Fireworks

by James A. Moore

  The man in black reached out his hand again. This time it held what his buddies in 'Nam had termed a 4BFG,' a Big Fucking Gun, and the business end of the gun pointed directly under his chin. "I know. I know you are all citizens of the United States. Count your blessings on that point. It's the only thing keeping you alive right now. Now get in your patrol car and go back the way you came." The figure moved closer, until Frank could see his distorted face reflected back at him in the black bug-eyes of the man's faceplate. "The injured will be attended to. There're a lot of people coming here within the hour. A lot of doctors are among them." The condescending tone in the man's buzzing voice filled Frank with the simple need to lash out. Sadly, there was the problem of his hands being cuffed to consider.

  He spat instead, sending a wad of spittle raining across the left side of the bug-faced mask. Before he could even grin in satisfaction, the man in black slammed a big, gloved fist into his breadbasket. "Whoof!" The sound escaped his lips with a rush of air and everything inside of Frank Osborn seemed to try leaving his body. Certainly his wind was gone, and so were all of his motor functions. His knees gave up completely this time, and he felt his legs just sort of dangling beneath his body. The hands holding him still were all that kept him from crashing into the ground. What little was in his stomach attempted to rebel, but he managed to avoid vomiting all over himself. He tried to curse the man in front of him, but only managed a weak mewling sound instead.

  "Let's try this again, Captain Osborn." The same hand that had gut-punched him now yanked at his crewcut. It hurt like hell, but he refused to let it show. Just the same, he moved his head up to ease the pain. The other hand held forth the machine gun, damn near managing to fit the barrel inside his right nostril. "I have my orders. No one leaves here, period. I have orders to kill anyone who tries. That includes you. Now, you can go back to your car and tend to your wounded, or you can stay right here and keep giving me lip. One of those options means you end up in a body bag. The other one means you get to stay alive and help us keep the people of this town from getting stupid and ending up in a morgue." The tip of the short rifle-not one he could recognize, which bothered him in a vague way, as he kept up on all the rifleman's magazines-stopped worrying about his nose and started tapping impatiently at his forehead instead. "Which will it be?"

  "I suspect I can manage to find my way back to town."

  "I'm glad to hear that, Captain Osborn. Because I really don't want to see anybody die who does not have to." The helmeted face looked away from him, the whole head turning to find one of the figures holding him up. "Escort the captain back to his squad car. Make sure he gets back to town."

  "Yes, sir."

  The two walking armrests turned him around and started moving towards the car in the distance. Right past the row of paramedics and the line of ambulances waiting to move on. Sam Morrisey looked at him with eyes both angry and afraid. Frank tried his best to look like he was in control, a situation which proved impossible when one considered his current position. As they reached the car, he could see more of the uniformed figures gesturing for the long line of ambulances now behind his cruiser to turn around. One by one, they did just that.

  The escorts eased him against the car and removed his handcuffs. Frank took a minute to stand and make sure everything inside his body was where it was supposed to be. Luckily, everything was. Frank looked at the two figures dressed the same as the one in charge of them and shook his head. He was about to say something when he heard the sounds coming from out of the car.

  He turned towards the back seat and walked the short distance to where Billy Newsome held a bloodied, soiled pile of gauze in his hands. The ear sat atop the mess like a trophy. The little boy was crying, tears ran from his eyes and mucus ran from his nose to cover the lower half of his blistered face. The ear was held before his brother like an offering to a pagan god. Andy paid it no attention.

  Billy whispered hoarsely between jagged breaths. "Come on, Andy. I found it, see? You can talk to me now. Please talk to me, Andy. Pretty please…" He said the words over and over again, like a prayer. Andy continued to ignore him.

  "Billy…"

  Billy damn near jumped out of his skin when he heard Frank. He looked around with wide, terrified eyes and finally managed to focus on the police chief after several frantic seconds. Billy scrambled around on his knees, holding the torn lump of flesh out towards Frank with desperate glee. "I found it, Officer Frank. I found his ear!" A fresh collection of tears erupted from Billy's eyes and his seven-year-old face squinched up into a pathetic pout. "I found his ear but now Andy's mad at me. He won't talk at all and he won't even look at me!"

  "I… Billy…"

  "Please make him understand I'm sorry. Puh-leas-hease!" The boy hitched in another breath and collapsed into jagged sobs of grief.

  Frank reached forward and took the child in his arms. He held him tight and turned him away from the sight of his dead brother. He'd known both of the boys since the day they were born. He'd never expected to outlive one of them. "Shhh, Billy. It'll be okay. You did good, son. You did just fine." Hot tears ran down his shoulder and he felt the cold, dead flesh of Andy's ear pressed against his neck. "Everything's gonna be just fine, you wait and see."

  Frank spared one last glare at the two people in black armor and fatigues, then he started walking back to town. Behind him, the blue and white lights from his cruiser cut wounds through the darkness.

  2

  Collier looked like shit. He was able at last to see the town as he walked back up the Route 65 extension and into the town proper. He ignored the ambulances that passed him on the way, needing the time to walk and reflect. His arms were threatening to cramp up on him, but he refused to put Billy down until he could find Mark and Sue Newsome.

  The thought of telling them that Andy was dead made him want to weep. Andy was Sue's pride and joy. After the rough time she'd had delivering him, it was no wonder that he was a bit on the spoiled side. True, he tended to wince at the thought of pain, but Frank knew that came from too much mothering, not from anything else. Now he was dead, and it was Frank's duty to tell his parents. He'd sooner have castrated himself. The only consolation was that Billy was still alive. Injured, asleep and drooling all over Frank's shoulder, but alive. Surely that had to count for something. If not, what the hell in the world did?

  The area was less crowded than when he had left. Those people who remained were either wounded, attending the injured, milling about in a daze or dead. Far too many filled the latter category. From where he stood surveying the scene, he could count over fifty bodies. The only person he saw moving with any real energy was Milo. The little bastard was dashing from place to place and pausing only long enough to assess the situation. The wild look in the mayor's eyes made him wonder if the man had slipped into shock, simply going through comfortable motions until his mind re-engaged.

  Finding Mark and Sue proved easier than he could have dreamed. They were lying near the shore of Oldman's Lake, frozen in the molted glass. The glass itself was smoky, thick with veil gray tints, like wispy clouds. The parts of the people in the glass that were above the ground were charred into little more than blackened bone and ash. Enough of Sue's head remained in the melted sand to make identification easy, despite the burns. One eye, suspended and preserved in the glass, stared in frozen shock at the massive structure still sending columns of steam into the air above the lake.

  He backed away from the spot slowly, not wanting Billy to see his parents should he awaken. His foot slipped in what was left of someone else-not enough to recognize, little more than congealing body fat-and he had to fight to keep his balance. He managed to make it all the way back to the concession stand without dropping the boy and simply losing his mind, but he would never understand just how the feat was accomplished.

  He sat down carefully, leaving the boy against his shoulder despite the cramps complaining in his shoulders. He chose the side of the concession that faced away fro
m the lake-and the mortal remains of people he'd known and cared for-as a backrest. The thought of looking at the shore and the ruins of so many lives was just too much to face.

  Every muscle in his body felt loose. Tiny tremors rippled through his back, chest and arms, and finally he was forced to set Billy Newsome down. Billy whimpered once in his sleep and curled himself into a ball. Frank sat watching him for a time, staring away once in a while as Milo passed through his field of vision. His eyes seemed to have a mind of their own, refusing to ignore the sights laid out before him. There were fewer bodies on this side of the stand, but the injured people could still be seen lying in the grass of leaning against each other like crude, human sculptures. The stores on either side of the road leading to the lake looked like derelict buildings in some big city slum. Broken glass dotted the sidewalks and where windows once reflected light there were only pools of darkness as far as he could see. Cars rested on their tops and sides along the road and in the sprawling parking lot off to his left. How they'd managed not to have a massive explosion was beside him; the smell of spilled gasoline was still strong in the air, and the earlier crash of the…

  Starship! It's a goddamn flying saucer if ever there was such a thing.

  … meteor or whatever it was seemed like a thing from the distant past. At least two hours had passed between the fireworks and now. It seemed more like a couple of days.

  When sleep hit Frank Osborn he was still staring at the cars on their sides and backs. Still wondering just what in God's name had happened. He slept deeply and dreamt of bloody ears, glass-coated eyes and terrifying figures dressed in black. Figures with no faces save for large black orbs where their eyes should have been.

  CHAPTER 2

  1

  Waking up was sort of like getting hit with a splash of cold water. He was up and ready to scream for a second, ready to swing his fists at the remnants of his tortured dreams. Then reality came back around and made him want to cry instead. Billy Newsome was gone. He'd slipped away while Frank was asleep. It only took a few seconds to spot him standing with his tiny hand in Milo Fitzwater's hairy paw. Milo was wearing the same clothes he'd been dressed in the night before, and Frank wondered if the man had managed any sleep at all.

  A loud crashing sound made Frank turn his head sharply, sending a hot wire of pain though his neck. Nothing like sleeping in a sitting position to remind a man that he's getting on in his years. He scanned past Milo and Billy until his eyes focused on the source of the loud noise. Ten of the armored men from the night before had just thrown over Doug Martin's Ford Ranger, revealing the mortal remains of the Habersham family and what was left of their Mercedes. A cursory examination ensued, and four of the men were dispatched, coming back a moment later with two power saws, the Jaws of Life and four body bags. Frank watched them in action as they tore the top off the Mercedes and got to the business of bagging a slightly pudgy male corpse, a female whose head looked like a squashed berry and two young children. Milo pulled Billy away from the sight and ushered the boy over to where Linda Arminter was watching over a handful of other children. Linda was good with kids, that was likely why she worked as one of the teachers over at Fowler Elementary. Then he headed towards one of the soldiers-they had to be soldiers: everything from their posture to the precise creases in their uniforms screamed military-standing by himself and studying a long list on a clipboard.

  Frank stood and stretched stiffly. He lit a Marlboro, going into his usual early morning coughing fit as he sucked in the first lungful, and started walking in the same direction. He met up with Milo just as the mayor was pointing angrily over his shoulder and looking hard at the man in front of him.

  "Is that entirely necessary? Those ruffians of yours are treating those people like they were only so much meat."

  "With all due respect, Mayor Fitzwater, they are. Those folks are dead and they can't feel a thing. My men have their orders, and those orders include clearing the parking lot to make way for our equipment." The man never even looked up from his paperwork.

  Milo looked fit to be tied. "I don't rightly care what they're supposed to be doing. Around here, it's considered proper to give the dead a little respect!"

  "Mayor, I don't have time for this. If it'll make you feel better, I'll personally apologize to the corpses later. But for right now, I'm pressed for time."

  Milo made a gasping sound, and his mouth opened and closed like a large mouth bass trying to breathe on the land. "I want your name and your identification number, young man. Then I want the name of your commanding officer!"

  The man slapped a pen into its slot on the clipboard with sharp angry gestures. He then slipped the bundle between his left elbow and his side. "Captain Osborn, would you like to discuss the facts of life with Mayor Fitzwater? Or would you like me to do it? Your way will be less painful."

  Frank stepped forward. "Come on, Milo. This old boy don't like to deal with us mere civilians. Like as not he'll pistol-whip you before he'll give you a straight answer on anything."

  "My duty is to secure this area. When my commanding officer lands"-the man pointed to where the soldiers were throwing over a Toyota Camry-"which will only happen when my men have removed the vehicles from that lot, you can talk with him about what's going on here. In the meantime, get the hell out of my face and let me take care of business."

  "Fuck you, too, asshole." Frank's words were out of his mouth before he could give them any thought. He was lucky. The soldier had already gone back to his clipboard.

  Milo sucked in a massive breath and lowered his head until he had an extra chin where his neck usually was. From hardware salesman to charging bull in only a matter of seconds. Before he could speak, Frank hauled on the mayor's pudgy arm and started dragging him away. "Don't even start on me, Milo. I'm doing you a favor. That bastard slammed me in the gut last night. I don't think he's likely to be any nicer today." He looked around and then started down Millwater Street. After two blocks, he cut across over to Oglethorpe Road.

  "Who do these people think they are, Frank? No sooner did things start to calm down this morning than they were all over the place and acting like they'd been appointed by God Himself."

  "I don't know who they are or who they think they are, but I intend to find out." Frank moved along at a steady pace and was surprised that Milo managed to keep up with him. Now and then he forgot that Milo was used to hauling lumber and moving heavy stock in a hardware store. There was little about the man that did not look soft, from his too small feet to the bald spot on top of his head. Normally the look on the mayor's face was a constant battle between confusion, a frown and a stuck sneeze. Right now he looked ready to head back the way they'd come and go a few rounds with Darth Vader Junior.

  "Where are you going, Chief?"

  "Back to my office to make a few calls. I want to see what Paul Moody with the Highway Patrol can tell me about these assholes. If Paul doesn't know who they are, he can find out in a short time."

  "Well, I certainly hope he does know something. Because I don't think these people have any idea at all what they're doing. I truly do not."

  "We'll know soon enough, Milo." Frank started across Seventh Street, past the Hav-A-Feast diner and towards the one-story town hall. "We'll know soon enough." The two of them walked a little faster, Frank supposed that was only natural under the current circumstances. Desperation almost always made people move faster. Right now he was starting to feel a little desperate and a lot paranoid. He hadn't said a word to Milo, who was still rambling on about the lack of proper etiquette on the part of the black-clad forces in the town, but he was starting to get scared.

  Last night he'd almost convinced himself that the incident at the exit ramp to I-65 was just an isolated case. Today, he'd started to realize just how many of the dark soldiers were around the town. They'd only walked a total of eight blocks. In that time he'd counted over twenty of the armored figures. Assuming they still had the road cut off as well, there could be one hel
l of a lot of the goons hanging around.

  He walked into the police office and headed straight for his desk and his Rolodex. The blast of cold air that greeted him from the central air conditioning vents was a welcome friend. Buck Landers, his second in command, looked up with a relieved smile spreading out under his oversized mustache. "I've been trying you all morning and half the night, Frank. You had me worrying you were one of the dead."

  "I'm still among the living, Buck. Now shut up a minute while I try to get Moody on the line."

  "I'll shut up, but it won't do you any good."

  "Why not?"

  " 'Cause them bastards in the black suits have control of the phone lines, and they ain't letting anyone make outgoing calls."

  "My ass! Are you serious?"

  "As a heart attack. I've done everything from begging to screaming at them bastards and not a thing's come of it."

  Frank lifted the receiver and listened carefully. There was no dial tone, but a hard-edged voice spoke up. "This is a secured line. State the nature of your problem or hang up immediately."

  "This is Frank Osborn, I'm the Police Captain here in Collier. I need to make a call to the Highway Patrol."

  "For what reason, Captain Osborn?"

  "Because it's a part of my job, mister. Now will you please give me an open line?"

  "I cannot do that, Captain."

  "Why the hell not?"

  "Until further notice, no outgoing calls are permitted without the direct order of the commander."

  "Well, fine then. Put me in contact with your commander."

  "I cannot do that, either, Captain."

  "Why not? How am I supposed to handle my job if I can't even make a phone call?"

  "You may speak with the watch commander if you desire, I'll pass on the message and he should return your call at his earliest convenience."