Dead Man Running (46 page)

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, t
wen
ty 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
D
emocrat.  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
'T
he
M
an
'
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 w
ill
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 st
air
s to Etienne's establishment.

Gently, he propped Lee against the shop's front door.  He appeared to be just another drunk who ha
d
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.
 

S
he 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 a
n
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
wa
s happening.

TWENTY-
S
EVEN

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
vacation
s
.

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
cand
ied
sweet potato
es
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.