Fireworks

by James A. Moore

"Okay," he said, taking time to look each and every person in the eyes. "How many of you are here to bitch me out about arresting your friends and family last night?"

  Only one hand did not rise at the question. Reverend William O'Rourke simply smiled patiently. Frank looked directly at the man and smiled back. "Reverend, you have something I can help you with before the screaming match starts?"

  Will spoke in a loud, clear voice. Years in front of the congregation had given him the sort of powerful voice even most opera singers would envy. "Yes, Frank. I'd like to see if you can pass the word around that we'll be having a mass service for our fallen loved ones tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. Not at any of the churches, but rather at the cemetery proper. All three of God's ministers will be present, handling the needs of the Lord's flock." Will's eyes moved around to capture everyone in the room. Almost to a one, they hung their heads as he spoke. "If the rest of you could aid me in this task, I'd be very grateful. Also, I'll be taking messages into our injured friends and family at noon, two and four today. You may bring messages until the time I go in, and if you care to wait, I'll bring out messages from those who are able to reply."

  With his speech done, Will leaned back against the wall and crossed him arms. The crowd seemed much calmer as a result of his presence. Frank understood why. No one likes to make an ass of himself in front of a minister. Just one of the rules of nature, at least in the South. He nodded his gratitude to the older man, and Will responded with a knowing wink. God love him.

  Frank cleared his throat. Everyone turned to face him again. "Now then, we're gonna do this nice and calm, or I'm gonna have to get testy. Don't think I won't either, 'cause me and the rest of the police here in Collier are all doing at least double duty. Not a one of us wants anyone yelling at him. We might have to throw a few more people in cells, if you see my meaning." A few voices started to growl again, and Frank raised his voice to be heard over them. "Any of you want to register a complaint about how I'm doing my duty, you can just walk your butts over to Milo's office and yell at him instead. He's the one with the power to fire me, and the power to hire another Chief of Police. Otherwise, y'all can raise your hands and I'll get to each of you in turn."

  A few people actually did run off in an effort to find Milo. Frank wasn't too surprised by their actions, but he was mildly offended.

  Steve Walters was the first to raise his hand. Frank was rather shocked to see Steve, as the man lived out on a farm well beyond the town's actual limits. Somewhere along the way he'd simply assumed the man wasn't in town. "Yeah, Steve. How can I help you today?"

  "Frank, I gotta get back to the farm. Amy's gonna have a helluva time running the place by herself, and I can't afford to lose the revenue if she can't manage."

  "I'm sorry, Steve. That's up to Colonel Anderson and his people. I can't do a thing about it."

  Steve sighed mightily and turned away. " 'Fraid you'd say that. See y'all later." The man left quietly, and Frank was grateful.

  Albert Clark's sons, Tony and Mark, the eldest two, stepped forward. Tony seemed calm enough, buy Mark looked about ready to take a bite out of anything that came too close to his face. "What's up, fellas?"

  "Wanted to see our dad, if it's all right with you, Captain Osborn." Tony spoke politely, while his brother tried to stare daggers through both of Frank's eyes.

  "Don't see a problem with that. Buck, why don't you escort these two down to the holding cell where Albert's waiting?"

  "Sure thing, Frank." Buck slid his butt away from the edge of his desk with practiced ease and moseyed in the direction of the jail cells. He gestured for the boys to follow, and they disappeared around the corner. Mark's eyes never left Frank until he walked into a wall. Frank managed not to laugh.

  Myrna wanted to use the phone in his office, until she found out it didn't work either. Sam Peabody and a dozen others demanded to know what Frank was going to do about Buck and a group of the Colonel's forcing their way into people's houses and stealing their firearms. Frank explained everything they'd all had the chance to hear the night before and the whole group left after screaming at Frank for a good ten minutes. Only Will O'Rourke's presence, Frank was sure, prevented the group from trying to hang Frank by the neck until dead. Mandy Sterling wanted Frank to come out and arrest her husband for beating on her again-Buck left a few minutes later, as the bruises on her arms and stomach spoke much for Bryce Sterling's efficiency with his fists. The line of complaints and accusations took almost two hours to clear out. Long before it was over, Frank wished he had taken Buck up on the offer to let him stay home.

  When that was done, Frank picked up his phone and calmly explained that he needed to talk with Colonel Anderson. The asshole on the other end tried to outlast him, but Frank got stubborn and was eventually patched through.

  "Anderson."

  "Colonel? This is Frank Osborn."

  "What can I do for you, Frank?" The man sounded distracted, but Frank decided to bite his tongue on the nasty comment he felt building inside.

  "Well, sir, I was wondering if you could convince your operator on the phones to patch me up with all the homes in town."

  "I think that could be done, Frank, but I'll need a good reason."

  "How's this one: I'd like to pass on the information that we'll be holding funerals for our dead tomorrow morning. I can't afford to spare the manpower to pass the word on my own, or I wouldn't bother you." He tried to keep the anger from his voice, but it wasn't easy. Much like the Colonel, Frank was a man used to being obeyed. Having the man question his motives was about enough to send him off the deep end.

  "I think I can arrange something, Frank. You should hear from me soon."

  "Much thanks." He hung up the phone, and looked at Will leaning against the wall. "Will? How's Emily doing?"

  Will looked at him with ancient eyes and Frank suddenly remembered that the man in front of him was almost sixty-five years old. He didn't look a day over fifty most of the time. His hair was still mostly brown, and he carried himself with the posture of a man half his age. If a person did not look too closely at the lines on his face, the years tended to fade away. At the present time, he was looking as old as he really was. His face was filled with worry, and the circles under his eyes spoke of the sleep he had not received.

  Will sighed softly, shaking his head. "That she's alive at all amazes me." Will looked away from a moment, and Frank saw the man close his eyes. A single tear managed to escape before he got himself under control. "She's in a bad way, Frank. My poor Emma's in a lot of pain, and there's nothing I can do for her."

  "Those doctors of hers treating her right?"

  "I don't honestly know. They've got her in an oxygen tent, and I can't see her clearly through the plastic." Will turned away, walking towards the door. He stopped when his hand connected with the pull handle. When he looked at Frank again, his eyes were as haunted as any Frank had ever seen. "They won't let me see her, Frank. I can't even be there for her, to offer her even a little comfort." Will opened the door, stepping halfway through the threshold before he said his last on the subject. "But I can hear her scream, Frank. I can hear her scream every time she wakes up."

  Frank let the door close behind the pastor. He thought about following, but was stopped by the ringing of the phone. In the empty silence of the room, the sound was remarkably like a shriek of pain. Frank ignored the goosebumps crawling over his flesh and put the receiver to his mouth and ear. "Captain Osborn here."

  "Captain? The Colonel has granted your request. Tell me when you're ready, and I'll patch you through to everyone in town."

  "Thank you. I wasn't really sure if you could do that or not, but I figured I had to try."

  The man did not acknowledge his thanks. He simply disconnected the line. Never having met the operator, Frank wanted to smash his face through any convenient wall. Four minutes later, he made his call.

  Twelve minutes after that, Mick Poundstone came from over at the Collier Memorial Cemetery to
explain that the funeral would only be symbolic. The bodies of the dead were being kept by the Colonel and his men. In the interest of National Security.

  5

  Frank pulled as close to the lake as he could, astonished by the number of people he saw out and about on the streets. Most of them were children, and he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. In all his time he'd long since come to understand that children can adapt to just about anything. There were kids gathered in clusters all around the dried-out lake. Seven or so of the ones around the right age for high school were tossing a Frisbee around in a large semicircle, wearing as little as they could to ward off the intense heat of the day. Not far away, Mike Summers and Marty Wander were playing a game of "smear the queer" with Tommy Thornton and the new kid in town, Joe Hubeny. Frank thought about Andy Newsome staring with dead eyes from the back of his patrol car, and the brief joy that had started to bloom in his mind wilted away. Andy was dead. He'd never play the game again. Somewhere in town Andy's little brother, Billy, was still trying to recover from the death of every living relative he'd ever known.

  There comes a point where enough is simply enough. Frank Osborn was no longer in the mood for pat answers and ominous warnings when he stormed into the tent Colonel Mark Anderson called his command post. The guards let him pass, and he was angry enough that he never even wondered why.

  Anderson sat at his desk, the glare from a florescent lamp reflecting of the lenses in his mask. He must have noticed Frank, because he held up a hand, palm outward, requesting silence. One hand was under his jaw line, apparently depressing the built in microphone in his faceplate. A moment later, he turned his head slightly and looked at Frank.

  "Let me guess, you're upset about the bodies?"

  "Very good. You get a gold star and a five point bonus on your next exam."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Never mind, it's an old joke. What the hell is going through your mind? Why are you keeping the bodies of our dead from us?"

  "Because the bodies could potentially reveal what happened here, and that can't be allowed."

  "Let me guess. 'National Security.' "

  "Right the first time."

  "All right. I've done my best to help you out, Colonel Anderson, but this is just going too damn far." Frank leaned across the desk, staring at his own reflection in the bug-eyed mask. "I helped you round up guns, I'm doing what I can to help with the curfew, and I've already had a few death threats thrown my way by people I've always been friendly with. But now you're trying to keep the bodies of my friends and the loved ones of this community. I need a better excuse than 'National Security' before I'll stand still for this nonsense."

  "It's the only answer you're going to get, Frank." Anderson stood up and pushed away from the cheap metal desk where he kept his papers. "There are radiation burns and other bits of evidence on the bodies that would tell too much to a qualified medical examiner. I can't afford to take any chances on this. I thought I'd made that clear enough already."

  "I'm starting not to give a damn about what chances you need to take and not take, Colonel. We're talking about a community here…"

  "No." Colonel Anderson shook his head and Frank's reflection in the lenses shifted crazily. "We're talking about meat. What I've got in cold storage is not a community, it's a pile of corpses." Frank opened his mouth, ready to protest, but Anderson cut him off. "I understand that the bodies belong to your loved ones, but I don't honestly care. I've got more important things to deal with than this. I can't spare the time to placate you and your backwater town. I've got real problems to handle."

  " 'Backwater town?' " It took every last bit of Frank's restraint to keep from just going postal all over the man he was looking at. Hell, Frank barely recognized his own voice when he spoke. "Fuck you, Colonel. And while you're at it, you can fuck your 'National Security.' "

  Frank turned and started away. When he felt the Colonel's hand on his shoulder, he paused and slowly turned his head. The bug-eyes he had found so unsettling three days earlier had become so commonplace that he didn't even flinch. "You want to keep that hand, mister, you'll take it offa my shoulder."

  Anderson withdrew his hand. "I'm sorry for my outburst, Frank. Try to understand my position here. I'm between a rock and a hard place. I cannot let the bodies of your people go. There are too many potential risks."

  "Yeah? Now I want you to try and understand where I'm coming from. I've paid my taxes, I've served in the United States Armed Forces, and I've voted in every damned election in this country since I was eighteen years old." Frank started counting off points on his fingertips. "I've never once in that time done anything that could cause this country any son of trouble. So where do you get off treating me and mine like common thugs, when we haven't even done anything? I know all about why you want to keep that thing in the lake a secret. Hell, I can't even blame you for that. But, damn it, I have to draw the line here."

  Exasperated to the point of nearly crying, Frank tried to make his point as clear as he could. It drove him crazy that he couldn't see the man's face, couldn't see if any of what he said was getting through. "We're already hurtin', Colonel. We gave up our weapons with almost no complaint. We're accepting the curfew-and believe me, that ain't easy to swallow-and we're just trying to lick our wounds and start making our lives work again." Frank sighed and waved his arms, uncertain how to make his point known. "Look, in the last three days, we've lost over a hundred local people and at least that many strangers from out of town, had our basic rights taken away from us and even been refused the right to see our injured friends and family. Just how much more do you think you can take from these people before they start taking something back?"

  "Is that a threat, Frank?" Anderson's voice took on a Clint Eastwood edge, soft and husky, like a predatory growl.

  Frank almost laughed. Nothing. The man understands nothing at all of what I'm trying to say. Might as well be talking to a chalkboard. "Hellfire and brimstone, Anderson. You really don't get it, do you?"

  "Get what?"

  "The only reason the people of Collier are being so damned nice to you is because they agree with your basic demands. All in the name of 'National Security.' We're a real patriotic lot down this way. But that's gonna come to a stop when they hear that they can't even give their dead a proper burial."

  "Why should that bother them so much? I mean, people lose their loved ones all the time." Frank could hear the edge of exasperation in the man's buzzing voice, and part of him wanted to understand where the Colonel was coming from, but most of him just didn't care.

  "Because the people of Collier are also real proud, Colonel. Down here we tend to think a dead person is entitled to a certain amount of dignity, same as when they were alive. That means they're supposed to have a decent burial and be allowed to have visitors from time to time."

  "And no one wants to see them taken away."

  "That's exactly right, Colonel. No one wants to think that their loved ones are sitting in a government vault somewhere, just rotting away or, worse, being examined by a bunch of pencil pushers."

  "What if I told you my hands are tied in this matter?"

  "Then I'd warn you to start watching your back. And no, that ain't a threat coming from me. That's a warning that the people here have taken about all the shit they care to swallow."

  "Don't you think you're blowing this a bit out of proportion?"

  "Nossir. I think you're taking an awful lot for granted. I don't think you're even beginning to understand just how serious the people here are about maintaining their freedom."

  "I'll give your argument some consideration, Frank. That's the best I can do."

  "Thank you. That's all I can ask of you."

  Frank stared at the Colonel, as the man suddenly turned his head, listening to something that Frank could not hear. Once again the man gestured for silence, then he touched his helmet. He was apparently preoccupied, because he forgot to turn off his external speaker.

&n
bsp; "No. Warn them back down. If they continue, fire one warning shot. If that doesn't work, bring them down… No. If you see a camera in action, just shoot them down. There are to be no leaks, do I make myself clear…? As a matter of fact, even if they agree to come down, you should make certain they come down in here, not out of our reach… That's right, but behind the church, or over at the town offices, not near the lake… What else? Arrest the morons. I don't give a rat's ass about their first amendment-rights! Just do it!"

  Frank felt the wind kick up around the tent, and watched as all four tent walls tried to buckle inward. The sound of helicopter engines picking up speed came to him, even past the harsh voice of the Colonel Without another thought, Frank walked to the entrance of the tent and stepped back out into the remains of his hometown.

  All around him, the children of Collier, and those few adults brave enough to dare the heat and the dark militia surrounding them, stood looking towards the sky, squinting against the glare of the sun. Four helicopters lifted from the ground, sending a wave of air in all directions at once, and shattering the faint illusion that Collier was just another town.

  It only took a few seconds to see what was causing all the commotion. A smaller helicopter was hovering over the town, its nose pointed towards the lake and the monolithic structure now hidden beneath a web of steel beams and heavy tarps. One of the teenagers-it sounded like Steve Boothe, but he couldn't say for sure-called out to his friends.

  "Look at them sumbitches go! They're gonna eat that sucker for lunch!" To Frank's dismay, the boy sounded excited.

  He could not hear what was said between the single news 'copter and the four large flying arsenals surrounding it, but the warnings were heeded. The smaller helicopter-owned by Channel Seven out of Stockon, unless his eyes were failing him-began to descend towards the parking lot confiscated for use as a landing zone, not far away. The four larger aircraft remained where they were, but all focused on the single interloper.

  As the Channel Seven 'copter got lower, Frank could see not one but three figures with cameras on their shoulders. All were pointed in different directions; one at the tent behind him, one at the lake, and one towards what was left of Milo's hardware store. He recognized the face of the man sitting beside the pilot almost immediately; as he lived and breathed, it was Channel Two's own Ben Johnson all the way down from Atlanta. The plastic smile was gone from the man's face. He looked overheated and more than a touch worried. Considering the number of machine guns pointed at the craft, Frank couldn't blame him in the least.