NIGHT OF THE CATTLE MUTILATORS
PT. 9
The UFO dipped in low over the bus. Instantly, the electrical system shorted out. Despite Stephen cranking the key, the bus rolled to a stop within yards.
Andrew held up his cell phone. "Anybody getting anything but static?"
"Some sort of interference field!" Ross turned back to yell. When he faced forward, he couldn't believe what was landing twenty yards in front of the bus.
A black helicopter.
One's attention might be drawn to the array of lights scattered all over the chopper, instantly configurable to match a small plane, or a UFO.
One's attention might be drawn to the large inverted turbine at the base of both top and tail rotor, which seemed to suck all the noise away, letting this helicopter glide along no louder than an owl's wing.
Their attention was fixed on the 70mm autocannon protruding from the open side cargo doors -- and aimed at the nose of the bus. A grim young man in a black helmet and fatigues sat behind the weapon, staring them down through the gunsight.
A ramp descended. The Agents squinted as someone walked down, paused, then approached the bus. He waved his hand. The man was wearing a grey business suit and navy tie.
"Hi! I'm Chris Downey! I'm with the government ... and I'm here to help!"
"We're f&*ked," muttered Ross.
"We're f&*ked," muttered Andry.
"We're f&*ked," muttered Jo.
"We're f&*ked," muttered Stephen.
Denis kept his mouth shut and jammed their captured Russian scientist farther down under the seat.
Andrew, Ross, Jo and Stephen filed out from the bus, lined up, guns held loosely in their hands. The man minding the autocannon checked that his safety was off.
"Chris Downey, FEMA, nice to meet you folks. So, have we put this all together yet?" Downey adjusted his tie.
"You vaporized our Russian pursuers," guessed Stephen. "But why not us?"
"Our organization and the Hoffman Institute have a ... workng relationship. Or truce, depending on the mood of the week. Besides, I figured you'd do all the dirty work." He nodded at the fiery apocalypse roaring behind them. "Subtle."
"You're the UFO sightings," said Ross.
"Been looking for Putechin for two years. We've been patrolling around the area for a while, ever since we figured his little zombie-pals had been out snacking. The Russians sent their own clean-up squad." Downey sighed. "Only they would be thick enough to rent black four-door sedans and wear black." Downey rubbed his hands together in glee. "Speaking of which, perhaps you might hand Putechin and his research over now?"
At that, another seven men appeared in the cargo bay of the black helicopter, automatic weapons locked and loaded.
Andy whispered something to Ross. Ross shrugged, took his lead. "How about we keep him for a while, then hand him over."
"Hmm. How about I kill you and all those civilians." Downey waved a clipboard. "I've already checked all the boxes next to 'tragic mine gas explosion.' It wouldn't inconvenience me a bit."
"He's going to kill us anyway once he gets the scientist," Stepehn whispered.
"Do you really want to go to war over this?" asked Jo. "It's not like you won't get him, the Hoffman Institute will guarantee it."
"Just call your bosses and check!" Andy called out from behind Ross.
Downey grumbled a bit, then took out a cell phone. He signalled to the pilot of the helicopter. A second later, the low electronic HUM in everyone's inner ear ceased. Downey hit speed dial, waited. He turned away from the Agents, talked low. Finally he hung up the phone. "I'm sorry, no deal. Hand Putechin over or we kill you all."
At that, Andy stepped forward -- with his own cell phone ON. "Direct line to a friend at the New York Times" Andy called out. "He just heard EVERYTHING."
"Don't be ridiculous," DOwney sputtered. "The interference field ... interference ..." The FEMA agent stared at his own cell phone. The call he just made. The call he had the interference field dropped for.
"Cr%p."
(DM'S NOTE: Andy ACTUALLY DID THIS TO ME. He leaned forward with his own cell phone on and triumphantly shut me down cold. There are days I do hate him so.)
Downey tried to save face. "We can kill that story --"
"Please, an entire town disappearing would be tricky, never mind that now there's even a RUMOR of something weird about it." Andy shut his phone, pocketed it. "Face it. It'll ust be much easier to let us go, and pick up the Russian in two days."
"What about his research notes?" Downey asked. He was considerably less chipper now.
"We never found them," the Agents lied smoothly, and almost simultaneously.
Downey turned, walked back to the helicopter. He paused on the ramp. "I won't forget this," he said, almost casually. None of the Agents mistook his tone, however. Sleeping at the Hoffman Institute facilites for a while might not be a bad idea.
The helicopter rose soundlessly into the night. In two seconds it was a shadow, in three more a ghost. Now the only sound was the CRACKLING of the inferno that had once been Fairview, Arizona. The Agents trod wearily back to the bus. To the sorrowful music of the weeping, shocked townspeople, they drove back to Los Angeles ...
*****************************************
"Okay, I swear I saw the waitress from the Fairview diner panhandling in Santa Monica," Jo snapped.
The Agents were at their monthly debrief. Director Richardson shrugged. "Some people don't adust well to that sort of stress. We do our best." He paused. "Some people, after repeated traumatic experiences of mind-bending horror, even take to drinking."
Jo glared at him, her hands heading for her guns. Ross coughed, trying to get them off this subject. "How's Deputy Shea?"
"Just fine. We paid him off with what he wanted."
"Which was?" asked Stephen.
"A full day alone in the room with Sherrif Glick, the man who kidnapped his little brother." Richardson nodded thoughtfully. "You may see him around. Resourceful young man, we'll be recruiting him." Richardson cleared his throat. "I do have some rather bad news for you, Agent Cosby. Even after we returned Putechin to FEMA, Mr. Downey there seems to have held a grudge. I'm afraid, well ... several staff reporters on the New York Times who were on duty the night you called have had accidents. Fatal accidents." Richardson slid a list across the desk. "I'm sure your friend is one of the deceased. I'm sorry for your loss."
Andy didn't even raise an eyebrow. "No loss. I don't know anyone at the Times. I called the subscription line."
They all turned to stare at him. He shrugged. "What? Oh COME ON, what did I do this time?"
END
Next, we catch up with our Agents after a rather difficult year ...
PT. 9
The UFO dipped in low over the bus. Instantly, the electrical system shorted out. Despite Stephen cranking the key, the bus rolled to a stop within yards.
Andrew held up his cell phone. "Anybody getting anything but static?"
"Some sort of interference field!" Ross turned back to yell. When he faced forward, he couldn't believe what was landing twenty yards in front of the bus.
A black helicopter.
One's attention might be drawn to the array of lights scattered all over the chopper, instantly configurable to match a small plane, or a UFO.
One's attention might be drawn to the large inverted turbine at the base of both top and tail rotor, which seemed to suck all the noise away, letting this helicopter glide along no louder than an owl's wing.
Their attention was fixed on the 70mm autocannon protruding from the open side cargo doors -- and aimed at the nose of the bus. A grim young man in a black helmet and fatigues sat behind the weapon, staring them down through the gunsight.
A ramp descended. The Agents squinted as someone walked down, paused, then approached the bus. He waved his hand. The man was wearing a grey business suit and navy tie.
"Hi! I'm Chris Downey! I'm with the government ... and I'm here to help!"
"We're f&*ked," muttered Ross.
"We're f&*ked," muttered Andry.
"We're f&*ked," muttered Jo.
"We're f&*ked," muttered Stephen.
Denis kept his mouth shut and jammed their captured Russian scientist farther down under the seat.
Andrew, Ross, Jo and Stephen filed out from the bus, lined up, guns held loosely in their hands. The man minding the autocannon checked that his safety was off.
"Chris Downey, FEMA, nice to meet you folks. So, have we put this all together yet?" Downey adjusted his tie.
"You vaporized our Russian pursuers," guessed Stephen. "But why not us?"
"Our organization and the Hoffman Institute have a ... workng relationship. Or truce, depending on the mood of the week. Besides, I figured you'd do all the dirty work." He nodded at the fiery apocalypse roaring behind them. "Subtle."
"You're the UFO sightings," said Ross.
"Been looking for Putechin for two years. We've been patrolling around the area for a while, ever since we figured his little zombie-pals had been out snacking. The Russians sent their own clean-up squad." Downey sighed. "Only they would be thick enough to rent black four-door sedans and wear black." Downey rubbed his hands together in glee. "Speaking of which, perhaps you might hand Putechin and his research over now?"
At that, another seven men appeared in the cargo bay of the black helicopter, automatic weapons locked and loaded.
Andy whispered something to Ross. Ross shrugged, took his lead. "How about we keep him for a while, then hand him over."
"Hmm. How about I kill you and all those civilians." Downey waved a clipboard. "I've already checked all the boxes next to 'tragic mine gas explosion.' It wouldn't inconvenience me a bit."
"He's going to kill us anyway once he gets the scientist," Stepehn whispered.
"Do you really want to go to war over this?" asked Jo. "It's not like you won't get him, the Hoffman Institute will guarantee it."
"Just call your bosses and check!" Andy called out from behind Ross.
Downey grumbled a bit, then took out a cell phone. He signalled to the pilot of the helicopter. A second later, the low electronic HUM in everyone's inner ear ceased. Downey hit speed dial, waited. He turned away from the Agents, talked low. Finally he hung up the phone. "I'm sorry, no deal. Hand Putechin over or we kill you all."
At that, Andy stepped forward -- with his own cell phone ON. "Direct line to a friend at the New York Times" Andy called out. "He just heard EVERYTHING."
"Don't be ridiculous," DOwney sputtered. "The interference field ... interference ..." The FEMA agent stared at his own cell phone. The call he just made. The call he had the interference field dropped for.
"Cr%p."
(DM'S NOTE: Andy ACTUALLY DID THIS TO ME. He leaned forward with his own cell phone on and triumphantly shut me down cold. There are days I do hate him so.)
Downey tried to save face. "We can kill that story --"
"Please, an entire town disappearing would be tricky, never mind that now there's even a RUMOR of something weird about it." Andy shut his phone, pocketed it. "Face it. It'll ust be much easier to let us go, and pick up the Russian in two days."
"What about his research notes?" Downey asked. He was considerably less chipper now.
"We never found them," the Agents lied smoothly, and almost simultaneously.
Downey turned, walked back to the helicopter. He paused on the ramp. "I won't forget this," he said, almost casually. None of the Agents mistook his tone, however. Sleeping at the Hoffman Institute facilites for a while might not be a bad idea.
The helicopter rose soundlessly into the night. In two seconds it was a shadow, in three more a ghost. Now the only sound was the CRACKLING of the inferno that had once been Fairview, Arizona. The Agents trod wearily back to the bus. To the sorrowful music of the weeping, shocked townspeople, they drove back to Los Angeles ...
*****************************************
"Okay, I swear I saw the waitress from the Fairview diner panhandling in Santa Monica," Jo snapped.
The Agents were at their monthly debrief. Director Richardson shrugged. "Some people don't adust well to that sort of stress. We do our best." He paused. "Some people, after repeated traumatic experiences of mind-bending horror, even take to drinking."
Jo glared at him, her hands heading for her guns. Ross coughed, trying to get them off this subject. "How's Deputy Shea?"
"Just fine. We paid him off with what he wanted."
"Which was?" asked Stephen.
"A full day alone in the room with Sherrif Glick, the man who kidnapped his little brother." Richardson nodded thoughtfully. "You may see him around. Resourceful young man, we'll be recruiting him." Richardson cleared his throat. "I do have some rather bad news for you, Agent Cosby. Even after we returned Putechin to FEMA, Mr. Downey there seems to have held a grudge. I'm afraid, well ... several staff reporters on the New York Times who were on duty the night you called have had accidents. Fatal accidents." Richardson slid a list across the desk. "I'm sure your friend is one of the deceased. I'm sorry for your loss."
Andy didn't even raise an eyebrow. "No loss. I don't know anyone at the Times. I called the subscription line."
They all turned to stare at him. He shrugged. "What? Oh COME ON, what did I do this time?"
END
Next, we catch up with our Agents after a rather difficult year ...
