"You just do that, mister. I'll be right here waiting." Frank slammed down the phone.
Buck stirred uncomfortably, clearing his throat. His voice, which had a moment before been almost cheerful, was now somber. "Doug Calvert and Rick Simms are among the injured, Frank."
"Shit. How bad are they?"
"They're pretty bad off. Massive burns on the both of 'em. Frank…"
"What is it?" He knew the news was bad, and braced himself against the sinking ice pit in his stomach.
"Willie and Lennie are dead. Neither of 'em felt a thing as far as I could tell, but they didn't make it."
Frank sat down hard, and for a few seconds the only noise he could hear was the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. William Slater and Leonard Slater Junior were two of his officers. They were good men and they were dead. Two more were in a bad way. That left four officers, including himself, to run the town. His mind refused to grasp the idea firmly. Two dead and two injured. One half of his force decimated along with all of the other wounded and dead. The thought slipped through his mental fingers even as he felt his body going numb.
Frank pulled an old stunt from his time in the military and clamped his teeth down on the inside of his mouth, drawing blood from the soft flesh. The numbness left him instantly. He shoved all thoughts of the accident victims aside and forced his muddy thoughts into focus. There were things he had to do. The rusty taste of the blood in his mouth helped more than he'd honestly expected.
"Buck, get on the radio and connect me with the Highway Patrol."
"Can't do it, Frank. Been trying every ten minutes, but I can't pick up anything but static. Whatever fell into the lake seems to make a lot of white noise."
"You gotta be kidding me."
" 'Fraid not. Messed up all the walkie-talkies too. Unless you want to try smoke signals, we're cut off from the outside world."
Frank sat down hard in his chair, a scowl on his face and dark thought racing through his mind. "How about the CB in your car?"
"Same problem."
"Well, shit. I guess we'll have to wait for Highway to figure out there's something wrong." Frank wanted to hit Buck, not for giving him the bad news, but for doing it so calmly, when he felt like going into a panic attack himself.
"Oh, they already know something's up."
"They do?"
"Sure. Had it on the news at eight o'clock sharp. We made the number one story today." There it was again, the urge to hit the man. He quelled it.
"Yeah? What'd they have to say about us?"
"I ain't even gonna try to explain. But I recorded it on the VCR at home and brought the tape in for you to see." He reached down and pulled an unmarked video cassette from a bag next to his desk. He wheeled the TV/VCR and its stand out of a small closet where they kept everything they didn't have room for. There was a lot of crap in that closet, but it was all important crap. In a matter of only a few seconds, he'd set the VCR to play and inserted the tape. "It's all set to run. Keep your eyes peeled."
Frank watched the screen as the picture slowly glowed into existence. Channel 2 from Atlanta flickered into life. The anchor woman flashed a smile as artificial as the color of her hair and greeted anyone who cared to pay attention. Then she grew somber and stared intently out from the tube. "This just in: A tractor-trailer, reportedly carrying dangerous stolen materials, has jackknifed near the south Georgia town of Collier. It is unknown at this time exactly what materials were being transported, but inside sources have stated that the stolen substances are toxic and potentially deadly. One source in the state capitol told Channel 2 reporters that the truck was actually carrying several vials of plague-viruses taken from the Center for Disease Control here in Atlanta. However, another source in the Governor's office has told Channel 2 that the stolen material is actually plutanium and/or uranium taken from a government storage facility nmr Birmingham, Alabama. All that is known for certain at this time is that the entire town of Collier and the immediate surrounding areas are officially under quarantine until such time as the federal agencies called in to investigate the theft have finished a thorough examination of both the truck and the cargo carried inside.
"While we have no official word at this time, sources close to the Governor have also told Channel 2 that the driver of the hijacked tractor-trailer is none other than Amir Hal Densalid, a Palestinian radical linked to several terrorist attacks in Jerusalem and allegedly one of five men sought in connection to the attempted bombing of Maine's Bangor International Airport last February. Channel 2's own Ben Johnson is en route now to Collier and should be ready to give us an up-to-the-minute report from the site of the accident within the hour.
"The GBI, in cooperation with federal authorities, has issued a quarantine of Collier. No incoming or outgoing traffic is permitted in the area, and all commercial flights moving in the general vicinity of Collier have been rerouted Hartsfield International Airport spokesperson, Angela Walker assured Channel 2 earlier this morning that the change in scheduled flight paths should cause no major delays.
"On the lighter side of the news, the Braves have done it again, defeating the New York Yankees eleven to three-" The anchorwoman's face disappeared in a nimbus of contracting colors as Buck hit the 'off switch on the remote in his hand.
"Seems we had a toxic spill in the area. One caused by terrorists, no less."
"Looks like these boys thought of everything."
"Yeah. 'Cept where they're gonna put the bodies."
"What do you mean?"
"With what's sitting in the lake and all the precautions they're taking, I don't think they plan on letting us go alive, Frank." Buck lit a cigarette and kicked back in his chair, propping his feet on the desk in front of him. "I figure we're pretty well screwed at this point. Might as well relax for a while. Oh, and make out your will, too."
He wanted to reprimand Buck, but in the end decided against it. He half-suspected the man was right. The future looked bleak.
2
Two hours later, Frank finally managed to get home and take a shower. The heat outside was enough to make him sweaty and rank. He didn't care what the deodorant company claimed; the stuff was good for twelve hours tops in this sort of weather.
When he'd finished with the shower, Frank made himself a lunch of tuna fish sandwiches and sugar-free Jell-O. It wasn't the same as a good meal at the diner, but he supposed he should go light on the sugar intake for a little while. Last night's drop in blood-glucose levels left him a little skittish. Besides, if he didn't eat the tuna, it would go bad. He hated wasting food.
He turned on the television and flicked past a dozen cable channels before deciding to go back to work. The place was always too empty since Kathy took off a year before. He wanted to stay bitter with her for leaving him, but just couldn't do it. These days he was simply depressed about it. Even after all she'd said towards the end, he still loved her. His eyes wandered over to the picture of his ex-wife in her little one-piece suit, standing on the deck of their houseboat and smiling. Her black hair was pulled back and her nose was spattered with freckles. He wanted her here, now, so he could just hold her and lose himself in her presence. Some things aren't meant to be. Kathy was gone and, while the divorce wasn't finalized, her living in California sort of put a damper on their ever getting back together. Hell, even the houseboat was gone now, burned into so much ash and flotsam the night before. All in all, his life was a shambles and only getting worse.
He slipped on his clean pair of uniform pants and a fresh khaki shirt, then added all the necessities. Time to get back to work and check on how the clinic was holding up with all of the newly injured. Just before he left the house, he remembered to take his insulin and a few syringes. Then he added a few glucose tablets to the normal junk in his pockets and moved outside. With the cruiser like as not in the hands of Collier's visitors, he had to take his old Mustang instead. It was stupid of him to leave it behind the night before, but he hadn't really been thinking too
clearly. At least he'd have fun driving around today. He hated the cruiser. It made too much noise and handled about as well as a grocery cart from the Piggly Wiggly.
It only took Frank five minutes to reach the Collier Medical Clinic and Emergency Services Building. It took him two more minutes to find a parking spot. The entire lot around the clinic was filled to capacity with the ambulances from the night before. Ambulances, and their occupants. A small army of paramedics sat in the growing heat of the day, sipping coffee or, in some cases, catching a few minutes' sleep inside the backs of the vehicles they'd driven into town. Every last one of them was sweating through the blood-stained clothes they'd worn the night before.
Sam Morrisey nodded a greeting as Frank approached. "Morning, Frank."
"Morning, Sam. How's everyone holding up?"
"Do you want an honest answer?" The exhaustion in Sam's voice was evident, and emphasized by the heavy bags under his eyes. Frank nodded and Sam sighed. "We lost seventeen more last night. Seventeen more." Frank put one hand on the paramedic's shoulder, feeling the tension in Sam's muscles even through the scrub shirt and the layer of cellulite beneath it. "Carl Timbury died on the way back into town." His voice choked on that last bit and he blinked his eyes angrily as they tried to tear up.
"I'm sorry, Sam. I know you two were close."
"Close, hell. He was my best friend, Frank. Me and him grew up right next door to each other. I did my best, but he just wouldn't respond, not even to the defibrillator."
Frank squeezed affectionately on Sam's shoulder, wordlessly expressing his own feelings of loss. But there was no time for pleasantries. "Is you dad in there?"
"Yeah. He might be trying to sleep. Hell, Frank. Him and Doc Johnson are the only two people in town qualified to handle some of the cases in there. Ain't neither of 'em had any rest since the whole mess started."
"I'll give him a few hours. You get a chance, let your dad know I'll be back to speak with him around two-thirty."
"That I will. Frank?"
"Yeah, Sam?"
"What's going on here? Who are those people in the black suits?"
Sam wanted answers, and much as he wished he could give them, Frank was at a loss to help. "Look at the lake and ask that again, Sam. Whatever crashed here last night is the reason those bastards have locked up the town."
Frank moved back to his car. He waited a moment after climbing in, his keys just an inch from the ignition. He could think of nothing to do, save wait for the commander of the men in black to arrive. After lighting another cigarette, he turned the Mustang around and aimed himself back in the direction of Oldman's Lake. The commander would land there, and they would have words, whether the man wanted to speak with him or not.
3
Frank stopped his car just outside of an area the soldiers had cordoned off. The entire parking lot for the lake was separated from everything else by a long line of sawhorses, complete with yellow flashing hazard lights. He was partially amazed by the speed with which the black-clad figures worked and partially amused by the CAUTION: BIOHAZARD banners running just above the tops of the wooden barriers. Biohazard, my ass. The only biohazard around here is them. But he thought of the intense heat just before the thing crashed the night before, the scorch patterns in the park that looked too much like footage he'd seen of Hiroshima after it was nuked, and shivered a little. The mass of wrecked cars was gone, vanished as if they had never been there. They'd even swept up the broken glass and other debris.
He looked away, his eyes drawn back to the lake and the massive vessel gleaming dully in the sunlight and mostly surrounded by a thick cloud of rising steam. Over a dozen hours later, the damned thing was still boiling the water.
It simply should not be there. He'd spent most of his life in Collier, and a portion of that time was wasted hanging around the lake or cruising on the sailboat. The monolithic metallic object looked like a tombstone half-submerged in the waters of the lake, and looking at it made him feel dirtied somehow. Like he'd stepped in dog shit.
Looking around some more, he located the ruin of his boat about fifty feet out in the waters. She'd caught fire when the thing crashed. He knew she was beyond repair; she was half sunk already, and probably going lower even as he watched. Even from this distance he could see the scorch marks and peeling paint on what had been his pride and joy. Finally, he forced himself to look at the stretch of lawn leading to the beach. Despite his fears, there were no bodies there anymore. Apparently the soldiers wanted everything just so for when their commander showed himself. Can't have any corpses littering the yard, he thought. That just wouldn't be proper. What the hell is next, they want the band to get out their spare uniforms and play Hail to the Chief?
Disgusted with the situation, and with his inability to make anything better, Frank leaned against his Mustang's hood and lit himself another cigarette. He'd just exhaled the first cloud of smoke when he heard the sound of Dewett Hammil screaming up a blue streak somewhere behind him.
Frank turned to his left until he was facing in the opposite direction of a moment before. When he stopped turning, his eyes focused on Dewett pointing a massive finger at one of the soldiers. Hammil was on the wrong side of the barrier, standing next to the door of his bakery. Just like that, Frank had his headache back again.
Dewett was a very large man, downright intimidating in his way. His skin was as dark as a well-polished piece of ebony, and he stood an easy six feet, eight inches tall. That was with his shoulders slumped and his head lowered. In his prime, Dewett had earned the respect of damn near every white man in the entire town. Not a one of them could take him in a fair fight, and his marksmanship had prevented too many from thinking about bothering him in groups. The one time a group of the local farmers in white sheets and hoods decided to "drive the nigger back to Africa where he belongs," Dewett left two of them dead and three more badly-wounded. That had been in the Forties, when he'd come back from the Second World War and decided to settle himself in Collier. He might have gotten himself lynched after that, but Lucas Brightman, the man who ran the textile mill in Collier, had decided he liked Dewett's feistiness almost as much as his bread. There was no proof that Brightman had been the one to decide what happened to the baker, but Frank would have put money on that being the deciding factor. Brightman owned most of Collier, and that meant people listened when he talked.
Fifty years had taken their toll on old Dewett. What was left of his hair was white, and he was forced to wear thick glasses over his eyes in order to see anything at all beyond about ten feet. These days, Dewett was a far milder man most of the time. But he was still big enough to scare anyone who didn't know him.
Right then, the soldier was looking through his bug-faced mask and doing his damnedest to look like he was in control of the situation. The way he had to crane his helmeted head back to look at the baker and the death grip he had on his weapon took away from the image he wanted to portray. Frank gave the man marks for bravery just the same; he'd seen plenty of folks run from Dewett when he was in a tirade.
Frank moved as fast as he could, hoping to avoid a confrontation that would leave someone dead or injured. Dewett was already building a full head of steam, and even from a dozen yards away Frank could hear the man's deep voice roaring. "I don't take well to bein' told I can't go into my own shop, sonny-boy! I don't take well to that at all! That's my property, and I intend to keep it!" Dewett's heavy brows had joined above his wide nose, and his lower lip was thrust out in defiance. His arms and neck were corded, and every loaf of bread the man had ever kneaded with his bare hands showed clearly in his muscular frame.
Frank opened his mouth, prepared to interrupt, but stopped when Dewett looked his way, jabbing a finger the size of a Kielbasa in his direction. "You keep out of this, Frank. Me and your daddy went back a long ways, and I know that you want to do what's best. But I pay my taxes and I know what my rights are. This young fool can't keep me from what's mine!"
"Don't be stupid, De
wett. The man's got a gun and he's just following orders."
"Don't you sass me, Franklin Alexander Osborn. I ain't lived to be seventy-five to have a guppy like you come around and sass me."
"Yessir. But-"
"Ain't no buts to it. You tell this young man to leave me be, or I'm gonna get my own rifle and show him two can play that game."
Frank walked over to the soldier, moving easily and speaking in a soothing voice. "Just relax, mister. Dewett's a big man, but his bark is worse than his bite."
The unnatural voice coming from behind the mask still sounded like a swarm of bees trying to mimic human speech, but there was a definite note of panic mixed in with the anger Frank heard. "My job is to secure this area. I will shoot this man if I have to."
"There's no need for guns." Frank turned to Dewett and tried his best to look official. The task was made harder by the fact that Dewett's wife had to change his diapers when he was a baby. "Dewett here's gonna leave peacefully. Aren't you, Dewett?"
The old giant crossed his arms and shook his head, obstinate to a fault. "I ain't going anywhere until I check on my store. I got money in there, and I don't aim to leave it sitting where any of these damn fools can take it!"
Frank looked long and hard into the old man's eyes. Finally he turned away, imploring the soldier with his facial expression. "Can't you just let him check out his store? The bakery's all he has, and I can promise you there's nothing in there he could use as a weapon."
The soldier looked from Frank to Dewett, turning his whole head several times as he moved from one face to the other. After a few moments of continuing this exercise, he finally sighed deep in his chest. "All right. But make it damned quick, old man. I don't like the idea of getting my ass in a sling so you can count your money."
Just like that, the fearsome expression faded from Dewett's face and was replaced by a friendly grin. Dewett had a smile that could light up half a city block, and even his eyes seemed suddenly warmer. "Thank you, sir. I won't be but a minute." The baker turned and stepped through the remainder of his glass door, careful not to cut himself on the jagged teeth stuck in the frame as he entered.
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