Rockabilly Limbo

by William W. Johnstone

  “The fight of all times, I think. I’m on the Internet, talking worldwide.” She handed him a thick sheaf of papers. “Read these printouts.”

  Cole leaned forward to get into better light, and read. From Michigan to a man in Mississippi: What’s going on down south? I think it’s shaping up to be a war here, and from the looks of things, it’s going to be a bad one.

  From Vermont to California: The shooting has started here. How about where you are?

  California to Vermont: It’s begun here. What in the hell is going on?

  Florida to Wyoming: People have gone crazy. They’re attacking all over the place.

  Canada to Arizona: It’s a war zone up here. What’s happening in the lower forty-eight?

  Arizona to Canada: Same thing. I thought it was all over. It’s worst than ever.

  The printed electronic chatter was the same on every page: the war was on all over North America.

  “It’s the Mercers and Kings and Winfields!” Ruth shouted from the den. “They’re at the front gate now.”

  Jim, who had spelled Gary as the front outside guard, opened the gates and waved the three families on through.

  Katti set out cups and saucers and started pouring fresh brewed coffee.

  “It started this morning in Nashville,” Al Winfield said, after taking a gulp of coffee. “Without any warning. Husbands turned on wives, wives turned on husbands, kids turned on their parents, neighbor turned against neighbor. It’s ten times as bad as before. At least.”

  “People were shooting at us from overpasses and from both sides of the interstate,” Jane King picked it up. “We finally had to leave the interstate and take the back roads to get through. We were praying you would be here.”

  “Well, don’t quit praying,” Hank urged the group, just coming in from guard duty out back. “We’re all here, but this house might well turn out to be our tomb. About a hundred people have gathered in the woods out back. We’re cut off that way.”

  “Cole?” Jim radioed.

  “Go, Jim.”

  “Here they come.

  * * *

  In his office at Andrews AFB, Pres. James Edward Mason was pale, his face sweaty, he could not control the trembling of his hands. “Are you certain of this, General?” he asked.

  The Marine Corps general was also shaky, but holding on to his composure . . . barely. “I’m certain, sir. Our fighters have it in visual.”

  “What, ah, kind of craft is it?”

  “It’s, ah, saucer-shaped, Mr. President.”

  President Mason found a clean handkerchief, wiped his face, and dried his hands. He looked at the elaborate radio equipment on a table by his desk. “Can, ah, I mean, will that thing pick up their transmissions?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want to hear them talk.”

  General Stovall quickly set the frequency and took a chair.

  “We do not have any hostile intents,” a voice popped out of the speaker. “We come in peace and goodwill. We come only to help you. Please acknowledge.”

  Stovall handed the President the microphone. Mason very reluctantly took it. He sighed heavily. “Jesus Christ Almighty,” the President of the United States of America whispered. “Help me through this.”

  * * *

  During the first fifteen minutes of the fight at Ruth’s country estate, those behind the stone walls laid down such a heavy barrage of small arms’ fire that the ground front and back were littered with the dead and dying. Experienced combat veterans and ex-cops don’t necessarily play by any rules when confronted with a life-threatening situation.

  By mid-afternoon, the attackers—those still able to walk or crawl—had withdrawn.

  “Anybody hurt?” Cole asked, walking the house.

  No one was.

  “Drink and eat and use the bathrooms now,” Cole ordered.

  “Then get back to your posts. It might be over, but I doubt it. Stay alert.”

  He walked to the study, where Jenny—the only one among them who was not required to use a weapon—was hard at work at the computer.

  Cole was rocked back on his heels and rendered silent for a moment, when the young woman looked up at him, her eyes wide and her face pale, and said, “A spaceship has just landed at Andrews Air Force Base. Occupants of the spaceship are meeting with President Mason.”

  * * *

  The three men and three women who had exited the strange-looking aircraft and now sat in the President’s office were as human in appearance as anyone else in the room. They were dressed in dark blue jumpsuits. General Stovall stared at the pips on their shoulder tabs, trying to ascertain their method of rank.

  The spokesperson was a woman, of rather exotic beauty, with very pale gray eyes. She was explaining, “Those responsible for your current troubles and woes come from a rather warlike planet. Fortunately, it is a small planet, not strong enough to wage war against us.”

  President Mason nodded his head in understanding, which of course he did not.

  “They have been visiting your world for years. Recently, one of their ships crashed and all aboard were killed. They believe it was a deliberate act of war. I do not. Considering your rather primitive state of advancement, you do not have the capabilities to shoot down anything not built on your planet. They were just looking for some excuse to fight. We don’t like to interfere in the business of others, so we allowed it, for a time. It’s gone on long enough. In two hours, the war will end. Your belligerent visitors will leave. We will see to it that they do not return.”

  “Thank you,” President Mason said. “You speak excellent English, ma’am, ah, Ms....”

  She smiled. “My name is Xylona.”

  “I’m, ah, very pleased to meet you.” President Mason hid a grimace. He felt like a goddamned fool.

  General Rawlings of the Air Force asked, “Would you give me a tour of your ship, Miss Xylona?”

  She hesitated. “I’m sorry, but no.” She held up a hand. “I’m not being unfriendly. Please allow me to explain. What you are seeing is not real. We,” she indicated the others with her, “are in reality several million miles away from your planet. What you are seeing is, well, call it a reflection.” She cleared her throat. “Albeit a very advanced type of reflection,” she added drily.

  “That’s why you asked us not to touch you,” President Mason said.

  “That is correct.”

  “I have about a thousand questions I would like to ask,” General Rawlings said.

  “I’m sure you do. But I hope you will not. For I would have to refuse to answer them. I take orders, too, General.”

  “I have but one question,” General Stovall said, leaning forward. “Do you worship the same God as we do?”

  “Oh, yes,” Xylona replied. “In His curiosity about Himself, He created many worlds, and many people. And, it is our belief, just as many Heavens and just as many Hells. That is what our spiritual leaders teach.”

  President Mason leaned back in his chair. “And in these many Heavens and Hells, will the, ah, residents be able to move between them?”

  Xylona laughed, her eyes twinkling with good humor. “We know many things, sir. But we don’t know that.”

  General Rawlings asked, “Have you visited us before, Xylona?”

  She smiled. “Occasionally.”

  “Have you or any of your people ever landed?”

  “No. We have no need to. We are a very advanced race, General. Anything we need to know about your world, we can learn from millions of miles away, cloaked in invisibility.”

  “STEALTH?”

  “Well . . . a bit more advanced.” She held up a hand and the others stood up. “We must be going now. Chances are, we will not meet again.” She turned, hesitated, and faced President Mason. “I’ll leave you with this: stop your reckless experimentations with nuclear power before you destroy your planet . . . as miserably backward as it is. Look to your sun. It is the source of all life.”

  The three m
en and three women walked out of the office without another word. They boarded their ship, the door closed, and the ship vanished without a sound.

  “Mr. President,” Xylona’s voice sprang from the radio on the table by the desk. “I can tell you this much: Neither we nor our belligerent neighbors had anything to do with the events last year that occurred in that part of your nation you call North Arkansas. We have no control over the supernatural.”

  Six

  “Mrs. Pearson?” the voice called out of the twilight. “Mrs. Pearson? Are you all right?”

  “That’s the mayor,” Ruth said. “Gene Weber. Can anybody see him?”

  “I can,” Bev called. “He appears to be unarmed. Standing by the fence.”

  “I see him now,” Ruth said. “What do you want, Gene?” she called through the open window.

  “Mrs. Pearson, what in God’s name is going on? All these bodies. The blood. I don’t know what is happening. I don’t know why I’m here. I can’t . . . think, can’t remember.”

  “Go home, Gene!” Ruth shouted. “Go home.”

  “Home?” the mayor called. “Yes. That’s a good idea. It’s supper time. My wife will be worried about me. I ... have a busy day tomorrow. Got a meeting with Wayne Black and the planning commission. But . . . that’s Wayne over there in the ditch. He’s dead. Somebody better call the sheriff, don’t you think?”

  “We’ll call the sheriff, Gene,” Ruth yelled. “You go on home.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pearson. Thank you. Oh, there’s Jerry. Jerry! Over here. Why are you carrying that rifle, Jerry?”

  “I don’t know,” Jerry’s voice came faintly to those in the house. “I don’t even remember coming out here. Why are you standing here in the road, Gene? My God! Look at Ruth’s front yard. There are bodies all over the ground. We’d better see if Ruth’s all right . . .”

  The two men talked in low tones for a moment, the mayor pointed toward the house, then they began slowly walking toward town.

  “Well, if I wasn’t confused before, I’m certainly confused now,” Cole said.

  “The same thing is happening everywhere!” Jenny called from the study. “All over North America, people have laid down their guns and are just milling around.”

  “Keep an eye on those dead in the yard,” Jim said. “They just might decide to get up and walk.”

  “I don’t think so,” Hank said. “It’s over.”

  The ringing of the telephone startled them all. Russ was standing by the phone and answered it. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Yes, sir. Sure. But I was fired, sir. I ... Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” He slowly hung up and turned to the group. “That was Mr. Charles Nielsen. He’s always been a real nice fellow. A judge has just appointed him sheriff. Sheriff Boudy is dead. Killed himself late this afternoon. Sitting in his office. I’m to report in ASAP. I ... guess I’d better go into town. Find out what the hell is going on.” He walked out of the room and into the study.

  “I think you’re right, Hank,” Jim said. “It’s over. But . . .” He looked at each member of the group. They appeared to be as confused as he was.

  “We’d better see about the wounded,” Jackie said. She shook her head. “I ... suppose they are no longer our enemies.”

  “Cole?” Gary’s voice jumped out of the speaker of the walkie-talkie. “Sirens going off all over the place. Guys that we were fighting an hour ago are coming up to the fence and asking me what in the world is going on. Hold it. Okay. We’ve got several ambulances pulling up here. Do I let them in?”

  Cole sighed. Keyed the mic. “I guess so, Gary. But stay alert until we can find out what’s really happening. I’m coming out.”

  A moment later, one of the EMTs said, “Beats me, sir. I don’t know what happened. The men and women who were shooting at the hospital just all of a sudden stopped, laid down their guns, and began milling around. They didn’t know where they were, why they were attacking us. Nothing. It’s as if they’d all been . . . I don’t know . . . in some sort of walking coma for the past year. It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen, for damn sure.”

  The wounded were taken to hospitals, the dead body-bagged and hauled off.

  Katti called from the front door, “Scott Frey on the horn, Cole.”

  Cole walked back to the house and took the mic. “Go, Scott.”

  “It’s eerie here in the city, Cole. I’ve never seen anything like this. Hundreds of people just milling around. Most have laid down their guns and appear not to have any recollection of what’s been happening. Only the hard-core punks are still fighting. But it won’t take long to contain them. Not with Colonel Robbins ramrodding the mop-up,” he added. “He’s not taking any prisoners.”

  “What are you guys doing, Scott?”

  “Staying the hell out of the way.”

  The Beginning

  The one point that nearly everyone could agree upon was that the United States of America would never be the same as before. Whether militias were good or bad was now moot. The groups were here, and they were going to stay. But during this bloody time, without them, the United States would have been plunged into a long-running, perhaps even a never-ending era of total anarchy.

  Militias commanded by men such as Col. Bob Robbins returned the job of maintaining law and order to the police and sheriff’s departments and began making plans to deal with the off-the-wall groups like Ely Worthingham.

  President Mason ordered the military to stay out of it. This was a civilian problem and the civilians could damn well handle it. Government’s role as Big Brother and Nanny to all was over, at least as long as he was Commander-in-Chief.

  During a speech to the nation, President Mason said, “We must all accept the fact, and it is a fact, that we, as individuals, control to a very large degree our own destinies. Governments have no business, or right, to meddle in the private lives of its citizens.”

  The very first piece of legislation he signed into law was the abolishing of the tax code as was currently written. Government was going to have to learn to get along with less. The second piece of legislation he signed into law abolished the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. With tens of millions of Americans now heavily armed and with blood in their eyes and gunsmoke still lingering about them, there was no way anyone with any common sense was going to suggest a move to disarm the citizens. The third piece of legislation to be signed into law substantially reduced the FBI’s capability to investigate American citizens who had broken no laws . . . and that was legislation that was years overdue in coming.

  There were other changes, but they were changes that did not need legislation to enforce . . . the citizens took care of all that. America had changed, whether for the better, only time would tell.

  * * *

  “We’ll keep in touch,” Cole said, as the group gathered for one last time after pictures had been taken and hugs and handshakes were over. “After all we’ve been through, we sure don’t want to lose track of each other.”

  James and Alice Mercer, Pete and Jane King, and Al and Denise Winfield went back to Nashville to pick up their lives.

  Gene and Tina Rockland, Harry and Cassy Slayden, and Chad and Jackie Prescott returned to their acreage to try to rebuild; besides, it was time to get a garden in.

  Russ Hampton resumed his duties as a deputy sheriff and Jenny announced that she was pregnant.

  Hank and Beverly Milan, Jim and Ruth Deaton, Gary Markam and Sue Wong, and Cole and Katti returned to Memphis to rebuild and get on with their lives.

  It took Cole and Katti three months of hard work to completely tear out the old and the charred, rewire and remodel the interior of the house. They seldom listened to news broadcasts, because they were just too damn depressing. The death count, nationally, still incomplete, was now in the low millions . . . and climbing.

  The press had broken the story about the visitors from space. But no one knew just how many Americans actually believed it. The story died after only a few days.


  On a warm late summer’s evening, after the supper dishes had been washed and put away, Cole and Katti sat on the front porch and sipped iced tea and talked.

  “My publisher is going to pay me big bucks for our story, Cole,” Katti said.

  “Good. That means I’ll never have to work again. I’ll be married to a famous person and be a kept man.”

  “Right. Cole?”

  “Ummm?”

  “It’s over, isn’t it? I mean, for good this time?”

  “Oh, I can answer that one,” the all-too-familiar voice sprang out of the twilight. The voice of the late Buddy Holly ripped the night in song: “That’ll Be The Day.”

  “Oh, no,” Cole and Katti both groaned.

  Look for these other horrifying tales

  from William W. Johnstone.

  Click any cover to get your copy!

  Notes

  1 Rockabilly Hell—ZEBRA BOOKS

  2 Out of the Ashes—ZEBRA BOOKS