The Demon Senders

by T Patrick Phelps

When the hallway-sleeper returned from his reward and joined him and the others in the kitchen, Badr began to speak.

  “How many have you recruited?” he asked the four assembled.

  “Still a bit under fifty,” one answered. “Forty-eight, to be accurate.”

  “And these forty-eight, are they ready? Are they committed?”

  “They are. Each one of them. They continue to live out their incredibly ordinary lives, just like your plan suggested. They are more than ready.”

  “Have we lost any since our planning began?” he asked another.

  “Three,” the man replied. “Three felt that they were ready and got sick of waiting. They wanted to own the glory right away.”

  “What became of these three?”

  “They lost everything. Two tried to leave the country to join another group but were stopped and eliminated before reaching an airport. The other one just stood in his home and delivered his demands. His death was not a pleasant one.”

  Badr paused, glancing at each of the four assembled around him, looking into what was left of their souls. “My governor’s planning has been masterful,” he said. “Even better than what I expected. While I haven’t communicated with him in quite some time, I see the signs all around me. And these signs tell me that we need to be ready to execute our plan on a moment’s notice. Tell the forty-eight to be ready. Equip them as each needs and remind them not of the consequences of betrayal, but of the rewards of fidelity.”

  The four stirred in excitement. “Should I get the vials from the storage area?” one asked.

  “Not yet,” Badr warned. “While I do not question your expertise in handling the vials, a mistake would cost us dearly. I am expecting contact soon. Once I receive word that we are ready, I will give the order to execute. I know that you and our forty-eight are ready. I promise you, it won’t be much longer.”

  <<<<>>>>

  He walked along the busy, crowded streets of downtown, without fear of being spotted. And without that worry, the fear of being sent back was refreshingly absent. Henry had delivered on every promise he had made so far which gave Badr a settled feeling.

  As he walked, paying attention to those who passed by him on the streets, he wondered how many would turn when their endings were reached. He wondered if not at least trying to recruit them before unleashing the terror that his team had arranged was a mistake. But Henry seemed certain about things.

  “Gathering more to our numbers is no longer needed,” Henry had said to Badr. “With those that I have assembled and those that you have convinced, we have all that we need. Remember, Badr, it’s not this realm we are going to assume ownership of. Having numbers here means shit.”

  “So all the victims,” Badr asked, “they will not be counted among our victories?”

  “Let the other one collect them, if he chooses, or not. That decision is his and is none of our concern.”

  He made his way aimlessly around downtown, pausing only occasionally to record notes about the predetermined locations. Notes about the volume of people in the area, the strength and direction of the wind. The area’s offerings of additional collateral victories.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Of all the conditions to end up in, this had to be one of the worst. Though his usual haunts were still in his assigned area, the manner of how he had to spend his days was quickly becoming unacceptable. But he knew he could do nothing about it. Not unless he wanted to go rogue, figure out his own path, make a name for himself and damn the consequences of not sticking to his agreement.

  This wasn’t his first visit to the central New York area but he was expecting it to be his last. Over the years, he estimated that he had made this same journey ten or eleven times. Most of them were successful but his streak of bad luck—which now stood at four—had cost him so much. He had lost most of the respect and privileges that his successful journeys had afforded him.

  When he was offered the deal, he felt that accepting the terms as presented was his only option.

  “You ain’t giving me much in return, you know,” he said.

  “You haven’t proven to be worth much,” Henry said.

  “Then why the fuck are you talking to me?”

  “Because you have a value that you’re not aware of yet.”

  “And what value is that?” he asked.

  “Experience and familiarity. Those, coupled with how incredibly dispensable you are, make you my perfect candidate.”

  “You’re an asshole. You know that Henry? An absolute asshole.”

  “Perhaps,” Henry said. “But this asshole is your only ticket out of here. Do what I tell you and you may just be respected again.”

  “What are the terms?” he asked after realizing any chance at redemption, no matter the costs, was better than what he reasonably could expect his existence to be if he continued doing things the way he had been doing them.

  <<<<>>>>

  Ronald Novak dropped a fifty dollar bill on the damp bar then walked the familiar steps to the front door. As was usual, he didn’t speak with anyone when he was in the bar and, fortunately, no one seemed compelled to strike up a conversation with him. He believed that his run of bad luck was caused by his overindulgences: Drinking (which he had no intention of curbing), and talking with anyone who started a conversation. He knew it was talking that was the real culprit behind his failures. Conversation starters were easy marks, he once thought. Get them talking, get to know a couple things about them, then turn the tables and get them so fucked up in their minds that they’ll do anything.

  Ronald was good at getting people’s minds twisted. At least he was good at it. During his first several trips, Ronald had proven to himself just how good he really was at, as he called it, “mind-fucking.” He would start with small things. Things that probably pissed other people off but were too small for the cops to worry about. Getting his marks to piss on cars parked in his favorite bar’s parking lot was his personal favorite. He thought it was strange that the simple act of pissing on a strangers hood sent such a charge of adrenaline into the blood streams of his targets. Pissing would mature into petty theft, which would quickly graduate into assault. Making the leap from assault to rape was easily bridged, once his marks understood the true value of a good old fashion raping.

  “It ain’t about the sex,” he would tell them. “It’s the power over another human that gets you off. It’s like a drug that scares you down to your filthy, rotten soul when you first decide to take it but then, once it hits your brain… shit man, you just need to do it once to know.”

  Raping, he would then tell them, left clues that the police loved to follow. So after his marks trusted him enough to try one of his suggested drugs, murdering the victim containing the most potentially damning clue—a description—was logical.

  “If you ain’t ready to kill them, beating the living shit out of them is pretty fucking cool. But even if you beat them to a pulp, you’re still taking a risk. Here’s my formula,” he told many. “Beat, bang, beat and burn. Hits all the good spots in your brain and leaves you in the free and clear. Burning them is not without its risks but fire is damn good at cleaning up your mess.”

  As he began to walk the three miles from his favorite bar to the town park and to the woods he called his home, his anger began to rise again. He was told, and agreed, to leave everyone alone, to not recruit anyone. His job was to identify a particular target, engage briefly, then wait till all the shit started. He had engaged his mark already and was now just waiting for the shit part to start.

  And he hated the waiting.

  There were so many that he knew he could get. So many that were ripe for picking. He figured that over the three months he had been on this side, there were at least seven he could have persuaded to do almost anything. “Seven,” he thought, “if I got those seven, I’d be set up like a king.”

  But there were none he engaged. None that he used to advance his standing.

  He reached the town
park, started towards the woods, found the stream and followed it the twisted mile it took to the secluded pond. He stayed out of sight, hiding in the thick woods surrounding the pond for several minutes, making sure that no one had followed him. Two weeks ago, right before he was about to enter the recharging water, he noticed a couple of teenagers smoking pot on the other side of the pond. He remembered feeling his rage building and rising in him. It would have been so easy, so satisfying, to just rip their heads off in punishment for using his spot for their enjoyment. They were making him wait and they had no right to make him wait.

  He was glad when the teenagers finished their supply of pot and moved on and he was relieved that there was no sign of anyone as he was now standing by the pond’s edge. He took off his clothes, hiding them in a hollowed out tree trunk he had used countless times, then quickly entered the pond.

  As he submerged himself, feeling his energies return to his muscles, his anger began to rise again.

  “If this shit lasts through spring,” he thought to himself, “I’m gonna have to do some side work to keep my head straight. This waiting is making me soft,” he said as he sat himself down on his favorite rock in the middle of the pond.

  There, he waited.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Jennifer LaMore arrived in her office in the Capitol by 7:10 am. The tone of the meeting she had the previous week with her new boss was still a cause of concern, but if the past week was any indication, Congresswoman Stacy Flannigan wasn’t going to be around very often.

  As she sat at her desk and began to review the list of action items she had written for herself the evening before, she heard movement coming from the Congresswoman’s office. Jennifer stood and walked to the door, knocked twice, then waited.

  “Come in.”

  Jennifer opened the door and was surprised to see Congresswoman Flannigan sitting behind her desk. “Good morning, Congresswoman,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you. Is there anything I can get for you, ma’am?”

  “Three things, actually,” Stacy Flannigan replied. “First, let’s drop the whole ‘Congresswoman’ thing and you just start calling me ‘Stacy.’ Okay?”

  “Sure, I mean, yes, that sounds fine.”

  “Second, last week I told you I would be giving you a list of names I need you to arrange meetings with for me. Do you recall?”

  “I do,” Jennifer said. “But I don’t recall ever seeing that list.”

  “That’s because I’ve only just received the names.” Stacy stood, walked closer to Jennifer, and handed her a sealed envelope. “Turns out that I need you to do more than just set up meetings with these folks. I actually need you to find where they are located, collect contact information, and then I will arrange my own meetings.”

  “Okay. I can do that,” Jennifer said.

  “Excellent.” Stacy turned and strolled back to her desk. “Third, I asked you to gather some information last week. How are things progressing with that task?”

  Jennifer fumbled the envelope in her hands. “Congresswoman, I mean, Stacy, I am working on getting that information still, but I have to tell you, I’m not sure I have access to the resources needed. The research I did resulted in either dead ends or my being blocked for not having the right clearance levels.”

  “Jennifer,” Stacy said, “I was led to believe that you were a woman of determination. In fact, though you and I have only spoken briefly, the reports that others have delivered to me reveal a growing and near universal admiration and respect for you. I have to believe that someone with your pedigree, intelligence and desire for success should be able to overcome whatever obstacles stand between you and your objective. Am I mistaken?”

  “Absolutely not,” Jennifer said. “I will find a way to get everything you need as quickly as I can.” She turned to leave Stacy’s office. “And I’ll get the contact information for everyone on this list before I leave the Capitol today. How should I get the results to you? Are you planning on working late today?”

  “The less time I spend in this building, the less likely it will be for me to be corrupted like so many others who share my title. No, I stopped in this morning to take care of a few things and will be leaving before ten o’clock to handle a few other concerns. You have my cell number. Call me whenever you get the information I need.”

  “I’ll do just that,” Jennifer said. “Oh, one thing I forgot to mention; I was able to get all the detailed information for one of your requests.” She held up one finger, indicating that she’d be back in a minute, left Stacy’s office, then returned with a stack of papers. “Like I said,” she started, “I’m still working on getting everything you asked for together, but I was able to get a detailed list from the Department of Homeland Security about the state of preparedness of all the major cities in the country. It is quite concerning, actually, to think that in today’s unsettled climate that so many of our cities are really unprepared for any major, catastrophic event.”

  “It is concerning,” Stacy said. “And as long as I am in this position, I will do my best to make sure every city in America is prepared for, as you say, catastrophic events. Homeland Security is nothing more than another bloated wing of the government so I’m sure getting that information from their offices was not easy. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, but it really wasn’t that difficult. Every city, by law, had to submit their disaster preparedness plan and have it approved by DHS. It took a little digging but most of the info is a matter of public record.”

  “Still,” Stacy offered, “I appreciate your efforts.” She moved slowly back behind her desk. “When can I expect to receive the other information I requested?”

  “That’s all I’ll be focused on the rest of the week.”

  “Right after you find the contact information of the names on the list I gave you.”

  “Yes ma’am. Of course.”

  <<<<>>>>

  True to her word, Stacy Flannigan left her office a few minutes before 10:00 am, leaving a reminder to Jennifer to call her as soon as she found the contact information she requested.

  “Should have everything to you within an hour, ma’am.” Jennifer replied.

  Twenty minutes after Stacy Flannigan left the office, Jennifer checked her email and was relieved to see that her friend who worked in the Census Bureau had gotten back with her.

  Jen,

  Here is the info you asked for. Sorry it took me so long to get it for you. We’ve been crushed with requests from many of the new class of Congress. Hope all is well. Let’s do lunch next week. I have some info about your new boss you’ll love to hear.

  Lisa

  What followed was detailed information on three people. The information included social security numbers, last registered address, age, sex, race, occupation, income and a few other items that Jennifer considered useless.

  “Cardinal Jeffrey O’Keefe and Mr. Badr Irani are all set. I’m sorry to say that while I found several men named Ronald Novak, I couldn’t find any information on one that matched your criteria,” she said as Stacy Flannigan answered her cell.

  “I figured Ron would be hard to track down but I have a friend who is in contact with him, so no worries. Send over the info you have in a text message. And Jennifer?”

  “Yes ma’am?”

  “I’m very glad to have you working for me and I hope that I can soon say you are a permanent part of my team.”

  “I hope so too, Stacy.”

  <<<<>>>>

  Gathering the contact information Stacy Flannigan requested was a lot easier than Jen thought it would be. She was thankful that she could at least deliver on one of her assigned duties. The other information, however, was proving to be very challenging.

  When she hit yet another dead end in her pursuit for the information, Jen checked the time on her computer. It was thirty minutes past her usual lunch time, but she scrolled through her email, found the email sent to her from her friend Lisa in the Census Bureau, and hit reply
.

  Lee, if you haven’t had lunch yet, I’d love to get together to hear what info you mentioned.

  The emailed reply dinged less than a minute later.

  Jen, I’m still here. Give me 15 and meet at The Round Table?

  C U in 15.

  The Round Table was less than a half mile away from the Capitol, but its position on Pennsylvania Avenue behind the Capitol building turned the short distance into a fifteen to twenty minute endeavor. While Jen could have used one of the several rear exits of the Capitol building, she had discovered that managing through the normal crowds of tourists and the obligatory security details (always much greater in number towards the rear of the Capitol) wasn’t worth the ten minutes she saved by a rear exit.

  As she made her way around the Capitol building, seeing a few groups of tourists and several streams of employees who called the Capitol their office, Jen felt the familiar pull of self-consciousness. She knew no one would stare at her or even notice her. Why would they? There were so many others milling about and still others hurrying about the grounds. Why would a group of tourists single her out to critique? There was nothing about her that commanded attention. Nothing acting like a science fiction story’s tractor beam, sucking in the gazes and attentions of others who happened to be close to her as she moved about. Why her, when there were so many others in the area—a few probably walking the same direction as she was, she was certain—who were so much more attractive than little, average her?

  Jen didn’t allow her plainness to stop her from achieving recognition during her educational years. Second in her class in high school and summa cum laude at Georgetown. Perfect average during her eighteen-month master’s degree program and perfect scores on every assignment, test and quiz her virtual professors doled out now that she was enrolled in another Master’s degree program through Penn State’s online school. Plainness didn’t slow her down one bit.