Fireworks

by James A. Moore

  Stoner took one look at the badge on Frank's uniform and immediately spat a wad of tobacco juice across the sidewalk. This, while he had one leg and half of his belly hoisted over the sawhorse barrier. Frank had no doubt the man would have merely shoved one of the wooden barriers aside, if not for the length of chain marrying one to the next.

  "Y'all want to step aside, Mister Stoner. The government boys don't want anyone in their territory." Frank did his best to sound stern and friendly at the same time.

  He shouldn't have bothered. As soon as he opened his mouth, Stoner was back over the barrier and hauling his pants back into their proper place, just beneath his beer gut. Stoner opened a mouth with less than half the normal number of teeth and made a face. Frank couldn't tell if he was wincing, smiling or preparing to burp. Any which way, it was an unpleasant sight. "I remember you. Are you the sheriff these days?" The man's sounded like an old steam engine just starting to get up to pace. His words grumbled from deep inside of his gut and whistled past his remaining teeth. The thick stubble on his jaw glistened in the sunlight. Even from a distance, Frank could smell the stench of beer on the man's breath and in the sweat coming from his pores.

  "I'm the chief of police. Frank Osborn."

  "Can you tell me when I can take my truck and get the hell out of this shithole?"

  "No, sir, I can't. That'd be up to those fellas over there."

  Stoner nodded his head once, and his brows pulled closer together. "Then I don't want or need to talk to you. I need to talk to them." Without another word, the man started back over the sawhorses.

  "Get your flabby ass over here, mister! Now!" Frank's voice fairly boomed across the distance between them, and Stoner hesitated. All around them the people who'd been looking at the men in black turned to the noise and focussed their attention on Frank and his new dance partner. Frank sighed mentally. This wasn't what he wanted. This was more like what Stoner probably thought of as a good thing. His sort always worked best with an audience. It gave them an extra dose of courage for those rough times, like when somebody dared defy them. Times like this very moment.

  After a few seconds, Stoner came back over. He did not looked cowed by Frank's Tough Cop voice. He looked amused. "What can I do for you, officer?"

  "I just told you, you aren't allowed over that barrier. If you try it again, I'm gonna have to place you under arrest."

  "That so? Under what charges?" The man crossed his beefy arms over his chest, putting an incredible strain on the faded, blue cotton of his shirt. He pursed his lips and lowered his head. Frank didn't know if he wanted an answer or a kiss. There was only one of the two the man would get willingly.

  "I'll think of something. Hell, I could always bust you for indecent behavior if not for anything more serious. Fact of the matter is, you're making my life harder. That's all I need."

  "I ain't even begun makin' your life hard, Sheriff. But I will if you don't get out of my face." The trucker moved closer, actually pushing Frank back with his gut, as if they were engaged in a belly-bucking contest. Every third brewery-breathed syllable was another reason for the man to push against Frank, knocking him a little farther back. "I ain't broken any laws, I just want to get on with my load. That there's a refrigerated trailer I'm pulling, and I don't want my stock going sour."

  Frank stepped forward slightly, using his knee to shove Stoner's own knee out of the way. When the trucker lost his balance, Frank gave a light shove and sent the man down to the ground in a blubbery avalanche. Stoner hit the asphalt with a squeal of surprise. The look on his face said he wasn't used to being defied. Frank knew just how he felt. He placed one hand on the holster for his .38, looking at the man with through a red haze. "You don't ever want to push me again, Stoner. If you do, I'll bust your ass from here to Alabama."

  Despite his ponderous size, the trucker came back up in a blur, one hand already swinging in a wild arc. Frank ducked under the flabby swipe, and realized too late that he'd been set up. Stoner's knee slammed into his groin with enough force to take all of the air out of his lungs. Frank knew, just knew, dammit, that he was going to feel that a second later, and he was right. For a few seconds he forgot what he was doing, and to whom he was speaking. The world blurred into a distant memory, replaced by the burning ache where his privates used to be. It took an effort to focus his eyes, to breathe and to think. He was vaguely aware that he'd fallen to the ground, but beyond that he really couldn't have cared much about anything.

  Many people speak of a time when it was considered improper to hit a man when he was already down. Many people talk of chivalry and how the world used to be. Fair to say that Alan Stoner was not fond of the old ways. He did his best to smash Frank's head into jelly under his shitkicker boot heels. Frank was down, but he was not out. He managed to roll away from the point of impact. Doing so hurt more than he'd have ever thought possible.

  Frank pistoned his left heel into the trucker's knee, provoking a loud yell in return. Stoner wobbled for a moment then shifted his weight to his other leg. While he was making himself more comfortable, Frank rose back to his feet.

  Adrenaline and anger were working wonders numbing the pain in his groin, but he didn't trust them to keep him mobile. Frank reached for the gun in his holster again, ready to shoot the man if necessary.

  Stoner reached into the back pocket of his pants and, even as Frank was pulling his revolver, drew a long-bladed hunting knife.

  "Put the knife down, you idiot." Frank's thumb depressed the safety on his pistol, as he spoke.

  "Fuck you."

  "I'm only gonna warn you once, mister. Put the knife down or I'll shoot."

  "I got a bunch a witnesses here, Sheriff. I don't think the law would go easy on you. All's I got is a knife."

  Frank was used to a certain level of difficulty when confronting some of the bullyboys in Collier, but Stoner was going far beyond the level of trouble he normally ran across.

  Frank cranked back the hammer on his pistol, leveling the barrel at a spot between the fat trucker's eyes. "Put. The. Knife. Down. Or. I. Will. Kill. You."

  For the first time, Alan Stoner looked nervous. "You wouldn't dare."

  "Man kicks me in the nuts, he don't exactly get on my good side. Put it down."

  Stoner looked into the police chief's eyes and Frank could tell he was gauging his chances of making a lunge to him before he could react. Finally, the man lowered his blade, slowly starting to squat. Then Alan Stoner flexed his legs, and lifted forward and off the ground.

  Frank shifted his target and squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked in his hands, but his bullet hit its mark, opening a wet red wound in the trucker's right bicep. Frank could actually see the stream of meat and blood that exploded outward behind the man's arm. Stoner's right hand jerked spasmodically, dropping the blade even as the force of bullet's impact spun the man to the right. Frank was dimly aware of Stoner screaming, but the sound was secondary to the echoing report of the revolver going off in his grip. In all his years in law enforcement, he'd never once had to fire on anyone.

  He leveled the pistol at Alan Stoner again, not allowing himself to think about what he'd just done. A voice in the back of his head reminded him that Cambodia had been far worse. He'd killed people over there. Here he'd only wounded a drunken asshole. Working on automatic, he raised his arms until the pistol aimed only at the sky above.

  Stoner turned to look at him, his left hand clamped over the hole bored through his right arm. Red trickles were already moving through his clenched fingers, running across his hairy hand. The trucker's heavily jowled face was set in an expression of sheer surprise.

  "You sumbitch," the man said in a voice an octave higher than was normal. "You shot me!"

  "Just like I said I would. You should have listened."

  "You shot me!"

  Frank looked at the rising color in the man's face and was grateful he'd kept the pistol drawn. He'd seen enough drunks in his life to know that Stoner was about to do something
stupid.

  Frank Osborn managed to keep his voice level and authoritative, but it wasn't easy. Right then he wanted little more than to be sick on the ground. It had been a long, long time since he'd been forced to fire on anyone. "Don't move, Stoner. Don't give me a reason."

  Alan Stoner let out an incoherent scream, and charged like a bull. His face was dark red, and his nostrils flared out over his remaining bared teeth.

  Stoner made one step, then another as Frank moved his weapon towards him. Then the trucker did a funky jittering dance as the sound of a dozen firecrackers exploded behind him. Bright red fans of blood erupted from his torso and legs. The lower left side of his face disappeared in a crimson haze and something wet slapped against Frank's shoulder. Stoner took two more steps and then fell to the ground, a bloody red sack of meat.

  Frank stared down at his fallen enemy, stunned for a moment. He looked at his pistol. It had not moved from its upward position. What in the name of God?

  His eyes slowly moved away from his hands and back to the body twitching on the ground. After a brief pause, they traveled farther, looking beyond where Stoner stood only a few seconds before. One of the armored men stood in a combat-ready stance, a few feet away and to the right of where Stoner's corpse lay, his snub-nosed machine-gun still smoking in his hands. The blank glass eyes seemed to look into Frank's soul, mocking him. The thought that the man's bullets could have killed him was heavy in Frank's mind. A few feet to the right and I'd be just as dead as Stoner.

  He lowered his pistol, taking careful aim at those insectoid lens pieces. God, how he wanted to pull the trigger. For several seconds-during which time the people in the area let out several belated screams and Milo Fitzwater called his name repeatedly-he aimed at that alien face. Finally, he lowered the pistol and slipped it back into its holster as he thumbed the safety back on.

  The buzzing voice of the soldier called out. "I thought you might need some help, Captain Osborn."

  Frank made no reply. He merely moved over to the trucker's body and checked for a pulse. There was none to be found, and even the wounds entering into the man's lungs and heart offered blood. A large crimson stain was growing under Stoner's body.

  Frank closed the man's eyes, and moved to his car to get a blanket. His steps were jerky, and he had trouble maintaining a straight course. The adrenaline in his body made him feel like he'd slurped down about five too many pots of coffee. Milo helped him cover the body.

  Frank sat against the car and waited for the commander of the armed men to come to him. He tried to call into the office, but received only static in response. He looked back at the soldier, who had once again resumed a position near the barrier. Damn, but shooting the bastard would have been a lot of fun. Dying for his efforts, however, would not.

  Milo spoke next to him. "Damn, Frank. They just did us in."

  It took him a moment to realize the mayor was talking to him. "What do you mean, Milo?"

  Milo wiped his brow with a yellowing handkerchief. "I mean they just took a volatile situation and turned the thing over. They came out of this looking cool and collected, you came out looking like you couldn't handle that man on your own."

  It took all of half a second for Frank to realize Milo was right. "Shit. There goes any chance of maintaining authority. God damn it!" He looked at Stoner's body, then looked at the eyes of the people in the crowd. Faces he'd known all his life were suddenly looking less familiar. The expressions on many people's faces seemed colder. "One damn minute, and they screwed us up, right and proper."

  "I don't like this one little bit, Frank. Not one little bit."

  Frank looked at his own hands, which were still doing the adrenaline tango, and thought about what was going on around him. "Milo?"

  "Yeah, Frank?"

  "I think maybe things are gonna get a lot worse around here, unless we can sweet-talk the leader of this group."

  "You want to 'sweet talk' that bastard?" Milo's ire was up, and despite what the man might think normally, he was sorely pissed at the present.

  "No, Milo. I most definitely do not. But I think we're gonna have to, just the same."

  "They just killed a man, Frank."

  "That's just my point, Milo. They killed him and never even flinched. I don't think they were so much worried about taking authority from us as they were about making a point. They'll kill anyone who disobeys their orders."

  "Damn, Frank. I wish you'd let me have my delusions." Milo's voice was testy and a little shaky.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that, until a second ago, I had a hope that we could all live through this."

  Frank was about to reply when he saw the leader of the armored men walking in their direction, with Clipboard in tow. He guessed any more comments would have to wait. The meeting he'd requested was about to begin.

  5

  The armored men stared at them through their dark lenses, waiting patiently for Frank or Milo to speak. Frank spoke first. "Do you have a name? Or am I just supposed to call out and wave at every space suit I see until I get the right one?"

  The sound that escaped the man's helmet sounded like a laugh mixed with a swarm of angry bees. He reached out one gauntleted hand and waited patiently until Frank reached out to shake it. "You can call me by my name. I'm Colonel Mark Anderson." The man had a grip like steel, and Frank almost wished he'd avoided the contact. The firm handshake was too alien for him. Everything from Anderson's voice to his grip seemed wrong when studied through the environmental gear.

  Milo shoved his own hand forward, not to shake, but to point a pudgy finger at the man's armored torso. "Colonel Anderson. I'd like to ask you a few questions about what's going on here. There are injured people in this town, and they need medical help. Not tomorrow, not the day after and not in a couple of hours. They need it now."

  "I'm well aware of the situation, Mayor Fitzwater. As you may have noticed, we had a rather large medical shipment brought in with us. Two of those 'copters were loaded down with doctors as well. Your people will be taken care of."

  Frank took that moment to interrupt, before Milo could come up with a counter-argument. "Colonel? I need to know what's going on here. What is that thing?" he asked, pointing to the monolith still bathed in steam. He didn't look at it. He didn't want to; it hurt him to look at the damned thing, but he knew just where to point. "Who are you people, and what are you people doing here?"

  "Captain Osborn, I'm afraid we don't quite know what that thing is. That's what we're here to find out. As to who we are, we're a part of the United States Government. This area has been sealed off, because that vessel over there presents a potential threat to national security. We cannot let anyone know what is here and, unfortunately, that means we can't let anyone in Collier leave at the present time."

  Damn, but didn't that sound well rehearsed. Frank squinted around the area, looking at the number of black-clad soldiers moving around and carrying any number of items, some familiar and some as alien as the saucer cooking away the rest of Oldman's Lake.

  Frank nodded. "Okay, I can accept that as a starter. What's with the costumes?"

  "The environmental suits are for our protection and for yours. The suits provide us with armor and with protection from possible radiation."

  "Radiation?" Milo's voice was little more than a squeak.

  "Yes, sir. That craft landed several hours ago, but your lake is still heated to beyond the boiling point. That tells us that something's going on out there, but we don't know if that something is just heat or if there's a possibility of hard radiation mixed in just for fun."

  "I don't suppose you brought extras?" Frank looked at the craft with a slightly higher level of apprehension than he had before. He looked away again quickly, not wanting to let himself focus on it. For now he could almost make himself believe it wasn't real and he rather liked that little escape.

  "No, captain, I'm afraid not."

  "Somehow, I didn't think you had."

&nbs
p; "For what it's worth, we haven't seen any signs of dangerous radiation leakage so far."

  "So why are you still wearing the costumes?"

  "Because there are other concerns as well." The colonel's voice grew slightly deeper from behind his mask. "There's always the possibility of a firefight breaking out between us and the people of your fine town."

  "Yeah? What makes you think the people of my 'fine town' would shoot at you?"

  "Nobody likes being a prisoner, Captain Osborn. Frankly, that's what the citizens of Collier are at present. There is no escape from here at the moment. Every possible access point to and from Collier is blocked off, and that's going to make the civilians in this area antsy."

  "Maybe you should have a meeting and let people know what's going on from your side. Might be just the thing needed to calm down the situation.

  "Actually, I was going to ask you gentlemen if you could assist me in arranging something along those lines."

  Milo snorted loudly, shaking his head. "Well, we can't exactly call 'em all on the phone, now can we?"

  "No, but it might be easier all the way around if you could arrange a time and a place for the meeting."

  Frank shrugged. "How's eight o'clock at the high school sound to you?"

  "That sounds just fine, but make it the elementary school instead, okay?" The Colonel's patronizing tones were starting to grate the nerves in Frank's body, but better to agree with the man than to have him starting off with a bad attitude in town.

  "What's wrong with the high school?"

  "We've already commandeered the high school."

  "What the hell for?" Milo's temper did a fine job of starting up, and Frank wanted to clamp a hand over the man's mouth.