Dead-Center Plodder

Crime Fiction by Carl Tait

Hudson Calloway wondered if it would be legal to murder the man walking ahead of him.

The guy was wearing an ugly green sweater and plodding slowly down the dead center of the sidewalk. His hands were raised to his midsection, his elbows sticking out like chicken wings. The man’s head was bent forward in mesmerized concentration, leaving him disconnected from his surroundings.

It’s his damned phone, Hudson thought. Why can’t people leave their phones in their pockets?

He tried to maneuver around the man, but nearly ran into a woman jogging in the opposite direction. The jogger gave Hudson a fiery look that mirrored his feelings for the man blocking his way, then adjusted her earbuds and dashed by.

Hudson glanced at his watch. He was running behind. He hated being late, though he often was. At least this time he would have an excuse.

He took a careful step into the street, hoping to pass his nemesis on the right. At that moment, the light changed and a taxi sped through the intersection. It honked a strident warning as it zipped down the street.

Hudson loathed gas-guzzling cars even more than he hated clueless pedestrians. He retreated to the sidewalk, seething. The block was a long one and the path remained narrow all the way to the next corner.

The plodder stopped cold. Hudson narrowly avoided a collision and his homicidal impulses multiplied. Feelings of relief took their place when he realized he could finally escape. He squeezed past the phone zombie, whose thumbs were flying as he stared at the bright screen in his hands.

Hudson increased his pace to the brisk walking speed favored by New York City natives. His man-bun jiggled as he rushed along, block after block. As he walked, he stroked his chin to check the length of his stylish stubble. It felt perfect. Diana loved his stubble.

Diana Kingston occupied much of Hudson’s time and thoughts. They had met the previous year, as seniors at New York University, and had become a couple almost immediately. Aside from the undeniable physical attraction, they shared a passion for improving the world. Both had the willingness and the temerity to pursue necessary but sometimes unpopular actions in order to effect change.

Hudson rounded one final corner and saw the Brooklyn Bridge rising ahead. Finally. He didn’t even want to check the time to see how late he was.

Near the entrance to the bridge, Hudson spotted Diana and a group of their mutual friends. Diana raised her hand and waved, her dark and silky hair glinting in the sun. Her retro tank top was decorated ironically with a pink unicorn, which Hudson found strangely arousing. He briefly wished they were going straight back to his apartment, then chided himself. Their protest today was vastly more important.

“Hey, dude! Glad you decided to join us,” said a familiar voice.

Hudson looked at Alex Edwards and tried to smile.

“Sorry I’m late. I got stuck behind some loser staring at his phone and hogging the whole sidewalk.”

Alex laughed nervously. “Good practice for what we’re doing today, right? I mean, the guy got your attention and you couldn’t think of anything else.”

“You’re right. But that guy was a self-absorbed idiot. We’re trying to save the planet.”

Alex’s face became serious. “Yeah. My stomach is doing backflips but I’m ready to give this a go. Diana has the banner.”

The group began to move toward the bridge. At the entrance, they spread across the roadway in a horizontal line, unfurled their banner, and began to march. Slowly. Very slowly.

* * *

A welter of honking. Angry shouts and obscenities from motorists. In front of the mass of cars, a line of twenty imperturbable protestors marched in a thudding rhythm at a larghissimo pace. Hudson stood proudly in the center of the line, his arms interlocked with Diana on his left and Alex on his right. They held the group’s banner at waist height.

HEAR OUR THUNDER – PETROLEUM KILLS

Hudson and Diana had founded Petroleum Kills as a means of direct action. They agreed that letters to elected officials were entirely ineffective, as were conventional protests. They wanted a roaring thunder that could not be ignored, a debilitating storm that would not go away until the underlying issues were addressed.

Alex, one of their classmates from NYU days, had recently joined the group. He professed a shared desire for high-visibility protests, and Hudson believed he also shared a desire for Diana. No matter. Whatever doubts Hudson had about the future of the planet, he was confident in his future with his girlfriend.

A driver got out of a large sedan and stormed up to the line of protestors. He screamed at them, using language involving excrement and physically impossible copulation.

Hudson was unfazed, but he could feel Alex starting to squirm.

“Don’t let them get to you,” Hudson said quietly. “Your first march is always the hardest. Keep thinking about our goals.”

Met with indifference from the human blockade, the furious driver halted his barrage of profanity, threw up his arms, and returned to his car. Hudson looked at Alex and gave him an exaggerated wink. Alex managed a weak smile and held the banner a little higher.

On the left, Diana tightened her arm. “Hey, Huds, there’s a lady running up behind us. Watch out.”

Hudson glanced over his shoulder. A woman in her forties, dressed in a grey pantsuit, was moving toward them as rapidly as her polished leather shoes would permit. Her hair was styled in a let-me-speak-to-your-manager haircut and Hudson hated her immediately.

The woman arrived, pink-faced and panting slightly. The protestors ignored her.

“Excuse me,” said the woman, with a faint German accent. “This is tremendously important.”

“So is saving the planet,” said Alex. Hudson glanced at him and raised his eyebrows in approval.

“You don’t understand,” said the woman. Her accent was growing stronger. “My husband is very ill. I must get him to the hospital.”

“Have the ambulance driver turn on the siren,” said Hudson. “We have a blue-light policy to let emergency vehicles through immediately.”

“He is in my car. I have no siren.”

“If he’s so sick, why didn’t you call an ambulance?” asked Diana, her voice cold.

Hudson cringed slightly. He adored Diana, but sympathy was not her specialty.

“I thought it would be faster to take him in the car. There is a hospital on the other side of the bridge, but now I cannot get there. Nor can I back up. I am imprisoned here.”

“No one is imprisoned,” Hudson said. “We’re just slowing things down a little to start meaningful conversations about climate change.”

Alex looked at Hudson, his eyes narrowed with uncertainty. “Should we send someone to her car to check?” he asked.

“It’s a lie,” snapped Diana. “There’s always someone who claims to be sick, or has a wedding they’re going to miss. Don’t be fooled by a lame excuse. What we’re doing is critical.”

The pantsuited woman recoiled slightly.

“I am not lying. My husband is very ill. His name is Conrad, if that matters to you.”

“Everyone’s got a name, lady,” said Hudson. He tried to put some of Diana’s chill into his voice but was only partly successful.

“Indeed they do. Mine is Frieda Baumann. What’s yours?”

The protesters answered with a thudding step forward.

Frieda shrugged. “All right. I understand your reluctance to state your names while you are breaking the law with such drama. Surely the police will come to remove you shortly.”

“This is a peaceful protest,” Diana said. “It usually takes the cops a good half hour to get us off the road. By then, we’ll be across the bridge.”

“Half an hour? Mein Gott.” Frieda raised her hand to her forehead.

Diana’s next step forward was a defiant stomp.

Frieda drew a deep breath. “I do not disagree with your goals. Climate change is an urgent issue. But you are causing serious problems yourselves. You will drive away supporters and hurt people like my Conrad.”

Another step, then silence. Alex was staring into the distance, a blank expression on his face.

Frieda turned away and began the walk back to her car. Hudson thought he heard her crying.

* * *

At a noisy bar in Brooklyn, the members of Petroleum Kills clinked their beer glasses together in triumph.

“Great protest,” Hudson said. “It’ll get a lot of media coverage. Only a few arrests, and all of our people will be out of jail by this evening.”

The circle of demonstrators cheered and whistled before breaking up into smaller groups around the bar. Hudson, Diana, and Alex were left together at a small table that carried the dents of previous revelry.

“That was fantastic,” said Alex. “I didn’t expect it to be so exhilarating.”

Hudson grinned. “It’s pretty amazing. Direct, concrete action with the world watching.”

“It doesn’t matter whether they like us or not,” Diana said. “The essential part is visibility. Getting people talking. Derailing the narrative of Big Oil.”

Alex nodded, leaning forward and staring fixedly at Diana. The look of lust was unmistakable, Hudson thought.

“I do wonder about that German lady, though,” Alex said. “I hope her husband is all right.”

Diana gave a derisive snort. “That woman was obviously lying. I loved the part where she pretended to agree with us.”

The two men glanced at each other. Hudson had believed the woman was telling the truth on that point. About her spouse, he was less certain.

“What if there really was a sick husband?” asked Alex.

“What if there was?” Diana replied. “People get sick. If they get sick enough, they go to the hospital. Maybe poor old Connor has to spend the night there. Boo hoo. We didn’t cause that.”

“Conrad,” said Alex. “That was his name.”

Diana shrugged and rolled her eyes. Hudson felt a bit queasy. He watched Alex lean back from the table, the lustful expression now gone from his face, his eyes dull.

The conversation stalled. Hudson raised his hand and asked for the check.

The friends left the bar and turned right, heading back toward the bridge. The late-afternoon sun poured warmth and glaring light into their faces as they stepped briskly down the narrow sidewalk. Up ahead, Hudson saw the silhouette of a slow-moving pedestrian in the middle of the walkway, head down and seemingly oblivious to the surrounding world.

“Another dead-center plodder,” he said, in a voice meant to be overheard. “You’d think people would be more considerate.”

The trio slowed down. As they drew closer, the person in the middle of the sidewalk turned around.

It was Frieda Baumann.

“I recognized your voice,” she said to Hudson. “It is a voice I never wanted to hear again.”

“Taking your revenge by blocking the way?” Diana asked.

Frieda gave her a look of utter loathing. “You killed my husband.”

Diana’s head jerked back. “What?”

“Conrad is dead. It turned out he had a ruptured appendix. By the time we got to the hospital, the peritonitis was severe and there was nothing the doctors could do.”

“And you blame us?” Diana asked.

Frieda’s lips drew back in a snarl.

“Of course I blame you, you walking feces. You sanctimonious monsters. You care about nothing except your gaudy posturing.”

Hudson looked at Alex and saw tears running down his face.

“We are so sorry,” said Hudson, trying to keep his voice calm.

“Stay away from me,” Frieda replied. She turned and walked away quickly. This time, Hudson was sure he could hear her crying.

The friends looked at each other.

“We killed that man,” Alex said.

“No, we didn’t,” snapped Diana. “If his wife had called an ambulance, we’d have let it through and the guy would be alive.”

“Oh, my God,” said Alex. “You’re as bad as she said you were. I can’t do this.”

Alex walked away. Hudson doubted he would ever see his friend again.

* * *

The news coverage was unfavorable and angry. Nonviolent protest for a good cause was one thing; preventing a dying man from reaching the hospital in time to save his life rendered the rest of the demonstration irrelevant. Even the news sources that were most sympathetic to the aims and methods of Petroleum Kills were noticeably subdued, stroking their journalistic chins and tsk-tsking quietly. By contrast, the tabloids of the world frankly reveled in the disaster while feigning horror.

From Hudson’s perspective, there was an even worse problem: monetary contributions to the group halted with the suddenness of a faucet drying up during a water main break. No one wanted to be associated with an organization whose protest techniques had led to an innocent man’s death. Hudson had emailed and called everyone in his network, stressing the important work ahead and the need for money. With the legal defense fund depleted, protest was stilled. Responses ranged from emphatic refusals to radio silence.

On a Friday morning two weeks after the incident, Hudson rolled out of the bed he shared with Diana and padded listlessly to his computer. Maybe someone will have forgiven us today, he thought. But probably not.

As he began to check his emails, his phone rang. The glowing screen showed a number he didn’t recognize. On the third ring, he decided to pick up.

“Hello?”

“May I speak with Hudson Calloway of Petroleum Kills?” The man’s refined voice was unfamiliar.

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Calloway, I am calling on behalf of a mutual friend. Someone who laments the recent tragedy you have faced, but who recognizes your vital and effective work. Someone who wants to help restore your thunder with a significant monetary contribution.”

Hudson tried not to sound desperate.

“That’s wonderful, sir. We can certainly use the support from an enthusiastic donor.”

“There is a difficulty. Our friend does not wish for this enthusiasm to be made public in any way, for reasons that should be obvious.”

“All right. What do you suggest?”

“We must meet at a public location and discuss logistics. Are you available today?”

“I can be, yes.” Hudson had lost his job following the Brooklyn Bridge incident and was available every day, though no one other than Diana had expressed any interest in seeing him.

“Fine. You will also need to bring your group’s co-founder, whose name I have as Diane Kingston.”

“Diana.”

“Diana. My apologies. I have failed to wean myself away from handwritten notes, and the result is embarrassments such as this one. Ha ha ha ha.” The man laughed in a wholly artificial way that sounded like a hammy actor in an old movie.

“Yes, she can be there as well. Where should we meet?”

“Penn Station. The main entrance on the Seventh Avenue side. 3 PM.”

“How will we recognize you?”

“You won’t. I have your photo and will approach you on the curb outside the station. I will use the phrase ‘Thunder Fiesta’ to identify myself.”

“You have this very well thought out.”

“I do. At least I hope I do. Our mutual friend would be most unhappy if I did not.”

* * *

At 2:55 PM, Hudson and Diana stood outside the busy main entrance of Penn Station. A swarm of taxis mobbed the curb, disgorging tourists and travelers. Hudson was nearly knocked over by a red-haired man in a Hawaiian shirt dragging a suitcase larger than some Manhattan apartments. The man admonished him to stay out of the way. Uncharacteristically, Hudson moved back a few feet, pulling Diana along with him.

Hudson was still puzzling over the strange phone call that had brought them to the station. He was especially troubled by one worrisome possibility.

“How do we know who this guy is?” he asked Diana. “What’s the deal?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. You’re the one who talked to him. Why didn’t you ask?”

“He was offering money to our group. He was so weird and secretive I was afraid he’d hang up if I pressed for details.”

“What’s your guess?”

Hudson paused. “Please don’t get angry with me for saying this, but I’m wondering if the man is fronting for one of the oil companies.”

“Big Oil? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You said you wouldn’t get mad.”

“No, you asked me not to get mad. I never agreed.”

“Whatever. Look, you and I have faith in our methods, but we know a lot of people disagree. Some folks argue that our protests alienate potential supporters. If someone at an oil company believed that, they might give us money and laugh.”

“You mean use us as a false-flag operation?”

“Yeah.”

Diana whooshed air through clenched teeth. “That’s stupid. That’s really stupid. I can’t believe you said that.”

“I didn’t say I believed it. But you didn’t hear this guy. Great message, creepy delivery. Something’s up.”

They saw the shadow before they heard the voice.

“Thunder fiesta.”

The couple turned around. A man wearing a plain blue suit faced them, a dark necktie completing his faceless attire. The only distinguishing feature was his wide-brimmed hat, which kept his face in deep shade.

The man laughed. “I did not mean to startle you. My creepy voice, as you put it, has apparently done enough damage already.”

Hudson blushed. “I’m sorry, sir. Bad choice of words. I don’t actually believe you work for Big Oil.”

“You are correct in your belief. I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of an oil company. Ha ha ha ha.”

Diana shot Hudson a worried look.

“You may call me Jim,” said the man. “Please follow me.” He stepped onto the escalator leading down.

They descended into the cheerless subterranean cavern that was Penn Station. Jim moved quickly but the couple kept up with no difficulty, always following the bobbing oversized hat in front of them. Jim finally came to a stop in front of a store with inexpensive luggage on display.

“Please go in and buy a small suitcase,” he said.

“Is this really necessary?” asked Hudson in puzzlement.

“Yes. I will explain why after you have the bag.”

Hudson shrugged and entered the store. He returned shortly with a cheap black suitcase.

Jim cleared his throat. “I must ask you to remove all of your loose belongings and store them in this bag. In particular, you must put in your smartphones. This is not negotiable.”

“For God’s sake, why?” asked Diana.

The strange man’s grim, shadowy smile was as unnerving as his laughter.

“Our friend is an extremely private person. When I drive you to our meeting place, its location must remain absolutely secret. The GPS in your phones would track the position with unfortunate accuracy, and our friend cannot allow that.”

“You’re good,” said Hudson. “Still kind of creepy, but good.”

The laughter this time sounded natural. “I will accept that odd compliment,” Jim said.

The couple reluctantly filled the suitcase and zipped it shut. Jim nodded with satisfaction.

“Very good. We will leave the bag in storage here, then we can go to my car.”

* * *

The journey to the meeting place was as peculiar as everything else the day had offered. The passenger section of Jim’s car had windows tinted so dark that it was impossible to see anything other than vague shapes outside. A partition behind the front seats blocked the forward view entirely. Hudson and Diana sat in silence for most of the long ride.

After an hour or so, the car slowed to a near halt and the couple heard a grinding noise. When the sound stopped, the car drove ahead and the grinding noise repeated. The car’s engine turned off.

“I guess we’re here,” said Hudson. “Prepare to meet our mysterious benefactor.”

Jim opened the rear door with affected elegance and his passengers climbed out. Hudson looked around and tried to conceal his disappointment.

They were in a loading dock. The chipped yellow paint on the walls and the feeble lighting made it dismal even by loading-dock standards. Behind them, the lowered garage door kept out any traces of sunlight.

“This way, please,” said Jim, pointing to a staircase.

They left the dock and walked down a hallway tiled with grimy linoleum. The lighting was brighter and the grey walls were less obviously in need of repainting, but the ambience could hardly be described as pleasant. Diana frowned at Hudson.

Jim stopped at a heavy door that stood ajar.

“The meeting room,” he said with a flourish. “I promise you it is nicer than anything you have seen so far.”

They stepped into the room and Hudson smiled.

Two plush red couches. Quietly tasteful art prints on the walls, along with a large television screen. A walnut bookcase stuffed with leather-bound volumes. In one corner were a stainless steel sink and a refrigerator. Soft lighting and a pale Persian rug completed the warm picture. The lack of windows somehow made the effect even cozier.

“You may help yourself to anything in the refrigerator,” said Jim. “In the meantime, I will let our host know that you are here.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.

Diana was looking around the room with pleasure. “Okay, Huds. For the first time today, I’m happy. This is good stuff.”

Hudson nodded. “Let’s see what’s in the fridge. I’m starving.”

He walked to the corner and tugged on the refrigerator door. As it opened, he frowned.

There was nothing inside.

As he turned to Diana to report his findings, the television came on. Jim’s face filled the screen.

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” the couple replied in unison.

“Please sit down on the couch facing the screen,” Jim said. “Our host is ready to join us.”

“We came all this way for a video call?” asked Diana.

“Shhh,” said Hudson as they sat down together.

“All right, I can see and hear you perfectly,” said Jim. “I would now like to introduce our host, who is deeply interested in your activities with Petroleum Kills.”

He shifted to his right and a second face appeared on the screen.

Frieda Baumann.

“Good afternoon, my kind-hearted friends,” she said. “It is wonderful to see you here.”

“Nope. No way,” said Diana, rising from the couch. She walked to the door of the room and turned the knob. It didn’t budge.

“Please, my child, have a seat,” said Frieda, as Diana continued to struggle with the door. “You came here of your own free will. There has been no violence involved.”

Hudson ran to the door and threw his body against it, without effect.

“Why have you imprisoned us here?” he asked.

Frieda clucked her tongue. “No one is imprisoned. We are just slowing things down a little, as you so memorably put it when my husband was dying.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jim, can you explain?” said Frieda. “Oh, I don’t believe you’ve been fully introduced. This is Jim Baumann, Conrad’s brother. He was instrumental in assembling our little protest.”

“The door is not locked in any traditional sense,” said Jim. “The bolt is being drawn back at this very moment. Quite slowly.”

Hudson felt guardedly optimistic. “How long will it take to open?”

Jim and Frieda looked at each other and smiled.

“Forty days,” Jim answered. “I am a fine engineer and can assure you it will be precisely that.”

There was a stunned pause. “You monsters,” said Hudson. He reached into his pocket for his phone before remembering it wasn’t there.

Frieda wagged a finger. “Did you want to make a call? No, no. We cannot have you bringing outsiders into our conversation. Even if someone tracks down your phones, they will not find you.”

“My actions are also untraceable,” added Jim. “I called you on a burner phone that is now at the bottom of the East River. And anyone who saw me at the station will remember only a man in a generic suit whose face was shadowed by a large-brimmed hat.”

“You are despicable people,” said Diana.

“The room contains a working sink and a refrigerator that Jim has packed full of high-protein food for your enjoyment,” Frieda continued.

“Goodness, no,” said Jim with a coy smile. “I thought that was your job.”

Frieda shook her head. “Well, these things happen,” she said. “I suppose our guests will have to improvise.”

“No one can live without food for forty days,” shouted Diana in fury.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Frieda. “At least one of you is surely strong enough. You’ll find a set of knives under the sink. Sharp knives. Feel free to use them as you choose. The refrigerator will keep things from spoiling. Enjoy the Thunder Fiesta.”

She and Jim broke into cheerful laughter. The screen went dark.

Hudson slowly looked around the elegant room that had become a deathtrap.

“Thunder Fiesta. She’s German,” Diana said quietly.

“So?”

“In German, the word for thunder is Donner.”

Hudson went pale. He spoke his epiphany in a whisper.

“Thunder Fiesta. Donner Party.”

---

Bio: Carl Tait is a software engineer, classical pianist, and writer. His work has appeared in After Dinner Conversation (Pushcart Prize nominee), Mystery Magazine (cover story), NewMyths, Eunoia Review, The Saturday Evening Post, and others. He also has a story in Close to Midnight, a horror anthology from Flame Tree Press. Carl grew up in Atlanta and currently lives in New York City with his wife and twin daughters. For more information, visit carltait.com.

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