t say anything, though, so Amber kept her mouth shut, and for once Glen wasn’t yattering on about something. They came to a set of stairs and started down them.
Within moments, they were slowly sinking into ever-increasing gloom, and still no music or voices, no clink of glasses or sounds of laughter. They went further down, and further, and, just when Amber thought they couldn’t possibly go any further, the wooden stairs turned to stone, and still they went down.
It was cold now, and pitch dark. The wall that Amber brushed against occasionally was now stone like the steps, cold and hard and wet. And then suddenly it wasn’t there anymore, and when Amber went to touch it she reached too far and nearly toppled. Glen grabbed her, pulled her back from the edge.
All three of them stopped.
“We should go back,” she said, though her voice sounded small and distant, like they were in some enormous cavern.
“Just a little further,” Milo said. “Put your hand on my shoulder.”
She did that, and Glen put his hand on hers, and they resumed their descent.
Gradually, Amber became aware of the darkness lightening to gloom again. Then a colour. Red. A hazy red. She heard music. And voices.
There was a wall beside her again. She could see it. It was painted a dark yellow, almost gold, and it blocked off the cold. Her fingers trailed over old fliers for old singers and old bands, her nails riding the bumps and the tears.
The stairs were wooden again, a dark wood, worn smooth by footfall. The music was fast – piano and trumpet music, the kind they used to dance to back in the 1930s or 1940s. The ceiling was low, and Milo and Glen had to duck their heads. Amber didn’t. She kept her head up and her eyes open, as the bar was laid bare before her.
The place was packed. People drank and smoked and talked, danced and sang. The bar itself took up the centre of the room, the beating heart of the establishment.
“I’m too young to be in here,” Amber said.
Glen looked nervous. “I think I am, too. Hey, no, look – they have children in here, like Milo said.”
Amber counted maybe half a dozen kids wandering around.
“Should people even be smoking in a room that has children?” Glen asked. “I don’t know if they should be doing that. They shouldn’t even be smoking, anyway. Aren’t they breaking the law?”
“Stay behind me and say nothing,” said Milo, and led the way to the bar. The man serving was big, with a beard that spread from clavicle to just under his eyes. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled back over strangely hairless forearms. “Hey,” Milo said in greeting.
The big man looked up at Milo, then at Glen, and then at Amber, much as she tried to hide. But, instead of ordering her out or asking for ID, he said, “Three beers, then. Take a seat.”
Glen beamed, and went immediately to a free table. Milo shrugged at Amber, and she followed him to a table near the back wall. Glen frowned, and joined them.
“What was wrong with my table?” he asked. Milo didn’t answer.
The barmaid came over with their drinks on a tray. Amber was pretty sure they weren’t called barmaids anymore, but she couldn’t for the life of her think what they were called. Besides, barmaid suited this place.
“Here you go,” the barmaid said, setting their drinks down.
“Thank you,” said Milo, putting a note on the tray. “I wonder if you can help us find someone. Our travelling companion—”
“Friend,” Glen cut in.
“—is looking for someone. Abigail. If you can point her out to us, the tip’s all yours.”
The barmaid smiled. “Oh, no need, sir. Abigail’s already found you.”
Amber frowned. “She has?”
The barmaid walked away, and out of the crowd a little blonde girl in a pretty dress appeared.
“Hello.”
“Hi,” Amber said, forcing a confused smile on to her face. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Abigail,” said the girl, smiling back. “I’m the owner of the bar.”
Glen paled. “You’re Abigail?”
Milo frowned. “You’re the owner?”
“Yep.”