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Prelude: Collier, Georgia

July Third was a very busy day for Bobby Carlson. Bobby had to set the fireworks displays in place and he had to triple check every fuse, every electronic detonator, and every stand before lunch. Bobby’d been setting up the fireworks for the Collier, Georgia Fourth of July bash every year for the last seventeen years straight. It would have been twenty-five straight, but the year he had his appendix out, the city’d had to hire professionals instead of Bobby. Everyone still claimed that Bobby’s were better than the pro’s, and that was a big source of pride for him.

Bobby hopped in his rowboat with the practiced ease of a longtime fisherman, and rowed slowly out to the buoys he set in the center of Oldman’s Lake every year. No speedboats were allowed in the lake, nor had they been since Jeffey Wilkes got his head smashed into jelly by old man Carnes, back in ‘73. Carnes was pickled so badly that he never even realized he’d pulped Jeffey’s skull, didn’t believe he had either, until they pointed to the patch of bloodied scalp painted to the front of his Waterhawk.

Bobby liked the lake just fine without the roar of engines and the stench of burnt diesel fuel in the air; the land was plenty polluted enough on its own without adding the filth to the waters, thanks just the same.

Robert Jonathan Carlson grew up in Collier, and he planned to die there, certain that no other place was quite as fine. Oh, the place had its ups and downs, and these days there seemed to be more downs than ups, but at least there was still a sense of community in Collier, a sense of family and belonging. Collier took care of its own, like when Mable Cradsworth had broken her hip falling from her stepladder while trying to pick apples. Did she have to worry about the state or federal government paying for her mistakes, like they all seemed to in the big city? No sir. Her whole block chipped in, taking turns caring for her, making sure her eight cats were fed—it’d only been eight cats then, but these days it was closer to thirty, the damn cats were going at it like bunnies and every time you turned around there seemed to be another litter ready for passing out to friends and family—Collier took care of her own, and that was really the way everyone preferred it, especially Bobby.

Bobby double checked the fireworks packages, the ones his drunken fool nephew Artie would be handling, satisfied himself that everything was fine, and headed on his way back to the other buoy of fireworks. The gentle rocking of the waves was a lovely feeling; like being cradled in the arms of some magnificent mother who cared for her own. Like being held by Collier.

The sun was too damn hot, and the humidity was nearing the level where it made his chest work like a bellows to gulp air, but that was still fine; as long as Collier was the place, the weather mattered little. He wiped his brow with a withered forearm that had seen the summers come and go in Collier for over fifty of the last sixty years. He noticed the speckled brown spots on his arms were coming in closer together this year. With all the gloom and doom talk on the radio, he wondered how much longer before the doctor told him he had to stay out of the sun or worry about skin cancer. He shunted the thought aside, forcing himself to think of cheerier things, like tomorrow’s fireworks display which was, he was certain, going to be the best ever.

He thought of Marion, his wife of forty years, and was saddened as always that she couldn’t be with him on this occasion. Marion died of bone cancer five years past, writhing in pain at the end and begging the Lord above for the mercy of death. She suffered more than any person was meant to suffer, and she died without even her dignity left intact. Her thick hair became pale wisps towards the end, her heavyset body metamorphosed into a skeletal frame with little but withered flesh to hold all that he loved together. The doctors’ tubes and pills kept her going for a while, allowed him extra time to make absolutely certain that she knew the depths of his love; not that she ever really doubted, but he needed to know that she understood. In the end he was glad to see her go because her suffering was done, she could once again know peace. Still, he missed her deeply everyday, and more so when the night came to his king-sized bed and he rested alone on the right hand side, leaving the left for his Marion.

He forced the thoughts away, knowing that he and Marion would be together within a few more years. He triple-checked the connections one last time and slowly rowed back toward the pier, a smile on his face that was part pride and part bittersweet memories. While it’s true that Fourth of July was the last one Bobby Carlson ever did the fireworks, everyone had to agree it was also the most memorable.

Durango Military Installation,
Sector 17, Arizona: July Fourth

Colonel Mark Anderson was not a happy man. The last four days had been spent either in his apartment when he could escape from the pressures in the command center, or in his office. The majority of that time was spent in communication with various people he only knew by codenames. In less than three hours all of the years spent preparing for Project: Onyx would either bear fruition, or prove to a large number of critics that the money could have been better spent elsewhere. Thirty-seven years worth of funding and training, well over one billion dollars in funding siphoned away from every possible section of the United States Government and the last twelve years of his life would either be a minor investment with much more to come, or would prove once and for all that the U.S. was pursuing a pipe dream. Anderson had a headache the size of Texas, and no amount of aspirin seemed capable of mending the problem.

Anderson ran a hand through his silvering crew cut hair and tried to will his headache away. The pounding in his skull had grown harsher over the last few hours, and he was beginning to wonder if he would ever get rid of the vise-grip that had forced itself over his temples and mercilessly constricted. The tension was understandable enough. He was at the threshold of greatness, and the next few days would make all the difference in the world. There was no doubt in his mind that failure in his task would lead to his being buried alive by the people who knew what Project: Onyx was all about, and there would be absolutely nothing that he could do about the situation. Even thinking about the circumstances on a conscious level was enough to start his stomach acids rebelling, start his body breaking into a cold sweat, the sort that positively stinks of fear. Everyone in Sector 17 was suffering from the same symptoms. Everyone knew what was on the line.

But in all honesty, they didn’t know the possible repercussions as well as he did.

When his phone rang the noise was enough to make him jump in his seat, a luxury he only allowed when he was alone, much like the thick sweat that built on his brow; no sign of weakness was ever allowed in front of the troops, but here, in his office and alone, he could permit the reaction to occur. He let the shrill buzzer drive spikes into his skull for another three rings before he finally answered the phone.

“Anderson.”

“Mark, it’s Steve. We have a problem.”

“Talk to me.” Major Steve Hawthorne was not a man to mince words. While they were often together in easier times, when it came to business Steve had no time for anything but the task at hand. That was the primary reason he’d managed to remain Mark Anderson’s second in command for the last ten years.

“The Target is already here, three days ahead of schedule.”

“What? You’ve got to be kidding me, we’ve been tracking the damned thing for two weeks, it can’t be here already!” Colonel Mark Anderson felt his stomach turn to ice for a moment, and then melt into a burning pool of lead. No one was fully prepared, the stations were all manned, but the orders had not yet been sent out to the numerous bases that they should ignore any Bogeys coming their way. “This is bull shit, Steve. Absolute bull shit!”

“Yes, sir, it is. But there’s nothing to be done about it. The target is here and it’s moving fast. If we want to net this bitch it’s going to have to be now.” For the first time in their long association, Anderson heard a note of panic in Steve Hawthorne ‘s voice. The cold, efficient voice he’d grown to depend on was shaking, ever so faintly, but shaking just the same.

“Get it done, screw the countdown and get it started. Send the message to all concerned bases and list it Priority Five. If any news of this leaks I want the heads of whoever is responsible. Is that clear, Major?” Now that the worst was starting to happen, Anderson felt a flood of calm moving through his body. His headache faded instantly, followed by the burning in his stomach. He felt alive, invigorated and ready for action.

“Sir, yes sir.” With the harsh tones from Anderson, Hawthorne ‘s voice grew calmer, steadier. Anderson understood why: The burden was no longer his alone.

“‘I’ll be in Ops in three minutes, brief me when I get there.” Anderson slammed the phone into its cradle, grabbing his jacket at the same time. The corridors were empty of any other soul, and the only sounds were the muted buzz of the station’s alarm and the sharp, measured slaps of his shoes striking the concrete floor beneath his feet. But in his mind, the sounds were much louder, they were the sounds of gunfire and fiery explosions; deep inside, below the calm that surrounded him, Anderson was already running through every possible scenario for how this day would finish. It was the Fourth of July. Colonel Mark Anderson, commander of one of the top five best hidden government agencies in the United States of America, had no doubts that the fireworks were about to start.

The Operations Center was filled with nervous people, all of them watching the same screen. A satellite set in orbit twelve years earlier beamed a direct, tight, signal to the base, and everyone there watched the information that the Onyx V could offer up. The grids laid out over the computer image of the United States were small, covering only one hundred square miles each. In one section, directly over a substantial stretch of desert inhabited only by animals and plants, the grids were enlarged, literally dwarfing the rest of the map. A tight V formation of jets moved slowly across the digital map, and they moved in close pursuit of a single object that dwarfed them all.

Colonel Mark Anderson watched the symbols move, and felt in his bones that something was wrong. The fucking Bogey was toying with them.

Onyx V had spotted the craft four weeks ago, literally remaining stationary in the shadow of the moon. For four weeks, Anderson and his crew watched the disc-shaped object, trying to make out details on something that simply should not have been. Four days ago, the damned thing moved. One second it was where it had been all along, and the next it was slipping out of the view of Onyx’s sensors. Four days ago, Onyx had once again spotted the shape, this time on the other side of the moon, moving very slowly and all but drifting in space. Computers that would have shamed any mainframe sold on the market carefully calculated its every move, calibrating and readjusting its estimates faster than even the creators of the Onyx V and its base computer could have imagined.

Anderson knew where the little circle was going before whatever might be piloting the thing knew where it was going. As a test once, Anderson had ordered the satellite’s human operators to aim at New York City with the array of sensitive equipment. He’d decided to see what Onyx could really do. Onyx transmitted pictures back to the station that were beyond belief. From a distance twice again as far away as the moon, the satellite successfully transmitted photos of a cafe during lunch hour. The images were clear enough to allow identification of virtually every item on the diners’ plates, and precise enough to allow an accurate count of the number of hairs on each of their heads. Anderson was surprised by the clarity, but he shouldn’t have been. He’d seen the craft the sensor designs had come from, and he had no doubt that the originals had done an even better job.

Anderson focused his thoughts back on the task at hand, scolding himself for letting his mind wander. Not much had changed on the giant screen, the ship was still moving smoothly across the screen, with a series of arrows following close behind. The only difference was that the enlarged squares had changed, indicating a different section of the continent, towards the East of where it had been seconds before. Again he suffered that flash of dread, that burning, falling sensation in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know yet what would go wrong, but he knew with a dreadful, sick certainty that all hell was about to break loose.

Transcript of Radio Transmission-- Sector 17 and Onyx V flight wing-- 07-04-95 21: 43 Hours Eastern Standard Time--Extremely confidential

Onyx: Black Leader this is Onyx One, is the Target Black in sight?
Black Leader: That’s affirmative, Onyx. Jesus, what a sight. I never imagined it would be so big.
Onyx: Orders are as follows: Pursue Target Black for observational purposes. Do not, I repeat, do not attack unless there is no other course of action available, do you copy?
Black Leader: Affirmative Onyx.
Onyx: Additional orders are as follows: Black Wing is to maintain radio silence with all bases, military and other, with the exception of Onyx V. Do you copy?
Black Leader: Affirmative, Onyx. Wait a minute, something... Sweet Jesus! Did you see that? Sonuvabitch! Uh, Onyx V. Target Black has just accelerated, moving away from us like we were standing still. Orders?
Onyx: Pursue to the best of your ability. Do not let Target Black out of your sight.
Black Leader: Affirmative.
Onyx: Black Leader, this is Colonel Mark Anderson. If Black Target proves impossible to follow, you are to bring the target down, do you copy?
Black Leader: Affirmative, Colonel. Uh, Sir?
Onyx: What is it, Captain?
Black Leader: Sir, I don’t know if that’s possible, Sir. This thing is huge.

Anderson watched the map, knowing without a doubt that there was just no way for the Black Wing Squadron to match pace with the target. The damned thing was moving away from the jets at speeds that just shouldn’t have been possible. Whatever was propelling the Bogey was far beyond anything that the U.S. had, even with the projects they didn’t want to mention. He’d never seen anything cross the map at speeds anywhere near what Target Black was reaching, nothing except a few missiles at any rate.

Without warning, even as he was preparing to issue the command to fire missiles, Anderson saw the disc symbol on the large screen connected to Onyx V, veer sharply to the South. He felt his stomach do a few fast spins on an imaginary axis as the shape literally flickered across the Southern states, moving at speeds that were damned impossible. As far as he knew any craft moving anywhere near that speed would leave a friction trail of epic proportions. He cringed inwardly as the disk suddenly veered again, moving with amazing precision. The enlarged squares of the grid-map were now separated by most of the south eastern states; Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama all blurred past, a kaleidoscopic flash of grid squares blasting to increased magnification and then dropping to their original size at a pace that the naked eye could not hope to match.

Over Georgia the disk ripped across the sky and then disappeared, dropping from sight and leaving a confused computer system unsure what to do about the enlarged map section. After a second the grid square vanished and took with it all of Mark Anderson’s hopes for a quick retrieval. Twenty-five years of military training had become instinct somewhere along the way; he barked orders to scramble the retrieval team in Florida and the one north of Atlanta while his mind still refused to consciously acknowledge what had happened seconds before.

Already, Onyx V was making calculations, pinpointing the exact spot where the ship must have gone down. Anderson watched the targeting lines move from various spots, narrowing down on a square before finally magnifying the grid for better detail. The lines converged and pointed to a spot on the map, a tiny town that was hardly worth noticing. Mark Anderson shivered inside, even as he gave commands and moved towards the airfield to oversee the deployment of jets. His would not leave for almost six hours, a preposterous amount of wasted time in his eyes. Still, there were details to handle, last minute arrangements to take care of. Colonel Mark Anderson prayed with all of his heart that the town of Collier, Georgia had somehow missed the spectacle, but knew where it counts that they must have seen at least something of the crash or landing, whichever was the case.

He had his orders, and he would follow them, even if everyone in Collier ended up in prisons or coffins before he was done with the task ahead. But he would not like it, no sir, not one damned bit. He had no idea, none what so ever, of just what the good people of Collier had just seen. He tried to prepare for any event, but what he saw when he arrived was worse than he could have ever dreamed.

Collier, Georgia: July Fourth

The night was only beginning; the fireworks were flashing above the lake and everyone was enjoying them as best they could. Mosquitoes swarmed through the humid night air, finding new targets and generally annoying everyone that they fed on. Beer and cola were being consumed from picnic baskets laden down with food that no one would eat: there was always so much food in the baskets and most of it normally became fodder for the ants and other scavenging insects. In the long set of docks, where thirty or so boats ranging from rowboats to yachts rested, more people sat in their leisure craft and enjoyed the gentle lulling motions of the waves

Out on Oldman’s Lake, Bobby Carlson was having the time of his life, lighting fuses and listening to the cheers from the shore. He could just see Frank Osborn staring up at the sky, a cigarette burning in the corner of his mouth; Frank always pissed and moaned about the Fourth of July, but Bobby knew well enough that the man was having fun. Frank grew up on Bobby’s street, and had always been one to pretend that he was less impressed or pleased than everyone else. The time for the grand finale was finally approaching and that was a good thing, because Bobby didn’t quite feel his best. He suspected he’d maybe pushed himself a little too hard, maybe even started the old ticker arguing about going to sleep without his consent again. Just as soon as the last fuse was lit he’d have to take a nitroglycerin tablet and hope for the best.

A barrage of pyrotechnic explosions rocketed through the night sky and, for a few seconds, the night was as bright as the noonday sun, but far more colorful. Popping, hissing, shrieking explosions rocked the heavens and, in the lake below, Bobby Carlson reached for his bottle of heart pills. Under the tongue with practiced ease and he could already feel the pressure in his chest easing slightly. He often wondered if the pill really worked that quickly or if he just imagined the change taking place. Damn, but that was a fine feeling either way, give or take the taste in his mouth and the burning under his tongue.

Bobby let his eyes move toward the distant, fading constellations of his own creation, and reached for the final fuse. The night had been perfect as far as the fireworks were concerned. Artie had managed to stay sober all the way through the evening, and Bobby was almost ready to believe the boy had finally wised up enough to stay away from the hootch. Time would tell. He signaled Artie and his nephew nodded back, reaching for the final fuse on his end.

The waves were gentle on the lake, and that was good too. Bobby lit his fuse, and Artie lit the last in his selection as well. Both of them waited, breathing a sigh of relief that all had gone smoothly, and watched the skies above as the fuses counted down their last seconds.

Artie noticed it first, the faint burning luminescence coming towards them at unnatural speed. It looked almost like lightning running across the sky instead of falling towards the ground, but the color was all wrong, and it wasn’t quite fast enough to be electricity in motion. Then it shifted directions even as Artie was calling to his uncle. It started coming straight towards the lake.

Artie opened his mouth to call his Uncle Bobby’s name at the same time that the fireworks escaped from their resting places and screamed an arc into the heavens. Everywhere around the two men, missiles flared into colorful trails of light, smoke and thunder as they did what they were created to do. If Bobby Carlson heard his nephew’s words, he never gave a sign. He too looked towards the sky, and he too saw the object coming down. Eyes watched from all around them, staring towards the stars and waiting with thinning patience to be dazzled. Bobby looked away from the darkness above for only a few seconds, long enough to finally see that his nephew was trying to be heard over the sound of the grand finale. Bobby saw the fear in his eyes and nodded back; he had seen the falling thing too.

As the final volley of explosions ignited the air above the lake, people on the shore stood cheering, amazed by the spectacle. A few, and only a few, noticed that something was amiss, realized that at least one of the streaks of light in the air was moving not upwards, but towards the lake with deliberate fury. Worse still, it was growing bigger.

Then the sound hit: a screaming banshee wail that seemed to switch frequencies as quickly as it reached one. The electrically enhanced sounds of the Collier High School Marching Band on the P.A. system were replaced by white noise caused by whatever energies danced around the falling object. High, keening screams and low mournful howls filled the air. Everyone stopped cheering as the vibrations falling towards the ground started teeth rattling in their sockets. Artie dove from his raft as the light grew closer, making for the shore on limbs powered by adrenaline. On the beach the people were either running away from the water or covering their ears and falling to the ground. The dogs in Collier tried to match the pitch of the howls from above with minimal success.

Old Bobby Carlson knew long before the light hit the lake that he was a dead man. He felt the vibrations in his bones, saw the light plummeting towards him with all the intimacy of a new lover. “I’ll be home to you soon, Marion. You wait there for me.” The light filled the sky and before the impact occurred only seconds later, Bobby Carlson felt his heart stop beating, felt his brain start to boil in his skull, along with his eyes... eyes that had seen and loved Collier for most of his life.

The sounds reached their highest level and even those who tried to run were forced to fall and cover their ears, the noise became everything for them, a primal scream threatening to break their bodies and their minds. Amilee Foster, only eight months old, and momentarily out of reach of her parents cried futilely, calling for help against the sound, the doctors would later say it was a miracle her ear drums hadn’t ruptured.

Marty Wander and Mike Summers were the only two people actually looking up towards the sky to see what was making the sound. What they saw, even though it only lasted a second, was enough to make them believe in God as all of the teachings in Sunday school could never hope to make them believe. Green lightning lashed from some dark object, danced in a corona around the edges and roared across the dark thing’s surface in random, furious arcs. The sight alone was impressive, but the scope of the thing was too much to fully comprehend. It seemed to fill the entire sky already, but even as they watched it expanded, growing larger as it fell towards the waters of Lake Oldman.

Retinal burns made new homes in their eyes, and both screamed out in pain as the object hit the surface of the lake. Beside them, Billy and Andy Newsome screamed as well. Tom Thornton simply curled into a ball and prayed to God Almighty with the passion of a condemned man.

The reaction was instantaneous and the impact rocked all of Collier. On the beach and in the grass covered picnic grounds, people were lifted into the air and dropped back to the ground. The earth moved in a wave of protest, pushing the Independence Day celebrants as easily as a hurricane moves leaves. Arthur McMurphy managed to break his right arm and dislocate his left knee when he fell. The burger and Coca-Cola he carried were hopelessly crushed into his Braves’ T-shirt.

Several cars were thrown into the air as well. The entire Habersham family, down for the weekend and visiting Mrs. Habersham’s mother, were crushed along with their Mercedes Benz station wagon when Doug Martin’s Ford Ranger landed atop their car. The windows in Milo Fitzwater’s Ace Hardware exploded from their frames and shivered across the ground. Several other storefronts followed the new trend.

But the worst of the damage happened at the lake. The surface of Oldman’s Lake swallowed the fiery object and immediately gagged. The water went to the boiling point and beyond, converted into steam in seconds. Artie Carlson lived through the collision only though the dumbest of luck. The first scalding wave threw him from the water and onto the shore with second and third degree burns across most of his legs and back. Had he worn shorts as he originally intended, his legs would have boiled like stewing beef. As it was they were protected by denim and only burned severely. Bobby Carlson was crushed under the thing that struck the water, forced deep into the silt and baked by the heat of the craft. The fish in the lake disappeared in the roiling foam, reappearing seconds later as boiled meat and flash-fried scales. The boats along the pier were lifted and shattered by the waves, and several even caught fire from the heat wave produced by the fallen star. The long docks exploded into flames. The old, weathered wood of the boat landings took only a few seconds to reach the burning point. The boats themselves were thrown high on the first of the massive waves, and those who were unfortunate enough to be standing on the vessels were hurled into the boiling waters or launched ashore. Only two people lived through the experience; Mark Walton and Mary Chambers. Both were burned over most of their bodies. Neither would ever be the same. The Lobster Hut, the only seafood restaurant in the entire town, had the misfortune of being too close to the water. The propane tanks stored outside of the actual building heated to the explosion point and took most of the restaurant along for the ride. Thirty-five people inside the building, or standing too near, were erased from the history books in a massive, blinding flash that still failed to compete with the actual landing site.

Fully four feet of the sand at the shoreline fused together and took with it fifteen people, four picnic baskets, seven coolers and three dogs. Pieces of all would be found melted into the glass over the next few days. Most of the people were spared the worst of the impact, only being bruised and battered. The sound that had driven people to their knees and then to the ground, saved them from the worst of the heat blast. Amilee Foster, uncovered save by a blanket, suffered blistering burns on one half of her face and her mother, finally able to think again after the sensory overload, suffered second and third degree burns on her arms, chest and the top of her head. Altogether, one hundred and fifty-seven people died in the accident, and one hundred and seventy-two were injured.

The flames which managed to maintain their hold on the boats along the docks soon added a new measure of noise to the cacophony of screaming people and boiling water. Propane tanks within the vessels soon felt a heat they could not withstand and exploded in brilliant fireballs of shrapnel. Those boats left unscathed by the initial wave of heat soon began to burn despite their luck. Along the shore a fire built that defied the waters of Lake Oldman.

Frank Osborn placed a call to the Parrish County Hospital and demanded they send as many ambulances as they could, his hair was singed and a few minor burns kissed his face and hands, but otherwise Frank was fine, if severely rattled. Uncertain as to just what had occurred, Frank explained that the fireworks had gone bad and “lots of people are screaming like it’s the end of the world.” It may as well have been the end of the world that day, Collier would never be the same. The aliens had landed, and landed poorly at best.

Copyright © by James A. Moore 2001

 

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