Moth Busters, Dr. Prepper, Oral Robbers: Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures 1, 2 & 3

by Margaret Lashley

  I chewed my lip and wondered if perhaps Grayson was right. Maybe the only reason humans existed was to entertain the gods.

  Maybe we’re all merely fleas in the great cosmic flea circus of life ....

  I glanced through a few more pages of Jenkins’ sick drawings and lunatic ramblings, and found myself empathizing with the aliens.

  I don’t blame them. If I had a spaceship, I’d be soooo outta here.

  “Stop ogling those poor, exploited aliens,” Grayson’s voice sounded above me.

  Startled, my gaze shot upward. Grayson was standing at the end of the booth, his arm around poor Officer Wells’ shell-shocked young shoulders. My ears burned.

  I closed Jenkins’ notebook full of home-drawn galactic porn and cleared my throat. “I was only reading it for the articles.”

  Grayson snorted.

  Wells jerked away from his embrace. “How can you two laugh at a time like this?”

  Because it’s either that or start sucking my thumb, I thought.

  “Look around, kid,” Grayson said. “We’re not under attack at the moment. And even if we were, this isn’t a problem you can solve with a six-shooter. Jenkins had an AK-47, and look what it got him.”

  Wells’ lip quivered. Grayson put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Sit down, Wells. Have a taco. Drink a beer. I think if an alien invasion were imminent, we’d have heard something about it on the news by now.”

  “Network news never tells the whole truth,” Wells muttered.

  Grayson nodded. “That’s why I never watch it. Now sit down and eat. You’re going to need your strength to kick all that alien butt later.”

  Wells gave in and plopped into the booth. I reached across the table to hand him back Jenkins’ notebook. “Did you show this to your brother, Garth?”

  Wells glanced at me with eyes more confused than ever. “You mean Gary?”

  I cringed. “Yes. Sorry. We know him as Operative Garth. Has he seen the notebook or heard the tape?”

  “No!” Wells shook his head. “That’s all I need. Gary’d get on that stupid radio of his and the whole town would know in five minutes. I’d lose my job for sure!”

  Wells slumped back in the booth and muttered to himself like a mental patient. “Not that it would matter, once the aliens take over.”

  Grayson munched on a taco. “Before we jump to any conclusions, I think we should go talk to your brother.”

  Wells glared at him, his eyes narrow slits. “Why?”

  Grayson cocked his head. “You’re a cop. You know why. Like you just said yourself, Garth’s connected to the local underground communication channels. Don’t you think we should gather some corroborating evidence before we call CNN and tell them the aliens are out to get us?”

  Wells sighed. “I guess,” he said sullenly. “But we can’t right now. He’s at work.”

  I tried to picture Garth at a place of employment. I liked to think I had a good imagination, but my brain couldn’t stretch that far. Who on earth would hire him? Walmart? Taco Bell? An orthodontist?

  “Where’s he work?” I asked.

  Wells’ eyes shifted to the floor. “Dreadmore Village.”

  My eyebrows ticked up a notch. “That prepper place Dr. Crum was talking about?”

  “Yes.”

  Grayson’s lips took on a sadistic curl. “Well then, what are we waiting for?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  OFFICER WELLS’ BATTERED old pickup bounced and swerved along the muddy, rut-scarred backroad like a sadistic carnival ride. I was on the bench seat, sandwiched between the young cop and Grayson. I hung onto the ashtray for dear life, wishing I had a mouth-guard to keep my teeth from chipping.

  “This isn’t a road,” I said between bumps. “It’s a collection of potholes.”

  As if on cue, the truck’s right front tire sunk into a hole so deep it sent me lurching toward Grayson. He grabbed me to keep me from flying out the window. I ended up in his arms, both of us pinned against the side of the cab.

  I’d have thought up another complaint if I hadn’t been distracted by the feel of Grayson’s skin against mine.

  It was electric.

  Heat shot through every part of me that made contact with his taut, muscular body. If Grayson felt the same buzz from my somewhat less slim and less muscular body, he didn’t let on. Instead, he pushed me back upright and asked, “How much farther?”

  “Another quarter mile or so,” Wells said.

  “Great,” I groaned.

  Wells shot me a sideways glance. “Dreadmore’s a prepper colony, not the Holiday Inn.”

  “Cheery name,” Grayson quipped. “How’d they come by it?”

  “It’s an intentional community with an intentional name,” Wells said defensively. “It’s designed to discourage unwanted visitors.”

  “Oh. Kind of like Cockroach Bay,” I said. “Not high on the tourist list, but one of the prettiest places in Florida.”

  “Exactly,” Wells said. “Keeps the gawkers away.”

  “So, are you a member of Dreadmore?” Grayson asked.

  Wells blew out a breath. “I asked not to be listed on the official books. But yeah, I do my share of helping out. Security mostly. They’re not a bad bunch of folks. Just looking to survive when the storm hits.”

  “So, Wells,” Grayson asked. “Just exactly what kind of storm are you all planning for?”

  Wells shrugged and shifted into low gear. The pickup bucked forward like a branded bronco.

  “Varies,” he said. “Some prep for a mega hurricane. Others a massive EMP. But most are worried about economic collapse. If China sells off its US currency, a wheelbarrow full of dollars won’t buy a lima bean.”

  “What’s an EMP?” I asked.

  “Electro-magnetic pulse,” Grayson said. “A solar flare.”

  “A big enough one could fry every electronic circuit on the continent,” Wells said.

  Grayson waved his hand across the windshield. “Picture it, Drex. No TV. No cellphones. No computers. We’d be back to the stone age before sundown.”

  “Exactly,” Wells said. “That’s what Dreadmore’s about. Figuring out how to survive without electricity or commercial food supplies.”

  “Sounds like a hardscrabble existence,” I said.

  Wells shrugged. “Electricity and indoor plumbing are luxuries, Miss Drex. They’ve only been around for a few generations. Most of our grandparents grew up using outhouses and wood-burning stoves.”

  I chewed my lip. “Still, I mean, what’s the likelihood of one of these EMP’s hitting, anyway? A trillion to one?”

  “More like a twelve percent chance in the next ten years,” Wells said. “Or whenever the military decides to drop another one.”

  I nearly choked on my tonsils. “Another one?”

  “In ’62, they detonated an EMP over the Pacific,” Wells said. “It fried electrical circuits all the way to Hawaii—over nine hundred miles away.”

  The old truck lurched forward, sending me careening into its dented metal dashboard. “Geez! That wasn’t a pothole. It was a meteor crater!”

  “Good call on vehicles,” Grayson said. “My RV would’ve never made it.”

  Another pothole sent my knee banging into the dashboard. I shot Wells a sour look. “It would’ve been nice if you’d sprung for some shock absorbers. What year is this truck, anyway? Or would you have to check the fossil record? I guess being a cop doesn’t pay well enough for you to have a decent vehicle.”

  Wells shot me some side-eye. “You done?”

  I pouted. “Yes.”

  “I can afford a new truck, ma’am. But I prefer this one. No electronics.”

  “So it’s EMP proof,” Grayson said.

  “Right. No circuits to fry, no engine will die.” Wells hit the brakes. “We’re here.”

  I glanced up at the dusty windshield. Through a stand of pines, I made out a collection of thatch-roofed huts and rough-hewn, wood-framed buildings, none bigg
er than a two-car garage. The sharp, acrid smell of a campfire hinted at my nostrils.

  “Stay in the truck,” Wells said. “I need to get clearance before you can enter. People around here don’t take kindly to snoopers. Like I said earlier, our goal is to keep this place off the radar.”

  Wells climbed out of the truck and headed toward the shantytown. I turned to Grayson.

  “What are you really hoping to get out of talking to Garth?”

  Grayson tipped his fedora up a notch. “A second opinion on that radio transmission, for one. You heard it. It’s hard to deny it sounds pretty authentic—as far as alien invasions go.”

  My eyebrows shot up in shock and surprise. “You weren’t joking? This may actually be real?”

  Grayson shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  I reached in my purse and pulled out a Tootsie Pop to calm my nerves. I stuck it in my mouth, then turned to Grayson. “Want one?”

  “Sure. Green if you’ve got it.”

  “No problem. I save those just for you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “IS IT THE TOOTSIE POP?” I asked.

  All the burly men dressed in burlap sacks appeared to be staring at me.

  “Probably the pink jeans,” Grayson said.

  Officer Wells shook his head. “More likely the fact that you’re a girl. And your hips are wide. Good breeding stock.”

  Geez! Not this breeding stock crap again! I never thought I’d miss those damned work coveralls I left behind in Point Paradise.

  I gritted my teeth, stuck my head down, and, ironically, wished I looked more like a guy. But there was nothing I could do to make my hips less “shapely.” If there had been, I’d have figured it out years ago and sold my idea for a gazillion dollars.

  A leer from a tattooed dude sent a creepy feeling wrapping around the back of my neck. I switched places with Grayson, putting myself in the middle between him and Wells. I thought about holding Grayson’s hand, but I didn’t want to give yet another guy the wrong idea.

  As the three of us walked along the dirt path cutting through Dreadmore Village, we passed sights I never thought possible outside a low-budget caveman movie.

  To our right was a makeshift clothesline—a length of rope strung between two hand-hewn posts. On it hung half a dozen stiff, raw deer hides. Next to that, a sweaty guy wearing one of the hides for a shirt pounded on a red-hot metal rod, then stuck it back into a pile of molten coals.

  A grubby, nearly toothless man riding bareback on a donkey leered at me. As his burro trotted by, I saw it was pulling a small wooden cart stacked with rolls of barbed wire.

  This is like a medieval fair—without the fun.

  A few yards down to our left, we passed an open shack, its ceiling strung with upside-down bouquets of drying herbs. Next to the shack, a man was pumping water from a hand well into an animal-skin bag.

  Just past the pump, Officer Wells stopped in front of a faded wooden shed. Its old tin roof was covered with more patches than one of Grandma Selma’s quilts.

  “Gary should be in there,” Wells said. “I’ve got a couple of things I’ve gotta do. Go on in. I’ll be back soon.”

  Wells opened the shed door and motioned for us to enter. I followed Grayson inside, glad to leave the set of Grogg vs the Deerosaur.

  After everything I’d just seen, I didn’t know what I’d expected to find inside the shack. I only knew that what I saw was definitely not one of the possibilities.

  The room was glowing neon green.

  I took a quick glance around. A hodge-podge of metal shelving units lined the wooden walls of the shed. Stacked on the shelves were thirty or so brightly lit aquariums. I didn’t see any fish. Instead, each tank seemed to glow emerald-green from the filmy water contained within it.

  My lip snarled in disgust. I pulled the red Tootsie Pop from my mouth and waved it at Grayson. “I’m not a hundred percent sure about this, but I think this may be where green flavoring comes from.”

  “Actually, spirulina is virtually flavorless,” a voice sounded behind us.

  I whirled around to see Operative Garth emerging from between the dirty, opaque-plastic flaps hanging over the back entryway.

  “Spiro Agnew?” I asked.

  “Spirulina,” Garth said. “Edible algae.”

  I grimaced. “Uh ... I’m no scientist, Garth, but I don’t think any algae is edible.”

  Grayson laughed. “People pay good money for it in health food stores, Pandora.”

  Garth gave a quick nod. “That’s right, Mr. Gray. But we don’t plan on selling it. Spirulina’s part of our alternative renewable foods program. ARF, for short.”

  I glanced around at the slimy aquariums. The thought of that gunk in my mouth made me want to ARF, all right.

  “Interesting idea,” Grayson said. “But why bother?”

  “Excellent question,” Garth said in a tone reminiscent of an evil genius. “Did you know that Florida’s got the fourth biggest population of all the states? If the food supply chain collapsed today, grocery store shelves would be empty within days. Hours, maybe. That’s why we’re working on growing our own renewable supply.”

  I sneered. “And you have the added bonus of never having to worry about thieves.”

  Grayson shot me a look, then turned to Garth. “I thought you were in charge of communications.”

  “I am. But since Rexel went missing, I got stuck taking over his projects.”

  Grayson glanced around. He looked impressed. “So, Rexel set all this up?”

  Garth nodded. “Yeah. I help him out sometimes. Keeping the tanks in balance is a lot of work. I didn’t want to see his latest batch go bad.”

  If it did, how could you tell?

  I slapped on a smile and tried to look less disgusted than I felt. “So, why algae, Garth?”

  Garth beamed. “Another excellent question, Pandora. Compared to growing crops, spirulina is a lot less labor intensive. And you don’t have to worry about GMO cross-pollination. Or the toxins and radioactive fallout that can happen with field crops.”

  I took a close look at one of the tanks and swallowed hard. “But ... I mean, how much of this stuff would you have to eat to survive?”

  Garth grinned proudly. “That’s the beauty of it. One and a half tablespoons of spirulina delivers all your daily vitamin needs.”

  Grayson nodded. “Impressive. But what about protein?”

  “Got that covered, too, Mr. Gray.” Garth grinned, then gestured like a snooty butler. “This way, if you please.”

  I followed the two men through the nasty plastic flaps of the back entryway. We emerged into an outdoor area sheltered from the sun by a loose, flappy roof made of white plastic draped over tall, wooden posts.

  A breeze caused the sheets of plastic to flap like dingy ghosts above a jumbled row of narrow, wooden boxes. The boxes themselves were all up on raised platforms constructed of chain-link fencing that had been laid out horizontally and nailed to meter-high sections of tree trunks.

  What the hell is in those boxes?

  As if reading my mind, Grayson eyed the makeshift operation and plucked the Tootsie Pop from his mouth.

  He turned to Garth. “So. What’s for dinner?”

  Garth licked his lips. “Let me show you.”

  He opened the wooden lid on one of the boxes and stuck a hand inside. When he pulled it out, his fist was covered in dirt as black and fine as coffee grounds. Between his fingers, a mass of reddish-pink creatures wriggled like spaghetti on LSD.

  “Earthworms,” Garth said with more enthusiasm than the word deserved. His blond eyebrows waggled above the dark frames of his glasses. “Six of these babies a day is all the protein you need.”

  My gut dropped four inches. “You’re kidding.”

  Garth grinned. “Nope. Algae and earthworms. Rexel says after the apocalypse, they’ll be the new pesto and pasta.”

  Forget Calgon. Chef Boyardee, take me away.

  I sucked hard on my Tootsi
e Pop, hoping to abate the heaving feeling rising up from my gut. I didn’t want to know, but couldn’t stop myself. I had to know.

  “How do they taste?” I asked. “I mean, really?”

  Garth shrugged. “Not that bad with a little A-1 Sauce. Here. Try one.” He plucked a squirming worm from his fist and held it toward me.

  “Uh ... no thanks.”

  I’d rather eat the soles of my shoes—after walking through a dog park.

  My stomach turned as Grayson plucked the worm from Garth’s hand and popped it into his mouth. He chewed it enthusiastically for a second, then his face puckered into a wince.

  “I hope you stockpiled a ton of A-1,” he coughed.

  I’d have laughed if I hadn’t been overcome by disgust. I turned to Garth. “That’s what you’re going to live on? Worms and algae?”

  Garth shook his head. “Of course not. You also need a bit of roughage. You know, to keep the system moving. Leaves, roots, bark. Anything non-poisonous will do the trick.”

  The look on my face snuffed out Garth’s glow of confidence. He toed the ground with his army boot. “If you don’t like that, there’s plenty of other choices.”

  I eyed him suspiciously. “Like what?”

  “Well, I don’t know all the specifics. Rexel was our entomophagy expert.”

  “Ento what?”

  Grayson elbowed me. “Expert on edible insects.”

  My skin squirmed with imaginary—and hopefully inedible—creepy crawlies. I whispered to Grayson out of the side of my mouth. “Do me a favor. If you ever hear of an impending apocalypse, just shoot me.”

  Grayson smirked. “Gladly.”

  I shot him some side-eye. Grayson cocked his head playfully. “What’s wrong with bugs, Drex? Insects are a nutritious, highly replenishable food source. Am I right, Garth?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Gray. Algae, insects, and worms. They’re all part of a healthy, balanced diet.”

  I nearly retched. “Yeah. If you’re a gecko. Thanks anyway, Garth. But I think I’ll go eat double-bacon cheeseburgers until I keel over.”