Kingdom by Anderson O'Donnell Read Free Book Online Page A

dialects as the rain continued to bounce off the roofs of cars and broken neon signs. In the distance Campbell could see two spotlights strafing the sky and then he was moving away from the masses mobbing the bus station and into a cab, rumbling through the broken streets of Tiber City.
    Campbell didn’t remember telling the driver where he was going but before he could say anything the cab door opened and the driver was already explaining to him in broken English how much he owed. Unable to understand the exact amount requested by the driver, Campbell thrust a fistful of crumbled bills at the driver, who took them but not without admonishing, or was it warning, Campbell about…What? His accent was too thick and it was possible the man—older than Campbell originally assumed, with strong body odor and several missing teeth—was not even speaking English but another ancient language that whispered of ritual, custom, and gods long dead. What was the man trying to convey? It didn’t matter because the next minute the door slammed shut, water splashing up against his jacket as the cab sped away from the curb and into the night.
    Campbell could hear cars in the distance—the familiar sound of automobiles coasting through the enormous puddles; that rolling, elongated whooshas rubber meets rain—but the streets in front of him were deserted. He tried to read the sign hanging off an overpass several dozen feet down the road but it was too far, the night too dark.
    There was movement behind him. He spun around, noticing—for the first time—that amidst the abandoned row houses and dead neon was a bar. A man shuffled out of the front door, his eyes tracking the pavement as he drifted into the night. Muffled noises carried out from the inside and a tiny crack of light spilled out of the darkness, just enough to illuminate the name and address scratched over the doorway: Lazarus. And, below that: 321 Easton Ave.
    Campbell felt his heart leap and he took one step toward the building’s entrance and then another and he was moving, pushing his way past the steel door into the bar. He was greeted by a wall of warm, stale air and the sound of a cue ball breaking rack.
    He stood in the entrance for a moment, scanning the room, looking for something, anything that could help explain the nightmare his life had become. Yet, whatever he had expected to find, he was pretty sure this wasn’t it.
    Weaving his way across the room, Campbell stepped unsteadily over puddles of spilled beer, crushed cigarettes, and a discarded condom, which may or may not have been used. There seemed to be blood streaked across the wood paneled walls but it was too dark to tell for sure. He managed to pour himself onto one of the stools lining the bar, signaling to the monster tending bar for a drink as he struggled to maintain consciousness. How long had it been since he had last eaten? Hell, when was the last time anything other than whiskey or speed passed between his lips? Catching his reflection in the mirror behind the bottles lining the back wall of the bar, Campbell was struck by how quickly he had aged and suddenly the fact that he had fled the desert, that he had fled Vegas, that he hadn’t deep-throated the desert eagle tucked away in his bag and pulled the trigger seemed ludicrous. The image reflected back at Campbell was that of a dead man: Why drag out the inevitable?
    But sitting there in a tiny bar somewhere in the slums ringing Tiber City, listening to the rain pound the tin roof overhead, his joints on fire, Campbell knew he couldn’t walk away.
    And then the bartender—a giant in jeans and a faded white oxford shirt rolled up at the elbows to reveal thick hairy wrists and a mosaic of tattoos—waspouring two shots of Jameson: one placed in front of Campbell, the other for himself.
    “Welcome to Tiber City,” he said, raising his shot glass toward Campbell as an old jukebox kicked back to life and three seconds of vinyl scratch introduced