Killer Z

by Miller, Greg L.

  The train doors shut and they settle into hard plastic beige seats. He goes through the mental check list for the ceremony. His position as an assistant to the Director of the Library of Congress’s Scholarly programs mainly consists of dealing with people and correspondence. Recently he was given the special assignment of organizing the annual awards ceremony honoring endeavors in peace and education.

  “Rebecca, did you remember my blood pressure medicine?”

  Rebecca sets aside the paper and digs in her purse. She hands him the medication and dry swallows her own small, white pill.

  “Are the new pills helping? What are they called?”

  “Yes, they are. Z something.”

  Rebecca has been getting headaches ever since their son, Sam, told them he wasn’t joining them in D.C. as planned. When Michael was hired at the Library of Congress, they allowed Sam to stay with the grandparents to finish his senior year in Marquette, Michigan.

  The metro is fairly empty. Two old ladies chatter like chipmunks. Behind them a man reeking of urine and booze snores. Across the aisle a pretty girl in a red Burger Baron uniform focuses on her phone while an obese boy rambles about gaming. Above them a public service poster encourages hand washing for the upcoming flu season.

  Rebecca finishes the International section and asks, “Do you want the comics?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I’ll take ‘em,” the fast food worker interrupts.

  Juliet holds out her hand and flashes a friendly smile.

  “Hey Michael, listen to this,” Rebecca says as she gives the comics to Juliet. “Did you know FEMA camps are being built around America? It says FEMA is preparing three million caskets for an epidemic. Why does FEMA need three million caskets? Isn’t that creepy?”

  “Yeah, that’s creepy.”

  “You know the Mayans believe we’re at the end of a cycle?”

  “Who cares about the Mayans? We’re more likely to have a nuclear war, biological war, chemical war, genocide, or a super bug. Feel free to pick a way the world could end, it’s all subjective after the wheel in sky stops spinning. I wouldn’t worry about FEMA or conspiracy theorists, honey.”

  “You’re probably right. Wow, that’s interesting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Scientists working with the Coast Guard found an ancient civilization on the bottom of Lake Michigan. It says a recent earthquake shifted the lake’s floor and divers found artifacts predating Vikings. Maybe it’s the lost city of Atlantis.”

  “I read the lost city of Atlantis is beneath the Bermuda triangle.”

  “Wouldn’t it be cooler to have it under Lake Michigan?”

  The train comes to a stop at Union Station and they disembark.

  Near the Freedom Bell a huge black police horse rears as a gap-toothed homeless man thrusts a cardboard sign with crooked writing in Michael’s face.

  The world ends today!

  Another filthy man shakes a cracked plastic cup in Rebecca’s face.

  ”Back off, you’re scaring my wife.”

  The man slinks away into the crowd.

  A block away Rebecca asks, “Why would a person bother begging if they thought the world was going to end?”

  3

  “There’s only one thing lazier than a city slicker and that’s a politician,” Fred mutters, echoing the sentiments of his father and grandfather.

  His dark blue Chevy truck rumbles down I-270 through the D.C suburbs. It’s Fred Smith’s second day of driving from Minnesota. He’s tired, hungry, and plagued with a permanent headache. The east coast is getting on his nerves but he tells himself not to be judgmental. He passes countless exits blocked by military personnel but nothing is on the radio.

  “Not that the suburbs are bad. At least there are trees,” he gripes.

  Fred tries changing lanes at the green interstate sign for Emory Grove but overshoots the exit and curses. Two days ago he received an emergency phone call from Kyle, his son, and walked away from his shift at the Northfield, Minnesota Coca-Cola factory. In thirty-two years of working he’s never missed a day.

  Kyle was supposed to have chosen an honest profession like his brothers, but the boy believed he was too good to work in a small town. In high school the kid wore ties, joined the student council over football, and disagreed with everything Fred ever tried teaching. Too much ambition complicates life and Fred, like his father before him, prefers keeping things simple.

  After college Kyle landed a job with the Smithsonian in Washington D.C. Months and then years with no phone calls had broken his mother’s heart and hardened Fred’s. Then, out of the blue, Kyle called.

  “Dad, I don’t know what do to. She died.”

  “Calm down, son. Who died?”

  “Sylvie, my wife,” Kyle replied, sobbing. “The doctors don’t know what happened. She was taking this trial drug and went into a coma. I can’t take care of a baby by myself!”

  The word baby stunned Fred. The story came out in halting starts and vague details. A little over a year ago Kyle met Sylvie at a bar. After a month of dating she turned up pregnant and they flew out to Vegas and got married. Baby Anthony was born two months ago. With the responsibility of a baby boy and no wife, Kyle finally remembered how to pick up the phone. Fred tries to push the resentment aside.

  “My son and grandson need me, so I have to forgive and forget.”

  Fred grips the steering wheel tightly and wonders how to drive common sense into his son. He doesn’t notice his foot on the pedal or the speedometer creeping past 85.

  4

  The morning goes painfully slow for Larry Anderson. Half the precinct called in sick with the flu. He twists his class ring around his finger and misses home. The rings engraving reads John C. Fremont Senior High, Los Angeles, California, Class of 1981. His last days in L.A. had been spent with K9s searching for bodies after multiple earthquakes destroyed much of the coast. Many were still out there trying to rebuild, but his mother insisted he relocate to D.C. She had moved years before with her fourth husband, a retired chief of police.

  “Is a football game on or something? Everybody called in sick,” Larry says.

  Alberto, his partner, shakes his head. They have nothing in common. Alberto is young and spends way too much time in the gym. Women liked real men, not pretty boys like that. In Larry’s mind he looks like Bruce Willis, rough, heroic, and attractive. In reality Larry is balding, built like an ox and has a tendency of offending women.

  “Larry, is Pixel ready?”

  “Yeah,” Larry mutters and glances at the dog in the back seat.

  The German Sheppard barks.

  “Pixel is a stupid name for a stupid dog,” Larry says.

  “What crawled up your ass?”

  “Just because some geek in computer crimes made a stupid comment about her fur doesn’t mean it should be her name.”

  “Joe’s right, her fur looks pixilated.”

  “Whatever, I’m bored.”

  “We’re cops. Being bored is part of the job.”

  Larry swishes his travel mug. Adding vodka to his coffee keeps the stress away. He scowls realizing the cup is empty.

  “Larry, we got one!”

  The radar gun clocks a truck with a Minnesota license plate going 87 mph. Larry flicks on the red and blue lights. Pixel’s eyes brighten and ears perk. The police cruiser zips into the rushing I-270 traffic.

  The truck pulls over under a Burger Baron billboard. Larry collects Pixel as Alberto approaches the driver’s window. He makes a tsk directing the dog to sniff the suspect’s car. Pixel whines and pulls him into the grass.

  “No stupid dog, this way.”

  Pixel sniffs at the grass for a moment, loses interest, and then finally sniffs the car for narcotics and explosives.

  “Car is clean,” he says and returns Pixel to the police cruiser.

  Alberto writes out a speeding ticket as the radio cackles, “Security detail needed at the West Lawn of the Capitol B
uilding. K9 requested.”

  5

  “Checkmate,” Harry Riberdy says.

  The vet moves the white queen across the weathered chess board and tips over his opponent’s black king.

  “Another ten dollars wasted,” Tom replies and rises from the table.

  “You need to focus on your end game.”

  Harry, a veteran of the Korean War, shifts his weight on the bench of one of ten cement chess tables in DuPont Circle. Congressmen, senators, businessmen, tourists and homeless vets like himself could be found in the park any day of the week. He’s gained the reputation of being a good player.

  “Tom, are you heading out?”

  “Yeah, I’m hungry.”

  “Have you seen Riley?”

  “Nope. How’s your favorite chess buddy been doing?”

  “Riley hasn’t been around for over a week.”

  Harry resets the pawns with his right hand. The left arm and hand has been missing since the Forgotten War.

  “Burger Baron is training newbies. We could steal grub when they aren’t looking.”

  Tom was once a banker but lost his family and career to booze. Harry tried helping him but man is dedicated to mooching.

  “Nah, you go on. I want to reel in a few suckers.”

  “Have a good one, Harry.”

  Tom leaves and Harry places thirty two chess pieces neatly on the board. His 80th birthday is steadily approaching. A guy dressed in slacks, a black dress shirt, and white shoes sits down. Harry looks him over - a college student, probably an intern of some sort. An easy target for sure.

  “Twenty dollars a game, if you lose I win twenty, but if you win, I give you twenty.”

  “Wassup, I’m Greg,”

  “Nice to meet you Greg, I’m Harry. How would you like it? Fast and hard, or long and drawn out?”

  Greg places two tens under the chess clock timer and says, “Neither, how about I win.”

  “You can try. What’s with the flashy white shoes?”

  “They’re comfortable.”

  Harry shrugs as Greg concentrates on the board. He’s good but makes a fatal error mid-game. Fifteen moves later and Harry tucks another twenty into his pocket. As the college kid leaves he wonders where Riley is. He recalls their last game.

  “Morning, Harry.”

  Riley, a tall, lanky African American hospital maintenance worker sits down across from him. He’d been coming to the park ever since his wife passed a year ago. He loses every game but still comes to play.

  “How was your weekend, Riley?”

  “Oh, quiet,” Riley says as he moves a black pawn forward two squares. “Kiddo was with her friends all weekend, gaming again. I wish she would go to college.”

  The “kiddo” is Riley’s twenty year old daughter, Juliet.

  “Your daughter, hell, this whole country just needs to get outside more often. You want to lose in ten moves or five?”

  The janitor laughs and says, “Ten.”

  Riley creates a solid defense with his white pawns but makes a foolish move and loses a bishop.

  “I think she’s just sticking around to look after me.”

  “That’s not bad is it?” Harry says and takes a rook.

  Riley shrugs, not really considering the idea.

  “I don’t know what to do with her,” he continues, his moves becoming careless. “Her mother was the most beautiful, elegant woman I’ve ever seen but Juliet’s a mess.”

  His voice lowers as he says, “I need to tell you a secret.”

  “What’s that?” Harry asks, not wanting to be distracted and takes the queen with his knight. “It’s your turn.”

  “Something bad is happening at the hospital.”

  A competitor impatiently stands behind Riley. The janitor absently moves a pawn and leans in closer to Harry.

  “People are getting hurt. I worry something might happen to me…”

  Harry checkmates Riley.

  “Checkmate. Look, I’m sure everything will be fine, man. Don’t worry so much.” Harry resets the chess pieces as Riley rises. “Sorry, but I need to keep playing to pay the bills.”

  “I pray to Jesus if something where to happen to me someone would watch over my little girl.”

  Harry looks at him. “If something happens to you, I’ll help her. But nothing is going to happen, so don’t worry.”

  Harry looks over the empty park and stomach growls. Burger Baron doesn’t sound bad.

  6

  “Rebecca, I don’t feel like a burger,” Michael says.

  “You promised it was my turn to pick.”

  “But of all the varied and quality cuisines in the metro D.C. area you have to pick Burger Baron?”

  “I like burgers,” she says petulantly.

  “Fine, order and I’ll find somewhere to sit.”

  Several homeless loiter around a drug dealer in the lobby. Michael tries looking casual and keep his distance. A middle aged man dressed in a green flannel and stained blue jeans sits alone. The redneck’s features are weathered. Thin silver hair is brushed over the top of his balding head.

  “Do you mind sharing your table?” Michael asks.

  “It’s a free country last time I looked,” Fred says with tired eyes.

  Michael sits down and says, “I’m Michael.”

  “Fred.”

  “What do you do Fred?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Rebecca sits down with two burgers and fries. She flicks a questioning glance towards Fred and Michael shrugs as she hands him a burger. At the next table two men swap money for drugs.

  Fred continues to eat and mumbles, “Sorry, I’m tired. I’m a machinist for Crown, Cork and Seal.”

  “Who are they?” Michael asks as he looks at his sandwich and feels queasy.

  “It’s a Coca Cola factory in Farmington, Minnesota.”

  “Oh, we’re from Michigan. Where’s Farmington?” Rebecca asks.

  “It’s a small town south of Minneapolis. We have the best steakhouse in the world. Last few years the kids have been putting up murals with the local art teachers and everything looks real nice. My wife likes that type of thing, so she helps out, but I’m into fishing.”

  “With a six-pack?” Rebecca jokes.

  Fred laughs and says, “Yeah, give me a beer and a fishing hole north of the Twin Cities any day.”

  Fred crumples his sandwich wrappings and pushes the tray away.

  “Well I have to be going. Nice meeting you folks, have a nice day,” Fred says and leaves.

  Michael’s food remains untouched as Rebecca continues to eat. His phone chimes with a text message.

  Where are you?!? -Mark

  “You’re going to be starving by dinner,” Rebecca says.

  Rebecca’s being difficult, sorry.

  How long? -Mark

  Five minutes.

  “Rebecca, we need to go.”

  “But I’m not done.”

  Rebecca leaves her unfinished meal on the table and follows as he walks out of the restaurant. She remains sullen and silent as they walk briskly down the sidewalk. An Asian tour group slows them to a snail’s pace a block from the Jefferson Building. Roughly twenty teenagers in identical blue uniforms maneuver the sidewalk with smooth, snake-like precision. Michaels heart races and perspiration dampens his collar as they come into view of the Jefferson building. Mark waves them over.

  “I would have texted again but my cell phone is acting up,” Mark says.

  Next to Mark is Irina, a graduate fellow from Russia. Mark and Irina make a striking couple. The petite and friendly blonde provides a good contrast to the reserved, tall African American man.

  “Did I miss anything important?” Michael asks.

  “Only the mandatory homeland security drill,” Mark says and fixes Michael with a disapproving glare. “Veronica covered for you. Homeland Security drills are vital for preparing against possible terrorist attacks and natural disasters.”

  ”The metro w
as running late,” Michael says sheepishly.

  Mark gives him a look and they walk to the ceremony. They show identification badges and ids to security personnel and enter the west lawn of the Capitol Building. Roughly seventy guest’s mill around a stage built at the base of the stairs. Many are scholars working at the Library of Congress or the Smithsonian; others are friends and family of the award recipients.

  Michael slips into the crowd and shakes hands with various key guests. Rebecca makes quick friends a visiting Cambridge fellow, Dr. Mary Kinlan, and the two women fall into a conversation on contemporary romanticism. Mark beckons for Michael at the podium. Standing next to Mark is a tall, striking woman with sharp features and blonde hair cut smartly at the jaw.

  “…and that’s why the French lost the bid on the original architectural design for the Capital Building,” Mark says to the blonde.

  Mark, a D.C. native, always has a story about the city’s history.

  “This is Susan Bishop with Channel 9 News,” Mark says to Michael. “Susan, this is my colleague, Michael, the brains behind today’s function.”

  Michael cringes as crystal blue eyes drill into him and says, “Nice to meet you, Ms. Bishop.”

  “Thank you. I only have thirty minutes. John Hopkins is giving a press conference about a new designer drug rumored to cure Parkinson’s disease later this morning.”

  Two patrolmen with a K-9 patrol the west lawn as the Asian tour group reappears and descends into the underground visitor’s center of the Capitol Building. Next to the refreshment tent are two men arguing. Michael recognizes both and excuses himself with a bland smile.

  “Hello gentlemen. Is there some problem I can help you with?” Michael asks as he steps near Kyle and Fred.

  Kyle glares at his father. His cell phone rings.