Fireworks

by James A. Moore

  Frank looked at the craft as it slowly settled in, but noticed that the little helicopter never actually touched the ground. It hovered perhaps an inch above the pavement as the pursuing vehicles slowly settled down.

  Frank was still looking at the newscaster when the man's face suddenly changed expression. The fear faded and was replaced by a steely determination. One word came from the man's mouth, and even though he couldn't hear what was said, he knew that word was "Now."

  How the boys in the military helicopters fell for the pilot's stunt was something Frank would never figure out. Perhaps they'd grown too confident in their ability to control everyone around them, perhaps those damned masks of their made it hard to see minor details. Whatever the case, the four had just settled and their blades were slowing, when the good old Channel Seven suddenly lifted from the ground and took off towards the lake.

  All four black helicopters fairly erupted from their positions, lifting into the air with a speed and grace that their target could not hope to match. The smaller craft screamed and roared as it dove past the canvas and the men anchoring the heavy cloth around Collier's secret. The other four made scarcely a sound, almost as if they preferred to save their energy for more important matters.

  Frank felt like an ant trying to catch all the action at a tennis match. He and damn near everyone else there ran as fast as their feet would take them, heading past the tents and over towards the edge of Oldman's lake. By the time they reached the sheer side of the lakebed, the helicopters were almost out of sight. Seeing the 'copters reduced to the size of HO-scale train accessories at the far end of the dead lake made Frank reevaluate just how large Oldman's really was. Small wonder he never worried about getting out to the ocean; he had one in his back yard.

  The craft were coming back their way, and the closer they came, the harder it was to make out all the details. The starship-or whatever the hell it really was-blocked Frank's view of almost everything. But he saw enough. He saw the Channel Seven 'copter moving towards the ship at full tilt, apparently in an effort to use the thing as a shield or maybe to make the other helicopters smash themselves against it. If the latter was the case, the pilot had seen too many movies.

  He also saw the missile leave the side of one of the black, wasp-like 'copters. How anything could move so damned fast was beyond him. One second there was a flash of light, the next, there was a streamer of smoke running from the attacking craft and tagging the closer helicopter's tail end.

  Frank watched the Channel Seven traffic 'copter lose its backside to a fireball. It transformed from a smoothly flying machine into a blaze as bright as the sun, and then into a hurtling comet of fire and debris. Shrapnel flew through the air, arcing away from the explosion and leaving trails of smoke to mark where they had passed. The craft was still a good way off, and Frank was grateful for that. None of the flaming debris even came close to the shoreline. He was even more thankful for the massive alien structure sticking out of the ground: the smaller pieces fell short of the shore, but he had no doubt the actual helicopter would have made it all the way to where he was standing if not for the shrouded ship.

  The manmade structure around the Unidentified Stranded Object rocked violently and then burst into flames. Several workers fell or jumped away from the skeletal framework, plummeting towards the hard-baked ground below. Heavy plastic tarpaulins caught fire and shriveled against the metal posts to which they were anchored. The crude structure fell apart as another explosion occurred on the far side of the vessel. Scaffoldings over a hundred feet tall fell towards the shore, carrying burning plastic and at least one man in black armor.

  The four 'copters of the Apocalypse lifted back into the air, silently moving past the wreckage and back to their landing spots. A small army of Colonel Anderson's storm-troopers erupted from the tents, moving as quickly as their armor allowed. They stopped at the edge of the lake. Far below, several of their comrades lay broken on the ground. Despite the terrifying heights from which they'd fallen, a few of them were still moving.

  Once again, Frank watched on as the soldiers did their thing. The crane setup they'd used earlier to lower materials into the lakebed was moved back into position. In less than five minutes, they had a squadron of men on the lakebed and moving towards their fallen brethren. At the same time, several of the soldiers strapped on massive backpacks with long hoses and moved to what was left of the Channel Seven helicopter, blasting it with a thick white foam that extinguished the flames almost instantly.

  Frank hunkered down and lit a cigarette, watching the show and ignoring the people around him. Part of him wanted to offer his aid, but he knew it would be refused. That and, while he hated to admit it, a part of him liked watching the bastards suffer.

  Behind him, he heard the cold, efficient voice of Clipboard buzzing orders to the men below. He could not hear their replies, but he could hear the commands. He felt a heat bloom in his chest. Clipboard's voice irritated him more than he could ever hope to explain. The man was even more of an ass than Colonel Anderson, and everything about him made Frank angrier.

  Down below, one of the soldiers was being lifted onto a canvas stretcher. Where he'd lain there was a pool of blood. Frank couldn't tell if the man was alive or dead. Suddenly the amusement he'd felt was gone, replaced by a strong sense of self-loathing. He turned to face Clipboard. The man was looking down towards the mess below.

  Frank stood and stretched his legs for a second, forcing the blood back where it belonged. "Anything I can do to help?" He almost hated himself for asking, but it was a part of his nature that he simply couldn't deny. A part of why he'd become a cop in the first place.

  Clipboard turned his helmet until the two glossy lenses stared directly in his direction. "I appreciate the offer, Captain Osborn, but I believe we have the situation in hand." The man's voice was still coldly efficient. Frank still hated him for his attitude. "You might want to check on the civilians over to my right, however. They shouldn't be standing that close to the edge of the lake."

  Frank nodded and turned away. He had known the offer would be refused, so the attitude from Clipboard was about what he expected. He walked the ten yards it took to reach Mike Summers and the rest of the youngsters. "Y'all need to get on back from the edge. Everything going on here, it might collapse. Then those boys'd be dragging you out of that hole, not other soldiers."

  There must have been something in his attitude, because the boys moved back without argument. All except Marty Wander. He was still in the same spot, looking not at the bodies below but at the spaceship.

  "Marty." No response. "Marty!"

  The boy looked at Frank for a few heartbeats before responding, his face showing surprise. "Huh? Oh, I'm sorry, Officer Frank. Did you say something?"

  "Yes, I did. I said you need to get your butt away from the edge before I drag it back to your daddy for a proper whuppin'."

  Marty backpedaled as quickly as he could while he turned his eyes back to the craft.

  "Don't tell me you still haven't seen enough of that stupid thing already, Marty."

  "I… It's just I don't understand how it did that. That's all."

  "Did what?" Frank felt a sudden chill settle into his backbone, and slowly turned to face the thing behind him.

  "I don't understand how it changed its color."

  The ship was still there, but it had changed. Just as Marty said, the color was different. All the wet, oily markings floating across the surface of the thing were gone. Where the ship had been dark before, it was now as clear and well-shined as the finest mirror. Somewhere along the way, the thing had decided to reflect back whatever light was thrown its way.

  "Goddamn," he whispered. "The thing's like a chameleon. It's trying to hide itself."

  Frank stared at the craft for a long time, contemplating a new aspect of the ship that he'd barely let himself ponder before. How had it changed color? Was that an automatic function of the ship? Or was it something done manually by whatever was ins
ide the vessel? Was it possible that whatever had piloted the ship to Oldman's Lake was still alive?

  He was still staring when the first of the bodies was removed from the lake.

  CHAPTER 4

  1

  Frank waited until the chaos had died down before he tried talking to Anderson again. The man was obviously not happy-even with the environmental armor in place, Frank was learning to understand the Colonel's moods. Gestures and the way his body moved spoke volumes. Frank didn't care if the man was wallowing in shit or having a pizza just the way he liked it. He wanted a final answer, one way or the other.

  He got his final answer, too. Not the one he wanted. Anderson did his best to explain that the bodies were a risk, but it didn't do him any good.

  "You're under the impression that the people here would want the bodies of their families lifted out of the ground to prove that there was something in the lake," Frank retorted. "What you don't understand is that no one here gives a good fart about the ship. Weren't you paying attention earlier? You had kids playing in the park here, just like they've always done. They don't care that there's a goddamn alien spaceship sitting out there. They just want to get on with their lives."

  "We had a few children playing out there. We also had four people with cameras and camcorders." The Colonel gestured to a large steel box at the edge of his desk. "They weren't out there to play games, Frank. They were out there to photograph the ship you say no one cares about. I know human nature, Captain. The people who are grieving today will be scheming in another few weeks. Money means more to most people than you think. So does fame. Don't think for an instant that Myrna Louis wouldn't give up a few night's sleep to get on Sally Jesse Raphael, because I know she would. So far, I've confiscated two cameras and a tape recorder from her. I'm surprised she hasn't managed to wrangle up a Geiger counter."

  Frank had to give him that one. "Myrna's the exception, not the rule. How can we be expected to leave those bodies with you and not protest, Colonel? Do you really think you'd take it as well if the men you lost today were stolen away from you and from their families?"

  "You have a good argument, Frank, but I've got a better one. Acknowledging that my personal goal is complete protection of the national interests, which would you rather see: the bodies returned to the people of Collier? Or the Myrna Louises of this town executed because they can't be trusted? Those are pretty much my options here. I don't find the latter choice to be very viable, do you?"

  "No. No, I suppose you're right on that one. I just don't think you're gonna convince the people of this town that you're in the right." Frank walked to the entrance of the tent just as the rain began to fall to the ground outside. The canvas of the tent took the drops of rain like a gentle tap on a drum. Soon the sound of a thousand beats filled the air. The natives are getting restless, Bwana. The thought crept into his skull with a life of its own. Frank bit the side of his mouth to avoid cracking into a smile. Somehow, Frank doubted Anderson would find the comment amusing. "I've done what I can to help you, Colonel, but I won't be the one to answer questions on your behalf about this one. You'd best appoint an answer man from your own ranks. I'll continue to do my best to keep the peace here, 'cause that's my job. But when it comes to the bodies we ain't gonna get to bury, I wash my hands of the matter."

  Frank walked away, elated that he'd finally stood up to the Colonel, and simultaneously terrified that he'd hear a safety being released, followed by the gende burping of the Colonel's rifle as the bullets tore through him. The fear was irrational, of course. So far, the Colonel had been very accommodating.

  That didn't stop him from expecting the bullets to show up anyway. Probably nothing could do that. The bullets didn't riddle his body. He lived.

  He made a brief stop at the office, explained the situation to Ricky Boggs, who was, for the present time, the night shift. Ricky nodded solemnly, and went back to watching the TV he'd rolled out of the evidence room. Frank went home.

  A long shower helped work the tension from his body, at least until the warm water ran out. After that, a hasty retreat from the chilling stream of liquid testicle-shrinker was required Frank turned on the TV and watched the news on CNN. He preferred to listen to the world's problem's today. Anything too close to home would be a disaster for his efforts to remain calm. After hearing the latest about the political chaos in Bosnia and the Middle East, the pretty blond anchorwoman went on to explain what little was known about the deaths of several cameramen, a pilot and a reporter who had tried to get pictures of the quarantined town of Collier, Georgia. Frank promptly changed the channel, settling for a syndicated episode of Cheers. Carla was verbally slamming Cliff, and Norm was moaning about his wife Vera. Sam was flirting with Rebecca and Woody was dressed as Mark Twain. Life was as it should be in the Cheers universe: stable. Frank fell asleep before the show was over.

  2

  The day started off sullen and overcast. That seemed woefully appropriate to Frank. One hundred and fifty-nine funeral services, all being performed at once. He stared at the long line of grave markers-made from wood and bearing the names of the dead in carefully burnt letters, as there were not enough markers at the local funeral home to accommodate a tenth of the victims-and sighed. So many dead.

  If the number of markers was intimidating, the long list of mourners was truly phenomenal. If there was anyone from all of Collier who did not attend the ceremony, it was because they were locked away in the makeshift hospital. Even the least friendly members of the town's society were present, dressed in their Sunday best and listening to the words of the three men of God who handled the services. Separated from everyone else were all the townsfolk who were officially under arrest. Frank knew the Colonel would be pissed off, but he just didn't give a damn. Let him be pissed. He'll get a taste of his own medicine for a change of pace. All of Frank's small police force-those still alive after the wreck-were there with him. They looked as tired as he felt. There were a number of tourists and visitors there, too, over two hundred faces he did not recognize, standing amongst the faces he'd known for his entire life. They were trapped in Collier, same as everyone else.

  Surrounding the area, at a discreet distance, were the soldiers who enforced Anderson's law. They were as still as statues. Frank moved his eyes around the area, ignoring the words of the ministers and the sounds of the mourners alike. He tried not to dwell on the faces that were not in attendance at the funeral, but it was difficult.

  For no good reason, as it was wont to do, his mind moved away from where he was to dwell on Kathy. Somewhere in California she was likely with another man. Frank felt a sting of tears in his eyes and blinked them away. He'd be damned before he'd cry for her again. He looked up towards the cloud-painted heavens, and then back to the row of wooden headstones. Bethany Harper's name was etched on the one directly before him. Right next to the little girl's marker was one for her mother, Suzanne. Both of them dead, and old Wade Harper was locked away in the high school-cum-hospital. Frank wondered if he even knew he'd lost both of the girls in his life. Bobby Carlson, the entire Habersham family, the Newsomes, poor, demented George Harding, Alan Macafee, Edna Carter, Tom Walden… The list just went on and on, a list of people who'd never again be a part of Collier and of people who never even had a chance to become a part of the town.

  Not far away, Linda Arminter held Billy Newsome in her arms. The boy was sobbing, loud hiccuping bellows of grief, for the loss of his entire family. Both of his parents and his older brother, all killed in one fell swoop. When that much of a family died in a traffic wreck, the newspapers and broadcasts for half the continent mentioned the loss and let the world mourn right alongside the survivors. Here in Collier, poor Billy's overwhelming loss was swept under the carpet by the Colonel and his people: a dirty little secret that no one wanted shared.

  The slow-burning anger in Frank's soul increased its intensity by a few thousand degrees. Linda Arminter was a good woman, but she could not replace Billy's family. No bo
y that age should suffer grief so intense. The boy should be playing hide-and-seek with his friends, or going to the community pool and swimming. He shouldn't be so alone. Even if he was being cared for, his soul had to be hurting more than anyone's ever should. Frank was feeling sorry for himself because his wife had left him. Billy was feeling sorry because a freak disaster had torn away every reason he had for living.

  Frank turned to look at the soldiers standing around the gathering. He wasn't really surprised to see a lot of the townsfolk were doing exactly the same thing. The rain finally started to fall in Collier, and when it struck the ground it left behind an outraged puff of steam with every drop that fell. Somehow, that just felt right.

  3

  Frank's predictions about Collier's response to the imprisoned bodies of the dead proved true. There was only so much grief and aggravation that the people of Collier were willing to take. For someone, that limit had finally been reached.

  Frank was at home, doing what he could to relax-which was not much-when the call came. The sound of the phone was rapidly becoming an alien thing, and he actually let out a squawk of surprise when the shrill ring erupted from the end-table. After collecting himself, he snatched the headset from its cradle. "This is Frank Osborn. How can I help you?"

  "Frank?" It was Buck's voice, but he didn't sound his normal calm self. "Man, I'm glad I caught you. You need to get your ass down to the Miller's farm right damn now."