Chapter 2

As the temperature in the tour bus climbs from stuffy to suffocating in Houston's summer heat, the ghouls slumber happily in their bunks. Outside, the air fills with the refrain of car horns and commuters screaming obscenities in a steadily rising wave of human misery. The sound suffuses the ghouls' dreams, bringing blissful smiles to their faces.

Then the bus shudders to a jerky stop, unceremoniously dumping them out of their bunks with a chorus of indignant snarls.

"Sorry!" yells the roadie at the wheel, not sounding very sorry at all.

The ghouls disentangle themselves, with muffled cries of "Get your foot out of my face!" and "Get your ass out of mine!" One by one, they scramble to their feet and join the roadies at the front of the bus, jostling each other for the best view. Outside, all four lanes of the highway are moving at a crawl. A dozen people weave between vehicles on foot, holding placards proclaiming EXODUS 22:18 and KEEP THE DEVIL OUT OF TEXAS.

"Ya know," remarks a ghoul, as a woman walks past waving a sign that says GO TO HELL, SATANISTS, "that feels kinda personal." It runs its forked tongue over its fangs. A nearby roadie backs away nervously.

The driver takes in the line of traffic stretching out ahead of the bus. "Yeah, and now we're stuck. This doesn't bode well."

The bus creeps forward, the open highway entering the sprawl of an industrial area, and it soon becomes clear that the sign-carrying people were part of a much bigger crowd. A crowd that has taken up residence in a parking lot, spilling onto the verge, the shoulder, across two lanes of traffic…
And in the midst of it all stands a man in pristine white vestments, a Texas flag cowboy hat, big reflective sunglasses, and an extremely punchable smile. He doesn't seem to mind the honking or angry gestures being thrown his way. The ghouls eye him the way anyone else might look at a tax return form.

"Who's that asshole?" says one.

"We could eat him?" suggests another.

"You don't know where he's been."

"C'mon, he's a priest."

"Exactly!"

"Hmph. Looks stringy anyway."

"No one is getting eaten," the driver cuts in. Then he seems to remember where he is. "You know what I mean," he amends. "Anyway, 'that asshole' could actually be a Huge Fucking Problem."

"What," says a voice from the upper deck, "could be a Huge Fucking Problem?"

Papa Emeritus IV cannot help but command attention, even without the ceremonial paint, even sleep-deprived, even in slippers and a silken bathrobe. Easy grace carries him down the narrow steps, cut with the unmistakable presence of something darker, menacing, even. Here is the man who can hold an audience of thousands under his thrall, bringing the souls of all who look upon him that much further into Satan's grasp. He is, quite literally, the mouthpiece of the Adversary himself. The ghouls slink aside as he sweeps down the aisle to the front of the bus, and the roadies (excepting the driver) bow deeply, murmurs of Your Unholiness on their lips.

"We're not moving," Papa observes. Then, upon noticing the man in the cowboy hat, says heavily, "Ah. Dear Sister told me this might happen."

"She predicted this?" says the nearest roadie.

"Ehh, she Facetimed me. There's some preacher going around, whipping people up into a…" Papa waves his hands in front of him and makes an unintelligible noise. "I thought they'd wave a few signs outside the ritual, that sort of thing. Not blockade the road." There's a pause as he considers this. "Actually, it's kind of impressive, no?"

The roadie's eyes widen. "So it's us they're trying to keep out of Houston."

The driver scoffs testily. "No, they're here for the other Satanic ministry."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit," says Papa. "We'll make a clergy member of you yet."

"It's okay, though," the roadie cuts in, a note of panic creeping in on the last syllable. "We're in an unmarked bus. So nobody knows who we are, right?" When Papa doesn't immediately answer, a bead of sweat trickles down his forehead and into his beard. "Right?"

•◊•

What a perfect morning, Jim thinks, looking out at the crowd he's gathered. He's not referring to the dazzling, cloudless sky, but that's certainly nice too. No, he's thinking of the road he's taken to get here, the way a mountain climber looks down at their route from the summit. Once relegated to graveyard slot programming, known only to a handful of WASP grannies, now he's the face of a new generation of Televangelists. He should have done a tour years ago. All those small towns he's spent the past month pulling into his flock were just sitting there, with that untapped wealth of potential, waiting for someone like Jim to come along and give them a common purpose to rally behind.

And boy, did they rally. They've turned out in force today, decked out with signs and a frankly obscene amount of American flags, united in their desire to keep Houston right in the eyes of The Lord. There's nothing quite like a few Satanists to bring good churchgoing folk together. His follower count is ticking up by the second, almost as fast as his bank account.

And if everything goes to plan, soon Jim's name will be on the lips of every good and righteous person in the entire city.

"Thank God," he cackles under his breath, "for Ghost."

Grace pushes her way through the crowd with her phone clutched in one hand and a sweating root beer in the other. The latter she hands to Jim, who looks at the label with a grimace.

"Barq's? Really?"

"Was all they had." Grace replies, a little sulkily. She'd refused to wear a snazzy Texas-flag cowboy hat, and now she's looking rather pink in the face. "Was that a news crew I saw back there?"

"Sure was," says Jim. Then, a little accusatory, "You missed my interview."

"Sorry, I was busy."

"Oh well. You can catch it when it airs this evening."

Grace doesn't respond, her attention fixed instead on the highway, where traffic crawls past the protest site. Horns split the air as four lanes are forced to merge into two - less of a zipper, more of a Frankenstein's monster of half-aborted lane changes and flailing middle fingers. More than a few people are going to be late for work this fine morning. Actually, that gives Jim an idea for a radio advert. Stuck in traffic? Prosperity Ministry can help! With your dollar, God can clear the road ahead for you!

"That's got to be them."

"Huhwhat?" Jim blinks as Grace shakes his shoulder, dragging him back to the present.

"The bus, Jim. It's them."

"Hey, what did I tell you? Call me Pastor when we're in public." Jim follows her gaze to the sleek black bus inching its way silently closer. There's no distinguishing marks on it anywhere. The sun gleams in its tinted windows, making it impossible to see inside. He squints over the rims of his sunglasses. Nope, that's even worse. Are windows that tinted even legal? "Are you sure? Sounds like a hybrid. I'd have thought Satan was more of a diesel guy."

Grace lets out a burst of air through her nose - a terribly unattractive habit - and rolls her eyes heavenward. "Yes, Pastor Jim, I'm sure. I only spent my whole weekend trawling the internet trying to track them down, like you wanted." Her jaw moves as if she's grinding her teeth. "Anyway, some kid on Twitter says he spotted them early this morning outside a convenience store. Big black bus, tinted windows - wait, what are you doing?"

Not many people know this about Jim, but once upon a time he was a Boy Scout. The experience left him underwhelmed (being kicked out for running a "bookie scheme" dampened his enthusiasm), but it had imparted one crucial piece of wisdom; 'Be Prepared'. Which is why he already has a megaphone in his hand. The speaker whines sharply to life, making everyone in a twenty-foot radius wince and shoot glances his way. When they realize who he is, they stand to attention, nudging their neighbors, awareness spreading rapidly through the crowd.

Before he can address them, Grace catches his arm, hissing in his ear, "Putting aside where you were keeping that, what even is your plan, here? I thought this-" she gestures furiously at the crowd- "was for publicity! Not confronting a bus full of Satanists!"

"Plans change, Grace," says Jim with a patient smile, tugging his arm free. "We must take the opportunities the Lord presents us with."

"You're not seriously going to walk over there and pick a fight with the Anti-Pope."

Jim chuckles, long and low in his throat. "Of course not," he says, punctuating his words by tapping Grace lightly on the nose. Silly goose. He lifts his eyebrows meaningfully in the direction of the watching crowd, eagerly awaiting to hear what he has to say. "They are."

And with that, he raises the megaphone to his lips, and clears his throat.

•◊•

"Well," Papa muses, absently patting the head of the nearest ghoul. "This is awkward."

The preacher's words are nigh unintelligible, garbled by feedback from the megaphone and traffic noise. But the gist is pretty clear. Already there are people breaking off from the crowd, weaving around cars and making a beeline for the bus. As one, the ghouls recoil, hissing.

"Are they praying?"

"Gross!"

"Humans are the worst."

"They're coming over here!"

"Step on the gas!"

"Alright, alright, everybody chill!" Papa raises his voice above the chatter. The abundance of bared fangs and the tang of brimstone and copper in the air suggests the ghouls are about ten seconds from going feral. He'd rather not have to explain to Sister Imperator why he needs to replace the bus - and an entire team of roadies - mid-tour. "Just stay out of sight, all of you. Trust me, they're more afraid of you than you are of them."

"Your Unholiness." One of the roadies - the one who had been so vocal before - sidles over. Papa fumbles for his name, before landing on 'Kevin'. He looks like a Kevin, anyway. Kevin leans in and mutters, "should we break out the emergency candles?"

As tempting as the prospect is - who doesn't love a good candle - the protestors don't actually seem to be achieving much. They're spread out in a loose circle around the bus, eyes closed, lips moving in unison along with whatever drivel the preacher is spouting through the megaphone. Some are swaying, others with their hands thrust skyward in supplication. Papa knows a performance when he sees it. And besides, it's hard to be intimidated by people wearing fanny packs.

"Nah," he says. "Christ on a cracker, these guys suck."

"What about the preacher?"

"Especially the preacher. Look at him! He's about as holy as a… ehhh…" Papa waves a hand vaguely. "Something that doesn't have holes."

"A hermetically sealed coffin?" suggests Kevin.

"That is… weirdly specific, but sure."

Their commentary lapses as, outside, a middle-aged woman breaks off from the crowd and shoves through the ring of protestors, her face a mask of fury beneath her visor cap. She plants herself directly in front of the bus, one hand rooted to her hip, the other pointing accusingly at the windscreen. None of the bus' occupants can actually hear her, but they don't have to. Her body language has terrified cashiers and teenagers minding their own business for time immemorial. The roadies, all in varying shades of under-thirty, instinctively clench every muscle in their bodies.

At first, nothing happens.

Then one of the ghouls sneezes loudly. And another.

Seconds later, all of them are doubled over, eyes streaming, gasping for breath in between explosive bursts of sneezes.

"What the nun-buggering shit is this?"

"I can't see!"

"Feels like ants crawling in my face!"

"I'm dying!"

And, beneath it all, there's… something else. The prickling of unease on the back of Papa's neck, the weight of a vast, monstrous attention falling upon him, even worse than the time Sister Imperator caught him dipping into the desecrated communion wafers. (Seriously, what is the point of stealing the fucking things if he's not allowed to eat them?!) It feels as if he's caught in the sights of a great cosmic spotlight.
Though there's a layer of metal and glass between them, Papa can feel the woman's voice vibrating through the chassis of the bus, ringing with echoes rising in both intensity and pitch. He staggers as the full force of it breaks over him, a skull-splitting, foghorn blast that seems to reverberate inside his head. This is the will of a woman used to getting what she wants. She will be heard, damn it, it's her due. And if God won't answer her prayers, well, she'll demand to see God's manager.
A red-hot spike of pain lances through Papa's skull. He slaps his hand over his eye - his eye! - with a groan. The world spins nauseatingly around him. He stumbles as his knees threaten mutiny. His skin prickles, the somatic equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. Faintly, as if from somewhere far away, someone is calling his name.

"I'm fine," he lies, or rather, tries to - it comes out more like 'uuurgghhhh'.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Is he dying?"

"Get the zappy paddles!"

"Take off his shoes!"

"How's that supposed to help?"

"I dunno, I always feel better with my shoes off!"

Then, in a voice laced with exasperation, "Will you ghouls get out of the way? He's having a sanctiphylactic reaction. You all are, but he must have caught the brunt of it. I should have realized sooner." There's the tinkle of glass breaking, and a moment later the press of something cool to Papa's lips, and the taste of juniper on his tongue, and oh, Sweet Buns of Lucifer, he can already feel his headache receding.

Once he can see again, he blinks through the vertigo to find Kevin hovering over him with a bottle of gin in his hand and an expression of distilled relief on his face. Behind him, the wall-mounted glass cabinet marked BREAK IN CASE OF EMERGENCY is in ruins.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Papa grumbles, waving him off. "Give me that." He swipes the gin and takes a longer swig than is strictly medicinal - he's going to have to pull the roadies aside for a quiet chat later, lest this humiliation ever get out. Some things are better left within the confines of the tour bus.

The bus which is, he realizes with a literal jolt as he's thrown bodily into the nearest person, moving. His involuntary cushion turns out to be the driver. Papa stares at him, eyes narrowing.

"Who," he asks, with admirable restraint, "is driving the bus?"

Sneezes erupt from the direction of the driver's seat.

"Trust me, Your Unholiness," comes the terror-stricken reply, "you don't want to know."

•◊•

Faithful scatter in every direction as the bus lurches forward like a bull charging a cape. It stalls, shuddering to a halt. There's the painful crunch of gears grinding, then the engine abruptly roars to life, no longer eerily quiet but snarling with the fury of a billion damned souls. The bus swerves out of its lane towards Jim and his flock. The air fills with yelps of alarm, pounding footsteps, and the sickening screech of metal and glass as it plows straight through the makeshift barricade, that barricade being mainly-

"Dammit, my car!" Grace wails.

Other drivers are leaning out of their windows now, watching in awe as the bus steadily picks up speed. It careens down the hard shoulder. The horn blasts. Cheers rise in its wake.

And then… it's gone, leaving Jim amongst the goggle-eyed, shaken spectators, wondering what in God's name just happened?