Whispers in the Night (35 page)

Moving to the safety rail, she peeked at the illuminated pulpit below. The crowd murmured while a live band accompanied the low voices of a mass choir. Ahead of them all was the banner and the words from the vision that led her here:
POWER AND PURPOSE
.

There was movement to her left.

She crouched and backed behind a row of new stadium seats still wrapped in plastic and not yet bolted to the floor.

Jimmy approached the railing with a long duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Karyn didn't need to guess what was in it.

He unloaded the rifle, snapping pieces into place, attaching a scope, and testing the trigger, all while grinning and humming along with the choir. Whatever his disability was, assembling a rifle was not part of it.

Karyn leaned out for another look at the stage. Sinclair wasn't out yet. There was still time.

She pulled out Reggie's cell and dialed the number to the phone Markham took from her. It began to ring and she lowered it from her ear to seek another sound.

Faintly, she picked up the sounds of Luther in the distance.

Jimmy turned from his task to peer in the shadows. “Mr. Markham?”

The Nordic stepped out, one hand digging in his jacket pocket to silence the cell.

“I didn't know you was coming up here,” Jimmy said, actually gleeful to see the secret puppet master.

Markham grasped Jimmy's shoulder. “Just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Right as rain. Ready to do the Lord's work.” Karyn watched, trying to figure her next move. Unfortunately, it wasn't hers to figure.

Behind Markham, the shadows swirled and solidified into a hulking man-shape; it was the thing she'd seen in Sinclair's office. It drifted toward her quickly; she had no time to react. There, before her, it hovered, still radiating heat like a furnace. Then it reversed its direction, returning to Markham until the two nearly touched. A second later, it faded like smoke.

As if tapped on the shoulder, Markham turned in her direction. There was no way he could actually see her, but she also knew he was aware of her presence, thanks to his Dark Friend.

“Stay here, Jimmy.” Markham approached, his hand snaking inside his jacket. He reappeared with a large saw-toothed knife, just out of Jimmy's line of sight.

She stood. She couldn't outrun him and there was no point in hiding.

“Is your name really Markham?” she said, trying to buy time. His eyes narrowed, but he didn't answer. “Are you a member of the Aryan church, or did they just hire you to kill Bishop Sinclair?”

Markham tensed at her knowledge.

“Hey, lady,” Jimmy said, his voice cheery. “That's just a game. The bishop ain't going to die. God wouldn't let him.”

“God doesn't have anything to do with this, Jimmy. Right, Mr. Markham?”

He closed the gap between them and his blade seemed to grow. Karyn rounded the seats she'd used for cover, keeping them between her and him.

“I don't know who you are, lady, but you picked the wrong Sunday to show up in church,” Markham said.

She kept probing her mind for some sort of saving grace. She could scream, but she doubted it would even register over the noise of the increasingly crowded sanctuary. Her only defense at the moment was her mouth. “You'll be gone when it's over. When the bishop's dead, when Jimmy's dead. They'll look for Markham and find out he doesn't exist. Wicked, but smart, I'll give you that.”

“I don't know who tipped you, but you're not going to stop this,” Markham said. “Three bodies are just as simple as two.”

With one hand, he grabbed the corner of the loose seats and tossed them aside, removing the barrier between them. He feinted and she scrambled back several steps, her back to Jimmy.

“Mr. Markham? Why you got that knife?” Jimmy asked.

Markham looked over Karyn's shoulder. “Shut your mouth.”

“You think he's still going to shoot for you?” Karyn kept backing up, an idea in mind.

“Doesn't matter if he shoots or not. That gun's a Beretta M107. I chose it because it's one of my favorites. I'll do fine without the dummy's assistance.”

“Why'd you call me that, Mr. Markham?” Jimmy asked. “I ain't dumb.”

“No,” Karyn confirmed, sensing his hurt. “You aren't, Jimmy.”

“Enough of—”

Markham was cut off by volcanic applause from below.

“Welcome to the First Annual Power and Purpose conference here at Heavenly Duty.”

Karyn was startled, not from the whooping and hollering, but by the speaker's voice. She spared a glance over the rail and caught a glimpse of her mother behind the podium.

“The man I'm about to introduce—” Jessica Manning continued, but Karyn's attention shifted.

“Well, it's showtime, lady. Time to exit, stage left.”

Markham's mouth became a thin line. He advanced, ready to gut them.

“I ain't no dummy!” Jimmy screamed, almost at random, it seemed.

And Karyn got an idea.

“Jimmy, hold my hand,” she said, realizing if this gambit did not work, she'd have no time to regret her error.

Jimmy was obedient and grasped her palm.

For the first time that day, she took control. Instead of a spontaneous vision, she summoned her ability willingly and peered into Jimmy's past. He—

Karyn blinked. That was her gift. The ability to be in both places—the present and Jimmy's mind—at the same time. Markham moved toward them, his knife leading, but his movements were slow, to her anyway.

The blade came at her; she sidestepped easily. Her free hand struck out and grasped Markham's wrist. In that instant she became a circuit, the transmitter of Jimmy's vision.

Markham screamed.

All of Jimmy's torment became part of Markham through her. The visions weren't meant for him, were too much for his mind to grasp. He tried to snatch away, but Karyn held strong. In this manner, she was the mightier one.

“It's my pleasure,” Karyn heard her mother say through it all, “to bring you a true man of God. Rise to your feet and welcome Bishop Horace Sinclair.”

Applause rose.

Karyn continued pumping her visions into Markham.

His knife clattered as it hit the floor; his free hand flew to his head and tore at his platinum hair, as if to snatch the images out of his skull.

Karyn let him go. Markham writhed and spun, screaming, “I am me. I am me. I ain't no dummy.”

He spun over the balcony rail.

There was a mighty racket as his body fell into the bandstands, destroying a set of drums. Karyn peered over the rail at the broken, twisted form that used to be Markham. The applause for Sinclair ceased. Someone screamed.

“Be calm,” Sinclair demanded, then, to the television crew: “Kill the cameras.”

The red lights atop the cameras did not go off.

“Kill the—”

Sinclair's chest exploded.

Karyn's mother ran to him, shrieking. Sinclair staggered, his expression shocked and numb, viewing the wound over his heart like there was an odd bug on his shirt and not his blood. He looked that way because it wasn't his blood.

The squib had gone off.

Her mother, frantic, touched the blood seeping from the bishop's shirt, rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, then touched the redness to her tongue. She backed away from the bishop, uncertainly.

Confused murmurs rippled through the crowd. Sinclair glared into the balcony, as did his congregation and cameras.

Karyn kept a softly weeping Jimmy behind her, while she glared back, knowing in her heart that she'd done the right thing, saving the bishop's life, even at the possible cost of killing his church.

 

 

Police and media filled the Heavenly Duty plaza on separate sides of yellow crime-scene tape. The authorities searched for facts and statements to piece together the crazed events, while reporters were willing to take what they could get from anyone willing to speculate.

Karyn spent four hours answering questions and, by the end of it all, knew she'd be answering questions for weeks to follow.

Finally free to go, she met Reggie in the plaza, wanting nothing more than to see her apartment and bed. Before she got that wish, there was one more piece of business.

Her mother stood in the wash of bright lights with microphones shoved in front of her. Karyn could not hear her statement, but when she turned away from the media piranhas, she was clearly distraught.

“Stay here, Reggie.” She left her friend for her mother.

Jessica Manning didn't notice her right away, her gaze focused on the Heavenly Duty Building.

“Mom.”

She blinked as if awakened from a trance. “Karyn?”

She opened her arms to hug her mother. Mom stepped back. “Do you hate me that much, Karyn?”

Karyn's arms fell. “I don't—”

“They're saying he's ruined. You know that, don't you? They're saying all sorts of things.”

“They? They who? Mom, I saved him.”

“When I saw you in the balcony, I knew.” Her voice became high; her eyes were spotlights. “I knew it was some of your deviltry that brought this blight on us. You've destroyed a great man today, and you've lost us a lot of souls.”

Mom shook her head, disgusted. “I'm sorry I gave birth to you.” She spun and disappeared into the crowd.

Karyn couldn't move. Stunned was not a strong enough word.

A heavy hand fell on her shoulder: Reggie. “Did you hear that?” she asked.

He nodded.

“She's completely lost her—” And the rest of the words wouldn't come. The sobs wouldn't let them.

He held her amidst the chaos while she wondered if all heroes cried like this.

 

 

On top of the Heavenly Duty dome, two hundred feet in the air, a hulking being with dark, sharp eyes and a security blazer watched the two embrace. Even from that distance, he could see the tears on Karyn's cheeks. He longed to comfort her, but knew this was part of her trials.

An equally huge shadow materialized next to him to view the show. He fought a wave of disgust and prepared to be cordial. Those were the rules after all.

A toothy smile split the shadow's face. “Some day, huh, Michael?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

The darkness of the being swirled and receded as it changed into another form. The previously indistinguishable shape formed a long black coat, matching untucked shirt, spit-shined shoes, and coal-colored hair slicked back. Its skin was bronze, its nose hawk-like. It could've been Michael's twin, with one exception. It had no eyes.

“I have to say, it was a master stroke getting the mother to send the prophet that signed Bible. Good work. Tell Him I said so.”

“He already knows. I will not be delivering messages from you, Lu.”

“No, I guess you wouldn't. I will say, I was surprised to see you working behind the scenes here. I'd have thought this type of mission beneath you.”

“I could say the same.” Michael glared at his fallen brother, the Morning Star. He never stopped feeling sorrow for the vile creature.

“It's always good to get out and do a little of the old ‘go ahead, take a bite.' Besides, it gives the minions a break. They get disgruntled, too.”

Michael's eyebrows arched. “Like you once did?”

Lucifer did not answer, and said instead: “I still won. I'd say the outcome here was better than my original plan.”

“Of course you would. You're shortsighted.”

“This church is destroyed. Without a leader the people will scatter, fall back into their old ways. My ways.”

Michael shook his head, and actually chuckled. “Some will, yes. The rest will be strengthened by the pain and loss. They will learn that their faith was misplaced. They shouldn't believe in another man, they should believe in the teachings of Him. As for Sinclair, he was misled, he's human. But his faith is genuine. His students will return, in even greater numbers. And he'll be a better teacher for this. You'll see.”

Lucifer nodded and patted Michael on the back with a hot hand. “You have it all figured out, don't you? There's one problem, though. . . .”

“And that is?”

He smiled, and a noticeable hiss escaped his throat. “Sinclair was only a secondary target.” His gazed shifted to the courtyard. “I want the prophet.”

With that, Lucifer disappeared in an explosion of flame.

Taken aback, a rare thing for him, Michael cast a furtive glance to the tearful woman blessed with The Sight, then unfolded his wings and shot toward the heavens to report the news, praying to the Almighty that it was not too late to protect her.

Tish Jackson

O
kay, so I'm a zombie. Does that make me a bad person? Don't answer that, reading public. The answer is
no,
it doesn't. I'm just a black woman looking for male companionship like anyone else. I just happen to prefer human flesh to animal flesh. It could be argued that we're all animals, but I have to tell you that there's a special flavor to Bob's Burgers that McDonald's simply doesn't have. Unfortunately, my palate preferences fill a lot of people with revulsion, some with outright hatred. As if vegans are any different with their radical diets! I'm still a person on the inside, for Pete's sake! That is, before I ate him.

My name is Talyna Wright and I wasn't born this way; the world wasn't born this way. Every couple of years, something new comes along on the disease front and changes the world as we know it. This new challenge polarized communities, pitted families against one another, and sent the government into a tizzy. Did I mention it was also man-made? About three years ago, in 2007, a biological agent trapped inside a rhesus monkey escaped from a weapons lab in China, attacking several people before being tranquilized and then euthanized. Those treated for bites and scratches soon returned to their doctors, complaining of serious digestive complications. The smallest fluid transfer spread the disease like wildfire through the hospitals, and sudden irritable digestion syndrome, or SIDS, soon swept the continent and spread like the Black Plague of the Dark Ages. It caused the digestive tract to reject all the usual forms of sustenance, from projectile vomiting to chronic diarrhea reminiscent of dysentery but worse. Within forty-eight hours a body that refused even intravenous fluids got too weak to support its own life systems.

The infected usually passed away in the next forty-eight hours and SIDS had a hundred percent mortality rate. Once SIDS victims succumbed to the disease, everyone thought death was permanent, and they were interred as usual. Some were cremated and saved the horror of waking up six feet under.

But two months after SIDS first appeared (actually,
escaped
would be a better word) the first victims began to appear around nearby graveyards. The original “revitalized” ones were thought to be homeless people with a bad case of rot and an insatiable appetite. However, when a delegate at the embassy recognized a French tourist, an inkling of the truth was leaked to the ever-accurate
National Enquirer,
assuring its absurdity. At first, authorities believed there had been a rash of misdiagnoses, and that these few lucky souls had escaped a fate worse than death. They would soon find out how untrue that was when the examining doctors were killed. So those first victims were unlucky enough to be the guinea pigs of the medical community, and were subjected to all kinds of experimentation and/or dissections; once dead they could not be killed again by conventional methods. Modern doctors refused to entertain the idea that zombies could really exist, until a former Department of Defense scientist came forward and announced that she'd been part of a secret trial that hastened the putrefaction process while creating unstoppable soldiers; their appetites were a troublesome by-product. Apparently, the Chinese were trying to beat the U.S. to the punch when the virus escaped from a secret lab in Beijing. Alas, before her story could be documented, the scientist was killed in a freak accident two days later; evidently a gun she didn't own accidentally went off and shot her in the head. You know how it is when folks tell government secrets.

 

 

Anyway, the U.N. doctors went to work off her statement and gave their guinea pigs a little putrid flesh, and the zombies liked it just fine. Their previously irritable digestive systems took the nourishment like ambrosia. The scientists also noticed that the buried victims tended to roam near their own grave sites. They seemed to be territorially connected to their original resting places. New victims of SIDS that hadn't died were given bits of flesh and blood to ingest, and though they were able to digest it, it sped up the zombification process and forced them to die sooner. The bottom line—just like in all the movies, one bite condemned you to a radically altered lifestyle that included a lot of raw meat.

Now, to be fair, not all the zombies were raving lunatics; some were lucid and simply trying to live their new lives without getting set afire on the way home from work. There was a movement going on to stop the extreme violence against the zombie population, since it was possible to bring people back with most of their faculties. If their rabid appetites were treated with processed meat, they were distinguishable from regular humans only by the faint smell of decomposing flesh. Plenty of people sympathized with the zombies' cause (mostly relatives of the newly Revitalized, unwilling to let go of their loved one) and were petitioning the government to protect our new citizens. Before my transformation, I was an ardent supporter, signing a petition here or there from not liking to see people tortured and killed whether they were dead or alive, but I hadn't started marching in the streets for the zombies just yet.

Two months before my wedding date, a nonterritorial zombie attacked me in my home.

At the time, I was engaged to a wonderful man, Ralan Johnson. A little under six feet, with solemn brown eyes and generous mouth, Ralan was the most beautiful black man I ever had the pleasure to fall in love with. He was honest and idealistic, gentle with my idiosyncrasies and as passionate about his politics as I was. We'd met at an Urban League meeting and the attraction was immediate. We were both Bay Area natives living in Vallejo with similar interests and compatible work schedules—it was destiny. After six months of serious dating and no infidelities (a feat in itself in this day and age) we moved in together and lived like that for four idyllic years before we decided to seal the deal and get married. With AIDS and SIDS out there, we both felt safer ensconced in our little love nest off Lake Herman Road. It was isolated but we were farther away from the ruckus in town. With the zombie population holding demonstrations to fight for equal rights as former humans, walking down the street could become a life-changing ordeal. So we cooked or ordered in, and worked from home. I was an editorial columnist for
DJ Dynasty,
the largest black media publication on the West Coast, so I needed only my laptop to get paid. Ralan was a research assistant for Meatco, the leader in packaging recycled flesh for zombie consumption, a booming business. It may sound disgusting, but it cut down on zombie maulings considerably. Ralan worked via computer most days, analyzing the decomposition rates of new and used flesh. On the rare occasions he did have to go into the office, a car and bodyguard were sent to escort him to and fro. As Murphy's Law would have it, though, I turned out to be the susceptible one and I never even left the house.

 

 

A rogue zombie broke into our apartment one afternoon when Ralan was at work. An emaciated, half-eaten dead woman climbed into the bathroom window and jumped me as I was using the bathroom. Now, I'm not a small woman: at five six and a hundred seventy pounds, I will get down with an aggressor. But the circumstances were a little awkward, as I was using the bathroom at the time when she slammed through the door. I jumped up off the toilet and backed into the tub, looking for possible escape routes. I saw that she'd been buried, because her death raiment was still hanging off her body in tatters and her eyes were crazed and hungry. I was thinking about using the shower curtain to wrap her up in as I ran around her, but that only works in the movies. I attempted to pull the curtain off the rod, and of course it got stuck, and while I tried to recreate movie magic, the zombie caught me by my braids and bit a large chunk out of my neck. That little bit of sustenance occupied her enough for me to run past her then, but the damage had been done.

The authorities came and took her away, and sent a doctor to patch me up. Ralan came home immediately after my frantic call, and the look on his face was tragic. His gaze was stuck to the bandage on my neck, and his inability to meet my eyes made my heart sink. What can you say when your lover has just received a death sentence? The doctor gave me an antibiotic that would give me an extra week before dying, the best modern science could do at the moment, and left us instructions on how to keep me as comfortable as possible during the transition. I have to give Ralan a little credit, he stayed with me as I regurgitated my very life onto the floor and held me even after I turned cold. However, he made it clear that once I died, our relationship would be over.

“I'm going to miss you so much, Talyna,” he cried to me one evening as I crept closer to death.

“I know, I know. But you can come see me any time you want. It doesn't have to be over, Ralan.”

The look on his face clearly showed how he felt about that statement. No matter what my arguments were or protestations of love, my fiancé could not see a future between us after my revitalization—the PC term. It was known by then that zombies could function in society if routed through the death process correctly, but were still considered beyond the normal range of emotions. Which I can personally tell you is not true! I was definitely feeling the pain of my lover's loss before he was even gone as I entered the zombie state. Ralan's family encouraged him to place me in the Revitalize Museum, a kind of apartment complex for zombies, two weeks before my scheduled demise to “help start the grieving process.” How rude is that? It was obvious to me that they were trying to set the scene for my eventual replacement and I wouldn't be surprised if they already had someone in mind. I believed that as long as we were careful, Ralan and I could still be together; keep lots of Meatco packets around and stay away from the rogues equals smooth sailing. Okay, maybe I was a little forward in my thinking, but if my heartache then was any indication, my love for Ralan was more than strong enough to survive the grave.

However, getting through to Ralan was one thing; convincing his parents was quite another. Near the end, I became so weak from the vomiting and diarrhea that I was immobile. As Ralan tended to me as best he could—while keeping all his appendages away from my mouth—his parents would argue their point over my inert body.

“There is no way I'm letting my only son marry a
zombie!
” Pete Johnson, Ralan's father, would say. “Can you imagine what people at the club would say?” Our happiness obviously came second to the opinion of his club cronies. Mrs. Johnson was more concerned with the possible aesthetics of future grandchildren. In her defense, the image of a half-rotten, flesh-eating infant attacking one's tit with gusto was a little scary. But I still couldn't stand her.

“Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, Ralan and I could adopt children if the natural results worry you so much,” I said.

All I got was a derisive snort in my direction, so I tried again.

“We really believe this is not an insurmountable obstacle! As long as I die correctly, I'll still be human and feel human, just in a different way. Why don't you believe that?”

Ralan's mom said, “Ralan, tell her that zombies are not human, zombies are dead and this family does not practice necrophilia! We won't have it.” She stopped talking to me after I got sick and would communicate with me only through a third person, as if she could catch my disease through conversation.

“Ralan, please tell your mother that I'm not dead yet! She can speak to me directly!” I said. My anger gave me enough strength to sit up, only to see Ralan's mother turn her back to me. Ralan's father didn't have any problems disparaging me face-to-face, which was about the only time he stood up to his wife in any regard. I tried to plead with him anyway to get his support.

“Pete Johnson, this is racist rhetoric that you're spouting and you should be ashamed of yourself. I am being discriminated against because of a disease! That I had no control over contracting! If it was my skin color or sexuality you objected to, you could be sued. I know you're not
that
concerned with public opinion that you would begrudge your only son love and happiness.”

His father looked me straight in the eye and said, “My dear, that's exactly what I object to—because he is my only son and I do want him to be happy. From my point of view, your attempt to bind Ralan to you even after death is just selfish! How can you want to take away his chance for a normal life?” His eyes beseeched me to see his side, and I was momentarily floored. Was I being selfish by insisting we could work it out? I thought it was just everlasting love.

“Ralan?” I lay back and looked at him, hoping for reassurance or at least acknowledgment that I wasn't way off base. What I got was an agonized expression and lack of eye contact. Instead of a declaration of love or some willingness to at least try and work it out, I was begged for forgiveness and got a hand squeeze.

“Oh, honey, I'm so sorry, please please forgive me, I want to, I really do, I want to be with you forever. God forgive me, but . . .” Yes. I got the “but.” The signal that all is not right with the world, the death knell of every relationship, the one-word way to say I don't want you anymore. The fact that my almost husband had caved in to popular thought crashed my will and I had to squeeze my eyes shut so I didn't have to look at his weak ass.

 

 

The day I died, I wanted only Ralan to be present. Since he was siding with everyone else, I was still a little disgusted with him, but I couldn't imagine not being with him. Of course, I banned his parents, who were only too glad to stay away those last couple of days. They did insist that their son wear surgical scrubs and a mask when he visited. To his credit, he took them off when he came inside. Since the day he'd finally told me we would not be together after I died, I refused to discuss my afterlife plans with him and tried to get used to the idea of being alone and craving human meat. The latter was easy to prepare for; I had a whole room of the apartment stocked with Meatco products that Ralan had gotten with his employee discount from work. I was dying in my own house, so I would be territorially tied to a safe place. Ralan had already moved his things back to his parents' house and was amenable to letting me stay here—after all, as a regular human he could get any place he wanted.