Fireworks

by James A. Moore

  JAMES A. MOORE

  FIREWORKS

  Collier, Georgia has been taken, stormed by men in dark armor at a time when the town has just suffered its greatest moment of tragedy. As hundreds lay dying or injured, the citizens of Collier and the hundreds of strangers who were only there for the Independence Day fireworks displays, find themselves unable to escape their town, cut off from every possible source of help. The soldiers have taken over the hotels, the high school, everything. The only law in Collier is enforced by the weapons of the invading forces.

  A small town has become a prison, a place where even the right to live is questioned every hour, every day. Sooner or later, something has to give…

  ***

  From Booklist

  The Independence Day celebration in Collier, Georgia, is disrupted by the crash landing of a gigantic UFO. A quarter of the townspeople are killed or maimed, and worse follows, as the forces of the secret agency ONYX descend, appropriately enough in black helicopters, not to mention black combat gear, weapons, Hummers, and everything else an elite special-operations unit uses. The ONYX troopers' security-oriented paranoia elicits a similar response from the remaining townsfolk, who aren't fond of the government to begin with and grow less fond with each passing hour, day, and incident. Chief of Police Frank Osborn and ONYX CO Colonel Anderson try to cool the hotheads and remember that Americans constitute both sides. But incomprehension and violence (willful on the part of some white supremacists) escalate to a gruesome climax that erases Collier from the map, just in time to see the UFO go back to wherever it came from. Irony, tragedy, regional color, memorable character sketches, horror, and literate paranoia mix together in Moore's disturbing, absorbing novel.

  ***

  "What impressed me most about Fireworks, aside from the thought-provoking premise, is James A. Moore's remarkable ability to paint a detailed portrait of an entire town It was that aspect of Stephen King's Salem's Lot which first alerted me to the fact that here was a talent, here was someone to watch. 1 had the same feeling while reading Fireworks. Here is a talent. Here is someone to watch."

  -Bentley Little, author of The Return

  "Effective. Should particularly appeal to fans of Stephen King."

  -The New York Review of Science Fiction

  "A superb effort from a rising star in our galaxy."

  -Cemetery Dance

  "James A. Moore is perhaps the most talented writer of this genre to date!"

  -Midwest Book Review

  "Utterly believable and involving. Fireworks is a great read, a book that merits your attention "

  -Hellnotes

  "Moore combines the best of Koontz and Little in a unique style of his own. Fireworks is a tale with cross-genre appeal that will enthrall horror and conspiracy buffs with an out-of-this-world storyline."

  -Harnet Klausner

  "Incredible book, this one. Moore's inventiveness and detail provide horrific images that I'll never forget."

  -Gothic.net

  "James A. Moore's Fireworks is a masterful novel that somehow melds the folksy, small-town atmosphere of the best King and McCammon novels with an examination of the disturbing dichotomy that is 'the American way.'"

  -Christopher Golden, author of Of Saints and Sinners

  "I enjoyed Fireworks one heckuva lot. It is a powerfully good book."

  -Baryon Magazine

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The book you hold in your hands would not have been possible without the help-knowing and unknowing-of several people:

  First and foremost, a hearty thank you to Dean Koontz and to Stephen King. Mr. Koontz's excellent novel Strangers and Mr. King's equally phenomenal The Tommyknockers were both seminal in growing the seed of an idea that became Fireworks. Both skirted around numerous notions within this novel without truly touching on them. They left me wanting more, which is, in my humble opinion, a mark of true talent. Had I not hungered for more, I would not have had to satisfy myself by writing this novel.

  Special thanks to Christopher Golden and Mike Marano, for their encouragement and suggestions. You're the best, guys, and I mean that.

  As always, thanks to Bonnie for putting up with my eccentricities and for being a brutally honest critic. There have been numerous editors and co-conspirators at Leisure and Meisha Merlin without whom the final product could not have been as good. Thanks to all for the fine support and professionalism.

  PRELUDE

  1

  Collier, Georgia

  July third was a very busy day for Bobby Carlson. Bobby had to set the fireworks displays in place and he had to triple-check every fuse, every electronic detonator, and every stand before lunch, Bobby'd been setting up the fireworks for the Collier, Georgia Fourth of July bash every year for the last seventeen years straight. It would have been twenty-five straight, but the year he had his appendix out, the city'd had to hire professionals instead of Bobby. Everyone still claimed that Bobby's were better than the pros', and that was a big source of pride for him.

  Bobby hopped in his rowboat with the practiced ease of a long-time fisherman, and rowed slowly out to the buoys he set in the center of Oldman's Lake every year. No speedboats were allowed in the lake, nor had they been since Jeffey Wilkes got his head smashed into jelly by old man Carnes, back in 73. Carnes was pickled so badly that he never even realized he'd pulped Jeffey's skull; wouldn't believe he had either, until they pointed to the patch of bloodied scalp painted to the front of his Waterhawk.

  Bobby liked the lake just fine without the roar of engines and the stench of burnt diesel fuel in the air; the land was plenty polluted on its own without adding the filth to the waters, thanks just the same.

  Robert Jonathan Carlson grew up in Collier, and he planned to die there, certain that no other place was quite as fine. Oh, the place had its ups and downs, and these days there seemed to be more downs than ups, but at least there was still a sense of community in Collier, a sense of family and belonging. Collier took care of its own, like when Mable Cradsworth had broken her hip falling from her stepladder while trying to pick apples. Did she have to worry about the state or federal government paying for her mistakes, like they all seemed to in the big city? No, sir. Her whole block chipped in, taking turns caring for her, making sure her eight cats were fed. It'd only been eight cats then, but these days it was closer to thirty; the damn cats were going at it like bunnies and every time you turned around there seemed to be another litter ready for passing out to friends and family. Collier took care of her own, and that was really the way everyone preferred it, especially Bobby.

  Bobby double-checked the fireworks packages, the ones his drunken fool nephew Artie would be handling, satisfied himself that everything was fine, and headed on his way back to the other buoy of fireworks. The gentle rocking of the waves was a lovely feeling; like being cradled in the arms of some magnificent mother who cared for her own. Like being held by Collier.

  The sun was too damn hot, and the humidity was nearing the level where it made his chest work like a bellows to gulp air, but that was still fine; as long as Collier was the place, the weather mattered little. He wiped his brow with a withered forearm that had seen the summers come and go in Collier for over fifty of the last sixty years. He noticed the speckled brown spots on his arms were coming in closer together this year. With all the gloom and doom talk on the radio, he wondered how much longer before the doctor told him he had to stay out of the sun or worry about skin cancer. He shunted the thought aside, forcing himself to think of cheerier things, like tomorrow's fireworks display which was, he was certain, going to be the best ever.

  He thought of Marion, his wife of forty years, and was saddened as always that she couldn't be with him on this occasion. Marion had died of bone cancer five yea
rs past, writhing in pain at the end and begging the Lord above for the mercy of death. She suffered more than any person was meant to suffer, and she died without even her dignity left intact. Her thick hair became pale wisps towards the end, her heavyset body metamorphosed into a skeletal frame with little but withered flesh to hold all that he loved together. The doctors' tubes and pills had kept her going for a while, allowed him extra time to make absolutely certain that she knew the depths of his love; not that she ever really doubted, but he needed to know that she understood. In the end, he was glad to see her go because her suffering was done, and she could once again know peace. Still, he missed her deeply everyday and more so when the night came to his king-sized bed and he rested alone on the right-hand side, leaving the left for his Marion.

  He forced the thoughts away, knowing that he and Marion would be together within a few more years. He checked the connections one last time and slowly rowed back towards the pier, a smile on his face that was part pride and part bittersweet memories. While it's true that Fourth of July was the last time Bobby Carlson ever did the fireworks, everyone had to agree it was also the most memorable.

  2

  Milo Fitzwater checked and rechecked the figures from the last three Fourth of July picnics and groaned. He chewed anxiously at the plastic bottom of his pen and wiggled his foot impatiently under the desk. Every year there were more people from outside of Collier coming to see the fireworks displays, and every year they left a bigger mess than the year before. Herb Cambridge and Billy Lanier were already grumbling about there being too much work for just the two of them to handle and, much as it pained Milo to admit it, the time had come to hire another person for town maintenance. Two full-timers just weren't able to tow the line by themselves and even with the summer help from a couple of the local boys, there was no denying the need for at least one more city employee in the Maintenance Department. One more drain on the town's coffers, which hadn't been doing all that well lately.

  Milo jotted himself a note and prepared to face the town council again on the need to start charging a parking fee for anyone spending time over at Oldman's Lake. He set the note on top of the already towering stack of other notes about how to handle the next town meeting and went back to chewing on his Bic Pen.

  Milo found himself looking forward to the time when he could step down from office and just go back to running the family store, or maybe even move all the way into full retirement. Judd was doing a fine job of handling the Fitzwater Ace Hardware without his father's interference, and maybe the time had finally come to just step down and let the boy handle the show. As far as Milo was concerned, he'd more than earned the right-not even fifty-five and he already felt like he was in his eighties. It was the pressure. He'd never handled pressure well and he knew it.

  He pushed away from the desk and pulled his pants back up to their proper location, all the while wondering what had made him run for mayor in the first place. Arnetta Wilcox looked up briefly from her phone conversation as he walked past her desk, and he gestured to let her know he was leaving for lunch. She nodded without much expression and went back to talking with whichever of her gaggle of friends she was exchanging gossip with this time around. Milo was the first to say that Arnetta was sharp and efficient, but he surely did hate to hear her flapping her gums constantly. Her waspish voice started driving spikes into his temples if he had to hear her for too long.

  He left the mayor's office and walked past the double doors leading into the local police offices without even looking. With any luck he could avoid another argument with Captain Frank Osborn, his least favorite civil servant.

  He hadn't made three feet past the frosted windowpanes in the double doors before he heard Frank's throaty voice calling to him. "Milo, we need to talk. Now."

  Milo mentally set his armor in place and turned to face the man who had recently become his number-one enemy. "Hi, Frank. And how can I help you today?"

  "Milo, you know what I want to talk about. It's the same thing I always want to talk about. I need more men, at least for the Fourth of July and the month of August. I've already got three of the boys working double shifts. You know and I know that there's gonna be nothing but more people coming into town from here on. It's the same thing every year."

  Milo could have recited the words from memory, but knew better than to press his luck. It wasn't that Frank Osborn was a bad man-the Good Lord knew that wasn't the case; it was just that he was a little shortsighted when it came to the expenses of running a town the size of Collier. "Frank, I can't give you what I don't have. What I don't have is any more money in the town's accounts. We're gonna be scrapin' the bottom of the barrel to survive through the rest of the year as it is."

  Frank's bushy eyebrows grew together, and for a second Milo expected to see steam whistling from the police chief's ears. Those eyebrows looked almost comical resting under Frank's crewcut hair, but only almost. He was far too big a man to look cartoonish up close and personal like he was right now. "Milo, where does this town get most of its revenue come the summer?"

  "From the tourists. You know that and so do I."

  "So how can we give the tourists proper police protection if all of my men are sound asleep behind the wheel? They can't work all the time. Now and then we gotta let them rest. It says so in the labor laws."

  Milo felt his own blood pressure rising. He'd heard the same argument too many times, and he just didn't want to deal with it any more. "Frank, you know I'd give you the money if I could, and I know I said the same thing last year, but that was before the damned floods washed away any chance we had of staying in the black. I'm already planning on trying to squeeze in a parking fee for tomorrow, but I'm running on short time here, and I just can't talk to you right now. If I get the fee, I'll give you one more man. That's the best I can do."

  Frank swelled his chest like a male pigeon preparing to face off against another male for the attention of a possible mate, and then slowly exhaled, letting himself relax. Milo managed to stare the man down, but it was not an easy task, and certainly not one he enjoyed. "All right, Milo. I'll let it go for now, but I'm not happy about it, and I want you to know that. Just for the record."

  "Duly noted, Frank. Just try to be patient with me; we'll get it all worked out." Frank turned briskly away, and stormed back into his office. Milo gave thought to just quitting again, a thought that came to him regularly these days. In the end he just shuffled off towards the diner, prepared to face another chefs salad in the ongoing battle to beat his waistline into submission.

  Collier had thirty-five hours to go before the town would be changed forever.

  3

  Marty Wander stared at the distant lake and increased his speed, eagerly looking forward to hitting the cold water and washing away the sweat from his chores. Summertime was great, but Marty hated mowing the lawn, and he sure hated having to help out with repairs around the house. At thirteen years of age, Marty had long ago decided that he had better things to do with his life than work; that could wait until he was older as far as he was concerned. The hot tarmac under his tires was cracked and lumpy, but Marty had spent his entire life in Collier, and he knew the dangerous parts of the roads almost as well as he knew the freckles on his hands. Millwater Street was no exception to that rule. He could name every single shop on Millwater Street, from the Fitzwater Ace Hardware to Dewett Hamill's Sunshine Bakery.

  Marty pedaled furiously to the crest of a small hill, gaining momentum for the downhill race to the edge of the lake, where Mike Summers, Andy Newsome and Tom Thornton would be waiting for him. They always managed to get to the lake before Marty did. All three of them had parents who could afford gardening services from Wander Lawn Maintenance; Marty's family could too, but his dad believed in Teaching Children Responsibility from a young age. Besides, why should his dad pay his own company to do the lawn when he had perfectly good slave labor waiting at home?

  At the crest, the old Huffy launched through the air, s
ailing gracefully over the top of the hill. With a precision born of too many years spent ignoring any possible threat of bodily injury, Marty landed perfectly on his back tire. The bike's front end hung suspended in the air for a few seconds longer, before it came crashing down onto the road again. Had any cars been coming, Marty would have been perfectly positioned to get himself crushed under the front tires. But no car was coming. There were never any can in Marty's way; he was lucky along those lines.

  At the bottom of the long hill was the artificial beach built along the shore of the lake that seemed to go on forever from where Marty was. To the left of the road, the docks ran for a good quarter mile, holding boats of all sorts in place and supporting a few small shops for visiting summer people, even a small restaurant that sold seafood, despite the lack of ocean for a hundred miles in any direction. To the right the beach ran on its course around the lake's perimeter. Directly ahead the lake glistened like a small ocean. In front of that body of fresh clear water was the entrance to the parking area for Oldman's Lake and just past the entrance, Marty's friends stood leaning against their bikes and smoking more of Tom's stolen Marlboros. Tom pilfered cigarettes from his old man all the time and his old man never noticed or, if he did realize they were missing, he never complained.

  Marty pushed his legs to their limit, forcing every last ounce of speed from his bike, and aimed directly towards the trio waiting at the base of the hill. At the last possible moment, he reversed direction on the pedals, activating the Huffy's brakes, and turned the low-slung bicycle sideways, leaning forward, into the skid and forcing a good portion of the tires' outer skin to kiss the asphalt. The bike trembled and the rough-terrain tires screamed in protest, a high-pitched shriek of pain, but the bike stopped less than three inches away from the front tire of Mike's Schwinn and left a very impressive skid-mark running for several feet behind it. Tom, Mike and Andy all looked at Marty as if he'd lost his mind. Andy actually looked ready to run but apparently forced himself to stand still. Marty smiled broadly, revealing even white teeth.