The Last Condo Board of the Apocalypse (Kelly Driscoll Book 1)

by Nina Post

  “Not by yourself.”

  “Yes. By myself. I didn’t have a place to live. It took a really long time.”

  “This type of train can show its passengers scenes from their past. It’s probably trying to make a point, but no one can ever tell what they’re supposed to take from it.”

  The train came to a stop so smoothly they wouldn’t even have noticed but for the appearance of a tall man with red hair and a vest uniform who announced their arrival at the last stop.

  “Who’s that?” she asked.

  “I’ve heard him called the majordomo, the avatar, the persona. I don’t think he has a name, otherwise.”

  They entered an arched vestibule and continued on to a short hallway. A hen with a coin insert stood on the left side of the vestibule. Kelly put in a penny and held out her hand under the metal chute.

  “What did you get?” Murray asked.

  She rolled the object in her palm and picked up the round object, a small tin egg. Unscrewing it revealed a bonbon, which she popped in her mouth.

  “Praline,” she said. “Want one?”

  “If you have another penny. But I want to get my fortune told,” he said. An automata fortune-teller on the right side of the vestibule stamped Murray’s name and fortune on a tin band.

  He held it up to show her.

  “Your car is waiting,” she read out loud.

  “Look,” Murray said, pointing.

  A man with gigantic aquamarine wings sat in a military-style jeep playing a hand-held video game.

  “Are you Kelly and Murray?” he called to them.

  “Yes,” Murray said.

  “Get in,” he said, without looking up.

  Kelly exchanged a look with Murray, and they got in the jeep.

  They drove over sand until they reached a modest-sized bungalow with a potted red geranium on the front porch.

  “The Geranium of the Bottomless Pit,” she muttered.

  hat night, Af attended the Pizza Delivery Sub-Committee Meeting, which was assembled to solve the problem, once and for all, of finding a pizza delivery vendor for Amenity Tower. Four other residents attended: Vassago, Crocell, Imamiah, and Roeled, a fallen angel who caused stomach trouble.

  “The last nine or so delivery people never actually made it out of the building,” Roeled said. “They keep getting eaten. No one will deliver here anymore, and the residents are up in arms about it. The suggestion box―it’s like ballot stuffing, with all the vitriolic comments. Amenity Tower needs pizza delivery and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Why is it so important to have pizza delivered?” Gaap asked.

  “This is Amenity Tower!” Roeled said. “We lack an important amenity!”

  “We should have as many amenities as possible,” Vassago said. “Hello, we’re physically bound here!”

  “Is pizza delivery considered an amenity?” Crocell asked.

  “Only if the building provides delivery as a service,” Af said without looking up from his notebook.

  “How can we turn it into an amenity?” Crocell asked.

  Af chimed in. “I’ve been making my own pizza. I get the supplies delivered to me and make it myself. I think it’s better. You can also get frozen pizza delivered.”

  “I’m happy for you,” Roeled said, “but most residents want it brought to their door, hot and fresh.”

  “And so did I.” Af raised his pen. “But I realized that in the time it takes to have a pizza delivered to your door, you could have made a pizza for less money.”

  “Well, what do you want from me, Af?” Roeled said. “You want to do in-depth psychological testing disguised as a resident survey to determine why people like pizza delivery?”

  Af tilted his head. “Maybe.”

  “We’re not going to do that,” Vassago stated. “Does anyone have any ideas of how to turn pizza delivery into an amenity?”

  No one said anything. Crocell started to talk, then changed his mind.

  “Anyone?” Roeled said.

  Af sighed. “They’re afraid to say something you may not like.”

  “What? Why?”

  “They think you’ll cause them stomach trouble, obviously,” Af said.

  “But it’s a relatively small thing, stomach trouble. Why not let me have a little fun?” Roeled said with a smile. “It’s not like I’m, oh, I don’t know, an angel of destruction. For example.”

  “It’s actually worse,” Af said, “because though most people have only an abstract realization of their own mortality, and don’t have any personal experience of wide-scale destruction, they know only too well what a little stomach trouble is like. It’s very real to them, and they’re justifiably wary of it. One of the many little drawbacks of the mortal form.”

  The other residents nodded.

  “Fine,” Roeled raised a hand. “I promise not to cause anyone stomach trouble during the sub-committee meeting. How about that. Everyone happy? Can we move on now?”

  Crocell cleared his throat. “If any of us could leave, we could use one of us to make the deliveries. Like Gaap.”

  “Those bat wings of his would come in handy for delivery,” Vassago said. “But even if he weren’t bound to Amenity Tower, like all of us, he’s too busy. I think he’s training for some kind of triathlon.”

  Af snapped to attention. “Did Gaap tell you he’s training for something?”

  “I just inferred he was,” Crocell said. “He’s always running or jumping rope or boxing. But no, I haven’t talked to him. I haven’t even seen him in the elevator. Why?”

  Af shook his head to dismiss the topic. “Just curious.”

  Roeled put his palms up. “C’mon, people. I’m not going to keep you up worshipping the porcelain god, remember?” He held up a copy of Pizza Today magazine. “I’ve been looking through this for vendors, but every one I call just hangs up on me.”

  Af raised a finger. “I did see a flyer for a cockatrice promoting his delivery services.”

  Roeled laced his fingers. “A cockatrice.”

  “Yes,” Af said. “There was a poor-quality image of him on the flyer, but it was definitely a chicken-headed serpent. I presume he can fly.”

  A murmur swelled among the sub-committee.

  “I have some experience with the cockatrice,” Roeled said. “Pros: the cockatrice can fly, and won’t get robbed. Cons: it is impervious to charm, it’s a biter, and it lays poisonous eggs.”

  Imamiah put his hand up. “I’m concerned that if he’s not tipped well enough―and who knows what that arbitrary amount would be―the cockatrice would retaliate. Its breath and even its look can be fatal, so woe to the ungenerous or displeased resident.”

  “The pizza situation can’t get much worse,” Crocell said. “No one will deliver here.”

  Af sighed. He hated to get involved. “Why don’t we ask Roger to work up a contract with the cockatrice to provide pizza delivery and catering. The cockatrice would handle the whole process. Maybe Roger could arrange a weekly pizza night.” He looked back to his notebook and tapped his Amenity Tower floaty pen on the paper. He glanced back up at the silence.

  “That’s a great idea, Af,” Imamiah said.

  “The cockatrice would deliver and cater?” Roeled asked.

  Af tapped his pen in a rhythm against the paper. “Hypothetically, the cockatrice would provide a mix-and-match service, where he delivers other stuff, too.”

  “Like babies? And guitars?” Roeled asked.

  “Maybe,” Af said carefully. “And he could provide credit accounts through the building.”

  “Are there any security risks?” Crocell asked.

  “Well, the bite of the cockatrice is no small matter,” Roeled said. “But we can just warn the residents, through flyer postings in the mail area and bulletin board, and with the digital sign in the elevator, to avoid eye contact with the cockatrice when it delivers their pizza.”

  “I think it’s worth the risk,” Vassago said. “If the cockatrice
is our only viable option for pizza delivery, I say we seriously consider it.”

  “Great!” Roeled said. “Af, set it up with Roger. Let’s adjourn this dog and pony show.”

  Af stayed to get some writing done, but wondered what Kelly was doing.

  elly and Murray sat in front of Don’s desk. Four rotary phones, three black and one red, lined up on the side by a gold statuette encased in a block of lucite. She picked up the statuette.

  “Angel of the Apocalypse, 1625-1989,” she read.

  “365 years is an Angel-Year,” Murray said, “so it’s not as impressive as it seems.”

  Minutes passed as they waited. “I guess he’s late,” Murray whispered, head tilted towards hers.

  She sat straight, tense. “So where is he?”

  “His other office, downtown. He takes his own train; he’s never actually outside. He’ll be tellied in for the meeting.”

  “He’ll be what?”

  A telepresence robot rolled out from the back room. Its video screen showed an image of an omelette and hash browns.

  “What the―?” Kelly turned to Murray and whispered, “Is this normal for him?”

  “Your directive, Ms. Driscoll,” Don said to her through the speakers on the robot, “was to find the most dangerous angel in existence, who could be any one of the residents living in a 500-unit condo building, and to vial any troublesome supernatural beings you saw along the way. I generously gave you two whole days to accomplish this simple task.”

  Don’s robot rolled behind the desk in a rocking motion. The screen changed to an egg sandwich.

  She twitched.

  “But I have been so overwhelmed by this inundation of requisition and reimbursement forms that I had to get an intern to process them.”

  The screen changed to show a baby penguin with a clip-on badge that read ‘intern’. The penguin waved a flipper at them. The screen changed to a birthday cake and she drummed her fingers and winced. How did the Angel of the Apocalypse know her weakness for breakfast foods, birthday cake, and baby penguins?

  “If these tiny angel mechanics, angel traffic controllers, whatever you call them―” Don started.

  “Single-purpose angels,” she said. “They only keep the whole universe running.”

  The image on the robot screen flashed to a biscuit with gravy and a side of egg yolks. Kelly recoiled, and the image flashed to a bowl of oatmeal with fruit, as though to placate her and show a breakfast she liked better. But what was Don’s game with this, to distract her?

  “If the angel janitors aren’t making trouble, fine. But must I pay to house them? I mean, really, look at this.” The robot’s screen showed a stack of expense reports. “Sleeping bags, pillows, bulk grocery, office supplies.”

  “They’re in danger,” she said. “One of them was killed. And Murray gave me a credit card.”

  The penguin popped onto the screen and changed into some kind of fractal screen saver.

  “Word got around that Kelly could protect them,” Murray said.

  “And the beer? You think you can construe that as a legitimate business expense? Are you trying to get me audited?”

  “One of the angels needs it for his roof garden,” she said.

  “She’s right,” Murray said. “It keeps the slugs away.”

  “Are slugs a problem in winter?” Don asked. “How does this angel have a rooftop garden in the Pothole City winter, anyway?”

  Don’s robot rolled across the room and stopped by the window.

  “The angel in question has dominion over fruit-bearing trees, so I suppose he can grow them in any climate.”

  Don remained silent for a moment. “OK.”

  “OK?” Murray asked.

  “I’ll approve these,” Don said in a cautionary tone through the robot’s speaker as it rolled around in a half circle and back to the desk. The screen showed a waffle with a side of crispy bacon. One of her favorites. She looked away.

  “It’s not the money. I’ve got more than this in my rounding errors account. Just don’t go crazy.”

  “We’ll cancel the order of Jet-Skis and hot air balloons,” she said. “Sir.”

  “Sarcasm does not become anyone, Ms Driscoll,” Don said through the image of a plate of Huevos Rancheros.

  “Noted.”

  “You’re dismissed.” Don rolled out of the room.

  On the way out, she asked, “Why do we have to come all this way to talk to Don’s telepresence robot?”

  “He likes in-person meetings,” Murray said.

  elly gained access to Amenity Tower by claiming to be a member of PCPD’s Fugitive Apprehension Task Force. This time, she wore green contacts and a crooked teeth dental tray.

  Roger cornered her near the elevators.

  “Are you SWAT?” Roger swiped at the light sheen of sweat on his forehead and pulled at his tie knot. “I want to interview you for my show, What’s On Your Mind, With Roger Balbi.”

  “I’m not SWAT.” She flashed her badge. “Harmony Mongol, Fugitive Apprehension Task Force.”

  It felt like her eightieth disguise, and time was running out. Jay Vanner knew this situation well. “Kelly, it’s not a single moment. It’s a collection of moments, a season. If you’re developing your skills and learning from your missteps, winning will naturally follow.”

  She was probably developing her skills, but didn’t even know what her missteps were, and as she was finding out, the job involved more than just vialing supernatural creatures while searching for her HVT―especially considering how the SPs came to her for protection. What would winning even look like? She didn’t think she would recognize it anymore.

  A resident accompanied by a jaunty, happy-go-lucky death wormpassed by Roger, who shifted his shoulders as though wearing a shirt lined with horsehair.

  “Great, great,” Roger said. “Well, if you haven’t apprehended anyone yet, I just want five minutes of your time. I’m sure the fugitive can wait.”

  The fugitive isn’t going anywhere, she thought.

  “We’re just finishing up one thing,” Roger said. “Sometimes I bring employees in for an interstitial between segments.”

  Kelly entered the studio behind Roger. A surly Dragomir, as happy as a wet cat and swigging from a bottle of Tuica, hunched over a microphone in front of the large camera, and performed a joyless, spoken-word rendition of “Neutron Dance” by the Pointer Sisters.

  Dragomir finished the song with a final, deadpan “whoo-hoo.” He tossed the microphone on a chair and stalked out of the studio, muttering curses as he walked past her. He pushed up wire-frame glasses with a machine oil-greased finger and fired off a few select insults at Roger before he left.

  Roger seemed used to it. He cleared his throat and picked up the microphone with a big smile.

  “And we’re back. I hope you enjoyed our chief engineer’s interpretation of a song I know none of us can resist dancing to.”

  Kelly took the seat next to Roger.

  “Building engineers are under a lot of pressure,” Roger said to her. “Anyway, I’m very pleased to have with us today a warrior for the public in Pothole City’s own Fugitive Apprehension Unit. Welcome to the show. Can you tell our audience what that job entails?”

  She tried to look capable and sound appropriately brisk. “We coordinate and streamline the efforts to address the continuous flow of warrants received by Pothole City’s sheriff’s office. We maintain active files for wanted subjects and we work closely with other law enforcement agencies.”

  “Very good,” Roger said. “And how would you define a ‘fugitive?’”

  “A fugitive is any wanted person whose whereabouts are unknown.”

  “After I was ten years old, I would have considered my father a fugitive,” Roger said. “And probably officer Mongol here would, too. Am I right?” He looked at Kelly like he knew all about her, and that kind of thing was annoying.

  “I didn’t grow up with you, Roger, so it’s hard to say if I would consi
der your father a fugitive.” She flashed a broad smile at the camera.

  Roger put on a show of pondering, then tried again.

  “I get the feeling that you never really knew your father. But who did, am I right?”

  “You’re right, I never knew my father.” Her expression clearly communicated a threat, to be delivered at some later time.

  Roger quickly switched to “What sort of training do members of your unit receive?”

  “We receive instruction in fugitive investigations at training facilities,” she said.

  “Now, this would be after your mother, a masterful thief, taught you how to track in the forest.”

  Kelly sprang out of her chair. “What―”

  “Think about it: what better training could there be?” Roger asked, now perfectly calm and composed, his facade of neurotic anxiety gone. “Of course, now you’re in an urban environment,” he said. “That must be quite different from what you’re used to, all concrete and skyscrapers, which could put you at a disadvantage. Come on, sit down.”

  Her pulse quickened. How could he possibly know this about her? Roger always seemed so scattered and distracted―did this mean he was also aware of every time she was in the building?

  “Getting back to the matter at hand.” He smiled, addressing the audience. “Forgive me for getting a little personal. What would you say is your biggest challenge at the Fugitive Apprehension Unit?”

  It took her a few seconds to get back in the groove of the interview and try not to think about what just happened. “I’d say that our biggest challenge is personnel and resources.” Not to mention a floor full of angels who have the appetite of bears and refuse to eat anything except Cluck Snack products. Not to mention the thing trying to kill them.

  “That’s funny, isn’t it?” Roger said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, considering you don’t have either one.”

  She just looked at him. What the hell was he talking about?

  “What I’m talking about, officer, is your almost total lack of personnel or resources. On the one hand, who is more resourceful than you? But on the other hand, no man is an island. You’re being asked to accomplish so much on your own. On top of that, you’re being pulled in divergent, often contradictory directions, aren’t you?”