“So,” said Jono, “we fix the tires, get back on the road.” “Back,” said Paige, “to the status quo.” She looked at Espeth. “You’ve set the rules here, Espeth. We’re going to rescue our buds. Are you in or out?”
The door of the Xabago opened, and Angelo leaned out with the satellite phone in his hand. “Hey, Paige,” he yelled, “Emma on line one!”
Paige stared into Espeth’s eyes.
“What choice have I got?” asked Espeth.
“There’s always a choice,” said Paige. “If you stop taking the alternatives out of consideration.” She turned and headed for the Xabago.
Espeth made eye contact with Jono. She didn’t say anything, but it seemed like she’d made some kind of decision. She shrugged. “There are always choices,” she said, then went back to work on the tire.
The town of Muddy Gap, Kentucky, had one of the highest poverty rates in the state. Located in an isolated valley deep in the Appalachian Mountains, its primary attractions were two churches, a post office, a gas station, a tiny grocery store that also rented videos, a cafe that served up some pretty good barbecue on Sunday, and three blocks of empty and boarded storefronts. Towering above it all was the rusting, steel gantry that topped the old Faerber Mine #50.
At one time, all of the town’s prosperity had come out of that hole. Now all that came out was an occasional cloud of black smoke from the underground coal fire that had burned out of control since 1989, killing twenty four of the town’s menfolk, closing the mine, and condemning the town itself to a slow death.
Sometimes, when business was slow, storekeep Beelo McComb would limp out into the street, his artificial foot making a hollow clop with each step, and put his hand on the asphalt. He’d squat there, feeling the heat of the fires still smoldering far underground, thinking of better times and lost friends. Some days he’d just stay there until he cried. Other days, someone would come along first and rescue him from himself.
This was one of those days. The beep of an approaching truck’s horn brought him back to the present. Beelo looked up to see a big four-wheel drive pickup coming up the street. It slowed, stopped in front of him, and backed in to park in front of the store. Beelo didn’t have to look to see who was in the truck. Only one truck like that in town, and only one man that drove it.
People moved out on a regular basis, but nobody had moved to Muddy Gap since the mine closed. Nobody except Smokey Ashe. Beelo watched as he climbed down out of the truck. Smokey didn’t make a lick of sense, with his big black trucks, his handlebar moustache, his black rodeo shirts and his Garth Brooks hats.
Where his money came from, nobody could say. When people asked, Smokey made vague references to an inheritance. When asked why he’d moved to such a God-forsaken place, he’d talk about how- he liked the country, the quiet, and the cheap real estate. If he liked the smell of coal smoke, he didn’t say so.
All that was sure was that he showed up four months after the mine disaster, bought up the old Kemy place near the lake, and put up some kind of big ham radio antenna. He didn’t work, didn’t do much of anything except pal around with his neighbor and long-time friend, “Catfish” Quincy. Beelo watched as the passenger door of the truck opened and a man who looked for all the world like a fish stuffed into a pair of coveralls stepped out.
Catfish’s daddy had been down in the mine that night, and was still down there to this very day. It was ironic that he’d been working double shifts to pay for doctors for Catfish. He’d have done anything to give his son a normal life. Instead, he only succeeded in having him grow up without a daddy. His mamma, Bess, had been broken-hearted, and died the winter after Catfish’s eighteenth birthday. Beelo didn’t know what Catfish would have done without Smokey, but the two of them were near inseparable.
“Hey, Beelo,” Catfish waved. He reached into the truck, pulled out a plastic squeeze-bottle of water, and squirted a bit of it over his hairless head. It trickled in rivulets down over his flat, nose-less face and the gill slits in his broad neck. He put the bottle back into the truck, topped his head with a John Deere baseball cap, and wiped the fleshy feelers that hung on either side of his wide mouth with the back of a webbed hand.
“Hey, Catfish, Smokey.”
Smokey nodded in greeting. The big man wasn’t a big talker. That was okay, Catfish talked enough for both of them. As Catfish walked over, Beelo saw that he was carrying a little Styrofoam cooler. He pulled off the lid and showed it to Beelo.
“Brought you a mess of bluegill,” said Catfish. “Caught ’em myself up at the lake this morning.” He made some grabbing motions with his free hand, the webs between his fingers making a wet, slapping sound.
Beelo smiled and took the cooler. "That’s right nice of you, Catfish. You know how I like a good mess of fried bluegill. I’ll have them for supper. You boys wouldn’t want to join me, would you? Plenty for three.”
Catfish laughed. “Nah, but thanks, Beelo. Some other time. Me and Smokey was going to rent us a movie. You got any new space pictures?”
Catfish loved monster pictures and that sci-fi stuff. Beelo figured it was because the critters in it looked even stranger than Catfish did. Beelo nodded and led them inside. “We got in that new Warlock movie last week.” He went behind the counter and started looking through the rack of milky, plastic, video cases. “That short guy from Taxi plays Pip the Troll. You like Taxi? That short guy kills me.” He pulled out a box and checked the label. “This is the one.” He handed it to Catfish, whose round, black eyes gleamed with delight.
“This is gonna be a good one. I read all about it in Starlog.” He held it up for Smokey to see. “This is gonna be a good one.” An old Chevy coupe with a crease in the front-bumper pulled up outside the store, and the bell on the door rang as a heavy-set woman in her sixties came inside. “Afternoon, Beelo. Need me some creamed com and coffee. Afternoon, Catfish, Mr. Ashe.”
Catfish beamed and trotted over to meet her. “Afternoon, 'Mrs. Mills. Want me to get those things for you? You just stay here and visit, and I’ll get those for you’’
She smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Catfish. I surely appreciate it.” She watched as he trotted off into the canned goods aisle, then waved after him. “Percolator grind, Catfish, you know the kind.”
Catfish was always helpful like that. He looked funny, but you couldn’t help but like the boy.
Betty Mills put her purse on the counter and leaned against it heavily. “You know what’s going on up the street?”
Beelo saw Smokey’s eyebrow go up with interest. The man didn’t say much, but he didn’t miss a lick.
“No, ma’am,” said Beelo* “don’t know a thing.”
“There’s cars stopped up the road, and some contraption blocking the way.”
Beelo shrugged. “Contraption? Like a combine?”
The door tinkled again, and Billy Thorton, a teenager whose mother ran the Cafe, leaned in. “You should come out and see. They’s a gov’ment helicopter landed right in the middle of the street! They’s some men dressed in armor-like. They says they’s hunting for—,” he paused to think of the word, “mutants.” His eyes were wide. “I didn’t even know we had those here,”
Catfish returned with a can of coffee.
Billy smiled. “Hey, Catfish.”
Suddenly Smokey was moving. He snatched the coffee out of Catfish’s hand, handed it to a startled Betty Mills, and started pushing Catfish toward the back door of the store. “Don’t you ask questions, Catfish. I want you to head for the lake, Head for the lake and make for the bottom and you stay there. You just settle down in the muck, and you take a little nap and you stay down there till I come for you. You hear?” Beelo was shocked. He’d never heard Smokey put that many words together in a string, not in all the years he’d lived in Muddy Gap.
Catfish seemed just about as surprised. He just stood there, staring at his friend.
' “You go,” insisted Smokey, “and you go fast. If you see them fellers she was t
alking about, you do whatever it takes to hide or get away. Go/”
Catfish finally seemed to be convinced. He ran out the back without another word.
Smokey turned to the rest of them. “You care about Catfish, no matter what happens, no matter what anybody says to you, you didn’t see that, never heard of him, and you sure don’t know where he is. Understand?”
Though confused, they all agreed. “You wait here. I’m gonna go see if lean slow them down.”
They watched as Smokey stepped outside, paused for a moment to get something from his truck, and walked off up the highway. Mrs. Mills suddenly clutched at Beelo’s hand.
She’d seen the same thing Beelo had seen as Smokey walked away. In all the years he’d lived there, they’d never seen Smokey Ashe turn a violent hand toward any man, nor seen him with a firearm of any kind. But right now was carrying a pump shotgun, and he was holding it like he meant to use it.
Black pulled his borrowed Thunderbird into the parking lot of the Dog N’ Suds Drive-in and parked under the shelter. Only a few customers parked under the old-fashioned corrugated steel roof, ordering burgers and root-beer from speakers mounted over fluorescent-lit menus. The place smelled of french-fry grease and malt. Behind the parking lot, almost overgrown with weeds and small saplings, he could see the remains of an old drive-in theater, half the screen collapsed and fallen forward, as though taking a bow. Nearer the highway he located the theater’s rusted old sign, a few letters still clinging tenaciously to the marquee.
L ST NIGHT!
ROG R MO RE
AG NT OF SHI LD
T E'MAN WI H THE GOLD N CL W
And below that, in a different color lettering:
CLOS D FO W NTER
Evidently it had been a very long winter. Black sighed, and scanned the menu in a vain search for espresso. He wondered why Leather had chosen this as a meeting place. Had he picked it at random, or was it a not-so-subtle suggestion that he was a fossil, that his time was past? Well, he thought, as he eyed the menu, at least there were some places where he was still ahead of the coffee curve. He pressed the button on the menu and ordered a black coffee and onion rings.
He noticed a couple of concrete picnic tables under an oak tree at the rear of the property. He pressed the button again and told them he’d take his food there. He locked the T-Bird and strolled past a teenager couple parked in a Chevy sedan as old as both of them put together. They were laughing and feeding each other french fries. He thought of simpler, happier times, sighed and continued on his way. Maybe he was getting old.
Black brushed dry leaves off the picnic bench, sat down, and looked at his watch. As he was trying to compute how late Leather was, he saw the black van pull around the back of the building and park a few yards away.
Leather emerged and sat across the table from him. He didn’t bother to clean the seat, and the leaves crunched as he sat down.
Black lowered his Foster Grants and eyed the younger man over the top of them. “I’m here, Leather, at your insistence. What do you want?”
Leather seemed to be in no hurry. He spent some time taking in their surroundings before going on. “How long have I known you, Black?”
He thought. “Third year I was chieftain of the Seattle ’Goths. You came up from the Bay Area Rovers to study martial arts under Master Panda. I was told you were trouble, and to keep an eye on you.”
He smiled wistfully. “I am often misunderstood by my superiors, but I get the job done—when I’m allowed.”
Black pushed his dark glasses back up on his nose. “These are mutants, Leather, not much more than children, and Espeth, one of our own.”
“Espeth has betrayed us. These mutants endanger everything the Genogoths have worked for, back to the time of Darwin. Traitors have to be brought down hard. We have to serve the greater good.”
“Espeth is an idealist, young and inexperienced. She thinks she can have her cake and eat it too. She doesn’t know the— sacrifices—that some of us have had to make.” He frowned. We’re so much alike. She doesn’t know. “I’m not,” he continued, “going to let you turn this operation into a bloodbath.” Leather pulled a switchblade knife from inside his boot, snapped it open, and began to use the point of the blade to clean under his fingernails. “It would have been much easier if you’d done this my way from the beginning. They’re getting close to a confrontation with the government. The situation grows desperate, and desperate times, to quote the cliche, call for desperate measures.”
“No bloodbath,” Black repeated forcefully.
“My people need helicopter gunships, weapons.”
A girl in a crisp, blue uniform put a tray in front of Black. Her eyes never left Leather’s switchblade as she took Black’s money and made a hasty retreat.
Black stared silently at Leather.
Leather smiled and shook his head sadly. “Your position in the Genogoths isn’t as strong as you think it is, old man.” Black squared his jaw. “And maybe it isn’t as weak as you think it is. Leather. Not all of your friends are your friends. I know about your conference call.”
Leather seemed momentarily surprised, but quickly covered it with bravado. “So? I knew you’d find out. It doesn’t matter, Black. Your days are growing short.”
“Indeed,” he said, “that may be the case, but I can kick your skinny ass before lunch and still have time to read the morning paper.” He took a sip of the coffee. It tasted like rust. He emptied the cup into the parking lot with a toss of his wrist and spit the rest out. He stood and looked down at Leather. “You’ll have non-lethal weapons, kept in reserve, and helicopters operating under visibility restrictions. This comes over my objections, and everyone is going to know that. Any mistakes are now directly on your head.” He pushed the untouched onion rings at Leather and turned back towards his car. “You’re in charge of this operation for now, Leather. Enjoy the benefits of authority.”
As Smokey Ashe walked down the yellow line in the middle of the road he noted two things about the scene in front of him. One: The helicopter was black. Two: It wasn’t one of theirs, a Genogoth ship. There were no numbers on the fiat-black airframe of the chopper, which perched in the middle of town like a giant mosquito. The words united states government, stenciled in gray paint down the tail-boom, were the only signs of ownership. There was nothing more specific which might only mean, Smokey thought grimly, that it came from an agency without any name, the worst kind.
Half the town’s population was already there, crowded together, yet maintaining a respectable distance from the three strangers who stood in their midst. One was tall and thin, one small, one broad. They wore glittering armor, similar in general design, different in details and color; pale blue for the tall one, purple for the wide one, red for the small one. Faceplates hid their features, adding to their air of mystery and menace. They stood in a neat row in front of the helicopter, their bodies rigid, at perfect military attention.
The locals saw him coming, and their eyes went wide at the sight of the shotgun. They parted to let him through. The tall one stood in the middle, and Smokey aimed the gun squarely at the middle of his chest. “State your business,” he ’demanded.
“Official United States Government business,” said the one in blue, his voice cold and metallic. “Specified: the apprehension for questioning of one Samuel Leon Quincy.”
“Catfish,” Fred Tavish, the Postmaster, said.
Smokey shot him a poisoned look, but the damage was done.
Tavish shrugged apologetically, and pointed to the embroidered flag on his uniform jacket.
The small one in red stepped up to Tavish. “Locate, Samuel Leon Quincy.”
Tavish squirmed uncomfortably, seemingly regretting his words.
The one in red suddenly reached up and put his hand against the side of Tavish’s head.
Tavish looked startled, but didn’t move.
“Locate,” the red one said, more firmly this time, “Samuel Leon Quincy.”
<
br /> Tavish’s eyes went wide. “He lives—He lives out on—”
Smokey pumped the shotgun, and the sound silenced
Tavish and made everyone scatter for cover. Tavish hesitated only a moment before running after the rest of them.
Red didn’t pursue. He turned toward the others. “Subject Samuel Leon Quincy is not at that location.”
Smokey raised the gun and squinted down the barrel at the intruders. They all turned to look at him, but said nothing. “Get back in your vehicle and leave. I’m not going to say it again.” A cold wind blew up suddenly, and something white fluttered down between gun and target. Then another. And another. Snow. How could there be snow?
He was still puzzling over that when a sudden movement caught his eye. A small door had opened on a pod that hung under the belly of the ’copter. While that was registering, six sleek forms shot out one-by-one. Dogs? Robots? Robot dogs!
The red one suddenly reached for something on his belt, a weapon. Smokey pulled the trigger. Red staggered back. He pumped the gun, aimed at blue. Fired.
Something flew in front of him and the gun was ripped from his hands. One of the robot dogs slid to a stop a few yards away, the gun in his mouth. There was a squeal of metal, a crunch, and the gun fell to the ground in two pieces.
Smokey tried to run, but his feet wouldn’t move. He looked down to see that his boots were, literally, frozen in their tracks. Purple and blue stepped up on either side of him. Each grabbed a wrist, and they pulled his arms behind his back. Red stepped up and put his hand beside Smokey’s head. He had to be some kind of telepath. He remembered his training, bracing for a straight-forward psychic probe that never seemed to come.
“This one,” said Red, “knows the subject Samuel Leon Quincy very well.” His head turned, as though he were listening for a distant sound. “I have a track on the subject. He is moving, on foot.”
“We will pursue,” said Blue.
The three of them, and four of the dogs, trotted in the direction of the store. The dog that had destroyed his gun remained, its glowing, quartz eyes focused intently on his every move.
Generation X - Genogoths Page 11