Soon: Chapter 30: The (Black) Infiltrator
As you may remember, Harriet Johns, L.A. NPO chief, mentioned a little while back that there were infiltrators in the L.A. underground.
That sounded pretty awesome at the time, given Paul’s (and the Detroit underground’s) arrogant presumption that he must be the only person with the smarts and the knowledge to be a double agent, but…he’s not.
Turns out that one Tyrone Perkins was the inside man at the “holocaust” masterminded by Bia and Ranold, and got caught in the crossfire because Bia and Ranold aren’t big on keeping Harriet in the loop.
The first thing we learn about Tyrone, before we even learn he was the Guy On The Inside, is that he is black. Which I think makes him the third instance of a person of color in this story. The first was MLK Day Felicia, the second was the nameless, faceless mass of Catholic Mexicans, and the third is Tyrone.
Tyrone is in the ICU, and reassures us readers that the deaths of the five Christians really was a “holocaust,” because:
“What happened, Tyrone? Those people armed?” [asked Paul]
“Not a piece.”
That was kinda dumb of them, Tyrone. Just sayin’.
“No weapons cache anywhere?”
“No. I’m dying, man, and those dead people are on me. Good people. Killed ’em…”
“I didn’t want to see them killed either, Tyrone.” The young man’s chest heaved, and Paul noticed on the monitor that his pulse was dangerously irregular. “I’d better get someone for you.”
“No, man!” he gasped. “I deserve to die.”
I guess Paul agrees, because he doesn’t call anyone and just moves on to the next question, and it looks like ICU units in Atheistopia don’t automatically call medical personnel when things start going south.
Meh, who cares anyway, amirite? After all, Tyrone is just some Atheistopian dude who was in it “for the money.”
“Tyrone, did you know of other groups?”
“Can’t tell…not now.” His breathing was raspy.
Paul touched his bandaged hand. “If I convinced you I was one of them, could you tell me so I could warn them?’
[blah blah blah banter with dying man…]
“Didn’t tell nobody the phrase…”
“You didn’t need to tell me. I know it.”
“My purpose is to give life…”
Tyrone’s eyes looked huge. “…in all its fullness,” he whispered. Paul had to bend close to hear him. “The port…Fishers of Men…”
“Thank you,” Paul whispered. “Bless you.”
Tyrone’s machines started beeping and staff came running.
Oh, so now they take some notice in the INTENSIVE CARE UNIT.
So much for the marvels of Atheistopian medicine.
So, Felicia the Martin Luther King secretary, the nameless, faceless Catholic Mexicans, and Tyrone, the guilt-stricken, in-it-for-the-money infiltrator who is now (presumably) dead and in Hell.
HAW HAW HAW