A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  “We still need that, otherwise there’s no point.”

  Puppy frowned. “I feel like we’re walking in a circle, Third Cousin.”

  Kenuda coughed slightly. “There’s been some disquiet in the country since the Story.”

  “How so?”

  He hesitated. “There’ve been demonstrations, minor, peaceful, but a few arrests. Some actually not so peaceful. Orange wigs have been left at baseball stadiums.”

  “There are no ballparks left.”

  “At the rubble. Fenway Park, Wrigley Field.” Elias consulted a list. “Braves Field, Forbes Stadium, Phillies Field.”

  “The Miners are still around?”

  “No, they’re long gone. But Grandma’s Story opened up the wounds again. Lots of Kill Allahs signs. Even a few murders of Arabic-complexioned siblings.”

  Puppy stiffened. “Why would baseball be blamed again?”

  “Stop it,” he said harshly. “Wigs have been left by government buildings, schools, everywhere. It’s not about baseball. ”

  “But it could be.”

  “You’re not even mentioned in Grandma’s Daily Greetings to the Cousins.” As Puppy frowned, Kenuda explained, “That’s the progress on the top priorities of the day. How to feed more people. Lowering the percentage of HG nature. More schools. On and on. Never a word about baseball.”

  “It’s good to be invisible, I guess,” he said with relief.

  “I wouldn’t know.” Kenuda sighed. “This is about me, Puppy. First Cousin Cheng doesn’t like me very much.”

  “That’s hard to understand.”

  “Not really,” Kenuda admitted wryly. “He won’t authorize any further work until I come up with something with soul. Whatever that means.”

  “It’s where you get tears in your eyes out of nowhere.”

  “I was never a DV. I wouldn’t know.”

  “Your loss.”

  “Perhaps.” Kenuda smiled faintly. “We’re in this together, Nedick. If the season fails, I’ll probably be reassigned duties.”

  “I’m toast either way.”

  “Maybe not.” Elias paused. “Family revenues are tight. The lack of trade hurts. You didn’t hear that from me. I could see that if attendance holds up, perhaps there’d be another season. Calm down. But I can’t recommend anything if I’m not Commissioner.”

  Puppy went into the kitchen, taking a very long time to return with a cup of coffee.

  “We need to tie everything together,” he announced.

  “Meaning?” Kenuda gestured impatiently.

  “We have to make baseball more fun. Like it used to be. Really like it used to be. That’ll bring fans in. Lots of them. Trust me.”

  “That’s a line Cheng will never cross.”

  “He will if Grandma approves.”

  Kenuda swallowed. “The woman was nearly killed on 10/12.”

  “Right. Time for forgiveness.”

  • • • •

  ANOTHER COMMUNITY CENTER Sour Fat Lady watched Puppy lay his pencils on the table as if that were a diversion so he and Frecklie could steal the folding chairs and table which dated back nearly forty years to the time of the last American president.

  “Thanks for letting us use the space.”

  The woman made a mental note of the various Grandma Work Ethic posters, a calendar from 2083 and sketchy looking coffee cups in the cramped, little used basement, should it be necessary to file a Blue Shirts report.

  Frecklie curled his lips and angrily gestured at her disrespect. She mimed a baseball being farted out of her wide butt.

  “I’ll have to try that pitch.” Puppy grinned, sending the woman stomping up the steps like a hippo. Without asking if they were ready, she opened the door and the men and women shyly came down the steps, half-expecting really anything. There’d been no public announcements, of course, just Frecklie and his staff of forty-eight whispering around the DV.

  A lithe man around fifty in a thin gray jacket bowed respectfully a few feet from the table and handed over his Lifecard.

  “I saw you pitch, sir.”

  “Thanks and please don’t call me, sir.”

  “You were in high school.”

  This was going to be so difficult, he knew. But options were limited. Kenuda had insisted he couldn’t allocate any more upgrades; he’d already danced across a line by approving the exhibits, reseeding the field and painting everything along the lower levels. When Puppy approached Fisher and Bocciccelli about reinvesting some profits into higher quality maintenance to spike the ticket sales and concession revenues, they’d twitched and moaned about their bottom lines. He’d mentioned the profit law requiring ninety-six percent to be plowed back into every business. Fisher had fired back that since baseball had been officially announced as dead, any profits went into escrow.

  Get it from the bookkeeper, he’d smirked.

  “You struck out twelve and pitched a complete game shutout,” the man said proudly as if Puppy were his son. Yeah, my father never saw me pitch. He wouldn’t go near the stadium.

  “I’m too old to go nine innings anymore.”

  Frecklie tapped the paper for him to move off memory lane.

  “Anyway, sir,” Puppy said. “We need electricians, welders, those sort of workers.”

  The man waited.

  “Money’s small. It’s not a secret we’re doing this, communities coming together show how we love each other,” he quoted Grandma’s Twentieth Insight and the man made a face. “It’s for Amazon Stadium.”

  The man brightened. “My kids can do that.”

  Puppy and Frecklie exchanged quick looks. “This isn’t about the kids, Mr. Amelio. Unlike the other repairs, this is more complicated. The teens did a wonderful job.” Puppy tossed Frecklie a nod; he’d sulked for a day. “But we need the grownups.”

  The line moved down until they filled the basement, staring open-mouthed.

  “But, sir, we only work in the DV,” Mr. Amelio said quietly in case BTs leaped out of the peeling walls.

  “That’s right. And the stadium’s located in the DV.”

  The adults murmured, all of them thirty, forty, fifty, sixty years old, some even older. They’d spent much of their adult life apologizing since their only worth was their children. Except for a few remarkably resilient adults, honored on the vidnews for climbing back out of the DV, they’d long given up.

  A slender youngish woman half raised her hand. “I wouldn’t take the money.”

  That set off more murmurs of approval.

  “Ma’am, we have to pay you…”

  “No. Love can’t be bought,” she quoted Grandma’s Thirteenth Insight. “Where are you getting the money for materials?”

  Frecklie patted Puppy’s right shoulder.

  All the adults turned and tapped their neighbor’s shoulders. Puppy had never seen this before. Once everyone was certain they’d tapped all the arms, they reformed a line and waited patiently to tap Frecklie’s shoulder, then, almost with a religious air, tapped Puppy’s right arm.

  For that fifteen minutes, the ache in his shoulder vanished.

  • • • •

  DALE SHOOK HER blonde curls, making a tiny windstorm. “Will you stop looking over my shoulder?’

  “You said you knew what to do.” Puppy leaned his chin on a rusted rifle.

  “I do, but this is really old shit.”

  The scoreboard console still had bullet holes on both sides but, miraculously, none of the fusillade had damaged the equipment. The five skeletons in orange wigs lying on their sides against the back wall had obviously taken much of the barrage.

  Frecklie poked his head inside. “How’s it going?”

  “Get the hell out of here,” Dale screamed and Frecklie obediently disappeared; he’d seen Dale’s frustrated temper tantrums before.

  An old man with a grease smeared face and dust balls in his hair crawled out from behind the console with a wrench. He nodded hopefully.

  Dale gestured. Sure?<
br />
  His next nod was a little less confident.

  She made disgusted sounds and yelled, “Come back in.” Frecklie popped back warily. “Tell them to turn on the breaker now.”

  Puppy looked out the window at the three distant figures hanging onto the front of the scoreboard in left center field. They’d spent the last ten minutes playfully swinging like monkeys from one end to the other; the other adults hammering away with their power drills on the upper decks waved back playfully.

  “Do it, I said. The garage area breaker’s working.”

  Frecklie went outside, hopping up and down with a series of loud whistles. The scoreboard shivered and Grandma smiled.

  “It’s still just Grandma,” Puppy snapped.

  “I can see that.” Dale gestured moron-fool-twaddle brain. EDIT MAIN SCREEN flickered on her panel. SPORT danced onto the screen.

  “Select baseball,” Puppy said helpfully.

  “Oh, really?”

  Dale’s deft fingers selected the sport, then adjusted the clock. 8:05 flashed on the scoreboard. The DV grown-ups on the scoreboard whooped it up. Ball, strike and outs features flashed, followed by the innings. The most beautiful zeroes Puppy had ever seen. He patted her shoulder.

  “Don’t touch me. I’m promised.”

  “Sorry.” He counted his fingers. “Will we also have music?”

  “If the file isn’t corrupted. It’s been ten years, yes?”

  He cleared his throat. “Thirty-three.”

  That made Dale angrier. Honey, you better be real good in bed or the smartest person in the world because charm you ain’t got.

  “What’s that?” Puppy pointed at a button marked video.

  “Video.”

  “Yes, I can read. Can we see if it works?”

  “It might not be online and that could take down the whole system,” she said, protective of three hours of work, not including using blow torches to break through the rusted doors.

  They had no time. Kenuda hadn’t exactly said yes.

  Puppy pressed the button.

  The scoreboard trembled. Rasping music blared with an underwater muffled sound. One of the frightened adults jumped into the bullpen. As if disgorging something in its throat, the scoreboard gagged and red, white and blue lights streamed over the outfield. The last two DVs leaped.

  A wild-eyed Mooshie HG in Yankee pinstripes rushed out waving a bat. “Come and get it, Cubbies.” She clenched her groin and whirled toward a Cubs HG, brandishing a bat.

  It’s Albert Cheng, Puppy marveled. This must be from the 2065 World Series.

  “You’re getting yours, Lopez,” the Cheng HG growled.

  “By who?” Mooshie taunted.

  “Me and my little friend.”

  The two HGs battled loudly, flying over the outfield, joined by more Yankees and Cubs bat-wielding HGs clashing to the garbled music. Now the HGs fought all over the stadium with bats the size of trees until only Mooshie remained, floating on a cloud-like mound, while Albert waved his bat back and forth, two Gods. Mooshie threw a ball which exploded into a monstrous white cloud.

  “Welcome to the 20…”

  Everything disappeared except the red, white and blue lights, which slowly faded.

  “What happened?” Puppy cried.

  Dale shooed him away. “It’s old like you.”

  “But the scoreboard’s working.”

  “For now.”

  “So that might blow?”

  “She got it turned on,” Frecklie said from the doorway.

  “I know. But we need the HGs.” He was greedy.

  “Maybe it was just that corrupted program,” Dale muttered.

  “Can you create a different one?”

  Maybe, she gestured.

  Yes or no, he gestured back.

  “Next time don’t touch anything.” Dale pointed a long red fingernail inches from his left eye.

  “Next time make sure the work is done right.”

  Frecklie pulled away the flailing Dale. “She can do it.”

  “Good. DVs don’t quit.”

  Dale swung the wrench at Puppy’s head.

  “Tell your sweetgums girlfriend we also need the music fixed. And the public address system.” Puppy propped the skeletons in chairs, carefully arranging their wigs. “One last thing. We’re not called the Hawks and Falcons anymore.”

  • • • •

  MUSTAFA SQUINTED AT the silhouettes by their bed and grabbed a heavy metal ashtray from the nightstand; Jalak screamed. A Holy Warrior disarmed him while another turned on a light. They waited.

  Azhar swallowed his heart, quickly dressing and assuring his wife hiding beneath the blanket that nothing was wrong. He followed the Warriors down the steps, nodding confidently to his sons on the top of the landing; Omar sneered as if this had always been a matter of time.

  Azhar was still tying his shoes in the back seat because he would not allow himself to be beheaded barefoot when the black car pulled over to the side of the Maktoum Road. He was steered by the elbows into the rear of a small truck where the Imam sat alone like a special delivery package. The Warriors closed the door.

  “Azhar, my friend, good to see you.” He indicated a folding chair. Mustafa shook his head, preferring to stand. He would not die on his knees, no matter what he had done. Abdul would be proud of him.

  The Imam laughed. “Why the long face?”

  “I have served the Caliphate and the Mufti and Allah to my fullest heart,” he said.

  “Yes, you have. Why else would you be here?”

  Azhar glanced at the stone-faced guards. The Imam angrily motioned them out of the van. Once the door slid closed, he waited until Azhar wobbled into the seat. “An apology. This is all last minute, but the Son requires your help.”

  Mustafa hastily composed himself so he wouldn’t look like a sniveling coward or a dim-witted fool, finally managing a brief bow. “Anything.”

  “Good.” The Imam handed him a folder and knocked on the door, which quickly opened. The Guards helped him down. “The keys are in the ignition. Everything else is clear. You must leave now.”

  Azhar sat behind the wheel, reading until he heard the Imam’s car pull away. He scanned the list of names once more, frowning.

  Mustafa ignored all speed limits and safety considerations, getting to the orphanage in less than fifteen minutes. The children were gathered in the lobby, manacled together, eyes lowered, flanked by smirking workers.

  “Finally, we can breathe without inhaling their filth,” Ahmed said, nudging one of the boys with a stick.

  Mustafa grabbed the stick and flung it away. “Is this all of them?”

  Ahmed scowled and showed Azhar the matching list. Mustafa bounded up the steps and into the alcove. He knocked on the ceiling.

  “Clary, come, we must leave.” He repeated this twice, banging on the ceiling before risking a foot in his face and slipping aside the little door. He panicked and raced down the hall, opening doors, asking the remaining fearful children where Clary was.

  He looked at his watch. Twenty-five minutes before the ship had to leave. He hurried down the staircase on the other side of the building, pausing at the sounds from the basement. Singing.

  She was scooping up garbage with her bare hands, the rotten apple dropping from her mouth like a surprised dog.

  “We must go,” he said.

  Clary backed away. He grabbed her arm and she kicked his shin. Azhar caught her taloned hand inches from his cheek. “You are going to America.”

  Her eyes widened suspiciously, searching for the trick. Finally she nodded warily. Mustafa tucked Clary under his arm and up the steps, dumping her in the lobby like a sack.

  “This one, too,” he gestured for Clary to be manacled.

  Ahmed stepped forward. “The whore isn’t on the list.”

  Mustafa twisted her scarred cheek from side to side. “Is she worth anything? Who would touch her? Ugly. And nasty.” He poked Clary with the stick; her glare turned
feral. “I will take her off your hands and, if there is a problem at the other end.” He shrugged, allowing them to consider how he’d dispose of the body. “Now give me the keys in case I must unshackle the infidels for a beating.”

  Ahmed and his friends smiled, pleased. They helped Mustafa chain the kids inside the truck and he drove off on two tires, squealing onto the road. Children started crying in a symphony of fear.

  “No tengas miedo, chiquitos,” Clary said softly. “Vamos a America.”

  Slowly they quieted. Someone laughed cautiously, the whole truck, including Azhar, joining in. He suddenly stopped the van, their dread returning, but when Mustafa unlocked the chains, they burst back into happy chatter, rubbing their wrists and hugging each other.

  Azhar flung the manacles into the bushes on the side of the road. The children cheered.

  • • • •

  MOOSHIE COULDN’T WATCH Kenuda’s dreamy stare through the glass anymore without losing her place and forgetting the lyrics. She asked for ten and the musicians stretched, laying down their guitars and sax.

  Kenuda shouted “Bravo” as she came out of the recording booth. “Sensational. I heard it all, thanks to this gracious young man.” He acknowledged the sleepy-eyed sound engineer.

  “Just laying down tracks.” Mooshie sipped green tea and honey, sprawled on the couch in her dressing room.

  Elias pulled up a chair and whispered, “Are the musicians to your approval?”

  “Absolutely first-rate. Thank you again.”

  He clutched his heart as if it would break. “The Dara Dreams album will be a huge hit.”

  “It’s called Hills Over Hell now. Thanks again, Elias. For someone like me starting out to get this kind of break…”

  Kenuda pressed his finger to her lips; she flinched. “I believe in you, Dara. Those covers are brilliant,” he referred to the Barton 3 Wallow with Me, Dylan’s Just Like a Woman, John Griebel’s Father Time and the Sunshine Cloud’s I Love You Immensely cuts.

  “Dara doesn’t do covers. Dara brings her own unique quality.” She paused shrewdly. “What’d you think of the Mooshie Lopez songs?”

  He frowned. “Let’s only use a couple until you’ve established yourself. It’s an image issue.”