by William Bebb
“Screw that, I ain't hurt. But they won't let me go. Would you do me a favor?” She asked weakly as she was lifted into the ambulance.
“Anything I can, sure.”
“If you see Michael Jackson take care of him. He's a good boy but kind of a scaredy cat when it's dark and stormy like it is tonight.”
Mendez nodded and promised, “If I see him I'll take care of him. Don't worry about it.”
“Thank you and God Bless,” Allison said, just before the ambulance doors were slammed shut.
“I thought Michael Jackson was dead? Crazy old bitch is probably senile or just stupid,” A deputy said to the ambulance driver as he hurried around to the driver side door.
Mendez started to say something, but shook her head realizing some people were just too stupid to try and correct.
She spotted a deputy she'd met earlier at the high school and listened in as he was talking to Sheriff Harrison over the radio. “The ambulance just now took the survivor to the hospital. Also, we found the trail the hunters took into the woods. Do you want us to go in after them? Over.”
“Negative. If a bunch of rednecks want to chase after ghosts or aliens I can't think of any law they're breaking. When the coroner gets there I need you guys to get back on the roadblocks for Duprat. We're still doing some hiking a few miles from where the wrecked cars were found. I think we're a little less than a mile from your location. The dogs are following something, hopefully it's him and not a damn squirrel. Hang on a sec- What did you find?”
Mendez nodded at the deputy as they overheard several voices overlapping from the radio. “I think we're on the right track. Someone just found a hotdog wrapper and it doesn't look like it's been out here too long. Over.”
“Still want the other units back at the roadblocks?” The deputy asked.
A long silence followed and he looked questioningly at Agent Mendez.
She shrugged and turned as a large tow truck pulled up.
“No. I just looked at a map and from the direction were going if it's Duprat he's gotta be heading for either the Carver's or McGee's places. Split up, take one unit with you to McGee's and send the others to the Carver's house.
Play it cool, no lights or anything. Park on the main road and walk up extra quiet like. If you see Orlando-” (There was another pause) “use your best judgment. If he's just hanging out getting comfortable don't move in. Call me back and give me the info. We're gonna try and pick up the pace out here and see if we can't hook up with you over there. Got it?” The sheriff asked, sounding exhausted.
“Yes sir. We'll get back with you when we know what's what.”
“One more thing. We're pretty sure, if it's Duprat, he's got a hostage. A fed by the name of Hicks. Be careful. Over and out,” Harrison said.
“Orlando's got Hicks? What the Hell is going on?” Mendez asked in exasperation.
“Someone found a couple of cars crashed a few miles from here. One belonged to the sheriff. Orlando stole it after he broke out of jail. The other one belonged to the Sonny James car dealership,” the deputy explained.
“Knowing Hicks personality, it's a miracle Duprat didn't just shoot him. When you guys go check out the houses I'm coming along,” Mendez said, before turning and trotting back to her car.
*****
General Heller and seven military police briskly entered the lobby of The American Inn. Two of them secured and stood by the door as the others accompanied the general to the front desk.
“Where's Branson!?” Heller yelled at the lady behind the counter.
She looked at his furious face and then the group of large armed soldiers before running through the door behind the counter.
“General. I didn't mean for you to have to come here,” Captain Rockford said, as he quickly crossed the lobby coming out of the bar.
“Do you have a problem?” The big man asked, coming through the door behind the counter and looking down at the general.
“If you don't tell me where Admiral Brent Branson is, immediately, these men will do something to you. It will be something you will find extremely painful and most unpleasant,” Heller said in a low voice, gesturing to the men slapping their riot clubs in the palms of their hands.
“Listen to me, friend. This establishment has protection from the highest offices in Washington. With one call I can-” the big man started to say before he was interrupted.
“Men,” Heller growled, “hurt this man until he becomes cooperative and get a key for Branson's room.”
The soldiers jumped over the counter and started beating the manager as Heller turned and walked quickly toward the staircase.
Briefly watching the military police do their duty, before turning away, the captain saw the guards at the door were preventing anyone from coming or going. Rockford followed Heller and halfway up the stairs the five soldiers, that had persuaded the manager to give them the admiral's room number and an electronic passkey, joined them.
A few seconds later Heller looked at the captain as they walked down a hallway. “Did you ever watch that TV show The Twilight Zone?”
“Uh, no sir. I mean to say I watched a couple of them, but didn't care too much for it. It just seemed kind of way out there,” the captain said.
As they arrived at Branson's room, Heller nodded as a soldier inserted the card key in the door. “That's a shame son. There have been developments down in Alabama that make Branson seem more than a bit suspicious. I'm afraid we might be entering our very own episode of The Twilight Zone. It's a shame you didn't watch it more often. It might have helped you prepare for what might be inside,” Heller said, pushing the door open after looking at the five grim faced military police officers and making sure they we're ready.
*****
“Nothing makes a bad day seem a little better than a few cold beers. Am I right or am I right, gramps?” Orlando asked, with a smile on his face and half a bottle of beer in his right hand.
Thomas nodded as he sat nervously on the couch holding his aching head with one hand.
After searching the house, to make certain they were alone, Orlando made himself comfortable in the recliner. Lying back he flipped through the channels and grunted in disgust. “Damn it, gramps, don't you have any porn channels?”
“No sir. My wife won't let me watch that stuff,” Thomas said, looking at the badly beaten young man sitting in his chair and worried. What am I going to do if Sally comes home? This guy's dangerous. He might be crazy too. Might want to rape her or kill her. Or kill her and rape her. Either way it's bad.
Glancing up over the fireplace he saw his shotgun wasn't there. He tried to remember what he'd done with it, but ever since Orlando had burst in and knocked him to the floor his brain had been uncooperative. Not caring if the young man saw, he gently rubbed the back of his head and felt a tender area that had swollen up almost to the size of a golf ball.
Orlando laughed as he shut off the TV and finished his beer. “Sorry about your boo-boo, old man. I'd kiss it and make it all better, but I'm just about ready to hit the road,” Duprat said, climbing out of the recliner. “I know you're gonna miss me, but I bet you'll miss that old truck of yours even more. So, you give me the keys and I'll be gone like a bad dream after daybreak.”
Thomas looked through his pockets and found his wallet and keys were missing. He looked up at the young man saying, “Can't find ‘em. Give me a chance. I must have put ‘em down somewhere. I can find ‘em. Just let me look around.”
“I'll give you a couple minutes, gramps. Find them and don't try something stupid like running off,” Orlando said, setting the backpack down by the front door.
Not knowing where to look, Thomas checked his pockets again as he hurried toward the kitchen. After not finding them there, he considered the bedroom briefly before deciding to try the bathroom. He went in the bathroom as Orlando was yelling for him to hurry up.
On the counter by the sink he spotted his key ring, his wallet, and then his shotgun leaning in
the corner by the toilet. Trembling considerably, he heard Orlando walking around his living room and picked up the shotgun and made sure it was loaded. After confirming it was, he snapped it shut and shuddered harder. It was an old double barrel shotgun and he hadn't had the need to fire it for almost twenty years. Does ammunition go bad over time? He wondered, while cocking the gun.
*****
The rain had stopped completely by the time the hunters reached the clearing where the sphere had been.
Avery pointed at the burnt limbs that nearly every tree facing the open space had.
Garvins shined the flashlight on the limbs and noted a few were still smoldering. The other men were whispering as Avery looked for any signs. Having served in Vietnam long ago, he could tell if a man or animal had passed through the woods with equal certainty.
After a minute of slowly walking around the edge of the clearing, he gestured for Garvins to come over and pointed at the ground.
In a small mud puddle the light shined on part of a small shoe's tread print.
“Could be old. Maybe some kids were out here earlier today,” Garvins suggested, as Avery squinted into the woods in the direction the print was pointed.
“Maybe there were, but this print's fresh. It wouldn't be here after the rain we just had. No, someone or something's been here and they went this way,” he whispered, as he gestured into the woods with his rifle.
Garvins nodded in agreement as the other men continued to whisper and look at the burnt tree branches.
Avery called them over and pointed out the tread print in the mud. “Whoever it was went this way,” he said, looking into their shadowy faces. “I'm going after them and find out what the Hell is going on around here. One or two of you guys should head back to the road and tell the cops what we found. The rest of us will keep following the trail. Who wants to go back?”
Three of the five men raised their hands simultaneously.
Avery grunted in disgust, but held back from speaking his thought with great difficulty, Bunch of damn pussies.
Part of him understood how they felt. They'd already seen the bodies of a few people who'd apparently been electrocuted or worse. The smell of burnt pine and darkness didn't help matters either. He looked at the one man who didn't raise his hand to go back and nodded before speaking. “Okay, you three go tell the cops what we found. The rest of us will make a lot less noise than if we all went anyway.”
One of the hunters going back whispered, “Be careful,” before turning away and following the others back to the road.
Be Careful, Avery thought, fighting back a laugh. Someone nukes a town just north of here, less than a week ago. And now somebody or something just fried some poor bastards in a news truck and they want me to be careful.
*****
Alice brought three cups of hot tea over to the table in the kitchenette where Professor Anniston and Trevor were sitting and joined them. She took her cup and looked worriedly at the old man before glancing at Trevor.
He shrugged as he lifted his cup and took a sip.
A long awkward silence stretched out until she finally spoke. “James, listen to me. Whatever you've learned, no matter how bad it is, you can tell us. We want to help, but if you just keep it all bottled up inside we can't.”
Anniston grunted and toyed with his cup of tea. He seemed despondent as he stared at the dark steaming liquid.
Trevor was worried. He'd never seen him so indifferent to his appearance before. His hair was uncombed and he was dressed in just his terry cloth white robe he'd bought in Vegas on a whim, years ago. Maybe he just needs some sleep, he hoped, as he stifled a yawn. Hell, I know I need some.
“You don't want to talk about it. I can see that,” Alice said slowly, feeling like she was walking in a mine field. “No matter how bad you think it is we'd like to try and help.” She paused and looked at the old man as he closed his eyes and sighed softly.
Deciding to try a more forceful approach, she leaned forward saying, “Listen James, you need to snap out it. We need to know what's going on. You can't leave us out of the loop.”
“Alice, sweet Alice,” Anniston said, shaking his head. “I can sum up our situation in one aptly short, if not vulgar phrase. We are fucked.”
Trevor looked at his old friend and asked, “If we're so fucked, why did the” he coughed, apparently having a difficult time saying the next word, “aliens want us to go to Children's Hospital at all? If they wanted us dead, why bother communicating with us at all for that matter? If they're willing to talk there must be something they want. Have they told you-” he paused briefly again before saying, “that it's all over?”
The old man looked up from his teacup and trails of tears were clearly visible running down his basset hound cheeks from his bloodshot eyes. “I tried calling General Heller while you were in the store. I thought maybe they could make use of the information I'd learned. I thought maybe there was hope for humanity.
But I realize now, if the fools have put that moron Colonel Wilcox in command, we are truly a world filled with idiots who don't belong on this island Earth any longer,” he said, before lowering his head into his folded arms resting on the table.
Alice and Trevor exchanged worried glances as the old man cried softly.
Realizing nothing more could be gained by talking, at least for now, Trevor suggested they call it a night and try to get some sleep.
Alice nodded and offered to help get Anniston back in bed, but Trevor just shook his head and helped the old man down the hall and into his bedroom. He collapsed on the bed and rolled over on his side, seeming to fall instantly asleep.
Trevor wasn't fooled as he crossed over and opened the small closet. On the top shelf, above several suits and shirts, he reached up and pulled out an old shoebox. Opening it he looked at the pistol inside.
It was a beautiful Colt that Anniston had been awarded by the British High Command after the war. He'd seen it a few times and the letter of appreciation that accompanied it, signed by Winston Churchill himself.
After lifting the gun out, he returned the box to the shelf. Carrying it he paused before shutting the door, as Anniston began to snore. Looking at the gun, feeling it's weight and knowing some of the history behind it, Trevor wondered if his old friend was right about the hopelessness of the situation. He closed the door softly and thought about the years they'd spent together.
James was always the optimist. If it's as bad as he thinks maybe suicide might not be such a bad idea. Somehow they sobered him up in less than thirty minutes after he'd finished off a little more than half a bottle of brandy. And apparently, they're inside the RV with us right now. Are they invisible?
He stared at the small living room where Alice was asleep on the couch. Trying to relax his eyes he looked suspiciously at the quiet room.
Several years ago a series of graphic books were published that had pictures that seemed like abstract designs. When the viewer allowed their vision to wander instead of concentrating on the picture, a hidden image would sometimes appear. Trevor thought maybe that was what was going on and stared at the empty room until his head began to ache.
Giving up, he went into his small bedroom which he'd offered to Alice.
She refused, saying it made her feel claustrophobic. The living room was somewhat larger so he took her choice at face value.
He placed the pistol under his mattress and sat on the edge of the bed. Looking out his window, the red neon sign with the words Emergency Room glowed brightly. Leaning his face against the glass, he looked up at the Children's Hospital and wondered if his old friend was right. Is it all hopeless?
*****
“What do you mean you can't do an autopsy!?” Colonel Wilcox asked furiously.
The Major tried explaining again. “See this?” He asked, pointing to Colonel Aswan's file on his laptop computer. “It says, 'Due to religious prohibitions, under no circumstances can Colonel Aswan Hussein be autopsied.' It's not that uncommon a restri
ction, colonel. But it is a court martial offense to violate it.”
Wilcox glared at the doctor and considered making him do it at gunpoint if necessary. He'd spent the last three hours explaining what had happened to Colonel Abrahms and General Heller, via a secure video line to the Pentagon, and wasn't in the mood to listen to bureaucratic bullshit.
It was only because the Military Police investigators had determined it was Armstrong who had shot Aswan that they'd even listened to him after he was caught. The rest of the events were unclear and since she hadn't regained consciousness the only confusing version of events they had was Wilcox's.
Abrahms troops had caught him, some might say sneaking around, near the motor pool. And since he'd been threatened with arrest, Wilcox felt he had nothing to lose by confessing what he'd seen and done regarding Aswan. But he felt it prudent to leave out certain damning parts of the story like his holding Armstrong hostage at gunpoint.
His story seemed wholly unbelievable to both Abrahms and Heller and without the small glass-like cube he'd stolen, he was sure he'd be sitting in a jail cell instead of arguing with a doctor in the temporary infirmary.
Special military research and intelligence had been ordered to investigate the cube and report their findings, but that was over an hour ago and he was determined to get proof of Aswan's alien origin even if he had to go to the morgue himself and slice up his body. “Tell me this, doctor, what will you be doing with his body if not an autopsy?”
“Next of kin will be notified by command, probably first thing in the morning. They'll then arrange to have the remains shipped somewhere for burial, I would imagine,” the doctor explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Is there a regulation against my taking photographs of Aswan's body?” Wilcox asked, knowing there wasn't but asking anyway.
“No. Of course not but the military police must surely have taken some where he was killed. Why would you want more pictures?” The doctor asked suspiciously.
