Fireworks

by James A. Moore

  The soldier spoke again. "Jesus Christ. That is a big man."

  "That he is." Frank smiled tightly, his eyes still looking at Dewett with affection. "Old Dewett's about as big as any man I've ever seen. He's also one of gentlest souls you'll ever meet. He's just a mite dangerous when you get him riled."

  "Thank you for your help, officer. I didn't want to hurt him."

  Frank looked at the glass orbs of the man's mask. "You would have, wouldn't you?"

  "I have to follow orders, officer. It's my duty."

  "You'd have shot an old man? Just to stop him from crossing into his own property?"

  "Like I said. I have my orders. If you hadn't shown up, I'd have done my best to stop him by any means available. Even if I had to shoot him."

  They stood in silence for a while, neither of them willing to initiate another conversation. Not but a minute later, Dewett came out of the store with a zipper bag from the local bank held in one hand. He seemed smaller than before, but much happier. He nodded and then waved a silent thanks. Seeing the old man happy made that nasty headache fade down to a mild roar.

  After Dewett had gone on his way, Frank lit another cigarette and leaned against the sawhorse. After a second he realized he was still on the wrong side of the barrier and stepped back. The soldier nodded his thanks.

  "What's with the get-ups?" Frank asked when the silence stretched too long.

  "What's that?"

  "The mask and the hose where your mouth should be. What's up with them?"

  "Oh. Safety precaution. We don't know where that thing has been." The man pointed to the steaming mass buried in the lake. "It might have bacteria unknown to human life. For all we know the thing's carrying a plague that could kill us all." The man's voice suddenly stopped. He had apparently said more than he was supposed to say.

  Frank nodded, looking at the craft. "Figured it was something like that. You protected from any radiation too?"

  "Uh. Yeah. We are."

  "That the reason for the quarantine? To make sure we don't contaminate everything else?"

  "Pretty much." Frank could tell the man wanted to say more, but he didn't push the subject.

  "Frank Osborn. I'm the police chief around here."

  "I-I'm not allowed to volunteer my name, Captain Osborn."

  "That's okay. I kinda figured it was something like that." After the silence stretched for a few more minutes, Frank looked at his watch. Ten after twelve. "You have any idea when your commander is supposed to be here?"

  "Yessir. He's expected in any time now."

  As if on cue, the sound of helicopters became audible. Frank looked over the lake, where the sound was coming from. Twenty-five small specks on the horizon began to grow larger, even as the sound increased. He counted again to make sure he wasn't seeing things. He wasn't. To add to his fun, it looked like another squadron was coming in behind the first.

  "Soldier?"

  "Yes?"

  "Just how many people is you commander bringing with him?"

  "I'm not at liberty to say, sir."

  "Uh huh. That sounds about right."

  Frank watched on as the copters came closer and grew louder still. Looking at the numbers of ships in the sky, he wondered is the parking lot would be enough.

  It wasn't.

  Not by a long shot.

  4

  Frank was very impressed by the sheer number of helicopters in the air. He was almost speechless when he realized how little noise they made. Dozens of aircraft hovered over the area, low enough that they were barely noticeable above the trees, but their collective sound was only a little louder than an idling motorcycle. Far more ominous than their lack of noise, however, was the array of attachments he saw on the wings of each and every one of them. He was hardly an expert, but he was also willing to bet most of them held missiles or heavy caliber firepower. He saw the racks for the artillery, loaded with long, bullet-shaped missiles, under at least two of the damned things. Frank had no doubts that they were meant for more than merely transportation.

  He watched as several of the craft came down, immediately disgorging more armored men. It took a minute for him to realize what worried him the most about the helicopters, more even than their silence or the blatantly obvious artillery each carried: they had no serial numbers. No identifying marks of any kind. They were anonymous.

  He was hardly the only person in Collier to notice the helicopters. Even as he watched the sleek black craft descending, a good number of Collier's citizens and a sizable group of the unexpected visitors stuck in the town came forward in their cars or on foot. They gathered around the area to watch as the hovering craft landed briefly, disgorged a number of people and then lifted into the air again.

  Frank tried to count the number of tourists stuck for the duration of what was now the government's show, and couldn't keep up with the numbers. Somewhere along the way he'd forgotten all about the people who'd just shown up for the fireworks and wound up trapped in the town. Where they would stay and how they would be taken care of was a new concern. Most of them came forward with locals, and he even recognized a large percentage of them, but only now was he realizing just how many guests were imprisoned along with everyone else.

  "Damn. I don't need this shit."

  A voice came from his right, in response to his comment. He hadn't even realized he was speaking aloud. "Yeah. I know what you mean, Frank. I don't think any of us need this nonsense." The twangy voice of Lucas Brightman was recognizable immediately. Lucas was as much a foundation in Collier as Lake Oldman. He'd been on the town council for as long as Frank could remember, and he was almost always on the side that cried out against anything resembling growth in the area.

  Frank looked at the lean, angular man standing beside him and forced a smile. It wasn't easy. Hatred was just barely too strong a word for how Frank felt about the old bastard. Lucas was an oily old dog, and that was being kind. In addition to owning the textile mill at the edge of town, Brightman also owned half of the buildings rented out to the stores in Collier. That wasn't what made Frank antsy around the man. Oh, no. What made the captain of the Collier City Police want to reach out and strike the man down was his constant need to find a scapegoat for all of the ills inflicted upon mankind. The number one target of his accusations was normally anyone whose skin wasn't quite white enough. When failing to find a racial target for his animosities, Luke often chose anyone from another country as a good mark. While he had no proof, Frank figured Lucas was the main source of racial tensions in town. Brightman would never speak directly against anyone, but his cronies always seemed ready to do the speaking for him.

  That wasn't to say that Brightman was all bad, by any stretch of the imagination. Lucas Brightman was not only the wealthiest man in town, he was also one of the most generous with his time and his money. The library near the town hall was one of his donations, and the medical center had been bought and paid for by the man. Hell, when he wasn't being a sly old weasel, Brightman was generous almost to a fault. He was the first to offer financial aid when it was needed by the town or by a person-and oddly enough, that included those who weren't the right color to satisfy his own personal preferences-and he normally either waived the loss of money completely or merely asked that the person he was giving the loan to pay it back in a fair amount of time. He didn't loan money to people who wanted to buy houses or new cars. The bank took care of that sort of thing and, as a major investor in the bank, Brightman didn't want to cause himself damage. He loaned the money to people who actually needed it to survive. Frank just didn't trust that there wasn't an ulterior motive to any good the man did.

  Frank thought the man was trouble, pure and simple. "How are you, Lucas?" The smile and handshake he offered were strained, but the best he could manage under the current conditions.

  Brightman shook his hand in return, surprising Frank with how warm his flesh felt. Considering the pale color of the man's face and the dry, flaking skin on his old hands, Fra
nk always expected the man's touch to be as cold as a snake's hide. "Why, I'm just fine, Frank. Mighty interested to see where all of this will go." He nodded his head towards the landing pads marked on the parking lot near the lake. Another 'copter lifted from the ground even as a dozen men in black clothes and gear ducked away from the whirling blades. Like the people already holding the town at bay, they wore goggles and respirators under their helmets. None of them bore any marks to indicate their rank or names.

  "Just do me a favor, okay, Luke?"

  "You name the one you want and you can call it a done deal, Frank."

  "Just leave the talking to me and to Milo. I don't think this is gonna be an easy situation. I think it might just get messy, if you know what I mean. I think it's best if they think the two of us are the only real officials around here."

  Lucas Brightman considered him with eyes that glittered in the sunlight. His mouth worked silently for a few seconds, and Frank could tell he wanted to say something nasty. But Lucas never said anything foul in public, only when he and his cronies were able to take control without fear of reprisal. "That I will, Captain. But I expect to be kept informed of what occurs here."

  "You and everyone else." Frank watched as the old man moved away. The expensive suit covering Brightman's body did not hide the anger in his stride. It did nothing to lessen the stoop in his shoulders, either. Frank always thought of vultures when he saw the richest man in Collier walking away: the man's posture and his long, dour face made the image of a carrion eater seem frightfully appropriate.

  He turned back to watch as one of the armored figures walked over to speak with the soldier Dewett had almost turned into a corpse. By the stiffening of the guard's posture, he suspected he might have found his man. Without waiting to see if the guard would point to him, he walked straight towards the two men.

  As he approached, Dewett's little friend did exactly what he'd been expecting and pointed in his direction. He decided the time was right for taking the initiative. Looking at the newcomer, he nodded briefly and spoke. "You the commander of this operation?"

  The figure regarded him silently for a moment. Frank knew his measure was being taken, and regretted that he could not stare the man in the eye and do the same in return. "Yes, Captain Osborn, I am."

  "That's sort of what I figured." He gestured once with his right hand, sweeping the entire area. "This here's my town. I understand that you're only following your orders, mister. But I expect you to come to me as soon as you can. We need to talk about what your plans are for Collier." He hoped that sounded professional enough.

  The bug-eyes of the man's mask moved slightly, following Frank's hand and then going back to a silent study of his face. Finally, the static-hiss of the man's voice started up again. "I'll be with you in about fifteen minutes, Captain. In the meantime, please keep your people away from the barrier. Trespassers will be shot."

  Frank nodded, pulling his cigarettes from his breast pocket as he moved to park his butt against the Mustang. Despite the occasions when he'd spoken to others of the armored men, this one's voice seemed worse. It went beyond the buzzing of insects; it was cold and alien. He was afraid to consider what might actually be inside the special equipment.

  He watched as another of the men came forward. This one was armed with a clipboard and a ramrod-stiff back. Frank knew right away it was the asshole from the night before and from that morning as well. Watching how quickly the two soldiers responded to the newcomer, he was once again struck by the fact that none of them wore any identification. Only the single man with his pen and paper stood out from the others. Frank couldn't for the life of him figure how they recognized each other.

  A few seconds later, a very tired looking Milo Fitzwater, along with his secretary, Arnetta Wilcox, marched up to confront the trio of armed men. His conversation lasted about twice as long as Frank's little chat. During their very short conversation, Milo's face grew redder and redder. Then the leader of the dark men gestured for Frank to come join them.

  Frank sighed, moved away from his car and back over to the small gathering. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lucas Brightman wearing a satisfied grin two sizes too big for his face. He resisted the urge to give the old buzzard a one-finger salute.

  Milo was standing in a combat-ready stance. His pudgy hands were pressed into his fat hips, and the color of his ears was almost as red as the minor burns on his cheek and neck. Frank hadn't noticed before, but Milo had a few injuries of his own to contend with.

  "Howdy. What's up?"

  The commander spoke again, and Frank's skin tried to crawl. "Captain Osborn, would you be kind enough to escort Mayor Fitzwater over to your vehicle, and would you also explain that I will answer his questions in a few minutes?"

  "Sure thing." Frank nodded to the man and then grabbed hold of Milo's bicep. "Come on, Milo. Let's get over to my car while these nice men with the big guns and heavy artillery discuss their business."

  Milo turned even redder, but did not struggle until they'd reached the Mustang. "What the hell's gotten into you, Frank?" The mayor's face was sweaty, and the dark circles under his eyes seemed even more pronounced than they had that morning. "When, exactly, did you lose your mind?"

  "Funny, Milo. I was just about to ask you the very same thing."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about not pissing off the bad men in black," he hissed as he grabbed both of Milo's arms and spun him around. Behind the mayor, Arnetta gasped and then sucked in a huge lungful of air. "I'm not sure if you've really noticed, Milo, but these boys are holding all the cards."

  "I will not stand idly by and let these people run over the citizens of this town!" Despite the almost whispered quality of Milo's response, Frank could tell the man was close to blowing his top. "I'll be damned before I'll let these bastards take control around here. That's not the way the United States of America is supposed to be run."

  "Milo. Who the hell said anything about them being with the U.S.?"

  Milo's face lost all of its color, and he turned his head slowly, looking back at the group with a sudden, dawning comprehension. "Do you mean they might be with someone else?"

  "That's exactly what I mean. I suspect they are with the U.S., but I don't really feel up to pushing the issue just yet." He pointed to the thing boiling away their lake and then pointed back to the armored figures in the distance. "All I know for certain is that they ain't here 'cause of you and me. They're here because of that thing. If that thing's important enough that they got here so quickly, I'm betting they think it's a helluva lot more important than whether or not you and me are breathing by this time tomorrow. Do you get my picture?"

  Arnetta made a few wheezing sounds behind Milo, and Frank turned to face her. "Arnetta? Why don't you go get some rest? You look a mite tuckered out."

  "I'm just fine here, thank you, Captain Osborn." The stuffy old bat sniffed disdainfully as she glared in his direction.

  Milo looked at Frank for a second and then looked at his secretary. "Arnetta? Go home. That's an order. You take the rest of the day off and you come in bright and early tomorrow."

  She nodded, her already thin lips fading into an angry white line.

  "Arnetta?" Milo's voice sounded almost too sweet.

  "Yes, Milo?"

  "If you say a word to anyone at all, darlin', I'm gonna fire you. Go straight home and keep your mouth to yourself." Arnetta stormed away, never looking back at either of them.

  "You figure that's gonna do any good?"

  "What? Threatening her?" Frank nodded.

  Milo shrugged. "Not likely. But at least it'll make her think about what she wants to say for a while before she actually starts flappin' her gums."

  The two of them leaned against the Mustang, staring out over the lake and watching as the helicopters came and went. Most of the machines seemed to settle down in other parts of town, but a few actually lifted away into the air and vanished in the distance instead of dropp
ing from sight.

  "Be straight with me, Frank?"

  "Sure."

  "You think these here soldiers are gonna let us go?"

  Frank nodded to where another helicopter was being unloaded. All of the packages bore the symbol of the Red Cross. "I have my hopes, Milo. I figure if they just wanted us dead, they wouldn't be wasting their time with medical supplies."

  "They might."

  "How you figure?"

  "They might be expecting us to fight back before we all go down."

  He had no answer for that one. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and went back to staring at the curved edge of the thing in the lake. Looking at it for too long was something of a task. The steam kept getting in the way. Also, it hurt his eyes for no reason he could easily discern.

  It wasn't long before Frank had to handle the head goon's requests. Frank had to stop seven different people from breaking through the flimsy barrier to either speak with one of the soldiers or try to find out what was going on by just standing close enough to hear everything. A couple of them were just kids, and they listened well enough. But the adults seemed intent on getting closer, and damn the consequences.

  Frank had no real difficulties explaining why bothering the soldiers would be bad, until he encountered Alan Stoner. Stoner was not one of the locals. He was a trucker who'd stopped for the Fourth of July festivities and wound up as stuck as everyone else. Frank had met the beefy man once earlier, and had arrested him for drunken and disorderly. Back then he'd just been a patrolman. The man was older, but looked even sleazier than he had ten years ago, when he'd cracked two of Frank's ribs before Frank and another man had taken him down. One look at Stoner and Frank knew he'd be trouble. Stoner looked like the sort of man who kicked puppies for fun. He had a wide, crooked face with narrow piggish eyes set too close together. His mouth looked slightly sunken in from a lack of teeth, but Frank knew full well the age added to his face by the effect was a visual lie. He'd looked just as toothless ten years ago. He was also built like a gorilla. He wasn't all muscle, but there was enough there to make sure he could carry out any threats he felt like offering. From the heavy hiking boots on his feet to the Jack Daniel's baseball cap set on top of his graying hair, he was a wide load of trouble.