The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination

by Bright,R. F.

  “Not good!”

  “Oh?” He was in the middle of his weekly haircut.

  “There’s trouble with the Leprechauns.”

  “Always is.”

  “Not anymore. They’re all dead.”

  “Dead?!” He waved off the barber.

  “Yeah. And you’ll never guess who killed them.”

  “Who?”

  “The NPF. The Peregrine Fleet. And that pick-up team of neighborhood yokels from that broken-down brewery.”

  “Damn it. Thomka was right. I hate that.”

  “You gotta get in touch with him, right now. This is heading down the crapper and I’m not going with it. Call Thomka and call me right back.”

  “OK. I’m on it.”

  Murthy hung up and dialed Thomka. He let it ring until the call went to voice mail. He clicked off and began to get out of the barber’s chair, but paused to study his coif.

  “A little more off right here, please.”

  Camille sat at her kitchen island watching the Battle of the 22nd Street Bridge a second time, replaying the blast furnace door crushing Boyne’s transporter several times in slow motion. A deep sense of satisfaction drew her to her living room windows to gawk at Manhattan and imagine the whole hell-scape smoldering. How delicious. She went back to her computer, framed herself, and said, “Cassandra?”

  Cassandra’s face filled the screen. “Yes, dear.”

  “Where’s Max and MacIan?”

  Cassandra looked lost. “I don’t know. Last I heard they were on their way to the Quaker Meeting House.”

  They stared at each other for a painful second. “I’m sure they’re all right,” said Cassandra, but her cheerfulness seemed strained.

  “The Quaker Meeting House has been destroyed,” someone shouted.

  Camille’s eyes bulged as her screen filled with a video of it in flames.

  “That doesn’t mean a thing,” said Cassandra. “That MacIan’s tough as a two-dollar steak.”

  “You don’t know the half . . .” Camille mumbled, staring at her screen.

  Max’s smudged face filled her screen. “Miss Camille?” he yelled.

  “Max!”

  “I’m on my way to pick you up. MacIan’s been hurt.”

  She cringed.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Please be downstairs.”

  “I’m there.” She breathed a sigh.

  Max blinked off; Cassandra blinked on and leaned close. “It’s all gonna work out.” She gave a reaffirming smile, and said in a motherly voice, “Wear something nice.”

  54

  Levi Tuke stood in a swarm of young people watching the video of General Joe Scaletta in the NPF conference room: “We must attack New York before Tuke can have his . . .”

  “Who is that?” asked a young man. The video paused, hanging on an unappealing frame of Joe Scaletta.

  “General Joe,” yelled Tuke’s research assistant, Nuxplaza. “He’s one of those return-to-feudalism gasbags. Trust fund baby. Great-grandfather’s money — plastic acetates. No one pays attention to him.”

  The video ended with Admiral Kerins: “I can no longer live with my shame. Prepare to launch an attack on New York City, Sunday morning, early. Before that awful church show.”

  “Who’s that?” asked several others.

  “Bowen Kerins,” said Tuke. “An honorable man caught in a terminal shame spiral.”

  “They have to be stopped,” said a woman from the back.

  “Maybe Turnstyle can help,” said another.

  “I love Manhatmazon,” shouted another.

  ”Turnstyle! Brava! Brava!” filled the room

  “Big Brass!” echoed many more. “Big Brass!”

  Tuke joined in the applause. “That was one of the most elegant constructs I’ve seen. Petey asked for a game, and she gamed him. Brava, Turnstyle. I want her on our side.”

  “Never,” yelled all the women in chorus.

  “Why?” Tuke cried, more hurt than disappointed.

  “She sees things like a woman,” said an older woman. “She’s the mother of many mothers. Keep your nose out of it.”

  Tuke accepted that with a pouty lip and moved on. “I never thought Petey would take sides with Scaletta. How’d the NPF get involved?”

  “He didn’t take sides with Scaletta, and certainly not with the NPF,” interrupted ReplayAJ, Non-Zero Sum Game Coordinator, a sturdy woman with warm but wispy white hair sitting on the edge of a large table. “Scaletta’s a holier-than-thou loudmouth. He’s been tricking him for years.” AJ slipped from the table and gathered some papers from it as though preparing to leave. “Scaletta is a non-thinker. He defers to ideology, lashing out at anything that might sully its purity.” ReplayAJ was second only to Tuke in their casual hierarchy, but number one amongst the women. “He’s praying for a miracle.”

  Tuke stretched out his arms in admiration. “We need a counter-game. Please? Something that’ll carry us to Sunday morning, ‘before that awful Church show.’ We’ve got to slow them down.”

  “Constantinople!” ReplayAJ interrupted.

  “Constantinople? Hmmm.” Tuke bowed his head and smiled broadly. “Constantinople it is.”

  “Let that maniac go,” said Admiral Carson, as the one Leprechaun transporter that’d escaped the 10th Street Tunnel careened up 5th Avenue. “Pull back before he kills somebody. We know where he’s going.”

  “Break off,” said Squadron Leader Kolojejchick. “Orders, Admiral?”

  “Let’s put a nice big door in that wall of theirs.”

  In a matter of minutes, the Peregrines were doing a close fly-over of Gatekeeper Square to warn non-combatants. Sheer pandemonium sent the tourists swirling as the Peregrines menaced the area from the Square to the administration building. Squadron Leader Kolojejchick had to wait until the civilians got clear of what was certain to be a big blast with a deadly shower of rubble. He looked over toward the river. “Get rid of those mine layers.”

  Two Peregrines broke off and strafed the utility dock. The stored ordnance detonated, sending a concussion wave up from the banks of the Allegheny like an earthquake. Six spectacular river yachts in mid-stream were buried in burning shrapnel and burst into flame. Panic broke out in the adjoining neighborhood as metal and fiberglass rained down upon tourists and Wall workers alike.

  Freddy Cochran and his secretary/cousin hoisted a window and calmly stared straight out and into Kolojejchick’s wind dome. Freddy knew this day was coming, but never thought it would be — this day. He just shook his head and laughed ironically.

  Kolojejchick drifted toward the square enough to see the last of the tourists running away. But now he could see the residents of the Burbclave rushing toward the Wall. They wanted to be there when it came down, assuming it would fall onto the Good Side. He flew low over the Burbclave, dipping to within a few meters of their heads. They got the message and ran for cover.

  Gatekeeper Square seemed quite lonely, awash in festive lighting and funereal stillness. A sad Irish ballad echoed off its pilfered stones from an empty ale house.

  Kolojejchick formed the squad into a line facing the Wall, and backed them to the optimum striking distance. “Hit it right where it meets the street, at the foundations. Keep the damage to a minimum. Do not hit the bridge.”

  The squadron stood off at about a hundred yards, parallel to the Wall. They could still see a few people running through the streets and hear that sad melody. It sounded so familiar.

  The squadron waited, checking the target area with their sensors. In a few seconds it was all clear. Except for Freddy and his secretary/cousin who stood defiantly in the window singing that sad song at the top of their lungs.

  “Fire!”

  A fusillade struck the base of the Wall. For what seemed an eternity it hovered above its foundations, then fell forward, on top of the posh buildings across the high street, crushing the Leprechaun nation in one fell swoop.

  “Mission accomplished, Admiral,�
�� said Kolojejchick.

  “Return to base.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  They saddled up and headed east, as hundreds of Burbclave Preppers rushed into the land they had been for so long denied to toast the Leprechauns’ demise with their own whiskey.

  “What were they singing?” asked Kolojejchick.

  A younger pilot chuckled. “Danny Boy, I’m sure.”

  Lieutenant DeFeo chimed in, “It wasn’t Danny Boy. I could read their lips.”

  “What was it?” asked a chorus of pilots.

  “We’ll meet again.”

  55

  Max dropped into Camille’s parking lot right on the dot, but she wasn’t there. He looked to Lily. She shrugged her shoulders and made a don’t-ask-me face. Max popped the wind dome and looked to the two security guards flanking the door. The bigger one raised his index finger, and shouted, “She’ll be down in a minute.”

  Max decompressed. “What could be taking her so long?”

  “I don’t know, but let’s take a look.” Lily jumped out and ran toward the Manhattan side of Camille’s building. She was halfway across the lot before Max caught up.

  “What’s that smell?” she yelled.

  “The ocean.”

  “My god, that’s amazing,” she said, coatless and shivering, until she rounded the corner and caught her first glimpse of Manhattan. “Holy Moses on a moped.”

  Max remembered Pastor Scott saying that.

  “My father used to say that,” she said. “It would’ve been nice to share this with him. He seems so much less an ass now that he’s dead.”

  “It’s something, isn’t it?”

  Lily looked up the side of Camille’s building. “Where does she live?”

  “Way up there, seventeen floors. The view’s even better up there.”

  Lily looked up and down and back across. “It’s? I don’t know . . . It’s.”

  “Let’s get back. We can always come here again. She’s invited me to stay.”

  Lily scowled.

  “You too.”

  Her scowl turned to jumping delight.

  They ran back to the Peregrine. Still no Camille. The security guard raised two index fingers and wiggled them up and down — any second now.

  Max leaned against the Peregrine. Lily snuggled against him.

  The security guards disappeared inside, then quickly reappeared carrying four shopping bags with Camille towing a suitcase behind. Max and Lily assumed a more dignified posture. But as soon as Camille saw Max’s huge smile, she abandoned the suitcase and ran to him. Lily stepped back as she threw a bear hug on Max and leapt up to plant a quick kiss on his forehead.

  Camille turned to Lily. “And who is this?” she asked with an approving wink and a nod.

  “Lily. This is Lily. Lily, Camille.”

  Camille eyed her up and down, then gave her a nice hug. “Max! You silver-tongued devil, you. Pop the trunk.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “And you’re driving? In the back seat, boys.” The security guards lifted all the shopping bags overflowing with men’s wear into the back seat, leaving just enough room for Camille. The wind-dome dropped. “And you, honey, if you were six inches shorter, I’d fill your closet full. You are absolutely adorable!”

  Lily relaxed, but she had never met a woman so beautifully dressed, in a black leather parka that broke just above Camille’s knees. Her heavy, grey ski pants dropped into mid-calf boots — a little clunky but still feminine. A black and white hound’s-tooth scarf, cool sunglasses, and two thunderous security guards completed the look. If these were the kind of friends Max had, she was in good company. She decided right then and there to love Camille, like a big sister.

  They rocketed off into the western sky.

  “Tell me about MacIan.”

  “He’s a mess,” said Max. “When they took him away, he was just about breathing. He had a splintered two-by-four right through his guts.”

  “OK, OK. I got the picture. Why are you two all smudged and scraped?” she asked, dabbing at a sooty smear on Lily’s already scratched cheek.

  “We were in the Quaker Meeting House when it blew. MacIan flew right out the window. We had to fight our way out.”

  “Fight who?”

  “The Leprechauns.”

  Camille blanched. “Fuckin’ Leprechauns!”

  “You know that Beretta you gave me, with the ankle holster? Lily blasted two of them with it.” He stared adoringly at Lily. “She saved us both.”

  “I love this girl,” said Camille. “She’s just my type.”

  Lily was tickled pink. “What type am I?”

  “You’re everybody’s type, honey. Believe me. I’m gonna get you one of those of your own. A girl should have her own gun.”

  Lily raised her leg to show Camille how she’d strapped the Beretta to her thigh.

  “You know the way to a girl’s heart, Max,” said Camille, certain he now had no pistol for himself.

  Lily giggled, “And he’s cute as can be, too, isn’t he?”

  The ladies burst into howling laughter and Max turned purple.

  Camille rubbed it in. “Max? Is it getting hot in here? Hey, gimme that raggedy pea-coat. I got something for you.”

  “Miss Camille, don’t lose it, it’s my dad’s and I know he wants it.”

  “No problem,” she said, rooting through her luggage, producing a flimsy cleaner’s bag and taking from it a very expensive sage-green hunting jacket made of quilted corduroy, with elk horn buttons, and a suede collar with matching shoulders. It was dapper but warm, with a thin but densely quilted satin lining.

  “Oh, man,” swooned Lily, wrestling Max into the coat.

  Camille put Fred’s pea-coat into the cleaner’s bag and set it reverently on the pile. The ladies studied Max and made exceedingly judgmental faces at each other. “Fashion show, Max! Fashion show,” they sang. “Fashion show!”

  Max lolled his head bashfully.

  Camille smoothed the coat’s shoulders into place and said, “Don’t tell me you never did any posing in the mirror, don’t hand me that.” And their laughter grew as Max stammered and blushed before twisting his lips into a good-natured but telling pout — thank god dogs can’t talk.

  “Oh,” said Camille, “I’ve got the perfect thing for you, Lily, it’s my dad’s . . . but tall as you are.” She dug out a black cashmere sports coat with a pure white silk lining, and motioned for Lily to sit up so she could slip it on her. “It was his skinny coat. Roll the sleeves up once or twice. It’s extremely soft. It’ll be fine.”

  Lily pulled it on in a snap and hinted for a review.

  “It’s a little big, but it works,” said Camille.

  Max just stared. Lily got better every day.

  “Thank you, Camille. I like the way it fits.” Lily rolled up the sleeves. It did work.

  Camille’s joy slowly shrank as she settled into a ponderous funk — poor MacIan. She could feel them leveling off and the speed increasing. “How long until we reach the hospital?” asked Camille.

  “We’re not going to the hospital,” said Lily. “We’re going to the Spires. The Twin Spires.”

  Camille’s lips quivered. “The Spires?”

  56

  The Office of Zero Sum Games, ReplayAJ’s domain, was huge alcove with an open side on the ravine. Her hand picked team was very bright, but very young.

  “I hate to admit it,” said Chernobella, the youngest of the team, “but I don’t know what a Constantinople is.”

  The five others wore equally waffling grins.

  AJ said, “It’s an old frame. Pope Urban used it to get all the peasants in Europe to go on a Crusade. He gamified it with the best incentive to play in history. All your sins past, present and future — forgiven. We will create a similar movement by inviting our veterans to go on a crusade — to liberate New York.”

  “What’s the play?” they asked.

  “The game begins when a vet joins th
e march to New York City. They stop at various bases along the way, football stadiums, high school up to professional. They participate in a challenge, receive a reward, then advance. That’s the intermediate payoff. If they make it to New York, on time, they’ll receive their own grand prize, a home in NYC.”

  The women tossed this around, then a very short one, Deuxmedia, said, “That’s a worthy prize. The incentive to play is irresistible.”

  “Home ownership is the key to civilization,” said AJ, opening >New Mission and naming it >Liberate NYC.

  “How will we get the word out in such a short time?” asked Allegro138, who wore baggy white coveralls in black polka dots.

  “Everyone who has ever even heard of The Massive is sitting in front of their computers waiting for our next post,” cautioned AJ. “What we say next is critical. Any suggestions?”

  “Let’s call Turnstyle,” said Cooperatora, whose unpainted white coveralls looked unfinished.

  “Fabulous,” said AJ, “who’s got her digits?”

  “She’s very stealthy,” said Deuxmedia. “She plays a dangerous game.”

  “Levi knows how to contact her,” said AJ.

  Bringing Levi into their game raised a sarcastic groan.

  “You know he won’t interfere.”

  They agreed, reluctantly.

  AJ tapped her video app; a projection screen painted the wall behind her, and Levi appeared in mid-sentence. He saw her and smiled.

  “We want to talk to Turnstyle.”

  “Great! But I shouldn’t be the one to call to her.”

  AJ agreed. “So how you want to play it?”

  “We’ll cut into their house feed. Nuxplaza said she saw it here somewhere. They were all dancing.”

  AJ’s screen went black, then filled with gyrating women and techno-disco — the joy was infectious. AJ was too old to gyrate, but her head bobbed to the beat. When the revelers realized their feed had been hijacked, the dancing slowed, the music stopped, and Turnstyle filled the frame.

  “Who the hell are you?!”

  “I’m AJ and . . .”

  “ReplayAJ?!” shouted Turnstyle.