by TW Brown
The Petitioners
By Rebecca Lloyd
“They’re on the lawn again, s-sir.”
The aide—front-office trim in a short-skirted navy suit and teetery heels—blanched back from the window, color draining from her face until her careful make-up job stood out like carnival paint. Her eyes, contact-lens violet, showed whites all around, like a frightened horse’s. The shades of the Governor’s cavernous mahogany office were drawn; she dropped her fistful of drapery and turned away from the wall-sized expanse of glass, trembling.
“I don’t want to hear about it. It doesn’t concern me.” The big man sat with his back to the window, square jaw set, bellied up to his brass-trimmed yacht of a desk with his suit jacket off and his sleeves half-rolled. He turned his head to scowl at her, boater-tanned face creasing like an old leather couch. “Turn the air conditioning up.”
She took an automatic step toward the therm-ostat, then hesitated, glancing nervously back toward both him and the windows. “Sir, you instructed that State offices keep their thermostats at seventy-five degrees—”
He looked up from the pile of papers he’d been stirring through without reading and his scowl deep-ened. “Do you like your new position or not? I don’t give a damn what I said. I’m the governor, not some drone from the office wing. Turn it up.”
“…Yes, sir.” As soon as he looked back down dismissively, her contrite expression flickered into a glare. She made a business of twisting the dial, and lowered the temperature by exactly one degree. The air conditioner hummed on.
“That’s better. Next time, don’t question, just move. Remember who you are.” He reached for the humidor on the corner of his desk, then wrinkled his nose. “Can’t we get an air purifier in here?”
“I called out for one. It shouldn’t be long. The...crowd...only blocks the rear entrance.” She swal-lowed. “The filters on the ventilation system work, they just can’t handle all of…that.” Another look at the window.
“Goddamn it.” He slapped his gold pen down. “How am I supposed to get any work done when the place smells like an open-air morgue in high summer?”
She shifted her weight, then moved forward so he couldn’t see her feet behind the desk, and lifted one out of its pump. She rotated it subtly and wiggled her toes, then surreptitiously switched. “You...could...try moving to the far end of the building,” she suggested tenta-tively.
“And what, set myself up in an office cube next to some peon who makes even less than you? Don’t insult me.” He lifted his chin dismissively. “Just...make them go away.”
“I’m sorry, sir. They arrive at eight thirty each morning and just...stand out there. We’re still figuring out how to disperse them permanently. Security’s never handled anything remotely like this before. No one has.”
“And the police?”
“They’re still trying crowd control, but this crowd keeps…falling apart…on them. It’s hard to get them all. We cleared the group out yesterday by three o’clock, but today there are twice as many.”
He waved a meaty, gold-ringed hand in annoy-ance. “And yesterday there were twice as many as the day before. And so on. If they managed to haul that sorry bunch of protesters away every day this week, they can do it again today. This is getting ridiculous. I can only schedule so many off-site interviews. Why don’t they press charges and get these bastards off my streets?”
She looked at him in shock. “Press…charges, sir?”
At the window, something tapped slowly. Then, the soft screech of nails on glass.
He ignored it. “Of course! I still don’t understand why they keep letting them out of jail with a slap on the wrist. Don’t they know these bastards are just coming back here with their friends? Where the hell are they finding them all, anyway? Probably bussing them in across state lines at this point.”
The aide let out a soft sigh, pushing a strand of curly blonde hair back behind her ear. “Sir...it isn’t a matter of them bringing their friends. I don’t think any of them...have...friends, exactly. At least not anymore.” She swallowed, and then crossed to the window again.
“What do you mean?” The governor’s eyes followed her, and his scowl deepened as he saw her reach for the shade’s drawstring. “Don’t open that without permission.”
“But, sir—”
“I don’t want to look at them!” he snarled. Another set of nails screeched against the window glass two feet from his back and he stiffened.
“Sir, I understand, but I’m not sure that you—” she cut herself off diplomatically. “I’m not sure that security has given you the full information on what’s going on out there.”
He drummed his fingers on his desktop slowly and deliberately, expression blandly unimpressed as he looked her up and down. “You’re my secretary. What the hell do you know about security matters anyway?”
“Well, I...” she hesitated, chewing her lip. “Look, sir...have you actually had a look outside since this—”
“Since the protests started? Of course not. You think I want to waste my time staring back at a bunch of uppity liberals whining about cuts to their favorite charity cases—especially when the whole lot of them seem to be refusing to bathe? Forget it. They should wave signs at someone who cares.”
The screeching sound again. She jumped slightly. “S-sir...they don’t have signs.”
“What then, banners?”
“No, sir. No banners.”
“What are they doing out there, then? They had better not be trashing my lawn.”
“Um, well, there’s been some trouble with mess, but as soon as we got the cleanup people in...”
“Yes, I was going to ask you about the size of their bill. It seems more than a little excessive for beer cans and broken fences.” He fished the invoice from the pile and waved it at her. “Emergency expenditures don’t grow on trees.”
“Sir, they needed a hazardous-materials team and one of those specialized clean-up crews. The kind that does murder scenes.” She caught herself knotting her fingers together nervously, and dropped her hands to her sides. “That’s also why the guy—security just can’t keep them away from the window anymore. The men end up...incapacitated. More sick than injured, but it means that every day, there are more of them and less of us.”
A line appeared between his brows. “Why not just throw everyone into police vans?”
“Sir...” She looked back at him, and gave a tiny shake of her head.
“What is it?”
“This isn’t a normal demonstration, sir. Or if they are...they’re not arrestable. Mostly we just have to... clear them away.”
“How can they not be arrestable?”
She huffed a sigh. “Sir. Please let me open the drapes so you can have a look outside.”
Tap-screeeeech.
“I’d rather not. Why don’t you explain it to me?”
Her chin trembled slightly. “Sir, the people outside...well...they...”
“Just spit it out, woman.” He reached for his humidor again, retrieving a dark Cuban, and then fishing in his pocket for his gilded clipper and lighter. “Dammit, where’d I leave them?”
She pushed aside a drift of paper and passed them over to him, relieved at the interruption.
“That’s better.” He cut the tip off the Cuban and lit it, drawing a mouthful of smoke—then choked slightly and scowled again. “How in the hell can human beings smell so bad? Did they roll in a feedlot before they came over here?”
“Not exactly, sir. They...they...well...they’re dead.”
“What?”
“The protesters.” There was a heavy thud against the glass, and she took a quick step further away at the sound.
He eyed her, and then idly blew a smoke ring. “They’re...dead. What are you talking about?”
“The people walking around out there, well, maybe ‘dead’ isn’t exactly the right word, but—I’m not sure there is a word. Look, explaining this is hard.”
�
�Math is haaard,” he replied in a mocking chirp. “Look, I don’t pay you to be vague. What do you mean, they’re dead?”
Her jaw worked. Another shake of the head. “I mean...I...godammit, sir, there aren’t any words.” Turning on her heel, she strode for the curtain pull and yanked it.
“You little bitch, I said—”
He stopped as the heavy velvet drapes parted by an arm-span, framing a figure standing right on the other side of the mullioned panes.
It was an old man, very thin. His clothes colorless with washing save for lurid stains that drizzled from rips in his ashy, purple-tinged flesh. Sprigs of scraggly gray Afro clung mangily to his skull, the flesh underneath starting to peel like old wallpaper. His eyes had the flat, slimy look of egg white, and black fluid clung to the corners of his mouth. A fistful of official-looking papers was clenched in one rotten-looking hand, while the other reached up again to claw almost gently at the glass.
Screeeeech-tap-tap.
A faint groan made its way through the double-pane. The figure stood absolutely still except for the movements of its hand.
The governor felt something hot against his thigh. It hurt. Absently he scooped the cigar back up, popped the end in his mouth and rubbed at the fresh hole in his trousers. “What...is that?”
“He’s...it...they’re all like that.”
The figure drew nearer, until its moldy forehead was pressed against the window. Softened features deformed against the cold glass; smears of fluid spread from its nostrils and mouth. The hand with the papers slapped up against it, pressing them to the glass.
“What’s it—what’s he carrying?”
She drew nearer hesitantly, even as the figure scratched at the window again. “It’s an...eviction notice, sir. And some other things. Maybe something from a Social Services office—”
“Social Services? Are they still around? I thought I got rid of them.” He forced a grin that felt more like a rictus and glanced at her, puzzlement crossing his face as he noticed that she was restraining outrage instead of laughter.
“Yes, sir, you...did...cut them a great deal last year, but—”
Tap.
The figure stared at him, then slapped the papers against the glass again. Fluid leaked down its cheeks like tears from both rotting eyes and one bullet-holed cheek. The slack muscles of its face twitched as if it were trying to scowl.
The governor watched a maggot crawl out of the bullet hole and wander down to its chin. He had gone pale under his tan, and his eyes were showing whites all around now, too. “It has to be...some kind of costume. Stage...make-up.” His jaw firmed slightly and he lifted his chin, turning to smirk tremulously. “That’s it. These little fuckers are trying to scare me!”
Slam!
His head jerked around. The figure at the window had company. As if drawn to the gap in the curtains, half a dozen shapes now gathered at the glass, and more were shuffling up behind them. He stared back at rotted, bloated faces, and shook his head frantically. “Make-up. Crazy fuckers in makeup—for God’s sake, woman, why hasn’t anyone called the National Guard?”
She scooped the receiver up. “You’re the governor. You have to make the request.”
He snatched it out of her hand, jumping from his chair and starting to pace in front of the violated glass. The figures outside groaned faintly; one or two paused in their weak knocking and scratching, and all swiveled their heads to watch the big man stalking back and forth like a tiger in a cage. Or watch as best they could; the one with the wobbly head and noose-marks around his neck didn’t turn so well. An old woman shuffled forward, draped in a dirt-smeared shawl, waving another wad of papers their way.
“Yes—this is the governor of—no, I won’t hold! Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? I need men at the capitol building right now for crowd control—I’ve got a bunch of lunatics in Halloween costumes out here!
“...watch the news? I don’t have time! No, I don’t know anything about any John Does missing from the morgue, why would you even ask that? Look. I need a whole lot of big, heavily-armed guys down here right now to scare the piss out of these liberal nut-cases, and I need them now!
“...yes, I’ll hold.” He mouthed curses and paused to sip at his cigar, which had been burning down without him in his hand. “...useless Fed-branch weekend warriors. Goddammit, I should have brought something from my gun case to deal with these liberal brats. You hear me?” He rounded on the figures shambling forward to crowd the window—and all the air escaped his lungs, the shout dying off with a faint squeak like a deflating balloon. Shakily, he crouched down to retrieve his cigar from the carpet, and shoved it back in his mouth. “...close the drapes.”
She didn’t realize he was talking to her for half a second, and then shook her head and reached for the pull cord again. The velvet slid together, hiding the crowd beyond from sight. “It’s closed, sir,” she said, trying to keep her tone from sounding too placating. “Look, they are only approaching this end of the building. This window, sir. Every time that you drive off, they start to disperse.” That wasn’t entirely true; she’d seen a few try to stumble after his car. “Why don’t you just...leave...for a while? Go on vacation or some-thing?”
“And what, let them drive me away from my own offices? Bullshit. The day that I let some skinny college kids with stink bombs and clever costumes stop me from governing this great state, I’ll quit!” His eyes tracked back and forth as he went back to listening to the other end of the line.
“Yes—yes—no, this is an emergency order. Look, these things—I mean people—are targeting me. Right now, I just have a double set of security glass between me and twenty, thirty—”
“Try a hundred,” she cut in before she could stop herself.
For a split second, the governor gave her the look of a terrified child. Then he purpled and roared into the phone, “Just get them down here! This is a god-damned emergency!” He slammed the phone down, yelling “Stupid bitch!” for emphasis.
“Sir...none of them have shown any signs of being violent,” she said, no longer able to keep all the exasperation from her tone. “When the teams disperse them, they simply don’t want to move. They don’t fight back, but they...they’ll keep coming back to the same place every time they get pushed off. The only injuries have been from when one of the guards...slipped...on the mess left afterward.”
His eyes were still huge. “I don’t understand you.”
“It has to do with the bill from the clean-up teams,” she answered flatly. “Herding these...people...is really messy. They’ll literally keep returning until they fall apart.”
“You mean until the movement falls apart.” His lower lip was trembling slightly.
“No, I mean until they fall apart...sir.”
“I’m...still not getting you.”
Her jaw worked, and she had to stay quiet for a minute before going on. “Look, the important part is that these creatures aren’t violent. They’re just...super-humanly persistent.”
“Super-humanly? Like, what, they’re on drugs or something? Is their messed up little fringe movement giving them drugs?”
“No, sir. It’s not drugs. Well...actually nobody really knows why this is happening. But whatever it is...they don’t seem to be here to hurt anyone. They just gather outside your office every day and...” she trailed off, chewing her lower lip lightly as she fished for words. “...try and get your attention.”
“My attention? What the hell?” His system was so flooded with adrenaline by now that he only realized he was crushing his cigar to powder when the cherry burned his hand. He slapped the dying ashes against his desktop, swearing again, and rubbed his palm on his ruined pants leg. “My attention? So, what, they can get my blood pressure up? So they can scare me with their grotesque theatrics? So they can stink me to death? It really is terrorism! Low-grade, spineless, liberal terror-ism!”
She eyed him, biting back a rebuttal. “Sir, please. I am sure that this isn’t
a matter of...terrorism. If it was, someone would probably have died by now. Since they’re after you—”
It was the wrong thing to say and she knew it. She’d grown to understand this man’s problems with the truth, standing across the desk from him every day for a week while the crowd grew outside. But instead of stammering out some sort of cover for the slip, she lifted her chin even as she saw him cringe. “Sir, please listen. I know you would like to be out of this situation. I have already suggested leaving. This is the only publicly published address where members of the public know they can visit you in person, even if they don’t actually... complete...that visit. This is also the only place in town that they show up.”
He seemed to recover slightly; his eyes stopped darting to and fro and fixed on her. “...go on.”
“Yes, sir.” She tried to ignore the growing taps, screeches and thumps against the glass, but there was a shake at the bottom of her voice. “Two months ago, a rash of suicides started among former aid recipients after your cuts went into effect.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m getting to that.” She stepped out of the heels altogether, making him blink in confusion as she appeared to shrink several inches. “A week ago, news reports of missing corpses started coming in. Most of them from graveyards or the John Doe section of hospital or police morgues. They included several of the suicide victims. That crowd outside started gathering the same day. The press broadcast and printed pictures of some of their faces. And then their family members started calling in.”