She glanced at the brass umbrella stand by the front door, where she'd hidden her dad's notebook, and tried to remain calm. Hyperventilating was always a problem for her whenever she was scared, and today she was terrified; and not just for herself but for her father as well.
Fighting the temptation to peek through the curtains at the street and sidewalk, she prayed silently for her dad. In her mind, she saw flashes of him throughout the years.
He was dressed up in his best dress uniform receiving the medal of valor at a ceremony when she'd been a snotty teenager sitting in the first row and bored out her mind. His hair was still dark brown then not flaked with an increasing accumulation of gray as it had gradually become.
They had rarely seen eye to eye on anything while growing up, but she knew he was always doing his best to take care of her. He always called me his sweetie bear or his little soldier and now here I am actually playing the part, she thought, holding the shotgun she'd begged her husband not to buy several years earlier.
A small yelp exploded out of her when the doorbell rang.
She was tempted to shout go away, but instead managed to say in a fairly steady voice, “Who's out there?”
“Federal Agents Abe Carter and Courtney Simmons. Armstrong called us to come help with your father,” a man's voice through the door.
Sarah peeked through the security peep hole and saw a man and woman holding up their identification that confirmed what he'd said. She quickly unlocked the door and showed Courtney and a woman carrying a large black bag upstairs as Abe stayed by the door keeping watch.
“This is a nurse we have on call for emergencies,” Agent Courtney Simmons said, gesturing to the other woman who was already busily checking Rockford's pulse and placing a digital thermometer in his mouth. “Has he said anything else or have you remembered anything since you spoke with Amalia?”
“He's just been sleeping. Is he going to die?” Sarah asked, while still holding the shotgun loosely in her trembling hands.
“Hand me that thing before someone gets hurt,” the agent said soothingly.
“Oh, here take it,” Sarah said letting the agent set it aside in the corner of the room.
After checking him for less than a minute, the nurse turned and said, “His temperature is almost 103 degrees and his blood pressure is dangerously low. If we don't get him to a hospital, and soon, he's going to die.”
“Good thing we brought the van then,” Agent Simmons said and pulled out her phone and pressed a button. “Bring up the stretcher and fast.”
“But he said hospitals were dangerous. Can't you do something for him here?” Sarah asked.
“Relax he's going to be well cared-” Simmons was saying as gunshots were fired downstairs. She ran to a window and looked through the gauzy curtains to the street below.
The stretcher was gaining speed as it rolled down the hill by itself.
A man in a dark gray, almost black overcoat and hat stood on the sidewalk beside two piles of ashes and some scattered smoldering clothing. He pointed a glass rod of pulsing red and blue light at something and they all heard the front door slam shut, a moment before Abe pounded up the staircase.
“We gotta move, and I mean, right now!” He shouted, lifting Rockford off the bed and throwing the unconscious man (dressed only in his underwear) over his shoulder and running back out of the room.
“Wait, Follow me! Sarah shouted, scooping up the shotgun in hands that no longer trembled. She ran down the hall and into a back room that was in the process of being remodeled. Abe came next carrying Rockford then the nurse.
A loud crash came from below that sounded like the front door being knocked down.
Agent Simmons fired from the second floor as the others followed Sarah across the room. A second later she followed them in and locked the door behind her.
Sarah stood in front of the wall pointing the shotgun where a black hole about the size of a fist stood out against the old plaster boards around it. She fired once, then lowered the gun slightly and fired again.
Smoke and plaster dust filled the air, but not so much that they couldn't see into her neighbor's exercise room beyond the large holes she'd blasted into an impromptu emergency exit.
Sarah's husband had been promising to finish the renovations on the back room for nearly a year. Part of the delay was the discovery of termites in some of the walls including the one she just blasted. The fist sized hole was made when he'd last attempted to do some work and accidentally busted a hole through the wall and straight through into their neighbor's townhouse next door.
Luckily, they had been fairly understanding and patient while the insurance company was consulted and a pest control expert treated the damaged areas. Unfortunately, they probably would be less than understanding when they got home later that day and found the two giant ragged holes blasted into the wall of their exercise room. Sarah thought as she led the others down her neighbor's staircase.
Agent Carter handed the snoring man to Simmons, before running ahead and opening the front door and looking for any sign of the man who'd apparently disintegrated the two ambulance attendants as he watched. He saw his car and several neighbors standing outside looking confused by the sounds of gunfire on their usually sleepy street.
There was a sound of breaking boards and stomping feet overhead and Carter hoped whoever the stranger was, he was alone. He hurried the others out and they piled into the SUV; all except Sarah who said, “I left my dad's notebook inside, in the umbrella stand. Go on and get out of here I'll-”
“Get yourself killed!” Agent Simmons shouted and yanked Sarah inside, as Abe stomped on the gas and peeled out.
Neighbors watched the car speed up the block and make a squealing turn at the corner. A few saw a stranger run outside. Later, when describing him to the police, they all gave the same general description. He was a medium to short man wearing a dark gray overcoat and hat. A few also mentioned he was carrying a glass-like stick.
One neighbor added something to her description that no one else had been close enough to hear. “He was grunting and snorting like he had a cold before running off in the direction the car went.”
*****
Trevor had never been tempted to shoot a little girl before in his entire life. But while listening to the horrible things Betty White had been saying he was tempted several times to give it a try. He was nearly certain she wasn't what she looked like yet found it hard to believe she was actually some sort of alien robotic monster, being operated by a thing that appeared to be a combination of a feather and some fluffy stuff that looked like belly button lint.
She spoke of slaughtering most of humanity in a tone of voice as if she were talking about going to the mall. The way she looked and the mismatched way she spoke was only part of the reason he restrained himself from opening fire with his machine gun.
The other reason was a growing part of him believed shooting her would probably serve no purpose, except perhaps to expedite the aliens plans to release the virus. If they even have one, he thought.
“Excuse me, I have a serious question,” Trevor said, surprising himself by suddenly speaking.
Betty looked at him and nodded.
“With apologies, Alice, I didn't mean to interrupt the story of how they chose the name Betty White for this little girl robot. I'll grant you it is sort of interesting, but hardly important.”
When Alice asked that question a few minutes earlier, Betty had explained that while in transit to Earth they received and recorded nearly every television broadcast ever made.
The design and engineering teams had a special affinity for the actress named Betty White and named the rover in her honor. From there the conversation took, in Trevor's opinion, a decidedly frivolous almost silly turn into what television shows they most liked.
Overwhelmingly, they preferred more soft edged peaceful shows like Little House on the Prairie, The Walton's, Mary Tyler Moore, The Wonder Years, among many others. The only
one Betty mentioned that got even a slight smile from Professor Anniston was the original Star Trek series.
“Never thought of following the show's Prime Directive of not interfering with other species, did you?” The old man asked bitterly.
“It was an intriguing idea. But if we followed the directive, eventually our new home would either be destroyed in some war or by the idiocy of humanity,” Betty had responded.
Another interesting fact they learned was that they had labeled the other alien race that resembled pigs after Arnold Ziffel. A character from the television show Green Acres that was played by a very intelligent pig.
Also, nearly all of them had adopted Earth names; mostly from old television shows. When asked, Betty explained her name was identical to the one given the rover. So, in essence the Betty White rover was being operated by Betty White.
Betty nodded slightly after Trevor interrupted and he took that as an invitation to ask his question. “How do we know this virus thing you spoke of even exists? Perhaps you're just saying that to try and get us to help you.”
Everyone turned to look as Betty walked back to the TV and slid her hand behind it again. “It exists. We have tested it on a large variety of subjects to refine it and insure its lethality.”
On the TV screen a man who looked Chinese, missing an eye and a leg, dressed in dirty ragged clothes was lying in an alley near some trashcans. A flashing red neon sign was at the end of the alley with a Chinese symbol Anniston and Mendez both recognized as meaning Lucky Tavern.
It was night time and the man would have been almost impossible to see if not for lights shining from the eyes of several small insects that surrounded him. A glimmer of soft blue light formed around the man who then woke up and spoke in a slurred tone of voice.
“The light was generated by the testers when they activated a force field which would prevent escape of the virus once it was introduced,” Betty explained.
Alice looked away as the man on the screen began to punch and kick at the blue light surrounding him. His remaining eye rolled around frantically as he shouted.
“Turn it off, please,” Alice begged as the sound of his shouts filled the small RV.
“No. I think we all need to see just what your people are capable of,” Anniston said, staring at the struggling man.
As the volume was turned down, a small common house fly flew by the man's nose.
“The virus was just released,” Betty said, watching the others as the video continued.
Trevor almost joined Alice in looking away, but couldn't as the man ceased shouting and struggling.
His eye was leaking bloody tears and his body began convulsing. In less than a minute he was dead.
“The virus was engineered to replicate and spread at an advanced rate once introduced. Some test subjects took as long as five minutes to die, but the average time is less than ninety seconds,” Betty said, as the blue light enclosing the dead man glowed brighter.
A flash of yellow orange light filled the screen for a moment and then a few tiny piles of dust is all that remained where the body once was.
“We've performed hundreds of similar tests in every part of the world to assure effectiveness. It would take a little over four hours to show them all. Perhaps, you have a particular racial or ethnic type you would like to see next?” Betty said.
Trevor set the machine gun down next to the gas and brake pedals and shook his head slowly, saying, “No. I've seen enough.”
Shannon and Professor Anniston stared at the TV as the insects scurried and flew away from the alley before the screen went dark.
Wiping her tears with a paper towel, Alice asked, “How did you choose your victims?”
“They were people that no one would miss. Derelicts, drug addicts, bums; in short, those who were wasting their lives.”
Agent Mendez swallowed with difficulty before asking, “Are you done testing the virus?”
“Yes. It is completely effective and ready for dispersal.”
“Would Allison Taylor have qualified as one of your test subjects?” Mendez asked, even though she was already sure of the answer.
“Yes,” Betty said and waited a few seconds before continuing. “We understand that it may be difficult for you to understand the necessity of such testing, but part of the reason was to insure that there would be no prolonged suffering.”
“Oh well, in that case I'll be sure to write a letter to the Nobel Peace Prize Committee on your behalf,” Professor Anniston said sourly.
“Sarcasm again?” Betty asked, looking at Mendez.
“Yes, I believe that would be safe to say.”
*****
Amalia escorted Colonel Wilcox through security in the lobby of the Birmingham FBI complex and together they went not to the field directors office but down to subbasement level five.
Technicians and other employees gave the unlikely pair furtive glances as they walked quickly toward the department that was officially called Theoretical and Unconventional Research Development Sciences, which many simply called TURDS for short.
“Just keep quiet and let me do the talking. The guys who work in here are kind of skittish around strangers,” Amalia said, leaning down and rapidly entered her security code in the keypad and placing her middle finger on the biometric print analyzer.
The door lock clicked and they went inside. The outer office held numerous workstations where a group of young men and women were seemingly doing nothing more than surfing the internet.
Wilcox glanced at some of the websites on the screens and held back comment only with the greatest of difficulty.
One screen showed a badly manipulated image of a lunar moon base complete with laser turrets and a spaceship that looked similar to a Viper from the TV show Battle Star Galactica, except for the red and yellow flames that had been painted on its wings. The words on the screens flashed by too fast for him to read as they moved on.
While Amalia checked her inbox for memos, Wilcox saw a young man looking at a screen filled with crop circles with the words 'Reaping the bitter harvest' imposed over it. Nerds. Wasting taxpayer money on goofy shit, Wilcox thought, as he looked at the young people surfing the web and making notations in some sort of word processing program.
Clearing her throat, Amalia addressed the people. “Hold up a minute, folks. I need your attention for a second.” When they all faced her, she continued. “I need all the theories you've found on the Hadron Super Collider, no matter how stupid or goofy they may seem.
Additionally, pull together anything about aliens that look like pigs. Compile it and get me both a print version and another on a memory card. And, this is a priority request so no farting around. Now, get to it.”
All but one of the people turned back to their computer screens. The remaining man stood up and followed Amalia as she led Wilcox into the next room. One half was lined with metal lockers while the other side had a small kitchen with tables and chairs.
Amalia crossed over to one of the lockers and slipped off the hospital gown she'd been wearing all morning and tossed it in the trash.
Wilcox saw the bandage covering the wound where he'd shot her yesterday and looked away.
The young man who had followed them inside was wearing a T shirt with a red and white umbrella logo on it. He looked at Wilcox as if he were deciding something.
Wilcox saw him looking at his arm in the blue metallic looking containment cast and turned to the coffee maker as Amalia changed into a different shirt.
A few seconds later she came over saying, “Marcus, this is Colonel Brad Wilcox of the U.S. Army and even though he shot me yesterday and is more than a bit of an asshole, he's trustworthy.
Brad this is my best analyst and even though he's never shot me, he is also trustworthy. So quit giving each other the stinky eyeball routine and shake hands. I don't think we have time for a testosterone competition just now.”
They shook hands as Amalia poured some coffee and took a pain pill f
or her throbbing shoulder. She led them into her small office, which was a remodeled janitor's store room as evidenced by the utility sink attached to one of the concrete walls.
“Brad, be a peach and fill Marcus in on what's happening while I check my voice mails,” she said, before picking up her desk phone.
Halfway through Brad's tale, Amalia swore softly and hung up the phone. She tapped a notepad in front of her and looked upset but didn't interrupt as Wilcox continued talking and Marcus listened attentively.
A few minutes later he mentioned the call she'd received from Rockford's daughter and looked at Amalia to see if she was listening. She nodded and rolled her hand in a keep going gesture. He wrapped up his story and finished off the last of his now cold cup of coffee.
Marcus nodded slowly as Amalia looked at her phone suspiciously. “Yes, it does seem to be a nasty situation. Have you gone upstairs with it yet?”
Amalia shook her head and said, “I can't go marching up there with something as flimsy as this appears to be.” She held up her notepad so they could both see the big words she'd written on it; 'Phones are probably bugged, maybe the room too.'
The two men looked uneasy as Amalia continued. “Honestly, what have we got anyway? A guy who might have been an alien, but we have no solid proof. They'd probably say the thing with your arm could have been an accident. Chemical or acid burns could have made you hallucinate. And the trailer explosion destroyed any evidence there might have been.
And without proof, Rockford's story doesn't mean much either.” She sighed loudly while shaking her head. “Nope, I just don't think it's worth pursuing. Oh sure, keep your eyes and ears open, but for now I think we'll just let sleeping dogs lie.”
“You look tired, how's the shoulder?” Marcus asked.
“Hurts like a mother, but the medicine is kicking in. I'd go home but it's best not to drive right now and Brad only has one arm so I don't want him driving me anywhere.”
“I came in at midnight, so I can take you home,” Marcus said.
“You're a sweetie, Marcus. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mind,” Amalia said, standing up and walking out of the office.