"Good to hear from you, too, Buck." He couldn't help the sarcasm. It just slipped out whenever he was caught off-guard. "What's the matter?"
"Frank, somebody killed one of Anderson's men."
Frank felt his blood turn to slush in his veins, and tried to collect his thoughts. "Shit. This ain't gonna be good."
"'Ain't gonna be, my ass," Buck snorted. "It's already a mess. Anderson's fit to be tied."
"They're out at the Miller farm?"
"Yeah, just past the back field. Must be a dozen soldiers, plus Anderson and his second-in-command."
"I'm there." Frank hung up the phone, marveling that Buck had managed to get him the information via the phone lines. So far he was the only one who'd had any semblance of luck with getting phone access. Frank pulled on the shoes he'd left near the door, and then he ran to the kitchen and slapped together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Doc Morrisey would be unhappy about his choice of meals, but Frank would worry about that later. Right now he had to get out to the farm before the shit really hit the fan.
Lights flashing and siren screaming through the night, Frank made his way to Walter Miller's farm in record time. Thanks to the curfew enforced by the soldiers, there was no one to get in his way. The long line of trees that surrounded the narrow dirt road leading to the farm was partially obscured by the heavy orange dust where someone had just passed. When he could see past the last of the oaks, he spotted a small gathering of Jeeps and Humvees painted to match the armored men who drove them. He pulled in behind three of the black vehicles, blocking the exit for two of them. Up ahead, he could see the armored silhouettes of a dozen or more men. Their lights were all concentrated in one area.
Frank walked to join the gathering, feeling like the only-person wearing jeans at a black-tie party. He shouldn't have felt alone. The figure strapped into the razor-wire fencing put up by Anderson's men was dressed only in his underwear and blood.
The man had probably been handsome once, but the crimson stains and the gaping wound where his neck should have been marred his young, classic features. His mouse-brown hair was matted to his scalp by drying perspiration, and there were creases on his face from the environmental gear that Anderson insisted all his men wear. Despite the lowered angle of the man's head, Frank could still see the pained rictus that marred the cadaver's features even more. His bare legs were spread far apart, and deep lacerations ran from his ankles to the middle of his thighs, where he had been planted deep in the razor-wire. Both of his hands had also been buried in the tangles of steel and blades. Despite the lacerations running down to the bones of his fingers, there was little blood.
Carved into the dead man's chest were four simple words: GET OUT OF TOWN.
Frank continued to stare at the corpse, until Anderson blocked his view. "You have any ideas about who might have done this, Captain?" All pretenses at pleasantry were gone from the man's voice. Frank's first name had been forgotten, and he'd been placed back into his role as police chief.
"My guess is about three quarters of Collier probably wanted to, especially after today. But I can't even begin to guess who actually committed the crime."
Anderson sighed. "I know all about how you feel regarding the funeral. My question is, do you know who did this?"
Frank looked at his own reflection in the smoky glass lenses covering the man's eyes. "No. I don't."
"Do you know who was capable?"
Frank looked at the dead man again, studying the ground around him. There were numerous footprints, but not all of them were wearing combat boots. "I'm guessing that he wasn't killed here. Where was he stationed?"
"About a mile down the road. We've got people looking there for signs of a struggle." The Colonel paused for only a moment, then he asked another question. "What makes you sure he wasn't killed here?"
"There ain't nearly enough blood around his wounds. His arms and legs are cut to hell and back, but there ain't a puddle growing under his body. Also, his armor's gone. I don't know how long it takes you to get into that shit, but I'd guess it took about fifteen minutes to peel him out of it. A lot of your stuff doesn't have the usual buckles and latches."
"So who around town has the necessary skills to manage what was done here?"
"Damn near every person over the age of ten."
"Excuse me?"
"This is a small town, Colonel. The laws don't quite work the same way down here that they do in places like Atlanta or New York. Every kid over the age of nine has at least one knife, and most of them have been on a hunting trip or two." Frank paused and reached for the cigarettes in his shirt pocket, cursing silently when he remembered that they were on the coffee table in front of his TV. "About half the girls in town go hunting too. It's part of what we do here in the autumn. Ain't many kids above nine or ten years old who can't gut a fish or skin a squirrel in under a minute."
"It had to be someone with experience," interjected the Colonel
"Why?"
"They knew just where to strike. There aren't a lot of vulnerable spots on these suits of ours."
"Bullshit."
"What?"
"I said, 'Bullshit.' " Frank looked the Colonel over, shrugging. "I can count about ten vulnerable spots just with a glance. Your suits ain't all that special."
"How do you figure?"
"You got joints. Every joint on your body is covered by… what? Heavy denim and a little rubber? Whatever it is, it ain't armor. Seems pretty obvious to me that someone just snuck up behind your soldier over there and drove a knife into his throat. It's what I would have done in the same situation. What any decent soldier would have done if all he had to use as a weapon was a knife."
The Colonel was silent, and his stance rigid, but he slowly nodded his head. "How many people in town have worked in the military?"
"Anderson, there's about five boys in all of Collier over the age of eighteen that haven't been in the Army or Marines. We still believe in doing a tour of duty around these parts. The only ones that didn't serve are the ones the military wouldn't take."
Anderson remained silent. Frank spoke up, "You want me to do a formal investigation into this matter?"
"No. Thank you just the same. This is a matter for my own investigators."
"Yeah, I figured it was something like that," Frank moved back towards his car, "If I can help, just say the word."
"That I will, Captain. That I will."
Frank drove away, stopping at the Piggly Wiggly to buy a carton of cigarettes and a new four-pack of Bic lighters. The store was open, despite the curfew, and there were a few people shopping. Frank almost reminded them that they were in violation of the Colonel's martial law, but shrugged the idea away. They knew. Why insult their intelligence?
In the line behind him, Peter Donovan was purchasing what had to be every single bottle of bleach in the entire store, Frank knew the man wasn't a fanatic for cleaning, but he was simply too tired to care what Donovan was up to. He paid for his groceries and then he drove home. Morning would be soon enough to deal with any of the troubles around town.
Frank Osborn was tired. He was tired of trying to keep the peace, and he was tired of Anderson's condescending attitude. Mostly though, he was tired in his heart and in his mind. Frank smoked two cigarettes down to the filter and then he passed out. When the sun came up again, his whole world was busily working its way into a downward spiral to hell.
INTERLUDE
1
Life in Collier changed very quickly. On the Fourth of July, the city was celebrating. On the fifth the people were confused and stunned into silence. Even the most volatile citizens in town could hardly make a noise above a whisper. It had more to do with shock than it did with fear. On the sixth of July, the people started recovering. By the seventh almost everyone was once again capable of thinking rationally and most were thoroughly enraged by their situation.
Still, the town was mostly quiet. The anger they felt remained bottled within, a storm that was starting to
build but one not quite ready to break. The signs were there, but the air was still too calm for any real explosions.
The death of Corporal Dean Henderson, late of Alabama, did not calm the tensions in the air. It only made matters worse. For the first time since the soldiers had arrived, they were actually on guard. Despite the overwhelming heat of the day, they stood taller in their dark armored suits. Their rifles were held a little tighter in their hands. Most importantly, their once almost frozen forms moved with a current of barely contained anxiety. They had learned the hard way that the people of Collier could bite back.
While the men from Project ONYX were learning that lesson in the early hours of July seventh, most of the people in Collier were asleep. There were exceptions, of course.
Marty Wander and his best friend, Mike Summers, were sneaking away from the Wanders' home, all but carrying their bikes until they were well away from the house. Marty's dad would surely have skinned them alive if he'd known what they were up to. They were lucky, however, and the man slept through the night. Marty's dad was one of those people whose business was mostly unaffected by the thing in the lake. Grass still grew and the people of Collier still wanted their lawns maintained. Wander Landscaping had gone back into full swing just after the funerals ended the day before. As owner of the company Jack Wander led by example: he only got home around eight thirty in the evening. By ten he was asleep.
Marty and Mike rode the dark streets and slipped between the shadows with the confidence and ease of early youth. They weren't afraid of the guards posted everywhere. The soldiers were just another obstacle to sneak past. Though the trek was arduous, they managed to reach their destination after only half an hour of stop-and-start riding. The close calls with the soldiers only added to their combined sense of excitement.
The boys came to a stop in the woods on the far side of what remained of the docks. From where they stood, they could see the Colonel's tent and the massive blade of the ship resting in the lake's bed. Just as they were arriving, the Colonel and about fifty of his soldiers ran from the tent to the row of Jeeps parked on Roswell Avenue not far away.
"Whaddaya think they're doin'?" Marty asked as the boys crouched low.
"Probably going off to bust a few heads. Seems like that's all they're good for." Mike sounded bitter, and Marty couldn't blame him. After all, Mike was separated from his family as a result of the Colonel and his soldiers. That was really why Mike was here tonight, to rectify that situation.
The unofficial competition between Mike and Marty had escalated to its greatest levels ever. Mike was going to try to escape the boundaries of Collier and find his folks. Marty was going after a different goal. Marty wanted to see the UFO. Not at a distance either, he wanted to touch the thing.
All his life, Marty'd held a special fascination for UFOs and all the myths surrounding them. If a show about strange lights in the sky came on, he was glued to the area in front of the television. The only books he didn't have on the subject were the ones printed before his eighth birthday-and then only if he couldn't track them down. Simply put, Marty Wander knew more about UFOs than just about any kid on the planet. It was one of the great disappointments of his life that he'd never managed to get himself abducted by aliens.
He also knew that he could rectify that error. The ship out in Oldman's Lake was enough to convince him of that. The ship was a sign, his destiny in action. William Woody, a lifelong resident of Roswell, New Mexico, had stated more than once that he actually saw the UFO they'd found out there before it crashed. He'd seen it on July Fourth, 1947. Fifty years to the day before the ship crashed in Lake Oldman. And what was the name of the street closest to where the UFO had landed? Why, it was Roswell Avenue. That was simply too much to be a coincidence in Marty's mind. That was a sign. His time had come. Surely the aliens were here to pick him up. They just hadn't landed as well as they might have hoped.
Mike thought Marty was nuts. The feeling was mutual. Mike was going to have to get past not only the guards, but the razorwire fence. All Marty had to do was get past the guards, a feat he'd already accomplished. Now it was just a simple ride down the dried banks of the lake-which were, thankfully, not as steep here as they were near the Colonel's tent-and he'd be home free. Mike had miles to go before he could hope to be free of the Colonel and his men.
They'd gone out after the funerals and they'd looked around for the best possible trail to take. What they had discovered was that there was no trail. There was only a long list of obstacles to be avoided. The scariest one for Mike was the razorwire, which stood taller than he was and was densely packed enough to give a squirrel a hard time. The blades on the wire seemed to grin brightly in the daylight hours, inviting all to touch its pretty edges, while waiting to carve through flesh. When they'd reached the endless fence of wire, Marty pulled his battered old leather wallet from his back pocket and ran the folded edge across one of the blades. He'd used very little pressure, but the blade had cleaved the leather it touched in half with no effort. Now Mike was carrying wire cutters, and he had a sweatshirt wrapped around his waist and gardening gloves tucked into his pants. Marty doubted these extra precautions would be enough.
"Looks like now's the best chance we'll have." Mike's voice was soft, almost sad. The tone of his friend's words brought Marty back to the here and now.
"Listen, you better be safe out there. Don't let none of them guards take you down."
Mike smiled, and for a second Marty understood how Tom Thornton seemed to feel whenever he looked at the two of them together. For one brief instant, Mike looked like a god. Untouchable and unstoppable. "Ain't nothin' gonna happen to me, Marty. Just you be careful if you run into any of them aliens."
"Hell. They're probably all jelly inside of that ship. Way that sucker hit, I don't much think anything could have lived."
" 'Less they started out thataway. Then they're gonna be jelly with an attitude."
"Tell your mom and dad hey for me."
Mike smiled again, and reached out to punch Marty on the shoulder. Marty felt a heavy dread, knew in his heart that the two of them would never be together again. He resisted the urge to give his best friend a hug. Last thing he wanted was Mike thinking he'd gone faggot on him or something.
"Be careful." He returned Mike's shoulder punch.
"Like hell." Mike snorted, then mounted his bike and wheeled off towards the far side of the lake. Away from the town and all the soldiers.
Marty waited until Mike was completely out of sight, then climbed aboard his own bike. The Huffy was in great condition; he'd checked it earlier that day to make sure the tires were inflated and the chain was properly oiled. Just the same, the ride down into the lake's bed was far rougher than he'd expected. The bike bucked and jumped, trying to throw him, but Marty held on. He stood tall on the pedals of the dirt bike, never letting his body connect with the seat. Long years of practice had taught the best way to avoid busting your balls while traveling at high speed was to make sure that nothing got near them. The speed of the trip was not as exhilarating as it usually was; the thought that Mike might get himself killed toned down Marty's usual enthusiasm.
Up ahead of him, the monolithic ship towered higher than any building in the entire town. From this distance, and actually lower than the rim of the thing, the ship's size was mind-boggling.
Marty stopped while he was still a good hundred yards away. From where he was, the straight climb of the lake's side up to the trench where the fused sand had been-what should have been the water's edge-completely blocked his view of the Colonel's command post. If anyone was up there watching him, he could see no sign of them. The ground was hard and sun-baked. It was rough, but he could walk across the surface with no real difficulty. The overcast night made his eyes work harder, but there was really no concern about seeing where he was going. Marty's eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness.
As he walked closer to the ship, Marty encountered the debris from the helicopter that had cr
ashed. There was little to find; most of it had been picked up by the soldiers as soon as they had finished carrying away their companions who'd fallen to their deaths or broken their bodies inside the hard armor they wore. A few pieces of melted plastic and bent metal were all he saw. But they did not interest him. Marty approached the ship with a reverence at least as great as that he held for church. He was stunned by the size of the craft and mesmerized by its proximity.
How many stars had the ship passed on its way to earth? Had it run across other life forms in its travels? Did the creatures flying the vessel come in peace, or were they prepared for war? Those thoughts and a thousand more ran through Marty's mind as he moved closer and closer to the gigantic structure.
From almost a hundred feet away, he could feel the air around him change as he approached. There was a physical aura of energy, not unlike the static charge surrounding a TV screen, that pushed against him. He stepped over and past a dozen buckled girders, feeling no real remorse for the men who had died while trying to hide the starcraft. For the moment, the burnt smell of plastic and the ruined metal beams were of no consequence. After years of dreaming about seeing a UFO in person, Marty was finally about to touch one.
Marty stepped forward, pushing his way into the field of power he felt around the ship. Instantly the air around him became almost painfully dry, even as his hair stood on end. He was uncomfortably hot, but did not care. Nothing was as important as the confirmation of his beliefs. From barely a dozen feet away, he looked at the edge of the metallic wall where it drove deep into the ground. There were no flaws to show that the ship had ever suffered a heavy impact. The seamless, mirrored hide of the craft ran flush with the baked silt of the lake, as it if had grown from the center of the earth all the way to the lake's edge.
Marty, uncomfortable and aware that the freshly healing burns on his face were beginning to sting again, walked along the side of the structure looking for any indication that an entrance into the craft existed. When he could find none, he finally gathered his courage and reached out to touch the metal, fully prepared to feel his flesh crisp as a result of the ship's heat. Instead he felt an intense cold, strong enough to bring a shiver to him. The glistening surface of the ship was as cool as the interior of the meat freezer in his family's garage and as smooth as a freshly washed windowpane.
Fireworks Page 16
