by William Bebb
Her long brown hair was brushed straight and looked beautiful.
He admired her rear out of his peripheral vision.
She stood nearly six and a half feet tall and looked extremely fit as she turned and walked toward the restaurant. As if mesmerized by her, he continued to watch her until someone coughed softly behind him.
He turned and saw a big man wearing a suit and tie staring at him, standing near the rear of the SUV. The stranger was easily over six foot tall and his hair had a military style buzz cut look. His face was unreadable, partly because of the reflective sunglasses he was wearing, but the old man got the feeling his appreciation for the stranger’s friend wasn't approved of. He smiled weakly, adjusted his Alabama cap and headed for the park.
“You have admirers, Mendez. If we have to stay in this redneck metropolis very long you may find yourself barefoot and pregnant,” the tall man said, as he joined the lady at a table. He looked disgustedly at a plastic wrapped menu covered in small patches of dried coffee and eggs.
“Jealous?” She asked with a slight smile. “But really, listen Simon; we already stick out like a couple of two headed rabbits around here. Quit giving everyone we meet the stink eye. I saw you glaring at that guy in the parking lot. I thought we agreed to play it subtle while we check things out.”
“Trust me, I'm not jealous. I was a Marine before I became an agent. Besides, this is as subtle as I get,” Simon said, and looked over the menu. “What's a grit?” He asked, seriously.
“Hello, welcome to Billy Bob’s Po Boy Eatery. I'm Amy Lynn and I'll be taking care of you this morning. What can I get for you?” A young waitress asked, with a bright smile that was made all the more sparkling by the set of braces on her teeth.
“We need two large cups of coffee,” Simon said, slipping off his sunglasses. “And can you tell me what a grit is?”
The waitress giggled as the woman at the table looked out the window and shook her head. “I'll be right back with your coffee. You're funny,” the waitress said and playfully patted his arm before walking quickly away.
“Simon cut it out. Just order me the number three breakfast combo. I'll be right back,” his partner whispered, standing up and turning away.
“Where are you going?” He asked and grabbed a hold of her wrist.
She whirled around and seized his thumb with her other hand and twisted it back savagely.
His eyes went round as she continued to hold him.
Her eyes were squinting, but she smiled brightly and whispered quickly and quietly, “You grab me again and I'll snap your thumb off like a chicken bone.”
He let go of her wrist, but she continued to twist back his thumb. “I'm going to the little ladies room. If your don't mind,” she whispered and gave his thumb just a little more pressure before releasing him and leaving. “Be right back,” she said in a normal almost cheerful tone of voice.
The smiling teenage waitress set two steaming cups of coffee on the table and gave him a flirtatious wink as he rubbed his thumb. “You ready to order?”
*****
The water flowing thru the concrete culvert was only a few inches deep and Betty had no problems following behind Jake and Orlando, who were having more difficulties. Jake splashed through the water as he struggled not to hit his head or drop the heavy plastic bags he was forced to carry. Orlando, being a foot and a half taller, was stooped over significantly more and kept pushing Jake with his crowbar while grumbling for him to hurry up.
Though she could have easily kept up with them, Betty slowed down to match the speed of the boy behind her as he struggled to carry his bags.
Kenny was fat and not generally in very good physical condition. He had dropped out of school a month earlier and had actually been the one to suggest stealing the high school's computers to his drinking buddy, Orlando. He'd never liked school anyway. There was just too much crap to deal with. Bitchy teachers always gave him bad grades. Stuck up girls looked at his noticeable belly and acne covered face as if he were the result of a mad scientist's experiment gone bad.
Orlando was the only one who made him feel like he was worth anything and he promised to split the take after they sold the computers.
But as he panted harder his mind wasn't on money, it was only thinking about the girl with the cute butt just in front of him.
He had swapped hands holding the heavy trash bags several times while trudging along in the near darkness. It would have been easier to use both hands, but he couldn't resist grabbing several quick handfuls of the girl's butt in front of him. For Kenny, the best part was that she really didn't seem to mind. Usually, girls would slap or at least yell at him when he grabbed them but the girl didn't say anything and he suspected she actually liked it.
Why else would she be walking so slow? He looked over her shoulder and saw Orlando and Jake's silhouettes were nearly at the far end of the drain and yet she walked still slower as he pawed roughly at her butt. I really think she likes me, he thought, leaning closer to sniff her hair.
“Hey, sweet cheeks. When we get out of here, you wanna go with me and have some fun?” He whispered in her ear.
Betty stopped walking, turned around, and reached up to his sweaty face.
Is she going to kiss me? Oh God. I've never even come close to kissing a girl who wasn't drunk or passed out before, he thought excitedly, as her fingertips touched his forehead lightly. He felt a brief delightful stirring of an erection, before a bright flash of purplish red energy shot from her fingers. He collapsed in the water like a marionette with its strings cut.
“Hey Romeo, you wouldn't mind if me and my pal take Juliet for a ride would ya?” Orlando asked and chuckled, while prodding Jake repeatedly with the tip of his crowbar.
Jake didn't answer. He saw the weeds lining the ditch just a few yards away and was trying to think. His emotions were making it difficult. The bastard killed my dog. If that damn girl wasn't around I could probably take them both on. Of course, he might kill us both anyway since we could tell the cops what happened. Shit.
When they reached the lip of the culvert, Jake still had no idea what to do. He felt the crowbar poking the middle of his neck as Orlando stood behind him.
“Don't do anything stupid. Just get out and don't try anything heroic or I will mess you up so bad your momma wouldn't recognize what was left. I was just kidding about yer little girlfriend. Do what I say and you two can go play with each other. Just get out and don't turn around until I tell you to.”
Jake stepped into the ditch, looking up at the early morning sun and the blue sky peppered with wispy white clouds. Is this how I'm going to die, bashed in the head by a dumb ass thief? He wondered, while listening to Orlando behind him stomping through the ditch water.
“Okay buddy, slowly set the bags on the grass and when your girlfriend gets here you two can go.”
He's lying. He's going to bash me in the head, Jake realized, as he trembled while setting the bags in the grass. I'm so screwed.
*****
Professor Anniston turned off the bathroom faucets and dried his hands on a paper towel. He meant to briefly check and make sure his hair was relatively in order, but found himself staring at his reflection instead.
An old man gazed back with a sagging wrinkled face. He saw the loose skin on his face and was reminded of the way a basset hounds face looked.
How did I become an old man? When did it happen? I don't feel ancient, yet I appear to be more wrinkles and wispy gray hair than man, he thought, peering at the only part of himself in the mirror that still seemed youthful; his eyes. They twinkled with a vitality absent from the rest of his body. With them, he'd witnessed things few people would believe possible.
During the war, he spent most of his time confined in seclusion deep underground in London. His days, months, and eventually years, consisted of reviewing and working to decipher tens of thousands of enemy messages. The recovery of an Enigma machine retrieved a year earlier made much of his work easier, b
ut many other Nazi codes existed using more traditional encryption.
He was considered the best at making sense of the jumbled symbols and was highly prized by British Intelligence.
Once deciphered, the majority of messages turned out to be pointless or items allied spies had already discovered. But a precious few were invaluable to military intelligence and undoubtedly saved several thousands of lives throughout the war.
There was only one communiqué he remembered nearly every day. It was a transcribed radio message, supposedly from a member of Adolph Hitler's elite advanced atomic energy science group to the Fuehrer himself. The prevailing opinion held by Anniston's fellow code breakers was that it was either a joke or intentionally designed to spread disinformation and confusion. It was not uncommon for the Germans to send false information throughout the war. But never before had he deciphered something so imaginative and uncharacteristically bizarre. The code was not a particularly hard one to break and he wondered if the sender was trained in espionage. If not, whoever was reporting may not have realized the code being used was extremely weak.
The intercepted message was by no means complete, but what was deciphered was supported by some other sources of information; Enough for Anniston to feel it had actually happened.
Aliens had stopped the Nazis from obliterating not only London, but perhaps several major cities along the eastern shore of the United States.
It was January 1945. The war was over, yet Hitler could not accept this undeniable fact. His country's atomic weapons program was well known to military intelligence, but by that stage of the war it was thought to be out of commission as a result of various daring and extremely dangerous operations.
The transcript of the message, however, changed some opinions on the matter. Extremely sophisticated rockets, up to five times the size of the most advanced seen to date, were reported ready to be launched against London, New York, and Washington DC, among other targets. Each missile was tipped with an atomic device of unknown power.
The speaker, from the communiqué, was trying to explain how a catastrophic failure and subsequent annihilation of the launch facilities was not his fault. Most of the message was merely a long drawn out pleading for another chance and not to be executed. It was the description of the alien presence that most captivated a young James Anniston. Translated from German, The Strafe Speers, Spears of Retribution were Hitler's ultimate secret weapon. They were ready for launch.
As the countdown reached approximately thirty seconds a floating vehicle, described as between fifty and sixty meters in diameter, descended from the clouds and hovered over the rockets. It was difficult to determine its color and had no recognizable insignia. It seemed to change colors from a dull silver to almost translucency and then back.
Soldiers, guarding the launch facility, were ordered to fire on the strange vehicle as the countdown continued.
The scientist in charge, referred to only as Erich, was asked if he wanted to abort the launch.
After determining the rockets trajectories would not hit the strange vehicle, he ordered the countdown to continue. When the count reached zero the engines roared to life as soldiers continued to fire at the strange vehicle.
There was no reason for the Strafe Speers not to take flight, yet not a one of them moved an inch from the gantries. It was as if they had been cemented to the Earth.
Erich ordered the engineers to abort the launch, but for some unknown reason they couldn't shut down the engines.
After approximately fifty seconds, the second stage booster rockets engaged but with the rockets still being on the ground the resultant explosions obliterated the launch facility.
Had the engineers and scientists not been at a reinforced observation bunker a few miles away there would have been no survivors whatsoever. The fireballs were titanic and the inferno raged unchecked for two days before...
Before what Dr. Anniston never would know. The intercepted message was incomplete.
The old man looking at the young man's eyes in the mirror was brought back from his thoughts as something attracted his attention near the ceiling of the small bathroom. He saw a roach scurrying into a crack and shook his head slightly. Leave it to the government to provide us with insect infested accommodations. I must remember to shake out my jacket before I head back to my RV and get some sleep. Trevor would be quite rightly upset if I brought home some little friends, he thought, while stifling a yawn with difficulty.
He looked back at the mirror again saw his basset hound like face and smiled. Leaning closer, for a moment, he growled softly at the old dog staring back before returning to work.
Walking down the small hallway he heard voices and smelled something delicious.
His 'butler', as some people thought of him, stood near Alice holding a large tray of covered items. Trevor had served Dr. Anniston for the last twenty years and had become more friend than servant in that time. His history was filled with a variety of unsavory careers, but his personality and loyalty made up for all of them in the old man's opinion.
When Trevor was in his mid forties he was paroled from prison and had great difficulty finding a job. He had nearly given up when he saw an advert for manservant. What intrigued him most were the words No Experience Required.
Dr. Anniston had received his rather skimpy resume and yet been most eager to speak with him.
The interview had been unlike any other he'd had. Rather than telling him to meet in an office wearing a stuffy suit he'd asked Trevor to wear his everyday clothes and meet him at the Royal Museum of English History in London.
At a snack bar in the lobby they had a cup of tea and biscuits. After a bit, the men wandered the galleries and exhibition halls for hours discussing almost everything; except the job being offered.
Trevor told some of his experiences serving in Her Majesties Armed Forces as the old man nodded and asked questions.
As the museum's public address system announced they would be closing soon, Dr. Anniston asked if he could cook. It was a subject that had not been discussed in all their hours of conversation. Trevor had felt his chances of getting the job dimming as he answered truthfully that he couldn't. The older man had smiled and admitted he himself could do little more than burn water. He offered Trevor the position contingent upon his taking a series of culinary courses. After explaining he couldn't afford such classes, Anniston had said he would cover the costs.
Now, twenty years later, Trevor stood holding a large tray patiently awaiting his employer and friend.
“I brought an early brunch, sir. I hope you don't mind my taking the liberty of preparing enough for your young lady friend,” Trevor said.
“I tried to explain already, I'm not hungry,” Alice objected, turning toward the old man as he walked to an empty table and sat down.
“Young lady. I've been keeping tabs on your eating habits. You've had five cups of coffee and half of a sausage biscuit you got from that nasty excuse a restaurant on the other side of the parking lot. If you don't come and join me I shall be grievously insulted, as shall Trevor. Is that not so?” Dr. Anniston asked, in a serious tone of voice.
“Indeed yes. I fear that if you decline I shall be driven to endless torrents of tears and self loathing,” Trevor said sadly while placing the large wooden tray on the table.
“Well, I certainly don't want that. I will accept your kind invitation,” she said, smiling and crossing to the table. “You'll be joining us won't you? Mister?”
“You may call me Trevor, madam. As to joining you, I'm afraid I have dishes to attend to.”
“If you'll pardon my vulgarity, Alice. That's a load of bullshit,” Dr. Anniston said, looking up at his friend. “I see you brought three place settings. Have a seat.”
“If you insist, I will, but only after I serve,” Trevor said, removing lids off of the tray.
Alice's eyes went round as she saw a selection of expertly prepared entrees that would be at home in any of the high end restaurants
she rarely could afford to visit in New York City. There were crepes, Eggs Benedict with Hollandaise sauce, bunches of glistening grapes, orange slices, freshly made light flaky biscuits, a small platter of crisp bacon, and omelets of various types as well.
“You did remember the champagne and orange juice?” Dr. Anniston asked, as he eyed the tray full of delicious smelling items.
“Sir, you wound me deeply. Though we may be roughing it here in rural Alabama, civilized tradition must be respected,” Trevor said, placing crystal glasses on the table and retrieving a chilled bottle from a wicker basket on the floor.
Colonel Wilcox tore his eyes away from the monitor displaying Dr. Anniston and his guests eating a delicious feast and grunted. He looked back at his disorganized desk and glared at the sausage biscuit he'd brought back from Finches.
It was intact, save for a small bite he'd taken before spitting it on the floor. The biscuit was undercooked and tasted like mushy dough. The sausage had been incinerated to a nearly brick- like consistency. He grabbed the rest of his uneaten breakfast and threw it at a private who was using his cell phone to text someone.
“Hey! Who the fu-” the young soldier started to say before looking up. “Uh, never mind,” he said, wiping biscuit remnants off of his uniform and hurriedly leaving the room. He'd seen the colonel mad before and knew the best place to be was somewhere else. Preferably in a fire fight in the untamed mountains of Afghanistan, for example.
Wilcox sipped at his cup of bitter tasting coffee and forced himself to look back at the piles of reports he'd been going over. The preliminary results from the team of California physicists were extremely detailed. There were a dozen different charts and graphs. The spectrograph chemical and elemental analysis was the only item that was somewhat understandable. It was the presence of two unexplained mystery elements that were giving him a pounding headache.
He tried calling the number for the head of the analysis team again, and again got his voice mail. Slamming the phone down he lowered his head into his shaking hands and felt nauseated. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm down. His sinuses felt clogged as he sniffled and realized his allergies were acting up.
