No Exit

[Ada Wong]

The steady, silken hum of a finely-tuned engine cut through the grit and pervasive heat of the day like a smooth butter knife. A mirage-like vision glinted, spun along the silvery rims of wheels and a cat’s cradle of luminous steel, and then kaleidoscopically shattered into a deep, rumbling purr.
 
From behind the tinted shades of his sunglasses, Crowley narrowed his eyes at the loosely scattered blasts of sand that swept up alongside his 1926 black Bentley. It had been far too long since he had reclined back against its splendidly cushioned seats, steering off over the proverbial horizon, and it was of immense comfort to him that, even when universally displaced, the intervening, whip-like snapping effect that accompanied turning a simple steering wheel remained exactly the same.
 
Wind gusted against his face as he drove, the gales wheezing around great breaths of dust like a man with a severed windpipe. The folds of his dark clothing turned, wheedled, and flapped about in a parody of wings, coiling waves of heat shimmering across the bronzed landscape. He was just sure that this dastardly sand was eating at his beloved vehicle’s engine, not to mention the thousands of microscopic nicks now peppering the shiny, lacquer-black hood.
 
Just a touch of that Omnilium substance seemed to keep it in prime condition, however, and the demon reasoned that something which could do that in place of any frivolous expenditures of his demonic mojo couldn’t be entirely untrustworthy. And trust it he did, stirring up a big, sweeping arc of furling dust as he drove onwards.
 
After the initial summoning of his car, Crowley had set out to find some precious fragments of civilization and, possibly the most essential of all, a good, strong drink. He hadn’t found either of these things just yet— one settlement appeared to be nothing but a pile of sloppily cobbled together shingles centered around a café while another seemed to have been hit with all the devastating force of an atom bomb. In each of these cases, he had simply canted the wheel and gone hurling back around, weaving his way further and further into the sun-dried wastes.
 
It came as quite a surprise to him when he drew up alongside what looked to be the unspeakably grimy shambles of a hermit’s shack. The building, slouching as it was into the ground with colorless boards splintering threateningly out in all directions like a porcupine, howled lowly as a faint wind blew through it. Yellow eyes gazed upon it dubiously, the serpent’s lips drawn into a thin, brooding line.
 
But, when you have been driving around pointlessly for hours with the sun hammering down upon your neck and dust-filled wind spitting into your face, you’ve gotta get your kicks somewhere. This just happened to be the only way Crowley found that he could.
 
Crowley slid out of the driver’s seat, the Bentley falling uncharacteristically silent under the pooled, cool shadow of the shack. It slanted in an angular way over them, the jutting shapes of rickety boards sending strange, twisted shadows pawing across the lonely dune it was mounted upon. An unearthly silence descended.
 
The man-shaped demon with the sunglasses gave his car a light, sociable pat, as if to assure it that he wouldn’t be gone for long. He then made to slouch towards the shack’s low-hanging entrance to see if anything of interest was skulking about inside.
 
In truth, there was a person skulking about on the other side of the shack, but it can be assumed that they would have had a very different idea of how this meeting would proceed— that is, if they hadn’t been buried alive some odd six hours before. As they clawed their way to the surface out of their own personal pine box, Crowley had just raised his knuckles to rap upon the slightly off-kilter awning.
 
It stands to reason that, upon hearing an unexpected noise such as, say, a car alarm or a police siren or even the hissing bray of a goose, any ordinary person would react. So, the very minute that an ungodly, absolutely ferocious howl sliced through the quiet of the desert with all the secular pointedness of a freight train, Crowley rather hastily withdrew his hand from the shack’s wall, a visibly disgruntled frown passing over his face.
 
At least a dozen alarm bells went off in his head, a perfect chorus of building anxiety and instinctual direction prompting him to stumble a few hazy steps backwards. That sudden flare-up of sound was so unpleasant, so incredibly vile, that not even he could face up to it without quaking a little in dread.
 
Apparently this building didn’t want to be knocked upon. That was fine by Crowley; he would happily take his business elsewhere if it meant dodging whatever nasty bullet was destined for him. With a shuffling step, he backed away from the smattering of loosened boards he had almost slipped through.
 
Today just didn’t seem to be Crowley’s day, however, for someone entering from the opposite side of the building presently caught his attention. And he, by some questionably auspicious twist of luck, attracted theirs.
 
Crowley supposed that the out of breath man standing a good half yard across from him could be considered good-looking, in a harsh sort of way. He seemed a mite squirrelly, his green eyes instantly guarded and scouring the rest of the building for any other signs of life, and he also was wearing at least four layers of clothing, something which Crowley found to be a tad excessive in this heat.
 
A still moment passed. The man’s eyes focused once more upon the unfortunate demon, shuttered to the most outrageous inky black that Crowley had ever seen, and then everything promptly went to hell.