by William Bebb
The young men and teenagers took off running as the driver of the Cadillac stomped on the gas and drove quickly but quite erratically away. Within fifteen seconds the street was deserted once more.
Trevor smiled, patted Black Beauty's dashboard and drove south heading once more into Birmingham. Setting his gun within easy reach, he laughed softly while shaking his head saying, “Kids will be kids.”
Alice excused herself and went to the bathroom.
Lying on his bed Dr. Anniston flipped off the flat screen TV and smiled faintly. He'd watched the incident using a few of the closed circuit camera's they'd had installed on the RV and hadn't been worried, too much.
Over the many months of traveling across the great U S of A, they'd run into kids like that a few times before in a nearly a dozen different cities, and felt confident in Trevor's abilities for handling nearly every contingency. His only real concern had been that he might actually kill a few of the youngsters; instead he'd only murdered a disturbingly loud stereo. Neither man would lose any sleep over it.
Laying back on the bed, he tried to take stock of their options. His mind was racing in circles of confusion as he examined the problems. He knew his information was incomplete and more than once he thought of switching on the cell phone and calling Amalia or Admiral Branson but fought down the temptation. Deciding to hold off and make some calls from a traditional land line phone he felt more at peace. His eyes fluttered closed as Black Beauty rolled on.
Teetering on the precipice of sleep he heard the TV power on. He opened an eye and looked at it.
The screen was on yet there was no image, just blackness.
He was reaching for the remote control to shut it off again when he saw words slowly filling the screen. That made him open both eyes and sit up on the edge of the bed. They were identical in form and look to regular closed captioning text but the message was definitely unique.
'Dr. Anniston?'
The old man stared at the words and whispered, “Yes?”
'We need to talk with you. For your sake, we believe it better you not see us at this time. Do you understand who we are?'
He nodded slowly but had a suspicious look on his face.
'You suspect this is a trick or ruse. Perhaps designed by your military to discover your reaction to ALIENS. A loyalty test of some sort. Some might look upon this mentality as paranoia, but having witnessed Colonel Wilcox's behavior earlier we understand your uncertainty. Do you recall, while you were instructing Alice Weinstein how to dance you spotted a roach moving erratically?'
The old man's face paled as he finished reading the text. I didn't mention that to anyone. No one could know, unless- he thought, and placed his trembling hand on his forehead before nodding.
'If you need further proof take a look at the back of this television.'
Dr. Anniston stood shakily and turned on the bedside lamp before leaning forward. Behind the flat screen, he saw the power plug and various multicolored cables that ran to the closed circuit camera system and the small satellite dish mounted on the roof.
There was a flashing light near the connectors on the bottom of the TV. A small brown roach was flashing lights at him through its eyes as its antennae wiggled rapidly back and forth.
*****
Agent Simon Hicks caught up with the ambulance and followed it onto a small county road. He looked at his watch and guessed he'd been following them for almost fifteen minutes when it turned onto a dirt road and pulled up next to a rusty trailer.
There was a shirtless young man, in his early twenties, with greasy long blond hair yelling at them to hurry up.
The ambulance driver and another man ran inside as Simon opened the door and after much straining and swearing got his legs out from under the dashboard and managed to stand up. He felt sore all over from being cramped in the small car for so long. Limping, he stomped his feet and tried to hurry across the trash and toy strewn yard.
A boy toddler with long greasy hair, wearing a soggy diaper that reeked of unspeakable foulness, met him at the trailer door. The boy had a finger wedged deeply in one nostril and a video game controller in the other hand.
Voices and shouts came from deeper inside the trailer.
He entered a living room filled with several large plastic planters containing marijuana plants ranging in size from seedlings to seven foot tall redwoods. They were so tall that the tops were bent over on the trailer's low ceiling.
I'm in Redneck Heaven, Hicks realized, following the voices down a hallway. A young man wearing an ambulance driver’s uniform nodded at Simon as he walked up.
“Did ‘ya see all the salad these guys got growing in the front room?”
Simon nodded back and looked into the room where the long haired man and the other ambulance driver were. He slammed his eyes shut and backed quickly away feeling sick.
Over the years he'd seen all manner of horrible things, but right now he would trade visions with any of them for what he'd just witnessed. He rubbed his eyes and stumbled down the hall as the grunting and swearing increased in volume behind him.
The ambulance driver called after him, “Hey guy, wanna help us pull this fat bitch out of the bathtub? She's really stuck in there. Little help?”
Simon ignored him and walked outside. I will not throw up? It wasn't that bad. Seen worse shit a million times, he thought unable to recall a single one at the moment, as he leaned against a rusty pickup truck with a small confederate battle flag hanging from the antenna. He tried to think of all the horrible things he'd witnessed, but they all were replaced by the image he had seared into his brain of the enormously obese naked woman stuck in the trailer's tiny bathtub. He grabbed onto the hood of the truck as vomit shot out and sprayed all over it.
The boy with the saggy diaper giggled, laughed, and clapped as Simon lost everything in his stomach.
He finished retching and wiped a thin line of vomit that hung from his lips to the multicolored, some might call artistic, design on the truck's hood. Simon stared at the large chunky puddle and spotted some grits drifting in the mess. Damn grits, he thought, while walking back to the Ford Pinto.
*****
“Tragedy has struck the small rural town of Ragland today, leaving one young man dead and one struggling for life. As you can see behind me, rescue and police officials are still on the scene,” Candace Rogers said, with an inappropriate smile on her face.
That was what they'd heard in the news van earlier from their police scanner and was all they knew for certain. The camera zoomed in on a fire truck and several police cars at the far end of the parking lot. A string of yellow plastic tape fluttered in the breeze around a rusty van that police officers were looking over.
“Details have been sketchy so far, as police continue their investigation. One witness has come forward to help us understand what's going on.” The camera zoomed back out showing the smiling reporter and a grinning middle aged black lady holding a fat black cat in her arms.
“Could you tell us what you know, Mrs.?”
“Told ya once already. Name is Allison Taylor,” she said, giving the reporter an irritated look.
“Yes, Mrs. Taylor,” the reporter said, looking a little annoyed. “Could you tell me what happened here this morning?” She moved the hand held microphone closer as Allison cleared her throat and smiled broadly at the camera.
“Well, earlier me and Michael was out collectin cans and a silver ghost ball rose up into the sky. I seen that same ghost thing maybe a dozen times over the last couple of weeks, but Barney Fyfe is the only cop who they send out here and he don't believe me. I called 911 and-”
“Well, that certainly is interesting but can you tell us more about what's going on down here at the school?” Candace interrupted.
“If you let me talk, I'll tell you. That's the problem with you young people today; Rush, rush, rush.” Michael Jackson hissed at the reporter as Allison continued. “Where was I? Now you done got Michael all upset.”
/> Out of camera range, the producer waved a twenty dollar bill so Allison could see it while the camera operator grinned and zoomed in on the angry cat's face.
“Take your time, Mrs. Taylor, just tell us what happened,” the reported said while the camera zoomed back out showing Allison and the cat.
“Well, while I was telling Fyfe about the ghost ball, a scream started. It was the worst thing I'd ever heard. It came from this direction, but we were down the road a ways when it started.”
“What kind of scream was it?”
Allison looked at the blonde haired young reporter as if she were an idiot for several seconds.
“What did it sound like?” The reporter clarified.
Allison took a deep breath and screamed as loud as she could into the microphone for a few seconds.
The deputy leaning on his car had been watching out of boredom and broke out laughing as other emergency personnel turned to see what was happening.
Candace stumbled back in surprise and almost fell.
The camera shook slightly as the man operating it tried not to laugh.
Candace quickly regained her composure and looked at the grinning Allison. “So that's what the scream sounded like?”
“Hell no. Ain't you listening? It was much louder and went on for a long time. Sounded like somebody roasting in Hellfire, I imagine. Anyways, Fyfe and a nice lady who was talking to me about the ghost balls took off to find whoever was hollering,” Allison said, before coughing. “You got any water? Think I hurt my voice screaming for you like that.”
The man who had been waving the twenty dollars reached into a small cooler and pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to the reporter. She handed it to Allison before asking another question. “Were you scared when the screams started?”
Allison gulped at the water with a finger raised, as if signaling just a second, before belching loudly.
Candace wrinkled her nose and looked slightly ill. The operator stepped back from the camera and laughed so hard his body shook.
“Was I scared? Lady, I almost pissed and shit my pants. How's that for scared?”
The cameraman and deputy both roared laughter.
“What happened next? And please watch your language. This is going out live,” Candace said, blushing brightly.
Allison looked embarrassed but continued. “Sorry everybody. Well, I pushed Mr. Jackson down here when more police cars and ambulances came.”
“Could I speak with Mr. Jackson? Does he have anything to say about all this?”
Allison grinned and moved the cat closer to the microphone. “This here's my cat, Mr. Michael Jackson. You can ask him anything you want, but he ain't much of a talker. But he's a great dancer and singer sometimes, especially when he's hungry for dinner.”
The cameraman fell on the ground and broke out laughing again.
Candace pulled the microphone away and looked at the camera. “Well if that's all you know, thank you Mrs. Taylor. We hope to have more details as soon as-”
“Just a second, Missy. I didn't get to tell you the best part. Heard tell Jake Chambers got stabbed and almost died. He plays football here. Hell of a player too.”
The operator regained his composure and quickly got back up. He turned the camera toward the police cars again and zoomed in.
“How do you know who was hurt?” Candace asked.
“A weird little girl named Betty told me. She disappeared a while back. That's all I know. Now, where's my twenty dollar?” Allison asked and walked abruptly off screen.
CHAPTER EIGHT: The new confederacy and dragons
“Try Anniston and Weinstein's phones again. How many cars did you send out looking for them?” Amalia asked holding the phone with one hand and taking notes with the other. “No don't contact the police! They ran off because Wilcox went nuts and attacked them. Involving the cops would only needlessly complicate things. Just find them and have them call me.” She ended the call and sighed.
Lighting a cigarette, she stared outside her temporary office window.
Troops were still agitated from the dramatic and unexpected exit of the big RV and rumors were spreading like wildfire about what was going on. Military police were being called in from all over the quarantine area to join in the search for Anniston's vehicle.
Looking up, she saw a nervous looking private standing at attention beside her door.
“Private Sandberg, right?” She asked, between puffs.
“Ma'am, yes ma'am,” he said, snapping even more to attention.
“Relax, Sandberg. You're not in trouble. Want a cigarette?”
“Yes ma'am. Thank you.”
“You were the last one to see Colonel Wilcox this morning, before he went ape shit. Did you notice anything odd?”
After pulling a cigarette out of the pack, he nodded. “He threw a sausage biscuit at me,” Sandberg said in an embarrassed tone of voice, before lighting the cigarette.
“Anything else?”
“He got a call and heard something that pissed him off. I overheard a lot of swearing and furniture being smashed. And that's when I decided to make myself scarce.”
“Did you see where Wilcox went after the RV left?”
“No ma'am. Sorry, but I was still making myself scarce.”
Amalia nodded before continuing. “Is there anything else you'd like to add?”
“Is it true Wilcox killed somebody?”
“No. He acted like a stupid moron, but I don't think he's killed anyone. At least I hope he hasn't. Go, rejoin your unit. I'll get in touch if I have any other questions. Just remember to call me if you see Wilcox.”
“Yes ma'am. Thank you, ma'am, he said, before quickly leaving her office.
Lines of cars snaked down the roads leading into Pinson like a trail of ants from the perspective of those looking down from several helicopters overhead. There was a no fly zone in place and news crews were careful not to cross it. One particular sleek dark green helicopter, with the words ARMY Intelligence written on its side, led the others.
Peering down through a dark tinted window was Colonel Aswan Hussein.
He shook his head looking down at groups of milling people growing thicker as they flew toward the perimeter. Thousands of people wanting nothing more than return to their homes were becoming more frustrated every day as the investigation into the explosion dragged on.
Reporters interviewed angry people living in tent cities almost within eyesight of their homes. The situation was becoming more tense as reports of children falling ill with everything from the flu to cholera were being broadcast on every news station across America and around the world.
A hastily organized group of people calling itself the New Confederacy was slowly growing in number as more residents demanded to go home. A spokesman wearing a gray jacket with a confederate battle flag stitched to the back expressed the feelings of more and more people as the helicopters flew by at an impromptu press conference. “We want to go home!” He yelled, from the bed of his pickup truck.
A small sea of flags fluttered in the breeze around him. Most were the stars and stripes, but several were confederate battle flags; the same type used by the south during the civil war.
“Our children are dying and the government doesn't give a damn about any of us! We have rights! We have responsibilities to our families and neighbors.”
A cheer went up from the crowd, as he paused to sip from his can of beer.
Pointing at the distant checkpoint where national guardsmen stood behind the barricade, he continued. “Do you see any of them wearing masks or respirators anymore? If they can breathe the air in our town why can't we? We've all heard the reporters and even the president say the danger zone is small and contained. So, why are we being forced to live like refugees outside of our own town? We are not animals! We want to go home!”
People in the crowd spontaneously picked up his last statement and started chanting it as they turned and walked toward the barricade. Thousa
nds of people of all ages joined voices as the walk quickly became a march. As they headed toward the checkpoint they chanted, “We want to go home!”
Others, stuck in traffic, began honking their horns each time the crowd shouted “home”.
With most of the military police searching for the RV, regular national guard reinforcements were quickly summoned to the barricades and cases of tear gas were opened and readied. The troops were young and never imagined themselves being confronted by thousands of their own enraged countrymen. Word was sent word through the ranks that Colonel Wilcox had ordered the protesters not be allowed to breach the perimeter under any circumstances. Permission was granted for live fire if necessary.
A very nervous captain standing on top of an armored personnel carrier used a bullhorn to address the growing group of marchers, but their combined chanting overwhelmed it. “This is a military zone! Do not attempt to cross the barricades or you may be fired upon!” And without realizing what an ironically stupid thing it was to say, he infuriated the approaching crowd by saying, “Go home!”
People screamed in fury and charged the ranks of troops. Most were tired of being forced out of their homes and many thought the captain's ill chosen command to “go home” was the perfect excuse to follow orders. Waves of men, women, and children surged forward as the helicopter carrying Colonel Aswan flew toward the staging area and landed in front of the Pigs Pride supermarket.
Orders were given that tear gas be dispersed into the crowd and soldiers quickly donned their masks and fired. Shiny metallic cans flew through the blue sky trailing white plumes of gas. Only half a dozen were launched into the massive crowd, but it was more than enough to trigger a monumental disaster.
The protesters were so tightly packed against one another that when the gas enveloped them there was nowhere to go. Parents quickly lost track of their children in the throngs of screaming and terrified people.
