Nightstalkers

by Bob Mayer

  Scout spun about on her bar stool and jumped off, going into a handstand. She spoke, upside down. “I know where every security camera is, all the blind spots, and where every motion sensor in the place is. All the trails off the beaten path. All the ways to sneak around twenty-four hundred acres without being spotted.” She pushed up with her arms and landed on her feet. “You guys couldn’t even kill a dog without having some dumb girl see you. That is not part of the exceptional living experience offered by Senators Club.”

  Nada spoke in a low voice. “You were lucky that dog didn’t rip you to shreds. Things taken over by Fireflies are pretty nasty.”

  “Well, that’s a good question,” Scout said, returning to her stool. “Why didn’t Skippy rip me to shreds?”

  Nada opened his mouth to answer, then realized there was no answer. He looked from the kitchen to the living room, where Roland had stopped trying to file down the lower receiver with the toothbrush and Mac placed a shaped charge that could burn through two inches of steel on Lilith’s expensive coffee table. The door from the garage opened and Eagle walked in carrying a bag of clothes Support had just dropped off, using a FedEx truck as cover. Moms came down the stairs, still in the tennis outfit.

  “Why didn’t the curling iron fry her?” Eagle asked. “Damn near fried Kirk when he secured it, before Mac blew it into a thousand pieces.”

  “My curling iron is in a thousand pieces?” Scout actually seemed horrified. “My mother is so going to be all over me about the mess.”

  “Support is cleaning your house up, remember?” Moms said, looking through the bag and pulling out a pair of pants with her name safety-pinned to them. “It will be just like it was.”

  “Did you get me another curling iron?” Scout asked.

  Moms looked at Nada.

  Nada spoke on the net. “Kirk, get me Support.”

  “Roger,” Kirk replied. There was a click over the net.

  “Support, did you replace the curling iron?”

  There was a pause, then a new voice came on, like Mac’s but southern, not Texan, there is a difference. “Why sure, Nada. Exact same model. House is clean as a whistle. Them gate transmitters work for the final gate, old friend?”

  “Sure did, Cleaner,” Nada said, having recognized the voice. “Thanks.” He clicked that freq off the team net.

  “Cleaner?” Scout asked.

  “He’s the guy who comes behind us and cleans up,” Nada said.

  “I bet he earns his pay,” Scout said.

  “We all do,” Roland said.

  “On task, people,” Moms said, and Roland’s scars flushed red, although whether from embarrassment or anger, it wasn’t clear. She pulled out a pair of khaki pants and a sport shirt and tossed them to Roland. “Those will fit better.”

  Nada looked at the computer screen. “Feel free to interpret,” he said to Scout. “The exclusive life experience bestowed by Senators Club being the fact that it is situated on the highest elevation in the region—”

  “I like the high ground,” Roland muttered.

  “—which features spectacular three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of the surrounding countryside for miles in every direction.”

  “So they can look down on the peons,” Eagle said, which earned a roll of the eyes from Scout.

  “The houses built here match the uniqueness of the terrain, meeting stringent standards for beauty, functionality, landscaping, and friendliness to the environment. Senators Club’s priority has always been to coexist in harmony with nature.”

  “That harmony ain’t gonna last long,” Mac said, “if it attacks us.”

  Nada pressed on. “This has brought together over nine hundred special, committed, and engaged families from all over the world to our community. We have residents from twelve countries and thirty-two states who have chosen us as their ultimate destination for living.

  “Our private oasis of understated beauty and elegance—” Even Nada had to pause as Eagle laughed, Mac snorted in disgust, and Kirk just said: “What the hell?”

  Nada cleared his throat. “Uh. Where was I?...understated beauty and elegance situated in the intellectual capital of the South, the Research Triangle—”

  “Hah!” Mac said. “That’s like saying you’re the tallest contestant in a midget beauty contest.”

  “All right,” Moms said. “We know what we’ve jumped into. The Fireflies are our mission. We get them, obliterate them, and get out. Clear?”

  “Clear,” everyone on the team responded.

  Roland was pulling off the way-too-tight sweatshirt, and Scout’s eyes bulged as she saw his torso, whether it was because of the toned muscles or the puckered scars that three bullets had made on his upper right chest. Roland didn’t notice as he pulled on the sport shirt.

  “Change the pants in another room,” Moms said to him.

  “You never told me if I get paid,” Scout said.

  “Don’t you have to be home sometime?” Moms asked, because once more the team was off balance.

  Scout hopped off the stool and did three cartwheels toward the front door.

  “You’re going to have to keep both feet on the ground,” Moms said, “because you’re giving me a headache.”

  “It’s the Ritalin,” Scout said. “I’m hyperactive.”

  “It ain’t working,” Roland groused.

  Doc looked up from his tackle box full of goodies. “How about a little Valium?”

  Scout’s eyes grew wide. “You have some?”

  “No, he does not,” Moms said.

  Behind her back, Doc nodded.

  Scout smiled at Moms. “I must be off.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “You just asked if I had to be home, duh.” Scout stopped at the grand piano blocking the doors. “Uh, pleeeze.”

  “You’re going home?” Moms tried to confirm as Nada hopped off the stool and moved the piano.

  “Yaaah. Sort of. I do connect with the world,” Scout said. She checked her watch and made a face. “You guys really suck. Not enough time to ride my horse. I’ve got to get the dinner out of the fridge and into the oven so when my overlords finally arrive home, they can dine.”

  “You have a horse?” Eagle asked.

  “Duh. I live in Senators Ridge inside Senators Club. I do take advantage of some of the things offered me.”

  Moms opened the door. “Be careful. There are Fireflies out there.”

  “They already went after me twice,” Scout said. “What are the odds?”

  “Shh!” Nada warned.

  “You guys take care of yourselves.” And then Scout was gone.

  In the basement of the physics building, Ivar, no longer held by the golden glow, read the list of equipment the man had just handed him. The man had typed something into the keyboard and the golden glow had subsided to a pulsing ball about two feet in diameter just above the computer.

  Ivar looked up at the man, about to protest that all this was going to be difficult to get, then saw the eyes, pulsing with the same gold as the ball, and decided not to. Then he realized this was his chance to escape, to get away from whatever the hell was going on in here.

  The man still held the gun in one hand, but it wasn’t pointed at Ivar, as if he could sense that Ivar was not a threat.

  “What’s your name?” the man asked.

  “Ivar.”

  The man smiled, and that made some of the scabs covering the scars on his face crack, as if he hadn’t smiled since the wounds had been inflicted. “I’m Burns. That’s what they called me. But I’m more than Burns now. Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” Burns said. “You don’t have to. You’re thinking of running away.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a gold chain with a large black stone on it. He snapped the gold necklace around Ivar’s neck. “Think of this like a dog collar, except the stone also transmits everything you say or hear. I will be listening to you. Every second. Tell no one about what happ
ened or what’s going on in here or about me. The gold is lined with a very high grade of explosive. You try to tell someone about what’s happening in here, I’ll blow your head off. You try to take the collar off, it explodes. And your head goes pop. So don’t make your head go pop, clear? It’s really messy. You’ll be back here in two hours or I’ll blow your head from your shoulders. Got it?”

  Ivar could only nod.

  Burns put a comforting hand on Ivar’s shoulder. “Trust me. I work for the government.”

  As darkness loomed in the east, Moms, with some trepidation, sent the team out to patrol Senators Club to track down the remaining Fireflies. Nada had laid out the entire facility in a grid pattern and assigned sectors to each element.

  She sent Eagle out in the modified golf cart to patrol the golf course, which seemed logical, except instead of clubs in the bags strapped to the rear, he had a variety of weapons, and the cart was actually the shell of a cart layered over the ATV frame and engine.

  Mac got to ride on a Segway dressed in a security uniform, and Moms warned him not to take it apart to see how it worked until the mission was over.

  Kirk didn’t get to go. His bandaged hand might raise questions, so he got to pull over-watch. He sat amidst the computer monitors and monitored, the grid pattern taped to the bottom of one of them so he knew where each element was going and could track them.

  Nada took one of the SUVs to drive about the place and carry some bigger weapons and special gear in case one of the recon personnel made contact. Doc wasn’t exactly the recon sort, plus he told Moms he had work to do.

  Moms went with Roland and walked out the front door, because Moms believed the best recon was boots on the ground, even if in this case it was her tennis shoes and Roland’s boots. As the golf cart, Segway, and SUV scattered, they had barely made it to the sidewalk before Scout appeared.

  “Well, hey there, Moms and Hulk.”

  “That’s not my name,” Roland said.

  “Shouldn’t you be doing homework or something?” Moms asked.

  “Summer,” Scout once again reminded her. “The overlords have had their repast and are now safely ensconced in their room after their daily quota of wine.”

  “You shouldn’t talk about your parents that way,” Roland said.

  “Who said they were my parents?” Scout asked. “I never called them my parents. My parents died when I was two in a plane crash and I’ve been passed through six foster homes since then.”

  Roland flushed. “I’m sorry.”

  Scout laughed. “Got you.”

  Roland took a step forward but Moms put an arm across his chest. Not that her arm could physically stop Roland, but her pinky could stop him in gesture. He halted but glared at Scout.

  “Do you always do that to people?” Moms asked. “Pull their leg?”

  Scout shrugged. “Never.”

  Moms shook her head and was about to say something when a big BMW slowed and a window slid down with a rush of cold air floating out.

  “Hey, Doctor Carruthers,” Scout said.

  “Hey, Greer.” He looked past her at Moms and his eyes settled on Roland. “You all right?”

  “Sure.” Scout reached out and took Roland’s meaty paw in her tiny hand. “This is my uncle George from Wichita.”

  Carruthers’s eyes immediately glazed over at the mention of a place he’d never been and had no desire to see.

  “Uh, hello, sir,” Roland managed to say, resisting the urge to tighten down on Scout’s hand.

  “And?” Carruthers asked, shifting his gaze back to Moms and running his eyes up and down her body in its civilian clothes, which caused Roland to take a half step forward while Scout hung on with all her might, a pretty useless attempt, but it was the attempt that brought sanity back to Roland.

  “This is my aunt Betty.”

  “Hello, Aunt Betty,” Carruthers said. “So you and George are married?”

  “No!” both Moms and Roland said at the same time.

  “You see,” Scout said, sliding into the exchange smoothly, “Betty is George’s sister. They run a big farm outside of Wichita.”

  “A farm.” The way Carruthers said it, you’d think they were running a prison.

  “Nice to meet you,” Moms said. “We just love this place. It’s so big and wonderful and so, so,” she searched for more adjectives, “green.”

  “You really are from Wichita,” Carruthers said. “Take care.” And with that he powered up the window and drove away, keeping to fifteen miles an hour to take the speed bumps.

  “Greer?” Moms asked.

  “Everyone here a doctor?” Roland asked.

  “Enough are,” Scout said, ignoring Moms’s question, “that I just call everyone doctor. It’s better to err on the side of caution.”

  “Like the Acmes,” Roland observed, for the first time agreeing with Scout.

  “Isn’t your world full of titles and rank?” Scout asked as Moms started walking down the sidewalk, Roland on one side, Scout on the other.

  “The big part is,” Roland said. “The army and the other agencies, but not us.”

  “Why not?”

  Moms answered. “It’s not good for cohesiveness and team building and trust.”

  Scout laughed. “Who sounds like a brochure now? But aren’t you in charge?”

  “Of the team,” Moms said as they passed under a streetlamp that flickered on, activated by the dwindling daylight.

  “And who is in charge of you?”

  “Too many questions,” Moms said as she paused on the corner and looked about. “This way,” she said.

  Upstairs, Kirk watched Moms, Roland, and Scout talk off the guy in the BMW. Then he walked down the hall to the master bedroom. He’d heard someone go by a little while ago. The bedroom was empty, but he heard someone in the closet, the one with the watch winder.

  Kirk walked in and saw Doc sitting cross-legged on the floor, a pile of papers spread out in front of him along with a cell phone.

  “What’s that?”

  Doc was startled. “Winslow’s notes. And his phone. The phone is locked, but I bet Mac could break the code.”

  Kirk just nodded.

  “I’m on your side,” Doc said. “The more we know, the better equipped we’ll be to battle the Fireflies and the Rifts. I want to figure out what Winslow was doing. Compare it with the data from the Can. Maybe we can learn something.”

  “I didn’t say nothing,” Kirk said. “And you’re over-explaining. I’ve got to get back to over-watch.” He paused. “How about sending that stuff to Support? Let Ms. Jones take a look at it. Especially the phone.”

  Doc stared back at him, then began gathering it all together.

  It was a beautiful sunset to the west. Eagle wasn’t distracted by it. He drove the cart on the path that wound along the golf course, scanning left and right.

  “Hey!” A florid-faced man was waving his golf club. “Hey, you!”

  Eagle turned and rolled up to the foursome gathered around the sixteenth hole. “Yes, sir?”

  “What the hell is that back there?” the man jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “To what are you referring?” Eagle asked, looking in that direction and seeing nothing but a long fairway.

  “You need to get that fixed,” the man said. “You people charge an arm and a leg for membership and I expect better than this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Eagle saw another golf cart coming from the other direction, driven by an attractive young woman with blonde hair tucked back underneath her pink golfing cap. She pulled up right next to the hole, short of the most distant ball. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she drawled. “Might I interest y’all in some cocktails?”

  Eagle, and whatever was wrong with the course behind them, was immediately forgotten as the four went over to get their drinks and chat up the woman, who was a lot sharper than her fake drawl, as she was watching Eagle and not the men, wondering who he was and what he was doing he
re.

  Support hadn’t taken over every job in Senators Club. The number of people required to keep these people in the lifestyle they were accustomed to strained even the resources of Fort Bragg. Apparently the blonde golf-cart bar-girl wasn’t one Ms. Jones had considered needing replacement.

  Eagle got back in his cart, resisting the temptation to flame the golfers with the rig that had replaced the headlight.

  He ignored the path and went down the fairway, as this foursome was the last of the day and no one was coming up behind them. The cause of the complaint quickly became apparent as he spotted a dark line cutting across the fairway.

  Eagle stopped the cart next to it, but he didn’t have to get out to know what it was—any soldier who’d spent time around either the armor or mechanized infantry recognized the pattern in the torn-up grass: a tracked vehicle had cut across the golf course. A big one.

  Eagle looked right. A half-built house was on the edge of the fairway. The bright red netting that was supposed to separate construction from golf course was torn to shreds.

  “What happened here?” Golf-cart bar-girl said, pulling up to Eagle. She had lost her accent. “And who are you?”

  Now that she was closer, Eagle could see she wasn’t a girl, but a woman, with lines around her eyes and a weariness that said she had not planned on selling drinks to rich good ole boys on a golf course her entire life, but dreams didn’t always come true.

  Eagle prepared to launch into his usual “We’re the government” spiel, but decided, Fuck it. “Something bad. Very bad. You don’t want to be around for this.”

  “You’re government, aren’t you?” she asked, stealing his spiel.

  Eagle nodded.

  “Yeah. Lots of new faces, especially in security. Can always tell a soldier. My husband was a Marine.”

  “What’s he do now?” Eagle asked as he looked in the other direction, toward where the tracks disappeared into the forest.

  “He’s holding down the fort in Section 60 in Arlington. Fallujah.”

  Eagle turned from the path of destruction. “I’m sorry. I’ve got quite a few friends there.”