Con of the Dead

Con of the Dead

by

Stephen Patrick

~2000 words



"I know, honey, I'm headed down now. Yes, I checked the rooms. Yes, even under the bed and the drawers. Sweetheart, enough already. I'm in the elevator. I'll meet you in the lobby."



As the yellow lights pinged down from nine to eight, Paul could feel the tug of gravity beneath him. The weight on his shoulders was worse. Two Louis Vouitton bags stuffed with vacation clothes and makeup tugged on his right arm while a single, faded brown leather travel case adorned his left arm.



His cellphone chirped. He looked down to see a new text message from his wife reminding him to have enough cash ready to tip the bellhop.



Ping. Another floor down as the red LED flashed from six to five.



His phone rang.



"Yes, Honey, your book is on top." The elevator pinged and Paul stepped out. “You can get it out once we’re in the airport.”



His phone buzzed with three new texts from his wife, each sent while he was talking to her. Damn that bluetooth headset he bought her for Christmas!



Behind him, a tiny whistle called out followed by a terrible thump.



“OK, OK, I’ll be right there.”



Another thump, then another. They boomed in cadence as they came closer.



He turned toward the sound but his vision was blocked by a flash of gray steel. He ducked instinctively as the sharp edge of a Klingon Batleth sliced through the air. He spun around, barely dodging another spinning ceremonial blade. The thumping surrounded him as a dozen Klingon-garbed accountants and computer techs marched in lockstep around him.



“BAH, foolish human,” growled one man through thick glasses.



“You’re ruining our parade” screamed a portly man through his salt and pepper beard.



The clanking of steel on leather drowned out his screams as he ducked and leaped to avoid the spiked knees and armored shoulders of the advancing horde.



He braced his feet beneath him and leaped at the first sliver of light that emerged between the part-time Klingons. He caught the edge of a XSDSSDSD on his thigh, and screamed out in pain. He was hurt, but he was free. His hand darted to his thigh to check on his injury, but his momentum still carried him forward. Paul stuck his other hand out to stop himself, but his hand hit the gap between two doors.



The doors gave way, sending him tumbling into another room. Unlike the throbbing steps of the Klingons, this room was quiet, deathly silent. He pulled himself up to a knee, but realized that although the room was silent, the room was full of people. Each pair of eyes from the packed room was locked on him. Three men and two women sat behind a w table at the front of the room.

In front of them, books about Star Trek and Stargate SG1 sat upright like billboards. The names on the books matched the paper name cards in front of each person. Yet no one said anything.



Paul stood. “I’m so sorry, folks.” His hand brushed his thigh. He was bruised but not bleeding. “I…um….I fell. I’ll be going now.”



He stepped back toward the door, pausing to listen for the boots outside the room. They were gone. Behind him, one of the men on the panel snatched a book from in front of him and frantically flipped through the pages.



His finger trailed down one glossy page before stopping midway. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out to the audience before gesturing toward Paul. “Let me present, Dr. Thomas Braynes, author of the lost SSth episode from Star Trek: The Next Generation, season two.”

A thick roar swelled in the crowd. “Oooooooo!” Everyone’s eyes were locked on him. Then a single word spread throughout the room. “Braynes.” It started as a whisper, but grew into a moaning chant that filled the mouths of everyone in the room.



“Braynes.” They chanted from their seats.



“Braynes.” They repeated, each one standing up and reaching out toward him.



“Oh my God,” Paul screamed.



Outstretched hands reached for him; some filled with pens, others filled with dog-eared scripts for amateur screenplays.



He threw open the door and reached for his cellphone. He started to dial the number when plastic sword slashed across his right wrist, numbing it and sending his phone skittering across the carpet floor.



To his right, two men dressed in brown tunics and tights slapped blinking plastic swords together in a swirling battle. One wore red and black paint that was smearing from the sweat pooring down his forehead.



“What the heck, dude?” Paul asked.



The man turned toward him. “I’m sorry, dear Padawan, but the Force is strong with this one.”



The other man lunged forward, slashing with his blinking red sword. The blade whistled through the air, and the first man dropped to a knee, clutching at his gut. He handed his sword to Paul. "You must defeat the Sith Lord."

"Maybe later," Paul answered as the sword fell from his grasp.


Paul spied his cellphone down the hall near a table covered with movie posters, swag items and a charity book donation box. He ran toward it, but four hands clutched at his shoulders, pulling him backward. Two notepads were thrust in front of him while two men in matching Spock t-shirts stabbed their pens at him. “Braynes,” they shouted in union.



He shrugged his shoulder and slipped off his jacket, leaving it behind in their clutching fingers. In two steps, his phone was in his hand again. He flipped it open, but the chants of "Braynes" urged him to find another place to call. He stepped hard to his left as a feint, before twisting to his right and ducking through two double doors.

As the doors clicked shut behind him, he looked down at his phone. "No service" blinked back at him. He slapped the phone shut and contemplated throwing it against the nearest wall, but that wall was draped with a wall of t-shirts depicting Ewoks urinating on various automobile brands and some odd jokes about Spock's phaser. The wall behind him was lined with worn paperback books.

He leaned against a table to catch his breath.

A soft voice came from behind him, "So, are you a fan of post-apocalyptic vampire lesbians?"

He looked down. His right hand had curled around a paperback book depicting a masculine woman in cutoff jeans punching a blood-soaked zombie in the face.

"Um?" he blushed as he withdrew his hand like it had touched a hot stove. "I guess so?"

"That's just my first book," said the woman. "I've got five others in the series."

"Wow," he stammered. "That's very impressive, I guess."

Her claw-like hands reached toward him, filled with five more books. "Would you like me to autograph them for you?"

"Yes, let me go find a pen."

Paul was already moving when she answered that she already had a pen. He stepped quickly, navigating a sea of book sellers and buyers, toward the doors at the opposite end of the room. Behind him, muffled cries of "Braynes" grew louder as the steel doors opened and a throng of fans flooded into the room searching for the celebrity in their midst.

"There he is," said one man tracking Paul's flight through the room.

"Who?" asked the woman.

"Thomas Brayne."

"TNG-Episode AAAAA," said the crowd in unison, as they turned toward Paul.

Paul screamed and raced toward the door.

He slammed against it, but the door didn't open. He grabbed the handle and jerked at it. The door flew open, knocking him backwards. He fell to one knee as the parade of chanting Klingons stomped toward him.

The floor shuddered beneath him as the steel and leather onslaught stormed around him. Paul crawled forward, dodging spiked boots and clanging steel until the parade had passed. He reached the door just before it latched shut. His fingers were pinched by the heavy door, but he was able to pull it open.

Suddenly, the footsteps behind him stopped. A guttural command was given in Klingon and a dozen boots scraped across the floor in a military about-face. BEhind them, a tiny face appeared over the shoulder of a tall warrior. "That's him, Thomas Brayne."

The orderly procession dissolved into chaos as Batleth's clanged to the floor. Instead of weapons, the Klingons stepped forward with pens and notebooks.

Paul grabbed a pad from the closest man. He flipped past scrawled signatures from Brent Spiner and Hugh Jackman to find a blank page. He scribbled wildly onto the paper and held it above him, drawing everyone's attention to the fluttering paper. He waved it back and forth to capture their attention. Paul stepped back slowly, cautiously moving backward as the crowd stepped forward.

The crowd pressed forward and he stepped out of the room. The hallway behind him was lined with planters and couches, but the only doorway was at the far end. He turned and ran for it. As soon as his back was turned, the crowd thundered after him. He stopped and turned back, holding the paper up in front of him. The crowd skidded to a halt, recoiling from the paper. A few reached out for it, but most simply stared at it.

Paul walked backwards under the protection of the paper until he heard the familiar ping of the elevator behind him. When the door opened, he reached inside and pressed as many buttons as he could reach. When the elevator pinged again, the doors began to close. He tossed the paper inside and stepped away. A dozen fans dove into the elevator, scrambling for the paper. Paul watched the energy flow from their faces as they read Paul's hastily scribbled signature. Their glee turned to a scowl as the elevator doors closed on them.

"Braynes."

Paul ran down the hall toward a spiral staircase. He bounded down it three steps at a time. The last leap led to the slick marble floor of the hotel lobby and his sneakers squeaked as he fought to stop himself. He scanned the lobby looking for Helen.

A woman in black slacks and a ruffled maroon sweater stepped out of the bar.

"Paul? What took you so long?"

"We've got to go. Have you already checked out?"

"Yes, why?"

"Just go. Now?"

He grabbed her by the arm and turned toward the door. He took one step before slamming into a luggage trolley. His momentum upset the delicate balance of suitcases and garment bags. A wave of luggage crashed down around him one after another as they tumbled from the cart. One by one, he was bludgeoned by samsonite cases and leather attaches covered in travel stickers from Vulcan and Alpha Centauri.

Behind him, the elevator pinged open and a dozen men stepped out screaming for Brayne". Above him, footsteps clamored down the spiral staircase. He looked up as a plastic sack hanging precariously from the top rack of the luggage cart. Paul could see the square outline and vague markings of a DVD boxed set collection. The thin plastic gave way, sending an orange box tumbling toward Paul. On the back of the box, Paul saw the listing for Star TRek season 2. It stopped at episode SS.