by Mich Moore
action, blanched and began to run pell-mell through the wide intersection. A man in his thirties hit the ground and began clawing at a manhole over. The Mazda's doors opened again and two men tumbled out, arms high in the air.
"Llame a la policía! Llame a la policía!"
The two criminals ran toward the Civic Center.
Almost as soon as they had made their move, the chopper came back around and set down about twenty meters ahead of them, blocking their escape into the Civic Center maze
An amplified voice boomed at them from inside the gunship.
"Put your hands on your heads and kneel!"
The men fell onto their knees.
The DAT whirled about to regain the men in his sights. He began to advance. His rib section rippled and bulged with motion.
People's heads began to move in unison from left to right to left as the good citizens in St. Louis tried to take in all of the extraordinary events unfolding all around them.
One of the Cabo men shrieked at the top of his lungs. "Dios mío, ayúdame!
The St. Louis police officers exploded out of their cars, weapons drawn, awestruck and confused. Off in the far distance, across the river, a huge explosion split open the sky with building-sized flames. The earth shook for a few seconds, causing a wave of panic to spread through the area. A small child, looking downwind, caught sight of ten parachutes falling from the churning skies behind Marshall's department store. He told his father ... who nervously popped another stick of gum in his mouth and muttered to himself, "Invasion."
Now came a cavalcade of screaming fire engines tearing off Memorial and crowding into the growing pandemonium. Two red sedans, carrying their officers, made an equally dramatic entrance.
The firemen, under the command of Fire Chief T. Bentley, fell over themselves as they attempted to establish a more impressive beachhead than the St. Louis PD, all the while giving tacit acknowledgment of the policemen crammed around the perimeter of the burgeoning crowds. Privately, Bentley was boiling inside. Why had his department been called? This looked like a police matter to him. And what the hell had just happened across the river? He swatted at a cloud of mosquitoes that was pestering him and wondered after the flames licking the skies over East Saint Louis. The thought vanished as quickly from his mind as it had arrived. Someone came running fast and clipped his arm. Bentley cursed the back of the fleeing person. The city had gone completely nuts. There was no respect for the law or authority or just plain common sense. Why else would there be thousands of people jammed into pizza parlors and bars on a weeknight in the middle of a damn war? The sight of several couples nearby wearing pajamas and swilling beer out of brown paper bags while chattering on their cell phones simply confirmed his fears that most of the citizens of the city had lost their minds. But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was that he recognized two of those couples. Ed Winters and his wife, Beth, were founders of the city's largest winery. Beth's ancestors had come over on the Mayflower. And standing next to them were Henry and Jane Thomas. Henry was an astronaut on active duty, and Jane was a brain surgeon. Mrs. Thomas dropped an empty beer can onto the pavement and crushed it with a bare, dirty foot.
A mosquito got behind his defenses and sank its proboscis into his exposed neck. "Dammit!" The fire chief swiped at the air. And then there was another sting, more intense than the first. He cursed again and slapped his injured flesh, just as he witnessed Ed Winters and Henry Thomas casually unzip their trousers and begin to piss against the tires of the department's brand new, forty-five million dollar fire truck. Bentley's eyes widened from the blood-boiling anger that now gripped him. The mosquitoes forgotten, he scurried to his car to position his dash cameras on the blueblood piddlers. He knew from past experience that the Winters couple would show up in court with a New York lawyer on leash and swear on a stack of Bibles that they were in the Hamptons that night. Gone were the days when the truthful testimony of an officer of the law would be enough to make a charge stick. He would need photographic proof of their misconduct. After he had made the adjustments he returned to the beachhead. Two of his guys were moving towards him fast, their faces stern with worry.
His men reached him, huffing with exertion. Carey, the brighter of the two, said, "Captain, we've got a problem."
It wasn't until he heard the unexpected cries of stark terror that he noticed the almost pony-sized dog frozen in mid-crouch in the intersection, not more than thirty yards away from him.
Bentley craned his head to get a better look. "What is going on here?"
Carey surveyed the scene. "Looks like a large canine, sir. Wearing some kind of backpack." He ventured a guess. "Could be a service dog."
Bentley went cold. Or a dog with a bomb strapped to his back.
Approximately thirty teenagers encircled the "dog" and began to film it with their cameras and iPhones. Bentley muttered underneath his breath. "Wackos." He sighed and motioned towards a cop planted in front of a barricade, feigning calm. "Go talk to him and see what's up. And call Bob Smith!" 'Bob Smith' was the code for the Saint Louis Fire Department's dedicated bomb squad. The Saint Louis PD had their own bomb unit. As did the Mercy Regional Medical Center, the largest hospital in the city. It would give the fire department a gold star if his bomb squad showed up first to save the day.
Just as Carey was leaving, the animal began moving again, slowly and deliberately, towards the two men kneeling besides their wrecked car. It had the grace and precision of a stalking lioness on the African veldt. The two men abandoned their fear of the police and jumped up and bolted down the street.
Someone shouted in a loud voice, "IT'S GOT A GUN!"
People began running pell-mell. Bentley strained around the moving figures to see. Sure enough, a long-barreled gun now extended from the port side of the animal. Bentley pushed his way through to the other side of the street and saw to his utter amazement that the dog was toting not one but two guns, one on either side. From his vantage point, they looked like modified M-16s. Military issue.
These images were shocking. Unworldly. "My God, what is going on here?"
People who had been caught behind the DAT's line of sight now darted past it blindly, running into the policemen standing behind them and knocking most of them flat. The air became unnaturally electrified as the creature suddenly aimed and fired both guns. The Mazda was struck head on and flung backwards in a huge fireball. Screams filled the peppery air as people scattered like buckshot amidst the shower of burning metal flakes. Those officers still remaining on their feet began to run south, away from the explosion.
Bentley could do nothing but stand there, utterly amazed. No. Definitely not M-16s!
The 'dog' retracted his weapons and sat down on its haunches.
A voice inside the fire chief's head shouted, Move! Bentley somehow scrambled back to his car. As he tried to claw his way inside, one of his men, as white as a sheet, slapped a company phone in his hand.
"Some guy with an accent wants to talk to the guy in charge. He's given us the passwords." The man then hunched over and vomited onto Bentley's wing tips. "Sorry, captain."
The fire chief flung himself into his car and locked the doors.
In charge? Bentley felt insane laughter creeping up his throat. He fairly shouted into the phone's tiny receiver. "Hello? Hello?"
"Chief Bentley, my name is Freddy Fields, and it is vitally important that you and your men place protocol on hold for the next thirty minutes."
Bentley did not respond right away.
"Sir?"
The chief took a deep breath. "I heard you. What is happening here?"
"It's an ... exercise."
"Is ... ?" His voice filled with horror. "Is this an alien?"
"No, sir. His name is Peter and he works for us."
"Military?"
"Yes."
"Which one?"
"Washington's."
"My God." Bentley exhaled. "Well, that's unfortunate. You don't have any authority in the state of M
issouri, Mr. Fields."
"I understand that, Captain Bentley. Peter is not going to harm anyone."
"Mister, 'Peter' just incinerated a two-ton vehicle."
"Well, that's my point. The men that he was pursuing just shot two men in his unit. He was just making sure that the suspects had no more escape options."
He squinted hard to get a better look at it. "My God," he repeated, almost in a daze. "It's a robot."
Bentley gazed at the ... creature. Surely it was alive and no machine. A young man threw a cup of beer at it. Liquid splashed onto its chest and shoulder, but there was no retaliatory action this time. Man made this? How? How did we get this far? "Mr. Fields, we're at war and I'm afraid that your chopper and robo dog here have just landed behind enemy lines."
"Sir, I'm officially asking for your cooperation here. Just let us extract them."
"And then you'll be on your merry way, coming back to kick our asses another fine day? No, I don't think so. They stay here. And if you send any men over the state line, you'll be greeted as enemy combatants."
A tiny hesitation. "Then you leave me no choice... . Sir, we're going to throw a hammer at you. Do you understand?"
Bentley's heart started to pound. He swallowed hard. "Understood."
The foreigner spoke again. "Captain, whatever the outcome, the president of the legitimate government of the United States of America has promised that all members of the Advance South and their sympathizers will be accorded the humanity and
