by Mich Moore
this morning's news conference, a spokeswoman from Scott Air Force base confirmed to reporters that several low atmosphere weather balloons were in fact in the airspace over parts of Chicago last night. Captain Michelle Bailey said that these weather balloons were outfitted with special lasers designed to detect any elevated levels of particulate matter in the atmosphere that may have been trapped over the lake due to the recent exchanges of gunfire between the Navy and the Milwaukeean insurgents. Captain Bailey says that these tests, which have been endorsed by the mayor, are being conducted as part of an ongoing joint air quality management program ... "
There was no mention of giant aliens, 'nekkid' or otherwise.
"The Air Force had no comment on any possible connection with the atmospheric tests and the outbreak of flu-like symptoms that were reported by various emergency room personnel in the city at around the same time ..."
Broussard's interest began to wane. He had more important things to worry about.
Two low-key, regular guys came out of nowhere and sat down on two bar stools one chair down from him. They were deliberately similar in appearance: matching sunglasses and khaki jackets. Even their hair had been styled the same way. Broussard immediately suspected that they were anything but 'regular guys.' From the slight curve in the lines of their jackets, he knew that each carried a gun. Probably Glock 17s from the size and faint outlines. Local fuzz spying on the good citizens of Chicago. And the visitors, he reminded himself. Broussard forced himself to stay neutral in composition.
The two men set their drinks down and pretended to relax. The one closest to him had a crop of ripe pimples spread across his face. This man nodded in his direction and Broussard reciprocated the gesture. Just then a beefy trucker type sat down heavily in the empty chair between them. He wore a soiled John Deere cap atop a buzz cut. His piggish eyes were red, as if he had been crying long and hard, and his breath was labored as if he had run there. He gave scant acknowledgment to the other men and ordered a glass of ice water from the bartender. Suddenly, he blurted out, "I guess Chicago's luck just ran out."
One of the regular guys spoke up. "Maybe. Maybe not," he chirped cheerily. "From what I've heard, whatever's causing these fires and earthquakes doesn't do anything halfway. Nossir. It happens and BOOM, you're dead and gone. But we're all still here. And gosh, is it me? Or does the whole place just not reek so much?"
The guy in the John Deere cap mulled that over. "I left Sault Sainte Marie yesterday morning, and from Rudyard to St. Ignace there were people nailed up on power poles on I-75. Upside down. Like something out of a horror movie. I told the sheriff in Mackinaw City about what I seen and he tells me not to worry about it." The man blinked hard. "I guess they decorate the roads a little different up there."
"Are you saying that these people were dead?" Broussard asked, not quite comprehending what was being said.
The trucker let out a crazy laugh. "No-no-no. Just not breathing. Not moving. Not too concerned about the buzzards pecking out their eyes. That's all I'm saying."
The other man dived in. "Something similar happened a few weeks ago in Tennessee. They caught the guys who did it. Some yahoos from that cartel out of Texas—"
The larger man interrupted him. "The Cabos. Or the Triple A Gang."
The smaller man continued. "Both are pretty vicious. Most likely one of their terror cells butchered those poor devils up near'ya."
He hung an invisible period at the end of his sentence as a way of neatly wrapping things up and moving the conversation along to other matters. But the trucker's story had an undeniably chilling effect. The outlandishly evil nature of it and what it portended was almost too much to bear.
"Something else," the larger man continued somewhat offhandedly. "I've been hearing rumors from people who ought to know that there's some new Advance South drug that can trick man and machine. Make them see things that simply aren't there."
The John Deere guy exploded. "YOU THINK WE'RE ALL CRAZY NOW? YOU THINK I'M MAKING THIS UP? I SAW WHAT I SAW!" He stabbed a finger in the man's face. "AND I ALSO SAW THAT FAT FUCK FLOATING AROUND HERE LAST NIGHT! AND ON MY MOTHER'S GRAVE, THAT WAS NO FRIGGIN' WEATHER BALLOON!" The finger was still in the other man's face. "BALLOONS DON'T HAVE JUNK!"
People began to sit up and take notice of them.
"All I'm saying—"
The John Deere guy dismissed him. "You got nothing to say to me, pal!" And he stood up and quickly walked away.
The two men turned their attention to Broussard, as he suspected they would. They wore matching friendly expressions. The smaller one spoke first.
"Name's Kirk Murphy." He gestured towards his partner. "Nate Davis."
"Neal."
"Got a last name, Neal?" Davis asked congenially.
"Broussard."
He gave a tiny salute with his left hand. "Nice to meet you, Neal. You new in town?"
"Uh, yes. A few of us from my company are here on business."
"Excellent!" Murphy said. "We want everyone to know that Chicago is still in business. I hope that we're showing you a good time."
"No complaints here."
"Glad to hear it." He nodded towards the others seated at the bistro. "You not interested in giant aliens?"
"Not really. Besides, I prefer my extraterrestrials petite and gray."
Murphy grunted in agreement.
"Are you police officers?"
Davis pointed a bone white finger at him. "Ahh, very astute." He took a sip from his glass. "The locals aren't comfortable with uniforms, so we keep things casual."
"You ex-militia?" Broussard had read that the militias had taken over policing duties in many areas in the northeast.
"We both worked in the Detroit area until last year."
A human-powered rickshaw weaved through the human traffic. Every square centimeter of the cart's surface was plastered with peace symbols and day-glow flowers. It also sported vinyl marijuana plants in various comical poses.
Broussard nodded. "What's with the sixties theme?"
"We call it time traveling," Murphy said. "Everybody else calls it 'gone plumb crazy.' The so-called experts say that the situation now is too—you know—difficult for most people to handle so they're hiding out in the past. Like hitting the reset button. Makes sense. The only things we had to think about back then were the Beatles and Vietnam."
"Personally," Davis said, "I would have chosen the fifties. Better values. Higher standards."
Murphy made a face. "Too bland for my taste."
"Bland but safe. Hey, we had Dion, Chuck Berry, Marilyn Monroe." He whistled. "Now there was a sexy woman."
"And everything in black and white. Just like the politics."
"Took the guesswork out a great many things, I say."
"And that way of thinking gave birth to the sixties."
Murphy's head dickered from side to side. "Jack Law says that a man is free to disagree."
Broussard almost choked on his drink. "Excuse me?"
But Murphy had not heard him.
Davis surreptitiously picked something from his nose. "A man is free to starve, too."
"Better to starve than be a slave to tradition," Murphy countered.
The policemen were obviously rehashing a standing argument.
"The important thing is to remain civil," Davis said definitively.
"We agree on that, partner."
Both men congenially shook hands with their eyes.
Broussard cut in. "So it's some sort of mental disorder?"
"Yessir," Murphy replied briskly. "There's even a name for it," Murphy continued. "Traumatic Nostalgia Syndrome. The docs say it's a mild form of Old Timer's disease, but I'm not buying it."
Broussard was mildly curious about this unexpected aspect of the war: mass psychosis. That a crisis could be of such magnitude that almost the entire population of a major cosmopolitan city would simultaneously snap along the same obscure vector was highly improbable. He thought of how Mike had reacted after hearing ab
out the Los Angeles fire. Total blind panic. One individual out of a room of eight people. Still ... "Affecting an entire city at once? I'm not buying it either." He looked around at the many freshly minted hippies. "Any other places having this problem?"
The two policemen were thoughtful. "We think that most of Dallas has time traveled back to the early nineteen hundreds. Nothing but cowboys and horses. But that would make sense since that's their culture anyway."
Broussard exhaled. "Interesting."
Davis eyed him. "I'm surprised you haven't heard about this kind of stuff."
"They keep us pretty busy at the office."
Murphy's eyes perked up. "Us, too. The country may be going to h-e-double-hockey-sticks in a hurry, but the criminals and scofflaws are still conducting business as usual, eh, Nate?"
"Yessir. Busy as bees."
"But they don't last long here. We have a zero tolerance for lawbreakers."
The police officer looked calm, but Broussard noticed that his eyes kept tracking left and right, checking and re-checking territory just like Hillerman and Brady. Broussard was beginning to feel uncomfortable in their presence when an unexpected familiar face jumped out at him from a crowded table just a few paces away. Broussard unconsciously sucked in his breath. It was Billy Speitz, dressed in a natty blazer and jeans, in easy conversation with several other normal-looking people. Without thinking he uttered the words, "What the heck?"
The cops perked up immediately. "What?"
Broussard vigorously shook his head. "Nothing." He instantly thought it best that he extract himself from the situation as fast as possible. Speitz was a career