Fireworks

by James A. Moore

  "Pete, nice to see you." He managed to keep his voice calm, but with what he'd already been through in the last two days, he had to work at it. "New, what the hell are you doing in Collier?"

  "Oh, that's a real nice greeting, Frank. I was here to see the fireworks. Funny, but I never quite got around to leaving."

  The man's eyes were dark enough to counter the almost-pleasant tone of his voice. "Figured since them fellas with the guns wanted me to stay so bad, I'd just hang around for a while."

  "I'm gonna say this once. I will not repeat myself. If you go anywhere near Karen, I'll have your ass in the slammer before you can think about going near her again."

  "I ain't even seen Karen." Peter Donovan lifted his fingers in Boy Scouts salute, a big grin splitting his face. "The thought never even crossed my mind."

  "Bullshit. You might not have seen her, but I'd bet money you've thought about it. Hell, I should probably bust you here and now, just to avoid another situation."

  "Won't be any situations, and you can't bust me, I ain't done nothin' wrong."

  There it was again, that belief that the law always protected the innocent, and spewing forth from the mouth of someone who hadn't been anywhere near innocent in over a dozen years. Frank managed to avoid actually laughing out loud, but it was a close thing. Why do the assholes always know their rights better than the nice people do? "Law says you ain't allowed within a hundred yards of Karen, Pete. I'm betting they'd believe me if I said you'd been closer. Hell, she shows up at the meeting here and you will be breaking your probation. Youthinkabout that, and remember that I'm being nicer than you deserve."

  "Oh, come on, Frank. You don't really think I'd hurt her, do you?"

  Frank looked at the overly sincere expression on Peter Donovan's face and gave serious thought to caving the man's handsome features in on themselves with the butt end of his revolver.

  "Lessee here," Frank lifted a hand and started ticking off fingers with each point he made. "Breaking and entering, attempted kidnapping, assault and battery, attempted rape. Do you want me to go on, Pete?"

  "I told you before, it was a misunderstanding. I'd had too much to drink and I was missing her something awful."

  "Yeah? You keep missing her and you stay sober, or I will take you down. Am I talking clear enough? Or do you need another explanation?"

  "You're being real clear, Frank." Donovan's voice was lower in his throat, almost a growl. Then it suddenly lifted back to its usual tones, and Pete forced a smile back onto his face. "You don't have nothin' to worry about. I learned my lesson."

  "We'll see about that, won't we?" Frank stared long and hard at the younger man, and finally Donovan moved away to take a seat with the rest of his friends. They sat near, but not actually with, Lucas Brightman. The man's power over them was something to watch. The entire gang of overgrown punks was on its best behavior, and despite an almost frantic energy possessed by the group, none of them ever looked at Brightman. They looked everywhere else, but never at him.

  With the exception of Peter Donovan, every last one of them worked at the textile mills. To a man they depended on Brightman for a job. While Frank had no proof, he knew where it counted that they were all doing extra work for the old bastard. The sort of work you don't get a paycheck for. The sort of job you got paid for in cash, and that you never told anyone else about. He didn't doubt that Donovan still worked for the man in that capacity, even if he no longer lived in the area.

  The gym was filling quickly, and still more people were coming in through the doors. The smart ones came in carrying colas and beers. They would remain cooler than anyone else, at least as far as the temperature was concerned.

  Burt Ditweiller came in with a sixpack of Busch in one hand and a sub sandwich in the other. Frank watched the disheveled man stumbling down the aisles between the fold-out chairs, until he finally managed to get to a seat in the front row. Burt was a good man, but a mean drunk. Until the fire swept across the docks, Burt had been the dock master. Now, he was likely unemployed. Frank couldn't really blame him for tossing back a few too many beers, but he still had to do his job and make sure all went well. Despite the man's sincere promise not to be bad, Frank took away the sixpack, promising to return it at the end of the meeting. Burt looked like he wanted to argue, but apparently he thought better of the idea when he saw the armored soldiers starting to file into the room. Clipboard passed by during the argument, asking if Frank needed any help. Right around then, Burt became Mister Cooperative. Frank hoped Burt's new disposition would last all the way through the meeting.

  Twenty of the armored men came into the auditorium. Each soldier was armed. They took positions along the walls, surrounding the audience, and Frank thought of men surrounding a barrel of fish or a pen full of fowl. Not a one of them looked out of shape, though it was hard to tell through the heavy black armor covering most of their vital areas. Seeing them made Frank feel like he'd been invited to the wrong end of a turkey shoot.

  From the door opposite the stage four more of the soldiers appeared. They walked slowly and deliberately up to the stage, where they were joined by the one Frank thought of as Clipboard. The people sitting in the audience began mumbling amongst themselves. None of the noises they made sounded very happy.

  Clipboard checked the microphone on the podium set in the center of the platform. Frank wondered if the man was checking for bombs, and was tempted to point out that all was well, as he'd set the damned thing up all by himself. Just like a good little gofer.

  Frank climbed back to his position on the stage and was joined by Milo Fitzwater a few minutes later. Milo was looking much better, and Frank was glad he'd decided to get some rest. When they made their usual greetings, Frank could smell the Rolaids on Milo's breath. Some things, at least, never changed.

  The podium and microphone were finally given the Clipboard Inspector's Seal of Approval, and one of the men stepped forward. Frank could tell by the walk alone that Colonel Anderson was ready to speak.

  Anderson stood in front of the audience, waiting for silence. He did not wait for very long. In a matter of seconds all eyes were focused on the Colonel. He lifted one finger, and the armored men on the stage moved in unison. Frank felt his stomach knot into a heated ball, and forced himself to breathe, though his body did not want to comply. As one, the men behind Colonel Anderson lifted their arms and then placed their hands on the sides of the necks. For one horribly irrational moment, Frank though they would pull their heads off, revealing something hideously alien. Scaly skin or maybe a face covered with slimy tentacles. He almost cried out. Instead, they simply removed their helmets, and then the faceplates secured under the metal hats.

  Despite his worries, they were all human. He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Five sweaty human faces looked out at the audience. Each was topped with a military crew cut, and each looked exhausted. Two Caucasian faces, one Hispanic set of features and two African-American faces peered out at the audience. A murmur went through the crowd, and Frank could tell what most were thinking, even if they'd never say anything in public. Peter Donovan, or one of the men he was sitting with, didn't have any social worries about speaking his mind. Someone said: "Damn me, they got niggers mixed in with 'em." The voice honestly sounded shocked. Despite the differences in color and race, the men standing before the crowd could have been pressed from the same mold. Each and every one of them looked like killing a person was an old habit. They looked predatory.

  Anderson looked like his voice sounded, cold and hard. His face beneath the graying hair on his head was angular and brooding. He was the kind of man Frank expected was just as comfortable in a battlefront trench as he was in front of the television at home.

  Anderson took one sharp step forward and laid his helmet and mask on the podium. He placed on hand on either side of the lectern and leaned slightly forward before he spoke. "Good evening, Collier. I imagine you have a lot of questions. I am prepared to answer as many as I can, but
I'd like to explain a few things first.

  "Number one: Collier is now under martial law. We will be imposing a curfew that will be followed. Anyone caught outside after curfew will be taken into custody for an indefinite period of time.

  "Number two: The men around me and on almost every street corner in Collier are under my command. My name is Colonel Anderson, and I am a soldier with the United States Government.

  "Number three: It is my duty to secure the object resting in the center of Lake Oldman at any cost, and that is exactly what I intend to do.

  "Number four: This matter is extremely sensitive. We are not certain exactly what the craft is, but we believe that the continued security of this nation depends on us finding out as quickly as we can."

  Anderson paused for a moment as voices started talking in the audience. A few were loud, but most were subdued. Frank swallowed, wondering just what was coming next.

  "Number five: Most of you have relatives or friends who were injured. We are doing all we can to care for them. The medical team we brought with us is trained to handle crisis situations. You may rest assured that your friends and family are being well taken care of and well provided for." The people in the audience began to mumble again, and Anderson raised his voice to be heard over them. "No one is allowed to see the injured at this time. However, Doctors Morrisey and Johnson will be working with us and will be available to answer your questions. Additionally, I've made arrangements for Pastor William O'Rourke to pass your comments along to your loved ones. He will be available from nine a.m. to four p.m. for that very purpose. When possible, he will also convey your family's return comments. I know this isn't the best situation, but due to the severe nature of some of the burns, the fewer people around, the less the chance of severe infection setting in.

  "Number six: While neither I nor my men wish any harm to any of you, we defend ourselves against any potential threats. In order to make certain that everyone here remains safe, including us, we will be coming around to each and every one of your homes tonight. Groups of my men will come to your homes and knock on the door. If they are not answered, they will attempt to open the door. If the door is locked, they will break the door down. Once inside, these men will ask you to produce any weapons you might own. This includes hunting rifles, firearms of all sorts, bows and arrows and anything else they deem a possible threat to security. Do not argue with them. We do not have the time to discuss the matter, and we will not leave without the weapons."

  The people of Collier spoke as one cacophonous unit, crying out against the orders they'd just been given. Several stood up, and a few looked ready to storm the stage. Frank stood up as well, raising his hands for silence.

  "Folks, calm down please." Frank was ignored, and tried several more times before he could finally gain their attention. "Calm down… Hey! Sit down and can it! The Colonel's not done speaking yet!" Frank glared out at the people in the audience his face set in a stern scowl. "Nobody's happy about the situation here, least of all me, but screaming ain't gonna solve a damn thing! Sit down and hear the man out." It took a few moments, but finally everyone decided to listen.

  Anderson spoke again. "As I said before, you are now under a state of martial law. For reasons of safety and security, we cannot allow anyone who is not an authorized servant of the law to carry any weapons. We do not want to cause any harm, but we will not leave your houses without the firearms we demand. Don't think about hiding the guns or ammunition, simply hand them over. We have a list of every registered weapon in Collier. We will also search the homes of anyone we believe is a threat to security. You can make this easy, or you can make this hard. Either way, we are prepared to handle the situation." Anderson paused for a moment, his eyes scanning everyone in the audience. "If you still have questions, I am now prepared to answer them."

  Once again, voices erupted from the audience. Anderson called out with enough force to send feedback through the speakers. "One at a time, please! Raise your hands and I will point to each of you. Pretend you're back in school and that I'm your principal."

  A wave of hands rose into the air. After looking for a few seconds, Anderson pointed to a woman in the fifth row, Myrna Louis. Myrna heaved her ponderous weight from the seat, and Frank was mildly amused to see she'd put on her Sunday best for the meeting. Seeing her dressed in finery for the event made him wonder if she thought they were dignitaries here for a social event. "Colonel Anderson? I just wanted to know why we can't use the phones?"

  "Well, ma'am, some people might only want to check up on a few loved ones, but there are others who would do their best to make contact with any number of television stations or newspapers. While no one would believe what they read there anyway, we'd rather not wind up on the front page of the Weekly World News. Next?" Frank had to admire the man's style; almost everybody chuckled at his comment. Everybody except Myrna. Judging by the guilty look on her bovine face, she'd desperately wanted to reach the Weekly World News or some equally strange magazine. Of course, Myrna still claimed she'd dated Elvis Presley, so that was almost to be expected.

  Dewett Hammil was next to stand. He had on his usual shy smile, but there was a little more steel behind his eyes than was normally seen. "How do. My name is Dewett Hammil, and I just wanted to know one thing. Beggin' your pardon. Just how long you think it's gonna be 'fore we can reopen our businesses? I ain't makin' a whole lot of money sittin' on my butt, and I got bills to pay."

  Joe Ditweiller-the meaner younger brother of Burt-cupped his hands around his flabby mouth and called out "Sit down, nigger!" before Anderson had a chance to respond. Dewett glared venomously, and Frank nodded to Buck. Buck Landers didn't hesitate. He walked across the room and grabbed Joe in both of his hands, hauling the man out of his seat. When Joe started to protest, Buck shook him like a rag doll and all but threw him across the room. Buck was smaller than the man he rattled, but most agreed they didn't want to meet him in a bad mood. Buck was a dirty fighter. A scattering of applause mixed with a smaller number of boos and hisses as the younger Ditweiller was invited to leave. Some of the applause came from Anderson and, after he started, from a few in his lot.

  Frank watched Lucas Brightman through the entire scuffle. Old Luke was looking far too innocent, especially when one considered the fact that Joe was always going on about how Brightman treated him and his family so well at the mill. That the man associated with Peter Donovan did nothing to convince Frank that he wasn't paid to make the comment. Lucas Brightman was testing the waters. He always was too nosy for his own good.

  Clipboard came over to the Colonel and whispered in his ear. After a moment, Anderson nodded and then leaned over the mike again. "Thank you, Officer Landers. Good riddance to bad rubbish. To answer your question, Mister Hammil, I cannot guarantee just when you'll be able to work again. Right now we need the area where your bakery resides to remain free of civilians. The area is being used as a take-off zone for our helicopters. It's one of the few areas large enough to accommodate the craft. However, you have nothing to worry about regarding your bills. For the inconvenience, Uncle Sam will cover your expenses until you can go back to your regular schedule."

  His words won Anderson a grateful smile from Dewett, and the older man sat down, content for the moment. Anderson nodded again, and this time Mike Summers stood up. His voice cracked when he spoke. "Yessir. I… My name's Mike Summers and I want to know why my mom and dad can't come back into Collier. They were visiting my Gramma when you blocked off the town."

  Anderson's voice lost a bit of its edge as he looked at the boy. "Are you an only child, Mike?"

  "Yessir."

  "Do you have a place to stay?"

  "Yessir."

  "Mike, I'd like to let your parents back into town. I really would. But I can't right now. We're testing the air here, Mike. We're testing for radiation and we're testing for possible risks from unexpected biological hazards. That's the reason my people are wearing masks right now. There might be something in the ai
r that could possibly make everyone in town sick."

  Once more, the people in the audience started mumbling and crying out. This time he let them go on for several minutes before demanding silence again. "I said there might be something in the air. I don't think there is, because, as you can see, I've already taken my mask off. But that's because I wanted you to know who you're dealing with. Most of my soldiers are under strict orders not to take their masks off under any circumstances." Anderson took his time looking at virtually everyone in the audience. "So far, we've got no evidence that anything along the lines of poisonous gases or unknown viruses have been brought in with the aircraft in the lake. But I don't feel comfortable allowing anyone in at this point, just in case something does show up."

  "Sir, my folks are really worried. They was on the TV talking about how they didn't know if I was okay." Mike looked about ready to cry, and Frank held his breath, waiting for what Anderson would say. By the looks of the crowd, most of them were holding their breath as well. Things could get very ugly very fast if the man blew this one off.

  "I can't let you leave, Mike. And I can't let your family in here, but I can pass on any message you might want to give to them and send back their reply. How's that sound to you?"

  Mike smiled weakly, glad to have at least a chance to let his folks know he was all right. After a few more questions, ranging from "When will you let us go?" (When we have retrieved the object in the lake) to "Are there aliens in that ship in the lake," (We don't know, but we intend to find out) the moment Frank had been dreading came to pass.