by Jeff Abugov
All eyes turned to Peyton as they awaited his response once more.
“That is really cool,” chuckled the President.
“I, and thousands just like me, are at your beckoning, my liege,” said the vampire with a flamboyant bow.
Peyton smiled as he rubbed his chin, a new plan playing itself out to perfection in his mind’s eye. He knew that the vampire would have some ideas of his own, and the General couldn’t wait to hear them. The bugs would never expect this. Couldn’t possibly.
“Um, permission to speak freely, Mr. President?” Harve asked timidly.
“Granted, Sergeant.”
“He’s a vampire!” Harve belted, unable to contain himself. “The undead! In league with the devil! Which would make us in league with the devil! How can we hope to win this war if we turn our back on God and partner with Satan himself?!”
“Actually, most of us are Catholic,” Julius matter-of-factly corrected.
“Good enough for me!” roared a gleeful Commander in Chief as he grabbed the vampire’s hand and shook it profusely. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Julius!
“Laurel, if this thing plays out the way I think it will, you will have done a great service for your country, for your planet, for your species. But now, I really must get you to a safe location.”
“Oh, no, no,” said the former First Lady. “I have to stay.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the only one who can control them,” she explained. “And I do not trust them at all. At all.”
PART THREE
THE CAVALRY UNDEAD
INTERLUDE #3
The adolescent Tyrannosaurus rex strolled through the woods with the demeanor of a young prince. The Deinonychus eggshells were still stuck to his lips, but he didn’t mind—they reminded him of the tasty little snack he had nabbed and the prowess with which he had nabbed it.
He could nab anything he wanted.
He looked off into the distance toward the clearing in which hundreds of herbivores grazed. Eating stuff from out of the ground, he thought. How disgusting. Perhaps he’ll nab one of their eggs too, he considered, but then reconsidered. Why stop there? Why not work up a bigger appetite then nab one of them?
Yes, far tastier and far more rewarding. Perhaps he could find a good Bronto or Steg or Triceratops child to eat—not only hearty and delicious, but good practice for when he’s fully grown and taking on the giant adult brutes themselves.
He was the master of all he surveyed. Only Father and Mother were greater than he, but they were so devoted to him that they would never deny him anything. He was the ruler of his universe, and it was only going to get better as he got bigger.
Then, without warning, Dinah, Claw, and two other Deinonychus couples leapt out of the trees shrieking and pounced upon the spoiled young prince! The T. rex was bigger than they, but he didn’t know what had hit him, couldn’t possibly fathom that anyone would ever dare attack him, and the Deinonychus teamwork was impeccable. With military precision, each one gouged at a predetermined section of the adolescent’s hide. They sliced at him with their deadly claws. They ripped at his flesh with their razor-sharp teeth, piercing deep beyond muscle and fat and through to vital organs so that his very guts spilled out of his soon-to-be-dead carcass.
No longer the warm, loving creatures they were while fulfilling their parental duties, the Deinonychus were now soldiers in a war they were intent on winning, with no empathy or mercy to be doled out.
All the young T. rex could do was writhe and howl in pain, jump and buck to rid his assailants from his back, twirl and spin in desperate futility until he at last dropped to the ground, dead.
The herbivores in the clearing could hear the ruckus, could have seen the incident from where they stood if they had only bothered to look, but they didn’t. It was none of their business. They didn’t care for either breed, didn’t care for any carnivores for that matter. Far better the cruel ones kill each other off and leave the peaceful ones in peace. Even the large herbivores like the Brontosaurus, Stegosaurus and Triceratops that could engage in victorious battle when necessary didn’t like it. No tears were ever to be shed for a dead carnivore.
Five of the Deinonychus stepped back from the T. rex corpse, but Dinah remained hovering over the child, looking down upon him with her big, round eyes. She swallowed hard, mustered up a big gob of saliva, then spat upon the dead beast. She turned her back to him, dug her claw deep into the earth and kicked a clump of it onto the corpse’s face.
Claw stepped forward to be beside her. She cooed as she put her giant head on his massive shoulder. He leaned his own head on hers and cooed back. It was done.
Claw gave his mate another moment to revel in the vengeance, then at last shrieked out a command. The six Deinonychus, Dinah included, moved efficiently toward the corpse and latched onto a specific part of its dead body as if they had done this a million times before. On Claw’s next command, they lifted the beast in unison and began to effortlessly carry it back to their dwellings for the pack to eat.
What had begun as revenge had ended in groceries.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Barely an hour after the President and the vampire shook hands, a fleet of eighteen-wheelers was pulling up to the Omni Hotel. Enlisted trainees and civilians alike opened the backs of the trucks to remove an endless array of coffins, ranging in style from the ostentatiously ornate to the cheap and simple, then carried them inside. Other trucks were opened to reveal herds of livestock which civilian farmers from northern Florida and Georgia corralled out to the back of the building. Inside, civilian carpenters nailed sheets of plywood over every window and glass doorway.
A block away, Harve sat on a little kiddie swing in a little kiddie park, lost in thought. He was still grimy from battle but he couldn’t bring himself to head back to his assigned quarters where shower and bed awaited. It would be too quiet, he thought. Most of the other soldiers that had been assigned there were now dead, and he simply wasn’t ready to feel their ghosts.
What a strange day, he thought as he swung lazily on the tiny swing. What a strange week.
“Think fast!” shouted Frank, appearing from out of nowhere and tossing his Sarge a can of Bud.
Harve caught it with ease but he didn’t seem happy about it. “Where’d you get this? Orders are no booze, we’re on active call.”
“You look like you need it, buddy,” the Corporal said good-naturedly as he took a seat at the picnic table across from the swings and opened a can of his own.
“Get rid of it,” Harve ordered, then he flipped open the can in his hand and proceeded to pour the contents onto the ground.
“C’mon, Sarge. Who’ll know?”
“Orders are orders. Now, Frank!”
“Okay, okay, easy, mi amigo,” Frank said then proceeded to dump out his beer as well. “What are you doing here anyway? I’ve been looking all over for you. You all right?”
“There’re certain things I can’t tell you. Very strange, very bad things.”
“Hey it’s me. You can tell me anything, buddy.”
“I’ve been ordered not to tell anyone. But what I can tell you is –” then he trailed off, almost wishing he hadn’t dumped out his beer.
“It’s about those coffins they’re unloading down the street, isn’t it? Are those boxes for us? Not very encouraging, is it? Downright insulting is what it is.”
“It’s not about the coffins, Frank, it’s—you know we got a spy, right?”
“Yeah, sure. Everyone knows that by now. That’s how the bugs knew about the rooftops, right?”
“Well guess who they picked to ferret him out?”
“You?” Frank smiled, proud for his friend.
“Yeah, me. And they gave me these because of it,” Harve grumbled, tilting his head toward the shiny new lieutenant bars on his shoulders. “They felt it would be unseemly for an enlisted man to question an officer, so they made me an officer—and I’ve been given free reign to question
everyone.”
“Lieutenant? Wow! Congratulations, Sarge. I mean, sir!” then he jumped to his feet and merrily saluted.
Harve shot an unenthusiastic salute back to him. “I got nothing, Frank. No evidence, no leads, no theories to follow. I’m not trained for this.”
“You’re one of the best MPs I ever saw.”
“It’s one thing to go into a town and bust up a brawl or take in some drunken soldier who got a bit unruly, but this is actual detective work. I don’t know squat about that. I told ’em they should find some ex-cop or something, you know, like a real sleuth. We must have a bunch of those in our ranks, don’t you think?”
“Makes sense. What’d they say?”
“The President—yeah, the Commander in Chief himself—said that he has no idea who the spy is so he doesn’t know who to trust. But after seeing all the bugs I killed on the roof, he knows I couldn’t possibly be one of them. Then he cited my MP credentials and said that I should have more confidence in myself, and then he called me ‘son’—which was, you know, nice.”
“Must’ve been awesome.”
“But I don’t even know how to start.”
“Can I help?”
“If you got anything, I’ll take it. I got diddly.”
“Cool,” Frank said as he furrowed his brows and tightened his lips in an attempt to think. After a brief moment, his eyes lit up and he smiled. “It’s the pilot,” he said with total certainty.
“Frank, this isn’t a guessing game.”
“No, no, no, wait, wait, wait. Think about it. All those helicopters on all those rooftops, and Johnny’s is the only one that makes it home?”
“He did do some pretty fancy flying.”
“Or, maybe the bugs missed us on purpose ’cause they didn’t want to kill their inside man.”
“Look, I don’t like the guy much either, but it doesn’t fit.”
“The thing is, I do like the guy. He’s a total crack-up. Wait. Can aliens be funny? I don’t think aliens can be funny. Never mind, I retract. Stupid theory.”
But the die had been cast. “But, it doesn’t not fit, you know?” Harve said as the wheels in his head began to turn. “I mean, what do we know about the guy?”
“That he’s a crack-up?”
“And that he’s been arrested a whole bunch of times, and that he must’ve done some terrible thing once to get bumped down from captain.”
“It can’t be him, Sarge—I mean, sir. Aliens just aren’t funny—especially creepy, spooky, insect aliens—they wouldn’t know how to be funny. Unless they’re played by Robin Williams or the voice of Seth Rogen, but Robin’s dead and Seth’s working all the time, one movie after another.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I dunno,” Frank shrugged amiably. “Except that Johnny can’t be the spy. I mean, the guy didn’t even want to come here. We had to force him, remember?”
“Or, he knew we’d force him. And you know what else occurs to me? He didn’t kill one single bug the entire time we were up on that rooftop.”
“He must’ve.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I did, you did, the girl did. Even the kid winged a few before they got him. Johnny must’ve.”
“If he did, I didn’t see it, and I was crouched right next to him through most of it.”
“Even so. He’s a chopper pilot. They’re not trained for shooting.”
“That’s what I thought at the time too. Or, maybe he’s an expert shot, and he didn’t want to take down any of his buddies.”
“Or maybe he just sucks.”
“Maybe.”
“There you go. So let’s keep going. Who do we know that has no sense of humor? I mean, other than you. ’Cause Johnny was cracking wise even when we were bringing him in for booking, back before everything blew up.”
“Oh heck. I had completely forgotten about that. That bet he made you! You know, it always seemed a little off to me.”
“What bet?”
“You remember. We were bringing him in, and he goes, like out of nowhere, ‘Ten bucks I don’t do any time on that base.’ Then boom. The whole base blows. How could he have known that? Then every base on the planet blows—and it’s all right after the guy’s been MIA for fourteen hours.”
“I totally forgot about that, too,” said Frank.
“Johnny, eh?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Private Roger Hayes darted about the reception area of his Captain’s office in his shiny new electric wheelchair with the vitality of a man reborn, his countless years of street living lingering in his mind like a terrible nightmare that he couldn’t shake. The irony that his newfound dignity was a direct result of the greatest threat to mankind was not lost on Rog, but he tried not to think of it in those terms. Instead, he laid all his gratitude at the feet of the Captain-with-the-scar who had taken him in when society as a whole had cast him aside, with the Captain who had given him a job, a uniform, the respect that even the lowest-ranked soldier receives, with the Captain who had given him a reason to live. Rog would do anything for the man.
His duties were primarily secretarial, which was A-okay by him. As much as he wished he had the ability to risk his life in battle with his fellow soldiers, that privilege was reserved for those with two working legs—it was Rog’s duty to do everything else, everything he could, anything they’d let him. He loved it when his Captain ordered him to deliver a note or memo or stack of papers or whatnot to another building or part of town with no regard for his handicap, as if he were any other private, any other man. He didn’t even mind the few times he had been chewed out, only for minor mistakes, but always with no pity or regard for his handicap, as if he were any other soldier.
He was whole again—if not physically, then at least emotionally and spiritually, and that was plenty. The Captain-with-the-scar had made him whole again, and Rog would never ever forget it.
He was filing printouts of soldiers’ background checks. It was a boring task, but he was nonetheless proud to do it, honored that his Captain had entrusted him with the personal files of virtually everyone on the base. One of the Captain’s primary responsibilities as head of base security had been to validate the backgrounds and records of all the soldiers who had volunteered, denying entry to anyone who lacked the records to prove a human-born existence beyond a shadow of a doubt. Those for whom even a tiny question had arisen were denied entry—a ninety-nine percent certainty simply not being good enough—and all those refused left screaming and yelling and cursing and promising a lawsuit.
Rog’s mind wandered as he performed his boring task and a new irony occurred to him. From an alien perspective, his Captain’s position would be the perfect cover for their spy. For one, who had checked him out? Presumably, he checked himself out and deemed himself a pass. If he was in fact the spy, he could let in as many other spies as he wanted while refusing any human soldier he deemed a threat to the bug cause—and Rog had noticed some dubious judgments on his Captain’s part in that regard. Why had this soldier been allowed in while that one had been refused?
If it were true, Rog wondered, if the Captain-with-the-scar was indeed the alien spy, where would his own loyalties lie? With the man who had restored his dignity and self-respect, the man who had given him purpose and meaning, the man who had given him life anew, or with the species that had thrown him away like a piece of garbage in the first place?
CHAPTER THIRTY
Johnny had no idea that he was the sole suspect in the most heinous crime ever perpetrated upon mankind. He stood near the front of the long queue outside the Omni Hotel with all the other officers who had been summoned.
“Any idea what this is about?” he asked the Canadian Lieutenant who walked beside him. The Lieutenant shrugged, equally in the dark (almost all the officers were in the dark). The queue began to move, and the two officers walked inside.
The spacious, elegant lobby had been converted into a massive briefing auditor
ium. Hundreds of folding chairs had been set up facing a podium in front, behind which a large map of Southpoint was tacked to the wall. The former First Lady and a Marine Major that Johnny didn’t recognize stood by the map, seemingly discussing new tactics and strategies.
That part made little enough sense, but what Johnny couldn’t understand at all was why the windows had been boarded so that not a drop of sunlight could enter. Officers he recognized from the past few days milled about along with hundreds more that he didn’t. The new soldiers had no rank insignia on their fatigue sleeves, only the letter V. But the oddest thing of all was that each and every one of the new soldiers was a very handsome man or a very pretty woman.
“Looks like we got some new recruits,” said the Canadian Lieutenant to answer Johnny’s earlier question.
Johnny spotted Prague and Africa across the room, and smiled. “I always loved new recruits. In fact, I think I’m going to go do some recruiting of my own.”
And with that, he was off.
*****
“I have a very bad feeling about this, Julius,” Prague told the most senior of their breed. “I don’t trust humans.” Then she gestured toward Laurel and added, “Especially that one.”
“Such is fine, my dove,” Julius said soothingly. “She doesn’t trust us either.”
But his attention was suddenly drawn across the room where an impetuous little vampire named Plato—mid-teens by appearance but far older in reality—stood behind the Captain-with-the-scar who was engaged in a heated debate with Colonel Williams, and the Captain had no idea that there was a vampire behind him who gazed salivating upon his neck.
“But, Colonel, as head of base security, I must oversee the investigation of the alien mole. Given my experience and background, I should be the one leading the probe . . . at the very least, the Lieutenant should report directly to me.”