A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  They could barely turn in the packed car drenched with sweat and stale breath. A conductor, mouth curling at such close contact with Crusaders, snapped his fingers in the doorway and tickets or money were passed down. He didn’t worry that anyone would cheat since that was, along with approximately four hundred and fifty-two other infidel infractions, punishable by death.

  Annette gave Puppy a weary brave smile and leaned against his arm. He stroked her hair. Several people stirred uneasily.

  A ruddy-faced man in a worn suit leaned over, whispering, “Best not, mate. Public affection.”

  Puppy nudged Annette off. She could barely stand. Puppy gave the man a grateful smile and glanced out the window. Just outside the London city limits, they passed a billboard of a Union Jack smothered by the crescent moon and star. The message was translated.

  Allahu Akbar.

  More signs flanked the tracks as they rolled into Charing Cross Station, mainly commercials of happy Allahs enjoying wondrous cigarettes or comfy furniture. Loudspeakers in the massive terminal shouted mainly in Arabic with occasional brief, almost taunting breaks in English.

  Puppy and Annette walked up and down a pathway of food stores, trying to understand signs.

  The ruddy-faced man came up to Puppy’s left shoulder. “You look bloody suspicious, mate.” He nodded toward the Allah armed patrols. “They’d love an excuse to shoot you. That’s good for their morale. Just keep walking.”

  “We’re looking for the subway,” Annette said quietly.

  “Tube,” the man corrected her, smiling faintly. “Where are you going?”

  Puppy closed his eyes a moment to remember. “Great Jones Street.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the business there?”

  “Shopping,” Annette said brightly.

  He smiled again. “Excellent choice. Take the gray line four stops and get off at Martyrs Lane. Great Jones Street’s two blocks south.”

  “Thank you.” Annette stopped the man. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Ladies’ toilet is down the corridor,” the man said in a loud voice as a three-man patrol passed.

  The tube was like the train like the road and, as they realized, like the very streets, Crusaders shouldering aside to allow Allahs to pass. They waited five minutes for giggling teens talking loudly into those strange handheld phones to haughtily allow them onto the subway platform.

  Annette squeezed Puppy’s shoulder so tightly his arm ached. She nodded, stunned, at a poster of him behind the cross-marked benches. He was exultant in his baseball uniform, eyes skyward; at his feet lay Grandma. No need to translate the Arabic words.

  “At least not everyone hates you, honey.”

  He could only shake his head.

  They walked up the tube steps onto Martyrs Lane as the sun started its descent. Carefully keeping as far from the main Allah sidewalk as possible, they strolled casually along the high street boasting colorfully decorated windows touting expensive goods, before turning as instructed along Great Jones Street, where the English stores seemed blighted by comparison.

  A sprightly bell tinkled over The Dead Past. Two burqas huddled over a counter, dark eyes narrowing in the slits. The owner, a squat man with wispy gray hair, frowned and flicked his hand, indicating Puppy and Annette should wait outside, returning with an obsequious smile to his customers.

  They waited nervously at the edge of the alley in the fading light before walking up and down the street, window shopping.

  “Who’d eat that?’ Annette whispered at shriveled vegetables tossed in a basket outside a grocery mart, as if the proprietor was angry about selling such crap. A fat man with a funny hat growled in Arabic and they stepped aside. Even the Westerner path was subject to Allah ownership. Everything was subject to Allah ownership, Puppy thought, catching a glimpse of skyscrapers festooned in that squiggly lettering peering out of the darkening clouds.

  The burqas passed as if Puppy and Annette were invisible; they casually re-entered the store. The owner wasn’t happy to see them.

  “Don’t you know better?” he snapped. “They could’ve burnt down my store just for you coming in when an Arab customer’s here.”

  He turned his back. Puppy leaned against the counter while Annette nearly pressed her face against the glass covered jewelry display.

  “What do you want?” the man scowled.

  “We’re friends of Grandma.”

  The man barely reacted save for a slight twitch of his lower lip. “That’s no friend of mine. I’ve got to close.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I said go.” The owner polished a silver teapot, wishing he could get rid of Puppy and Annette as easily as the smudge.

  “Do you know who he is? Puppy Nedick.” Annette laid her elbows on the counter. “Make the happy face, Pup.”

  “What face?”

  “Like the poster. That picture must’ve been after you struck someone out.”

  Puppy spread his mouth in a deranged clown smile. The owner stepped back, terrified by the recognition.

  “Get out.”

  “Please. You have to help.”

  The owner picked up a fireplace poker. “Now.”

  Annette wrenched the poker out of his hand. “He didn’t do it. We got here on the mail plane.”

  “What plane?” The man sunk deeper into confusion and fear.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Puppy said. “Listen. Albert Cheng killed Grandma.”

  “Bastard. Always was one. I tried telling her once, but I think Grandma loved him.” The man’s face colored with anger. “I can’t help. I’ve been cut off.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The Paris and Berlin Collectors are also down. Probably everyone in the whole bloody ME. The Allahs let us operate to keep information going, even if it was distorted. Anyone I knew who could tell me what’s happening in your country has vanished. I was planning on slipping away myself.”

  “You know more than us.”

  He frowned, perplexed again. “Why are you here? There are safer places to hide. South America. Africa.”

  “I don’t want to hide. I want to contact the Mufti’s son and let him know there are people in America who don’t want another war.”

  “Who knows if he’s even alive?” The owner made a cautious face and they fell silent until an Allah couple stopped window browsing and moved on. “The Mufti could be dead. Or the Son. There are all sorts of rumors. I do know there was a rebellion near Dublin. Bad battle between the Irish Martyrs Brigade and Holy Warriors.”

  “We’ve still got soldiers in the field?”

  The man shook his head and spit-polished a smudge on the glass. “Converts. Supposedly. God love the Irish, pretending all these years, just waiting. From what I hear, they gave the Camels a good pasting before vanishing. But the Allahs torched Dublin in retaliation.”

  “So everyone’s fighting everyone?” Annette asked.

  “It could be isolated. Or not. Certainly Abdullah and his father. How much….” His voice trailed off. “Their news is piping up about the battle near Iceland, but that’s a lot of bollocks. They’re using old footage.”

  “Least that’s something,” Puppy murmured.

  “We can’t get to the Allahs anymore.”

  “But Puppy’s a hero here,” Annette jumped in.

  “I won’t be an Allah hero.” Puppy snapped.

  “You already are.”

  The owner cleared his throat, waiting until they simmered down. “There is John. He could help.”

  He scribbled an address on a slip of paper. “This is the only contact info I have for his people. He’s in Rome. Or somewhere in Italy, if he’s still alive. He and Abdullah recently spoke. I just know, trust me.” He held up his hand. “Yes, John could help.”

  “Why?” Puppy asked.

  The owner took a deep breath. “He was the last Pope.”

  The window-browsing couple bustled in noisily.

  “I can only offer ten qui
d for your filthy heresies. Take it or leave it.” The owner brusquely dismissed them, greeting the Allahs with a careful smile. “Masa al-khayr.”

  Two jeeps overflowing with black-robed soldiers chased the English off the streets, brandishing rifles and shouting. Puppy and Annette ducked down an alley, crouching behind a garbage can.

  “Italy was famous for leather goods,” Annette said hopefully, making him laugh. They drifted asleep for a moment.

  “Hiding?” A long-faced man in a black robe tottered towards them, a whip at his belt.

  “No sir,” Annette said casually. “We’re just getting out of the way.”

  “Nah.” The man grinned fiendishly. “You’re hiding. Papers?” He stank of alcohol.

  “Left them in the flat,” Puppy said firmly. “We’ll be heading home now.”

  “Curfew.” He weaved slightly. “No papers, you die. Allah will be pleased.”

  The whip curled around Annette’s shoulders; she fell with a scream. The Allah pulled a long knife from his boot and lunged at Puppy, who punched him in the mouth. The Allah toppled against the garbage can. Puppy wrapped the whip around the man’s throat, tightening the leather until the Allah’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

  Puppy kicked the dead man in the head.

  “Shit, Puppy, shit,” Annette moaned at the blood oozing out of Puppy’s side. He blanched and sat down, watching with dull eyes as Annette ripped apart the corpse’s robe, tying it around Puppy’s side.

  She wrapped her arms around Puppy’s waist and dragged his leaden body down the alley. Annette stopped twice to make sure he was still breathing. They staggered down a narrow cobble-stoned street of tightly packed houses. She kicked at doors, crying for help.

  A door finally opened slightly.

  “Please, help.”

  The Allah woman frowned at the blood falling outside her neat flower pots. She hesitated, then nodded them inside.

  Annette couldn’t hold up Puppy anymore and he collapsed to his knees. A wiry old man hopped out of a battered armchair a few feet from a loud vidscreen and shouted at the pretty young woman, who shouted back. She and Annette carried Puppy into the bathroom and laid him on a thin rug. The woman jerked her head for Annette to leave.

  “No way.”

  “Go,” the woman said coldly. “Or you both leave.”

  Annette wanted to smack the woman silly, but Puppy gestured weakly and she reluctantly left. The old man yelled at her.

  The woman tore away Puppy’s shirt, cleaning and stitching the deep wound.

  “You allergic to penicillin?”

  Puppy shrugged; she jabbed a needle into his arm.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “I’m a doctor,” she said angrily. After washing her hands, the woman fetched a woolen shirt and pants from a bedroom, engaging in another shouting match with the old man and ignoring Annette’s anxious question about Puppy’s condition. She closed the bathroom door, dressed Puppy and called for Annette. He sat up like a puppet on the stained rug.

  “You will go now,” the doctor said.

  “Is he okay?”

  “As good as he can be.”

  Annette didn’t like Puppy’s white face. “Can we rest here a little first?”

  “No,” she said harshly. “Or else they will find you and kill all of us.”

  The doctor helped them to the door, ignoring the old man’s shouts. She tucked a handful of pills into Annette’s pocket.

  “Give this to him every four hours. And keep the wound clean. Now please leave.”

  She closed the front door and turned out the lights, room by room.

  They hobbled very slowly up a hill through the quiet dark neighborhood.

  “How you doing, Pup?” Annette asked as they rested briefly in the doorway of an English hair salon.

  His head lolled. “Would like to sleep.”

  Annette dragged him another few blocks, animal sounds growing nearer. Just around a corner were the remnants of a church, the steeple gone, the stained glass windows shattered, goats and pigs milling in the courtyard.

  Annette inhaled bravely and carried Puppy past the noisy beasts and through a door marked with a red X. Stepping around animal shit as best as she could, Annette half-dropped Puppy on a bench in the front row. A statue of Jesus, defiled with red Arabic lettering, looked at them through sightless eyes. Allahu Akbar obscured a large, broken cross.

  Annette used her jacket as Puppy’s pillow and lay beside him, arm around his shoulder, head against his chest.

  “That hurt?”

  “Not at all. I could easily pitch five innings.” He so wished he had some water.

  A pig passed with a haughty snort. Annette snorted back and the pig trotted away.

  “Why’d that woman help us?” she finally asked.

  “She’s a doctor.”

  Annette considered this. “But she’s still our enemy.”

  “Most people are confused and uncertain, honey. Unfortunately, the certain people rule the world.”

  She propped up on an elbow. “Are you going to say profound things like that all night?”

  “Probably.” He returned her smile so she wouldn’t worry.

  “Is Italy far?”

  “A few miles.”

  “You’re lying so I won’t worry about the shit we’re in.”

  “Yes.”

  She rubbed his forehead. “At least we like spaghetti.”

  “See? All’s not lost.”

  “I never made pasta right.”

  “Or anything. You’re a lousy cook.”

  “Thanks. Maybe I can buy a cookbook when we get to Rome.”

  “Good idea,” he mumbled.

  Annette pulled Clary’s silver crucifix out of her pocket. “What’s this called again?”

  He squinted. “A Christian cross.”

  “Why?”

  “Jesus Christ was killed on a cross. That guy.” Wincing, he pointed at the statue. “They nailed his hands and feet.”

  “Fucking Allahs.”

  “No, Annette. It was the Romans.” He felt so sad at that answer. It would’ve been much easier to blame the Arabs.

  “How come?”

  “He talked a lot of shit about people loving each other. We see where that gets you.”

  “It got us this far.” Annette nestled against his chest. “You have to take another pill in four hours.”

  Father Dempsey woke up at four-fifteen, as always, to shoo the animals out of his church. There were no parishioners and he would be shot if anyone caught him, but he had nothing else to do.

  The Father gasped at Puppy and Annette, asleep on the bench, the woman clutching the silver crucifix.

  Brave Christians. All I do is chase away beasts. Dempsey knelt and prayed, then covered the couple with a ragged blanket. He drove off a goat gnawing on Annette’s shoe.

  Overheard, missiles seared the sky.

  TO BE CONTINUED…

  GARY MORGENSTEIN’S OTHER novels are Jesse’s Girl; Loving Rabbi Thalia Kleinman; Take Me Out to the Ballgame and The Man Who Wanted to Play Center Field for the New York Yankees. An accomplished playwright, Morgenstein wrote the critically acclaimed off-Broadway rock musical The Anthem, as well as the musical Mad Mel Saves the World, and his dramatic works range from A Tomato Can’t Grow in the Bronx to Right on Target, Ponzi Man and Saving Stan. Morgenstein, who grew up in the shadow of his beloved Yankee Stadium, now lives in Brooklyn with his wife, writer-critic Marcina Zaccaria.