Anderson turned and looked directly at the mayor's angry face. "To better facilitate the recovery of your injured. The clinic is never going to hold them all. We need a place with enough space to allow for surgery if necessary, and with enough additional rooms to hold all of the supplies we brought with us." The man's voice lost all semblance of a friendly tone. "I trust that is sufficient, Mayor Fitzwater. Now if you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to."
"What about using the hotels? We got the Dew Drop Inn and the Collier House. Both of 'em have rooms aplenty. It's gotta be better'n having them folks in classrooms." Milo was trying to keep his calm, but he was having to work at it. Frank could see the veins in the mayor's temples pounding.
"No can do, Mayor Fitzwater. Those buildings have been commandeered for use in holding my men. With everything else we had to carry, we haven't gotten around to sorting through tents and, frankly, there isn't enough room in this town to accommodate the number of tents we'd need."
Milo sputtered again and then turned away, mumbling under his breath.
"One more thing, Colonel?"
"Yes, Captain Osborn?"
Frank pointed to the body of Alan Stoner. "You think you could get a few of your boys to move him out of the street and into a private place? You won't win any popularity contests leaving corpses wherever you go."
The man stared for a moment, and Clipboard's free hand clenched into a fist for a second before relaxing. The colonel nodded and left without another word.
Milo and Frank watched as the two men moved away.
"Pompous asshole," Milo muttered under his breath.
"No, Milo. He's a pompous asshole with a lot of guns. There's a difference."
Milo slapped him on the shoulder, nodding wearily. "You think you can handle the arrangements for the meeting?" He yawned, shaking his head. "I'm too damn tired, Frank. I need to sleep."
"Go on. I'll take care of it."
"You're a good man, Frank. I don't care what everyone else says about you."
"Yeah. Your wife seems to think I'm pretty damn fine, too."
Milo looked at him for a second, a stunned expression on his round face. Then he grinned, realizing that Frank wasn't serious. "Guess she didn't talk to your ex about it, huh?"
"Ouch. Low blow. Get to sleep, Milo. You're starting to act like a real person."
Milo nodded as he left, all but staggering towards his car. Frank watched as two of the men in black grabbed Stoner's corpse from the ground and placed it on a stretcher. They never said a word. He returned the favor.
Frank climbed into his Mustang, thinking about the black ink they called coffee that was waiting at the office. He hoped it had been sitting for a while. He needed all the caffeine he could get.
CHAPTER 3
1
Frank returned to his office to find Buck Landers stretched out on the long wooden bench in the lobby. The man was snoring loud enough to drown out the sounds of a dozen heavy trucks moving around outside. The soldiers continued to pour into town, but now they were moving in with trucks and jeeps. None of the vehicles had license tags or any identifying numbers. They were all black.
Frank woke Buck and told him to get his sorry ass home and into bed where it belonged. His assistant did not argue, he simply left. Two other officers showed up-Ricky Boggs and Jay Freisner and, after he'd finished chewing them apart verbally for taking their own sweet time to report, Frank sent them out to do what they could to keep order. He also warned them that the armored men in control of the town were not to be toyed with, ordering them to shoo away any nosy civilians, and to lock up any who decided to get pissy about the situation.
Arranging the meeting that Anderson had requested did not prove exceedingly difficult. With the help of the new, government-issue operator and a few angry words about Colonel Anderson's request that he handle this situation, Frank was allowed to use the phones in order to call several of the town's people and gather assistance in handling the details. Sadly, the soldier did his job too well. As soon as Frank dialed the number for the Highway Patrol, the disembodied voice came back over the line and told him that the call could not be made without the direct orders of his commander. Frank hadn't expected to get through, but he'd have hated himself if he hadn't at least tried.
After the calls were made and the details of the meeting were cemented, Frank climbed back into his Mustang, completely ignoring the squad car the soldiers had returned in his absence, and drove back over to the clinic. The situation there was much changed from earlier in the day. John and Sam Morrisey were sitting on the small rise of steps leading to the front door of the building. Where Sam looked like Santa Claus, his father looked more the part he played in life. He was just a little on the heavy side and clean-shaven. With the glasses perched on his small nose, he looked about right for kicking back on a porch and reading stories to a gaggle of grandkids. Right now, they both looked tired, over-heated and ready to collapse. Both were drinking coffee. An elderly doctor and his paramedic son, just stopping to enjoy the day. Not likely, at least if the angered expressions on their faces were any indication.
The doctor noticed him first, a frown of concern showed on his face. "Howdy, Frank. You had those burns examined yet?"
"No, Doc. I've been a bit too busy."
"You should at least put some aloe on them, keep the peeling from getting too nasty." The man sounded too damn tired and Frank could guess that neither father nor son had slept in the last twenty-four hours.
"Did the medical supplies and extra doctors help any?"
Sam snorted, turned his head and spat. "Oh, yeah, they helped one hell of a lot, Frank. They helped so much that we ain't even allowed to see the patients anymore."
" 'Scuse me?"
John Morrisey answered before his son could speak again. "The medical team came in and took over all medical operations. My files have been cleaned out, Frank. They took every bit of information on every patient I have. Then, just to make sure we understood our place properly, they took the patients that went with the files."
"Well, what the hell made them do a fool thing like that?"
" 'This is a matter of national security.' That's the only answer they gave us." Sam that time, once again punctuating his comment with a spit wad.
"Look, I'll do what I can, talk to Colonel Anderson and see what's what. In the meantime, why don't you two take advantage of the break and get some sleep?"
"It isn't that easy, Frank," John explained. "If we head out of here, there're gonna be an awful lot of people wanting to know what happened to their family and not getting any answers."
"Well, they can wait until tonight to get their answers. You two are damned fast to jump on my case when I forget to eat, so I'm returning the favor now. Get your butts into bed and get some sleep, or I'll lock the both of you in holding cells until I'm certain you've had a nice, long rest."
Sam looked ready to argue, but Frank stared him down. Finally the two men agreed and went off to John's house, just down the road. Frank stared at their retreating figures, puzzled by what they'd said. Why would the Feds want all of the serious victims under lock and key? He didn't know for certain, but he knew he probably wouldn't like the answer.
After mulling over the implications of the latest development for several minutes, Frank left to head over to the Hav-A-Feast Diner. Laurie Johnson's cooking sounded far better than another dry tuna sandwich, and he needed a treat.
The diner was not exactly overflowing with business. Laurie herself sat at the counter, reading a copy of People Magazine. She was a skinny little thing, with hardly any meat on her bones. Frank suspected that was because the closest she ever came to eating was taking a few sample bites from whatever specials she prepared on any given day. She looked up at Frank as he entered the restaurant, beaming a smile his way. "Hi, Frank! Don't you look like a mess?" Laurie hopped off her stool, shaking her head and sending her short, bleached blond hair snapping around her ears. She wrapped her hands aro
und his left bicep and led him over to one of the booths along the bank of windows. Ten years younger than he was, and she was already adept at mothering him.
"Aw, I don't look so bad," he complained. "And I feel fine, Laurie, there's no reason to fret." He tried brushing her hands away from his arm, but she held on and all but forced him into a seat. Before he could do more than adjust his position on the bench, she had a glass of ice water and a menu in front of him.
"I'm sure you feel fine, sweetie. But you need a little tee-el-cee right now, just like everyone else around here does." Laurie was possibly the only woman in town he'd let call him 'sweetie,' and that was only because she called everybody by that title. When she called you by your name and your name alone, you were on her bad side. Only about five people in town were stuck with only the use of their proper names. She moved out of sight again, then reappeared a few seconds later with a set of flatware wrapped in a checkered linen napkin. She moved discreetly around the area, waiting for him to finish reading his menu. As soon as he did, she was back and asking for his order.
Then she disappeared for around ten minutes, during which time he smoked another cigarette and watched the people moving around outside the Hav-A-Feast. Strangers filled the streets. Or at least it seemed that way. Most of the town's surviving population were in their homes, but the tourists were either at the motel or wandering the streets for the most part. No one walking out there looked happy. It was too hot, too humid and the wrong place for most of them. They probably all had families outside of Collier. Families who'd be worried about their safety.
Spaced out at regular intervals, faceless armored men in environmental protection gear stood with small, deadly weapons held at the ready. He'd looked at the firearms again, tried to study them and still couldn't figure out the make or model. That made him uncomfortable as all get-out. Already the people walking the streets were doing their best to give the figures a wide berth. The glances they cast towards the men in black were almost always furtive.
Frank crushed out his cigarette and was about to light another when Laurie deftly slid a platter topped with a chili burger and fries under his nose. "Lord above, Laurie, that smells wonderful."
"It should, I cooked it myself." She smiled quickly, and Frank saw the worry lines around her eyes. "Why don't I turn on the TV?" She suggested. "We'll see what the news has to say about what's going on here?"
He looked at his watch, frowning. "It's two-thirty, Laurie. There's no news on, just the soaps and a few of those damn talk shows."
"You better believe there's news. After they said there might be a terrorist stuck here in Collier, that's all they've been talking about."
"Sure, let's hear about the nasty ol' terrorist. I could use a laugh or two."
Laurie reached into her apron and pulled out a battered remote control. With a flick of a button, the television mounted above the condiments, behind the counter, squealed into life. The picture was fuzzy and too bright behind the layer of grease and dust, but the volume was okay. Several mediocre actors were on the screen, going over the lines for their daily soap opera. An attractive woman, dressed in clothes that should have gotten her arrested for indecent exposure, was just finishing a particularly acid remark when the screen changed to the station logo and call letters.
The deep, serious tones of an announcer explained, for the terminally stupid, that this was a Channel Two Special Announcement. One of the regular anchors on the news stared somberly at the screen before proceeding. On the announcement board beside her, an illustrated building was in the process of exploding. Written in bold letters beneath the illustration was the legend: TERRORISM IN GEORGIA. "Good afternoon. Channel Two News has been following the terrorist crisis in Collier, Georgia. Inside sources at the state capitol have recently passed on information that the situation is far more severe than originally believed. The Palestinian radical, Amir Hal Densalid, believed to be responsible for the hijacking and subsequent destruction of a government owned tractor-trailer has also caused the derailment of a train carrying toxic waste from New Jersey to a special holding facility near Savannah Still more troops have been brought into Collier; where the city remains under quarantine.
"We now go to the town limits of Collier, where Channel Two's own Ben Johnson is currently waiting for the latest news…"
The scene changed abruptly. On the screen a moderately handsome man with too many dimples and a ridiculously warm-looking suit appeared, replacing the stern looking black woman with coifed red hair. The man stared intently at the camera, seemingly oblivious to the heat, save for the moisture on his brow. Behind him, the Spanish moss-decorated oaks and weeping willows loomed over the familiar highway off ramp leading into Collier. A massive tractor-trailer lay on its side, blocking the road. In front of the trailer, three men in standard Army fatigues stared out into infinity, guarding a line of sawhorses. On each of the wooden structures, a bright orange sign bore the words Caution: Biohazard and the universal emblem for the same.
"Good afternoon, Monica." The man spoke in a deep, non-accented voice, carefully pronouncing every word he spoke. Frank pegged him as the sort of man who'd argue over a penny. "As you can see, the military is taking no chances with arty of the potentially disastrous events surrounding the normally sleepy town of Collier. Behind me, the capsized tractor trailer believed to have been carrying potentially dangerous virus samples stolen from the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta still blocks the only road into Collier. Since last night, when the government forces moved into the sleepy southern town, all access to the town has been denied. Several of the citizens of Collier who were away at the time of the incident have expressed concern over loved ones and family members now trapped within the confines of Collier."
Frank leaned forward as Ben Johnson moved to his left, where several people stood waiting near the sawhorses. Among them were Robert Summers and his wife, Jennifer, the parents of Mike Summers. It was jarring seeing them on the television. It wasn't right. They were supposed to be here, where he could see Bob's easy smile and too-thick eyebrows, and where he could think bad thoughts about how shapely Jenny was, despite having borne a child and spending far too many years working as a housewife. Even as Frank was trying to hear what Johnson was saying to the couple, Laurie was sticking her head out the door and calling out in a voice almost loud enough to shatter the windows of her diner. A second later, Frank noticed why she was so noisy. Mike Summers and his friend Marty Wander fairly flew through the entrance to the building.
"What are they saying?" Mike's voice was filled with worry, but Frank waved his hand frantically and told him to shut up so they could all hear.
When silence reigned again, Laurie increased the volume just as Bob Summers started talking, his heavy southern accent almost jarring after the nondescript speech of Ben Johnson. "We just want to know that our son is okay. Jenny's Mom is in the hospital over in Parrish County, and we wanted to wish her a happy Fourth of July in person. Next thing we know, there's a whole bunch of men in special suits pointing guns our way and saying that we can't go home. The town's been cut off. What kind of nonsense is this? My little boy is stuck behind those barriers, and for all I know, he's being held captive by an Palestinian terrorist."
Ben Johnson nodded his understanding, all the while looking dreadfully concerned. Then he turned back to the camera and spoke again. "Even outside of Collier, the tension here in southern Georgia is high. We stepped away from the main road earlier, to take some footage of the defenses already set in place by the military forces in Collier."
The scene changed again, and Frank stared slack-jawed at the screen as images appeared and held for a few seconds before moving to other camera shots that were just as surprising. More military personnel stood behind massive structures of wood and razor-wire. Each of the figures shown wore traditional gas masks under their helmets. In comparison to the dark figures walking inside the town, far away from the camera's prying eye, they looked like boy scouts. Their unif
orms were merely fatigues and their weapons were standard issue. They did not wear armor, or carry fully automatic assault rifles. They looked more human, despite their completely hidden features.
Ben Johnson continued speaking. "Nuclear threat? A potential plague waiting to sweep through the town of Collier? A dangerous spill of toxic waste waiting to ravage this peaceful community? Whatever the case, the military forces that have seized control of Collier are not giving any answers. This is Ben Johnson, reporting for Channel Two News."
Frank looked over at Laurie and shook his head. "When, exactly, did we become a 'sleepy southern town?' Sounds like we don't even get out of bed in the mornings…"
Laurie punched a button and the volume faded to a whisper as the anchorwoman came back into view, another practiced look of concern marring her features. Laurie reached over and wrapped one of her bony arms around Mike Summer's shoulders, giving him a tight, one-armed hug and smiling down into his somber face. "See, sweetie? I told you your parents were okay. They just can't get into town anymore than we can get out."
Mike forced a smile for her, and she ushered the two boys over to a table, promising them ice cold Coca-Colas and sundaes if they could just wait a minute or two. Both boys did their best to be patient as she came back over to speak with Frank.
"You're bein' awfully sweet to them two, Laurie."
"Oh, they're good kids. They just like to have a little fun now and then."
"A little fun? I don't call letting the air out of all the school buses fun, Laurie. I call it vandalism."
"That was half a year ago, and neither of 'em was dumb enough to actually cut the tires; they just let the air out." She frowned, placing her hands on her narrow hips. "It's not like they was doing crack cocaine or any of that stuff, Frank. They were just having fun." Her mischievous smile grew lopsided on her face, and she nudged him as she leaned in close. "Besides, I don't think either of 'em's gonna do too much wrong anymore, not since you put 'em both in a jail cell the last time.
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