A Boy and His Corpse (8 page)

Alan

              “Come on, hurry, hurry,” James whispered. He rushed to pick up the couch but had a hard time lifting it on his own.

              “Seriously, what the hell is going on, man?” Alan asked him. “Tell me.”

              James shook his head to Alan’s question and pointed toward Herbert’s chest, signifying that he was talking to him now.

“I don’t think there are any more cameras in here,” James whispered, “but there’s definitely one in the kitchen, and I don’t mean the obvious one by the stove. Those cameras don’t even work. They’re just there for show.”

“James—” Alan began again, but James put up a finger to him. He was still talking to Herbert.

“I need you to go in there and break it. But try to make it look like an accident. It will look like a little white pea, just like the one I just broke.”

“What the hell are you talking about, boy?” Herbert asked before coughing violently. He rubbed up and down his throat to catch his breath.

James’ face flashed red. He spoke even lower this time, and slower.

              “I’m telling you that there’s a camera in the kitchen that has a microphone in it.” He looked both ways and mouthed his next words. “I need you to break it. Maybe put your elbow down on it or—”

              Just then, they all heard the sound of a car coming up the driveway.

              “Crap,” James said, slapping his hip. “Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap.”

              “What? Who’s there?” Alan asked.

              James went back to trying to pick up the sofa, but the sound of the car door closing followed by footsteps up the walkway was an indication that time had run out. The agents were seconds away.

              There was a frantic knock at the door, followed by the sound of the doorbell being stabbed repeatedly.
Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!

              Herbert, Mort, and Alan stared dumbly at the door.

              “You might as well answer it,” James said, not even whispering anymore. “They know you’re here.”

              To add validity to his statement, the knocking grew louder.

              “Come on,” came a harried voice on the other side of the door. “It’s President Rosewater. I don’t want people seeing me out here. It’s just me and two agents. My envoy is parked down the street. Open up.”

              “President Rosewater?” Herbert said. He came out of his stupor and rushed over to the door. Before he reached it, James grabbed him above the elbow and squeezed.

              “You didn’t hear me say anything about my family before, got it?”

              Herbert tried pulling away but James tightened his grip.

              “Say you got it or I’ll break your arm.”

              There were more hurried knocks, and with a bit of green magic, Herbert pushed James aside and opened the door.
              The President rushed inside.

              “For the love of God, man, what took you so long?” President Rosewater said. His immaculate hair sat perfectly on his head, and his blue suit hugged his body luxuriously. He looked every bit the magazine model he once was only ten years ago.

              Behind the President, two men in black suits and sunglasses pushed inside, closing the door behind them. Alan recognized them immediately as Agents Heinzelman and Covington, the two members of the Undead Militia who usually stood guard in a floral delivery van parked across the street. Both were bald as a coot and stood shoulder-to-shoulder at well over six feet.

              Once all of them were inside, James’ whole disposition changed. His eyes sparkled and he shuffled back two steps, holding his heart. But it didn’t seem genuine to Alan. Not after what he just saw a moment ago.

              “President Rosewater?” James exclaimed. “Wha-what are you doing here?”

              The President gave James a twenty dollar bill smile and a patted him on the shoulder.

              “Hello, son. I need to see Mr. Chandler on a private matter. Please run along and,” he leaned in close and whispered something in his ear that Alan couldn’t quite catch. James nodded.

              “Oh, of course not,” James said. He looked to the two agents and then back to the President again before he sprinted out the door, closing it behind him.

              Alan felt dizzy. He pinched his wrist, but he didn’t wake up. All of the random turn of events that had transpired in the last few minutes were really happening.

              His father began to say something to the President, but the tall, slim man moved passed him and stopped in front of Alan. He towered over him.

              “You must be Andrew,” President Rosewater said.

              “Alan,” Agent Covington corrected him.

              “Ah, yes, that’s right. Alan. Alan Chandler. And this is your father, Herbert. You must be awful proud of him.”

              Alan stared into the President’s gray eyes with his mouth open. He felt exposed all of a sudden, like that dream where you’re naked at school.

              “And this guy over here must be your corpse,” the President said, and Alan nodded. He had forgotten that Mort was still even in the room.

              “What’s going on here?” His father asked, but the President ignored the question. He put his strong, firm hand on Alan’s shoulder and never let their eyes lose their connection.

              “You must be wondering why I’m here, son,” Rosewater said. “Well, I’m here because your country needs you.”

              “Needs him for what?” his father asked. “What’s this all about?”

              When the President closed his eyes, his smile dropped into a frown. He turned to Herbert. “I’m sorry, Herbert, but could you step out the room for a moment? You’re making me…uncomfortable.”

              Herbert made a move to leave, but then shook his head and held his ground.

              “Where’s Mr. Rovas?” Herbert asked.

Alan felt the President’s hand squeeze his shoulder tighter.

              “I’m sorry, Mr. Chandler, but I’m not at privilege to discuss that with you right now,” President Rosewater said.

              “What’s going on here?” Herbert asked, and the two agents moved in closer. Mr. Rovas told me you authorized robots to replace me. Is that true?”

              “Herbert,” Rosewater said. “We’ll discuss that another time with Mr. Rovas actually in the room. Right now, I need to talk to your son.”

              “About what?” Herbert asked again. Agents Heinzelman and Convington came forward and blocked his way. They formed a wall of black-suited muscle with their legs spread apart and their shoulders touching.

              “Don’t do anything stupid,” Agent Covington said.

              “Just let the President talk to him,” Heinzelman added. “We don’t want this to be a problem.”

              “Now listen here,” Herbert said over their mountainous shoulders. “I’m not letting anybody talk to my boy without talking to me first.” His eyes turned sour apple green. “You’re in
my
house and will follow
my
rules. And—hey! Keep your hands off of me!”

              “Calm down,” Agent Convington said, pushing Herbert back.

              “Hey, leave him alone,” Alan said. His voice cracked.

              Herbert pushed forward with magic, and all three of them toppled over each other. The President was trapped underneath the two bodyguards.

              “Hey!” Alan said to his dad. “You okay?”

              As both agents staggered up, Alan saw them reach into their coat pockets. In seconds, gray packs formed on their backs and they now cradled flamethrowers in their arms. They turned and aimed at Herbert. Flames coughed out their nozzles of their weapons. Herbert backed up pushing the air with his magic to keep the flames from touching his skin.

              “We didn’t want to have to resort to this, Herbert,” Agent Heinzelman said.

              “But you pushed us to it,” Agent Convington concluded.

              “Gentlemen, please,” Rosewater said as he got back up. “I want to resolve this peacefully.”

              As the two agents neared Herbert, Alan held his stomach. It was happening all over again. The fear, the claustrophobia, the madness.

              His living room turned green before his eyes.

              Everything that happened next was a blur. Mort moved with uncanny speed across the room. He got behind Agent Convington and grabbed him by the Adam’s apple. In one sharp maneuver, he pulled back and snapped the man’s neck as if it were made out of clay. The agent collapsed forward dead on his feet.

Alan watched a fleeting look of terror wash over Agent Heinzelman’s face as Mort punched a hole through the man’s chest and pulled out his heart. The man made a single gasp before he grabbed at the gaping hole and fell to the carpet. The blood ran out of him like water from a hole in a bucket.

              “No. More.
Fire
!!” Alan screamed, but his voice, which was unearthly and deep, didn’t come out of his mouth. It came out of Mort’s.

              Alan pointed at the President and Mort raised his arm in turn.

              “Get out,” Mort said in his horrible, throaty voice. “Get out! Get out! GET OUT!”

              President Rosewater didn’t have to be told twice. He stumbled over the corpses of his bodyguards and sprinted out the house.

              Alan shook his head and fell to his knees. The green shade left his eyes, and the room began to spin. James rushed into the house and gasped as he looked down at the two dead agents on the ground.

              “What the hell did you do?” he asked with bulging eyes.

              Alan couldn’t form the words to answer him before he passed out on the floor.

Lorraine

              Lorraine Ruiz, formerly Lorraine Chandler, pulled out of her garage and waved to agents Aberdeen and Jacobson sitting in their black sedan across the street.

              It’s where they always sat, watching her and waiting. 

              Agent Aberdeen, with her red ponytail and Colgate smile, returned the wave. But Agent Jacobson, who was so prodigiously fat that he had a third chin, wasn’t so kind. He merely started up the car and watched her with low-lidded eyes as she drove ahead.

             
Such a fat waste of space,
Lorraine thought as she headed down the heavily-wooded road.
The least you could do is pretend to like me.

             
But Agent Jacobson never waved back. And as fat as he was, he never even accepted the cookies she brought out whenever she made a fresh batch for her live-in boyfriend, Chance. Agent Aberdeen usually took five or six.

              “These are delicious, Mrs. Chandler,” Agent Aberdeen would always say as she stuffed cookies into her slender mouth.

              “Just call me Lorraine,” Lorraine always told her. “Or Ms. Ruiz. I dropped Chandler when I dropped the man.”

              Lorraine knew her live-in boyfriend, Chance, was aware that they were constantly being watched. Shortly after they met he had asked about the constant surveillance, and she had made something up about her ex having made a handful of foreign enemies while working for the government. The guards were there to make sure no one targeted her or Alan to get back at Herbert.

He accepted the explanation well enough and never asked about it again and for that she was thankful.

              “But the moment he starts getting suspicious, you have to give him the boot, Mrs. Chandler,” Agent Aberdeen once told her. “No ifs, ands, or buts.”

              “Lorraine,” was her response. “Just call me Lorraine.”

Constant surveillance was the price she had to pay to come up to the surface with her family. It was a pain having a top secret necromancer for a son, but what could she do about it? It was what it was.

             
When Lorraine reached the stop sign at the end of the road, she looked in her rearview mirror, and saw her agents following her at a safe distance. In a sense, she was lucky. Agents Aberdeen and Jacobson were a lot better than the agents her son and ex-husband had to deal with. Now those two brutes…

              She shook her head.

             
They’re just as bad as Mr. Rovas. Well, maybe not
that
bad. At least they’re not sadistic.