The Tiniest Invaders, Book One Coexistence

by William Bebb

  After getting him into his room and laid out on the bed, he finally recognized the song the old man was brutally murdering-Billy Joel's She's got a way.

  *****

  The gun fired twice before Aswan tackled Wilcox. The first shot hit the ceiling and the second shattered a window. Both would have found their mark had Amalia not hit him with the metallic briefcase she'd found on General Heller's desk.

  Aswan seemed unfazed as he landed on top of Wilcox and knocked him against the wall.

  Amalia dropped the briefcase and turned around as the men wrestled behind the desk. Scooping up her gun, she jacked a bullet in the chamber and started to turn back when she heard two more shots. She saw the first one shatter the big screen TV and felt the other hit her in the upper back. Falling to the floor, she heard the men continuing to fight as she tried to roll over.

  The sound suppressor on Wilcox's gun was nearly silent for the first few shots, but the last one that hit Amalia was nearly at regular volume.

  She looked back and saw Wilcox, his face badly scratched, continuing to fire at Aswan. Each shot grew louder and by the last one the suppressor no longer worked at all.

  In great pain, she lifted her gun and tried to aim at Wilcox. She was having trouble seeing straight and was afraid she'd pass out. Struggling to focus, she pulled the trigger.

  Wilcox was scared. He saw Aswan smiling as he felt his fingers clamping down around his throat. His feet left the floor and his lungs yearned for air as he was lifted up.

  Aswan squeezed tighter while alarmed voices in the hallway came closer. Shouts and pounding fists outside the door were drowned out when Amalia fired her gun from where she lay on the floor.

  The shot hit Aswan in the back of his head.

  As Wilcox vision began to fade out with flashes of bright red stars, Aswan's head exploded like a watermelon dropped from the roof of a tall building. Falling to the floor, Wilcox gulped air and coughed as he crawled to the desk. Louder voices, outside the door calling for an ax made him focus.

  Aswan's headless body was strewn over the desk as blood ran down the side and into a plastic trashcan. He saw Amalia lying unconscious or maybe dead on the floor and heard someone outside shouting, “Get out of the way, I've got an ax!”

  He glanced at the bloody bodies and the gun in his hand and realized leaving might be an excellent tactical move. Turning to the shattered window, he saw Aswan's metallic briefcase and paused long enough to scoop it up and set it on the desk.

  A solid whacking sound of the ax on the wooden door encouraged him to hurry. Remembering how Aswan had done it, he placed the headless man's fingers along the case's top edge. There was a soft click sound. Lifting the top, he saw the gray cube that looked like glass or crystal. Not willing to touch it with his hand, he lifted it out with the fabric of General Heller's overcoat, which he'd left on the back of his chair. Wrapping the cube in the coat, he heard another loud whack sound as a long strip of wood flew out of the door and twirled end over end across the room. He spotted a bloody manila folder that General Heller had left for Aswan and remembered his arrest papers were in it. Grabbing the folder, he turned and saw shards of very sharp looking glass in the window frame but didn't pause to think about it as he dove outside.

  Private First Class Dwight Sandberg sat in a Hummer, watching in fascination as across the parking lot military police swarmed around the command post trailers. He lit a cigarette and listened as the radio buzzed with confused chatter. Exhaling smoke, he wondered what had happened that required medics in the command post. Not that he felt it was any of his business, since he was about to go off duty anyway. It had been a long hideous day and all he could really think about was going to the junior high school for some rest.

  His unit and two others had established a temporary barracks there. It had showers, a gym, a library of sorts, and part of the cafeteria was set aside for movies to be shown.

  Whoever picked those movies should be shot, Dwight thought, as he watched an ambulance pull up to the command post and two orderlies jump out and run in carrying some equipment.

  Not that the movies were bad, per se, just really old. He actually sort of enjoyed watching John Wayne in Big Jake, but all the movies were like that. Most were made before he'd even been born. And a couple of them were (hard to believe but true) in black and white.

  Aside from the movie selection the only other problem with Rudd Junior High School was the food. Or the things that were being served up in the cafeteria they were assured actually was food.

  He heard his partner open the passenger side door and hoped he didn't forget the apple pies again. Finches fast food wasn't great but a hamburger from there at least smelled and tasted like real food, which was more than he could say for Rudd's cafeteria.

  When his buddy showed up with the food, he decided to drive around behind the command post for the exit since the front was blocked by ambulances and other emergency vehicles.

  Driving slowly, they passed several closed stores and he wondered when things would ever get back to normal. Going over a speed bump he saw a man sized shadow dodge behind a small portable storage building. It was dusk and difficult tell who it was until the headlights exposed him as he made the turn out of the parking lot.

  He saw him from behind but recognized Colonel Wilcox who was running quickly between some other storage buildings. Idly wondering what was up, Sandberg shrugged as he turned for the junior high school. That guy's a nut. Maybe I should give that Armstrong lady a call and tell her about it, he thought, inhaling deeply the enticing aroma of French fries and hamburgers.

  *****

  Agent Hicks was growing impatient. That hotdog should have made him sick by now, he thought, trudging forward while rain splattered down through the trees thoroughly soaking him. His forehead felt feverish and his legs were growing weaker by the minute as he walked slower. He wondered how far the jackass with his gun and the sharpened stick was going to walk.

  It was difficult to judge how far they'd walked, but his guess was at least three miles. The growing dark wasn't making progress any better either, but it did offer Hicks a hope that he might yet turn the tables on his captor.

  “Hold up, stinky,” Orlando said, in a hushed voice behind him.

  Hicks stopped and grabbed onto a pine tree before looking up from the ground he'd been watching as he walked. A brightly lit house was about a hundred feet away. He looked at the windows and saw that blinds covered most of them.

  “Okay, walk slowly and quietly forward. Let's see if they have any room at the Inn for a couple of weary travelers,” Orlando said, none too gently poking him with his stick.

  Behind the house they found a small wooden garage. The door was standing open and a light was on inside. Orlando had his prisoner stop and looked inside while still several yards away. After a few moments, a loud thunder clap scared him so much he almost accidentally shot him. If nothing else, it's got to be drier in there that out here, he thought, before whispering, “Let's go in there, buddy; Quietly.” He emphasized the word quietly with another poke of his stick.

  I'm gonna shove that friggin stick up his ass. I don't even care if I get shot doing it, I'm sick of this shit, Hicks thought, as he crossed the wet muddy yard.

  “You go in first but don't get cute. With all the thunder no one would hear a shot if I had to kill you,” Orlando hissed.

  Hicks moved to the doorway and saw the small building was deserted. There were piles of junk and a lawn mower, but unfortunately no handy axes or sling blades he could use on his 'friend'. He walked inside and looked back over his shoulder. The kid, still pointing the gun at him, looked suspiciously at the interior for a few seconds before following him partly inside.

  Orlando saw the dimly lit room had a bare light bulb hanging in the center over a rafter. He looked at the walls and saw there were no windows. In spite of killing the deputy earlier, he wasn't in any hurry to kill the agent.

  There were two reasons for this. One, the depu
ty had been blocking his escape route and been armed. And secondly his hostage was unarmed, handcuffed, and potentially valuable. The walls seemed solid enough to hold him. But he felt a little insurance couldn't hurt.

  “Okay Hicks, I'm going to give you your keys. You're going to unlock one handcuff and then lock your arms around that wooden post over by the lawn mower, just like with the tree. Then toss me the keys and I won't have to shoot you.”

  Hicks looked at the thick wooden post and his eyes moved up and down its length. It was cemented into the ground and nailed to the rafters overhead. A slight shadowy form above almost made him react, but with effort he managed not to. He looked at the kid with the gun and nodded his head while moving to the post.

  With the gun still pointed at him, Orlando dropped the set of keys into his hand.

  Hicks released his right hand and while staring at the gun, he slowly latched the cuff again after hugging the post. Tossing the key ring back, he held his breath and hoped.

  “That's real good, buddy. Now if you'd be a pal and tighten that handcuff down just a smidge tighter, I'll be letting you get some rest,” Orlando said, smiling.

  Damn it, Hicks thought, as he clenched the cuff tighter.

  “Good job. Now you just relax and have a granola bar,” Orlando said, tossing a small foil wrapped package at his feet. “You deserve it. Now be a good boy and go to sleep.” Laughing softly, he shut and padlocked the door from outside.

  Hicks heard the man doing something outside the door for a few seconds before he sloshed away through the yard but held a finger to his lips as soon as he had closed the door. Looking up at the shadowy figure in the rafters, he whispered, “Shh.”

  Whoever it was didn't respond and he wondered if it was a person at all. He didn't hear any sign of his captor as the rain continued to beat down on the roof and sighed in disgust looking around the small shed. The riding lawn mower was almost an antique and several rusty kerosene lanterns were hung on the wall near the door. The rest of the garage seemed to consist mainly of cardboard boxes in several stacks as far as he could see. His feet hurt and his shoes felt like they were full of water.

  He started to lift his right foot to slip off the shoe when he spotted a small snake a few inches long coming around the corner of a box. From the bad lighting conditions, all he could be certain of was that it was a snake and it was slithering quickly toward him.

  *****

  Allison awoke in darkness as cold rain soaked her. Her head was aching and the rain sounded muffled as she rolled over on her side.

  “Hello, Miss Candace? Are you out here?” She called out as she got to her hands and knees. She smelled burnt pine mixed with barbequed meat and something else she couldn't immediately identify. It was slightly bitter and made her eyes water. Managing to get one knee up she tried to stand only to fall back partly on the grass and partly on something soft. She swore under her breath as she reached into her jeans and fished out her lighter. Flicking the small wheel several times before giving up, she was about to put it back in her pocket when a flash of lightning illuminated her surroundings. Though only lit for a moment she remembered everything clearly.

  The news van was still there, but its lights were all dark. In front of it, a melted smoking hunk of plastic stood on the tripod where the camera had been. It wasn't until the lightning was fading that she looked at what she was laying on.

  WBIR's number one reporter, for lighter side news stories, had done her last broadcast. Her eye sockets were empty and overflowing with rainwater. The lovely, twice monthly dyed, blonde hair was burned to a crispy black consistency as small tendrils of smoke drifted up through the rain. Her stretched open lips were badly burnt and through them the very expensive capped teeth now resembled nothing more than small black pebbles.

  The deserted road and woods just outside of Ragland echoed with a long series of screams until Allison finally, mercifully, fell into unconsciousness.

  *****

  “My gal's a corker, she's a New Yorker. I buy her everything to keep her in style. She's got a pair of leg's just like two whiskey kegs. Yeah boys, that's where my money goes.” Drifted the singing stylings of a very inebriated James Anniston, from his room.

  Even with his door closed, his singing was loud and clear as Alice finally finished stowing the groceries and climbed up to the front passenger seat.

  Trevor glanced at her and saw the worried expression she was trying to hide. “Alice, you have to believe me, I swear he's never done anything like this before. It's totally out of character for him to do something like this,” Trevor said, joining the slow moving flow of traffic.

  “Did you see his hand?” She asked, shaking her head. “It looks like it's broken. I saw it when I helped him out of his wet clothes. He yelped when I slid his shirt off over it, but when I asked him about it he just gave me that dopey grin and started singing again. We have to get him to a doctor.”

  “We must have missed something important. Remember how distracted he was earlier? He knows something, and for him to polish off almost half a bottle of brandy, it has can't be anything good,” he said, driving back toward the interstate.

  “We have to get him to a doctor,” she repeated.

  “I know, but- Shit!” He swore, as traffic stopped again.

  A few hundred feet ahead, at an intersection, a police car was parked next to a military Hummer. Both vehicles had their emergency lights flashing as MP's and police stopped cars, apparently checking ID's.

  “Is it Wilcox?” She asked, in a quiet voice that trembled slightly.

  He nodded and looked for a place to turn off before the intersection, but there was nowhere to go. Grabbing one of the three gaudy green and white hats with a small stuffed dragon on top he placed it on his head.

  “Put on your hat and look happy,” he said, as traffic started to move forward.

  “But, they've got the RV's license plates. We're screwed,” Alice said, holding and looking at the hat with the grinning dragon sitting on top.

  “You have very little faith, Katie O'Brien. That's you name by the way. If they ask for your ID just say it's packed in the luggage somewhere. By the way, I'm Sean O'Brien your beloved husband for the last twenty five years.”

  “I married you when I was fifteen? I think that's illegal, even in Alabama. And what about the license plates?”

  “Listen to me. I worked in British Intelligence for almost two decades before we had a falling out. Avoiding entanglements with police, anywhere in the world, is something I've developed a knack for over the years.

  I changed the license plates earlier today, while you and the old man were chatting at the park, right after we left the unforgettable courtesy of Colonel Wilcox. Since you were with us I chose an alias of husband and wife, namely the O’Brien’s. We live in Hunstville Alabama and are here visiting our daughter who's attending UAB.

  But if they run the plates we're still screwed.” He exhaled sharply and smiled in a confused and harmless way as he rolled closer to the checkpoint. The officers and soldiers were all staring at Black Beauty as it came slowly forward.

  “You were a secret agent?” Alice/Katie asked, smiling at the men shining bright lights in her face.

  “Not now honey, let's see what we can do for the nice men.”

  “Yes dear.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE: Hookers and autopsies

  Sitting on the hard sweat covered toilet seat, Thomas sighed in disgust and pain. He removed the cap on the bottle of pink medicine and swigged back another shot of the gooey foul tasting liquid.

  In the TV commercials, the smiling spokesman always promised instant relief from stomach upset but Thomas still felt absolutely miserable. He'd lost track of how long he'd been in the bathroom. All that he was sure of was that his legs had fallen asleep. Staring at the window as thunder and lightning competed for his attention, Thomas felt as bored as he did sick.

  While trying again to read the nearly microscopic print on the pink bottle's label,
he heard someone knocking on the front door. Wishing he'd left it unlocked, Thomas quickly stood and promptly fell against the wall. He stomped his feet while pulling up his pants as he struggled down the hallway.

  When he remembered his shotgun was still leaning in the corner of the bathroom, Thomas stopped in the middle of the living room and yelled, “Who's out there?”

  A voice shouted back through the door, “Agent Hicks, FBI! Open up, we're looking for a scum bagged named Orlando Duprat.”

  The old man walked to the door, looked through the peep hole and saw Hick's ID. He sighed in relief and opened the door.

  Before he had time to step back, the door flew open knocking him to the floor. The old man shouted in shock and pain as he crashed onto the hardwood. There was a solid thunk sound as the back of his head hit the floor. In shock and barely able to focus, he stared up at the escaped criminal who was pointing a big gun at him.

  “Hiya grandpa!” Orlando shouted with a big smile on his face, before slamming the door shut and locking it.

  “You're Duprat. Oh God, please don't hurt me,” Thomas said in a trembling voice.

  “Wouldn't dream of it, gramps. So, who else is home? You got any babes hiding around here?” Orlando asked, walking past the old man sprawled on the floor and looking down the hallway.

  “It's just me here. What do you want? I don't have any money or anything.”

  “You worry too much. You know that? I'll tell you what, you just keep laying down there and let me take a quick peek around. If you were telling the truth about no one else being here I won't have to stick this gun up your saggy ass and do something you wouldn't like,” Orlando said, before winking and continuing, “Or would you?”

  Thomas felt the back of his head and looked at his blood covered fingers. Oh dear Jesus, I'm going to die, he thought, lowering his head back against the hardwood floor and remained still and silent as Duprat went down the hallway whispering, “Come out, come out wherever you are.”