by Mike Driver
“And no-one on the board ever asks why?”
“I doubt even the CFO knows all our assets. I only know because Leo had me upgrade the security system last year. State of the art on an empty building.”
“Well, let’s hope it’s not so empty.” Suarez added a chewed wad of gum to the Nicorette pyramid by the parking brake before getting out and clicking the doors locked. ‘Sure you can get in?”
“Vice president of security, remember?” Whitcomb produced his key card. “You realize you don’t have a warrant?”
“You’re GreenLife Security, you’re inviting me inside, it’s legal. Besides, we get evidence Falk killed a US senator, nobody’s going to give a damn” Suarez drew her automatic from her shoulder holster. “Just in case it ain’t empty. If Fuller didn’t kill the guards, Falk had someone else bring them the burgers. Probably the same person who killed Fuller.”
Killing Fuller I can understand, but our own people? Whitcomb tried not to think about the bodies as he slid the card through the lock, punched in his access code. Suddenly something slammed into the back of his neck. “What?”
“Hail again!” Suarez flattened against the building, not that it offered any shelter. “Size of golf balls now, shit!”
They were inside a second later. Emergency lights came up as Whitcomb closed the metal door behind them, leaving the hail pounding against it. “Okay, detective.” He stared down the corridor, lined by the featureless doors of empty offices. “What now?”
“Walk until we see something that looks like a temple, I guess.” Suarez shook her head as if she knew how absurd that sounded, but she walked forward, Whitcomb in tow.
They passed door after door without seeing anything that looked like anything, or hearing a sound other than the hum of the air-conditioning. No. Wait. “Suarez, I hear—”
“Footsteps in there, yeah…” She hissed the words, glaring back at one of the doors, then nodding toward the next corner. “Up there, take the turn, fast!”
Whitcomb took the corner ahead of Suarez, but stopped so abruptly she banged into him. A half-dozen men in black turtlenecks, slacks, sneakers and ski masks stood a few yards away, clutching black knives that glinted in the lights. Whitcomb started to back around the corner, saw another half-dozen men emerging from inside the room.
“Shit!” Suarez drew her gun as the men walked toward them. “Don’t force me to— ahh, fuck it!”
She shot one of the men in front in the shoulder, flinging him into the man behind him and scattering strips of black cloth and chunks of yellow balls everywhere. No, not yellow balls.
Corn kernels?
And under the turtleneck, the man’s chest appeared to be made of corn cobs tied together. Without a word, he got up again and advanced toward them, so did the others.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Suarez grabbed Whitcomb’s wrist and dragged him in the opposite direction, heading toward an exit sign at the end of the corridor. “Gotta get out, call for backup, find an—”
Dark green fingers thrust out of the bare concrete floor in front of them. Then the fingers sprouted leaves, cobs, tassels, plump yellow kernels.
Whitcomb tried shoving his way into the corn patch, but the stalks were so dense-packed, they could have been steel bars.
“Can’t get through!” Suarez jabbed at her cell-phone buttons, cursing. “Must be the weather, I got nothing but static!”
“And knives.” Whitcomb turned, saw the corn-men standing at the intersection, watching— Assuming they have eyes. “Look, they’ve left enough space for us to take that other passage.“
“Like I’m doing that!” Suarez brought up her gun and fired bullet after bullet. Ski masks and turtlenecks fell to shreds, showing more corn cobs underneath; her shots reduced a couple of corn men to fragments, but another room opened and four more came out. The look on her face verged on terror; he doubted his was much better. “Jesus, I ain’t imagining this shit, am I Whitcomb?”
“No.” They weren’t coming any closer, but Whitcomb sure as hell didn’t want to try pushing past them. “They’re like those dolls the Indians make. Except the dolls aren’t alive.”
“You think?” Suarez glanced down the one open path, toward the storage area and loading dock. “Got a better idea?”
“I wish.” He drew out his cell, dialed; it was as staticky as hers. For a second he considered just staying where they were, then the sight of the shattered corn men became more than he could bear and he strode ahead of Suarez. A light went on ahead of them, behind a door someone had left ajar. “I think they know we’re coming.”
The corn men followed, still mute, still staying their distance. Whitcomb rested his fingers on the door-handle for a long second, trying to think of anything else to do. Then he swung it open and stepped inside.
It was a few seconds before either of them spoke. “Holy shit, Whitcomb.”
“But holy to who?”
A small step pyramid sat under the skylight at the center of the building surrounded by a field of the biggest corn plants Whitcomb had ever seen. Atop the pyramid’s flat summit stood a long, mahogany table, a boardroom table. Leo sat at the head, with naked corn-husk figures in the other leather chairs.
“Why didn’t you come to me when Brandon showed you those emails?” Falk said with a sigh that echoed back from the walls. “I admit I thought I’d deleted them—”
“Deleting email doesn’t destroy it,” Whitcomb said automatically. “IT reminds the board of that on a regular basis.”
“Screw that.” Suarez put a new clip in her pistol and trained it at Falk. “Leo Falk, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, if you refuse to remain—”
“Good lord, you’re an imbecile.” Leo gestured; a green corn shoot thrust out the muzzle of her gun; she clicked futilely, then the corn men closed in on them from behind. “Haven’t you realized you’re way over your head? I’m sorry about you, Whit— your sense of humor’s always been welcome at corporate retreats.”
Whitcomb struggled, but for corn dolls, the creatures were horrifically strong, yanking his and Suarez’ hands behind their backs, tying their wrists with cornsilk, then shoving them toward the pyramid. The fibers gripped his wrists like handcuffs.
“You’re forgetting Jameson knows we’re here,” Suarez said. The rows of corn looked as solid as the ones in the corridor, but as they kept stumbling forward, the plants parted without moving, creating paths where none had been. “And he wants your job, he’ll use those emails—”
“No, really?” Leo absently picked up the obsidian knife on the table and tested the edge against his thumb, nodding approvingly. “Fortunately, my IT people keep watch on his IT people, that’s how I knew to prepare this reception. As soon as I’m done with you, Brandon’s out. I considered framing him for your disappearance, but it might be better to leave that unsolved; it’s always a mistake to be too clever.”
Suarez’ foot hooked a thick corn shoot that hadn’t shifted far enough; she fell, banging her knee, and cursed a blue streak as the corn things picked her up.
“This is really going to be a banner year for me,” Leo said cheerfully. Whitcomb kept waiting for a chance, something that would keep them from getting closer to that knife. But when he glanced behind him, the corn was a solid wall again. “A bill that would have taken millions of acres of corn out of production is now off the table. Fuller is out of my hair and his warnings about us completely discredited. And Bayles, my first personal sacrifice to Cocaltiecuh— that was quite a thrill, I can assure you.”
“Leo, the goddess is just a symbol on our logo.” Whitcomb struggled to think of some argument that would save his neck. “She’s not a goddess. We don’t worship her, we—”
“I certainly do.” Leo beckoned the corn men as they dragged Suarez and Whitcomb up the pyramid, level by level. “The more trustworthy members of the board, too. Why do you think we’ve made corn the centerpiece of American agriculture? Because for every acre we plant, she s
howers GreenLife— well, mostly the CEO— with blessings. Another pair of sacrifices will only enhance my performance review, shall we say?
“Most Americans have forgotten the ancient gods because they’ve been so weak since the white man came. The majority are dead now; with 90 percent of Native Americans wiped out, they’re bereft of worship, sacrifices, attention… but a few of the survivors are pragmatic or desperate enough to strike new alliances. And the rewards, well.” It was the most sincere smile Whitcomb had ever seen on Leo’s face.
“And the guards?” Whitcomb said as the corn men forced him and Suarez down on the table. “Our own people, Leo, they were—“
“Necessary,” Leo said. “I couldn’t let them talk, any more than Fuller. Now no-one can dispute that our company did its best to protect Bayles from that madman. Whit, I’m afraid your attitude confirms you don’t have the stomach to reach the top of the pyramid—much like Brandon.”
“You don’t think so?” It was Jameson’s voice, echoing from somewhere down below. Whitcomb turned his head, trying to locate him. “You’re a poor judge of people, Leo.”
“Brandon?” Frowning, Leo stepped around the table, apparently spotted his quarry. “It was foolish of you to follow them here.”
“Didn’t have to.” Jameson replied. Whitcomb had a sinking feeling the man was not about to rescue them. “I figured out months ago where you had to be keeping the temple, but it wasn’t until now that I was ready to move. The bill’s going to pass, Leo. Once this murder comes out—”
“It won’t—and even if it does, you won’t be around to see it.” Leo’s voice sank to a cold, cruel whisper, almost drowned out by the rustling corn. “You don’t have the slightest idea of the returns I’ve made by investing in Cocaltiecuh. Now you’re going to pay the price for underestimating me.”
Jameson laughed. “Leo, I’ve seen the weird shit and strange deaths around GreenLife since before you became CEO. Too much shit to underestimate you.”
“Then why the hell are you here?” Leo sounded genuinely baffled. “Seriously, Brandon, how do you think you can take me in my own temple grounds?”
“Because Cocaltiecuh’s not the only god in town.” Something pounded against the skylight. Whitcomb looked up to see hailstones the size of baseballs shatter the glass.
“What the devil?” Leo stepped toward the edge of the pyramid step, gesturing with his hand as he descended. A hailstone hit him, but melted at once.
One hit Whitcomb’s stomach. It didn’t melt. “Mother of GOD!”
Then the stream of hail seemed to shift direction, striking at the corn. Where the stones hit, corn and kernel-men withered alike.
As the dolls holding them collapsed, Whitcomb and Suarez scrambled off the table. Whitcomb turned to see Leo striding down the pyramid toward the battlefield below, where new stalks sprouted up as fast as the hail withered the others.
“Whitcomb!” Suarez hissed sharply. “There ain’t nothing the other side of the pyramid, get your ass in gear!” She started to run, almost fell down the pyramid, slowed. “Jesus, if I still had my gun—ah, who the fuck am I kidding? Falk’s right, this is way the fuck out of our league.” Staggering awkwardly to the far side of the pyramid they began climbing down carefully. “Once we get to my car, Whitcomb, you get my keys from my pocket, open it. There’s scissors in the glove compartment.”
“Thank God. No pun intended.” Assuming the cornsilk could be cut. “Whichever of them gets out of this alive, I don’t want to be tied and helpless.”
“Helpless?” Suarez’ voice was hollow as they reached the floor of the warehouse and speeded up. “You think having our hands untied will make a difference?” Behind them, hail descended in a solid stream through the skylight, making the very walls shudder, but some of the corn plants had grown in defiance, topping the pyramid. “How’d Jameson do it?”
“There’s an Aztec god who handles hail, drought, rain.” And flash flooding? Dean’s death got Jameson his spot on the board. “I forget his name— her name?—but it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“Christ.” Suarez groaned as they reached the far doorway. She twisted around to turn the knob with her tied hands “If gods like them exist … what else? How much else of what we think is bullshit is real? What kind of world are we living in?”
“I don’t really care about the big picture, Suarez.” The door swung open, and the neon glow of the exit light hung ahead of them. Whitcomb could have sobbed with relief. “What I care about is what happens to us? We know too much about—” Things man is not meant to know, the old phrase rattled in his brain.
“We get to my car, we drive straight to the station and file my report, fingering Falk,” Suarez said.
“But if he wins—”
“He already wants to sacrifice us, he can’t do it more than once.”
“And if Brandon wins?”
“We got nothing on him, maybe he won’t care. Especially if I charge Falk. If he wants to get rid of us—” Suarez laughed without a trace of humor. “Hell, if he becomes CEO he could do that anyway, right? Like you said, there are ways.”
“I’d sooner have the cops find child porn on my laptop than get the Bayles treatment.” A line from Shakespeare surfaced in his thoughts. “Like flies to boys, we are to the gods. They kill us for sport.”
“You make that up? It’s pretty good.” They stepped out into a clear night and began to circle around the building to the car. “No hail. Guess one of them won.”
“If corn plants stop us from reaching the station, I suppose we’ll know who.” They reached her car. Whitcomb pulled out her keys after a second’s fumbling and hit the clicker. “If we live, I think I should relocate. Somewhere far away from all this.”
“And if there’s more of this shit there?” Suarez opened the glove compartment. “You think he’s the only one making deals?”
Whitcomb shifted position and she started cutting his wrists free. To his relief, the corn silk wasn’t indestructible. “Maybe I should just jet off to the Bahamas in the morning. And never come back.”
“Flies to gods,” Suarez said. Whitcomb’s hands came free; she handed him the scissors. “Maybe you’re right, we should just be thankful we’re still buzzing.”
As the cornsilk fell off Suarez’ hands, Whitcomb heard footsteps the other side of the door. As it started to open, he wondered which god and CEO they were about to face.
SAINTS OF THE SPACE AGE
by Don Norum
Morris and Danforth pulled themselves onto the train and buckled in. A few journalists with rabbit antennae and camera lenses sprouting from their shoulders and dignitaries in scratch-free fresh suits followed.
Air hissed out of the lock in a cloud of steam by the windows, something gentle shifted beneath the floor, and the train slid out of the station.
A dozen people stand and churn in the narrow hallway. A thin man in a white dress shirt bibbed with sweat hands typewritten pages to an older man, heavier, in a three-piece suit. He takes it with one hand and waves away a scrum of staffers as someone calls out the time.
He shakes his head away from the makeup girl.
He doesn’t care about winning or losing and cares much less about looking good. He has slept in his suit when he has slept and he has slept five fitful minutes at a time for the last three days.
If they don’t sleep, he won’t sleep.
“What does Sadah think?” said Danforth.
“She said she’d cry, and swear,” Morris said and smiled at the black sky beyond the ashbone-gray of the mountains, “and she said that it might take a year, or two, but she said she knows she’d forgive me for being the bravest, kindest man she ever knew. And that no matter what, she’d love me every second I was gone.”
“Sadah said that?”
“Word for word. She said she stayed up all night thinking how to phrase it.”
Danforth looked at Morris looking out the window to where the mountains faded down into cold airless p
lains.
“And?”
“I think that it makes the right choice harder to make.” Danforth sunk back into the foam and nodded.
Russia broadcasts the speech uncensored with a single translator murmuring away in a dubbing booth. Some will say the Party had an ulterior motive, because they did not cover the launch.
Some will say that whatever the Party did, the people watching from Novosibirsk to Moscow heard the President’s words as spoken from one human being to another.
They are both right.
The man steps to the podium on every preempted broadcast station on every television screen in the world. He runs a hand across sweaty jowls and clears his throat and speaks, and he never names himself or his country or anyone or anything except for Mother Earth and those on whose behalf he speaks.
The widows sit in the third row and the cameras keep away.
“How old are Aisling and Lucas?” Danforth said.
“Five and eight.”
“Have you talked with them?”
“As much as I can.”
“Right,” Danforth said. “Right.”
Morris sighed. “I’m not sure Lucas understands. Aisling, well, she loves all this.” He ran the back of a glove across the Pyrex window. “She’d probably come with me, if she could.”
“Maybe one day she can.”
“When do you think that would be?”
“Ten, maybe twenty years. But by then she could.”
“Long time to go without seeing your family.”
“Priority broadcast slots whenever possible,” Danforth said. Morris looked back out the window, and Danforth closed his eyes.
The man who has written the words sits by the monitors ten feet from the President. Men in short sleeves and ties pull aside as the women enter the room. The president speaks to them in his rough mumble, offers both his hand.
The director takes them to a side room and shows them the headsets. He shuts the door and switches off the recorders. They sit and wait.
The women return and the director turns the recorder and the speakers back on and they all listen to the men.
