Fireworks

by James A. Moore

  Bethany Harper died in his arms. She was a sweet little girl, only seven as he recalled. Such things should not happen.

  He didn't dare let himself dwell on her death. Instead he simply rushed on to the next in line, Beth's father, Wade. Wade was barely hurt at all, but you'd have thought his arms were gone by the way he carried on. Wade Harper only found out later that his only child was dead. Suzanne Harper was worse off than her husband but had the decency to keep her pain to herself. No, on second glance she was in shock. He lifted the woman and carried her towards the waiting ambulances.

  And as he walked the magnitude of the disaster hit him again, damn near making him drop Suzanne and just give up. Ten paramedics and a handful of others were doing their best to work on over a hundred people. Despite their efforts, three others screamed for attention as a loved one or family member writhed in pain for every one they treated.

  He set Suzy down near the closest ambulance and wandered towards his squad car. More people needed to come in for this one. The clinic and the five ambulances just couldn't handle a disaster on this scale. But when he tried to hail anyone on the radio, all he got was static.

  He was starting towards the bank of pay phones at the park's entrance when he saw Milo Fitzwater directing a small fleet of emergency vehicles into the area. The pudgy little fart looked like a general, hollering at the top of his lungs and pointing to this spot and that, directing traffic flow with the efficiency of an air traffic controller. Miracle of miracles, they even followed his orders. More medical technicians started moving about, grabbing those people who stumbled around and moving them aside to reach the seriously injured.

  Frank felt suddenly at a loss. He was no longer needed. His knees started shaking as the excess adrenaline caught up with him, and he slumped back on the hood of his patrol car. He looked at the now controlled chaos around him and sighed. Damn, but he needed a cigarette. Before he could so much as reach for the pack of Marlboros in his pants pocket, Milo was at his side, urging him to lie down and just stay calm.

  "Milo, what the hell's wrong with you? I'm just fine. Tired, but fine."

  "Frank, you need to just rest yourself. You look like you're about to have a stroke." The mayor's voice was filled with concern, and his little piggy eyes had that fretful look he got when he was thinking about the budget. But his stance demanded that Frank follow his orders, and Frank was just too tired to put up a fight. Milo, with surprising strength, helped him lie back and Frank was grateful for the assistance. He felt about as weak as a kitten right then. Confused by the sudden exhaustion, Frank lay back and tried to catch his breath. Despite his best efforts, nothing seemed to help much. He couldn't think straight. He had enough energy going through him to make his whole body twitch, but he couldn't get his body to respond to his mind's orders.

  Then Sam Morrisey from over at the Parrish County Hospital was at his side, putting an oxygen mask over his mouth and shoving a rubber cuff over his arm. Sam looked too much like a thirty-year-old Santa Claus for Frank's comfort. He could see the man building toys and wearing granny glasses easier than he could imagine him performing any sort of medical procedure. If Sam wasn't so damned good at what he did, Frank would have shoved him away. The oxygen helped The blood pressure cuff just annoyed the hell out of him. Morrisey was looking as worried as Milo, but, considering the situation, that wasn't too surprising.

  Frank turned his head to look back at the lake and got his first real glimpse at the cause of all his problems. Huge. That was a good word for describing the thing. Through the smoke of burning yachts and boats, Frank studied the newest addition to Collier's landscape. Though he could not see the whole of the object, if the curve peering from the boiling waters was any indication, he'd have to guess the structure was wide enough to cover half a dozen football fields. The thing looked metallic, but between the steam rising from Oldman's Lake and the milling people he could not be certain.

  "Frank? Are you listening to me?" Sam Morrisey stared at him worriedly, a slight scowl on his face. "Have you checked your blood-sugar lately?"

  "No." His voice sounded funny to his own ears, and because he couldn't stand not being heard clearly, he tried to pull the oxygen mask off his face. Sam shoved it back into place, and Frank let him. The motion had left him feeling strangely disconnected from his own body. He was annoyed by Sam's attitude. Damn it, he wasn't the one bleeding or burning or screaming. He wanted to help! "I've been a bit busy, Sam." Every time anyone asked him about diabetes he felt like a six-year-old caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Guilt was one enemy he never managed to escape.

  Sam didn't speak, he simply shook his head and reached for the glucometer in its brown vinyl bag. Milo made annoying little 'tsk' noises and wandered off to see if anyone else needed help. Frank winced when the lancet poked his finger, but more because of the surprise than the pain. After thirty seconds of waiting, Sam shook his head and reached back into his medical bag. "Here. Eat these." He held out a set of plastic packets with foil backings. Each of the two-inch squares held a small white wafer-shaped lump.

  "Are those what I think they are?"

  "Yes. They're glucose tablets. Now eat the damn things so I can get on my way."

  "I don't want 'em. They taste like shit."

  Sam hauled on his pants, forcing them partially over his large belly and did his best to look stern. "They're not made to taste good, Frank. If they tasted good you and every other diabetic would want to eat them like candy. I'm not going anywhere until you eat the damn things. So eat, I've got people to tend to." He paused and looked around for a few seconds, his face stunned. Santa Claus on a war front. The idea was almost enough to make Frank chuckle, but he was afraid if he started laughing he wouldn't be able to stop.

  Frank smiled, "Yes, Mom." He opened the packs and chewed on the sickening sweetness of the wafers. "Damn. These things are nasty."

  "Well, eat food next time and you won't have to eat them. I've told you before about skipping meals, and I know my dad's told you at least a hundred times." Sam frowned. "Your blood pressure's too high, your sugar's too low. Your heart's a little irregular, too. Have you been for a real physical lately?"

  "Yeah. Your father said I was just fine." He shrugged. "You and your dad are both pains in my ass."

  "Yeah, and I'm sure he loves it just as much as I do. Stay sitting for a while and then get some rest. We'll take care of things here."

  "Rest? Yeah, that'll happen soon."

  "I mean it, Frank. You get some rest. You aren't doing anyone any favors by being macho."

  Frank waved Sam away and the paramedic left. Frank pulled the oxygen mask off again, and this time no one stopped him. The air was too hot and smelled far too much like places he didn't want to remember, but it beat all hell out of trying to talk through the cold blast of air and annoying plastic muzzle. Sam and his father, John Morrisey, were both fine men. But they harped like old women when it came to Frank's diet. John had an excuse at least; he was Frank's doctor. Four years since he'd been diagnosed as a diabetic, and Frank still never managed to keep his food intake and insulin injections balanced well enough to keep the old fart happy.

  Still, he took Sam's advice and stayed where he was for a few minutes, waiting for his blood-sugar to increase back into the normal range. He wanted to get back to work, but the world kept trying to tilt on him and he just didn't dare try standing. Getting older sucked.

  While he sat near his patrol car, he looked around the area and watched with something akin to awe as the people finally got around to helping each other with the worst of the mess. Damn near everyone had something wrong with them, from scrapes all the way up to broken bones.

  Two medics walked past with a stretcher between them. Emily O'Rourke lay on the stretcher, bundled into a sheet and looking twice as thin as a snake. She was normally so active, so full of energy that she seemed larger than she really was. Now, injured and motionless, she seemed like a different person altogether. Too frail to be Emil
y, he thought as he watched them carry her past. Not feisty enough by half. Her face was a mess and Frank had to admit he doubted if she'd live through the rest of the night. Bill was still with her, walking beside her and gingerly holding her hand. He completely ignored the blisters on his own body, too worried about his wife to give them consideration. Frank admired William, but at the present time he did not envy the man.

  Finally, unable to stand still a second longer, Frank grabbed one of the ambulance attendants from over in Stockton-how Milo had convinced them to make the trip from so far away was something he'd never understand-and told the woman to put an extra person in the back of his car. She looked at his badge, now pinned to belt, looked at the mounting number of people who desperately needed medical attention and then looked at the dwindling number of ambulances. As another one started moving towards Roswell Avenue, the only road out of Collier, she nodded and called for assistance.

  A beanpole of a man came over and helped move not one but two of the victims into the back of the patrol car. Andy Newsome and his little brother Billy. The two looked relatively unscathed, except for the burn marks. Nothing as bad as Emily's, thank God, but fairly substantial just the same. But when Andy settled into the seat, Frank saw the heavy bandages wrapped around one part of the boy's scalp and saw the blood leaking through the thick cotton padding. Billy sat next to his brother, looking hideously pale except where he was scorched. He held a small package in his trembling hands. When he noticed Frank looking, he opened the bundle briefly and closed it again without a word. Going on the location of the bandages and the shape of the meaty lump in the ice-laden cloth, Frank was pretty sure Billy had a grip on his brother's ear.

  He made both boys buckle into their seats and turned on the siren. A few seconds later they were on their way to Route 65. Next stop: Parrish County Hospital.

  He drove as quickly as he dared, firing up the flashers and the siren both, and pressing on the accelerator hard enough to get them up to 50 miles per hour. Any faster on the winding little two-lane road and he'd have more than a few burns and a severed ear to worry about…

  Just as well he kept the pace light, because as he rounded the final bend in the road before everything straightened out and became more than an over-glorified biking trail, he damn near slammed into the back of one of the ambulances. He barely noticed the flashing red and white lights reflected off the trees in time to bring the cruiser to a shuddering, sideways halt. One of the two munchkins in the back squealed in perfect time with the tires. Jesus please-us! What the hell's wrong with those boys?

  "I dropped Andy's ear, Officer Frank." He could barely hear Billy in the back of the cruiser through the pounding of his own heart.

  "What?" He was annoyed by the kid's voice, and did his best to control his temper. Everyone was on edge enough as it was. "Speak up, Billy." Frank moved the car to the side of the road, just in case there should be anyone coming up from behind him who was in as much of a hurry.

  The boy's voice was at the edge of panic, and Frank made himself remember that he wasn't alone in is confusion. "I dropped Andy's ear. I can't find it back here."

  Frank sighed, pulling his eighteen-inch flashlight from the massive belt he always wore on duty. "Here. Use this and stay put. Fm gonna see what the delay is up ahead."

  "Thank you, sir." The kid sounded like he was about to cry and Frank softened up.

  "That's okay, Billy. You just stay calm and we'll see about getting Andy all fixed up." He reached out and tousled the kid's slightly greasy hair, for lack of any other way to express his sympathy. Then he got out of the car fast. He hated kids. Not because they were mean or anything, more because they were confusing. They just didn't act like real people. He wasn't fond of that little flaw in his make up, but there it was and he had to live with it.

  Up ahead, he saw a continuing line of ambulances. Seven in all, and every one of them with the lights painting the world in stark white and red relief. He thought about running to the end of the line to see what the holdup was, but decided to satisfy himself with walking at a brisk pace.

  Frank swatted a few bugs away from his face as he walked, remembering why he hated summertime in Georgia so damned much. Bugs and sweat, sweat and bugs. Always too hot and too humid this time of the year, and the worst was yet to come. August would turn the sultry evenings into an endless sauna. The heat had never bothered him much as a kid, but these days it made him restless and angry.

  Just up ahead, he could see the backs of all the ambulance attendees, lined up like a group of well-groomed prisoners. His built-in trouble-sensors-better known to most people as instincts-started screaming up a storm as he took them in. One after another, lined up with their hands on the tops of their heads. None of them even fidgeted. They were standing as still as the oak trees lining the road. The only motion came from a mild breeze ruffling their hair and their shirts.

  Frank carefully slid the .38 revolver from its holster and thumbed the safety off. He was not liking this at all. No, sir, not one damn bit. The light from the ambulances and even from his police car were going to make sneaking forward a task if he stayed on the road, so he slipped behind the next tree and waited a few seconds. Then he made a dash to the next tree in line and tried to see what he could of the situation. All he could see were the backs and partial profiles of the paramedics. They did not look happy. They looked very, very scared. Sam Morrisey was the only exception. He looked pissed off in a big way. Thinking the situation over, Frank decided he'd rather not get Sam angry. Sure, he looked like Santa most of the time, but just then he looked like an angry grizzly bear.

  Whatever was out there in front of them did not seem at all impressed. Frank moved forward again. When he looked around the new tree, he had a perfect view of Sam and another technician in profile. The second paramedic was familiar enough, another local gone off to work in another area. Sam's sister, Denise. Denise did not look like Santa, she looked like a heavier Annette Funicello. Cute, but only pretty if she'd drop about thirty pounds. Beyond her chest and Sam's belly, the others were lost from sight.

  Frank cranked his head to the right, trying to see what was in front of the group. All he saw was darkness. Right up until the time the rifle butt filled his vision. The blow was deliberately gentle; he knew that from the second it connected with his forehead. Still, even a light tap from a rifle butt is enough to make a person rethink his position. Frank staggered back a few steps and landed on his ass.

  Before he could stand back up, or even really give much consideration to the idea, the revolver was yanked from his loose hand and he was forced face first into the wet mulch on the ground.

  His arms were yanked back with enough force to make him cry out, and then cold metal snapped into place over both of his wrists. Whoever cuffed him worked him like a pro. A moment later he was hoisted to his feet and half carried past the paramedics. He wanted to protest, but his head was still buzzing and refusing to lift from its downward-facing position. The smack on the skull had been harder than he had first realized. So solid in fact, that his knees kept wanting to fall away in all the wrong directions.

  Finally, after what seemed like too long for the short distance they traveled, the people carrying Frank brought him to a halt in front of a pair of black boots. He took his time and did it right. This time when he decided to raise his head, he was successful.

  He almost wished it hadn't worked. The thing in front of him did not look human. The black boots lead up to pants just as dark and just as glossy. The pants were part of a full body suit, divided by a large belt holding half a dozen devices from a radio to what looked like a cattle prod. Over the shins, the thighs and the groin, heavy metallic-looking pieces of armor had been set into the fabric. Above the belt, a flak jacket covered over most of the figure's torso, which seemed like overkill when you considered that more of the armored segments covered the stomach, back, arms and neck of the outfit. And from the neck up, the entire face of whatever was under all that clothin
g was concealed by a helmet and what looked like a modified gas mask. Where a mouth should have been, a long metallic trunk slid down and then over a heavy-set shoulder. Directly behind the imposing figure, Frank could see the silhouette of a very large and heavily armed helicopter. At least his assailants were human. They only looked like they belonged on Mars.

  One of the thing's hands, also covered in black, reached out and grabbed the badge hanging at his belt. The badge was yanked away and held before a heavily tinted visor. He wondered how the hell the guy in the monkey suit could see anything at all.

  "Captain Franklin Osborn?" The voice sounded all wrong through the filters over the face. It sounded like something that would come out of an insect. Which, when he considered the face, almost made sense. Frank shivered, despite the heat.

  "That'd be me. Who the hell are you?" He wanted to sound stern, but the bonk on his noggin stopped his desires from being fulfilled.

  "None of your business, sir. This road and all of Collier are now under quarantine. Nobody leaves."

  "What?" He refused to believe he was hearing the words, even though his ears seemed like they were working again. "You've got to be out of your cotton-pickin' mind, mister! We've got over a hundred people in need of medical attention!"

  The glass bug-eyes of the mask stared back without expression. "Medical help is on the way. As it stands now, no one leaves this area. Anyone attempting to leave will be shot. We have orders to shoot to kill. Do I make myself clear?"

  Frank tried to break away from the two holding his arms, but managed only to make them tighten their grips. "Who do you think you are? You can't do this to me! You can't do this to the people of this town!" He felt his blood pressure jump a few notches. "God damn it, this is still America! And every last one of us is an American citizen!" He gestured at the line of ambulances with his head. "These people are injured, and they'll die if they don't get help. Let us pass!"