Posted by nigel1 on June 20, 2002 at 12:15:29:
"Now, Chrissie," he began, again, but she raised her arm suddenly and fired a wild, one-handed shot. He heard the bullet whizz past his left ear. There was nothing he could do but scramble back to the roof peak, hoping to throw himself across and sprawl on the other side before she fired again. And even before he reached that paltry safety, she'd fired another round, hitting the roof this time, where the bullet made a furious racket, striking the galvanized tin at such a low angle. It must have ricocheted or disintegrated. Then he was across, clinging to the peak with one hand to keep his momentum from sliding him down the other side. Sprawled on the burning tin, panting, feeling himself baking and blistering on the arms and hands and cheek where he pressed them down, he stole a look behind him. By God, he was just as exposed here as he was on the other side! Somehow, that hadn't occurred to him. And there was Chrissie again, walking around the house, looking up at him. She was using both hands now, supporting the carbine with both hands. She never did much shooting before, but he'd taught her a few things, and he was sure she'd get it right, from having watched him and Buzz. She was a smart girl. "Chrissie! Chrissie," he shouted, "You stop that! Stop it right now!" But she just looked at him, coldly, before raising the carbine to her shoulder, squinching her eyes to shoot. So he hopped across the roof peak again. She seemed not to notice that her target wasn't there anymore, firing three shots fast: BLAM BLAM BLAM, two of which spanged against the roof. A spray of debris plumed behind him as he went over. Well, that's a good girl, he thought, gasping for breath. Close your eyes and jerk that trigger. You'll never get me that way. All he had to do was keep jumping until she ran out of ammo, or came to her senses, or until somebody came along to help him. One option he considered was to run along the length of the roof and jump. If he came down right, he could get a flying start and start dodging behind his outbuildings, and behind trees, until he reached a little draw where he could keep low and run all the way to the adjacent property line. But if he miscalculated he'd break his leg and she'd kill him for sure. And he had to know exactly where she was down there. Oh God, there she was again, aiming at him! She must have run! Sobbing, he hurled himself over the peak, hearing her shots, feeling something stinging his legs. He slid halfway down the other side, moaning. I'm hit, he thought. She got me. But he wasn't ready to die yet. He wasn't hurt that bad yet-- probably just bullet fragments. He got to his feet and hustled breathlessly up. He grabbed for the thudding and throbbing air-conditioner, searching for his balance, but didn't find it. As he fell, sprawling face down just short of safety, a volley of slugs ripped over his head and the roof peak ripped upward in a spray of lead. "Don't shoot me! Don't shoot me," he screamed. "For the luva God don't kill your old man!" He was breathing so hard, his throat felt like it was torn open. She'd stayed on the other side, waiting for him to pop over, and if he hadn't lost his footing he'd be a goner. But he concluded he'd be dead soon anyway. He didn't know how much longer he'd be able to chase around the searing roof, dodging bullets. His legs hurt him. His pants were soaked with blood and sweat. More than that, as he realized he'd pissed himself. His blood left rusty smears on the scalding metal. A thin stream of fluid watery red fluid ran out behind him, into a tin runnel, where flys and gnats were feasting. And he was thirsty. He was so thirsty it made him dizzy. It would be hours before the sun set. He could feel it, cooking his back through his workshirt. The air-conditioner wobbled and warbled, shrieking now, for some reason. The bearings were dry, or had gotten water into them. He thought of that water, cool and a bit rusty, flecked with bits of straw and paint chips. He needed to get ready to jump. He kept his neck craned and and swiveling, his eyes moving, waiting for the first flash of Chrissie's blonde head, which would be his signal to scramble for the only safety available. When he did, if he made it, he vowed to get close enough to the air-conditioner to be able to reach quickly in, through the open side, and scoop up a handful of cool water, to splash across his mouth. If he had the time he'd grab another handful and splash it on his head. He didn't want to die before he'd done that. He waited. He waited and watched while his eyes burned and his neck tortured him. His face felt swollen and his eyelids seemed to be puffy-- they were starting to restrict his vision. But she could come at him from any direction, stealthily, and no sooner in sight than aiming at him while he struggled to pry his flesh from the griddle. He'd be dead before he had his legs under him. Given the angle, he'd take a round between his legs, maybe up his ass even. Christ! His wife was dead, and he was going to join her. It was going to be one of those sickening murders you read about in the paper, and wonder how the hell something like that could happen. Maybe there'd be a picture of his dead body draped in a sheet on the lawn. But it was awful quiet all of a sudden. Except for that air-conditioner, now screeching and squawking, with a smell of burning coming off it, or was that his own skin? He heard something go pop underneath him, sorta muffled but still fairly loud, and he turned in the direction of the noise to see a puckered hole in the tin, jagged edges toward the sky. Fuck! She was in the attic! Shooting through the roof! He rolled, not knowing whether he was rolling in the right direction or not, twisting himself down and toward the ladder, thinking this was his break, this was his chance! But he had too much momentum, and his hands were too slick and too sweaty. He couldn't stop himself. As he pitched off the roof his head twisted up, toward the sun-- it was blinding!
Strange, strange, case, Dr. Poberly thought. Only one "survivor", if you could call him that, and he seemed locked in perpetual REM sleep. The doctor pulled up Mo's eyelid again, shining bright light into it. The globe twisted constantly, rolling up, and down, and all around. Pupillary reflex was normal, brain scans were highly abnormal. As for the rest of that extended family, all were found dead in their beds, already somewhat decomposed. Mo's parents, his wife, his daughter Chrissie, her brother, Mo's brother, Mo's sister-- all dead. All dead in that little farmhouse, except Mo, and he might as well be dead. Colonel Dutt, standing in his precise military uniform on the opposite side of Mo's hospital bed, cleared his throat. He said "The investigation will be ongoing, I'm sure, but the folks from the Proving Grounds have pretty much drawn their conclusion. And I have no apologies to offer for our intervention. You were exchanging emails about this case with a number of private labs. It was just a matter of time before Ultra-Predator gave us the alert." Dr. Poberly shuddered. It was a revelation to him, the full extent and power of military intelligence surveilance, apparently augmented by a highly sophisticated AI program. The facts in the case, transmitted in emails, plus mention of the pulsing and throbbing air-cooler, giving the sheriff's officer's and EMT personnel violent headaches as soon as they entered the farmhouse, apparently were enough to trigger a full military takeover of the crime scene. Colonel Dutt continued. "We are getting outstanding cooperation from everyone involved in this tragic event. We believe we can count on all concerned to maintain secrecy."
"That's for sure," Dr. Poberly said. "I don't think anyone would believe us anyway." He shook his head. "So, in effect, we've got a whole family caught in some kind of subsonic standing wave, somehow triggered by that-- evaporative air cooler?"
"That's it," the colonel said, nodding. "You remember the case of that Russian Cosmonaut a few years ago?"
"I saw something on TV about it, yes," Dr. Poberly said. "Vibrations on his spaceship turned him into a jellyfish, didn't it? Do they still keep him in that fishtank?"
The colonel smiled. "That's not strictly true. You know the media, always exaggerating. He came back THINKING he was a jellyfish. If he'd been exposed to those vibrations any longer, he would have been as dead as this guy's family. Details are classified but certain subsonic vibrations disorder the human brain severely, ultimatley creating the chronic REM state we see here, with complete immobilization of the subject." The colonel clearly felt self-important. Dr. Poberly felt a mixture of fascination and disgust. "But continued exposure emmulsifies the brain tissue and death results."
Dr. Poberly glanced at Mo. His eyelids were shut but you could see the motion, ongoing underneath. "So you guys are taking charge of him."
"We must, doctor. It is essential, for national defense reasons, to study this syndrome, so we can learn to help the next cosmonaut or astronaut who might be exposed to these vibrations." Yeah, Dr. Poberly thought, and think of what a great anti-personnel weapon you might be able to get out of this, or brainwashing device! But he kept his thoughts to himself. He sighed. "Don't you wonder, colonel, what might be going through this poor guy's brain? I hope to God, that if he has to spend the rest of whatever's left of his life dreaming, the dreams are pleasant ones."
The colonel looked gravely at Dr. Poberly. "We can't really know, but I agree with you-- I hope he isn't suffering."
They both looked down at Mo Daly, a man in never-ending REM sleep.