Wanted: Undead or Alive

Pointy Gray Shoes

A quick search of local events told me there was a political rally scheduled to take place on the courthouse lawn in support of a guy running for county commissioner in a special election. There'd been talk of cancelling, considering the crazy spring blizzard, but in typical Michigan fashion, the sun had come out and the snow had melted, turning all the world gray and soupy. All the die-hard political folks would put on their thick wool socks and Timberlands and stand in the mud discussing the last big April snowstorm they remembered. Anyone who wasn't a political die-hard probably wouldn't have gone to the rally anyway.

I parked the Bronco in the courthouse lot and checked my pockets. Two sets of cuffs, industrial earplugs, and a Taser. No way was I going to carry a loaded pistol into a crowd if I had another choice.

Nick had used a permanent marker to draw an acorn over my heart. "It will help shield your soul, but in the end, it's just a doodle. Take care." He'd followed that chilling advice with a kiss that melted the chill away.

With a deep breath and a mental order to myself to stay focused, I threw open the Bronco door and planted my feet on the salted blacktop of the courthouse parking lot. A group of about two dozen stood near the steps, cheering and waving red, white, and blue signs in the air. It was hard to say for sure, as most of the group wore the same shapeless brown jackets and stocking caps, but they appeared to be mostly men and mostly over the age of fifty. On the other side of the street, a handful of women in denim skirts and plain wool coats stood in a small circle singing hymns. Twenty feet from them, a group of teenagers with unnaturally colorful hair held up an anarchy banner.

One of my favorite things about America has always been that no matter what you believe, main stream or extreme fringe, someone else is around to believe with you.

A row of low lampposts separated the wide yard from the parking lot. I leaned against one of them and settled in to watch for anything suspicious.

The candidate stepped out of the front doors of the building and the crowd went wild. The women bowed their heads in prayer. The anarchists shouted obscenities. A tall man with a stooped posture walked along the edge of the crowd and took a spot near the back.

I was watching him with so much intention, I never even knew someone was behind me until a sharp prick pierced the skin on the back of my neck. My instinct was to reach up and cover the hurting spot, but my arms refused to move. The last thing I heard was the guy with the microphone asking, "What more could any hard-working American ask for?"

***

A woman with lovely silver curls and a scowl like thunderclouds sat glaring at me.

I blinked. My eyelids weighed at least twenty pounds each. My head weighed five times that much. A lead blanket pressed me down onto a hard, flat surface. I drifted off again.

***

The second time I woke, my brain was clear enough for me to understand that I was in seriously deep trouble. It wasn't a lead blanket pressing me down. My limbs simply refused to respond. My vision warbled and faded before sharpening again the way the radio on my Chevy comes and goes, depending on whether I'm at the top of a hill or the bottom. Thankfully, most of Southeast Michigan is quite flat, so the signal remained regular, if a bit spotty. Weirdly, it always worked better at night. I'd often wondered if that had something to do with...

"Wake up!"

My eyes shot open. The silver-haired woman was standing over me. I must have been laying on the floor. The surface was smooth and unyielding. My forearms were crossed beneath my breasts and bound from wrist to elbow. My legs were tied as well. As my vision cleared, recognition came. "You were at the factory."