After saying goodbye to Nicky, who pressed his music-plugs into his ears and slouched away, Stan locked his room. He hurried to the faculty parking lot. There was snow on the sidewalks, dark clouds above and gloom all around. Stan wore a faded Alaskan National Guard hat, a heavy coat and boots. A little under six-foot tall, Stan fought a constant battle against a protruding gut, although he wasn’t fat like most of his friends. He’d been 165 as a high-school senior and a hard-tackling safety on the football squad. Now at forty-three he kept under 200 pounds. He lifted weights three times a week and played basketball against Bill Harris, the pastor of the Rock Church.
Stan had a feeling that he wasn’t going to get to lift today. It was a legs day, or evening. He only did legs once a week. He was exhausted the next day after a good legs workout.
It was cold in the old Land Rover, and after turning on the ignition, he waited for the vehicle to warm up. Soon thereafter, he pulled out onto Pacifica Avenue and headed toward Jose’s shop. There was an occasional knock in the engine. It definitely needed work again. It had over one hundred thousand miles and could maybe last another twenty thousand before an overhaul.
Most people these days drove crappy little box-cars and ancient pickups from the 2000s. They repaired them repeatedly. America only had a handful of car factories compared to the old days of glory.
While tapping the steering wheel with his thumbs, Stan thought about buying a rebuilt engine. It might be a good experience for him to install it. He needed more mechanical know how. It would certainly make him a better tank commander afterward.
As he passed Oscar’s Donuts, Stan shook his head. When would that ever matter? Why did they even have tanks in Alaska, especially outdated relics like the Abrams M1A2? In the old days before the Sovereign Debt Depression, America used to deploy National Guard units in their ongoing foreign wars. But that had been over twenty years ago. Except for the Grain Union, America was hard-core isolationist these days.
Pulling to a stop before a red light on Ninth Street, Stan rubbed his eyes. He needed to take out his contacts. Were there glasses in the rover?
Leaning over, Stan opened the glove compartment. His mouth dropped open as he saw his .44 Magnum sitting there in its holster. His heart tightened in his chest. There were severe laws against having a gun on school grounds, which included the parking lot. How could he have forgotten to take it out? Did he want to lose his job and go to jail?
Behind him, a car honked.
Stan jerked up, looked back and saw a woman giving him the finger behind her windshield. Blushing, Stan glanced at the green light. He gave the rover gas and it lurched like a jumping salmon. The big magnum fell out of the glove compartment and thumped heavily onto the floor.
Now his eyes really hurt. Stan pulled to a curb, stopping beside a Burger Palace. A girl was leaning out of the drive-up window, handing a bag and a soft drink to a young guy in a pickup. Blinking too much, Stan extracted his contacts and put them into his solution bottle. Then he dug out a pair of glasses and put them on. One of these days, he was going to get laser eye-surgery, but it wasn’t today. He picked up the .44 and shoved it back into the glove compartment, shutting it hard.
As he pulled back onto the street, his cell phone vibrated. He dug it out of his pant’s pocket, and said, “Hello?”
“Honey, are you almost done?”
It was his wife, Susan. Glancing at the rover’s clock, showed Stan it was 4:21. Oh, right, it was Wednesday. It was a growth group meeting at the Boone’s tonight. He and his family went to church at the Rock. The growth group meetings discussed Bill’s latest sermon. Normally, Stan appreciated the Wednesday evening meetings. Not only did they study the Bible there, but they also got to know the other people at the church better. It was one thing looking at the back of a person’s head during the service and maybe shaking the person’s hand afterward and quite another sitting in a home drinking coffee and arguing about what the pastor’s sermon had really meant. Stan liked the discussions and he liked the deeper connections with others. People were far too divided these days, lonely islands with too little glue holding them together as a society. Stan had vowed more than once after watching too many football games and sitcoms in a day to quit vegging on the couch.
“Stan?” his wife asked over the cell phone.
“Ah…” he said, wondering if he should mention his dad. His wife had cooked the meal tonight. It was their turn to bring supper to the Boone’s home. The meeting started at six-thirty and it was all the way across town. Stan lived on the outskirts of Anchorage, and the Boone’s house was on the other side. The crisscrossing back and forth would add maybe an hour, if he were lucky. How long would his dad take?
“Is something wrong, honey?” his wife asked.
“Dad’s been drinking again,” Stan blurted. “He’s been acting up.”
Susan got quiet, which was a bad sign. “…you missed last week’s growth group meeting,” she finally said.
“I want to come,” he said. “You know that.”
“What’s your dad done this time?” she asked tiredly.
“I’ll be quick, honey. I just need to talk to him, get him settled down.”
“You know I hate going to the Boone’s alone.”
“I know,” said Stan, with the ache in his eyes a light throb.
“It’s an interesting topic tonight,” she said. “You told me so yourself after the sermon.”
“Honey, I want to go. But I need to help my dad first. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, but in a quiet tone that indicated it was anything but.
Susan was the greatest. Stan loved his wife, and she had been longsuffering with his dad. The old man used to stay at their house. That’s where the real trouble had started. They had two girls, ten and seven, and his father’s explosive cursing and occasional nudity had been too much. It had caused the biggest fight of their marriage and a week with Stan sleeping on the couch. Susan’s tears had finally convinced Stan he had to tell his dad to move out. It had been in the middle of winter, and his dad had been allowed at the Homeless Center for three weeks until they kicked him out there. Jail time had seen him through the coldest part of the year. Unfortunately, his dad had never done well with the police. Stan had never gotten the story straight from his dad, but he knew his father had smeared his own crap on Sergeant Jackson. There had been a beating afterward, and Stan had sunk fifteen thousand on lawyer’s fees against the Police Department for brutality.
No one had been happy with him for that, not the police, his wife or his dad, who said he could fight his own battles. The police had finally made a bargain with his lawyer. Stan had dropped the police brutality charge and his father had been released from jail. For two months, his father either had remained sober or had only taken a few drinks a day.
Those ‘good days’ were over. His dad had started drinking heavily again, and now his weird side was shining through even stronger than before. In their way of thinking, the police had given his dad several breaks. Those breaks might soon be ending, especially if Sergeant Jackson had anything to say about it.
“I’ll make it home in time to go to the Boone’s,” Stan said.
“You promise?” Susan asked.
“I promise to try my hardest.”
“Okay,” she said, even quieter than before. “Bye honey.”
“I love you,” he said.
She hung up before saying, ‘I love you,’ back. That let Stan know she was hurt and probably what his daughters called ‘boiling inside.’ He couldn’t blame Susan, and he didn’t, but it was his dad. He had to help him. The Third Commandment said to honor your parents, and it was the first of the Ten Commandments with a promise. It said that it would go well with a man who honored his parents. It also said that he would live a long life.
Thinking about his wife and her expectations, Stan pushed his foot on the accelerator. It was probably wiser risking a traffic ticket so he could get to his dad first. It wouldn’t help h
is insurance rates if he got a ticket and Susan might possibly complain about the cost of it, but this was his dad and he was the old man’s only son.
***
Stan parked beside a curb. He turned off the engine, jumped out of the rover and hurried after his dad.
Mack Higgins was big, and even at sixty-seven he was imposing. He had wild white hair jutting every which way. Worse, he was shirtless, with his ancient denim jacket tied around his waist. Stan’s dad was like a polar bear, with bulky arms, a barrel-like torso and seldom affected by the cold. Also like a polar bear, Mack had thick white hair on his chest, belly and much of his back. He wore a gold chain around his neck and had fought a long time ago in Afghanistan, being a colonel in a light infantry battalion. Mack had led from the front, and Stan had heard many stories where his dad drew his sidearm. Colonel Higgins had empted his share of magazines, as his dad put it, into “no-good Allah-loving Taliban terrorists.”
Afghanistan had done something to his dad. Colonel Mack Higgins’s hard drinking had begun there. After his retirement, the drinking had definitely become full-blown alcoholism. Watching his dad’s mental decline had convinced Stan of several things. Firstly, killing men did something to you. Or maybe it was seeing your friends die, blown apart by a roadside bomb. Secondly, too much alcohol over long periods pickled a man’s brain. Hadn’t it changed Alexander the Great? Stan had read a book called Alexander the Great: the Invisible Enemy. It had chronicled the Macedonian’s decline in health and his growing inability to control his temper through increasingly hard drinking. Finally, hard knocks to the head were very bad. Once it had occurred in a bar fight. The second time, Sergeant Jackson had struck his dad over the head with his baton. Mack Higgins had a visible dent in his skull now, about three inches above his left eye.
“Dad!” called Stan.
Mack Higgins lumbered down the cracked and uneven sidewalk. Large pine trees shadowed the snowy yards and the street, and their roots had caused, over time, what looked like quake damage to the sidewalk.
This was an older area of Anchorage. Here, the two-story homes were built so the sides almost touched. Each had a garage and most had twenty-year old or older shrubbery and trees.
Stan glanced over his shoulder. He saw several sets of people either standing in their yard or on their porch, watching his dad. Some grinned at one another, laughing. Others scowled. Odds were someone had called the police. The best thing was to get his dad out of here fast.
“Dad, hold up,” Stan called.
Mack Higgins never even paused. His hearing wasn’t what it used to be, but it was still good. His dad was probably ignoring him again.
“Colonel Higgins, sir,” Stan called.
The big old man with the hairy torso stopped then and slowly shuffled around. The bleary, unfocused eyes told their own story, and the alcoholic reek only added to the tale. Mack Higgins swayed. He had to be really drunk to do that.
“What do you want, boy?” Mack Higgins slurred. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir.”
“I have to warn the people,” Mack said, as he unsteadily raised one of his arms, indicating the tract homes.
“Is this about the space aliens?” asked Stan.
Mack squinted and he lowered his head to peer more closely at Stan. “Who told you that?”
Stan licked his lips. Lying was wrong, and lying to your dad was even worse. He also hated helping his dad believe his fantasies, but arguing wasn’t going to work today. The cops were sure to show up soon, and the two of them had to be out of here by then. In this frame of mind, his dad might take a swing at one of the cops.
“Uh…I got a phone call,” Stan said, temporizing his lie with some truth.
Mack blinked his unfocused eyes, making him seem lost and confused. Lines appeared on his forehead. It helped highlight the dent in his skull, the one that sank into his hairline. “Oh,” he finally grunted. “Someone here phoned you. Good. The word is spreading. You take the other side of the street. We don’t have much time before the aliens invade.”
Stan took a deep breath. “…Dad, I think the aliens have allies.”
The lines in the broad forehead deepened. Slowly, Mack Higgins nodded. “Benedict Arnolds, huh? I should have known. The aliens are cunning, but they’re never going to conquer America. We’re red, white and blue, son, especially in Alaska.”
“The aliens want you in jail, sir. They want to slow you down.”
The bleary-eyed squint narrowed. “How did you come to learn this?”
Stan noticed his dad’s big hands tightening into fists. He had to be careful how he worded this. His dad had told him before that the aliens were shape-shifters, able to take on human appearances. Stan had seen this look before. It meant Mack Higgins was getting ready to fight. They had to scram fast, or the cops would pull their tasers on the big man and shock him into submission.
“Colonel Higgins, sir, I believe the aliens have compromised the police department.”
His dad snarled a curse. “I’ve taken that as a given from the beginning. What you’re saying is something else, isn’t it?”
“Ah…yes.”
“Right,” his dad said. “You’re telling me the police are willing to move openly now against the citizenry. It’s time to arm ourselves and fight back.”
“Hold on!” said Stan, alarmed.
Mack Higgins took a menacing step closer, the knuckles of his fists whitening because he clenched his fingers so tightly.
As his dad did that, a police cruiser turned onto the street. Stan glanced at the approaching squad car, and with growing despair, he spotted Sergeant Jackson behind the wheel. Sensing more than seeing his dad, Stan turned back in time as the old colonel swung at him. It was a slow punch, and Stan evaded by stepping back. It made his dad stagger, and then bump against him. The reek of alcohol and his dad’s unwashed body was strong. Stan dearly wished he could bring his dad back to normality. Colonel Higgins had been a strong man, a good man and one full of insights. It was painful seeing his dad in this condition.
The police cruiser’s siren made a loud, piercing noise before the sound quit. Then the cruiser was pulling up along the curb.
Mack cursed under his breath, adding, “You brought reinforcements, huh?”
“Don’t you understand?” Stan asked. “I’m your son, damnit.”
“My son’s a churchgoer,” said Mack, “he doesn’t swear. Now let me go!” His dad grappled with him, slow motion using some of the judo-holds he’d taught him as a kid. Despite his dad’s age and drunkenness, Stan barely kept himself from being flipped onto the snow. Mack Higgins weighed an easy two-eighty and was still strong.
A car door slammed.
Stan looked up as Sergeant Jackson approached. Jackson was a big man, although not quite as big as Colonel Higgins, but with more gut. The officer wore a flak-vest underneath his jacket, had a thick black belt with cuffs, gun and a dangling nightstick. Jackson’s belt creaked like a horse saddle. One hand rested on the sleeve of his holster. The other was on the rubber-grip of his nightstick.
Jackson asked, “You causing trouble, old man?”
“No trouble, officer,” Stan said. He tried to remember that his dad had once thrown his own crap onto Jackson in jail.
Mack Higgins slowly glanced from Jackson to Stan. “I get it,” he slurred. “You’re playing clean cop, stinky cop.”
“You’re coming with me,” Jackson said.
Stan almost slipped on the icy sidewalk as he stepped in front of his dad. “I’ll take him home, officer.”
“Not today you won’t,” Jackson said.
“Out of my way,” Mack said, taking Stan by the shoulders and trying to shove him aside.
Stan twisted and grappled with his dad. “Back off,” he whispered. “Let me deal with this. Please, Dad, I’m begging you.”
“You’re one of them,” Mack whispered, blowing fumes into Stan’s face.
“Don’t
you know your own son?”
Mack Higgins frowned, and for a moment, his unfocused eyes focused. “Stan?” he asked.
“Go sit in my rover, would you, please?” Stan asked.
His dad nodded slowly as his grip slackened.
“Put your hands behind your back,” Jackson said.
Mack started to turn to face Jackson.
Stan gripped his dad’s arms. “Ignore him,” he whispered. “Let me talk to the man.”
“He’s a Benedict Arnold,” Mack whispered.
“Do it for me,” Stan said, “and I’ll take you to supper later. You have to be hungry.”
“I am,” Mack said, sounding surprised. “You’ll buy me roast beef?”
“Gladly,” Stan said.
Ex-Colonel Higgins released his son and headed for the Land Rover, never looking back as Sergeant Jackson shouted at him.
Stan stepped toward the policeman with his arms hanging down and hands open, palms forward. “Can I have a word with you, officer?”
Jackson unsnapped his holster.
“He’s going to sit in my jeep,” Stan said.
Jackson’s grabbed the butt of his gun. “I order you to halt!” he shouted at Mack.
Mack Higgins opened the passenger-side door and squeezed into the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Sergeant, can we make a deal?” Stan asked.
Jackson glanced at Stan. “Does your deal mean you’re offering me money?”
Stan shook his head.
“Do your dad a favor,” Jackson said. “Tell him to step out of the car. He’s about to be arrested.”
“Look at my dad. He’s sitting quietly in my vehicle. The problem is solved—if there ever was a problem to begin with.”
Invasion: Alaska Page 10