“I don’t give a hoot what you say you found or ain’t found,” yelled Mr. Miller. “I’ll go to my grave knowing who is responsible for this. You damn city G-Men couldn’t tell you’re ass from a hole in the ground.”
Sampson stood, staring at him, thinking to himself that this crazy old man might be dumb enough to pull a shotgun from the house and start shooting at his men while they try to do their job. He looked down and saw a red ice chest sitting on the porch next to Miller’s chair. “Now you boys just finish up what you were doing out—”
Sampson interrupted Mr. Miller and said, “You got anymore Kentucky Blue in there?”
Mr. Miller squinted his eyes and cocked his chin up. “I might...What’s it to ya?”
“Oh, I just wouldn’t mind having one myself,” Sampson said as he stepped up on the porch and leaned back against the railing. They stared at each other for a moment. Miller gave in and pointed down to the ice chest, motioning for Sampson to grab a cold one. “Thank you,” said Sampson.
Trooper Anderson got a call on the police radio. His uncle kept yelling for him over the speaker. Trooper Anderson ran over and grabbed the microphone. “What’s wrong Sarge?”
“Damn it boy,” he yelled louder this time, causing the speaker on the radio to rattle. “Don’t ask questions, just get your ass on the road now and bring that guy Sampson with you.”
“10-4,” said Trooper Anderson. He yelled up at the porch to Sampson “Mr. Sampson. We got to get up the road pretty quick. I think something’s wrong at the drive-in. My uncle said to bring you along.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Sampson.
“I don’t know, but we need to go now. My uncle called for us.”
“Wait a minute,” yelled Sampson. “Where’s this drive-in?”
“It’s up the road a piece,” said Miller, as he raised his beer can to his lips, nearly missing his mouth entirely. “You can’t miss it.” The last few words muffled as he pressed the can to his lips and gulped down his beer. Sampson jogged to the car and got in with Trooper Anderson.
“Damn, Mr. Sampson,” Trooper Anderson shook his head as they sped out of the driveway. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s got to be something bad up there.”
“How do you know that?” Sampson said, as he looked down, realizing he still had the beer in his hand.
“It’s got to be something bad if my uncle wants you there. No offense.” He looked over and noticed the beer can, but said nothing about it. “I mean he don’t like the big dogs, but if it’s something he needs to sick them on, he’ll call them in.”
“None taken.” Sampson finished up the last of his beer.
They arrived at Steven’s Drive-In in less than three and a half minutes. Sampson stepped out of the patrol car and his mouth fell open wide as though he were catching flies with his tongue. He gazed at the site of people lined up at the restrooms with brown, wet smudges on the back of their pants. A middle-aged lady had brown running down the insides of both of her legs as she stood in line with the front of her shirt covered in chunks of potatoes and bits of hamburger meat mixed up like the shit on the shingle they served to the troops back in Desert Storm. This almost made Sampson lose the beer that was sloshing around inside his stomach. Across the parking lot, the sight was much worse. Sampson noticed what looked like a man holding a small boy upside down, as if he were shaking the rest of whatever it was they were all puking up right out of the boy. Sampson shook his head and rubbed his eyes, hoping that what he is seeing isn’t actually happening. It was not a boy upside down; it was a small girl the man was shaking. What the hell is going on here, thought Sampson as he slowly walked toward the main building, looking around at all the people.
Sergeant Anderson came running out of the main building with the Sheriff following closely behind him, wobbling along. Sheriff Johnson’s tan uniform shirt is covered in vomit. He had tried to hold back the hair of a young woman as she was puking her guts out on the side of the concession stand. She turned to tell him she was done and as she started to thank him for his hospitality, she let out the last little bit onto the front of his shirt. The mixture of cheeseburger and fries ran down the front of his shirt and on to his trousers. Trooper Anderson’s throat began to twitch at the sight of the Sheriff and when he turned to see an elderly man barf on the side of a car, that’s when Trooper Anderson lost it. He puked on the fender of the patrol car, covering up the print, TO SERVE AND PROTECT.
“What’s happening here, Sergeant?” asked Sampson, doing his best not to join the crowd in throwing up on himself. He stepped back and leaned against the trunk lid of the patrol car.
“It’s a damn mess,” said Sergeant Anderson. “What you see is what’s happening.” Sergeant Anderson did his best to stay cool in the situation. He had never seen anything like it before. In fact, he had been seeing a lot in the past two days he had never seen before. Things he never thought were possible. Things he could never dream up as happening, but it sure as shit is happening. His first thoughts upon arriving at the scene were along the same line of what was running through George Stevens’ mind, except the sergeant wasn’t worried about issuing a couple thousand dollars in refunds. George Stevens knew it would be refunds he would be handing out. Surely, no one would accept a voucher for a free meal at the next picture show, if they would even contemplate coming back.
“This was my best shirt,” said Sheriff Johnson, as he pulled his shirt out and shook off the last bits of food chunks that were beginning to cake and dry on the front of his uniform.
“You all right over there Jeffrey?” asked Sergeant Anderson as he peered over top of the patrol car. Jeffrey, without thinking about what he was doing, held one arm up, giving his uncle the sign that he would live, and with the other, he wiped his mouth down the sleeve of his gray uniform shirt.
“Has it been like this since you got here?” Sampson looked at Sergeant Anderson and then out to the crowd of people gathered around the entrance to the restrooms. “Is anyone dead?” He would hope the answer would be no.
“No one dead so far,” said Sergeant Anderson, as he leaned against the side of the patrol car and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. “Ambulances are on the way. No one is allowed to leave either.” He lit the tip of his cigarette that now dangled from his lips as he spoke. “I think it may have something to do with the meat that George Stevens was serving from the concession stand. That’s why I called for you to come out this way.”
“Well,” said Sampson. “You did right by doing that. Is everyone sick? How are you sure it’s the meat?”
“There are a few that didn’t throw up. Well, actually just about everyone was upchucking. The ones me and the Sheriff here talked to so far either threw up because of something they ate here or they threw up at the sight of everyone else’s mess.” Sergeant Anderson puffed on his cigarette, blowing the smoke up at the sky, trying to keep it out of Sampson’s face as he spoke.
“I better get my guys over here right away.” Sampson looked over to Sheriff Johnson. “Can you get some of your boys over here to block off the entire drive-in? I don’t want this spreading across town.”
“You think others are gonna get sick, too?” asked Sheriff Johnson.
“I’m talking about the media. They’ll blow this shit out of proportion and use it as a campaign for those PETA assholes or some other anti-meat eating organization. I don’t want any of these people leaving either unless they absolutely must go to the hospital.”
Sergeant Anderson leaned back and looked at Trooper Anderson, who is now sitting on the driver seat inside of the patrol car, facing away, thinking it would help his stomach not seeing any more puddles of puke. “Jeffrey.”
“Yeah, Sarge?” said Trooper Anderson.
“Get on the horn and get some of our boys down here, too. Call it in as a low priority, but make sure they scoot on over here quick. No lights or sirens.”
“You got it, Sarge.”
Sampson, the Sheriff, and Sergeant An
derson walked over to the main office to meet with George. Nancy stood outside trying to comfort some of the people who were beginning to complain about the possibility of food poisoning. Some were already threatening to sue.
George stood behind his desk crying as he looked at his computer screen showing the total he thought he made for the evening. The best night in two years had turned into the worst night in his entire life. The three men walked inside the office and George quickly wiped his eyes with a handkerchief he had laying on top of his desk. He stood up and looked at them with sad puppy dog looking eyes, thinking they’ll feel sorry for him, but no one would feel sorry for George. Not on this night. There were many questions that needed to be answered right away and George would have to give the truth, because the truth shall set you free.
“George,” said Sheriff Johnson as he plopped down in a chair sitting next to George’s desk. “This man here is from the USDA—”
“Damn Sheriff,” George quickly said as he looked at Sampson and then back to the Sheriff. “Shit just hit the fan and you already got the G-man crawling up my ass.” Sampson looked at George and couldn’t help rolling his eyes. It was maybe the fourth or fifth time he had been called a G-Man since he arrived in Franklin County that morning at eight o’clock on the dot. Sampson figured George would probably try feeding him the same bullshit that he fed his customers if it would keep him out of trouble and keep his drive-in from being shut down until further notice.
“Now just calm down George,” said Sergeant Anderson as he held a hand up motioning for George to stop. “This man is here to help. We got to know what happened before we can fix the problem. Now you know as well as I do that if we don’t figure it out quick we could have some serious shit come down on us here. I’m not even going to begin to tell you what we’ve been dealing with since last night, so you just get right on spilling your guts to this man.” Sergeant Anderson thought about what he had just told George for a second. He didn’t really want him to spill his guts. There was enough of that happening outside in the parking lot.
“I’m here because this is a serious issue,” said Sampson. “You’re not in trouble unless you’re hiding something, which I hope you’re not, but you need to start talking and fast, too.”
“Alright,” said George. His knees were shaking as if he were dancing to some musical tune. “I ain’t did nothing wrong. You guys know I run up to Bowling Green to stock my food supplies. I keep everything in there fresh as I can. Well, maybe not the French fries, but those are frozen anyways. I can’t think of any reason this could have happened.”
“Are you sure all your meats were not expired?” asked Sampson.
“Yeah, they weren’t.”
“Did you keep them frozen? Cook them thoroughly?”
“Yeah, I did that, too. Are you sure you’re not with the Meat and Poultry inspectors? I mean those are who usually inspect the meats aren’t they?” George looked apprehensive in answering any more questions. He had a few of his own now.
“No, I’m with the USDA, and I’ll have to do for now. If this turns into a matter that comes to having to contact them, then you’ll really be up shit creek—”
“Without a paddle, George,” said Sheriff Johnson, as he plucked specks of dried food from his shirt. He bent his chin down and sniffed it. The smell tingled the hair in his nostrils.
“I swear to you gentlemen,” said George. “This has got nothing to do with me. I don’t know what’s going on.” George sat down in the chair behind his desk and looked as though he were ready to start crying again.
Just as the ambulances and the fire trucks pulled into the parking lot of the drive-in, everything seemed to have calmed down at this point. There were no longer anyone spilling their guts on the sides of their car or somebody else. Now, the place was filled with angry customers covered in puke and their shorts filled with an excruciating amount of disgusting brown stuff.
At a quarter past ten the last of the people were allowed to leave after being checked over for anything that may be contagious. They were advised to check-in with their healthcare provider the next day if they felt sick again.
“Looks like we did alright keeping a tight grip on this,” said Sheriff Johnson. “I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow though. With the news stations and all.”
“I’ll try to keep a tight wrap on that the best I can for now,” said Sampson as he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and shook one from the foil up to his lip. “It’s not looking good for ole Georgie boy in there.” He lit up and put the pack back in shirt pocket.
“Well,” said Sergeant Anderson. “These people left out of here more pissed off than a dog shittin hammer handles.”
“And smelling like a bag of smashed assholes at that,” said Sheriff Johnson.
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Sampson, puffing away at his cigarette and blowing smoke up to the stars. “Sure is a full moon tonight.” Sergeant Anderson and Sheriff Johnson looked up and noticed how big the moon looked to them as well. Sampson thought that if he had a stick in his hand he might just be able to reach the moon from where he’s standing.
“Seems like it’s getting bigger every night here lately,” said Sergeant Anderson.
“Sure does,” said Sheriff Johnson. He wobbled his way back around to the front side of the building. “You boys coming?”
“We’ll be right along,” said Sampson. “I’m gonna talk to the Sergeant here for a moment.”
“All right. I’ll make sure everything is finishing up smooth out front here. Hopefully George didn’t go inside and hang himself from the ceiling fan.”
Sampson turned to Sergeant Anderson and looked him in the eye. “I had to wait until that Sheriff got out of listening range...There’s something going on here that’s bigger than him. Bigger than both of us, even with our smarts all put together. I didn’t want him back here listening in our conversation. He seems like a good guy, but I don’t think he’s got the right brains for what’s going on here.”
“What is going on here?” asked Sergeant Anderson. He stared at Sampson, who looked nervous, which seemed out of place for someone of Sampson’s type.
“I’ve never seen anything like this. I’ve seen and heard of people getting sick, but most went to the hospital, and some died. Here. Nothing like that happened. People don’t start losing their supper all at once and they sure as shit don’t feel fine an hour later. Not this many people anyway.”
“I don’t feel too good about this.” Sergeant Anderson motioned to Sampson to offer up one of his cigarettes. “You mind?”
Sampson handed the pack and his lighter to him. “I don’t feel good about it either. To tell you the truth, I haven’t felt like this since I stepped foot into that sandbox in the Middle East. I haven’t felt right since I got down here to Simpson County this morning. Whatever it is we’re dealing with here needs to be kept under wraps until I can get a bigger team down here. Shit’s going to hit the fan tomorrow with the media and all. These people will talk. We got them out of here late enough tonight to buy us some time, but they’re going to talk.”
“That’s the truth,” said Sergeant Anderson. “We better get back around front before someone thinks we’re smooching back here.” They both laughed and crushed out their cigarettes.
FLIGHT TO HELL
The moonlight shined through the bedroom window as Bobby and Nikki lay in bed, cuddled up onto each other. A soft buzzing came from the alarm clock on the nightstand next to Bobby’s head. He groaned and rolled over in bed. The buzzing became louder. He groaned and tossed a little more. The buzzing became its loudest, blasting throughout the bedroom. He shook as he woke up, looked over to the clock, and hit the SNOOZE button. It showed the time as 2:01 a.m. He looked at the alarm clock again, suddenly realizing he should have been up at one o’clock instead of two. He jumped out of bed.
Bobby ran into the bathroom and grabbed his toothbrush, nearly knocking the medicine bottles out of the mirrored cabinet a
s he did. His plane leaves in less than two hours, and the airport is a fifteen-minute drive from their home, and he still has to pick up Pete on his way. Bobby wished Mr. Masterson had not scheduled them such an early flight. The son of a bitch probably did it on purpose just to test them. Maybe he hoped that Bobby and Pete would miss the flight and it would give him a legitimate reason to fire them. A year ago, the old bastard would have fired them anyway, but an undisclosed lawsuit against the station took care of that.
Bobby brushed his teeth quickly. He turned on the shower and in such a hurry he nearly forgot to take off his undershorts before getting in. The water was boiling hot when it touched his skin. He tried not to scream.
After his shower Bobby looked at the phone and saw Pete’s number pop up on the screen. Bobby thought to himself, well shit. He’s going to be pissed. Probably wondering why I haven’t picked him up. Indeed, Pete was pissed and worried. Pete did not want to go on this trip any more than Bobby did, but if it means taking the chance of losing his job, he would go, the same as Bobby.
Bobby didn’t answer the phone since it would slow him down talking to Pete and trying to calm him down, reassuring Pete that he would be on his way shortly. He sent a quick text, letting Pete know he would “be there soon” and “not to worry sweetie.” Bobby laughed as he sent the text. Just a little joking around never hurt anyone, at least not in the military when the guys would horse around and call each other fruitcake or joke about having cockholsters and dickskinners. He rushed to get dressed in a suit, but then realized he’s going to Kentucky. Nobody wears a tie in southern Kentucky, Bobby thought. He shook his head, pulled the wrinkled tie from around his neck, and tossed it on the bathroom counter. Looking at his watch, he noticed it was now 2:25. Times a wasting Bobby, he thought. He went into the closet and rummaged through his shirts. “I’ve got to have something flannel in here,” he said. He wasn’t thinking about the stereotypical idea that everyone down south wore flannel shirts and had long beards and missing teeth. He was thinking about not standing out as a reporter from the city. Reporters can be spotted a mile away with their button-up shirts and ties that may as well have the words I’M A REPORTER stamped down the front.
The Gorging Page 7
