Absentee Ballots
Nate Watkins knew he stood no chance against Walker Riley, the icon who represented this forgotten corner of Massachusetts for thirty years.
“We’re doing fine,” said Graham, his college kid campaign manager. Nate didn’t believe it.
Still, local newspapers reported the race was tight. Watkins appealed to young people and minorities in the former mill towns that made up the district.
After a long Saturday shaking hands, the two were at the Pizza Shack comparing notes when a man approached.
“I can help you win,” he said.
Watkins looked up to see a local vagrant named Skank.
“Umm…” Watkins began.
Skank flashed a grin and repeated his opening remark.
“I can help you win.”
Nate looked toward Graham for help.
“I gotta ask, Mr… Skank,” Graham began. “How can you help us win?”
“Make me part of the campaign,” Skank answered. “Deputy campaign manager or somethin’. They want some sort of title, is all. But say the word and I’ll get out the vote.”
Graham’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s in it for you?” he asked.
Skank returned a toothless smile.
“Let’s say I got my reasons.”
Graham thought a moment.
“If I make you deputy campaign manager,” he asked, “will you not bother us again?”
Skank laughed. “You drive a hard bargain, son, but yeah. I won’t bother you again.”
“Then let’s shake on it,” Graham answered. “You are now officially deputy campaign manager.”
Skank lingered. One glance from Graham told him he was breaking his bargain. Still chuckling, Skank walked away.
“What was that about?” Watkins asked.
“I don’t know,” Graham answered. “But I’m gonna find out.”
Days before the registration deadline passed, scandal engulfed the Riley campaign. He took money from a PAC whose website was rife with antisemitic and racist commentary.
It wasn’t much. Certainly not enough to sway the election. But it was distraction enough for his minions to take their eye off the ball. They didn’t notice a thousand new voters added to the rolls, all sharing the same address.
Election Day dawned gray and drizzly. Watkins and his growing army of youthful supporters went from poll to poll trying to persuade last-minute voters.
An hour before polls closed, they made their way toward the elementary school that was Watkins’ own polling place.
To his dismay, there were no lines. He recognized and said hello to the blue-haired seniors that made up the staff. They smiled and wished him well, whispered they were secretly pulling for him.
The rain had let up some when he left. Graham motioned toward the car, but Watkins decided to walk the two blocks to the Shack. They went only a few steps when they heard sucking sounds across the street, from Windsor Cemetery.
One by one, the earth collapsed on the graves and the… people… began to emerge. In their tattered Sunday best, they walked toward the polling station.
Most of their flesh had rotted away, though some were recent burials. Dozens and then hundreds of the dead rose from their graves, to cross the street and cast their vote.
“W-w-w-w-hat t-t-t-he…” Watkins began.
He almost chuckled to see a long-dead old man look both ways before crossing the street.
“Skank,” Graham said flatly. “He digs the graves.”
Even from this distance, they heard the blue hairs inside the school shriek with delight to see long lost husbands and loved ones. Watkins knew then that these votes would be counted no matter what.
“I did some checking,” Graham continued. “Skank’s father sold his boot factory to Riley’s dad just before the Korean war. Made a killing. Turned out Riley’s dad saw the whole thing coming and pressured the bank to foreclose. Skank’s dad died six months later.”
As they watched the last of the undead make their way toward the polling station, Graham continued.
“Let me be the first to congratulate you, Mr. Representative.”
Walking away, they could still hear the tinkle of girlish laughter, of old friends catching up.
