4068 words (16 minute read)

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"It's driving me crazy," Daimon confessed, punctuating his frustration with a sip of his beer. His long-time friend Albert Carey saluted Daimon's confession by taking a drink himself.

"Aliens," Albert said, foam lining his upper lip. "They're trying to call you."

Daimon smiled in confusion. "What?"

"Well, think about it; they're sending signals though your alarm clock." Al wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"And my brother and coworker?"

"Obviously. I mean, 618 is New Purley's area code."

"Crap! There's another one! I didn't even think of that. I'm seeing it everywhere."

"Aliens."

"It's not aliens. What in the world would they want with me in the first place?"

"Maybe they need better space ship insurance."

Daimon laughed. "I don't think we have a plan for interstellar fender benders."

He and Albert had been short-term roommates during their first year of college, a time of exploration, discoveries, and mistakes. But for all the missteps, that time had distilled life into its purest, most potent form. Whenever Daimon wished to laugh, all he had to do was conjure up one of the many memories of their juvenile escapades. His favorite involved an after-hours party at which Albert attempted to dive into a pool, but only succeeded in slipping and bouncing his way off of various deck furniture before plummeting into the water.

"Hey," Al said, "I'm heading to Montross tomorrow. You want me to pick you up any fireworks for the 4th?"

Daimon gave his friend a look of pity. "Thanks, but no. I outgrew cherry bombs years ago."

The jukebox cycled to the next song, "Maniac." At the first few beats, Albert leapt to his feet. "It's my song!" he exclaimed as he rushed to the dance floor, holding his beer up as he carefully navigated through the bargoers. Once there, he began what, in any other setting, would have been considered a seizure.

Smiling at the ludicrous moves of his friend, Daimon reflected on his situation. As his brother Eric had suggested, it was possible that Daimon was looking for connections where there were none. On the other hand, new revelations, like Al's area code contribution, made the possibility of mere coincidence more and more unlikely. He finished the last of the liquid in his glass and looked toward the bar, considering whether or not to refill. Customers lined it, holding out money and waiting for their orders to be taken. Some of them were familiar. They were semi-regulars like him. He had talked to a few, including the short, brown-haired girl on the corner, a cute and seemingly-intelligent college student whose name eluded him. He had introduced himself once, and she had given her name, but Daimon had lost it after the quick conversation. As a result, he had not talked to her again, embarrassed at having forgotten her name. On the other end of the bar was "John John," an older gentleman whose presence was so common that he might as well be part of the bar itself, perhaps a lost member of the Rat Pack, who stood in a poster against the wall near him. Every time Daimon talked to John John, the old man had a new dirty joke; the last one involved a bent toothpick and a drop of water.

Another group entered the bar, and Daimon recognized one of them, a former girlfriend who had broken his heart in high school. During his junior year, this everlong crush, a witty and gorgeous cheerleader, had finally agreed to date him despite his long black hair and long black jeans. Four months later, they had broken up amicably, realizing the folly of mixing the stereotypes. Daimon liked to think that he had evolved since then, and from the looks of Samantha, it seemed she had, too.

Albert was still on the dance floor, his black curls bobbing helplessly as their owner bounced and gyrated on the tiles. Despite his lunacy, Albert had attracted two women to dance with him. It must be Albert's blue eyes, thought Daimon, because it could not possibly be his rhythm. Daimon wished he could be so carefree as his friend. It would take many more pints before Daimon would even consider walking onto the dance floor. With that, Daimon left his chair and headed to the bar for a refill.

~

Eric tried to be quiet as he rummaged through the boxes in one of the spare rooms; Jennifer's patrol had been uneventful, and she had returned home, anxious to reset her sleeping cycle. The boxes did not contain wedding materials, but photo albums. Finding the one he wanted, a maroon binder with a plastic covering, Eric pulled it out and sat on the floor cross-legged, opening the album in his lap. There were not many photographs of him and his dad, but there were a few. An early one, its tint tanned with age, showed a younger James Camano, red hair blazing, replete with beard, holding a five year old Eric in his arms at Disney World. In the background was a worker dressed as Goofy. He did not remember having his picture taken there, but he did remember screaming at the animatronic children in the "It's a Small World" ride. Those creepy things still terrified him.

In the silence, the cell phone's ringtone startled Eric. It was his mother. "Hello," he answered.

"Eric," his mother replied, hysterically, "Someone's hitting the door and yelling!"

A pit of ice formed in Eric's stomach. "Are you at home? Who are they?"

"I'm home!" she confirmed. "I think they're wearing masks! I didn't get a good look!"

"Why didn't you call the police?"

"I thought you could get here first. Get Jen! I'm scared! What should I do?"

Scrambling out of the room, Eric raced to the bedroom, his phone against his ear. "Mom, go to the basement pantry. Block it with everything in there. And shut off every light except those upstairs." Eric slid into the master bedroom. "Jen! Wake up! Grab your gun! No questions! Just go!"

Confused, Jen blinked for a few seconds before kicking off the comforter and rolling across the bed to grab her firearm. "What's going on?" she managed in between actions, disregarding Eric's request for no questions.

"Excel's at Mom's."

Hearing the remark over the receiver, Marilyn Camano became breathless. "Excel? Why?"

Anger and impatience trumped Eric's demeanor. "I think you know why, mom. Get to the basement. We'll be right there. Don't make a sound!"

Eric slid his phone into his pocket and grabbed a bat from a closet. Jen gave him a look of disbelief. "It's all I got," Eric responded, shrugging.

Jennifer placed the police lights on her dashboard as Eric screeched out of the driveway. "Get some back-up," Eric ordered, spinning the steering wheel aggressively.

Her phone was out before Jennifer could think, but it rested solidly in her hand, refusing to be dialed.

"Call them!" Eric shouted.

"I...I don't think I should."

"What!?"

"Look, it may sound crazy, but there is...It's possible that the force has been compromised."

"What the hell does that mean!?"

"There might be some sympathetic agents on the force."

"Sympathetic to what?"

"Excel!"

In any other case, Eric would have slammed on the brakes, but his mother's safety depended on speed. "How do you know?" he asked instead, stomping on the gas.

"Some of the paperwork looks sketchy."

"You looked at paperwork? After you shot down my theory?"

Jen held out her hand, mimicking a gun to Eric's head. "That doesn't mean you were right. Only I was curious."

"Right," Eric responded.

It was early enough in the morning that there was little traffic. Red lights were suggestions, not laws. During long strips of straight roadways, Eric maxed out the speedometer. He was about to call his mother back, but then he worried that she had not silenced her phone. He should have told her to put her phone on vibrate! Was he willing to take the chance that she did anyway?

The lights of the sleeping city flashed past them, and for some reason, he thought of his mother taking him to church, a massive cathedral in the center of the city, with buttresses that soared upwards in white shoots. Glimmering stained glass laid red, blue, and gold swaths across the pews, making Eric think thenceforth that if there were a God, he was hidden somewhere in the colors of the world. His father used to smack him in the back of the head when he and Daimon would catch giggling fits. "Show respect," he would say quietly.

"I go in the front door," Jennifer commanded. "You cover the back where the deck is." She had not had time to prepare herself in their house, so she was strapping into Kevlar now. "Stay near nonflammables. They use some sort of incendiaries that we have yet to identify." After she was fully equipped, she dialed her cell phone.

"I thought you said the force was compromised." Eric said.

"I'm calling the hospital. An ambulance can be brought in more anonymously. The lights will spook the perps, and I won’t run the risk of alerting any Excel sympathizers who might be tending police scanners."

Jen made up a story regarding getting stuck under a sink and confirmed the necessity of immediate medical care. The paramedics would arrive a few minutes after Eric and Jennifer.

Eric did not bother being quiet crashing through Marilyn Camano's yard, though, inexplicably, he turned off the headlights as he pulled in. A dark grey Hummer was parked near the front door. Eric assumed it was Excel's vehicle. Jennifer's inspection yielded no other information; the vehicle was empty. The intruders must have made it inside the house. Marilyn's home was far enough from the urban New Purley that it was unlikely that anyone driving past suspected foul play. The driver was overconfident.

That cockiness made Eric want to piss on the Hummer's door handles. If only he had time.

Eric raced to the backyard while Jennifer placed her back against the blue-bell vinyl siding beside the front door. A quick glance through the door’s window proved that it was clear to enter. Silently, Jennifer slipped into the house, gun at the ready. A single light dimly illuminated the kitchen table with a yellowish glow. Eric had instructed his mother to hide in the basement. Is that where they would be? Moving slowly, Jennifer listened intently to the house, hoping for any hint at the invasion. Suddenly, a voice echoed from the far hallway: "It's all here," it said, apparently oblivious to their presence.

Jennifer crouched beneath the kitchen table, gun raised toward the hallway. She heard some shuffling, like the rearrangement of paper; then, obscured, someone said, "What about Red? Is this okay?"

Jennifer retracted her gun and crouched lower against the nearest cabinet, curious about the conversation and hoping it would produce some usable information.

"Our orders stand. The house is empty. No casualties."

Breathing out in desperation, Jennifer considered her possibilities. Excel obviously did not think that Marilyn was still inside, so her safety was priority. Excel was known to use explosives to destroy property. If Jennifer did not act, it was possible that they would destroy the building with Marilyn inside. As far as Jennifer knew, the group had never killed a civilian. Injuries in previous attacks had seemed to be unintentional, even when the police were involved. The presence of another person might halt any property damage.

"New Purley police!" Jennifer shouted, standing at attention and aiming her gun at the hallway. "Exit the room with your hands above your heads and weapons on the floor!"

Silence followed. Jennifer assumed the criminals were whispering about what to do. She gambled a quick look to the glass door leading to the back porch. Outside, she could see Eric's silhouette poised near the steps. It nodded at her in support. Despite her training and work in the field, she could not help but feel that she was out of her depth. Drunken barflies and domestic abusers were one thing. Domestic terrorists were quite another. Especially when she could not rely on her own police force to help.

Just then, two people emerged from one of the bedrooms. Jen deduced from their posture and height that they were both men. There were not many other clues; both wore black ski masks with the Excel logo stitched on the forehead: an "X" overlapped with an "L." They both also wore black jackets with strange metallic shoulder pads. Apparently, these terrorists were not earning converts through fashion. Weren't they hot in those things?

"You're making a mistake, lady," one of them said, definitely male. "We're not here to hurt anyone."

"Good," Jen replied, "That'll make your arrest go swimmingly. On the ground, stomach-first. Eat the carpet and put your hands on your head."

The two began conversing quietly. Jennifer could not make out their words.

"Now!" Jennifer demanded, preparing herself for a warning shot.

Suddenly, one of the men flung papers into the air, partially obscuring Jennifer's vision. She aimed at his last location, keeping her gun low to take out a leg. The blast was shatteringly loud, almost masking the shriek of pain from one of the terrorists. Unfortunately, the other man was uninjured and burst through the precipitating papers at a full sprint. Jennifer had enough time to fire one shot before being tackled. The man let out a grunt, but not a shout. Did Jennifer miss when she fired the second time? Both she and the man tumbled back into the kitchen island, breaking one of the chairs before sliding across the table’s surface. The island's edge cracked Jennifer's tailbone causing her to yelp in pain, but her adrenaline and training took over. Using the remaining inertia, Jennifer kicked upward, catapulting the man off the table, across the floor, and upside-down into the far cabinets behind her.

Growling through the pain, Jennifer picked herself up from the table. She could hear the other man breathing heavily near her. It was at this moment that she realized she had dropped her gun. Anticipating a blow, she lifted her forearm. Papers were continuing to fall like massive snowflakes, and a shadow eclipsed one of the lights. She heard a crack, which was confusing, considering there was no resulting pain in her arm. The shadow disappeared, and behind it was Eric, following through with his swing. He had knocked the man across the head with his bat.

"Now what do you have to say about my Slugger?" Eric bragged. Helping her up, he readied himself for another altercation.

The man in the kitchen was scrambling to his feet and heading toward the door. Eric flung his bat at the man, smacking him in the lower back. Despite this, the man only stumbled and managed to burst out the door.

"Stay in here!" Jennifer commanded Eric, following the man outside.

Eric returned his attention to the first man he hit, but he was no longer on the floor. Shattering glass announced that he was escaping out the back, the same way Eric had entered. Knocking out remaining glass shards with his elbows, Eric jumped out onto the back deck and chased the weaving silhouette to the corner of the house, where the Hummer sat.

Jennifer was standing at the front door, motionless and aiming her gun at her target, whose hand was in the air and holding what looked like a snow globe. Something about Jennifer's decision to halt her pursuit made Eric stop as well. The person Eric had been chasing took position next to his partner.

Everything was frozen: Jennifer and Eric against the house and Excel against the Hummer.

"Put the globe down!" Jennifer yelled, obviously referring to the object in the man's hand. She had planned on putting a bullet in the Hummer's tires, but her strategy was trashed once Excel raised that globe. Stupid! she cursed at herself. She should have blown the tires before entering the house.

"What is that?" Eric asked from the corner, only a few yards from her.

"Incendiary," she replied. A bomb.

They were at a stalemate, then. The one holding the bomb leaned his head to the other, apparently whispering something to him. The other then slowly backed away, working his way around the vehicle until he came to the driver’s side door. As if to remind Jennifer of the imminent threat, the standing man wiggled the ball, light from the home's motion sensor reflecting off its glassy surface. The man closest to Eric opened the Hummer door and got in.

"They're going to get away!" Eric said, finding it increasingly difficult to remain immobile.

"I will open fire!" Jennifer yelled at the men.

The armed man twitched his head. "You so much as toss that gun at us," he warned, "and I'll blow the entire house." Eric did not recognize the voice, but it was gruff, like the tenor of a middle-aged man, and there was no accent from what Eric could tell. This surprised him for some reason. It was not until recently that he assumed Excel consisted of some foreign threat.

"The memos are inside. You wouldn't destroy what you came here to get," Jennifer countered.

"Who said we came to preserve anything?"

Jennifer was silent. It was true; if the paperwork linked the Moralist Party to Excel, then they would probably be satisfied with its destruction. Could she aim and fire fast enough to hit the man's hand? Would the explosive detonate if it fell to the ground? Could she take a chance at missing with Marilyn still inside?

Marilyn.

Excel.

"Wait!" Jennifer demanded. "There is still someone inside!"

"Jen, what are you doing!?" Eric asked, flabbergasted.

"There is an innocent inside!" Jen repeated, ignoring Eric for the moment.

The man's eyes squinted from within the window of his dark hood; perhaps he was considering how plausible this was. "The house is empty," he eventually blurted. "There was nobody in there."

Jennifer looked at Eric, imploring him to elaborate. Eric shook his head aggressively. Why should he give the location of his own mother to some terrorists? How would that keep her safe? Furious, Eric stood his ground, silently.

Sighing, Jen returned her gaze to the man. "She's hiding in the basement. We called her on our way here."

"Stop it!" Eric demanded.

"Trust me!" she replied, as if to Eric and the men, keeping her eye on the aggressor. "You do not want blood on your hands!"

It certainly seemed to Eric that the man's posture changed. He looked conflicted. He also was not looking at him. Eric noticed that the man in the driver's seat was also looking away. Considering a stealthy take-down, Eric slowly began moving his right foot forward, but then a quiet, high pitched sound reached his ears. Following the highway into the distance, his eyes caught the flashing of red and blue lights. The ambulance.

Excel noticed it too. The man holding the ball turned to look, giving Jennifer the advantage she needed. She pulled the trigger and the bullet popped across the man's arm. Seeing his chance as well, Eric sprinted to the driver's side door, yanked it open, and grabbed the man at the wheel.

Suddenly a blast of light and sound shattered the windshield and kicked Eric and his prey through the air. Searing heat flashed around him as he fell, and the earth knocked the breath out of his lungs. Air whipped around him, keeping him tumbling and skidding across the ground. He thought for a moment that he saw the Hummer bounce backward, but the world was spinning so quickly that he could not be certain of it. Shards of debris pelted his face, some bruising, others painfully lacerating his skin. Instinctively, he raised his arms to shield his face, and he could hear the tapping of hail on a tarp. Then, even that sound disappeared, and a single, high-pitched note screamed in his ears, swallowing all other noise.

Fighting unconsciousness, Eric forced himself to stand. The shrill, enveloping note coming from his ears disoriented him, and the sudden change in his surroundings confused him. Tiny bonfires lit up the area like hundreds of solar powered landscaping lights. Strangely, the fire around him kept its distance, like it was afraid of him.

A massive shape was moving away, and it took him a few seconds to realize that it was the Hummer. He tried to shout at it, but forming words felt like an insuperable task. Instead, he clattered his way toward his childhood home, which was ablaze with fire. He did not see Jennifer; the area around the front door was barren, aside from the flames.

The blue and red lights he had seen earlier were slashing across his vision. The paramedics must have pulled into the driveway, obliviously ignoring Excel's vehicle as it peeled away. The unexpected whiff of burnt siding and wood entered his lungs, and his vision vibrated. Then, all was calm and black.

Next Chapter: Chapter 5