The Sixth Seal

THE SIXTH SEAL is part of the Decorated for Death universe. Many authors and artists contributed to this universe. You can go to Fanlore and read about those here: Decorated for Death.

You can also read Decorated for Death here on the Starsky and Hutch Archive.

The sky was a sickly yellowish haze instead of the normal blue-white of a late afternoon in midsummer, but the brilliant orb of the westering sun was still too bright to look at, and the heat was stifling. The announcer’s voice was a bored drone, at odds with the news bulletin.

“…ternational tension shows no sign of relaxation. At the U.N. today, the Secretary General appealed…”

Hutch gave a grunt of irritation. It had nothing to do with the radio—neither man was really listening to it. But it was ever-present, droning a subliminal message above and below their levels of consciousness.

“…to Camp David for high level consultation with…”

“Christ,” Hutch said softly, bitterly. “Five times in less than two weeks we go on red alert. I’m getting to the point where I wish something would happen.”

“Bite your tongue,” Starsky advised, not even bothering to open his eyes. The inside of the car was a sweatbox, and he knew his partner suffered more in the heatwave than he did. The frustration of the traffic snarl-up that had Downtown in a gridlock wouldn’t be helping. The Eye-in-the-Sky had reported a whole slew of accidents on the Harbor and Santa Monica Freeways. Situation Normal. Recently, the term ‘freeway’ had become something of a sick joke. Not for the first time, Starsky wondered how much longer the city could survive before it choked itself to death on its own wastes. Not for the first time, he squashed the thought. “Soon as we go back on yellow, maybe we’ll get a night’s sleep.”

“I can’t remember the last time I got eight hours in the sack,” Hutch muttered. His fingers drummed an irritated tattoo on the steering wheel. Starsky cracked one eye open to glance at him. Mouth set in a grim, hard line, blond hair matted in sweaty elflocks over his scalp, Hutch looked about as tired and grimy as he felt himself. The present State of Emergency seemed to mean that everything was suddenly in short supply, including water. Especially water. Suddenly, the reality that Los Angeles was built in a desert wasn’t so easy to forget. A skimpy shower once a day was a luxury—he conjured a sweet vision of a tub brimful with hot sandalwood-fragrant foamy water where he could sink chin-deep and soak until fingers and toes were waterlogged and crepey. And sighed because the fantasy was unlikely to be realized for some time yet. “Or a decent meal, for that matter,” came the continuing grouch. “That burger Huggy served up for lunch was the Pits, right enough. What the hell was in it?” And, before Starsky could open his mouth: “Don’t make a guess, because I really don’t want to know.”

Starsky shrugged. In this mood, Hutch wasn’t going to be amused or entertained by the suggestion that the HuggyBurger could have been meowing in the alley a few hours before. “He’s having the same supply problems as everyone else.”

“I know.” A grunt, then, of impatience. “About time–” He slipped the Ford into gear, nosed forward at an inch-by-inch crawl.

“Take the next right.” Starsky removed his feet from the dash, straightened in the seat.

“…sporadic fighting is reported to have broken out in Mexico City, and our correspondent has…”

“What’s happening?” Hutch burst out savagely, and his fist hit the steering wheel. “Why can’t someone tell us exactly what’s happening for once?”

“Do they ever?” Starsky flashed a wry grin at him. “Hey. It’s hot, it’s humid, and we’re both whipped. But let’s not make it any worse. Lighten up, partner.”

“Lighten up, huh?” Hutch made an attempt at a return smile, then snorted in genuine amusement for the first time in days. “Sure, why not. The world’s going to hell in a handbasket.”

“But we don’t have to make a song and dance about it,” Starsky said peaceably. The Ford swung into the right-hand alley, leaving the nose-to-tail jam, and bucketed over heaped garbage for the length of the shortcut. “See?” he went on as they emerged onto a clear stretch of street. “Things are never as bad as they seem. You gotta take a broader overview–”

“What the hell have you been reading?” Hutch wanted to know, intrigued, watching the needle drop out of the red as the overheated engine began to cool in the renewed airstream. ‘You’re starting to sound like a TV politician.”

“When did you last get a chance to watch TV?” Starsky countered, slouching back in the seat and pulling the sunglasses down from nestling in his curls to settle them on the bridge of his nose. He hardly needed them now—the brief Southern California twilight was already deepening into night. It was an automatic gesture, like a visor coming down.

Hutch was right, of course, even if Starsky didn’t want to admit it. The situation, both local and global, had been getting gradually worse for months, with a sharp escalation over the past couple of weeks. Four days ago, the mayor had officially admitted that things were beyond the control of an already stretched police force, and announced a State of Emergency. The National Guard were on standby for riot control, but that didn’t help with the day-to-day law enforcement. You ate when you could snatch the opportunity, you slept when and if you could, and everything else was on hold until things got better.

Exactly when that might be was anyone’s guess. But it certainly wasn’t going to be soon.

“Starsk.”

‘Yeah?”

‘You have to drive home? You could stay over.”

Starsky shifted fractionally in his seat to look at his partner, trying to read his expression, and because he didn’t immediately say anything, Hutch started a qualification of his offer. “Well, it’d save time, at least, and if anything—I mean, if something–”

The almost-stammer was more revealing than a mirror. Hutch was really feeling the strain, Starsky decided. No surprise. Well, he’d welcome the chance for company himself. Too many nights of waking in sweat-soaked panic out of formless nightmares, of staring open-eyed into the hot darkness unable and unwilling to sleep again… Even a game of Monopoly was a better option.

“Okay, partner. Not tonight,” he added quickly, remembering a promise made to Minnie to go over and attempt to fix the air-conditioning system in her apartment., “I got stuff I gotta see to, but I’ll get a bag packed for tomorrow night. Always supposing we get off-duty tomorrow night.”

‘You got a date.” Hutch flashed a smile, plainly a little more relaxed. “How’s cold chicken and salad grab you?”

Starsky stared at him. “After Huggy’s shitburgers? Man, that sounds like ambrosia. Or is it nectar? Never can remember.”

“Ambrosia, Starsk. Nectar is what the gods drink.”

Starsky grinned at him. “Always knew I had a good reason to keep you around. If only for Trivial Pursuit answers.”

A little of the tension seemed to ease, fractionally, and the rest of the short journey passed in a better mood.

The Torino was still in the precinct lot—Hutch pulled up at the gate, and Starsky showed ID to the armed guard stationed there. The station wasn’t exactly under siege—yet—but a couple of others had been overrun when the Rampart riot had spread last week, and all precinct houses were now under armed guard. They were passed through, and Hutch cruised the line until he could pull in beside the Torino. The candy apple red paint was filmed with dust—like its owner, the car was in need of a wash—and Starsky sighed and ran a finger along the dulled white stripe, mentally promising a hose-down and hot-wax treatment just as soon as it was humanly possible.

“Log us off, will ya?” he said casually, fishing in his pockets for keys. Hutch nodded, but didn’t immediately comply, and Starsky realized that even now, after how many years, Hutch was still unconsciously guarding his back, as if to compensate for that one distant May morning and the almost-fatal hit attempt. A lot of things had changed since then, but that little idiosyncrasy wasn’t one of them. They were faced with more tangible dangers now, and the hitman who could run the gauntlet of the Department’s new security planning almost deserved to get the chance.

He smiled wryly at his own train of thought, fitting the key in the lock. Hutch came to lean on the open door as Starsky slid behind the wheel. He looked completely worn out, no reserves left.

“Get some sleep, huh?” Starsky counseled, a little more sharply than he intended. “Forget the alarm—I’ll give you a call before I leave home, then come by and pick you up.”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks.” Hutch nodded, and his hand rested briefly on Starsky’s shoulder, a gesture of solidarity, of thanks, of basic human contact. “Take care?” he said, and Starsky interpreted the two words correctly, understanding perfectly what wasn’t said and never needed to be.

“You, too,” he returned, tone softened by a surge of affection. “It ain’t Disneyland out there.”

“Right.” And Hutch chuckled, letting him close the car door and returning to his Ford Mustang. The LTD might be long gone, but this latest model in the line of its successors was no big improvement. It would look dirty even when it wasn’t, and the suspension was one step away from shot. But it went. Mostly. “Be seeing you, Starsk.”

The traffic northbound was moving more freely than in the city proper, but the highways were still crowded. Starsky edged into the left-hand lane, turned the air conditioning onto ‘cold’ and fumbled for the dash radio switch. A couple of stations were still dispensing pop music—most of the others were given over to continuous news transmissions, and it wasn’t hard to find one of the latter. The catalogue of chaos flowed over and through his brain, leaving little sign of its passing. Then, abruptly, a raucous, unmistakable tone sounded, and a new voice, on the edge of panic, was interrupting the previous announcer.

“…This is an emergency broadcast…” A fist of ice tightened under Starsky’s ribs. He knew what was coming before it was spoken. “This is not a test. I repeat, this is NOT a test. We are under attack, dammit, so take cover, get into shelter—this is not a goddamn test!”

“Christ–” Starsky whispered. He swung the Torino out of the line of traffic, across lanes, ignoring the blaring horns, the sudden strident howl of sirens, bullied his way across the paving of the central divider, using the powerful machine like a battering ram, a tank, heedless of damage caused. There was one thought in his head.

Get to Hutch. Exactly what difference that would make to anything, he didn’t know. And didn’t care. Whatever happened, they’d be together. Me and thee against—what? Whatever. Me and thee.

Brakes squealed, tires smoked—he bucketed into the opposite lane and gunned the engine again. Just how long did he have? Four minutes? Less?

He didn’t see the truck until too late, and the impact slewed both vehicles crazily across the highway in a cacophony of horns and shattering glass, tortured metal, screams—and suddenly, an eerie silence. Dazed, unsure of anything, Starsky wondered groggily if the concussion had scrambled his brain and this was a hallucination. He could taste blood, feel a steady trickle down the side of his face. He tried to get a hand up to it, but nothing seemed to work right.

The night blossomed into a brilliance that owed nothing to the dawn, light that burned and seared, brighter than a thousand suns.

I AM BECOME DEATH, SHATTERER OF WORLDS.

Shiva, who had danced all Creation into being, now danced it to its ending.

But the nightmare had only just begun.