Fireworks

by James A. Moore

  Lucas Brightman stood and spoke as clearly as he could. His eyes glittered wetly, and every eye in the place turned to him. "What if we refuse to surrender our weapons? We do, after all, have the constitutional right to bear arms."

  "Then you will be placed in the custody of Captain Frank Osborn and his police force. You will be fed three square meals a day and ignored."

  Brightman looked deeply offended by the comment. He wasn't used to being told what to do, and he certainly wasn't used to the idea of having his rights tampered with. "What gives you the right, Colonel Anderson, to treat us like criminals?"

  "You are not being 'treated like criminals,' sir. If you were, I wouldn't be up here explaining matters to you. You would already be behind bars. As I said before, this town and its people are under martial law. Your constitutional rights have been suspended out of necessity."

  "With all due respect, Colonel," Brightman's voice was cold with artificial anger. He was trying to make something happen. He was doing his best to make sure that all the right buttons got pushed. "Letting us stay in our homes hardly constitutes freedom. We have to be in by a certain hour. We have to surrender our weapons. We can't speak to anyone outside the confines of Collier. I've been watching the news, Colonel Anderson. There are a few miles of razor wire surrounding Collier. What makes you any better than a Nazi concentration camp?"

  Several voices, mostly the ones of Brightman's cohorts, started rising in volume, protesting the treatment the people of Collier were receiving. Through it all, Colonel Anderson stared coldly into the audience. When the level of protests had eased to a minor uproar, the man spoke again. "What makes me any better than a concentration camp? One thing and one thing only. If you play by my rules, you'll get to go free eventually. We have medical supplies and, if it should come to us being around that long, we have food supplies. There are no gas chambers here. But there is a very serious need to get a job done to ensure the continued security of these United States. If that means that a few people get restrained or even killed, then that's a price I'm willing to pay. You don't have to like the situation as it stands, Mister Brightman. You just have to deal with it."

  Lucas Brightman smiled, an oily, easygoing grin that set Frank's nerves on edge. "So what you're saying, is that the Constitution of these very United States is useless at the present time?"

  "That's exactly what I'm saying. You are now under the rules of martial law. For all intents and purposes you are in a war zone. That means you do what I say or you pay the price." There was a moment when the two men stared at each other, both wearing feral grimaces on their faces. During that suspended fraction of time, Frank felt an odd kinship with the both of them. He'd done his time in combat, he understood that the two men were assessing each other, taking the measure of a new foe.

  For all intents and purposes you are in a war zone. Truer words had never been spoken. Anderson knew it, Brightman knew it, and so did Frank.

  Brightman walked away from his seat, heading over to where Buck was once again waiting beside a few soldiers at the door. Before he left, he turned and faced his new enemy one last time. "I fought in WW Two, and I fought in Korea." Brightman's body language had changed from a simple polite stance to a combat-ready position that looked sadly comical on his old frame. "Call me old-fashioned, but I was raised to believe I was fighting to stop this sort of shit from ever happening on these shores." The wily old man raised his chin in challenge, once again gaining a slight grin on his angular face. "I can't speak for all the men and women here, Colonel Anderson. But I can speak for myself and I can certainly make a good guess on how a number of these folks feel. I don't own so much as a pellet gun, but if I did, the only way you'd get it from me would be to pry it from my cold, dead fingers, you son of a bitch. This here is still America, and I'd die to save her, even from people like you, who think you can run around and treat her like a whore, in the name of 'National Security.' "

  Brightman turned on his heel and slid through the door before anyone could respond. The silence in the auditorium was almost complete. No one spoke for several heartbeats. Frank stared into the mass of people sitting in the audience, and did not like what he saw. The faces out there seemed largely to agree with every word Lucas Brightman had uttered. The difference was, a majority of the faces looking back towards the stage belonged to people who owned virtually every type of firearm.

  Anderson spoke again, and Frank was almost relieved to hear a sound other than his own beating heart. "Are there any more questions?" He waited for an answer, but none came from the audience. "That being the case, good night."

  Anderson and his entourage left the stage without ceremony. Baleful stares followed them the entire way out of the building.

  Frank sat where he was for a while, watching as the people he'd known for most of his life left the gymnasium. Buck Landers said it before he did, but his mind was working on a similar sentiment. "We are in for a serious night of shit. Brightman riled them all up, and now we're gonna have to try to get them calm before anyone gets blown away."

  Frank nodded his agreement, looking at the empty floor and the scattered chairs left behind. "I guess we better get to it then, huh? Damn, why can't it ever be easy?"

  No one bothered to answer him.

  3

  The business of door-to-door gun collection did not go well. The first few houses were easily handled. Annie and Walt Groff gave over the shotguns and revolvers without question, only asking that they be returned when everything was over. The military men handed out receipts for everything they took, and no one got hurt. The next few homes were just as easily handled, even if Hugh Elberry did cuss up a blue streak over the violation of his rights. Not that he ever used the guns since his arthritis started getting really bad, it was just the principle of the matter.

  Around the tenth house, things started getting messy. Albert Clark had no desire to hand over his weapons, and his three sons agreed with his sentiment. The man was forty-six years old, and his sons ranged from Tony, age twenty-two, to Mark, age seventeen, to Berry, age twelve. Albert and Evaughn had managed to raise three fine sons, and not a one of them had ever given Frank the least bit of grief. They were good people.

  Albert collected firearms the way some people collect stamps. He had an arsenal of over four hundred rifles, shotguns and pistols. To Albert, the weapons were works of art, carefully crafted and meant to be appreciated. When Frank considered the sheer amount of money the man had spent in gathering his collection, he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised by Albert's refusal to hand the firearms over.

  Clipboard and five other soldiers stood together behind Frank. They'd all agreed that having the regular police present could only help stop the people of Collier from getting foolish. Albert nodded amiably when he answered the door, and stepped to one side to allow the entourage into the house. "Y'all come on in. Make yourselves comfy."

  Frank knew the place well enough, from the comfortable velvet covered couch and love seat to the wide screen TV set against the wall. He'd stopped by here on several occasions after one fool or another attempted to break past the security systems just to look at the collection of weapons Albert kept on display throughout the house. To his knowledge no one had ever tried to actually steal any of the pieces, but a few of the rowdies in town forgot common sense and tried to climb through windows after they'd had a few too many to drink. Albert never pressed charges, he just told them to come back the next day and have a look around at a decent hour. Frank stopped just past the threshold when he saw the empty corner where Albert kept his display of Civil War rifles.

  "Dammit, Albert. Where did you hide the guns?" Frank's voice sounded frustrated, even to himself. It had all been going so well…

  Albert beamed, and the bright glare from the track lighting over the empty corner fairly glowed against his balding head. "Where no one will find them, Frank. I'm not gonna let anyone take my collection. Hang on one second, and I'll get my shaving kit. I'll be ready to le
ave with you."

  Frank sighed, looking back towards Clipboard. "He's not gonna be a problem, but I can tell you right now he's gonna be spending some time in the jail. I was afraid he'd do this."

  "What the hell's his problem, Captain?"

  "His problem is that he loves that collection like most teenage boys love looking at women. He's got muskets dating back to the Revolutionary War, and he ain't partin' with 'em." Frank shrugged. "Hell, he's probably got a better collection of guns than the Smithsonian does."

  Clipboard looked around the room, the glare from the multiple lights making his lenses look more insectoid than ever. "Damn. How many does he own?" the man buzzed through his helmet. "I've got at least four pages of serial numbers here."

  "Right around four hundred or so. If there's a gun that's been made that he doesn't have, it's just 'cause no one would sell him one."

  "No way. There is no way I can leave without those weapons collected." There was a decidedly hostile edge in the man's voice. Frank felt the tension crawling back into his shoulders.

  "Like as not, he's got 'em locked away where no one can get at them. Hell, he doesn't even have bullets for most of 'em."

  "Yeah? Well, somebody else might have bullets that will fit them. Those guns have got to come along with us."

  "Give it a rest, will ya? Albert doesn't even fire those guns himself, he sure as hell isn't going to let anyone else fire them."

  Clipboard pushed that button on the jawline of his mask again, and Frank could not hear what he said, but he suspected he was in communication with Colonel Anderson. Albert came down the stairs, an overnight bag in his hand and a fresh set of clothes on his body.

  "Albert, is there any way I can talk you into giving up your collection? Maybe I can arrange for storage at the police station. I don't think these boys are gonna take no for an answer."

  Albert shook his head, a tiny frown pulling at his too large mouth and the lines above his brow growing heavier. "Nope. Those weapons are mine. They're all registered nice and legal and I'm not surrendering them." He shrugged his shoulders. "I know the rules here, Frank, and I'm glad to spend the time in jail."

  "I don't think that's gonna make these boys happy, Albert. They're afraid someone else might get to the guns."

  Albert laughed and shook his head, an ornery grin taking ten years off his face. "Not a chance in hell, Frank. The safes for those guns are the best money can buy."

  "How did you move them all? I've seen those vaults of yours, they must weigh in at, what, couple hundred pounds each?"

  "Got me a big ol' dolly just for moving those things. Tony's truck took care of the rest."

  "They aren't even on the premises?"

  "Hell, no, Frank. I'm not taking any chances."

  "Well, let me see the bag, just so's we can make it official that you aren't carrying one."

  Albert handed the overnight case to Frank with a grin. "I ain't that stupid, Frank."

  "You an' me, we already know that. But these boys aren't the type to take chances." The most lethal thing Frank found in the kit was a toothbrush. A battered book on the history of the modern firearm was in the bag, but it proved to be too bulky to use as a weapon. He handed the bag back. "You know I'm going to have to cuff you, don't you?"

  Albert obligingly turned himself around and presented his wrists. Frank pulled the cuffs and locked the metal circles around the man's hands, first his left and then his right. "All right then," Frank said. "Let's get this done."

  He was just starting to lead Albert towards the convoy of cars outside, when Clipboard's black gloved hand came to a rest against his right shoulder. "I'm afraid not, Captain Osborn. The Colonel wants to know the location of those weapons."

  "Albert's willing to go to jail. Makes everything okay in my book."

  "Your book doesn't count. The Colonel wants to know where those guns are located, and he wants to know right now."

  Albert started to speak, but Frank interrupted in a louder voice. "Look, at the meeting these people were given two options, they could hand over the weapons or they could fall into my custody. Albert's in my custody, so what is the problem?"

  "The problem is that this man has three sons and a wife who might have loaded weapons in their possession. We need to retrieve the weapons now, as a safety precaution."

  "What, I'm supposed to place all of them under house arrest as well?"

  "No. But I'm supposed to retrieve those weapons." Clipboard turned to Albert. "Where are the weapons, Mr. Clark?"

  "Where they can't do any harm."

  "That's not a good enough answer. Do you want to try again, or do we start searching the premises?"

  Albert shrugged, a slight smile of defiance on his face. "It's the only answer you're gonna get, mister."

  "Albert, I don't know if this is a smart attitude…" Frank tried to warn him, but it was too late.

  "Full search! Start at the top and work your way down!" The buzzed command had an instant effect on the other four soldiers. They'd been so quiet throughout the exchange that Frank had almost forgotten they were there. The men moved up the stairs with little noise.

  Albert looked to Frank with a worried look on his face. "What are they gonna do?"

  "What they have to in order to find the weapons, Mr. Clark." Clipboard shrugged. "I hope you have a damn good cleaning service." From above, the sound of heavy objects falling came. The ceiling above actually dropped a bit of plaster as something fell over.

  "You can't do this!" Albert flexed his shoulders as he stepped towards Clipboard. His arms did not follow is commands, and he paused to look at them before remembering that he was under arrest. The handcuffs stopped what would have been a physical confrontation. "I know my rights! You can't do this!"

  Clipboard turned around so fast that almost seemed to have grown another insect face. "Wrong! You don't have any rights, Mr. Clark. Those rights do not apply in times of martial law, and you are now in violation of the orders placed on this community in the interest of national security." With each word, the man leaned further into Albert Clark. His armored face was only inches away from Albert's, and his clipboard reached out to tap Albert lightly in the stomach in cadence with his words. "As of this time, you have the right to produce the weapons registered in your name. Failure to do so will result in my men having to tear this house apart in order to find them. If we do not find the firearms on the premises, we will move to your son's house and begin tearing that apart as well. Do I make myself clear?"

  Albert must have finally decided he didn't like having a clipboard used on his belly like a cattle prod, because he lifted his left foot off the ground and slammed it into his tormentor's lower thigh with an inarticulate scream. Frank started moving forward right then and there.

  Clipboard hopped backward, favoring his right leg. His metal board and attached pen went sailing as he dropped into a defensive combat stance. Albert tried stepping forward, but one solid yank on the cuffs knocked him off balance. Frank stepped between the two men, his hands held out towards each of them. Clipboard was just moving forward, apparently ready to retaliate. Frank's hand pressed against the armor on his chest.

  "That's about enough out of the both of you." He did his best to stare down the bug eyes on the man's mask. Something large and porcelain, judging by the sound it made, shattered upstairs. "Mister, if you think I'm gonna let you take a swing at a man in cuffs, you better think again. I'm doing my best to keep the peace here, but I'll be damned before I let you start slapping around defenseless people."

  Before Clipboard could respond, Frank turned to Albert and snapped. "Have you lost your stupid mind, Albert? You don't go around kickin' at men with guns, especially when your dumb ass is already in chains." Clark started to protest, but Frank pushed on. "You better figure out which is more important to you, Albert, you and your sons' houses or that gun collection. I'm here to make sure they don't get too enthusiastic about beating up your family. I can't stop them from tearing down your ho
use."

  "But, Frank-"

  "But nothing! I ain't here to protect your guns, Albert. I'm here to make sure you get out of this alive!" He stared hard into his neighbor's eyes. "I don't like it anymore than you do, Albert. But we've got no choices here. Now, are you gonna give up the damn guns or are you gonna lose all of your other possessions?" Something very heavy screeched across the floor upstairs. "You'd best decide now, 'cause I'm still about to haul your butt to jail, and I don't think these boys'll wait until later to finish what they've started. They'll still be tearin' this place up while I'm gone."

  Albert Clark tried his best to stare Frank down, but it just didn't work. After almost a minute of silence-excepting the noises from upstairs-Albert told him where the weapons were. An old bomb shelter his father had built in the fifties was still airtight and functional. It rested beneath the ground, under the portable Sears and Roebuck tool shed in the back yard.

  An hour later, the weapons were all accounted for and all secured in the back of the black truck the soldiers arrived in. Albert was given a very detailed receipt, just before Frank called in a squad car to take him away. There was no arrest being made properly, but a couple of days in the slammer were used anyway, just to make an example and to keep the soldiers from getting mean. Albert didn't seem to mind. He took his overnight back and he remained uncuffed.

  Frank climbed into his squad car and the soldiers into their truck. After the armored men switched vehicles, leaving another group of soldiers to unload their burden, they were on the way again.

  Clipboard was all business, walking around like a bear with a pinecone up its ass. Frank did his best to ignore the man. The favor was returned. Seven houses later, the group ran across something Frank had never actually expected. They ran across gunfire.