The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination (2 page)

R
epresentative Al Thomka
sucked in a breath of the crisp winter air blowing off the East River as he stepped from his limo in front of the old United Nations Complex. Thomka was a tall, middle-aged man with old-world good looks, a very expensive suit, and a developing sense of his own absurdity. An armed guard nodded for him to follow and they dashed across the Quad and on toward the Trustee Council Chamber.

In 2046, the U.S. had evicted every international mission from the UN and shut the last global institution down, fulfilling that year’s best-polling campaign promise. A few weeks later, two million homeless war veterans marched on Washington D.C. to press their grievances, but accidentally burned the city to the ground. The UN Complex was unoccupied and seemed the perfect seat for a provisional government. A temporary sort of management group. And Manhattan Island was simply the most defensible place in America, surrounded by a natural moat. No veterans there. They couldn’t afford it.

The majority of those elected representatives who had not been dispatched in the D.C. Revolt went into hiding, and an ad hoc Senate was formed at the UN Complex. This one-and-only governing body was composed of ninety-nine prominent persons capable of paying for the privilege to serve, wealth being the indisputable indicator of divine favor. Unfortunately, their privilege made them unfit to serve and absolutely nothing ever got done, which was great for them. Everyone else had for the last ten years simply ignored them.

Representative Thomka entered the cavernous Trustee Council Chamber, sidestepping a throng of over-dressed politicians, looking for his friend, Representative Mahesh Murthy. They always sat together, which kept their constant bickering somewhat muted. The walls were covered in an ash wood paneling that gave off a subtle, earthy fragrance he loved. A quick look found Murthy down near the stage, chatting up a pretty female aide holding a water pitcher.

Thomka waved to his friend, who always wore the Bollywood smile and slicked-back swagger of a chronic womanizer. Murthy caught sight of Thomka, kissed the young woman’s hand, and headed toward their seats.

Thomka sat pondering how Murthy had survived the cost-cutting mergers he had himself engineered. That was Murthy’s genius, his one and only product. Engineered mergers and consolidations. Thomka often joked that Murthy’s real job was doing under-the-table favors for people in this room, then holding them hostage into the bargain. No one ever laughed at that.

Thomka scowled at the congregation with an acrid grin. He despised the fashion-obsessed Manhattanites and their ridiculous costumes. He held a venomous disdain for the current craze, colonial-nostalgic: puffy knee-length pants, leggings, waistcoats and buckled shoes, in monochrome black or gray, topped with elaborate hairdos, and when necessary — wigs. Men did not wear hats. “How ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath. “They’re expressing their individuality as a group.”

The hat had been commandeered by the women of polite society. He could easily spot the few here, as the only fashion faux pas when it came to hats was restraint. Amongst those ladies of a certain prominence, a look was only desirable if it was indescribable. Extravagance ruled. Why not? he thought. Manhattan Island was an economic fortress now, and it was up to the women to make it as festive as they might. Heaven knew these men were far too dull for the task.

Thomka was here for the
Sunday in America
broadcast, if only to show his face, knowing full well that families without televisions were gathering at their local The Church to watch the combined Senate Session and Sunday Sermon on giant screen TVs. Ordained clerics who’d once been neighborhood padres now simply passed the hat and presided over a Sunday morning TV show, more usher than shepherd. He’d helped shape The Church’s business plan for his friends Petey and Virginia Hendrix, who owned it.

The Church was a for-profit religious franchise with a very salable base package: TV and radio, spiritual merchandise, Bible-based financial instruments, internet access, cyber security, print media, event planning, political guidance, marriage counseling,
et al.
No upfront cost for anyone who held claim to a defunct church, of which there were thousands. It was a split-the-pot deal. An irresistible opportunity for any ambitious person with a religious temperament and an empty church.

Thomka looked around suspiciously, then whispered out of the sides of his mouth, “Did you find him?”

Murthy rolled a scathing eye at Thomka, then turned to the smiling girl with the water pitcher. “Beauty holds joy found but nowhere else.”

“Did you find him?”

“You’re an absolute fucking peasant, Al. Relax. You look like hell.”

“Unlike you, I have a sense of emergency.”

“Why worry? You’re a good swimmer, aren’t you?”

“Don’t think for a minute we’re safe because we’re on an island. There could be a suicide bomber in this room right now. People hate us.”

Two waffling grins creased their lips in rare agreement.

M
ax and Fred
followed the Little Conemaugh River to the railroad tracks that led down to the Village of Lily. They were eager to find the mysterious rich man’s family. That was the least they could do, since they’d stolen his coat.

Lily’s population had shrunk from its 1949 peak of seventeen hundred to eighty-one, a number that included twenty-six adopted war veterans who’d wandered in over the years. Back when there were marauders, everyone who could had moved to the nearby Walled Cities like Pittsburgh, and even New York; when you could still go to New York. When the U.S. declared bankruptcy, day-to-day existence turned into a smash and grab free-for-all. Except for people like Fred who wouldn’t put up with that.

Fred was one of the lucky few who made it home after three Arabian Sea deployments. His wife was not so fortunate. She had been sent to Iran, and was assumed to be one of The Abandoned. These things were not talked about — silence leaves room for hope. Fred wished only to remember her as the beauty she was, take care of their precious Max, and live out his days here in the little mountain village where they were once happy. That was it.

Fred’s heartbroken wish became the Village of Lily’s greatest asset.

Lily sat on a tight bend in the Little Conemaugh River, traced out by a ribbon of asphalt and railroad tracks that ended at a stone bridge that crossed a gorge filled with waterfalls and rapids. Lily’s version of The Church sat off by itself at the far edge of the bend. An old steam-powered passenger train, The Booby Duck, sat beside The Church. Its elaborate cowcatcher was shaped like a duck’s bill and painted bright yellow. Behind The Church, across the Little Conemaugh, stood a forest of maples, pin oaks, hawthorn, hickory and other hardwoods, plus millions of fruit trees. This vast forest held the possibility of sheltering a sacred spot where no human foot had ever trod. That hope sustained all Lilians.

A powerful sense of propriety divided its citizens along historical lines. Some claimed Lily had been named for a world-famous flower once cultivated there. Others advanced the more plausible notion that the town owed its name to an upscale gentlemen’s club, named for its Madame Owner.

There was only one phone and one computer in Lily and they were both in The Church. Fred was heading there with the news, but Max, in his suspiciously new red coat, didn’t want to risk a confession that might cost him this treasure. Pastor Scott was sure to ask.

When they came to the street that ran up a cobblestone hill to their house, Max stopped. “Dad? Dad!”

Fred turned to see Max poking his thumb up the hill with a querulous grin wavering on his lips. Whatever it is that makes a dad a dad was on fire in Fred. He was downright giddy from the joy that red coat had brought Max. He smiled at the boy and nodded.

Max sprinted up the hill for home, while the old man slowly moved on toward The Church.

* * *

R
epresentative Thomka stood
with little enthusiasm as a round of cheers greeted a spunky announcer jogging across the Trustee Council Chamber’s wide stage. “Ladies and Gentleman! Please rise for Arch Bishop, Virginiaaa McWilliams Hendrix, C.E.O. of Theee Church!” Murthy dragged himself to his feet.

The lights went down and the room exploded in adulation. Arch Bishop Virginia McWilliams Hendrix emerged from the darkened wings in a warm-pink spotlight with a backlit halo and took the pulpit. The applause faded, right on cue. Her vestments engulfed her head to toe in one shimmering mountain of sky-blue silk brocade, heavily embroidered with gold thread in overlapping triangles within triangles. She floated majestically beneath it, buoyant yet humble, acknowledging the audience with a six-gun hand gesture and motherly wink. She basked in their adoration, waiting for a nod from the broadcast director.

The director sat in a chaotic control room that smelled of burnt wires, punching buttons and speaking calmly into a microphone. “Ten seconds.”

The Arch Bishop’s outfit lifted her above the worldly and vain. Her massive headpiece, a perfect cube scaled to the exact dimensions of heaven found in Revelation 21:16, was an engineering masterpiece. Exacting, sacred geometry subdued what would have otherwise appeared absurdly oversized and top-heavy. A golden number seven dominated its huge front. Her shoulders were draped in a chainmail yoke of pure platinum, three triangles arranged into one larger triangle — the Polygon Shield. A similar shield adorned the front of the pulpit.

The director started to count down from five as a commercial imploring the faithful to pray seven times per day came to an end. “Drop copter-cam one,” he said. “Music up.” A pipe organ’s deepest voice swelled with an uplifting canticle. “Cue Chorus.” A thousand children’s voices rose in one celestial invocation — a rainbow of pure innocence.

The Bishop’s eyes were closed, but tormented. She swayed and grasped the edge of the pulpit, struggling to anchor herself in a gross and worldly reality she only visited on Sunday. She was but a divine messenger. Their conduit to the truth.

The music grew darker and the choir began to wail. Her eyes crept open.

“My children! The wrath of God is upon us.”

The congregation answered: “For we have gravely offended thee.”

"We are consumed by thine anger,” she called out.

“And by thy fury are we troubled,” they answered.

She panned the room with an accusing finger. “Upon the blasphemers he shall rain down calamity and war, pestilence and famine, and cast them into a lake of fire.” The finger pointed straight into the camera as the congregation concluded.

“This shall be the portion of their cup.”

A wave of contrition swept the nation. “Amen,” she said, bowing her head.

Thomka hated being here, but Murthy enjoyed the pageantry. He’d introduced the Bishop to the guy who’d designed her costume and felt somewhat paternal about it.

“And how do we know this to be true?” She spoke each word with absolute certitude. “Because it happened.”

Heads bobbed in agreement; how could they not?

“Nothing happens that is not of God’s own perfect design. Read it!” She held a Bible up to the camera, trembling under its weighty consequence. “Amos 3:9: ‘He has made all things known unto man.’” She waved the Bible furiously, shouting, “He wants us to purge ourselves of those ways that obscured the obvious. Ways that spread doubt. Ways that questioned faith itself. Blasphemous ways that blinded us to the obvious!”

All those gathered here pretended to agree.

“But fear not, my children. The rightness of our way is obvious! For it is by His grace that we, The Church, govern the greatest country the world has ever known —steering the corporate state away from the lake of fire. Lo, toward his unlimited abundance.”

Her zeal overwhelmed her as she sprang from the pulpit, shouting, “We know it because it happened!” She struggled to bring her enthusiasm under control, raising an apologetic hand to the audience as though she’d gone too far.

“A few short years ago, when the congress of cowards drowned in its own shame, we, The Church, your church, we shouldered the heavy burden of state. Because God told us to. And look what happened.

“We are free of all government intrusions. Free to fend for ourselves — at last. To provide for ourselves. The needs of the spirit. The needs of the heart. The needs of the stomach. All one glorious market. Yes! And all it took was for us to get out of . . . your way.”

She gave the nation a moment to express its gratitude.

“Forgive me,” she said in a softer voice. “But! I just can’t help rejoicing in the ceaseless bounty we have received, just for unleashing freedom.” She twisted one hand into an angry fist and raised it to heaven. “They said He was the God of Love, but their idea of love was — human love. Carnal and impure. An orgy of self-pity. A congregation of conceits. Not God’s incomprehensible love. God’s divinely selfish love.”

She donned a particularly stern face when quoting scripture: “‘Do not worship any other God, for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God’ — Exodus 34:14.” Her expression turned to rapture. “They put human emotions, human dimensions, human expectations into their perversion of God’s charitable heart. This so infuriated Him that He did as He promised. He did for them what He did for Sodom and Gomorrah. A purifying rain of destruction. A rain of love and salvation. A fire that staunched all doubt, rekindled our faith and opened the unending road to growth and prosperity.”

A standing ovation erupted and she stormed across the stage. “Endless wars killed most of our men — many of our women. The oceans turned black and died and millions starved. States collapsed. The barbarous hordes, oh! The barbarous marauding hordes carried the apocalypse to our very doors. No family was spared the ravages. But! Now they are gone. We the people stood up and purged our land of the evildoers. No police force in history has done what the people have done on their own. No earthly judicial system could give us that. That opportunity was God-given.

“Is this terrible work the work of a loving God? Yes! In fact, yes! Yes, it is,” she cried out most adamantly. “For God loves mankind — not man. Let me repeat — NOT MAN! And for the sake of mankind, he will correct the errors of men. He will show us the pit, the inferno!” She fought off a woozy spell with a babbled prayer, “Kau ahsha gunenen Gehenna,” then quickly recovered her English.

“Where did they, the cowards, the faithless, the tricksters go wrong? They failed to understand the simple God-given truth of the Trinity of Trinities. They forfeited the protection of our Polygon Shield.”

A gasp floated up from the audience as she raised her arms above her head, spread her index fingers and thumbs, then put them together to form a triangle.

The audience followed suit.

She aimed the triangle at the polygon shield on the pulpit’s front. “What is the Trinity of Trinities? It is the perfect partnership of equals. The Holy Triangle: Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Perfect, equal and immutable. Self-sustaining. It nurtures all. Infinite Love!”

The audience answered, “Infinite Love.”

“The Triangle of Life: Man, Woman, Child. What could be more obvious? More divine? Infinite Bounty.”

“Infinite Bounty!”

She shook her head in good-natured disbelief. “God is soooo obvious. I’m telling you, it’s right in front of you if you will only look. God is obvious, my children. He’s right there.” She pointed to the triangle on the lower right side. “But the Earthly Triangle: Church, Commerce and Government, not born pure but of man, demands constant vigilance if we are to receive its promised bounty. Infinite Growth.”

“Infinite Growth!”

“Infinite Growth! Infinite, I promise you! For the integrity of the Polygon Shield and our existence are one and the same. The Earthly Triangle is where God gives us a gift like no other. The gift of — free will!” She steadied herself on the pulpit gasping for air.

A standing ovation renewed her strength.

Representative Thomka was put off by her crafty performance, and whispered angrily, “Well? Did you find him?”

Representative Murthy gave Thomka a dirty look, joined the cheering crowd with a spiteful smirk, and said, “Find who?”

Thomka bristled. “Tuke! God damn it. Levi Tuke.”

* * *

M
ax raced
up the cobblestone hill to his house, then up an even steeper flight of crumbling concrete steps set deep into the nearly vertical hillside he and Fred called a front yard. He hit the concrete pad atop the steps and was off like a shot up six wooden steps and across the wooden porch. It was a long way up to their three-story brick house with a wraparound porch and a view of the Little Conemaugh wending through the hills. He and Fred had fixed up the first floor of the big house, which was more than enough for them. They sealed off the second and third floors, plus the huge attic, each winter.

He swung open the heavy, golden oak and beveled glass front door and jumped inside. Just as quickly, he stepped back out and swung the door away to look at the wall behind it.

There, a small Tiffany-style stained glass window shared the wall with a poster-sized and very official looking neon-yellow foreclosure notice — signed by the town’s sheriff. It had hung there for forty-seven years. These fine houses had been built for the well-off managers and small businessmen of the area, and each and every one had been up for sale by the banks who’d foreclosed on them. Each and every one was now occupied by the few squatters hardy enough to remain in Lily, which included the old sheriff. The notices were considered good luck, having given homes like these to people who could never have afforded them otherwise.