A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  “As I should be.”

  “Am I stopping you?”

  Elias paused. “Yes, you are, First Cousin. There’ve been several meetings since yesterday…”

  “Several.” Cheng laughed coldly. “Try a lot more than several. We’re in a state of emergency, Kenuda. Perhaps you’re aware….”

  “I am aware,” Kenuda snapped. “This was my stadium. My game. My sport. “

  “You’re no longer Commissioner of Sport and Entertainment.”

  Kenuda winced as if Cheng had spit in his face. “Why?”

  “Because you fucked up, Kenuda. You took baseball way beyond where it should’ve gone. Instead of slow steps, your damn ego got in the way.”

  “Everything was approved,” he said stiffly. “Sir.”

  Cheng rose on his tiptoes. “Are you blaming me?”

  Kenuda didn’t answer, inflaming Cheng.

  “Perhaps you’d like to blame Grandma, too? Perhaps you should blame everyone who trusted your judgment, like the thousands of dead children buried inside that stadium.”

  Kenuda suddenly felt buried beneath rubble, too.

  Cheng sighed disgustedly. “You’re a Third Cousin and you bear responsibility for your actions. As I bear responsibility for cleaning up your shit and restoring order. And dealing with the damn Allahs, who’ve just mobilized their Atlantic Fleet.”

  “We’re at war?”

  “We don’t know what we’re at. Half the blasted country thinks that bullshit video played at your Yankee Stadium was real. The country is ripped apart, Kenuda. Because of goddamn baseball again.”

  “I can fix everything.” He grew flush with manic possibilities.

  Cheng looked at Kenuda as if he just crawled out of a hole in the wall. “Why?”

  “Because, because I’m a Third Cousin.”

  “No. Because you don’t want to lose your position.”

  Kenuda steadied himself. “Am I in danger of being asked to leave The Family?”

  “That would be Grandma’s decision. And she thinks you’re shit on a banana. For now, take your wounded feelings and pouting lips and find something useful. Maybe you could assist Cousin Takei with road clearance.”

  “Fifth Cousin Takei?”

  Elias leaned against a pole in the crowded bus, hoping his leaden weight wouldn’t rip the shambling vehicle in half. Subways were still haphazard, heavily guarded. Cars crept out of the city, slowed by security checks; no one had any idea how many terrorists were still at large. More buses converged onto Moshulu Parkway. Everywhere, movement without movement. Perched by a comatose traffic light, a giant vidscreen blared about Derek Singh and Easy Sun Yen committing suicide in their jail cells.

  Before or after they talked, Kenuda thought sourly. What would they have said, his eyes narrowed. The whole damn stadium had been searched by BTs before the game. Under Cheng’s command. Kenuda’s eyes narrowed deeper. Convenient.

  An elderly woman rocked unsteadily near the back as two teens embraced a few seats away.

  “Get up,” Kenuda commanded the youngsters, who slid, shamed, into the aisle. Elias steered the old woman into the seat. She smiled with weary gratitude. He glowered at the dazed passengers. “We must not lose our values. Do you all understand?”

  The passengers looked away, embarrassed.

  Kenuda walked the hour back to his office, brushing past his secretary. He dribbled a basketball for a couple minutes, thinking, before shouting for his A12 to come in.

  “Yes, sir?” It blinked wide-eyed.

  “Is there a special way to send a message about reassignment?”

  The robot hesitated. “Yes, sir. May I ask why?”

  “Because I’ve been reassigned. Or soon will be.”

  His secretary took on a sad sheen.

  “Oh stop it,” he snapped. “Prepare a note for me to send. Well go on, I have a life span unlike you.”

  The secretary leaned over its computer, waiting. “Let it say, I, Elias Kenuda, happily agrees with the decision of First Cousin Albert Cheng to reassign my duties as Third Cousin. Read it back. Never mind,” he interrupted. “I’m sure it’s fine. Send.”

  The secretary hesitated.

  “Send.” Kenuda threw a football against the wall. “Who handles restaurants and food places and that sort of thing where people eat?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Wouldn’t that be within your job description to find out?”

  The robot typed for a moment. “It was under Fifth Cousin Bitosssanava.”

  “Isn’t he dead?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then it’s open. Good. Write, Given the recent tragedy of Fifth Cousin however you spell his name, I am volunteering my extensive experience to handle this area during the national emergency. Why are you not sending that?”

  “It’s a Fifth Cousin assignment.”

  He startled the secretary by kissing the top of its head. “Yes. And no one will care. Send. And print out a copy of that and the recent Mentoring report. I don’t know what day, I believe I only got one. And will you please stop grinding those damn metal teeth.”

  Once on the Fifth Floor, he had difficulties with the persistent A8, who couldn’t grasp the complexities of a Third Cousin taking over the office of a Fifth Cousin, particularly when the Third Cousin said he was still a Third Cousin.

  “Your mentor First Cousin Cheng must approve.”

  Kenuda pointed out the window, where the smoke continued curling from the smoldering stadium. “We’re all busy.”

  The A8 reflected, eyes rolling in different directions over the suicidal frailty of humans. “I will send the notification, but process the efficacy of the request.”

  Kenuda followed the A8 into a spacious, expensively furnished office. Elias dully listened to the tutorial on the duties of a Fifth Cousin, pleased he remembered all of them, serve, love, family, dangers of the ego , and settled behind his wide desk, twice the size of his old office. He pursed his lips sadly, then brushed aside all that crap and opened a new messaging account while the A8 watched with polite suspicion.

  “I have a few questions.” Kenuda indicated the computer.

  The A8 held up a small thumb drive. “The files are all here.”

  “I need some specific answers.”

  “You must first familiarize yourself with the entire area, Cousin. You should know…”

  Kenuda slammed his fist onto the desk. “And you should appreciate the unusual request. I’ve shed my ego by going backwards. I don’t have time for this. Now answer these questions or I’ll send my own damn notifications.”

  The A8 tipped slightly to the left, but remained quiet.

  “Good. There’s a restaurant called Needleman’s on East 188th Street. Is it properly serving the community’s needs?”

  The A8 blinked twice. “Since 2036.”

  “How inclined is the personnel?”

  “Quite. They’ve only changed staff once.”

  Kenuda tensed. “When was the last time?”

  “Fifteen days ago.”

  “Why did the staff change?”

  The A8 shook its head. “Codified.”

  “Cousin Cheng must be careful.” Kenuda smiled faintly. “I’m in charge here now.”

  “Not until I receive the official acknowledgement.”

  “Which we understand is a formality since by my presence, I’m in temporary oversight. Cousins Code 340-A.”

  “340-B,” the ‘bot said testily.

  Kenuda tipped his head. “You will be invaluable. Did the restaffing have anything to do with the arrest of Dr. Pablo Diaz?”

  The ‘bot’s eyes drooped in a frown. “The staff was changed before that.”

  “And how was his case disposed?” Kenuda handed over the Mentoring report. “This supersedes…”

  “I understand, sir. Evidence in that case is currently held at the Dead Past Warehouse.”

  Kenuda broke another Cousins rule and ordered a private car. The bor
ed young BT barely glanced at Kenuda’s papers, leading him through the dank corridors and into the stifling elevator of the warehouse.

  “How’s it out there, sir?”

  “Crazy.”

  “Think it was the Allahs?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The Allahs posing as Miners. Set us against each other again and then they swoop in for the final invasion.” The BT stopped at a door. “Grandma wouldn’t sell us out, would she?”

  Kenuda assured him such a notion was preposterous. They walked into a chilly, dank room with tall ceilings and exposed pipes running along the chipped, white walls. Cages of carefully packed evidence filled the room. The BT indicated the direction with a quick nod, slowing down suddenly.

  Pablo sat on a stool in a cage. Reaching inside, the BT compared the ticket on the request with the yellow evidence tag around Pablo’s neck. Kenuda was appalled.

  “Open the damn cage.”

  “All right, all right, I ain’t got anything to do with this, sir.”

  Kenuda pushed aside the BT and knelt by Pablo. “Dr. Diaz?”

  Pablo’s eyes looked like they’d been bought at a novelty store.

  “I been trying to feed him.” The BT picked up a plate with an untouched sandwich.

  “Release this man.”

  “It don’t say release.” The BT held up the consultative form issued by the A8.

  “How will you explain him dying of malnutrition?” Kenuda rasped. The BT swallowed nervously. “Now take the damn cuffs off his leg.”

  The BT resentfully unlocked the chain. “He ain’t shit or pissed since he been here, so watch for that.”

  Kenuda slipped his arm around Pablo’s waist. The dentist’s knees buckled slightly.

  “It’s okay, son. It’s okay.”

  43

  The area ten square miles around Grandma’s House was locked down. Tanks re-directed Puppy and Mooshie through two security checkpoints beneath the circling ‘copters they could see and rooftop snipers they couldn’t. Fighter jets flew freely and convoys of Army trucks thundered down Moshulu Parkway. No soldiers. All Black Tops. Tens of thousands, darkening the landscape with their sullen visors. America was on war footing.

  The crowds were the real problem. When he’d gone over the ceremony with Ian last night over a pitcher of beer at Monroe’s, the director slyly mentioned yet another heated argument between Grandma and Cheng, as if there’d been many. He only spoke specifically about this one.

  “The mother won’t talk to emptiness. Her words, not mine.” Ian made a face at the soggy chips. Monroe’s was empty; no one dared curfew for a drink. Jimmy diffidently wiped the bar over and over.

  “How can we let anyone near her again?”

  “Is the point.” Schrager held up a stubby finger. “All is well but don’t let my children see me?”

  “Then all is well?”

  Ian gestured for him to lean forward. “I hear there was a clash near Iceland.” Puppy frowned. “That’s north of here, green eyes. The Allahs have mobilized. Our air force is in the air and yes, we have one. Sneaky little bastards. Least we’ll go down humping. Or that could be shit. Also hear Grandma nearly ripped her pubic hair out when she heard we were on alert and made everyone stand down.”

  “So you’re not sure of anything.” Puppy couldn’t resist a smirk.

  “I’m sure I know what you and your pain in the ass fiancé are supposed to say and where the hell is she?”

  She never showed for the pre-briefing. Mooshie drifted in and out, glazed like Ty and Mick. Worse, because they at least drank themselves into unconsciousness despite Puppy’s assurances they’d all have jobs. Or something. But Mooshie turned vapor-like, slipping into bed, a stone with short breaths, slipping back out and leaving the apartment. She answered no questions, asked no questions, where she went, he didn’t know.

  At least Mooshie remembered the ceremony. Bright-eyed, up before the dawn, waiting for him to sleepily stumble into the living room.

  “You wearing that crap?” She held out a steaming mug of coffee.

  He stepped over Ty and Mick’s snoring bodies, knotting the tie for his best suit. Blue, Ian had warned. Nothing too somber. Grandma wants to be positive.

  “What’re you wearing, snowflake?” He playfully tugged at her bathrobe.

  “Something hot.” She grew abruptly serious. “I don’t want to go.”

  “You got to, Moosh. I’m not comfortable with this hero stuff either.”

  “But you really are one.”

  “You got us out of there.”

  “Because I knew about the tunnels.” She laughed bitterly. “We should’ve met Miners down there.”

  He gave her a hard stare. “Was that the real plan to kill all of us?”

  “No. But it could’ve worked out that way.” She smiled distantly. “I don’t like being a fraud.”

  “Really, Da-ra, Din-ton?”

  Mooshie glowered. “I had to do that.”

  “And now you have to do this. We owe it.”

  “To who?”

  “To the bodies being pulled out of the fucking stadium.”

  “There’s always gonna be bodies pulled out of somewhere.”

  “Maybe eventually we’ll get tired of it.”

  “You are hopeless.”

  “Yeah. Otherwise it makes no sense.”

  “Who said it’s supposed to, Puppy? Grandma? God? The voice in your naïve little head?

  You’re taking this hero crap too seriously. I was a hero to someone my whole life. And here I am trying to figure out what dress to wear to a farce.”

  They passed the third checkpoint at the entrance to the House, where a trio of BTs triangulated them up a long, winding staircase and into a tiny elevator; Mooshie inspected her hair in the mirror.

  “Do I look good, boys?” she asked the guards, who grunted. “I’ll take that as a yes, as always.”

  Mooshie buried her hand into Puppy’s and followed the BTs into Grandma’s Living Room. A pot of tea and cookies waited on the coffee table.

  “Are you nervous?” Puppy whispered.

  Mooshie nodded at their script, tucked beneath the saucers. “This is pretty clear.”

  An honor to be part of our future. We showed we can come together.

  Grandma bustled in with an apologetic smile. The lines in her face had deepened and her voice was thin; she hugged them briefly and with little warmth. She doesn’t want to do this either.

  “Thank you for coming.” Grandma stared at Mooshie, who squirmed slightly. “A good thing you didn’t kill me. I’ve still got so much to do.”

  Puppy and Mooshie exchanged shocked looks. Cheng entered from a side door with a slight, almost sneering bow, and silently took a seat around the table. Grandma poured tea.

  “Albert, I was just mentioning how grateful I was that Mooshie didn’t kill me.”

  “I never meant to…” Mooshie’s voice faltered.

  “I know. But you would’ve if Puppy weren’t in the way. Why do you still hate me, Mooshie? I was a great admirer of yours. Even when you criticized me. But you weren’t that important, certainly not important enough to murder. Your friends did. They thought people listened to people like you.” Grandma laughed harshly. “Even I didn’t realize they were behind your murder until Derek Singh, or was it Easy Sun Yen, admitted it?”

  “Singh,” Cheng said, grunting.

  “Thank you, Albert. Their suicide was a cover, apologies, but how else should we have handled that? With a public trial? Public execution? That only would’ve upset people. That’s the problem with the past. Letting go. Which today is all about.” Grandma neatly folded her hands. “Isn’t that right, Albert?”

  “Going forward,” he said with a testy bite.

  “Exactly. I want to thank both of you for coming. You’re the face of hope. If we let this latest tragedy destroy hope, what do we have? There’s been so much confusion the past couple days.” She paused to gather her jumbled thoughts, forgett
ing they were there.

  Albert shot them an embarrassed look. “Lenora, save your energy for the speech.”

  Grandma shook herself back into the room. “The speech, yes. We’ve bickered a little about that, haven’t we, Albert?”

  “A little.”

  “But I won.”

  “As always,” he said sourly.

  Grandma pulled aside a purple lace curtain to show waiting children miles deep. “Albert thought the city should be evacuated. That would’ve entailed enormous security concerns, what with the devils still around. We haven’t caught them all, have we, Albert? All those billboards preaching Forgiveness. Oh, we worked so hard, didn’t we? And no one listened.”

  “Now they will,” Albert said gruffly.

  “Yes.” Grandma laid her hand on his shoulder. “Except it’s such an odd thing, being the leader. You speak to many people and, after a while, realize that you can’t persuade all of them. Some will simply never accept what needs to be done yet fascinatingly, they always have so many different reasons, right, Albert?”

  Grandma sighed and refilled their cups, passing around the plate of cookies. “It’s much simpler to lie. We’ve lied about the extent of the peace or rather, the quality of the peace. All of you,” she gestured toward the lace curtain as if it were about to take a seat, “now know that it’s worse than we admitted. Someone wanted to get that information out. They did a wonderful job, didn’t they, Albert? So dramatic. But you covered up nicely. As always, my dear friend.”

  Grandma insisted Albert take a cookie; he bit warily.

  “Now we need another little cover-up, which has actually gone quite well. The video with Abdullah and I. Do you children think it was a fake?”

  Puppy and Mooshie exchanged vague looks. He slowly shook his head; Grandma gasped in mock surprise.

  “My goodness, dear Puppy. Do you believe I’d jeopardize our Family?”

  “No. I think you’d make a deal that would help everyone.”

  “Isn’t that lovely. And Mooshie?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Honesty, please. Honesty.”

  “Lenora, we don’t have time for this,” Albert interrupted.