"Uh . . . yeah. The woman had blond hair. Reckon I said that already. Young, maybe thirty. Actually woulda been pretty if she hadn't been so sick. The two men—one had kinda brown hair, and one was kinda dark—like you. Only not an Injun. Not Mexican either, I don't think. Somethin' foreign, maybe Italian." Orel shook his head.
"But I haven't told you the awful part yet. They were comin' toward Doc, and he put his hands up, trying to get away from 'em . . . but there was somethin' awful that came up behind him and got him, picked him right up by the throat and throttled him like he was an old rag doll." Orel grimaced again at the memory.
"Something?" Ironhorse prompted. "What exactly do you mean?"
"This," Deak said cynically, folding his arms, "is where it gets good."
"It's true," Orel burst out, a fresh tear streaking
down his face. "I seen it. It was ... an awful-lookin' thing. An animal, I guess. About the size of. . . hell, I don't know, about the size of a gorilla, maybe. Except it didn't have no hair or real arms or legs. It was like a big ugly leather sack, wet-lookin', and it walked on these skinny ropes for legs. It musta come outa the truck, because the people helped it; they backed Doc right up to it. And that thing put one of its rope-legs around Doc's neck and—" Orel buried his face in his hands.
"Fuckin' drunk," the deputy muttered, and shook his head.
Which was Ironhorse's impression as well, but there was something about the old man's story . . .
As a child, he'd been told tales about the strangers who came from the stars to visit judgment upon the white man, to steal the land from the whites the way they had stolen it from Ironhorse's people. The man had described the creatures in remarkably the same way as Paul's grandfather, except that his grandfather had called them "bears-with-three-arms," or "star-bears." The bears-with-three-arms had spared the reservations, attacking only the whites' cities; and then they had all died, killed not by the white people, but by their own greed. Unfortunately, the whites had not learned from the star-bears' example during the past thirty-five years . . .
And, of course, there was the very brief reference in history class at West Point. The invasion of'53, they'd called it, and tried to blame the whole thing on the unpreparedness of the American military. That was when young Ironhorse learned he could not dismiss his grandfather's story as legend, that the star-bears really had come and laid the white man to waste . . .
Coincidence, Ironhorse told himself. Just coincidence. The old guy's brain was pickled. A lucky thing he'd been able to identify the truck, though.
"And then they took Doc's body with them?" Deak prompted Orel gently, but with no small amount of skepticism.
The old man nodded without looking up, his wrinkled face contorted with horror at the memory of what he described. "It was awful what that thing done to him ... it went all liquidylike, and covered Doc's face and chest. . . and then, suddenly, it just seemed to seep right into him. And Doc, poor dead Doc . . ." Orel sobbed loudly and trembled. "He opened his eyes again and got up, and it was just like he wasn't dead no more. Only I knew better."
While the old man spoke, Deak narrowed his eyes to glance sideways at Ironhorse and shook his head. Ironhorse did not respond.
"Well," Orel continued, "then I hid back down in the car. I was afraid they were gonna come for me next. I think I musta stayed in the backseat, scared to death, for an hour before I got the nerve up to come out. When I did, Doc's body was gone."
That strained Ironhorse's ability to believe a bit too far. The old guy must have been pickled for sure. So much for the theory of the star-bears.
"Interesting thing." Deak addressed the colonel while Orel wept into his cupped hands. "Nothing ever happens in Brewster, except for an occasional shooting at the local bar. But there was another incident
tonight—might be related to this. A doctor kidnapped right out of his house. He kept his medical office there . . . worked out of his home. There were signs of a struggle: someone broke the door down, came in, and got him. We found a handgun that had been fired on the floor. We're pretty sure he fired it at the intruders." Deak paused. "Frankly, Colonel, I'd like to know why these people would stop through here and take these two hostages—that is, assuming both men are still alive."
"You and me both," Ironhorse replied grimly. "Believe me, Sheriff, if I knew more about what they were doing, I'd let you know." Kidnapping the doctor made some sense, at least, in light of what Orel had said about radiation sickness—but the gas station owner was a mystery. The nuclear waste they were hauling provided enough of a bargaining chip for them; why take more precious time to pick up unnecessary hostages?
"Poor Doc," Orel sighed, drawing a finger under his nose and sniffling loudly. "He didn't deserve to die like that."
Deak leaned over and said into Ironhorse's ear, "You know what it's like. Ever since 'fifty-three, all the drunks have seen aliens instead of pink elephants."
"I wonder," Ironhorse said in a way that made Deak look at him sharply. There was something about the old drunk's story, something about the way Blackwood had run terrified from the van that made Ironhorse decide there was much more to this incident, a much deeper mystery than appeared on the surface.
And he wasn't at all sure he was going to enjoy the act of discovering what it was all about.
The big rig shuddered to a halt as it arrived at its destination. Inside the trailer, Xashron sat with his back supported by a barrel and listened to the wind howl outside while he waited with Xeera and Konar. They had come to a consensus during the long journey: soon the process of freeing the others would begin; soon Xashron would command hundreds of soldiers instead of two, and the Advocacy would fall.
On Mor-Tax, Xashron and his followers would be executed for daring even to speak of harming a member of the ruling class, but this was a new world, with new rides. What mattered now was that the invasion was successful, that no more soldiers died needlessly. And time was also a crucial factor: in its enthusiasm, the Council had launched a shipload of carriers the second day of the invasion, after Xashron had reported to his superiors that victory was theirs. The delicate carriers would arrive on Earth within a matter of a Terran year; Xashron would see to it that their mission to populate the Earth with Mor-Taxans was fulfilled.
The rear door of the rig rumbled upward. Outside, in the night wind that mercifully obliterated any tire tracks, stood Xana and Horek; beyond them, a large white house and a structure Xashron's host brain identified as a bam sat on a vast stretch of uncultivated but fertile-looking terrain.
Xana's host body appeared exhausted; her voice faltered as she addressed Xashron as one superior to another. "The Advocacy wills the others to be revived."
She glanced meaningfully at Xashron as if to remind him of his earlier promise. "We will do so here. But first we must take a few days to rest and feed, and the physician will tend to your host bodies so that the effects of the radiation will be minimized."
Xashron rose on wobbly legs. His white coverall was damp and smelled of bile and other excreta from the host's body. He and his companions had been violently ill during the journey, retching until nothing more came. He had surrendered some control of the host's nervous system so as to avoid feeling the pain: this human body burned with fever, and the sensation brought back unpleasant memories of the plague that had defeated them. If the body became much weaker, Xashron would be forced to abandon it.
"As you wish, Advocate," he answered with difficulty, supporting himself against a steel barrel.
Xana nodded weakly, the wind ruffling her short golden hair. She and Horek turned and headed back toward the front of the truck.
"You heard the will of the Advocacy," Xashron said to the others as he stepped outside into the windy night. The sky above them flashed with heat lightning; there came a distant rumble. "Let us go to the physician first, so that our host bodies will be made stronger."
They would need all their strength for the struggle ahead.
F
OURTEEN
Why do I love her? Harrison asked himself the next evening, pausing in the midst of his packing to gaze at Charlotte Phillipson again. She sat on the tie-dyed cotton bedspread of the narrow twin bed in his spartan little bedroom. She'd once referred (with no small amount of disdain) to his decorating scheme as early-American college-student/hippie. There was still no carpet on the floor, and no furniture out in the living/dining area except for the heavy mahogany dining room set his parents had left him. Char had tried to pick up the hippie theme by giving him an original Peter Max print which Harrison despised but left hanging in the living room for her sake.
Now Charlotte sat on the bed, looking gorgeous and leggy in a short pink cashmere dress and a long strand of pearls; clouds of Giorgio perfume wafted toward Harrison every time she moved. But her beauty was compromised by the fact that she sat stiff, erect, so disapproving and withdrawn that the universe seemed to curve inward near her. She gripped herself tightly and stared with cold, reproachful eyes at Harrison.
At the moment his question really had him stumped. He'd known earlier—just a few days it had seemed—why he loved her, but he seemed to have forgotten. Because she has a good sense of humor?
He studied Char's baleful expression. Hunh-uh. Scratch that one.
Because she never tries to manipulate me?
Correction. You thought she didn't try to manipulate you . . . until that damn party, where you found out she was hoping you'd be impressed enough to want to work for that company.
Because she's attractive?
For now it seemed the most promising explanation he could come up with.
Since the threat of the aliens had become real once again, Char and all the things she cared about dwindled in importance for him. She seemed so petty sitting there, and he realized with surprise that in the back of his mind he'd been comparing her to Suzanne McCullough and finding Char lacking (which would have thrilled Clayton no end). Maybe if he swore Char to secrecy and explained what was going on, she would understand.
Yet part of him was certain that if he did explain, Char would argue with him that the things she cared about were still more important. Char, with her silly parties and her social life, somehow made the ugliness of what the aliens had done, of what they might do, seem very unreal.
Perhaps that was why he loved her ... or thought he did. Maybe he didn't love her seriously at all. He'd kept the relationship light and airy on purpose— William Powell and Myrna Loy reincarnate— possibly because he was afraid of losing anything really precious to him. He stared at Char and thought, If she left today, I would survive . . .
He knew that somehow wasn't right.
"I can't believe you're doing this," Char said in her carefully cultivated, throaty voice while Harrison stuffed a few pairs of Jockey low-rise briefs into the zippered pouch of the hanging bag in his closet. He'd packed a navy jacket and khaki pants; he figured that would be fancy enough for the uptight folks in D.C., but he wasn't sure. Normally, he would have asked Char's advice on what to pack—he had no patience figuring out such things—but it didn't seem appropriate at the moment.
"After dashing off from that party night before last, then taking off for God knows where," Char went on, "you expect me to believe you can't take an hour right now to talk to me. Frankly, Harrison, I'm beginning to think you're avoiding me on purpose."
"Don't be ridiculous, Charlotte," he said curtly, zipping the pouch up. He'd taken a two-hour nap, but fear and exhaustion still left him on edge; at the moment he didn't have the patience to soothe her hurt feelings. "You know I'd never do that. Something has come up at work."
"Look at you." She gestured at him with perfectly
manicured hands, the nails hot pink, long, sharp. "You're spending twenty-four hours a day working for that damn Institute, yet they pay you peanuts. Don't you realize that at Bleaker-Williams you could quadruple your salary and work reasonable hours?"
Harrison felt his face harden. "Char, don't ever mention that place again. You know how I feel about what they do. And you know I don't give a shit about working nine to five."
"I went to a lot of trouble to get you that job offer!" she blurted angrily.
Stunned, he gaped at her. From her tone of voice, it was clear she considered him an ingrate. "So . . ." he said softly. "It wasn't their idea, after all, was it? I'm amazed at you, Charlotte. Amazed." He shook his head in disgust and went back to packing with renewed energy. "I'm not going to discuss my choice of career with you or anyone else. Case closed."
"Dammit!" she cried, jumping up from the bed so that the strand of pearls swung, clicking. "Your career affects us, Harrison. It's us we have to talk about."
He glanced at his watch and very coolly replied, "The plane takes off for Washington in forty-two minutes. I barely have enough time to pick up Suzanne and make it to the airport. The discussion is going to have to wait." It was a lie—the plane wouldn't leave for another ninety minutes—but he'd had enough of this particular argument.
"And that's more important than us?'
There was a spoiled, whiny note in her voice that he found irritating. She was trying to force him into an either/or situation, and no way in hell was he going to let her do it. He turned his back to her and started rummaging through the closet to choose a tie; he had no idea what would match the navy and khaki, so he pulled out the closest one, a yellow silk Dior she'd given him. He waited until he could keep the anger from his voice, then said, his back still to her, "It's not that cut and dried, Char. What I'm doing right now is crucially important to you, to me, to everyone. It makes all this"—he gestured expansively with an arm at the room, the world around him,—"seem very irrelevant."
"Irrelevant!" she gasped. " We're irrelevant?"
He faced her. "Don't twist what I said. I can't tell you why I have to go yet, but when I do, I know you'll understand." He zippered the bag up and pulled it from the closet. "I've got to leave."
"I want to understand now," Char said petulantly.
He shook his head. "There just isn't any time to talk about it now."
"No time—!" She turned away for a moment; when she faced him again, her expression had darkened. "Harrison, I swear—" Her tone was dangerous, threatening. "If you leave like this, it's over for us."
It was all so melodramatic, so petty that he half laughed, shook his head in disbelief, and spread his hands. "Charlotte . . ." he began helplessly. This wasn't the woman he knew; this was someone else, a spoiled brat that he didn't like very much. "Look at you, Char, you're positively seething. This is all so ridiculous."
The laughter made her even more furious; her green eyes narrowed. "Dammit, I mean it!"
"Ultimata don't become you," be said in a feeble attempt at lightness. "We can discuss it when I get back."
She trembled and clenched her fists. "You asshole!" Why, she was having a temper tantrum! Just how skilled an actress was she, to have hidden this side of herself from him for almost two years?
She was gasping with anger, frowning so hard her brows were touching, her face contorted; at any moment he expected her to start stamping her feet. For some perverse reason, her overly childish reaction struck him as outright funny, and he snickered before he could stop himself. It was the worst possible thing he could have done, of course. She wheeled around on one hot-pink heel and headed out.
Harrison dropped the bag on the bed and followed, reaching after her. He caught her gently, firmly, by the wrist and walked around to face her. "C'mon, Char, be reasonable."
For a moment he thought she was going to claw his eyes with those sharp pink nails, but then she relaxed in his grasp and looked sulkily at him. "No, you be reasonable." Translation: Do it my way.
The laughter had eased his anger, now he was merely disgusted with her, but in control of himself. One of them had to play the adult here, and it obviously wasn't going to be Charlotte. Harrison turned her palm up, kissed it, then let go of her hand. "Looks to me like we're having a major dis
agreement here. But there simply isn't time to resolve it now. I'll call you when I get to the hotel." He leaned down and
tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away, her expression so cold and hateful it took his breath away.
"Don't bother." Her tone was clipped, icy. "Good-dye, Harrison."
She strode out, the strand of pearls dancing from side to side. This time he didn't try to stop her but stood staring at the empty doorway, not quite able to believe that she had really been serious.
"Well, shit," he said finally. He picked his bag up from the bed and went to catch his plane.
Already bathed and in the long Minnie Mouse T-shirt that served as pajamas, Deb lay sprawled on her stomach in front of the TV watching a rerun of Three's Company. The volume was turned up to an obnoxious level; Deb stared sullenly at the screen without seeing it, chin resting on one hand, which rested on a clean college-ruled page in her open three-ring binder. A paperback edition of Macbeth stood spine side up atop a hardcover volume of An Introduction to Algebra.
Behind her, Suzanne staggered into the foyer and eased the heavy suitcase down by the front door, then frowned in the direction of the blaring TV. Mrs. Pennyworth was expected momentarily; Harrison, in about fifteen minutes. She'd finally wakened around noon, feeling as if what had happened last night were ail part of a horrible dream. The shock of it had faded, leaving her with an odd sense of unreality. Even after Harrison had called with the travel arrangements, she still had trouble believing it was really true, that
Harrison's paranoid fantasies were neither paranoid nor fantasies, that somewhere only a few hundred miles away, the aliens were making plans for a new attack.
It was especially hard to believe now, here, watching the I Love Lucy-type antics on the screen in this all-too-normal domestic setting. Deb had been thrilled to see her mother at first; then, after the announcement that Suzanne was leaving again, she'd settled into a protracted moping session. The TV, with its ridiculous volume, Suzanne knew, was a none-too-subtle display of hostility. Deb hated that particular show and never watched it.
J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection Page 15