On The 7th Day

by Zack Murphy

  It wasn’t a comforting, ‘put your head on my shoulder, everything’s going to all right’ type of hug, more of a ‘I’ve really been hit by you more than enough today and am holding you to catch a break from your continued pummeling of my soft, bruised body’ type of hug.

  “Let me get this straight,” she said pulling herself away from his arms and retrieving out a handkerchief to dry her eyes. “You’re--? You are--?” she said trying to grasp the right words, which was hard with all the other words and images fluttering around her brain like a butterfly convention in a hurricane. “This isn’t supposed to happen to normal people. This isn’t supposed to happen at all in fact.”

  “Come on, let me take you out and buy an alcoholic beverage of some sort.”

  “I can’t. It’s ten o’clock at night and I have to teach school in the morning.”

  “Don’t worry about that, you’re not going to work tomorrow.”

  “I’m not?

  “No, don’t be silly,” he said, placing a calming hand on her shoulder, “you’ll be too busy saving the world.”

  *****

  A tornado wearing a custom-tailored Gucci suit came tearing into the house and ran up the stairs yelling profanities that no honorable servant of Hell should ever hear. This vocabulary was usually reserved when torturing former Nazi Gestapo officers, and even then should be chided for not being able to come up with a better vocabulary. Satan entered the house with the look of a man who just spent the past seven years being hit with a bamboo pole repeatedly while being yelled at about not picking his dirty socks up off the bedroom floor.

  He headed past the Insurance Agents, who had paused from their celebratory dance party to stand at attention and watch their dejected boss shuffle past them. He paused at the bottom of stairs and surveyed the room.

  “Did she go up there?”

  “Yes sir,” said #3.

  “Did she seem mad?’

  “Yes sir.”

  “Should I go up there?”

  “I wouldn’t sir,” stated #2, “She seemed really mad.”

  “Yes, I believe we just covered her mood, thank you.”

  #11 nudged #2 with an elbow. The other Agents had been surprised to see #2, since he had locked himself in a trance for the past seven and half hours still trying to finish putting together the edge pieces of his puzzle, to no avail.

  “You could stay here with us,” offered #5.

  “Yes, we are listening to popular music of the Nineteen Hundred and Eighties that keep your feet a rockin’ and your boots a knockin’. Coming up is Duran Duran, Men Without Hats and the number one hit of Nineteen Eighty- Five,” #12 was enthralled with his newfound proficiency of radio bumper interplay.

  Satan gave a good, hard look around at the smiling faces of his trained killing machines and their party. If this were High School it would be the type of party all the cool kids were invited to but only a handful of science geeks and band nerds showed up and spent the entire night playing spin the bottle and being too embarrassed to kiss someone of the opposite sex. Instead opting to eat their weight in cheese doodles.

  “As nice as that sounds I’m going to go upstairs and face the consequences of my actions.”

  “Which were--?”

  “Three glorious hours of hot, passionate, unbridled lovemaking unequaled and unparalleled in the history of the known universe,” he said.”Nine months ago.” Satan headed up the stairs and paused to turn around and address his minions, “The place looks great by the way.”

  As the Agents watched him ascend the stairs and head into Dana Plough’s bedroom they could hear shouting coming from the room. This didn’t faze them one bit for they were all on cloud nine with their boss’s compliment and the soft cool voice of Ms. Sheena Easton singing Morning Train wafting through the air.

  *****

  Beer glasses and a half eaten plate of nachos filled the table at Erwin O’Shea’s Sports Bar and Grill. Barnaby and Ketty sat watching a football game between two Southeast college rivals on the giant television screen that took up an entire wall.

  “I can’t believe you can drink that much,” said a rather tipsy Ketty.

  “You obviously have never hung out in the Greek God section of Heaven.”

  “Obviously!” She slouched back in her chair and smiled as she watched Barnaby put back another beer. She was having fun; drunk fun, but fun nonetheless. After all she’d been through in the day’s events she needed to have drunk fun.

  “So I am-- when I am going to die, mister death man?” laughed Ketty through slurred speech.

  “Thursday.”

  “That’s like in-- In? Today’s--?” she gave up trying piece together a calendar of previous events through her drunken haze. “That’s soon!”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the past hour.”

  “Sorry, mister buzz kill death man. I don’t even know your name. Is it Mr. Deathman?”

  “No, it isn’t Mr. Deathman, although that would be an improvement.”

  “I’ll be the judge of what a good name is or not. Now what is it?”

  “Barnaby.” He said ashamed of the moniker he’d been saddled with.

  “You don’t look like a Barnaby. Why do you have a Barnaby name?

  “I only got it yesterday.”

  “Well, it’s a stupid name.”

  “Thank you.” His lips pert with the knowledge that this whole getting made fun of because of his name thing wasn’t going to end soon.

  “I like you, Mr. Barnaby Deathman.”

  “It’s just Barnaby.”

  “Like Madonna?’

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” she pointed a trembled finger in what she thought was his general direction. Or at least where one of him was. “Why aren’t you drunk? You’ve had waaaay more than me and I’m smarshed. Smarshed? I mean to mean smashed.”

  “I don’t get drunk.”

  “Well, la-de-dah for you. You can drive me home then. Can you drive a shift stick car thingy with the wheels and stuff?”

  “I can’t drive a car.”

  “Oh, you’ll be fine; you seem like a quick learner.”

  On that note Ketty passed out face down on the table. Barnaby sighed, paid the tab with a forty percent tip [because waitresses rely on tips to earn a decent living and because Barnaby had never tipped before]. He lifted her up and helped maneuver her limp body out to her car.

  “How hard can this be?” Barnaby said to himself, trying to figure out where the key went. After a few unsuccessful and bodily shocking attempts to start the car by placing the key in the cigarette lighter Barnaby pulled the collapsed Ketty out of the car, threw her over his shoulder and started towards his hotel. “I wanted to walk anyway.”

  *****

  4 DAYS BEFORE THE BIRTH

  “My fellow Americans, I have come to here to speak to you about an unspeakable evil that is among us. A great force of darkness has surrounded us on all sides and is closing in at a furious pace. It is now the time for all the people of the world to stand together and work as one to defeat the enemy at our gates! I have witnessed the acts of these oppressors of goodness first-hand and I know what they can do!

  ‘They will offer you a better life, riches beyond your wildest dreams, and the knowledge of the universe, but do not fall for these slick snake oil salesmen peddling a quick fix to eternal happiness. They are here to destroy us and our way of life. We must fight! We must allow our way of life to survive and to thrive for the generations to follow! Nature says the strong will survive, and I believe, no-- I know, that we as a human race are stronger than any force that may want to harm our delicate balance in the universe.

  ‘When the riders of the black storm come seeking to steal our morals and our rights we will stand and fight. We will rise up against the evil and tyranny that will rain down with great fury in the days to come. We are strong and we will survive. A new dawn has risen and with you this da
wn will bring thousands of new days, filling the Earth’s sky with the brilliant sun of freedom. So when we leave this room let us leave with the knowledge and ability to persevere over those who wish to destroy us. Vampires are Everywhere! I thank you. And God bless us all!”

  The room was silent after the speech by Patricia Van Helsing, the great-great-great-granddaughter of Professor Abraham Van Helsing, the famous vampire hunter of lore. She was gaunt and disheveled with large purple sacks under her eyes. She stood on a handmade dais in the center of the recreation room of the Jonathan Harker Prison for the Mentally Deranged in front of other patients of the asylum.

  A doctor in a white lab coat and a patronizingly soothing voice walked over to Patricia and laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “It was a very moving Patty.”

  “Thank you doctor.” She said, her eyes fixed firmly on her shuffling feet.

  “Why don’t we take a walk and have a chat.”

  “Okay.”

  The doctor led her out of the day room and into a quiet room at the other end of the floor. He turned to Patricia and smiled, then bent her neck back and with two long fangs ripped into her jugular vein. Her lifeless, blood-drained body collapsed to the floor, and as the doctor exited the room a light formed around the body of the dead vampire slayer.

  Patricia’s sprit sat up and saw a seven foot skeleton in a robe walk towards her. He pointed to the light and she went without fear or hesitation only pausing briefly.

  “So Dr. Panos was a vampire all along?”

  “No,” said The Death.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “So there’s no such thing as vampires? And I’ve spent my entire life in pursuit of the delusional daydreams in my mind after all?” she said devastated.

  “On the contrary, vampires do exist.” Said The Death, shaking his head in dismay over what had taken place. “That guy was just deeply disturbed.”

  *****

  Jeremiah showed up at six am and joined up with the other tourists in the lobby of the GNAN building, clutching his ticket in his hand. Half the people waiting for the guide were giddy with anticipation of seeing real-life celebrities, while others were loudly expressing their feelings of despondency that they couldn’t get into a taping of a popular game show where they would get the chance to compete for brand new car, but more than likely a lifetime supply of instant oatmeal.

  Most tours of the building had guides who were fresh-faced recent college drop-outs with no real outlook for the future except to make a little cash for beer money.

  Jeremiah’s group got Gus, who was more apt to play the gruff but loveable teamster in the studio’s newest ride, Welcome to National News: Now you too can be demeaned by people you feel are less qualified, but in reality are far better human beings than you will be ever be.

  The tour started on the ground floor and everyone was given an extensive forty-five minute film presentation about GNAN’s glorious eight year history and its founder’s über-heroic feats of Zelig-like historical inaccuracies.

  It fascinated Jeremiah that a man who had built up a multimedia global empire had the time to lead England’s conquest of Europe. He was also fascinated that he had the time both attend and act as a surrogate midwife at the birth of a small child in Bethlehem’s less savory Stable District.

  After the first two and a half hours of exploring everything from the commissary to the walls of cubicles on the first four floors of the building housing the accountants, advertising salespeople, auditors, human resource staff, coordinators and varying degrees of personal assistants whom the group was encouraged to photograph and according to Gus were the backbone of the company [This is true, however they make for a less than awe-inspiring tour] and what they were doing was exhilarating [This is not true either, people who work fourteen hour days for just above the state minimum wage is not exhilarating and makes for a less than awe-inspiring take-your-daughter-to-work day.].

  The group was getting the sinking suspicion that the hard earned fifty-five dollars they forked over for the tour was going to waste [This, however, is very true].

  They had finally arrived at the bustling center of the corporate hive, the GNAN News Studio. Before Gus could start his rambling 'this is where the magic happens speech', Jeremiah raised his hand.

  “If you would all just wait until the end of the tour to pose questions there will be a brief Q&A session and complimentary coffee.”

  “Yes, but I just wanted to--”

  Gus raised a hand. “The end of the tour sir. If you please?”

  “Yes sir, but--”

  Gus’s hand never moved from blocking Jeremiah’s face, and if Gus couldn’t see you, you weren’t asking any questions. “Okay, if you’ll follow me, we’ll now head down the hall to the make-up room where your favorite correspondents go to look as alive and as un-pasty as humanly possible.” He droned as monotonously as possible, while still collecting a paycheck.

  Having a polite upper crust British accent helped in some aspects, such as talking small guerilla armies into overthrowing, then erecting, fascist regimes in already war-torn regions. Assisting CEO’s of businesses to move their factories to small South Asian countries where they get around child labor laws and pay five cents a month for the manufacture of ill-fitting clothing.

  And, on more than one occasion, getting a democratically-elected official to disobey his wedding vows and either have sex with the glamorous starlet or to get what was commonly referred to as a ‘Dorchester Double Dip’ under his desk by a naïve and slightly overweight intern. It did not, however, help when trying to get people who were locked into leading a scripted tour, horribly-written by Tammy from publishing, to take time out of their schedules to answer questions.

  Jeremiah found an opening to escape and slyly slipped away from the tour as they were ogling over the chair where Pat Robertson had become hazy during a make-up session due to an overabundance of hairspray and mentioned that he like to wear women’s clothing while cleaning his garage.

  He found Dana Plough’s empty office and entered the room; he was rummaging through her file cabinet when he was surprised by a young woman.

  “May I help you or should I just call security?” said Juliet.

  “What? Oh you scared me.” Jeremiah was pretty good at covering his ass. “No, no need to be upset. My name is Walter Mitchell from the London office; I was just looking for Ms. Plough.”

  “Well Mr. Mitchell, I doubt that Ms. Plough is in that filing cabinet.”

  There are three simple rules when being caught red handed in bold faced lie; they are:

  1: Start with the basics: A good lie needs to have a solid base to build more lies upon the initial one. That lie needs to be able to take on a plausible life its own, with its own history, events and people, who if you could reach them could most definitely collaborate your lie.

  2: Never give up, never surrender: Even if being presented with indisputable facts that prove your lie is in truth a lie. Don’t be discouraged from berating that person into perhaps rethinking their stand that you are not in fact the Queen of England here on a top secret fact-finding mission on whether or not Canadians are actually hockey-crazed, Molson-swilling, Gay marriage-loving, sock monkeys.

  3: If all else fails, RUN: it is a well known fact that most people are lazy and out of shape and will give up chasing you after a few feet.

  “Do you know where I can find Ms. Plough?” he questioned in his best authoritarian voice.

  “She’s not here, she’s on maternity leave.”

  “She had the baby already!”

  “No, she’s just taking the next few days off to prepare; she needs to rest for the big day.”

  Juliet had a tone in her voice of someone who was hiding something very big and wanted to tell someone desperately.

  “So, she’s home.”

  “Yes, she’s home.”

  “And where does she live again?”

  “And who did you say you w
ere again?”

  “Walter Mitchell.”

  “From the London office?” When presented by unknown entities, always ask a lot of questions. It makes you feel important. It also makes you look like you know what you’re doing, when in fact you don’t.

  “Yes.”

  “Well it’s a good thing you came today Mr. Mitchell.”

  “It is?” Jeremiah was starting to think he may have met his match is the Pulling the Wool over Someone’s Eyes for Your Own Sneaky-Handed Schemes Olympics.

  “Yes, Mr. Bidwell is here and I’m sure he’d love to see you.” She said, a wry smile starting to creep across her face.

  “Mr. Bidwell?”

  “The president of the company.”

  “Oh, that Mr. Bidwell. How is old Larry?”

  “Perry,” corrected Juliet.

  “Yes, of course- Perry.” He was really applying rules #1 and 2 “I just, you know—um--, call him Larry. It’s an old-- um-- you know--, an old nickname from--, um-- University?” Juliet didn’t correct him, so he went with it, “He doesn’t really need to see me now, we just had lunch the other day and he’s probably quite busy-- this being his company and all. I’m sure he’s-- he’-- oh screw it.”

  And, then exercising rule #3, Jeremiah took off like a bat out of hell past the glowering Juliet and headed for the elevator. Behind him were three security guards lurching towards him. He pushed the elevator button vigorously until a door finally opened up.

  The guards were closing in on him as he furiously hit the button to close the doors. With the guards just feet from catching him the doors closed and started to descend. Jeremiah let out an exasperated sigh and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  The elevator opened up at the ground floor and Jeremiah cautiously exited and found that there seemed to no one looking for him. Another tour was about to leave, this one led by a squeaky-voiced teenager named Mandy who bounced up and down with her ample bosom flailing about her body like a rabid Chihuahua on a rollercoaster. This action gave the men in the tour a much-needed reason for why they were there and not out golfing [and their 50 dollars worth].

  Jeremiah decided that Dana Plough could wait, seeing that she was still a few days from giving birth, and he could take the tour again. Besides, he hadn’t gotten to see the green room where opposing pundits rekindled lost romances by performing an extremely difficult position from a long thought missing page of the Kama Sutra.