by William Bebb
“Come on, big boy. You're going with me,” Mendez said, holding the dog's collar and leading him to the SUV.
Frodo stood on the passenger seat as she climbed behind the wheel.
After making sure the police couldn't see, she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small digital camera with the word Fulton written on the back in black ink.
*****
Agent Hicks checked his pockets for a breath mint or gum but only found a few coins and some lint. The taste of vomit filled his mouth and he felt steadily worse while driving back the way he'd come when following the ambulance earlier. He stopped in the parking lot of a boarded up gas station and checked the glove box and found it stuffed with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of gasoline receipts but no gum or mints. Opening the door, he leaned out and spit some foul tasting saliva on the ground.
As he shut the door, his stomach rumbled unhappily and he slowly realized something important. He wasn't actually certain where he was. Looking up and down the two lane county road he saw pine trees standing along the sides and some sort of unidentifiable road kill which was giving off an unpleasant aroma.
He slammed his fist against the top of the dashboard out of frustration and dust billowed up, filling the small car. Holding his breath, he reached for the window crank and saw the bit of jagged metal where he'd accidentally snapped it off earlier.
“Damn it!” He yelled before coughing on the dust filled air.
Climbing out of the car, he inhaled the rich fragrance of pine trees and rotting road kill before spitting again. I really hate this; ALL of this! He thought, while savagely kicking the Pinto's front fender. I hate the south! It's overflowing with inbred rednecks! Plus, there's fat naked trailer trash pot heads stuck in bathtubs! I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!
He'd been busily kicking the car repeatedly and didn't hear the man in the truck the first time he'd hollered. “Hey mister! You okay!?” A middle aged man yelled, again. He was driving an old truck with a refrigerator and bed mattresses tied down in the back. Four kids, none older than seven, were in the back bouncing on the mattresses and laughing.
“Piss off!” Hicks yelled back.
The driver shot him a bird and drove off.
Then, remembering a little too late that he was still lost, he yelled, “Hey wait, wait!”
The truck's tires spun as the driver quickly left him behind in a cloud of car exhaust and dust.
Coughing and swearing, Hicks went to the passenger side and opened the door. He turned the window crank and miraculously the window opened.
A squirrel that had been on the roof of the gas station for the last couple of minutes watched as Hicks went back around to the driver side and got behind the wheel. Beside the squirrel, a roach jumped and fell through the car's open window as Hicks started the engine. The bug quickly crawled under the dashboard as the car sped off. The squirrel watched for a few more seconds before turning and running away.
*****
Anniston could hear several college kids laughing and talking while they worked to disguise his mobile retirement home but his attention for the last thirty minutes had been focused only on the TV hanging on the wall of his bedroom. He'd learned several interesting things, yet whatever else the aliens were they were stubborn and frustrating when it came to the central question he'd asked several times in different ways. Why are you here on Earth?
He considered what little they'd hinted at regarding their presence as he sipped from a cup of tea. Research of the human race. It was a reasonable statement, as far as it went, but he felt there was something more that whoever he was communicating with would not divulge.
He pointed out that despite people's various complexities and absurdities they were hardly secretive. A few days spent on the internet would offer a neatly packaged look at a huge landscape of almost every aspect of humanity. Ranging from a disturbingly large range of pornographic deviancy to almost any of the schools of higher learning and everything imaginable along the way.
No, Anniston decided, there was something else that his new friend would not address.
He'd been shown a video that answered all his questions regarding the Pinson explosion. At the climactic moment, when the woman slammed down the heavy wooden cutting board, he'd been so immersed that he almost screamed when she doomed the tiny rovers as well as herself and people for miles around. The perspective of the video made him feel how small they were in a land filled with giant humans.
The closest he could come to imagining their viewpoint would be if he were inexplicably cast back to the age of dinosaurs. He shuddered as he envisioned himself trying to survive while enormous lizards stomped around looking for a meal. Whatever else these visitors may be, he decided, they were phenomenally brave or fearless living in a land filled with lumbering giants such as himself.
Of all the things he'd seen them write on the TV screen, it was in answer to his question “Why come forward to me?” that he felt equally doubtful of their sincerity and undeniably honored. They explained in their society the eldest were considered the most intelligent and wise.
From that viewpoint, he made a most sensible candidate considering he had been the oldest human they'd encountered. It made sense but he still had a nagging doubt.
He looked at the TV. It had been empty of words since he'd asked for a break to consider what they'd said so far. Finishing his tea, he cleared his throat and recognized an idea that had been scratching at the back of his mind since they'd first started communicating with him. With effort he pushed the thought away and considered his options, while asking, “Are you there?”
Instantly, one word appeared on the TV screen, 'Yes'
“Do you have a name? So far, you've used the word we, rather than I. Are you individuals like humans or something more like a collective?”
The screen remained black for several seconds and he wondered if he'd made some sort of intergalactic faux pas before words once more filled the screen.
'Our species does not have individualism in the way humanity does. That is not to say we are a collective mentality precisely but we are much more alike than not. For example, the concept of murder amongst ourselves does not exist. It would be akin to you wanting to kill your arm. Many human ideals are so alien to us that we have reached an impasse regarding the ultimate fate of mankind.'
Uh oh, he thought, rereading the last sentence. Rubbing his chin slowly he tried to not panic. “Excuse me. I haven't slept for quite awhile, maybe it's just fatigue, but that last phrase about mankind's ultimate fate concerns me greatly. Is that a threat?”
The screen remained blank for nearly a minute before words again started to appear.
'We do not make threats. There are a number of issues that relate to the fate of humanity; we are but one of them. The other two of greatest import include the non humans living amongst you and humanity's tendency toward idiocy in general. Our problem of coexistence with humanity is simple.
Imagine you lived on a tropical island where there is plentiful food, water, and no dangers from wildlife. It would be a paradise except many other inhabitants do idiotic and damaging things to the island that threaten your life.
A small amount of idiocy would not necessarily threaten you but an alarming growth of it would. If you could not change the idiots and could not leave the island you would have a choice. Allow them to destroy you and the island or remove them from the equation.'
With so much to take in, the old man leaned back and retrieved his smoking pipe and pouch of tobacco. He lit the pipe and considered how to proceed. Puffing meditatively, he was about to speak when there was a knock on his door.
The TV screen turned off and Dr. Anniston was sort of glad for the interruption.
“Yes, come in.”
“Sorry to bother you, but I smelled smoke and wanted to talk with you if you don't mind,” Trevor said, standing in the doorway.
“That's quite alright. I was just thinking.”
“Would yo
u like to see what Black Beauty looks like now?” Trevor asked, with a slight smile.
“Yes, I think stretching my legs for a bit might be a good idea,” he said, standing and walking to the open door while staring at the dark TV screen. He shook his head while recalling a film he'd seen countless times, including a version of it that was modified somewhat by a comedy group called Mystery Science Theater 3000; This Island Earth.
CHAPTER NINE: Perverts and pigs
Amalia turned off the TV in her office. She was sick of the seemingly endless parade of injured, dead and grieving civilians on the news channels. Sirens could be heard in the distance near the barricades. Ambulances and cars were still ferrying the wounded to area hospitals. A rumor was going around that it had been Wilcox who had ordered the tear gas to be used. If it turned out to be true, she'd add that to the long list of reasons to hate him.
General Heller called her after the hastily organized press conference where he'd made a sincere apology for what happened. She crossed the parking lot to the general's field headquarters which consisted of several interconnected double wide trailers in front of the Pig's Pride supermarket. Two soldiers watching the front door checked her identification before allowing her entrance.
Several old metal desks filled nearly all of the main room. A small path wandered through the desks. Sitting at all but one were harried looking young soldiers who were addressing calls from all over.
There was a senator would not believe General Heller had left and angrily demanded to speak to him. Reporters and local police departments took up the attention of the rest of the communication department with requests for information.
Even as Amalia worked her way through the narrow path, the phones continued to ring while the soldiers tried to deal with the aftermath of the unprecedented civilian tragedy. On the other side of the room, Amalia saw a sergeant who was furiously chewing on an unlit cigar while beating savagely at a computer keyboard. A small placard on his desk identified him as the information officer. He ignored her when Amalia stood in front of him. She waited for almost a minute before speaking up. “I need to see Colonel Hussein.”
“He's busy. I'm busy. We're all very busy today. Try back tomorrow,” he said, without looking up.
“I understand that but this is important.”
The sergeant grunted and finally looked up. Amalia was holding open her federal identification card and smiling her most shark-like grin. “I'd appreciate your help sergeant. I really need to see him, now.”
Taking the cigar out of his mouth, he rubbed at his chin and looked uncertain. “I could call and see if he can spare a few minutes. But he left word not to bother him.”
“If he has a problem with you interrupting him, I'll take the blame. Just make the call,” Amalia said, dropping her shark grin.
“Yes ma'am.”
The phone rang and Colonel Wilcox nearly screamed.
Despite Aswan being securely tied up in the high backed leather chair, his nerves were scraped raw. Wilcox had found a long extension power cord in the closet and wrapped it tightly around Aswan's legs, arms, and torso. He looked at his inhuman face and wondered how far up in the government they'd infiltrated and who or what exactly 'they' were.
Aswan's curly dark hair and basic shape of his head had remained unchanged when he'd been knocked out. But it was his face that disturbed Wilcox most deeply. He'd seen a lot of ugly people over the course of his life, even a few with noses similar to pigs but never one who looked like a full fledged swine before. When he placed a gag in Aswan's mouth he was careful not to touch the long wickedly sharp looking tusks he had.
He was tempted to just kill him but fought down the temptation as he considered conducting an interrogation. He'd been working on what questions to ask when the phone rang.
Glancing at the small screen on the phone, he saw it was the information officer who was calling. Wilcox tried to imitate Aswan's voice when he picked up. “What do you want? I said I was busy and not to be disturbed,” Wilcox said in a bad impression that sounded like a combination of a New Delhi technical support operator and a falsetto feminine voice.
He listened and made noncommittal grunting sounds where appropriate as he listened.
Trust was not a characteristic Wilcox had ever been accused of having an overabundance of. Amalia may not be in on this conspiracy but if she is who can I trust? There's got to be someone but who?
He told the information officer to have her come back in an hour and hung up. Wilcox turned back to Aswan and saw his piggy pink eyes staring back with undeniable hatred.
Wilcox smiled and whispered, “So, you're the swine they got to replace me?”
*****
The crowds had swollen as noon approached. People were everywhere around the dealership parking lot and almost everyone was eating at least one hotdog. Children were being given balloon animals that the receptionist dressed as a clown made. She wasn't a trained nor licensed balloon sculptor and as a result most of the animals were snakes or worms, but the kids were happy nonetheless.
WRAG's party van was parked by a small stage and Howling Harry, the radio station's weekday morning personality, was doing a live remote while handing out bumper stickers and promotional hats to people who lined up for the 'privilege' of meeting him. The large speakers on top of the van played out a steady stream of classic rock and roll; the majority of which had a car or driving motif.
The grills, over by the maintenance department, were roasting up a veritable hot dog feast as the aroma drifted across the crisp fall air. A few people had fallen ill with cramps and nausea early on and since then Sonny James had ordered the hotdogs to be cooked to an almost burnt consistency. The reason was simple.
He knew the hot dogs could make people sick if not well cooked.
Standing on the small stage wearing a large red apron, Sonny looked over a sheet of sales figures and smiled. After only three hours they'd sold seven cars.
A salesman offered him a hotdog and Sonny laughed while shaking his head and patting his belly explaining that he had to watch his girlish figure. The truth was he was starving but wouldn't dare eat any of them.
A business friend who owned the Happy Hog Slaughterhouse and processing plant had provided him with the hot dogs, almost 10,000 of them, at almost no cost.
Earlier that month a federal safety inspector had denied the wieners certification to be sold. Some of them had been discovered to have traces of E-Coli and Salmonella. The inspector suggested that they could be donated to a charity or given away if the recipients were warned to fully cook them.
The owner was unhappy about the idea of giving away almost perfectly good hot dogs. It wasn't until his teenage son had brought up the subject of getting him a car that inspiration struck.
Sonny had promised not to mention where the hotdogs came from and received them in exchange for an extremely good deal on a used Buick. He wasn't worried about the possibility of a few people getting a stomach virus. After all, people get what they pay for and considering the hot dogs were free his conscience was clear.
He smiled down as a fat kid waddled by with three hot dogs- two in one hand and the third quickly disappearing into his mouth.
Sonny waved at WRAG's Howling Harry, as he walked to the microphone on the stage, and Harry nodded back. The speakers stopped playing classic rock and a few seconds of feedback whined out as Sonny cleared his throat and put on his most sincere smile.
“Howdy folks! As some of you may know, my name is Sonny James and I just wanted to thank you all for coming out and visiting us today. We still have plenty of hotdogs so please eat up!”
Some in the crowd cheered and wandered toward the grills as Sonny continued. “I'm so happy you could all come by today. A while ago I was talking to Bubba Joe, he's one our crackerjack mechanics, and he made a suggestion I wanted to run by you folks,” he lied with practiced ease. “Those folks over in Palmerdale and Pinson have been hurting something awful since those cowardly terr
orists set off that bomb last week and I wanted to show how much we here in Ragland care.
Bubba Joe suggested we have a contest and the winner gets this like-new 1985 Yugo,” he said, making a grand sweeping gesture to an old car in front of the stage. “It's a fine, gas sipping, low mileage, car and today we're going to practically be giving it away. For just five dollars, most of which will be going to the disaster relief fund, you can have a chance to guess how many coffee beans are in the water cooler jug that my secretary Angie is bringing up to the stage right now.”
A rather pretty girl in her mid twenties walked up on stage.
Nearly all the men and teenage boys in the crowd cheered when they saw she was wearing cut off blue jeans shorts and a tight red T-shirt with the words Sonny James Used Cars Where We Treat YOU Like Family written on it. She carried a large see through plastic jug half filled with coffee beans and smiled down at the crowd.
“Angie will be up here on stage while I go chow down on a few more yummy hot dogs. Give her your five dollar donation to get a slip of paper and write down your guess on how many beans are in the jar. The closest guess wins the car. And remember you're being a good neighbor, whether you win or lose, because helping out God's children in a time of need is always rewarded one way or another.” Sonny looked down briefly and wiped at the corner of his bone dry eye before concluding with, “God Bless America, and God Bless all of you, my friends and neighbors.”
Howling Harry rejoined regular programming and Don McLean’s American Pie drifted across the parking lot as Sonny smiled and went back inside thinking, I couldn't sell that damn car in seven years. And today not only will it be gone, but if just a couple hundred people pay to take a guess I'll actually be making a few bucks. God Bless America.
Thomas McGee was eating his fourth hotdog as he lined up for a chance to guess how many coffee beans were in the jar. A tired looking woman stood in front of him and held the hands of two young children.