Dead Man Running (30 page)

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 f
rom
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 want
ed
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.  Vo
dou
was never meant to be used for such things – it is a religion – and Mr.
W
iley 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 h
e 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?'

"
J
ust 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 ou
t
Wiley had gone out to
Montana
to rally the HUD troops in the
Northwest 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
wa
s 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.

Wiley was in the front of the room, leading the session.  His assistant, Mr. Sills, another nice black man, was recording their ideas.  And there were a lot of good ideas.  Becky Sings wondered if anyone would see those ideas.  Possibly moments from death, she was saddened by the loss of their intellectual output. 

The doors to the lodge's Great Room were closed but they had been closed all weekend.  It was nothing new. 

What were new were the metal globes that rained down from the ceiling.  First there were smiles and laughter, thinking that Wiley had arranged trinkets for the attendees, mementos to recall the successful conference.

The smiles faded when the
globes began to explode, raining darts down onto the attendees.  Becky Sings' first concern was for Secretary Wiley.  She figured that this was a terrorist attack and they were targeting him.  Or maybe they really wanted to get Obama but
something malfunctioned and
the globes fell down way too late.
  She dodged the darts by hiding under her table but that cover did not last long as the bodies began toppling like bowling pins on a Bud soaked alley.

When they stopped toppling
about
eight
hundred pounds of human beings lay on top of her.
  Cynthia Robinski, the nice
but
morbidly
obese
blond from
Idaho
, had
fallen
onto Rebecca along with two men whom she did not know.  She knew one of the men had a phone or something on his belt because it jammed her in the ribs.  She knew that Robinski or one of the men had defecated on
himself
because the stench found her nose.  It actually was difficult to find Rebecca Singler's nose or any other part of her body as
Robinski's marshmallow
of a body swallowed
her
up
, making breathing almost impossible but also protecting her from
the
cloud of death overhead.  She became very familiar with the term 'dead weight' as the people on top of her seemingly expired.  She heard nothing of the transformative words coming from the numerous second shell breached devices.

She was relieved as the bodies were finally peeled off of her
s
.  She was happier still when she noticed that everyone was still alive.  And she was relieved when Ben Wiley appeared before her. 
He smiled at her and she smiled back.

She was shocked when he grabbed her, forced open her mouth and examined her teeth.  "Put her with the others," he said
.  A
nd here she was, locked up in a dog cage.