The Grief Team (17 page)

Jason was lying on his back on Ferria’s bed with three pillows stuffed under his head.  Under pale skin, there was a darker shadow which had settled in the pockets of his eyes and the set of his mouth.  His breathing was shallow but easier now and the bone-shaking coughs which plagued him had subsided for the time being it seemed.  He had taken two of the tablets which Ferria had discovered in the medicine chest and the effects had been salutary.  He was wrapped in an electric blanket set to Warm icon and Ferria had prepared a glass of strong tea and honey to soothe his ragged throat.  Every eight minutes, she interrupted her pacing back and forth across the bedroom of the suite by going into the bathroom where she soaked a towel in water as hot as she could stand before wringing it out over the bathtub, whereupon she then rushed into the bedroom and replaced its cooling cousin from its position atop Jason’s chest.  Then she would resume her pacing and her attempts to converse with her guest.

“The thing is, Jason, it’s not whether you can reincarnate yourself or not, I don’t really care one way or the other. You have my permission to go out and heal as many Citizens-in-the-Malls as you like. Now it may be that you’ll be greeted with some skepticism at first, probably more with the older Citizens; in fact, definitely more than skepticism. In the Malls, religion is like ancient history, I’m afraid. Most Citizens think that religion is what caused the End in the first place. The Bible and its ilk always managed to provide the thought-food necessary for the  fascistically-minded, but most of those who survived the End and came into the Malls were all fucked up in their minds about religion. Until Mayor Dickie clarified the problem. I can tell you that even the Mayor has nightmares about what happened.

“Sometimes I think Toronto Nation is built out of nightmares… but you haven’t actually healed anything other than Mutt-no-last-name’s radburns, have you? I mean nothing since then, is that right?  So I guess that explains why you aren’t doing anything about your cough. You’re out of juice, aren’t you?”

Ferria kicked the bedpost. “Shit!”

Roy Glyn kicked off the counter and sent Gabriel’s command chair on a ride past the banks of monitors, keyboards, computers, tape machines to the end where Father Gabriel stood.

His face was livid, his jaw set tightly.  “Let me see!”

Father Gabriel smiled benevolently, pushed several buttons, made a selection and then pointed to the middle of three screens.  “That one.”

Roy got out of the chair and went to the console, leaning forward on it, focussing on the screen intently, knowing that he was going to see something
that he hated to think about. The screen flickered…

Ferria!…rubbing her hand on the crotch of Dum’Kid! 

Screen black.

“Showing you more wouldn’t serve any purpose, Roy.  It’s obvious that Ferria
has simply used you as a fool. She doesn’t love you, Roy. She has been what I believe you call mostfukn’not-fair! I know you feel betrayed, especially after everything you’ve done for her, but you are with Father now and I will do everything I can to make sure that Roy Glyn has a long and happy life…if Roy Glyn does what Father has asked.”

Roy nodded, his eyes now locked on Father’s, his heart light and free in the certain knowledge that he had been released from his vow to die his third and final death for Ferria d’Mont.  How stupid that would have been!  To die for a girl who had shamed him and used him to get the Dum’Kid!  He had been betrayed and now Father was offering him the opportunity to take his revenge.

“Yes, Father.”

“I think it’s the only way that you can solve your problem, Roy.  You’ve made a good decision.  And I guarantee that you will have a reserved place on the next export flight to the Papal State.  You will have your pick of the most beautiful girls in the world and you will only work when you wish.  You have my promise!”

Roy grinned.  Father had a way of making things seem just right.

In the wee hours of the morning, as she sat beside the sleeping boy on a chair moved to within easy reach of him, the soft wheeze of Jason-no-last-name’s breathing feeding the undercurrent of her thoughts,  Ferria d’Mont turned on her Newton IV and plunged into the Stream. 

Attaching Elias’ code to one of his lures, she manoeuvred it along a circuitous route which sent it blandly seeking passive catches.  When it snagged momentarily on a netful of the Chronicle’s harvest, Ferria duplicated her hook and detached herself into the main’Stream, free to swim anywhere she wanted without leaving telltale ripples in her wake. Believing this, Ferria set out to discover what had happened to Roy Glyn, whose jacket had been left outside her door but without him in it. 

She did not notice when, seven microseconds behind her, a discreet but very powerful hook originating in the office of Gabriel Kraft slipped in behind, turning smoothly when it came to the snag and following Ferria’s rogue lure. If anything, following his meeting with Ferria d’Mont, the Director of the Grief Team had gained a new respect for his father’s Executive Assistant.

The Mayor of Toronto Nation wiped beads of cold sweat from his brow with a towel already made damp by previous passes.  He was, to be sure, exercising more control over his emotions now than he managed five minutes ago when the boy had arrived.  Elias, who had fallen asleep on the couch in his apartment, had nodded awake only to find himself in what he believed was a dream within a dream; it was a view which persisted until he realized that he had a pizza slice stuck to his chest.  A dream, surely, should not consist of such an inconvenience, and, as the feel of cold, rubbery mozarella against his fingers foretold, it did not.  It appeared very like that Elias had fallen asleep in the middle of a mid-evening snack once again.

But the boy was something else.

He was slumped in Gabriel’s recline-a-rocker and he did not look well.  He looked tired, spent of the energy which boys are always full of, his breathing nothing but a long wheeze which caught on phelgm that rattled like loose bones in his chest. 

Elias was at a loss; should he summon medicine? The fool in him wittily suggested that a psychiatrist for himself might be more appropriate. He was absolutely certain that he was not dreaming, not only for the proof-positive-pizza but also…well, he knew that the boy was coming, didn’t he? Elias found himself speaking before he knew which words were coming out of his mouth.

“Jason.  Jason?  Is that right?  It just came into my head.”

The boy nodded and Elias’ eyes widened.  His emotions were a cat scratch away from the surface.  “This is so fucking unusual that I can’t believe it’s taking place!  I mean this is really incredible and I’ve seen a hell of a lot of incredible things in my lifetime!  Mayor Dickie would not believe this!  Am I…are you…am I talking to Christ?”

Jason smile was beatific but confused.  “I don’t think so.”

“…because…because I have the strangest feeling…it feels like I know who you are but at the same time I know I’ve never seen you before.  There is no logic to this.  You are really here, aren’t you?  This isn’t a bit of gruel and all that?” 

“I’m here.  What’s gruel?”

“But you’re not Christ?  Does that mean that this isn’t the Second Coming?”

“I’m not sure,” wheezed Jason. He spent several moments straightening the hot towel on his chest before he closed his bathrobe.  “I don’t know about things like that.”

Elias frowned, pondering the steam rising from Jason’s hot towel.  This was not how he had pictured their meeting.  The boy whom he had seen in his dreams had projected confidence and had worn a determined smile.  This poor boy in front of him was sick and he didn’t seem to know what was going on…what had happened to him? 

“That’s an unusual response from someone who’s capable of materializing wherever he wants.  I know you didn’t use the door because I can see from here that the security beam is still on, ergo you materialized…”

“…more like wishing really,” said Jason.

“O.K., wishing.  Wishing is O.K. but is it a spiritual thing at all?  I mean, are you connected with somebody?  God?  Allah?  Yaweh?”

“No, I don’t think so, but I don’t know everything.”  Jason suppressed a yawn.  “Does it make a difference?”

“Trite,” said Elias, his temper rising. “You’re being trite!”  Elias’ disappointment got the better of him as did the notion that he was getting testy with a (potential) deity. 

“Wouldn’t you think that validating a belief system which spanned Anno Domini to the end of the Twentieth Century is worth a little serious consideration at a time like this?  I mean you went to the trouble of appearing in my dreams every goddamn night for the last ten days like you were coming to save something!  Double-dogs’breath, boy, wouldn’t some of those billions of poor bastards who died on this planet be interested to know where you fucking were when they really fucking needed you!?”  Elias paused to catch his breath, his cheeks red with anger.  He could feel the self-righteous-bastard-side of him standing up and saluting the corps.

Goddamn kid!  Who does he think he is?  I’m the fucking Mayor!’

A little smile played at the corners of Jason’s mouth.  “I want to hear about Malls.  Tell me about your Malls, Elias.”

The Mayor’s anger subsided quickly.  “What about the Malls?  Do you mean to tell me that you’re not omniscient either?”

“What’s that?”

Elias buttoned on a little smirk.  “Knowing all, knowing everything.”

“In that case, no.”

“Well, then,” Elias began to chuckle, “we’re one step closer towards finding out who you are and what you want.”  He leaned forward and winked at Jason.  “You’re not overly clever then?  Fail a grade in heaven, did you?”

Jason’s laugh brought up phlegm.

Elias bristled.  “I think you’re a fake!  I can’t explain the dreams or how you got in here but I think you’re a grave disappointment at best!  Surely you’re aware of the importance of your appearance?  If you start appearing in someone’s dreams looking like you’re the second Christ coming-late-to-the-table then people like me are going to make the assumption that you are. And why, by the way, did you ever choose the sickly body of this boy whose lungs sound like death rattles? Or is that putting it too strongly for you? Perhaps there is a larger perspective which I’m missing here?”

“What’s per…spec…?”

“Now you’re trying my patience, aren’t you?  Look, I am simply making the point—a very relevant and a very real point—that as there is no logical reason for you to exist as anything other than a religious curiosity suddenly and miraculously made real—palpably so in fact—that by that very definition you must be capable of miracles.  Am I going too fast for you?  I’m talking about miracles, the laying on of hands, the healing of the sick and the lame…the basics really. Got a handle on any of those?”

Jason’s laugh was louder and longer this time.  “Miracles don’t come with handles, Elias. You carry them inside yourself.”

“Oh I see!  I see!  A fucking wordsmith!  Miracles inside myself?  Well maybe that’s what it is then.  I’m a fucking miracle! It’s a fucking miracle that I’m sitting here with you right now, that’s what it is!” 

Elias’ answer came in the form of another thin grin. 

The Mayor shook his head, aware that his tirade was having no visible effect other than that the boy seemed to like it.  ‘Hell and damnation,’ he fumed. 
             

“Elias, tell me about the Malls. Make it like a story.”

Elias hesitated, looking at Jason closely. There were dark shadows playing across the boy’s face and they portended a serious problem, but his breathing had eased noticeably and he seemed to be truly interested.                 

“What…I don’t…,” began Elias as he watched Jason slowly make himself more comfortable in Gabriel’s chair. The boy reclined, a pleasant look of expectation on his face. 

The Mayor of Toronto Nation cleared his throat.  “Do you want the short or the long version?”

“The short one,” said Jason softly.  “I’m not sure how much time I have.”

Elias peered sharply at the boy. Was he becoming translucent? Elias closed his eyes and then looked again. An expression of contentment seemed to have settled over Jason’s facial features. He was waiting for Elias to begin...

“People…those who were left, that is…those who first made their way to the lights that Dickie Donalato turned on in the Centre, the survivors…they were the beginning of the Malls. This was a long time ago, by the way, nearly thirty years. They had Dickie to guide them of course…nothing would have been possible without Dickie. We call him The Father-of-the-Malls now, don’t you know. I was right along beside him for most of the way.…met him for the first time after he sent me a message. Said he’d heard about me from some folks that had passed between Oakville Place and the E.C. Anyway I’d heard of Dickie long before he heard of me, I expect.  When I first got here to the E.C., there were already over seven hundred survivors and more were gathering daily. 

“I remember that I took an old O.J.-model Bronco from the Oakville Place parking lot and drove the Q.E.W., and then on the Lakeshore as the Gardiner Expressway were nothing more than lumps of concrete and decayed flesh. The downtown streets, Yonge particularly, even the Bronco couldn’t get through. Wound up walking to the Centre, right where the CleanBuses go today. All roads lead to the Centre these days. Anyway, I got there. Took me and my family twelve-and-a-half hours, passing wreck after wreck after wreck and the remains of folks who thought they could outrun ‘Walking Death.’

“I was just a young fellow, only 20, 21, but I was already the Manager of Oakville Place Mall. That’s what I was doing when I first heard about Dickie…about his plan to save what was left…” Elias made an effort to lean forward and transfix the boy with a stern look. “Y’know what he said to me when we shook hands?”

Jason said nothing, his eyes steady.

“He said, ‘Let ‘em shop, Elias. They need to shop.’

Elias sat back and grinned. ‘They need to fuckin’ shop!” A short snort exploded out of his nose preceding a few chuckling noises. “Damn me if he wasn’t 120% right too! All those poor buggers wanted was to be able to do something familiar, something they could hang on to that wasn’t putrefying and turning to shit in front of their glazed little eyeballs. All of us, we all had seen enough dead and dying, enough stuff blown up and blasted thanks to politicians who couldn’t keep their war-dicks tied down in their Calvin’s. It was a helluva mess, boy! Not that you or Jesus or Mohammed was at all concerned!

“And don’t think we didn’t notice. We prayed all right. We had more prayers locked into the jet stream on their way to you guys than you could shake a stick at! Diddly-squat came of it if you heard ‘em at all. More than likely you didn’t…and that’s what Dickie said would happen. Dickie wasn’t one for this suffering in silence shit, turning the upper lip and all of that stuff…”

“Cheek,” wheezed Jason softly, with a wan smile, “not lip.”

Elias glared at him. “Fat lot of help you all were, whether you were three-in-one or enough for a fuckin’ football team. Folks figured that if there was anything that could qualify as bein’ worth your intervention, the destruction of the whole goddamn planet had to be right up there with invasion by little green men from Mars. No such luck. You fucked yourselves in the arse on that one, my son; there wasn’t a believer in the bunch that was left that had any time for you after that.”

Elias reached awkwardly for the large green mug that held the last swallow of cold tea, seized and drained it, and slapped it back on the small table beside him. His face was flushed and he was primed and ready to regale this apparition with thirty years’ worth of angst, anger and rectitude. Assuming this scrawny kid was Jesus-all-over-again (and there was at least 50% of nothing not to), the Mayor was going to have his say on behalf of humanity, both the 99.9% that was toast and the 00.1% that was still hanging on.

“Mayor Dickie,” Elias resumed, “was a practical man. No shit and shinola from him, you always got exactly what he was thinking. ‘Meat ‘n tatties,’ Dickie always said. Wrote it down in a notebook in Sleepy Hollow, he did, while everything Outside was going through the meat grinder. He put it all together, everything from the basic necessities to the order and functioning of a new nation. He picked all of the survivors up by their collars and bloody well told them how it was going to be. No more do-what-you-want, no more ‘60’s-leftover-baby-boomers-with-half-a-leg-in-the-grave still tryin’ to tell everyone what to do. No pre-teen-brained-talking-heads-on-television mind-fucking the population and pretending to be egalitarian-freedom-riders-in-spandex-and-tofu. They were gone, sitting in pools of their own blood and shit. What we needed was order. Ranking.

“Dickie was a reader. He reckoned that he must have read every book on the shelves in Sleepy Hollow before he came back out into the Malls.” Elias chuckled. “Looked like a half-baked messiah when he did, hair past his ass, beard all tangled up…I’m sure you’ve seen a prophet or three in your time something similar. He got cleaned up of course. He parlayed his clean-up as part of the new package he was offering and people began to listen. He was offering order, status for effort, easy check-out if you were tired of life, and shopping for everyone. And he didn’t fudge about the price neither…cause any grief and the Grief Team will be right over. That was it, short and sweet. Oh, and sex…Dickie was big on sex. He told me that every book he ever read had sex in it whether it was written about or not. He said everybody walked around all day long looking and thinking about getting sex. Made fuckin’ sense to me, I can tell you, but Dickie was thinking beyond that. He figured that if you could have sex when you wanted, you’d be a lot less likely to fuck the system if you catch my drift.” Elias paused. “Maybe you guys upstairs would have been a lot more responsive earlier on if you’d had a ride on the bedsprings a little more often.

“Anyway, Dickie got a team of smart guys and gals who set about taking stock of what was left, what could be used and how to use it. He surveyed all of us, found out what we could do and where we could do it. If you were a shoe salesman and you had an interest in gardening, then you got to open your store in the Mall and sell whatever shoes you could find along with whatever tomatoes you could grow in one of them indoor hothouse things. You got the franchise, pure and simple. No competition. Prices set by the Mayor and Council. In days, we had folks doubling-up on their vocations and avocations: clothing and surgery, CD’s and glasses, barbershop and pizzeria.”