Dead Man Running

by Davis, Barry

"We're almost there, Mookie. One more step and we will lead the free world."

  "You'll control fifty percent of the world's airspace."

  "Yes. When we control Russia and China nothing will stop us."

  The pair watched the video together until the time came for Wiley to leave for the White House.

  Wiley left, leaving Mookie some free time. He closed up his laptop and walked back to his office.

  There, he retrieved a sat phone. He uploaded the Biden video onto the phone then transmitted the video.

  The communication was one way, it always was. One thing he did know was that the recipient would not be as amused as his boss, Benjamin Wiley.

  West Texas Tea Party chairman Bernard 'Bucky' Weatherly watched Fox News as the announcers nearly broke their tongues breathlessly reporting the rumor that Vice President Biden had decided to not run for re-election.

  As he watched the big screen with the sound turned down low, he drank down a cold can of Bud with his left hand and flipped through files on his laptop with his right.

  Frustrated, he called Mary Lou Poteet, his vice chair. The woman picked up on the first ring.

  "Hey Mary Lou, can you send me the transcript from the January coordinating call?"

  "Is there something wrong, Bucky? You sound kinda stressed honey."

  Bucky looked up at the screen. They were too late. He was gonna get their man.

  "Ain't nothing wrong another six or seven Bud's won't cure, ML. Can you send me the file?"

  "It's already on its way, Bucky."

  He thanked his right hand woman and opened his email program. Before he could access the file his phone rang.

  He answered and a voice spoke with no preamble. "You seeing this?"

  "I'm seeing," Bucky answered. He recognized the voice as that of Russell Harper, Tea Party chair from Virginia.

  "Do'ya wanna try to make a call? Maybe it's not too late."

  "It's too late Russ. We had our chance back in January. We could'a stepped in before this primary fiasco and got a true fiscal conservative to carry our banner."

  "You think he would have accepted?"

  "We'll never know, will we? Now we're stuck with Obama and Romney – a tax and spend liberal and a tax and spend moderate."

  "Will Wiley make a difference on the Obama ticket?"

  Bucky sighed. "VP don't count for nothing Russ. You gotta be the man in order to make a real difference." He took a deep slug of his beer. The can was nearly empty. He reached down into the cooler at his feet and retrieved another.

  "What do we do now, Bucky?"

  "Pray is what we do. Pray Obama wins then catches the flu." He laughed. Given the assumed government monitoring of his phone calls that was as far as he would go in wishing the Great Satan harm.

  He said his goodbyes to Harper, emptied one can and started on another.

  He opened the WORD file and paged through Mary Lou's exhaustive transcript until he reached the section that interested him.

  Bucky: I would like to recommend that the Tea Party coalesce into a national political party and nominate as our first presidential candidate Benjamin Wiley. His efforts to cut his department's budget have been highly effective. Importantly, he has made several enemies across the political spectrum from all of the Washington tit suckers and scrotum tuggers. His race is helpful, putting an end once and for all the mainstream media fed lie that the Tea Party is racist. Any thoughts?

  Russell Harper: I want to disclose that Bucky and I had sidebar conversations about this prior to our conference call. I wholeheartedly agree with this proposal. I can confirm that Wiley has angered a great many in the Democratic Party and Washington establishment. The entitlement jockeys are shuddering that this man may get four more years to cut budgets. I think he is the right person to carry the Tea Party banner.

  Bucky: Laura, how about you. How will this play in Oklahoma?

  Laura Simonds: I didn't have the benefit of a head's up that this was gonna be on the agenda, Bucky. As the chair of our governing meetings I think you need to put everything on the agenda.

  Bucky: I thought it best not to put certain things in writing, Laura. Now, what do you think about Wiley?

  Laura: I think people out here would have some concerns. I mean, he's doing good now but for what, twenty years, he was just another liberal from the North. A cheetah don't change his stripes, Bucky.

  Allen West: I agree with Laura, Bucky. Florida would have a problem with Wiley. What's his position on abortion, gun rights?

  Bucky: Allen, I thought that the Tea Party focus was fiscal, not social.

  Allen West: It certainly is Bucky. I think we all want to make government smaller but we need to bring morality back to the DC cesspool.

  Amos Rosetree: We have to be realistic, Bucky. Most our members will still see Wiley as Obama's stooge. I agree what he has done is impressive, even revolutionary. I just don't think I could sell the guy to my party regulars in Minnesota.

  Jennifer Collins-Jones: I hate to complete a negative chorus, Bucky, but….I would be hard pressed to raise money for a former Democrat among donors in Arizona and Nevada. He could part the fiscal Red Sea but folks just won't support a black Democrat. Sorry Allen.

  Allen West: No offense taken, Jennifer. I'm black but proudly not a Democrat.

  Bucky: I'm going to close this agenda item. I will add, before we move on, that I think this committee is making a grave mistake.

  Bucky Weatherly looked up from the transcript. He turned the sound up on the television. The Great Satan and Joe Biden were making their way to the Rose Garden for an announcement.

  Joe Biden stood next to the president before a bank of reporters in the Rose Garden. As 'The Man' extolled his virtues to a daytime national television audience numbering close to one hundred million, Biden had one thought. He wanted to rip Obama's head off his skinny neck and eat it.

  You see, Joe Biden was very hungry. He wished this ceremony was over so he could retreat to the Vice President's official residence. His security detail had secured a couple of choice homeless persons for dinner. Biden salivated at the thought of freshly cleaned white meat.

  Finally the windbag was done. Obama extended his hand and Joe Biden used all his self control to not pull the man's arm from its socket. He gently shook Obama's hand and took his place in front of the podium.

  Joe Biden was determined to make this quick – dinner was in the offing and Biden, even as a human, was always a hungry creature.

  "Thank you, Mr. President. It has been an honor and pleasure to serve under such a great American patriot." He shook Obama's hand once again, turned back to the cameras and gave his most serious but sincere stare. "I love America and have been privileged to serve it. I'll leave it to others to say whether I served it well. At this time I've decided that I would like to retire to devote myself to my beautiful wife Jill and our children and grandchildren."

  He waved to his wife, who, like her husband, was impatient to get home to their meal.

  Jill Biden especially like the feet, well cleaned, of course.

  "I would like to give way to others – younger, more energetic and innovative. It is their turn to carry this country into the glorious future that awaits it." A future of human stockades, breeding farms and rendering plants, thought Biden. Truly glorious it will be.

  Biden stepped away from the microphones, stunning the gathered press multitudes. By the time they started lobbing questions toward the pair, he and Obama were halfway back to the Oval Office.

  Biden's stomach growled again. He smiled – he would eat soon, a fabulous immediate future for him after his actions had launched a long term bright future for America.

  Elias Turnbull – Harlem congressman and newly minted zombie – rode in the back of the limo with Manchester Lee. The vehicle approached the French Quarter where Elias planned to dump Lee's corpse.

  Lee sat rigid next to Elias, not from fear or dread but from the injection of cyanide administered about ten minutes
beforehand. The convulsions had come and gone, and Lee was in and out of consciousness. He had trouble getting enough oxygen into his lungs.

  He also had difficulty replying to the patter coming from the monster who used to be his comrade.

  "You death will signal the magical community that it is futile to oppose Benjamin Wiley and his wonderful plans for humanity."

  "Extinction," Lee managed.

  Elias laughed. "A true believer to the end, I see." He patted Lee's leg. "It won't be long my friend. Your death will save others a horrible end. You need to feel proud about your contribution."

  Lee simply could not get enough air but he was determined to respond to this monster.

  He gulped wildly in an attempt to fill his lungs.

  "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on Elias," he said.

  "No, fuck you," Elias responded and he pinched the man's nose and mouth shut.

  Manchester Lee, beaten and drugged, did not struggle long before death embraced him.

  Elias – dismissing his security men's concerns – dragged Lee's body out of the vehicle himself. He was amazed at how strong he was now that he was dead. Food and sex were more pleasurable as a zombie. He wondered why he had resisted the idea so long.

  He slung one of Lee's arms around his shoulder and Elias staggered down the street with the corpse.

  At nearly 3 in the morning, in the French Quarter, this did not seem so unusual of a sight and nary one drunken reveler paid attention.

  Elias dragged Lee down the street until they were opposite Madame Belle Etienne's voodoo shop. He knew Etienne was part of Lee's insurgency and leaving the body outside her doorstep would be very effective.

  He crossed the street with the corpse and climbed the stairs to Etienne's establishment.

  Gently, he propped Lee against the shop's front door. He appeared to be just another drunk who had found someplace to sleep things off.

  Elias stepped down the stairs and headed back to the limo. His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked at the phone and smiled.

  Mira Hidar had not heard from Elias Turnbull in several days. Although she would not ever allow any man to call her 'girlfriend' or 'wife', she did miss their conversations. She also missed the sex, the hit and run adventures they had in bed were delicious memories.

  Was she in love? Mira had to think about it, which unto itself was a first for her. Her heart had always belonged to magic, and her family. There was no room for anything else. Or was there?

  She dialed her cell – the question of love could wait until after the abomination of Wiley and his ilk had been extinguished.

  She made her call despite the early morning hour. She had to hear his voice.

  "Hello," Elias answered and Mira felt a thrill in her heart. Wherever he was, it was noisy.

  "It's me," she said.

  "Mira my dear."

  "Where are you? Are you drunk?"

  His voice was thick, suggesting to Mira that the man was partying. She wondered who he was partying with.

  "I'm in New Orleans, on an errand for Wiley."

  "Anything you can talk about?" she asked.

  Elias looked back at Madame Etienne's establishment and the corpse propped against the door.

  "He had me deliver a message, sweetheart."

  Sweetheart? Dear? Was this some kind of code? Elias had never called her any endearing names. He knew she wouldn't stand for it.

  "Did you call just to hear my voice or did you have something to tell me?"

  Mira decided that this was not the best time to discuss the reverse zombie bomb. That conversation could wait until they were face to face. She wouldn't even ask the natural question of whether he had made contact with the New Orleans resistance.

  "I just wanted to hear your voice," she said.

  "Is that right? What about keeping your distance? Being just friends and all that bullshit?"

  "Maybe you're getting to me." This, she realized, was not a lie.

  "Well, well. The ice queen is melting."

  "Perhaps."

  She heard a door open and close and the background noise was muted. "I'm thrilled by your new found warmth toward me. I assure you the feeling is mutual. I want to taste….your lips and eat…..your delicious bits. I'll be back on the coast soon and we'll get together to make your wet dreams a reality."

  "I'll see you then," she said and clicked off.

  Elias was as salacious as any man but had never spoken to her like that. Something was wrong.

  She decided to be proactive. She retrieved the number for Manchester Lee that Elias had provided. She dialed the number but the call went to voice mail.

  She clicked off, too smart to leave a message.

  She would have to wait until Elias returned east. Perhaps then she could find out what was happening.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  DALY CITY CALIFORNIA – JUNE 2012

  The school bus travelling to T.J. Endicott High School was sparsely populated. It was the second to last day of school and many of the parents had taken their children out of school to get a head start on month long international vacations.

  Tamesha Holloway, seated in the middle of the bus, tensed up as Hank Bartholomew sat next to her. Tamesha detected the smell of almonds, like someone had poured the almond extract Granny T used in her candied sweet potatoes all over Hank's body. She did not care for his company and therefore stood.

  "Please be seated Tamesha," the bus driver shouted.

  Tamesha, determined to change her seat, ignored the driver. What she could not ignore was the steel-like grip of one Henry 'Hank' Bartholomew III. He grabbed her wrist and Tamesha did all she could not to cry out in pain. He clearly wanted her to sit and she did.

  "I'm not going to hurt you, Tammy."

  She hated him using that name. Only Granny T was permitted to call her that. "My name is Tamesha," she said. "And you hurt my arm."

  "I didn't mean to," he replied. "Momma says I have strong fingers like Pop-Pop. She always says how Pop-Pop was good with his hands, before he died." He paused, thought for half a block. "He's dead now – cancer you know – so I guess his fingers aren't so strong anymore."

  "What do you want?"

  "I want you to be my friend," Hank answered. His voice went down to a whisper. "You're the only person I can trust," he added.

  Tamesha knew they still had ten minutes before they reached school, before she could escape Hank's attentions. She had no choice but to listen.

  "My parents are weird and so are the Chins. Don't you see it?" He looked around the bus, his eyes lingering on the bus driver seated behind the scratched Plexiglas. "They're not like me and you, none of them are." He patted her arm with his cold fingers. "As soon as I saw you, I knew you were meant for me. God had given you to me."

  "God gave me to my Momma and when she didn't want me, He sent me to live with my Granny T," Tamesha said.

  "That's not true," Hank shouted before modulating his voice again. Some of the other children emerged from their electronic haze to see what was happening. Hank, disturbed by the sudden attention, squeezed her arm once more, not as hard as before. He smiled vacantly.

  The scattering of students on the bus returned their attention to their electronic toys.

  "God placed you on the Earth for me. You and I will be married and multiply. Like Adam and Eve."

  "Okay," she said. She wanted him to let her go. Maybe by agreeing to his ramblings he would do so.

  "We'll get married, make babies and leave home." He placed a thoughtful finger against his nose. "Maybe not in that order." Tamesha smiled at him and he released her arm. He smiled back, teeth numerous, wide and radiant.

  His words came quickly as the bus pulled in front of the school. "Will you go with me Tammy? You see I've decided to rename you Tammy. How do you like your new name? Don't you want to be a totally new person like me?"

  "Yes," she said as she slipped past the delighted boy.

  There would be no bus ride home
this afternoon nor a bus ride to school tomorrow. She would make sure of that. Tamesha could feel the sickness coming over her already, necessitating a ride home from Mr. or Mrs. Chin. She would bravely volunteer to attend the last day of school, if her foster parents could see themselves clear to provide door to door transportation.

  They would, because the Chin's were nice people. It wasn't their fault that they lived next door to a monster that would likely kill them all.

  Zombie Ben Wiley, murderer of thousands, was ushered into the Oval Office by a presidential aide. As he stepped into the historic space, Axelrod and Obama awaited him.

  The president, long and lean, was the first to extend his hand. "Welcome, Ben," he said.

  Wiley then shook hands with Axelrod. The shrewd political operator had a reluctant smile on his thin lips. "Good to see you again, Ben," he said and Ben Wiley counted that as the first of many lies he would hear in the room.

  Why not bomb the two and be done with it?

  Wiley had heard that question more than once from his aides. The answer: Americans respect authority in times of crisis. As America awoke to the zombie threat from without and within, its duly elected Vice President, named president after Obama's death, would be unquestioned regarding the steps he took to secure the homeland. As with Lincoln and Roosevelt in wars past, he could ruthlessly eliminate dissent by suspending habeas corpus and housing threatening citizens in concentration camps. Only this time the prisons and camps would fill and empty quickly as the human meat was rendered for the increasingly hungry zombie masses. The domestic population would need to be managed with a steel glove until complete control of the military was achieved. Then, the zombie atomic bombs would be deployed over America's skies, eliminating all further resistance.

  They sat on the couch. In front of the couch was the rug featuring the American eagle. Ben had been thinking about the symbol of the new earth. Perhaps a severed hand, with fingers rolled into a tight fist. He even had a motto, a twist of the old Maine credo: "Die then live free."