“Got it.”
Sally stepped aside, and Lucy brushed by her. The dining room had filled up even more. Most Thursdays, workers would be clocking out at five, deciding between supper at home or a night out. Lucy had the feeling most people had knocked off early today. Maybe some hadn’t gone to work at all.
It seemed they were waiting for the other shoe to drop and didn’t want to be alone when it did.
Tonight, all the televisions throughout the place were tuned to local and national news.
The ticker at the bottom of the screen finally ignited the powder keg.
“What was that?” Jason Farmer, a quiet machinist of thirty knocked his chair over as he rose to his feet. “Did you see that?”
“See what, honey?” His wife, normally as sweet as the syrup Sally served over the breakfast biscuits, sounded as if she’d been crying all day. Looking dumbfounded, she stared at her husband as he stormed across the bar and halted in front of a television.
By now everyone in the bar had paused to watch the drama.
“Watch this.” He wrenched his eyes from the screen for a moment. His face had paled with shock, and his voice grew louder with each word. “You won’t believe this. It’s right after the line about stocks taking a dip. It said Roswell—”
They all watched in stunned silence. Paul unmuted the sound, and they heard two smiling newscasters discuss a woman’s miraculous survival after nineteen hours at sea—an inset picture showed the woman being airlifted out of the ocean waters near Maui. Then the ticker passed the stock update and suddenly no one in E.T.’s heard the rest of the story about the woman’s rescue.
The ticker proclaimed, “The Center for Disease Control issued a warning to the people in the City of Roswell, New Mexico to stay indoors tonight and every night until further notice. County health officials have confirmed at least a dozen bats have tested positive for rabies. Several local residents have been bitten in recent days and are being given the rabies vaccination. They are expected to make a full recovery. On the west coast...”
Paul muted the sound. For a few heartbeats, silence reigned.
When Farmer whirled back around, Lucy barely recognized him. She had served the man at least three times a week in the past ten days, but the person staring at the crowd was a stranger to her.
“Bats? They want us to believe we’ve been attacked by bats?”
On the heel of Farmer’s words, Colton stepped forward. Lucy wondered how long he’d been listening. She’d been watching for him, but hadn’t seen him come in.
He tried twice to speak, succeeded the third time. “What happened at Great Southwest this morning wasn’t bats. Simon Gordon did not die from a bat bite, and Hugh’s plane didn’t go down because of a bat, either.”
No one in the bar moved. Again, an eerie silence washed over them. No clinking utensils, no crying babies, not even a ringing cell phone. Lucy wondered where Sally had gone, but she didn’t turn around to look. They all seemed frozen in place. Then one by one, people stood, as if ready to testify in some long ago revival service.
A young man near the back spoke first. “My uncle didn’t get bitten on the golf course by a bat. He was putting on the seventh hole. Collapsed and died. He felt fine when he left the house this morning, and he got a clean bill of health from Doc Mason last week.”
The man started to sit down, then added as an afterthought “And why can’t we see him? They won’t even tell us where they took him. My aunt’s going nuts.”
A woman two tables over gave him a sympathetic nod. “I know what you mean. My sister-in-law’s mother was watching her soap operas. No bat came in her house and bit her.” Tears streamed down the woman’s face, but she didn’t stop. “I’ll tell you what else. A bat doesn’t leave that much blood. We scrubbed for hours.”
She studied her hands, shook her head, and sat down.
A shiver travelled down Lucy’s spine when she recognized Nadine’s voice coming from a table behind her—sweet Nadine, who she’d known less than two weeks. But she’d worked with her every day. Like the rest of Roswell’s residents she did not deserve this heartache. Lucy forced herself to meet Nadine’s gaze.
“My neighbor crashed his car into his house. He hasn’t had a single wreck in the three years we’ve lived there. Why would he crash into his own house? He was such a sweet old guy—like a grandpa to my niece and nephew.” Nadine’s voice shook.
The tray would have fallen if Dean hadn’t eased it out of her hands. When she started sobbing he pulled her to him, led her over to the bar and helped her onto a stool.
One by one they all focused again on the television ticker.
The Roswell alert scrolled by once more.
Lucy looked at Dean, but he shook his head. She read him clearly; he wanted her to stay out of it. Could the false news be Aiden’s way of keeping people off the street at night? Aiden or Commander Martin trying to prevent panic? Or, did the terrorists have people in the national media? Had they managed to shut down the story? She didn’t doubt their reach.
“I haven’t seen any bats.” Farmer strode back to his table, pulled out his wallet, and dropped a twenty dollar bill on the table.
“Are we leaving, honey?” His wife grabbed keys, cell phone, her purse.
“Yeah. We’re leaving. I think it’s time we go to the hospital and demand some answers.”
“I tried.” Colton said. “They won’t tell you anything, not even next-of-kin. Unless you’re believing bogus heart attack stories.”
“Yeah? Well, Roswell just became one big family. We’re all next next-of-kin, and we’re not settling for any more fake stories.” Farmer paced from one table to the next, and as he did some people rose to join him.
“We’ll go with you, Jason.”
“If we’re infested with rabid bats, I want to see one of those suckers.”
They dropped cash on tables, pushed back chairs, knocking some over. As they stormed out, Lucy went back to her work, not knowing what else to do.
When Lucy passed by the bar, she stopped next to Dean and whispered, “Ideas?”
“Let them go. If they’re in the hospital, they’re at least off the street.”
When she glanced over at the map, she saw the reason Dean didn’t want anyone on the streets of Roswell. Intent on the television screens, it seemed nobody had noticed that all the pins had been removed from the canyons and placed along the streets of Roswell. No one cared about UFO sightings given the current tragic turn of events.
Ω
“Don’t you think you should take that thing down?” Lucy asked.
“Why? Someone here is leaving a message. Operating in our back yard is the way Martin put it. They’re bold, and I’m going to catch them.”
Dean knew Farmer and the others would be back sooner, rather than later. When they reappeared, things were likely to explode. The question was whether he could or should do anything about it. His objective remained to stop the terrorists. If all the residents of Roswell decided to walk out in the middle of Main and gaze up at UFOs, who was he to stop them?
But as he served the regulars who’d stuck behind—people he’d been serving for over a month now—a picture surfaced in his mind. It was the image of a little boy, playing with a toy truck in the dirt outside a station in Corona, New Mexico. A little boy he had vowed to protect.
The ricin-slotted influenza didn’t discriminate between big boys and little ones.
He set another drink on the bar, glanced at the clock and saw the hands slip toward eight-thirty.
“Thanks for staying past your shift, Paul.”
“Not a problem. Home isn’t where I want to be tonight.” Paul hesitated, as if he wanted to say something else.
Before he could, Farmer walked back in, followed by the group that had left with him. Billy and Bubba had joined them. Bubba nodded at Dean, then at Lucy. Billy stared down at his feet.
Sally peered out through the cook’s window, then bolted from behind the gr
ill to face Farmer head on. “Jason, I don’t need any trouble in here.”
“Do you think you can avoid this trouble? It’s too big for that, Sally.”
Sally motioned at Emily, who stood behind the counter.
“You wanting Emily to bring you that shotgun?” Farmer strode over, reached behind the counter, and pulled the gun out himself. He handed it to her. “You’re my godmother, for God’s sake. You aim to shoot me? Is that what we’ve come to?”
“I want you and your little group to walk back out of here like you walked in. Let these people eat and go home. They’ve had enough trouble today.”
“You think so? Like we’ve had trouble? You’re not forgetting our family was touched by this. Are you? You have talked to Katie and Carol, right? You’ve tried to see Ben? Because you can’t. Are you telling me you believe bats killed him?”
When Sally didn’t answer, he turned back to the people in the restaurant.
Everyone had stopped to watch the exchange. “Most of you were here earlier. You know we went to the hospital. Tried to get the truth.”
He looked around, forced eye contact with as many as would dare to meet his gaze. By now the men and women he’d picked up along the way filled the entryway of E.T.’s.
Dean wondered how they’d fit in, and what they would do with them when they did.
“What we got were more lies. They knew nothing about a rabies alert. No county officials. No doctors who had treated anyone with a bat bite—and none that wanted to talk.”
“Though a revolver persuaded them some,” Bubba murmured.
“It did manage to bring out the head of the hospital. It also brought out Eaton who threatened to throw us in jail.”
“He would have too.” Colton pushed through the crowd. “You could tell he wanted to, but not for his normal reasons.”
“What do you mean, son?” John Curry, the principal of the high school, stood.
“Eaton got a mother hen look on his face,” Colton said. “The one you used to get, Mr. Curry. If he’d had enough cars to load us in—”
“And enough men,” Farmer added. “Yeah. Apparently Roswell’s finest are stretched pretty thin.”
Colton ran his hand over his face. “I think he would have taken us in so he could have kept us from getting hurt. From what, I have no idea. I didn’t see any bats. I know it doesn’t sound like Eaton, but nothing makes sense tonight.”
“So you didn’t learn anything.” Curry sat back down, reached out and placed his hand over his wife’s.
“We did learn one thing.” Farmer looked to Colton, who nodded.
Farmer’s wife began softly sobbing. Jason Farmer took off his ball cap, twisted it in his hands, then cleared his throat and pushed to the center of the room. “We checked around. Started asking questions and comparing stories. We think, actually, we’re sure, that since last night, thirty-four people in Roswell have died.”
EVERYONE STARTED TALKING at once, and Dean felt the itchy need to reach for his weapon. He fought the urge and won.
Sally’s voice rose above the others. “Everyone quiet down. Jason, what are you talking about? That’s impossible.”
Her eyes begged him to take it back. She had been grasping a spatula, but now she lowered it, as if she didn’t quite trust herself to not hurl it at someone.
“We thought so too. Tell them, Colton.”
Colton’s eyes again sought Dean’s. Much of the bravado had left the boy. He no longer swaggered, and his words often came out as questions instead of definitive statements. More than anything else, his perpetual look of anger was replaced by grief—the scowl set into a firm line as if by clenching his jaw he could grasp hold of his emotions. Dean had the oddest sensation of looking in a mirror at a younger version of himself.
“Nine died at the airport—the sales manager, two in the plane, six in the maintenance building.” Colton hesitated. “Another twelve died at the golf course.”
“Alice said ten.” Dean broke his silence. Everyone in the room shifted in their chairs to peer at him.
“Maybe, but I talked to a caddy. He said they’d locked down the clubhouse while he ran in from the course. He saw the ambulances roll up, saw them bring out the body bags. He had a first-row seat, and he counted twelve.”
“Who was this?” Curry asked.
“Alex. Alex George.”
Curry nodded, as if Alex’s word was good enough for him.
“There’s more. Two others confirmed the number, but made us promise not to use their names.”
“Why not?” A trucker at the bar shouted the question. He came through town once a week. Usually had a meal, one beer, and drove on. Tonight, he’d stayed.
“Good question. People are scared. Don’t want their names on the news. There’s all sorts of talk about everything from an alien attack to a foreign invasion. They’d only agree to talk if we promised their names wouldn’t be mentioned, and I gave my word. Most headed on home to lock themselves in for the night. Said we’d all be smart to do the same thing.”
“I’m not locking myself in my house,” Bubba muttered.
Several people seated at nearby tables nodded in agreement.
“This is a tragedy for sure.” John Curry pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped at the sweat pouring down his face. He folded the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket. “I never taught math, but I think we’re only up to twenty-one.”
“Right.” Colton pulled a piece of paper out of his jean’s pocket and stared at it. Slowly he read it aloud. “Mike’s uncle was part of the twelve at the golf course plus nine at the airport. Then there was Donna’s mother and Nadine’s neighbor, Mr. Anderson. Four from the Villa Del Rey Retirement Community. Mr. and Mrs. Cooks out on the loop. Rev. Banks and his sister, old Miss Winters. And finally Coach Johnson and his wife and sister.”
Colton’s voice had grown smaller as he spoke. When he finished, he continued to look at the list, as if staring at it might change the words written there. Finally, he stuck it back in his pocket.
Dean tried to make eye contact with Lucy, to warn her to step away from the middle of the group. He knew what would happen next because he’d seen it in every town he’d witnessed tragedy. Shock came first. It always came first, and it played vividly now across the faces of the customers in front of him.
One or two stared down at their plates. Others peered around, as though trying to find something to settle their eyes on, anything that made sense. A few made the sign of the cross or turned to hug the person beside them.
Shock was a universal reaction.
In all the battlefields Dean had fought upon, it always came first.
And it never lasted long.
Anger exploded from the trucker like oil from a well-placed drill. “Who’s killing the old folks? What kind of town are you all running here anyway?” He stood and made to pay his bill, but his hands shook too badly to pull the bills from his wallet.
“I don’t like what you’re insinuating, Frank.” Bubba shouldered his way across the room until he stood in front of the trucker. “You saying someone in here had something to do with these people dying?”
Dean knew from the way Bubba’s arm flexed he wanted to slug somebody and anyone would do, even an old man who occasionally passed through.
“I don’t know who is doing it. I’m just pointing out that all those people y’all called out was old,” Frank muttered.
“They were old.” Sally pushed between the two, spatula still clutched in her hand. “So what? It’s some kind of weird coincidence.”
“So what? So, next you’ll say the bats only bite old people.” Jason sneered.
“Shut up, Jason.” Sally’s words were a screech, and no one could mistake the threat behind them.
Colton stepped closer to Lucy, as he pulled his pistol from his waistband.
Dean had two ways to get Lucy out of there. He could jump the bar and tackle Colton, but Paul blocked his path. Or he could shoot him from w
here he stood. He reached for his weapon, when Colton held his pistol high over his head, palm out.
The room fell silent. Sweat continued to trickle down Dean’s back, but he released his grip on his weapon.
Outside the sun had nearly set, casting its final glow down the road.
“How many of you have a weapon?” Colton surveyed the crowd.
Over half raised their hands. “One person knows what’s going on, or at least a part of it.” Colton hesitated, and Dean’s heart stopped beating.
If Colton grabbed Lucy, Dean would kill him. The shot from where he stood would be clean.
“If we all go together, armed, Eaton will talk. He’d have to. We have a right to know.”
Dean pulled in a deep breath, then held it when something cold and hard pressed into his back.
“Don’t say a word, and don’t reach for your piece.” Paul spoke casually and quietly.
Nobody heard except him. Everyone had begun talking at once, discussing the merits of Colton’s plan.
“We’ll step out back. Just you and me. Clear?”
Dean nodded. He heard Paul click the safety off his weapon and knew the man wasn’t bluffing. He tried to catch Lucy’s eye as they turned to go, but neither she, nor anyone else, noticed as they stepped out the back door and into the shadows of the alley.
Ω
Lucy’s attention was torn between Colton and what was happening in the street. The street finally won. As people in the tavern began arguing over the merits of Colton’s plan, Lucy slid through the crowd unnoticed. She stepped out into the dying sun and peered down the boardwalk.
Like their first morning in Roswell, she saw more than what was there. The boardwalks were again deserted.
No people. No bats. But she did see blood. The sun’s last rays pushed across the worn boards. Dust covered the handrails and benches. Pickup trucks were pulled to the curbs. Traffic lights hung over deserted streets, turning from green to yellow to red.
Lucy stood with her back against the plate glass window of E.T.’s, trying to deny what she saw. She understood that to reject the truth of her vision was to lose any chance of stopping what would happen this night. Her abuela had often told her the vision was a gift, that God would use her one day in a mighty way and that her vision would be instrumental in what was to come. As a young girl, she had laughed. As a teen, she had cynically chosen not to believe. Then she became a doctor, and put such foolishness behind her.
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