by Mark Scott
Chapter Seven
The Christmas lights that decorated the store front blinked in varying colors and cast shifting pools of tinted light upon the sidewalk. The little town square was crowded with holiday shoppers. They brushed past Martin with a smile or a hello. Martin reciprocated the nicety. He stopped and watched as a child pressed his face up against a window to gaze in wonder at a miniature train set buzzing thru a diminutive winter wonderland. The little boy would have to periodically change his position as his breath fogged up the glass. Martin's face slowly broke into a smile as he reflected on the wonders of his own childhood.
The air suddenly filled with the sounds of a band playing inside a large whitewashed gazebo. A line of carolers dressed in Victorian clothing wound their way down the narrow streets, singing God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Martin watched as his mind began to drift. He was thinking about how many hundreds of years this song was performed for Christmas. In his mind he contemplated the richness of western civilization and the astonishing fact that it was now under siege by a bunch of modern day barbarians. His thoughts were interrupted by a chorus of laughter from children as the streets began to fill with artificial snow. Martin slowly strolled down the sidewalk watching the kids play in the snow. A wonderfully seductive smell of food wafted through the chilled December air. Martin found the source of the Aroma, Antonio's restaurant. Martin stepped into the well-lit and warm building while brushing the flaky snow from his head and shoulders. The receptionist stood behind a podium.
"How many sir?"
"Just me, uhmm ...one."
"Very good sir, this way please." Martin followed him to a small table for two. "Your menu sir. Would you care for a beverage? Some wine perhaps?"
"Oh, no thank you, I have a long drive ahead of me tonight, just some ice water please."
"Very good sir. Your waiter will be along soon."
By the time Martin's food arrived, he was lost in thought. His mind was occupied with sorting out the unbelievable information presented to him on this very surreal day. Little did Martin know that it would get stranger yet. The fact that this Nation's own government sought to hide the true nature of the outbreak was particularly troubling. But Martin was almost relieved that the greed and self-service of the government was about to be addressed, surprisingly the looming revolt was not troubling to Martin.
He watched the people around him enjoying their meals. A young couple, perhaps on a date, leaned over the table and spoke in whispers. An older couple, obviously very comfortable with each other chit chatted at another table. A family of six sat across from Martin. He watched the youngest, perhaps three or four years of age, writhe and twist in her chair with the boundless energy that is endowed upon the very young. Bruce Martin sat picking at his food. He felt very isolated. Long suppressed emotions were surging in his psyche, demanding his attention. The horrific knowledge that he carried made him alone. Martin was surrounded by people enjoying life, oblivious to the invisible enemy that even now was sweeping across the country. Martin knew that in a measurement of days joy would be replaced with sorrow and fear as millions would succumb to this most cowardly and vile attack.
Martin found his way through the merriment back to his car. He drove out onto the Greenway that loops its way across the great urban sprawl of Orlando. He drove onto the beach line, a highway that shoots through the dark Florida swamps, straight as an arrow towards the coast. An hour later Martin was at the I-95 interchange but instead of heading south on the Interstate, Martin continued to drive east. He had spent many summers at his uncle's house in Cocoa Beach. Martin and his cousins enjoyed countless hours surfing, fishing and sailing. He had many fond memories of these summer days. Perhaps it was because he had thought of his childhood a lot that evening or perhaps it was because he had a subconscious inkling that he may never see Cocoa Beach again, but for whatever reason Bruce Martin found himself driving down highway A1A. The Cocoa Beach of today did not resemble the Cocoa Beach of nineteen seventy seven. The beach itself was hidden behind massive walls of condominiums. The once sleepy road of A1A was now spattered with the gaudy neon light of a cheesy tourist strip. Martin drove south until the lights faded. He was now in a residential area. It was the middle of the night and he found himself alone on the road. The stiff winter winds carried a misty salt spray across the barrier island. The spray was visible as a halo around the street lights. The heavy drifting mist gave the scene a dreamy ethereal effect. Martin began to recognize landmarks. He was getting close to his uncle's old house. So many years had passed that he was not sure of exactly where it was and then, he saw it.
The old two storied house materialized from the mist like a ghost conjured from the foggy recesses of Martin's memory. It seemed to be vacant. There were no cars in the driveway and no lights were on. The front door was sheltered by a small roof which projected out from the house. The downward angle of the roof made the house appear to be frowning. Two large and darkened windows on the second floor looked like two eyes staring sadly into the night. Perhaps the old house missed the good times, happy days whose passage was measured with the laughter of children.
Martin stopped in the middle of the street. He could see that the white paint was peeling and battered by the harsh island climate but the house looked just as Martin remembered it. In a flash the smells and sounds of this place flooded his mind. He pulled off of A1A and turned onto Fifteenth street south. Martin parked and stepped out into the thick air. The night was damp with sea breeze. The roar of the surf was accented with the smell of the ocean. This place had been sequestered deep in Martin's memory. He stood in the middle of the parking lot looking around as though he could not believe that his memories had materialized. "Fifteenth Street..." he said aloud. Martin walked across the parking lot and sat down on the wooden stairs that cross over the dunes. He sat on a step and just took it all in. The cool sticky spray washed across his face. The surf harmonized with the rustling fronds from the palms that grew around him. He could see the white lines of white water rolling in the darkened sea. The lights of a distant trawler blinked on the horizon. To his left Canaveral lighthouse swept the night. The twinkling yellow lights of the launch pads were visible on the Cape. Martin had spent countless hours of his youth on this very beach.
He sat staring out at the black Atlantic ocean. Memories of his childhood rolled over his mind like waves crashing upon the beach. A tide of memories flooded Martin's brain. He was swept away for many hours in thoughts of bygone years. As one hour became two and then three, Bruce Martin wrestled with old demons and rediscovered long lost allies. The memory of his beloved father's death seared his heart. There was anger at an emotionless mother who remarried for money just months after his father's demise. Martin remembered with embarrassment how his mother simply gave him over to his uncle to raise when she left for Switzerland with her new husband. Martin wondered about his Aunt. His uncle had passed away some years previous but he had heard that his aunt was still alive and living in a small northern Indiana town. He had heard nothing from his three cousins with whom he had grown up. He had not spoken to his mother in over twenty years and he wondered if she was even still alive. Bruce Martin did not fit in anywhere. He was utterly alone. But the memory of a kind and loving father soothed his troubled soul. Martin reflected on the Sunday ritual of church and the lessons that he learned there. This welled up in Martin and gave him strength and comfort. He recited the Lord's Prayer. Bruce Martin was rediscovering who he really was; as though Martin's soul had come staggering out of a dungeon and into the blinding light of day.
It was the first light of dawn that snapped Martin out of his trance. The sky grew steadily brighter with a golden light. People began to stir. A jogger ran by, close to the water's edge. Two elderly women nodded a greeting as they power walked past Martin. He heard a car pull into the parking lot behind him. He turned around to see two young surfers removing their boards from the car. "Morning", they said as they walked down the steps and onto the beach. O
nce again the thought of the bug and the approaching storm weighed heavy on his mind.
"Morning Bruce."
Martin was startled by a stranger's voice. "Who are you?" he asked incredulously.
The stranger stuck out his hand in greeting. "Alex, Alex Hidell." Martin did not move to shake his hand. "Now Bruce, that's not very friendly. I was hoping that we could be friends." Martin suddenly recognized him. A bolt of fear shot through him replaced almost immediately with a surge of anger. "You're that guy from the hospital, the guy who's been following me."
"Yea, I'm sorry about your doctor friend, that's a really nasty bug." Hidell jumped up onto the handrail to sit. "That's kinda what I need to talk to you about."
How do you know me, how did you know that I was here?" said Martin as he stood up.
"It's my job Bruce; you are kinda like my latest assignment."
"Who do you work for? You a writer?"
"Now Bruce," said Hidell with a half chuckle, "surely you know that I cannot divulge that. Let's just say that I represent a kind of governmental special interest group and leave it at that."
"So you work for the government?"
The stranger slipped down off of the handrail and stood directly across from Martin. Hidell lowered his voice into a menacing tone and leaned forward closer to Martin while completely ignoring his last question. "It would be in your best interest just to forget about this bug and go about your business."
Martin felt fear beginning to stir within him. But the fear was only momentary. For Bruce Martin felt his Father's steady hand on his shoulder. When Martin answered the threat it was with confidence and in a tone that was filled with disdain. "I'm going to write the story and expose all that I have learned. People need to know, people need to know what they're up against so that we can stop this thing."
"Maybe I underestimated you Bruce. I had you figured for just another wormy journalists. Ya know Bruce, write your story if you must, but why divulge where it came from? This thing was here ninety years ago naturally and who's to say it can't happen again. Think of the panic that a story like that will create when people are told that they are under a biological attack that is going to kill millions of them. All I'm asking for is the omission of one minor detail. The virus is here, why does it matter where it came from?"
"People need to know the truth."
"Ahhh...Bruce, c'mon now, you're so naïve! Surely, you know better than most that the truth is subject to interpretation! The truth changes man! The Truth! Ha! That's such a ludicrous word. Tell me Bruce, be a typical journalist and enlighten me please! Tell me what the truth is! Do you know for sure where this bug came from?"
"Well, not personally, I mean I have no personal knowledge but the facts point towards an attack."
"An attack? A bunch of paranoid hawks told you it was an attack."
"I saw the guy on the boat blow himself up! I have talked with the first victims' families...even now a lot of people are getting sick....it's obvious what is going on."
The relatively amiable disposition of Alex Hidell suddenly turned dark and threatening. "You're a fool! And you'll soon wish that you had listened to me! You'll pay dearly if you're stupid enough to go through with this."
"Pay? Yeah, like poor Steve?"
Alex stared coldly at Martin for a moment before speaking again. "You pose a certain amount of risk to me Bruce. A challenge if you will. I can't take the easiest means of neutralization...I can't just kill you. These things must be done delicately; you've spoken to far too many people about this. But make no mistake you will be dealt with in short order. My organization is the best in the world...hell we are the world. We pulled a coup off in broad daylight in front of the whole world in the most powerful nation on Earth and got away with it! Do you think some punk like you is going to stop us?"
Martin looked his nemesis squarely in the eye as he spoke, "You do what you have to do and I'll do what I have to do." Martin had come to accept that his survival was sketchy at best.
"Very well," said Hidell as he motioned to a car in the parking lot. The large brown sedan rolled slowly up to the crossover. The windows were darkly tinted just like the car Martin saw in the seafood market's parking lot. Alex got in and the car pulled away. Martin noticed a strange sticker on the car's rear bumper. The sticker read, "Goldwater in '64." Martin burned it into his memory.
Martin sat in his car and rubbed his eyes. It had been over twenty four hours since he had last slept and he still had three hours of driving ahead of him. Martin found his way back onto the interstate. He was nearly asleep behind the wheel when the shrill tones of his cell phone snapped him out of his highway stupor.
"Hello?"
"Bruce...its Ray. Where are you? You OK?"
"I'm on ninety five just north of Fort Pierce."
"I was getting worried about you man, my buddy called and said it was very productive. That's all I should say, he warned me that people will be listening."
"Yeah, I just met one of those people...very disturbing."
"Oh Yea? Well listen you be careful, we'll get together when ya get back. I'm interested to hear what went down."
"Alright see ya later Ray, thanks for everything."
"Later."
Martin called an associate at the paper.
"City desk."
"Mike...its Bruce."
"Hey man, what's up? The scuttle butt is that you're on a really hot one! True?"
"Very true!"
"Cool."
"Listen man, I'm on the road, can you do some research for me?"
"Sure, whatcha got?"
"See what you can find on a guy named Alex Hidell...maybe a government type. Also a bumper sticker with the words Goldwater in 64."
"Right man, ya got it."
"Great ya can Get back with ya soon."
Martin drove for another hour before the phone rang again.
"Hello."
"Bruce...Mike. I have your info. Ready?"
"Shoot."
"Alex Hidell that was an alias of Lee Harvey Oswald. The bumper sticker was seen on two different cars in and around Dealy Plaza on November twenty second in sixty three."
"That's creepy man, I talked to this guy who was like a spook type...basically threatened me and said his name was Alex Hidell. The car that picked him up had the Goldwater bumper sticker"
"Weird, maybe these guys weren't legit, just messin' with ya."
"No they were real enough. Listen man thanks again. I'll see ya around the office."
Then Martin turned up his radio. The Ten Years After song "I'd Love to Change the World" was playing. Martin turned it up.