Carrier Wave
A Day of Knowing Tale
By Robert Brockway
Published by Brockwar Press: The Fightin’est Press In The West
Copyright 2015
About the Collection
The Day of Knowing is a collection of interconnected horror shorts that each build upon a larger fictional world. Every tale is self-contained, and no single story will require that you read any others first. However, every short also builds the lore of the Day of Knowing universe, and readers that follow all of the stories in chronological order will reveal a larger tale that spans dozens of short stories across several decades. The order thus far is: M55, Carrier Wave, The Judas Goat (collected in Tomorrow’s Cthulhu from Broken Eye Books).
About the Author
Robert Brockway is a senior editor and columnist for Cracked.com. He is the author of the urban fantasy/horror Unnoticeables trilogy from Tor Books, the cyberpunk novel Rx: A Tale of Electronegativity, and the apocalyptic non-fiction essay collection Everything Is Going To Kill Everybody. The Day of Knowing shorts and others are published on his website, Robertbrockway.net. Follow him on Twitter @brockway_llc.
“So this man walked into the Shop Shop, pulled out a boombox, played some music-“
“Some new wave faggot music,” the man said, then spat chaw-juice onto his own boot. He glared at it with disapproval.
“Played some music, and left. Then the clerk jumped over the counter and beat the victim to death? Just like that?”
“Just like that,” the man agreed. He squinted at Helms’ badge again, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“So what did this man look like?” Helms asked, not looking up from her notebook.
“Like some sort of communist hippy liberal pussy. Or something. I don’t know, I can tell you he didn’t vote for The Gipper, that’s for damn sure.”
Helms glanced up from her notes and fixed the witness, one Jeremy Boont, with a questioning stare.
Boont winced a little, spat more chaw, and stared off at his truck like he thought that description should suffice.
“How tall was he?” Helms prompted.
“I don’t know. Not very.”
“What color was his hair? His eyes?”
Boont leaned in close to Helms, his gut pushing her notepad back into her writing hand.
“What do I look like to you?” He asked, slowly.
“Excuse me?” Helms took a step back. Thought that might have been a mistake: Probably should have stood her ground and made him back off.
“I look like some kind of faggot to you?” Boont asked.
“I…I don’t…”
“Like I just stand around, gazing at men’s hair, lookin’ deep into their eyes. You think that’s what I do?”
“So you didn’t notice anything at all about the man with the boombox?”
“I noticed -- and you can write this down now, this here’s my statement: He looked like he didn’t vote for Reagan, and sucks cocks in a rest stop bathroom. That’s all I saw. Where I’m from men don’t look at other men, and if they do, they sure as hell don’t see ‘em. That’s faggot business.”
“So you couldn’t tell me what your own daddy looked like?” Helms asked.
“You sayin’ my daddy’s a faggot now, lady? Are you kiddin’ me? Who’s tellin’ you I’m gay for men, huh? Who’s been spreading lies? I tell you, I find who’s been sayin’ this stuff, I’m gonna stick my gun up his ass and fuck him with forty four calibers.”
“See, now that sounds kind of gay…”
“WHAT?!” Boont reared back, like he was going to deck Helms, but Officer Price stepped between them and stared him down.
Boont returned the glare for a minute, but ultimately broke. He spat chaw, in what he probably thought was a defiant gesture, and looked at his truck again.
“That’s all I got to say,” he finished.
“Why don’t you and your buddy get on outta here before we break out the breathalyzers, all right?” Price said.
Boont coughed, pulled up his belt and adjusted his worn baseball cap – Federal Booby Inspector, it said – before leaving. Made a big show of taking his time about it.
When he and his buddy finally made the truck and pulled out, tires squealing, of course, Price turned to Helms.
“You get anything useful out of the other one?” She asked him.
“I asked if the suspect had any scars or distinguishing tattoos. He asked me if I thought he was a faggot,” Price answered.
Helms laughed.
“The bible-thumping hicks in this town, I swear to god.”
“That’s not fair,” Price said, “it’s got nothing to do with this town or the bible. I’ve known Jeremy Boont since 6th grade. His daddy owns a furniture company that makes fancy wicker chairs and such. Sells ‘em to yuppies on the west coast for thousands of dollars. Drives a bright yellow Porsche. Boont isn’t some poor uneducated bible-thumper; I’m some poor uneducated bible thumper -- he’s just a dipshit.”
“Look, if it walks like a hick and fucks its sister like a hick, I’ll call it a hick,” Helms replied. “Plenty of them around here.”
“You should come to church with me sometime,” Price said. “You’ll see where all the good people in this town are hiding.”
“Price,” Helms said, “my mom was a Baptist and my dad was a Bastard. Neither would want me anywhere near your church.”
“Ah,” Price chuckled, “I’ll make a convert out of you someday. If only for the free coffee.”
They fell quiet for a moment.
“So…” Helms said, eager to switch subjects. “The other one told you the same thing about the music guy? Just walked in, hit play, then left and the clerk went ballistic?”
“Basically, yeah.” Price looked around the parking lot, saw nobody was watching, and pulled out a cigarette. “Kid got any priors?”
Helms made a face at him as he lit it, and took two steps upwind.
“Zip,” she said, “just out of high school. Solid B student. Likes band, according to the manager.”
“A band geek nearly tore my throat out?” Price said, gesturing to the three gouges on the side of his neck.
“Quit being dramatic,” Helms said, “he barely grazed you. Besides, you always got me to save your ass.”
Price laughed.
“You see him in the back of the cruiser when Jackson pulled away? He was trying to bite through the damn window. What turns a pudding of a kid like that into a feral maniac all of a sudden? Drugs?”
“Maybe,” Helms scuffed at the pavement with her shoe, knocking cigarette butts towards the drain in the middle of the parking lot. “Seems like there’s something new coming out every day.”
“Yeah, maybe…” Price blew smoke from the side of his mouth, angling it away from Helms.
She smiled at him.
***
“We’ve got reports of a 708 at the Bowl N Chug. Two officers on scene requesting backup.”
“Price and Helms responding,” Price said, then set the handset back in its cradle.
Helms hit the sirens and flipped a U-turn, cutting off a bright yellow Porsche. Price watched the mirrors and saw a hand slide out its window, giving them the bird.
“Ten to one it’s Joe Greene again,” Price said.
“Probably decked some guy because his toe was over the line,” Helms agreed.
Price grabbed the oh-shit handle as Helms cut a wide, fast, turn down Everett and floored it toward Center. Engine roar filled the cabin. The cruiser crested the dip just before the courthouse and went airborne for a split second.
“Jesus!” Price laughed, “there’s no way t
he call’s this urgent. You know that, right?”
“When do I get to do this?” Helms grinned, but kept her eyes locked to the road.
She swung the tail wide and power slid to a stop in the parking lot of the Bowl N Chug.
“Whoo,” Price let out the breath he forgot he was holding, and shook his head as he stepped out of the car. “Someday you’re gonna get us killed, driving like that.”
“Nah,” Helms said, slamming her door. “Cheese dogs and cigarettes’ll get you first.”
Price thumbed the release on his holster and let his hand rest on the grip of his pistol. He got to the door first, checked his corners, stepped in and quickly moved to the side. Helms did the same behind him. They spread out, each watching half of the alley. There was nobody at the front desk, nobody in any of the lanes, save the far one. Helms could see legs sticking out from behind the ball delivery, and two males wrestling on the ground between the benches. One of them was wearing blues – maybe Jackson. Then she saw his partner, Hughes, backed up against the rails, his pistol drawn and centered on the fighting men.
She glanced at Price, who hadn’t yet spotted it from his angle. But he caught the meaning in her eyes. He pulled his service revolver and pointed it at the floor in front of him. Helms followed suit. They covered the distance quickly, sticking to their sides and watching the blind spots behind pillars. Helms made the scene first, came around the ball delivery and eyeballed the limp body. Male, just shy of six feet, probably over 200 pounds. Lying face down, not moving, no blood or signs of serious injury. Likely just unconscious. The priority here was Jackson and his assailant.
The attacker was straddling Jackson, his back to Helms, one hand locked on Jackson’s throat, the other fighting off Jackson’s frantic grabs toward his face. Jackson tried to kick out of the hold, and the pair rolled into the gutter, shifting position so Helms could see the assailant’s face.
Shit, it was Joe Greene.
He was a troublemaker and a bit of a prick, sure, but he never took an argument beyond a little dust-up, and usually apologized by buying the other guy a beer afterward. Besides, he always cowed like a scolded schoolboy when the cops showed up. But he wasn’t just resisting arrest here – Jackson was pouring blood from his left eye, teeth smashed through his lips – this was attempted murder.
“Police!” Helms tried, knowing it was pointless.
Helms looked to Hughes. He was trying to back up the stairs to the concession stand, but he couldn’t take his wide, unfocused eyes off the fight long enough to get his footing. He had his gun drawn, but pointed in the air, weaving back and forth above the commotion.
Shellshocked.
She called out ‘police’ and ‘on the ground’ one more time, then let off and focused on moving into position to cover Price. If she’d been alone, she would have had to try to wrestle Joe Greene off, but she knew Price was stronger, and he knew she was the better shot. It didn’t need to be said. Price had holstered his weapon and was running in low, hoping to use the momentum to knock Greene loose from Jackson’s throat. He caught Greene hard around the waist, and they rolled into the next lane, freeing Jackson, who immediately started crawling away, down the lane toward the pins.
Greene didn’t seem to understand that he’d been grabbed from behind. He was making no effort to break out of it, his eyes still locked on Jackson and the ragged trail of blood he left in his wake. Greene was kicking his legs, thrashing and clawing wildly at the air, but making absolutely no effort to pry Price’s hands from around his midsection. Price scooted backward across the lane until he reached the far side of the alley, then levered Greene up and swung him face first into the wall. He pulled one of Greene’s arms down around his back, but couldn’t get a hold of the other. Helms holstered her gun and ran to help. She put her weight into Greene’s shoulder and twisted his free arm downward. She held it in place while Price finished cuffing him, then made the mistake of looking into Greene’s face.
His eyes were beyond bloodshot. Dried white flakes ran down each cheek, like he’d been crying for days. He bared his teeth and snapped at Helms over and again. He screamed gibberish, a raging staccato bark that seemed to be trying to form words, but never quite made it.
“RAAAH,” Greene gnashed his teeth and beat his own face against the wall, “RAH GRA HEM NO IMHE HOA RAAAA!”
Price grabbed him by the hair and held his head back so he wouldn’t bash his own skull in; Greene spasmed and struggled harder. Together, Helms and Price managed to trip him up and bring him down. She ziptied one ankle, then the other, and then the two together. Price held a knee in his back and hauled on his shoulders so she could hook the handcuffs and the ankle zips together, leaving Greene hogtied. She knew it was dangerous to bind a person like that for long, but Jesus – look at him. He was still snapping at anything that came near his face, though his eyes never left Jackson.
Shit. Jackson.
Helms jogged down the lane and ducked her head under the pinsetter, where Jackson’s blood trail led.
“Jackson!” She called out. “Jackson, are you still with me?”
A wet moan was her only response.
She called in an Officer Down and requested an ambulance, then stood and surveyed the bowling alley.
“How do you get back there?” She yelled to Price.
“Back where?” He said.
“Behind the pins. Jackson’s back there!”
“I’m coming,” Price said.
He turned to Hughes, who still had his pistol out, pointing it now at the inert body on the floor.
“Hughes,” Price snapped his fingers. “Hey, you with me?”
“Don’t go near it,” Hughes said, after swallowing hard a few times.
“What? Listen, just stay here with Joe while we go check on Jackson. He’s not going anywhere. Just make sure he doesn’t chew his tongue off or something.”
“TIH NEH IH MO HOA IMHE MO HOA,” Greene growled to himself.
Price turned away from Hughes and jogged back down toward the benches. He rounded the ball return and knelt by the body there.
“No don’t! Don’t get close to-“ Hughes screamed.
Price extended a hand to check the man’s pulse, then became a flailing blur.
Helms didn’t even see the guy move. He was face down one second, then up on his feet the next, holding Price in the air by his neck. Helms pulled her pistol reflexively.
“Hey!” She called, “hey, stop! Let him go!”
It wasn’t exactly protocol, but it was all she could think to say. She closed the distance fast, but the man moved faster. His fingers sunk deep into Price’s throat, holding him six inches above the floor while he sprinted toward Hughes, who scrabbled backward up the stairs. Unlike Greene, this guy was dead quiet. The only noise was his shoes squeaking on the polished wood as he ran down Hughes, holding Price in front of him like a shield.
Hughes had no shot, but he took it anyway, firing wildly.
“No!” Helms yelled, too late.
When he had closed to within a few yards, the man heaved Price aside. Price crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Hughes fired again and again, each shot going wide, and then the man was on him. He grabbed frantically at Hughes’ arm, who twisted and yowled like a wet cat. When he found purchase, the man put a foot on Hughes’ chest and yanked upward. Hughes’ arm came off clean at the shoulder. Still the man made absolutely no noise, not even a grunt of exertion. Hughes stared at his own severed arm and keened like a tea kettle. The man tossed the limb absently aside, then began grappling with Hughes’ remaining arm.
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