by Carl Hose
Dead Rising
by Carl Hose
Published by MARLvision Publishing
© 2010 Carl Hose
Cover design © 2010 Marcella Hose
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
One
Faith was not a big action town. Very little ever went on, unless you counted the cattle auction every Saturday at noon, or square dancing every Saturday evening, which Dalton Connors never participated in.
Dalton spent most of his time working. He wrote best-selling paperback westerns at the rate of two a year. His finances were in good shape. There were a couple of people in town he spoke to regularly. Other than that, he kept pretty much to himself.
It was Friday morning when the world changed. Dalton didn’t realize at the time it was the whole world, but it didn’t take long to figure out as much.
He was on his front porch, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee, taking in the crisp morning air. Cotton ball clouds hung against a pale blue sky. The sun was just up and already starting to warm the day. A hawk soared overhead. This was one of Dalton’s small pleasures in life—early mornings in Faith, Wyoming.
He couldn’t be sure whether he felt or heard it first, but he was suddenly aware something was coming. A high-pitched squeal shattered the early-morning tranquility at about the same time a dark object flew over Dalton’s house, leaving thick gray smoke in its wake. It traveled north to south. Dalton tracked its descent until it slammed into the ground about a half a mile away.
Dalton was in the process of watching black smoke rise when his telephone rang. He went inside, crossed through the living room, and entered his office to answer the old rotary dial phone on his desk.
“Did ya see that thing, Dalton?”
It was Jed Cotts, Dalton’s best friend. Jed was somewhere in his seventies, though he never gave specifics.
“It went right over the house,” Dalton said.
“Whattaya think it was?” Jed asked.
“A meteor maybe,” Dalton said. “Landed about half mile south of here.”
“How ’bout we drive out and have a look see,” Jed said, nearly bursting with excitement.
“I’ve got some work to finish up,” Dalton said. “Tell you what, though, I’ll meet you at Edna’s in an hour. We’ll grab some coffee and head that way.”
“Sounds good,” Jed said.
“See you then.”
Dalton sat down at his desk and turned his attention to the old Remington he’d written all of his novels on. It was still going strong. He saw no need to fix something that wasn’t broken. Using a computer might make his job easier, but he’d miss the sound of the Remington’s keys clacking away in the heat of a writing streak. That noise was so much a part of the process for him that he couldn’t separate it.
He was a simple man by nature. He didn’t want to read his books on an electronic reader, he didn’t carry a cell phone, and he wasn’t going to write on a computer.
He started typing what would be his twentieth novel in a decade. Westerns were still popular. Dalton was thankful for that. His tales of gunfighters, dance hall girls, and Native American warriors had brought him a good living; he was thirty-five and financially comfortable.
Not that money mattered to him. The satisfaction came with the work. Money was a by-product. What mattered to Dalton more than anything was that he’d achieved success on his own terms. When his agent had pushed him to write something in the horror genre, Dalton had stuck to his guns and written westerns. Horror had never been his thing; he would have been a flop at it.
Dalton lit a cigarette and tried to concentrate on his latest chapter, but he couldn’t get the meteor out of his mind, if the thing that crashed outside of town was a meteor. He had no reason to believe it was anything else, and couldn’t imagine what else it could be even if he tried.
He decided to forget about work and head to Edna’s. Jed would already be there anyway, and the sooner he got there, the sooner they could drive out and take a look at the crash site.
Two
Edna’s Country Café was the type of small-town place where you could get all the coffee refills you wanted for the price of one fifty-cent cup. The owner was actually a woman named Edna—Edna Jean Abernathy, to be exact—and the food was prepared from recipes handed down in her family through generations.
Edna’s Country Café was also the sort of place where almost everybody in town gathered to hear, and spread, the latest gossip and news. Today the place was buzzing with talk that mostly centered on the thing that had crashed just south of town.
Henry, a regular at Edna’s, sat at the counter wearing the same wrinkled business suit he always wore. Ed, a contrast in his worn coveralls, sat beside Henry. The two of them were busy chewing each other’s ears off. Dalton had a guess what they were talking about, and he could only imagine how far fetched the theories had gotten by now.
The place was jumping with other customers as well. Joe Ruben, Edna’s longtime cook and good friend, set two heaping plates of eggs and bacon under a heat lamp; Abigail Holden grabbed the plates and headed to the dining area.
“Hi, Dalton,” she said as she passed him by.
“Hey, Abby,” he responded.
He stopped long enough to watch her deliver the food, not realizing until several seconds had gone by that he was staring. He glanced around the cafe to make sure no one had noticed. Before moving on, he caught a snippet of the conversation Henry and Ed were having.
“I saw it with my own eyes,” Henry said. “Came right outta the sky, big as a truck.”
“Damndest thing I ever heard,” Ed replied. “Whattaya make of it?”
“Flyin’ saucer is my best guess,” Henry said with confidence.
Dalton bypassed the two of them and took a stool at the far end of the counter.
Abby tended to Henry and Ed. “You two are something else,” she said.
“Can I get some more coffee,” Henry asked. “With extra sugar, sugar,” he added, chuckling at his own joke, nearly patting himself on the back at his own cleverness.
“Sure,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Take it you don’t believe somethin’ strange landed out there in the field,” Henry said to Abigail.
“Oh, no, I believe something landed out there,” Abby said. “That’s all everybody’s been talking about this morning. I just think yours is the best explanation for what it is I’ve heard yet.”
“Well, I think he’s right on the money,” Ed chimed in. “I think we got us a real UFO experience right here in Faith.”
Dalton couldn’t resist a smile. “And I bet there’s little green men plotting on us right now,” he said.
The bell over the entrance jingled in time to prevent Henry from a quick response. Jed wandered into the café wearing his customary baggy, faded jeans and red and black checkered shirt. Despite being in his seventies, he walked at a brisk pace, with no sign of wearing out any time soon.
Edna grabbed the coffee pot and headed to the end of the counter, turning up a coffee cup for both Dalton and Jed.
Jed sat beside Dalton.
“What do you know about that spaceship, Jed,” Henry asked before Jed had a chance to say hello to Dalton.
“I don’t know nothin�
� about no spaceship,” Jed answered, barely glancing at Henry. “A meteor, maybe, but it ain’t no spaceship.”
“Meteor, my ass,” Ed said. “A spaceship is what it was, I don’t care what anybody has to say about it.”
“I think you two best stay away from the home brew, that’s my take on it,” Jed shot back, reaching for his just-poured coffee. “Dalton says—”
“There you go with that Dalton-says nonsense again,” Henry cut in. “Just because he’s a writer don’t mean he knows all there is to know about everything.”
“I never said he knows all there is to know,” Jed said. “He knows a damn lot more than you two igits is all I’m sayin’.”
Henry and Ed were suitably offended by the remark and, for lack of a good comeback, went back to entertaining each other.
Dalton sipped his coffee as if the conversation hadn’t occurred. The last thing Jed needed was for Dalton to come to his defense. The old man could handle himself. Dalton wasn’t about to offend him by cutting in.
Outside the diner, Sheriff Colbrook’s squad car went by with its lights flashing.
* * *
Sheriff Jeff Colbrook was in his thirties, with lean, chiseled features. He was usually an easy-going man with a smile for everybody, but today his face was set in a grimace.
He reached for the mic on his dash and keyed it. “Sarah, you got anything yet?” he asked.
A blast of static issued from the radio, followed by Sarah’s voice. “Nothing yet, Sheriff.”
Sarah was the only radio dispatcher with the Sheriff’s Office. She put in as many hours as she could, not so much because she needed the money or the Sheriff’s Office needed a dispatcher, but because it gave her plenty of opportunity to be around Jeff Colbrook.
“You hear anything at all, let me know, will you?”
“Ten-four, Sheriff,” she responded.
Colbrook hung up the mic and continued heading toward the site of the crash. He wasn’t sure what was happening yet, but he’d received a military call shortly after the crash. The call had been ambiguous at best, with someone claiming to be a high-ranking official warning him to disregard the crash until further notice. He’d waited as long as he could for further notice to arrive and had decided against waiting any longer. Whatever was sitting outside his town, Jeff Colbrook took it as his duty to investigate.
* * *
“You want some French toast, Dalton,” Edna asked.
“I believe I do,” he said. “Lots of bacon too, real crispy.”
“Comin’ right up,” Edna Jean said.
She warmed Jed’s and Dalton’s coffees, then headed for the kitchen, shouting, “Order of French toast, Joe, double bacon, make it real hot.”
“Those fellas just bite me the wrong way,” Jed said to Dalton. “Flyin’ saucers, if that don’t beat all.”
“It’s to be expected,” Dalton said. “Gives ’em something to talk about.”
“I reckon so . . . hey, how’s that new book comin’ along? You bringin’ back that gunslinger from the last one?”
“I just might be,” Dalton replied.
“You’ll save me a copy?”
“Signed, same as always.”
* * *
The sheriff’s patrol car slid to a stop near the perimeter of a massive smoking hole. Colbrook got out of the car and heard a hissing noise immediately, followed by the heavy THU-WHUMP, THU-WHUMP, distant at first, then gaining in volume until the hissing sound was completely obliterated by two Blackhawk helicopters appearing over the ridge beyond the crash site. The two helicopters hovered overhead and set down a couple hundred yards away.
The first man out was Colonel Clayton Edgewater. The man was in his fifties, right around 210 pounds, and about 6’ 2” tall. His eyes were cobalt blue and striking as hell. There was no doubt he was here to run the show.
“You in charge here?” he called to Sheriff Colbrook, raising his voice so he was heard over the helicopters.
“I am,” Colbrook answered.
“Not anymore,” Edgewater said. “I’m the big chief now. Colonel Clayton Edgewater, son, and you are smack dab in the middle of a military operation.”
“What’s going on here?” Colbrook asked, ignoring Edgewater and looking beyond him, to where a group of soldiers formed a perimeter around the hole.
“Did you hear me, son?” Edgewater said. “This is a military operation. You will be on a need-to-know basis, and right now you don’t need to know jack shit. Am I making myself clear?”
“I beg to differ,” Colbrook said. “Faith is my town, and while that thing is sitting outside of my town, I need to know what the hell’s going on.”
“This ain’t a pissin’ contest, boy,” Edgewater said, clearly annoyed. “The military takes priority. That means we piss further by default. And as long as we’re on the subject of your quaint little town, let me inform you that we’ll be setting up base camp here and coming and going as we please, without interference from anyone. Is that clear?”
Sheriff Colbrook had an overwhelming desire to knock Edgewater on his ass, but he knew better. He was in no position to fight with the military.
“It’s clear for now,” Colbrook said, and left it at that.
* * *
“You coming to the house?” Dalton asked, standing up and taking out his wallet.
He and Jed had decided to put off going to the crash site until later. As much as Dalton wanted to get a look, he was concerned about all the military activity in the area. If his guess was right, it would be impossible to get close this early on. Odds would improve when the dust settled.
“I think I’ll stick around and see what comes of all this,” Jed said. “Might wander out this afternoon, if that’s all right. Maybe we can try to sneak a peek at the site then.”
Dalton laid money on the counter. “Good enough,” he said. “Your coffee’s paid for.”
“’Preciate it, Dalton.”
“Not a problem.”
Dalton headed for the door as Abby came out of the kitchen. “See you around, Dalton,” she called after him.
He turned for a simple wave goodbye. That’s all it was; that’s all it should have been.
Why, then, did he feel those damn butterflies in the pit of his stomach?
Three
The whole city was going haywire and Johnny Boscoe was right in the middle of it. Fighting, screaming, looting, gunshots, cops on foot trying to control the crowd as squad cars pushed through the pandemonium . . . it was apocalyptic chaos at its fucking best.
Johnny, with his hair slicked back, wearing an expensive Italian suit, stepped out of the coffee shop and realized this was no place he wanted to be. He was making plans to get the hell out when a skinny kid bolted past him, nearly knocking him on his ass.
“Watch where the fuck you’re goin’, you little punk,” Johnny called after the kid.
He fished a Sobranie Black Russian from his suit pocket and lit it. The world could fall apart all around him, but there was still time for a good smoke. In fact, if the world was falling apart, Johnny was going to finish his pack.
He started down the sidewalk, shoving people out of his way as he went. He passed one storefront after another, some in flames, others simply laid open for the wild-eyed looters of New York City. It never ceased to amaze Johnny how fucking savage society was when you got right down to it. Animals in clothes.
He turned into an alley and stopped long enough to get his bearings. Maybe if he had some idea why the city had suddenly gone mad, he’d know what the hell his next move should be, but he couldn’t figure it out. The situation was like a scene from one of those end-of-the-world movies. He’d heard some explosions, then the chaos had started. As far as he knew, the third world war had finally started. That’s the best he could come up with. Nothing else could account for the craziness. What else could account for this madness?
He needed to get away from the city. Maybe it was less crazy somewhere else. He needed a set
of wheels. At a time like this, getting a set of wheels would be a breeze.
He moved down the alley and came out in another rush of people. Across the street was a parking lot. There’d be a car there. It didn’t have to be the lap of luxury. He’d take the first vehicle he could hot wire, then he’d be on his way, somewhere without the insanity.
* * *
Wanda Kowalski stumbled past a burning, demolished building. A large rock of some sort sat right in the middle of the rubble. Wanda stopped long enough to stare at the object in disbelief, then she continued on her way.
She looked a mess. Her low-cut blouse and skirt were soaked with blood, her fishnet stockings were torn, and her long brown (which looked black because of all the soot) hair was drenched with sweat. To make matters worse, she could hardly see where she was going through all the smoke in the air, which left her eyes burning and watering.
She rounded a corner and came to a complete stop as a wall of people rushed toward her. They didn’t stop. She felt them smashing into her as they ran by. It crossed her mind they must be running from something, but instead of turning to follow the crowd, she pushed on. What was ahead of her couldn’t be worse than what she’d left behind.
* * *
Johnny shoved his way through the crowd of people who were fighting each other over boxes of food, radios, TVs, and whatever else they could get their fucking hands on.
“Christ, it’s World War fuckin’ Three and you motherfuckers are killin’ each other,” he said, hurling people aside as he made a beeline for the parking lot across the street.
He had his sights set on a silver Grand Marquis. That would do the trick. He got lucky and found the door unlocked on the driver’s side. He slid into the car, fiddled with some wires, and had the engine purring in no time. All he had to do now was get the fuck out of town, and if that meant running a few people over to do it, you could damn well bet that’s what he’d do.
He turned right at the end of the street, screeching tires on the pavement. A produce truck backed out of a side street, right in front of him. Johnny cut the steering wheel hard to the left to avoid hitting the truck. The end of the car fish tailed. He cut the steering wheel the other way, straightening the car out again, then he punched the gas, whipping around the truck and thinking he was home free.
