Rabbit Blood

Chapter 10 - Healthy Competition

"Look!" Niffty yelled to Leslie across the hall.

Leslie switched off her power washer and went to remove her hood, then remembered it had to stay on. From a ladder, next to another sludge-streaked wall, Niffty had pressure-blasted a single word.

"I wrote my name!"

"That's great, Niff," said Leslie, getting back to work. Blasting water was kind of fun, but aiming this contraption for long periods made her muscles ache. Across the room, Baxter chipped some disgusting thing from the floor and surreptitiously added it to a sample jar.

This was their second day, if you counted the precursory inspection. Leslie had taken time off work (feigning illness) to help with decontamination: partly to be a good girl, and partly because Baxter's hazmat suits were too small for other demons. Of course, she made sure there was the absolute minimum of danger before volunteering - what if the suits were torn?

In terms of radiation poisoning, Baxter said, the symptoms would be acute, but brief. The average demon could recuperate within a day or so. This he knew based on his study of a demon who could vomit toxic waste: anyone who got in their way was a little worse for wear, but all recovered. No lasting mutations, no permanent loss of hair or bleeding gums... Leslie's jaw clenched a little at the mention of these symptoms.

"We'll take precautions, of course, but this is Hell," Baxter said, "you can't die, remember!"

"You're so smart!" Niffty had responded, poking the esca that dangled over his face, anglerfish-style.

Leslie liked the work OK, the same way she enjoyed meditating over laundry, and it was nice to dip back into science again. The major downside was wearing protective clothing; the instant she climbed into it, she knew she was going to hate it. With her fur, Leslie's suit-prison caused her to sweat profusely, like a bag of frozen veggies in the microwave.

The yellowish nuclear slurry was everywhere: the parquet floor, the stage at one end of the hall, and the hotel's second bar and bar-stools at the other end. But the worst of it was the specks on the ceiling that graduated into stalactites. It reminded Leslie of the mold that used to grow in an ex-boyfriend's bathroom. She avoided looking up.

For three days - as much time as she could reasonably take - Leslie cleaned up waste, ground down affected surfaces and trashed any ruined décor, before slouching to the fire exit every evening to hose off. It was exhausting work, but between them all, they had done it within a week. The hall was clean and tidy, with only background levels of radiation - safe enough for other demons to redecorate.

"Great!" Baxter declared, as Charlie ceremoniously removed the lock and chain from the doors, "Punishment over! Next time, get Lucifer or your audiophile colleague to do this stuff."

Leslie didn't see the room get finished off, but she happened to glimpse Charlie's father dropping by to check on the renovation. Lucifer was quite something to behold, dressed in angel-white with a hat and cane. He pranced, hummed to himself, twirled his cane and acted for all the world like he should be running a chocolate factory somewhere. Leslie thought she'd be used to it by now, since he shared this queer brazen kind of confidence with Alastor, but apparently not.

Alastor. He'd love a chance to schmooze the King of Hell. Leslie doubled back to the common room, where she'd seen Alastor reading one of his pirating adventure novels.

"Hey, Al," she said, skidding around the corner. "Lucifer is here."

He looked up. "Oh." Pausing only briefly, Alastor snapped his book shut and vanished, and she was left standing there like a dumbass. This was... an unexpected reaction. She could only presume he made himself scarce out of sheer intimidation. Just like Vaggie said: he knew not to reckon with a higher power.