Dead Man Running

by Davis, Barry

  "I would like to see a demonstration of the device," Wiley said.

  "Certainly," replied Allen. "We're prepared to show you its full capabilities. Please follow me."

  The group – minus the warm blooded humans Mira and Hamid - ended up in the stands of a deserted Palestra, Penn's famed basketball arena. Two zombie scientists held a man and woman. The woman was young, white or Puerto Rican, and scantily dressed. The man was just a slight bit older, white, and dressed in a leather jacket with tats and bling ringing his neck.

  "A pimp and his whore," said Allen, stating the obvious.

  "Yo brother!" shouted Mookie.

  Wiley smiled at his friend. "The building is secure?" he asked.

  Allen nodded. "Our people made arrangements to close the building. We have swept the premises twice for any unwanted witnesses."

  "I want a true demonstration," he said. "Tell the guards to release the man and woman and step away."

  Allen spoke into his radio and soon the guards were walking toward the stands. The two prisoners bolted for the exits, each going in a different direction.

  Allen's assistant dropped two globes on the stairs and the machines instantly activated, rolled down the stairs and accelerated toward the victims.

  The girl was caught before she hit the exits. The globe deployed, the darts raining down on her, striking her body over a dozen times. Given the amount of poison entering her bloodstream, the effect was quick. She fell to the ground, retched several times, and then she died. It all happened in less than a minute.

  Her pimp was futilely pulling on the locked exit doors when his globe deployed. He managed to stop most of the darts with his thick leather coat but the cloud of cyanide did its job. He stumbled around for several minutes, his mean face turning blue in the process. He finally collapsed and he died in about twelve minute's time.

  Wiley and the others watched from up close as the inner core opened and the device began its sinister message. Soon the two law breakers were part of the new dawn of America. Wiley instructed them to clean up the mess created by their conversion then to go on with their normal lives until called upon.

  Mira and Hamid observed from a small office above the scoreboard. Hamid had produced a small video recorder and recorded the entire demonstration. "For our protection," he answered when she asked why he had concealed a camera in the heel of his left shoe.

  They watched in silence as the globes were deployed and the humans were transformed.

  Taping done, Hamid placed the recorder back into his heel. They watched as Wiley and his group walked toward the exits.

  Hamid looked at Mira. The look on her grandfather's face troubled her.

  "You don't trust Wiley?" she asked.

  "I don't trust that he won't stop trying to find ways to break our hold on him. He wants absolute power, so he's trying to figure out how he can kill us or convert us and he would still be alive. We make lie to his claim of absolute power. The others will always see us as the puppet masters."

  "You thought he would stop with the presidency?"

  Hamid nodded. "I thought he never had a chance at president."

  "He's a step closer."

  "Yes but that's not really the problem. I mean, the presidency is mostly an inert position. What harm can the man actually do? So, he serves a term or two – America is broke and Congress is a bunch of squabbling children. Nothing will get done. He would bask in the power for a while then go away. Maybe help our people as a bonus for our assistance."

  "But he wants to take over the world and we're helping him."

  Hamid faced his granddaughter. "Only until I can figure out how to stop him."

  "We have a way – you killing yourself would destroy Wiley. I would have to die to stop the ones I've created. The spell that gives them life ends when our lives end."

  He took her hand. "We need to find another way."

  She squeezed his hand tightly. "What if there is no other way? And how many do we let him kill before we stop trying to figure it out?"

  The elderly man was crying. Mira wiped away his tears. "I wanted so much for you. I am so sorry I led us to this."

  "We'll find a way, grandfather Hamid."

  Hamid nodded, took Mira's hand and led her out of the room. "We have to catch up with the others," he said.

  Their shoes echoed on the well worn hallway floor. "I have Biran doing some research." Biran Hidar was Mira's brother who had not been blessed with the gift of magic. What he did possess, as the family's historian, was a knowledge of ancient spells and incantations that may be useful. He also had contacts throughout the world of magic and mysticism that could be valuable resources in the fight against Wiley.

  Mira thought about her 'friend with benefits', Congressman Turnbull. Is he an ally? She didn't know the answer to that question and it troubled her. She needed to be cautious around him but she should probe his feelings. Was he thinking the same way?

  At some point she would have to risk it – her life and that of her grandfather – and confront him. If he sided with Wiley they may not have a choice – she and her grandfather would have to kill themselves to stop this horror.

  Back in the laboratory, Wiley congratulated Allen, his team and Hamid. He was exhilarated with the results and told them so.

  Mira had been quiet once back in Wiley's presence. Her shock and wonder at the demonstration had turned into a cold feeling of regret. "What have we let loose upon the world?" she asked herself.

  The answer to that question would come in time and further steel her resolve to undo what she has wrought.

  SIXTEEN

  WASHINGTON DC – SEPTEMBER 2011

  Elias Turnbull was nothing but a creature of habit. If important enough to kill, he would be very easy to kill. Up by five, he worked out in the fitness room of his luxury apartment building, was in the shower by five thirty and out his front door by six. At eight minutes after six he hit the first Starbucks that crossed his path on the way to the Capital building. Inside his order never changed: venti half white mocha, half cafe vanilla, easy ice, with 2 shots poured appigato style (over the top) with whip and caramel drizzle frappachino.

  He left the Starbucks and made a left turn. Before reaching the end of the block a homeless man called for his attention. He was a thin white man with stringy blond hair in severe need of a shampoo. His clothes were classic homeless trash. He wore several days' growth on his face and a layer of dirt that almost made him appear black. He waved Elias toward him. "A little help, congressman?"

  Elias looked around – his fellow pedestrians were watching. God help him if someone pulled out a cell and began to record him ignoring this bum. He smiled at his fellow sidewalk surfers and turned toward the man casually set up on the early fall sidewalk.

  Elias reached into his pocket and handed the man the dollar bill he kept handy for beggars. It was something his mentor Ben Wiley had taught him.

  The man reached out and took the money. With his other hand he handed Elias a slip of paper.

  "I hear that the capital is crawling with zombies, Representative Turnbull. And that the zombie in charge is your former boss."

  Elias stumbled backward. This was no bum, the man spoke with the crisp diction of an Oxford professor. Who was he? Secret Service? CIA? FBI? MI6?

  He quick walked away from the corner. It was four blocks before he remembered the piece of paper in his hand. It read simply, "MEET ME" and gave a time and address. As he trudged through another day of DC politics Elias considered the meeting. Finally, he decided to show up.

  He made one other fateful decision - he decided to keep the meeting secret from Wiley and his growing army of undead. A decision like that, if found out, could make him the main course at a zombie banquet.

  Congressman Turnbull sat in the upper deck of Nationals Park. Below him, far below, the inept Nats toiled in a desultory late season contest against the Philadelphia Phillies. A lifetime Mets fan, Elias was rooting hard for the Nats but it was no go
od. They were serving up moon shot after moon shot – pitching and defense seemed toxic concepts to this group. It was the sixth inning and the Nationals trailed by ten runs.

  Elias had been surrounded by several fans, seemingly drawn by one dollar dog night. As the beat down continued, the crowd diminished. His closest neighbor, six rows away, had consumed six combos of watered down beers and steroid filled mystery meat dogs. The man had spent most of the past ninety minutes either at the concession stand or in the bathroom. As the blowout deepened and the sparse crowd thinned out further, the man eliminated the need to hit the bathroom by whizzing into his empty beer cups.

  The man was pulling down his fly for another piss when someone sat next to Elias. Surrounded by dozens of empty seats, Elias expected it was the bum from earlier who sat beside him.

  What he got was a man dressed in pressed jeans, a silk shirt, Timberlake boots and leather jacket. He had to stare hard before he realized that he was viewing the same man from before, only a younger, infinitely cleaner version. Gone were the beard, stringy blond hair, blackened teeth and God awful smell. This gentleman could easily have stepped out of GQ.

  "Manchester Lee," the man said. He extended his right hand and the two shook.

  Elias looked around. "I don't know what you want to discuss with me, Mr. Lee, but I think it should be a private discussion."

  To either side of them, the nearest person was forty feet away. The 'crowd' continued to bleed out as the Nats were not giving anyone much hope for a comeback.

  The man below them was peeing into his cup. He shook his penis to get the last remaining drops into the container. "There is no public place more private than Nationals Park during an actual game," Lee said.

  Elias looked around, assured himself of their privacy, and nodded. "Speak," he said.

  "I'm a Brit, obviously, transplanted to New Orleans following Katrina. The Times sent me to cover the story and I absolutely fell in love with the city. I couldn't leave."

  "Good for you. Wake me when we come to the zombie part."

  Lee smiled and nodded. "Ah, the secret word. Zombies."

  Elias returned the smile. "You sure you don't want to talk about vampires, too? I hear they're the hot shit right now."

  "How's this? I'll tell you what I know and who I represent. At the end of my tale, you simply walk away. Tomorrow morning, if you plan to help us, you order café mocha from your neighborhood Starbucks instead of that comfabulous concoction you order every morning."

  "How long have you been watching me?"

  "Long enough to know that you'll die from diabetes or a stroke from all the caffeine and sugar you consume daily. So, do you agree to my proposition?"

  "Yes, get on with it."

  "Once I left the London Times I obtained a position with the Times-Picayune. As soon as my shine wore off – you know the wonder of having a Brit covering New Orleans news - they placed me on the crime beat. I became somewhat well known in the city and one day I received a phone call from a woman. She claimed that her dead husband was killing her cats and that the police refused to help her."

  "Here come the zombies," Elias said.

  "Yes, quite. I investigated the woman's claims thinking that there was a good story here about the lingering Old World voodoo beliefs still present in twenty-first century New Orleans. I took the normal route, interviewing religious experts from the universities, noted Vodou practitioners and a few true believers. Finally I sat down with the woman to interview her. I had almost the entire piece written – it would expose this so called religion as a bunch of rubbish, misleading a community still devastated by Katrina. Before I could ask my first question, he husband enters the room."

  "Zombies don't exist," Elias said.

  "Indeed, that was my thought. I thought that I had caught this woman in a lie. Unfortunately when the late Mr. Roudet fully presented himself for my inspection, I realized that he was dead. He had been a dark skinned man but his skin was very pale, almost as if he wore a layer of flour."

  "Maybe he was?"

  "He wasn't. I touched his skin and came away with no residue whatsoever. I felt his wrist for a pulse, listened for a heartbeat. There was nothing, Mr. Roudet was dead. He then proceeded to misbehave and consume one of his wife's favorite kittens."

  Elias started to speak but Lee silenced him with his hand.

  "I went ahead and published the story as first conceived – these fakers taking advantage of a devastated city. I then went back to the practitioners and told them what I saw. They were grateful that I did not 'out' them. They took me into their confidence. Since then I have left my employers and have started a fairly well read blog on the supernatural. The purpose is more educational than sensational. I wanted to pave the way for the real practitioners of Vodou to come out of the dark and into the light.

  "About two months ago, some of the city's prominent Vodou queens began to disappear. The remaining queens retreated to a secret location and combined their powers to determine the fate of their peers. That is when they saw Benjamin Wiley and his wizards making the women into zombies. They were able to place a spell on Wiley – very difficult to do with a zombie – and were able to see him, hear him as he went about his business. He has since learned of the spell and has had it blocked."

  The 'crowd' stood for the seventh inning stretch, even pee boy, their nearest neighbor. The two well dressed men remained seated.

  "That surveillance revealed his plans for world domination, which devastated the queens. Vodou was never meant to be used for such things – it is a religion – and Mr. Wiley has perverted a part of their belief system in a plot apparently to convert mankind into feed stock. We intend to stop him but we need a man inside. What we need to know from you is: are you willing to help?"

  Manchester Lee stood, again offered his hand. Elias shook the man's hand.

  "Interesting fairy tale, Mr. Lee."

  "Call me Manchester and I hope you enjoy your café mocha tomorrow morning, congressman. It really is quite better for your health."

  The next morning, after a sleepless night of imagining Wiley's security forces storming his apartment carrying the head of Manchester Lee, Elias drifted out of his apartment. He hit the Starbucks and ordered the café mocha. He paid and the barista handed him his drink. He took a sip – there wasn't enough caffeine and sugar to satisfy his taste. While walking to his office he finished the drink anyway. He wanted to examine the cup.

  There was no message written anywhere, inside or out.

  He finally reached his office and greeted his staff. After disposing of some pressing legislative and constituent issues Elias was alone at his desk, head nodding. Given his lack of sleep and heightened stress, Elias couldn't swear that what happened next really happened.

  His head had just snapped back up from almost hitting the desk. When he looked up he saw what appeared to be a faded projection of an old woman in a tattered dress of an old fashioned design. He could actually see through the woman so he knew she was not real. Was she a ghost? Whatever it was, it spoke to him in words that were only in his head.

  "Good morning, Congressman Turnbull. Thank you for making the right decision. My name is Mama Tenneday and my blood was in that café mocha."

  Elias opened his mouth, and then finally closed it.

  "No worries, mon chere. Mama Tenneday do not hurt you – it will let me talk to you like this and read your thoughts."

  "You can read my mind?" Elias said out loud.

  Mama Tenneday put her finger to her lips. "I can only hear what you want me to hear."

  Elias thought, 'What do you want me to do?'

  "Just look, listen and learn. I have a window now to what you see and hear. We need to know as much about Wiley and his plans as possible," Elias heard her say.

  Elias nodded and the specter was gone. He called his chief of staff into his office for the sole purpose of obtaining a location on Ben Wiley. Turns out Wiley had gone out to Montana to rally the HUD troops in the Nor
thwest sector.

  Elias' service as a low tech surveillance device would have to wait.

  Rebecca Singler was kicking herself. Figuratively, it turns out, as she was locked in a cage meant to contain a grey wolf, not a one hundred and seventeen pound woman.

  She had heard good things about Wiley from her friends back east. How he was really listening, really all about transforming HUD into an organization that was dedicated to its mission to help those less unfortunate in our society. That's why Becky Sings – the nickname her friends tagged her with in grade school – joined HUD. She wanted to help the poor. When she heard Wiley was coming to her region to jump start the team and that he was doing so off site at some old dude ranch in Montana, she jumped at the chance to attend.

  Now, look at her. She was trussed up like a hog and stuffed in a dog cage.

  Things had started well. The Secretary personally greeted her group as they hit the terminal in Butte. He asked each person for his or her support. She was pleasantly surprised – the black men she dealt with in Seattle were not very personable. They were just interested in making Becky Sings a white notch on their black belts.

  For once, here was a black man who was not interested in her body. He actually asked her what was on her mind.

  The ranch was beautiful – it being September there was no snow – but Wiley and the ranch owner led the attendees on a nature hike and white water rafting excursion. That was the first day. The second day Wiley opened the conference with a rousing speech. He said all the right things – how he wanted to make the organization more efficient, bring more of the available resources to bear on HUD's mission to provide a safety net for those in need. Rebecca and her co-workers felt energized that second day. That night was capped by a banquet and a surprise visit by Wiley's boss, the president. Little Becky Sings from Osmond, Washington shook the hand of the President of the United States. It would be something she would remember for the rest of her life.

  For however long that was.

  The next day started well with an optional prayer breakfast. After that, those who did not attend breakfast joined the group for a final brainstorming session. There must have been seventy people in that room, seventy people who, in a flash, were panicked and fighting for their lives.