A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  “See any shells?”

  Frecklie shook his head and dropped the spent match, which Hazel quickly pocketed.

  “Show some fucking respect. Know who they are?”

  Frecklie hesitated. “Miners?”

  “Miners,” Hazel rasped. “Know why they were called that?”

  Hazel viciously mocked Frecklie’s shrug.

  “Because Grandma thought they belonged in a cave. Cavemen. Primitive views. Miners, in a cave, get it?”

  Frecklie knelt by a skull. “DVs, right?”

  “Yeah, kid. All the Miners were DVs.”

  “Weren’t they also…”

  Hazel’s forearm pressed against his throat. “What?”

  He barely swallowed. “Traitors.”

  Hazel sighed. “No. The traitors were in the government. Still are.” Hazel shone the light onto the air vents just below the ceiling. “They must’ve gassed them. The freedom fighters retreated here, a last ditch stand, hiding with the kids.” The flashlight darted onto the small skeletons. “Helping them.”

  “Or using them as hostages.”

  “What?”

  “They took hostages. That’s what the plaques and the HGs say. I looked it up in the library.”

  Hazel was disgusted. “Then the Black Tops killed the children instead of rescuing them.”

  Frecklie couldn’t answer. He tripped over a rifle, earning a string of curses to be careful. He held the weapon, imagining. Miners had hidden all over Amazon Stadium that day. Under the stands, behind the bullpen, in the bathrooms. Posing as groundskeepers and concession stands workers, selling food at the seats. They’d taken over the scoreboard, public address system and much of the security guards. How could they have done that without the players knowing? When Mooshie Lopez, the most famous athlete in America, had shown some sympathies afterwards, saying she couldn’t tell who was innocent anymore, that only fueled the connection between baseball and the Miners.

  That’s what he’d been told his whole life. What they’d all been told.

  Frecklie pointed the gun at the air vent and blithely pulled the trigger. The gunshot startled them and the skeletons shook. Once Hazel stopped shouting and his own heartbeat slowed, Frecklie returned the rifle to its unseeing owner, patting the orange wig.

  “Make sure no one sees this.”

  “I should tell Puppy.”

  “No one.” Hazel jabbed his chest. “Otherwise they’ll turn this into another exhibit. Do you really want that?”

  His mother was angry enough at what he was doing, calling him a brain-washed boob and throwing the Stadiums book at him. At least she hadn’t spoken to him for more than a day. Frecklie shook his head.

  Hazel grunted, satisfied. “Let’s see what other wonders Grandma left her children.”

  The starless night managed a few dribbles of light onto the deck. Grandma’s candles, Tomas thought, sitting beside the nice looking kid with the terrified eyes drooping over the side of the boat.

  “Sorry, sir,” Diego leaped up.

  “Relax.” Tomas shook out a ‘bacco. The boy declined with excessive gratitude. “I developed the taste in Italy. Figured, how much worse could things be?” He tapped his knee. “What’re you most worried over?”

  Diego’s throat bobbed nervously. “Nothing, really.”

  “Maybe being hauled out in the middle of the Atlantic by some strange guy.”

  “I trust Captain Lee.” Diego nodded at the Captain behind the wheel, gaze locked ahead as if a long chain held his eyelids.

  Tomas smiled faintly. “Why?”

  The kid frowned for just a second, probably to make sure he had all the grammar right. Tomas tapped his throat. Just speak. Diego grinned and tapped his temples. Thinking. Tomas gave him a moment, looking starboard into the darkness.

  “He’s my friend,” Diego suddenly said.

  It took Tomas a second to come back to the conversation; his mind was on the ship out there, waiting.

  “Friends are good, Diego. I’ve lost some.” He pushed the anger aside, glancing over his shoulder as if Grandma were hovering. She’s here, somehow. “You have a more serious friend?”

  Diego blushed. “Think so. She’s worried I’ll never be anything because I’m a DV. But she was and she’s something, so why the worry?”

  The boy waited for some brilliant response. Stilton couldn’t afford to waste anything too wise on the perpetually erect pecker of this horny sailor.

  “She’ll come around.” He patted Diego’s shoulder. “Either they do or they don’t.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Diego said, a little disappointed.

  “Thirty-five degrees,” Captain Lee said softly; the lapping waves quieted from the intensity of his voice.

  Tomas peered. Damn eyes are going now, too, he scowled at the ocean until he saw a light twinkling. He nodded; Lee returned the signal and they picked up steam. Diego occupied himself by fussing with the ropes.

  Even half a klick away, the ship dwarfed theirs. Two more blinks and Diego helped Tomas into the small rubber dinghy. The boy’s eyes shone with fear. Tomas gave him a confident smile he didn’t feel and paddled to the unmarked vessel, where he awkwardly climbed up the rope ladder and onto the deck. He grinned.

  “At least the lamb will be good.”

  “This way, sir,” Mustafa hid a smile as he led Tomas past two hulking men who frisked him, and down three metal steps into the stateroom.

  “Major Stilton.” The Allah warmly shook his hand. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you for having me.” Tomas glanced longingly at the rich buffet on the table.

  “Hunger and thirst is understandable.” Abdullah guided Tomas over the fruits and vegetables, cheeses, lamb and chicken dishes. Tomas politely filled his plate and waved off the wine, sipping water in silence as the two men assessed each other.

  Younger than I thought, Tomas picked at the hummus. Confident and arrogant, but they all are.

  “Thirty-four.”

  “Pardon?” Tomas asked.

  “I’m thirty-four. If you didn’t already have that information.”

  “I did,” he lied.

  “You’re sixty?”

  “Fifty-six next month,” Tomas answered sourly.

  “Happy birthday. How is Grandma?”

  “She sends her respect to you and your family.”

  “And mine to yours. My family, well. They would not be so gracious.”

  “Which is why we are here.”

  Abdullah played with his robes. Prick is nervous. Tomas caught the way he rubbed the thumb and forefinger together. Does he do that while thinking or lying?

  “Our world is at peace, Major. No wars since the Surrender…”

  “Truce.”

  Abdullah smirked and bowed slightly.

  “You’ve had your troubles,” Tomas continued. “Still some unhappy Sunnis in the Peninsula.”

  “A family argues. Sometimes there is blood. Overall, sharia has brought prosperity. Happiness.” He raised a finger. “To those who accept.”

  Tomas ate a fig and waited.

  “And to those who don’t…” his voice trailed off sadly. “We can go on like this for a long time. We have the lands, you have the nukes. Fortunately those of my people who equate suicide with victory can amuse themselves other ways.”

  Like raping nuns, Tomas ate another fig.

  “But in the long term, it will rot us away. We are conquerors. You are builders. Once we built. A thousand years ago, a glorious time of science and medicine…”

  “Please,” Tomas said quietly. “How about no speeches? Unless you want me reciting the Declaration of Independence and all that stuff about freedom.”

  Abdullah’s mouth tightened. “You do not like me, Major?”

  “I’m not sure yet. At least not going in.”

  “I like you,” Abdullah said as if granting Tomas a royal favor. “You’re brave. I could take you for ransom and what would your country do? Launch a nuclear m
issile? But you’re here because you believe there could be more to this world.”

  “I’m here because Grandma does. She respects your beliefs and welcomes a dialogue. But the leader of the world’s greatest democracy….”

  “The only democracy.” Abdullah sneered.

  “Making it even more important.” Tomas sneered right back. “She, too, can talk about her sadness at a world where tyranny is supreme.”

  “I’m not here to dismantle sharia. Or betray my people.”

  “Then why are we here, Abdullah? Are you playing the spoiled older son who worries his father might live a long time?”

  The Arab sadly shook his head at Tomas’ ignorance and poured more wine. This time, Tomas accepted a glass.

  “As I started to say before you invoked your American patriotism, my people once saw no conflict between faith and freedom. Science and Allah. Physicists, chemists, philosophers, doctors. Muslims, Christians, Jews, we all lived together in peace. I want to return Islam to those glory days.”

  “That was more than a thousand years ago.”

  “History is patient.”

  Tomas ignored Abdullah’s raised glass and took a long thoughtful swallow. “But those Allahs, sorry, Muslims, had armies. I count your navy consists of three men including yourself.”

  Abdullah laughed. “There are more. But would I give you names? How do I know you wouldn’t tell my father? A conquered nation always looks for a way to supplicate.”

  “Not America.”

  “Once that was true,” Abdullah stared coldly. “I have allies. I have armies. I have merchants, eager to trade. Clerics eager to preach the true Allah of peace and brotherhood. Hands, reaching out. But they see no sign of friendship other than an emissary who clearly will recommend against this.”

  “I will give Grandma the facts.”

  “The facts are, Major, that we do have Sunni problems in the Peninsula. The damn Afghans never give up. Chinese Muslims are making demands. So are the blasted Muslim Russians. They’re still Russians, no matter. The Crusaders, sorry, Christians, make for poor second class citizens. Productivity is not great. A resistance of sorts. Pathetic, but annoying. Nothing would unite Islam more than, as your Miners once said, finishing the job.”

  “That would be very stupid.”

  “And war is smart?” Abdullah pointed his glass at Tomas’ leg. “But if there’s to be another way, my friends and I need a partner. We need Grandma.”

  • • • •

  TY WRAPPED HIS arms around the frame of the bullpen door and stared suspiciously at Puppy warming up.

  “What’s he got?” he asked Jackson.

  The catcher peered through his mask at Puppy. “He got good stuff.”

  “He looks labored.”

  “I’m taking it easy…” Puppy tried.

  “I ain’t talking to you.” The manager squatted by Jackson. “A catcher has to tell the truth. You ain’t stupid enough to lie to me, are you?”

  Jackson played nervously with his mask. “I’d tell you if he was shit, skip.”

  Cobb grunted doubtfully and glowered at Puppy. “I want a complete game.” He kicked dirt at Jackson and headed back toward the dugout. Puppy mouthed thank you.

  “You can’t go nine, Pup,” Vern said.

  “And disappoint my fans?” he grinned bravely.

  Fans spilled out beyond both foul lines, stirring eagerly as the Hawks took the field. After the recitation of Grandma’s Blessing, Puppy waved his glove at Frecklie standing behind home. The kid clapped his hands and, for a moment, the stadium was still.

  Dale cartwheeled out in a bright yellow dress, followed by three friends also wearing yellow outfits. They catapulted around home plate and formed a square about the peevish robot umpire, not programmed for such nonsense.

  “Go Hawks,” they chanted, leaping.

  The crowd applauded cautiously.

  “Go Hawks,” the cheerleaders repeated.

  More polite applause. Dismayed, Dale bounced onto the shoulders of Sallie Ann, a gorgeous red-head, and they trotted from foul line to foul line shouting “Go Hawks” until the crowd responded merrily.

  As the Falcons leadoff batter stepped into the batter’s box, Dale jumped like a cat onto the top of the Hawks dugout.

  “Booooo.” She cupped her hands. The crowd was uneasy. Shouting only positives was rooted in their core.

  “Pussies.” Dale wiggled her butt. “Boo Falcons. Boo Falcons.”

  Puppy wasn’t sure which was funnier, Frecklie covering his reddened face or Dale wiggling her rear up and down the top of the dugout.

  Finally the uncertain boos started, gathering wary momentum as if the neighbor in the adjoining seat jumped in, giving permission. The catcalls streamed louder and louder. It was fun.

  “Play ball,” the A28 shouted again.

  Dale cartwheeled onto the field and started barking. The crowd joined in. The umpire was maybe not so happy because it ordered Dale to leave. She barked and cartwheeled and defiantly wiggled her butt in its face. The crowd liked this even more. The ‘bot chased her down third base and across the infield, Dale cartwheeling and the umpire yelling play ball. Dale stopped near first, a little dizzy, and the umpire jerked its thumb.

  “Out.”

  “What?” Dale blinked, baffled.

  “I’m throwing you out, Miss.”

  “I don’t play,” she snapped as Frecklie ran onto the field.

  “If you’re in my stadium you listen to me. Now get your ass out of here.”

  Dale definitely threw the first punch; Puppy heard the crunching of her hand on the ‘bot’s head ten feet away. Her three dancers cartwheeled around the fallen umpire, but Frecklie slipped under their kicking thighs and smacked the A28 in the chest.

  It took about fifteen minutes for the dancers, Dale and Frecklie to be dragged away by players from both teams. Pausing on the top step of the dugout, Dale shook her penis at the ‘bot, earning the loudest cheer of the 2098 season and sending Ty into a stunned heap.

  Fortunately for Puppy, the umpire was a little dazed and provided a very generous strike zone. Puppy didn’t have much, but he set the tone from the first pitch when, under strict orders from Ty, he threw at the leadoff batter’s head. As expected, the Falcons starter responding by throwing at Puppy when he came up in the third inning. Both benches cleared and the confused umpire searched for Dale, assuming she was behind everything wrong with its Universe.

  It was that kind of an ugly game, especially his pitching line: seven innings, four runs, eight hits, three strikeouts and three walks. Ty, still sifting the notion of dry-humping someone with a penis, showed mercy and pitched the last two frames.

  Puppy took the last of the Ibuprofen and hurried out of the clubhouse, carefully unfolding the tight square note as he headed along Jerome Avenue, glancing at addresses. Beth waited inside the alcove of the shabby burnt orange and beige bricked building. Without any greeting other than disdain, she shoved the square note into her purse, snapping the latch shut with some regret it wasn’t one of Puppy’s fingers.

  Beth buzzed once and they were let through a bruised, unmarked red door. A faint smell of pained sweat hung over the tiny waiting room of bamboo chairs and a tattered green couch. From behind a beaded entrance, a thin old Chinese woman waddled out and gave Beth an affectionate hug.

  The older woman and Beth spoke quickly in Chinese; Puppy flinched at hearing anything beside English; all other languages were banned. The elderly woman circled Puppy warily and sighed. Beth’s voice took on a pleading quality. They disappeared through the beads, speaking in incomprehensible whispers.

  Beth returned alone. “She doesn’t trust you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s illegal. She saw you on the vidnews and fears you’ll tell since you’re so important.”

  He wanted to rip off his burning shoulder. “I thought it was all set.”

  “What can I say? My grandmother doesn’t like your face.”
r />   “I’m so sorry. Cosmetic surgery is also illegal so here we are.”

  Beth turned toward the door. He was desperate.

  “Please. If I can’t pitch, I’m afraid the whole damn baseball season will somehow go down the toilet. Please.”

  Beth grumbled about the hand her brain dead son had dealt her and pushed back through the beads. The women’s voices screeched in more Asian jibberish. Popping her head out, Beth coldly beckoned him inside and turned out the lights in the examining room.

  A tiny candle flickered. Puppy shyly removed his shirt and lay on his stomach. Beth closed the door as her grandmother fussed with the acupuncture needles. He wasn’t fond of needles.

  “You’re staying?” he asked.

  “She doesn’t trust you.”

  “But I’m supposed to trust her?”

  Beth made walking gestures with her fingers. The grandmother chattered and he rolled onto his back. Beth’s eyes widened at the scar on the front of his shoulder.

  “Thought I was lying?” he asked.

  She looked away, guilty.

  The fun and games with needles on both sides of his shoulder lasted about half an hour. He fell asleep; Beth shook his arm.

  “It’s over.”

  He dressed silently, looking around for the old woman, but she’d vanished. He and Beth waited at the traffic light down the block from the office.

  “How’s it feel?” she asked quietly.

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “My grandmother knows what she’s doing.”

  “I’m not surprised. I have faith in your whole family,” he said with a big smile. “Can I buy you a meal or a drink to thank you…”

  Beth combined anger and embarrassment into one deadly stare and hurried through the intersection.

  “What’s with you, lady?” he yelled at Beth, who disappeared down the subway steps. “Fine. Bye bye sweetness.”

  Puppy flapped his right arm in a seal-like wave. There was no pain in his shoulder. No. Pain.

  • • • •

  “YOU OKAY?” MOOSHIE zipped up Zelda’s sweater jacket.

  Zelda stared emptily out the cab window, counting blocks. “How was the gig?”

  “Too many Regs.” Mooshie met the A21’s curious metallic gaze in the rear view mirror. “But oh the sound system.” She sighed dreamily. “Like a recording studio. They loved me, of course.”