forward in silk slippers. Tiny took his hand and kissed the wrinkled knuckles.
“As beautiful as always, Marquis.” Tiny knew the man’s moods. Inside he felt an overwhelming urge to shoot the old pervert but the Marquis was one of the City’s most powerful and dangerous gangsters. “You make it worth the trip.”
“Thank you, Tiny.” He flashed his eyes over his open fan. “I was twice your age and more before the Change. And yet, the times have not changed so much that flattery has ceased to work upon a lady.” He looked over at Driver.
Tiny knew that Driver’s Republican soul had some trouble with the Marquis’ exotic affectations. But Driver had always been a gentleman. The Texan smiled, his eyes glowing pink with alcohol and strain. “Lord, but you’re a dam buster! There’ll be many a lonely and jealous girl down in the haymow this year!”
The Marquis giggled. “Monsieur Driver, you are such a scamp!” And then he turned his old eyes upon Bloody. “Unlike certain individuals who will eat my food but will not favor a lady’s entrance by rising.”
Bloody sat like the dead man he was. The face was slack leather-his sunglasses two chipped dark holes. His large hands lay on the table before him as hard and lifeless as rakes. The Marquis moved around the table, his old face a wrinkle of petulance, his dress a storm of rustling silks.
“Oh, so! Vous bete ignorante!” the Marquis started, and stopped. His eyes were focused on a glistening tear that rolled down Bloody’s cheek. “My gracious. My…”
Tiny watched the proceedings move rapidly past him. “You’ll have to forgive Bloody, Marquis. He hasn’t been the same since he got killed.”
The Marquis gasped. His whole body shook beneath his dress. “Oh my dear Bloody! Mon cher homme.” He sat beside the gunman. Tiny tensed watching the scene. He had no idea how Bloody would react to the transvestite sputtering sympathy. The Marquis reached out and drew the gunman’s head to his brittle breast. “Oh my dear fellow.” His bejeweled and gnarled fingers cupped Bloody’s cheek. The Marquis glared angrily at Tiny and Driver. “Gentlemen with a lady you may be, but you are beasts to your friend!”
“Marquis. We just spent two days in a car with him,” Tiny said. “So we’ve done our part. We’re kind of anxious to talk to Felon.”
“Oh. He’s here.” The Marquis rose. He left Bloody bent over dead as a doornail. “For hours…” The old courtier’s nose wrinkled. “He’s been watching you since you arrived.”
40 – Call to Arms
During his flight to the City, the Angels whispered again. A dead brother bears the word. This contact surprised Updike. The Angels had never been so direct with him before. Past messages arrived-sometimes garbled-usually forming one or two words or short phrases: heal, fortitude, patience, speak the word-little more. He was quite pleased with this new communication. Nothing was left to interpretation. He had lots of time to think about it. With connections, transfers and delays the trip to the City took over twenty hours.
After the big twin-prop DC-10000 landed, he moved quickly through customs, his notoriety smoothing the way for him. When he traveled he often met living or dead people who felt they owed him a debt-he had freed a wife, a brother, a friend. Liberating the dead had caused many problems, but it had also mended many fences. The truth was, the dead generally accepted their lot. They had to. In order to enjoy any meaningful afterlife: death and the dead status of the body had to be embraced.
Otherwise, a person came apart, and the mind with it. For this reason, Updike compared the dead to Lepers- individuals whose existence depended upon a stark realization of one’s disease. Death, like leprosy, was never going to go away. Updike was sure that the dead kept to themselves for this reason. Too much association with the living, made the dead forget.
A limousine was waiting for him. He gathered his luggage at the carousel, and waited by the front right fender as a tall man of Arabian origin loaded the baggage into the trunk. Updike paced a few yards along the loading area watching people come and go. They retained the pre-Change expressions of travelers and Updike felt a genuine affection for them. Humans were so adaptable. He knew they were unable to accept their own defeat despite all the signs. He had to admire that foolish optimism. And he understood why the Lord called them “favorite.” The preacher felt anxious, wondering whether they could adapt to the change he was going to bring.
A man approached. He was a mess and quite dead, it was obvious from his horrific injuries. His appearance left no doubt that the movement from life to death had been recent and violent. He wore a black suit over a long lean frame. His arms were angled awkwardly out to the side like a tightrope walker’s. The front of his shirt and priest’s collar were torn and stained a dark crimson. Updike’s stomach churned as he studied the extent of the wounds.
Bone protruded from holes in the shirt just above the sternum, and flesh around the punctures splayed outward like the petals of some hellish flower. A coppery odor hung in the air and it was everything the preacher could do to keep from stepping away from the man’s sour aura. But empathy softened Updike’s dismay at last and he allowed his feelings to touch the sorrow of this dead man-it was terrible.
The limousine driver walked threateningly toward the dead stranger. “Go on! Get!”
The stranger did not yield at the big man’s approach. Updike needed no more evidence to the fellow’s recent demise, for the dead, once adjusted to their new existence were a fidgety and nervous lot-especially if the there was a threat of violence.
“Wait driver!” Updike interjected remembering the Angelic message. “This brother is here for me.” He moved past the driver toward the walking corpse, steadying himself against the instinctive repulsion he felt.
“My poor brother. How terrible has been this change for you!” Updike spread his arms to accept the corpse’s horrific embrace. He looked into the sad, wise face as he approached-at the gray skin and yellowed eyes. And there was a tug of recognition. Updike recognized something of the living man remaining in the lifeless gaze. A great knowledge lurked there, like the promise of food in the husk of a seed.
“My way is long, brother.” The dead man’s voice was thin and reedy.
“The road is long.” Updike admired the man’s spirit. He was speaking to one of his own-a shepherd.
“I have heard the word of the Lord. And with the word was a command that the righteous should hear.” Again, Updike felt great sympathy for the man. He could hear the deep current of passion that throbbed behind the sad face of death.
“ Hallelujah!” Updike squeezed the hard dead shoulders. “Speak this command to me and I shall bear the burden come what may, even in death.” The flesh beneath his fingers was plastic, but pliant-it stayed the way his hands kneaded it.
“I heard the Lord’s voice just moments after my…” he said and paused, for a second of acceptance or emotion, “translation.” The dead man’s eyes were bright and rheumy. Blinking mechanically, he continued, “I knew not what the message was upon my learning of it, but as I look upon you, the words crowd my tongue, and so I shall speak it.” With that, a power entered the dead man’s voice-an echo of life, and he said:
“Corrupt men have gone out from among you and enticed the inhabitants of their city, saying, ‘let us go and serve other gods,’ gods whom you have not known, then you shall inquire, search out, and ask diligently. And if it is indeed true and certain that such an abomination was committed among you, you shall surely strike the inhabitants of that city with the edge of the sword-utterly destroying it, all that is in it and its livestock, with the edge of the sword. And you shall gather all its plunder into the middle of the street, and completely burn with fire the city and all its plunder, for the Lord your God; and it shall be a heap forever. It shall not be built again. So none of the accursed things shall remain in your hand, that the Lord may turn from the fierceness of His anger and show you mercy, have compassion on you and multiply you, just as He swore to your fathers. Do what is right in the eyes of your Lord.”
Updike knew the words, Deuteronomy 13:13-17. He had pondered their power in the past. So fierce was the God of Moses’ time-so decisive. So exacting in His worship. The words were spoken long ago when the time of Holy War was upon them-and to hear them spoken again when the final war foretold in the Bible approached. The preacher had both feared and relished the day when the bugles would sound.
“My brother!” Updike drew the dead man close. “Just as it has been foretold. We shall muster a holy army
