|
|
|
CHAPTER 11
“The house does not rest upon the ground, but upon a woman.”
-Mexican Proverb
Atria hated dealing with The Clan (with a “C”). She hated their constantly evolving set of demands. Their “edicts.” She hated the way the Elders acted just like elders, the Machiavellians acted just like Machiavellians, and the rest acted like the deep, dark hole of need that they were. Okay, so she was one of them. But ever since she became the negotiator between them and Jackson Quark, she felt a certain sense of independence, of not being so needy. Negotiator wasn’t really the right term. More a laison. She listened to the demands of The Clan (formerly, The Family, The Brethren, The Brood, The Conglomerate (1985-87), The Becoming) and relayed them to Jackson, who in turn belittled Atria, refused everything outright then called for her later that evening with a message of agreement, with a few conditions. The conditions were mostly trivial and often had to do with vanity like a title or scented gooey stuff they bathed in.
The Clan’s collective age dated back several centuries, making for one hellluva “When I was your age” story. You couldn’t get a word out before “That’s not how the Ming Dynasty ran things,” blighted your already tired ancient soul. Nevermind what you might think about bottled water– here’s what the fucking Mayan’s did about irrigation. Atria’s infinite patience is what made her the logical choice for The Clan’s liaison. She was a handmaiden to Cleopatra, who was famous for fucking like a rabid weasel and changing her mind every eight seconds. She once witnessed Cleopatra halt a beheading mid beheading and order it reversed. The arterial spray didn’t hinder her decision. The second longest running joke in Egypt at the time? “Don’t like the Egyptian Laws? Wait eight seconds.”
And here she was, about to face The Clan’s latest list of whining. They assembled in what became known in military history lore as “Mama’s Little Secret.” An Astrodome-sized underground bunker that the Corp of Army Engineers built at the behest of President Truman to house the remains of modern civilization in the event of a nuclear holocaust. It is one of six. Two caved in, two house nuclear waste, one is home to alien spacecraft that had been marooned, and one, this one, was sold outright. Powered by its own private underground cabling from Florida, the dome came equipped with lighting and sound. Buck Colbath, the maintenance engineer for the dome often liked to mimic famous live concert recordings when alone with the microphone. Here’s his set list:
Atria gathered her notes and climbed up the stairs to the stage. To the uninitiated it would seem like an overwhelming chore to stand before 10,000 people (dead or alive) and call a meeting to order. For Atria, it was pure dread. As most people know from popular culture, zombies make a lot of noise. True, the evolution of their species has made tremendous leaps, but still, when push came to shove, they cranked out the moans and the grrrrrr sounds.
At least the lower evolved ones did.
She didn’t really need notes because the demands were always the same. More food. And not potted meat, but the real Swanson’s Hungry for Man meal. And maybe cable. Beneath the stage was a long row of tables with microphones at which delegates sat to voice their concerns. The delegates were all white men in their fifties. What was the saying? The more things die, the more they stay the same? A podium with a microphone awaited Atria as she took her time walking over to it, notes in hand. There was only one thing that brought joy to Atria during these occasions, and that was the moment she approached the microphone and in the great tradition of emcees and comics ‘round the world spoke these words:
“This thing on?”
That and that alone was what brought a smile to Atria’s face.