Short Story
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                            Inauguration
                                                     By Benjamin Newell


     "Never thought I'd see this day."
    "Makes two of us," Mann said. "Unbelievable, huh?"
    Dickson, the driver, sighed wearily. "A goddamned travesty, is what it is.  
Beginning of the end, 'far as I'm concerned."
    The detectives had been bitching the whole way.  The truck with the
backhoe followed their unmarked Caprice at a safe distance.  Their human
cargo-ignored like a sack of groceries-sat silently in the backseat.
    That cargo, serial killer James Etheridge, smiled contentedly as the
countryside whizzed by.  A forty-five mile drive to the country was a pleasant
diversion from the suffocating confines of his cell.
    But that wasn't the only thing that had him in such a good mood.
    His lawyer had worked a plea deal with the prosecution that had saved
him.  Life without the possibility of parole wasn't great, but it beat the hell out
of the gas chamber.  All he had to do was show the cops where the bodies
were buried.
    At least, the three he had been tried and convicted for.  God knew there
were others, but there just wasn't enough evidence to try him for those.  He
had confessed to killing somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty to
twenty-five women over an eight year period.
    Throwaways, for the most part.  Prostitutes, runaways and druggies.  He
was no Ted Bundy, that's for sure.  He didn't posses the looks and charm
necessary to lure attractive college girls.  He was a high school dropout-had
worked as a house painter for most of his adult life-with a severely pocked
face.
    "Almost makes me want to leave the country."
    Dickson took his eyes off the road and glanced at his partner.
    "I'm serious, man.  Move to Canada or something.  America's going to be
ruined, mark my word."
    "I bet my old man's rollin' in his grave," Dickson said.
    Mann winced, shaking his head in disgust.  "Mine called me on election
night.  He was so goddamned drunk he could hardly talk.  He's taking it really
hard.  Him and mom.  She didn't take kindly to that bitch's comment about
staying home and baking cookies. "
    "Don't suppose she did." Dickson checked the rearview mirror.  Shackled
hands resting in his lap, Etheridge sat staring out the window.
    "How 'bout you, Jim?  You've been mighty quiet today.  Any thoughts on
our new lady president?"
    "I wish I was at today's inauguration so I could shoot the bitch in the head.  
That would get me on the cover of Time, don't you think?"
    "I imagine so."
    "She's a witch.  Sure looks like a witch."

    "Can't argue with you on that one, Jim."

                                            #

    Joints creaked and popped when everybody got out of the car.
    At Etheridge's insistence, Dickson had followed a narrow gravel road for a
quarter of a mile before it terminated at an illegal dumping site.  Discarded
building materials, home appliances, carpentry supplies, furniture and other
detritus formed a heaping pile.
    The driver of the truck warmed up the backhoe while Etheridge, shuffling
in ankle restraints, led the detectives into the overgrown weeds beyond the
garbage.  The threesome walked for ten minutes in silence.
    Etheridge seemed tentative, unsure.  He stopped at several spots, stared,
and moved on, sometimes returning to a previously considered area before
continuing the search.  Mann fumed.  "That's it.  Enough is enough.  You're
wasting time."
    "I'm not.  It's been years.  I can't be sure-"
    "Well, unless you want your sweet little deal revoked, you better start
remembering.  Cyanide gas, Jim.  How does that sound?  A nice, deep breath
of cyanide gas. That jog your memory at all?"
    Dickson got in Etheridge's face.  "This inauguration's already got me in a
real shitty mood so stop jerking us around.  Where are the bodies?"
    And that was all it took.  The killer seemed to wilt under the officer's
superior physicality.  As much as he enjoyed having the upper-hand, he knew
his life depended on his willingness to relinquish control.  He had enjoyed it,
but the game was over.
    He took them to a tree line at the crest of a small rise.  "Here.  They're
right here."
    Dickson held up three fingers. "All of them?"
    "Yes."
    Mann beckoned the backhoe driver.  The heavy machinery kicked into
gear, black smoke billowing from its exhaust.  The excavation was on.

                                            #

    As the steel prong scooped the earth, Helen Broom, the first female
President of The United States of America, delivered her historic inauguration
speech.
    She spoke of a new beginning, an America for everyone.  She talked of
struggle and perseverance.  People cheered and clapped and waved
American flags.
    And throughout the nation, women experienced a sense of pride and
power previously unknown.  Behind the podium, President Broom was all
smiles.
    Her message was getting through.

                                            #

    Dickson, Mann and Etheridge watched the backhoe churn the earth.
    No bones thus far, but Etheridge assured them it wouldn't be long.  He was
certain this was the spot.
    Had the machine not been so loud, the men would have heard the splitting
of the ground several yards behind them.  A rotting hand, gray flesh hanging
in tatters from yellowed bone, emerged from below.  Then another and
another until there were six.
    The hands soon became arms, putrid decayed appendages that pushed
equally vile bodies upward, out of the worm ridden depths where they had
been slumbering.  
    The corpses were shambling toward the men before Etheridge saw the
shadow.  He whipped around, mouth gaping, eyes wide with terror.  The
tallest of the corpses grabbed his throat with two hands and lifted him off the
ground.  He gagged and sputtered, kicked his shackled feet, as the creature
crushed his windpipe with a sickening crunch.
    The detectives drew their service revolvers, but only Mann had time to fire
an errant shot before they were devoured by the resurrected victims.  The
ravaged corpses wrestled the men to the ground.  Dickson's attacker, rancid
breasts dangling like deflated balloons, snapped his neck with a powerful
twist.  Mann fared no better with his opponent who, after ripping his arm off,
pummeled him with the limb until he died.
    By the time the backhoe driver realized what was going on behind him, it
was much too late.  He was snatched from the cockpit and dispatched in a
most grisly fashion, his eyes pressed into his brain until a frothy, bloody goop
oozed from his mouth.
    The backhoe was still running, but the girls didn't bother to turn it off.  
They had work to do.  Time was of the essence.
    The macabre threesome shuffled through the weeds toward the dump site.
 One got behind the wheel of the Caprice while the other slid into the
passenger seat.
    The third corpse rummaged through the junk until she found something of
interest.  A can of Krylon spray paint.  There seemed to be a little bit left.  She
shook the can so vigorously one of her fingers fell off.  The white car made a
great canvas.
    She painted BROOM NATION and NEW DAWN and DEATH 2 MEN.  Then
she hopped in the back seat and they peeled out of there, tires kicking up
gravel as the car sped away.
    Broom's speech-the "official version"-was over, but they didn't care.  The
transmission had been received.  They knew what they had to do.
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