Chapter 7 - Sand Dream (Patreon)

The smoker fell backward in slow motion. His body was still whole – the only difference from before was the lack of light in his eyes and…

Cass could feel a surge of horrible acidic bile surge from the depths of her stomach, up her throat, and into her mouth. The smoker’s face was mostly intact. Mostly. Just to the left of his right eye, in the space between that eye and his ear, there was nothing but shattered bone and clumps of gore from what used to be there. Her aim was true. There was no doubt about it. She’d hit him in the head well enough for it to be a kill shot – the faint sight of brain matter leaking from the side of the man’s head told her that.

The more collected part of her mind, the one that usually chimed in with a nasty voice telling her to do the mean thing instead of the nice thing, snapped out that no kidding, of course a .357 slug would do something like that. Sure the diameter of the bullet wouldn’t even be half an inch around, but a bullet was a bullet. If you shoot a guy in the face, the face isn't exactly going to explode, but it wouldn't exactly be left fully intact either. That was just the way it worked.

The distance had barely been five feet. At that range, it was hard to miss, even something as small of a target as the human head. She’d killed a man. Blown a chunk off the side of his head.

Cass had really just killed another human being.

Acid stung her throat. The bile from her stomach surged, and then with gritted teeth, Cass forced it back down.

Mark shouted something, but all words were lost in Cass’s ears. It was like they were both muffled and blurring together at the same time. The words, that is. It created a sort of effect where Cass could hear him, but her mind couldn’t quite piece together what he meant. In fact it all blurred together. The rapid 'cracking' of gunfire behind Cass's back. The click of… metal? Yes. It had to be metal. The clink of metal coming from her right, before Mark’s bulky form filled her vision, frantically shaking her with one arm while the other carefully held a thin, almost humanoid package underneath itself.

“Ca-“

Cass blinked, her mind stumbling around in confusion trying to piece together Mark’s words.

“Cass! We gotta go!”

One more rough shake more akin to a dog tossing around a chew toy was enough to snap Cass out of the metal fuzz she’d found herself in. With great effort she tore her eyes away from the dead man on the floor, away from the blood splattered across the walls of the station, all to focus as much as she could on Mark and the partially open door in front of them. She could think about what she’d done later. The consequences. How it stuck in her mind. How the scene looked like a mad impressionist painter was given a gallon tub of red paint and told to go wild. How-

Cass’s head shook hard enough to hurt. It wasn’t her own doing, but Mark’s. Only when her eyes re-focused on his face did he stop, apparently satisfied that Cass’s mind was back in the present.

“Let’s go!”

Cass bolted out the door, sparing only a glance back to her dad and Paul, still locked in a vicious firefight against the two men near the front of the building. Then Mark’s frame filled the doorway.

“My car-“

“Do you want to go over there?" Mark interrupted Cass's spoken thoughts with an incredulous tone. His eyes were wild. Unfocused. Like the only thing keeping him going was fear and adrenaline.

Funnily enough, they had that in common right now.

No, it would be a terrible idea to go up front. She didn’t know if the grenade-chucking madman was still outside the building behind that window, or if he had moved inside. Furthermore, if there were more than three men total assaulting the station, then going that way would likely be deadly. What if there was a fourth guy sitting in the parking lot? Even if he was a getaway driver he could still be packing heat.

On the other hand, their pickings were sparse back here. It was nothing but a small back lawn, the grass freshly mowed. Then there were a few buildings, some spacious back alleys, and houses further on. Main street itself wasn’t huge. It was a few blocks long, nothing more. After that it would be good ol’ suburbia. Running for it could maybe work if Paul and her dad kept stalling those guys in the station.

Then Cass’s eyes lit up. For the briefest moments she could even understand the exact feelings a dehydrated man crawling along the desert sands would feel upon seeing an oasis. A squad car was parked in the back. The engine wasn’t running or anything. From the looks of it the vehicle was just one of the extra cars in the fleet, most likely used by one of the men off-duty for the night.

It was a bit unexpected to see it back here, but not completely out of the question – there was enough space for a car to park in the alley right past the tiny back lawn, and if an officer only needed to swing by the station to grab something from the back, this would be the most convenient place to stash their squad car real quick.

Mark’s eyes met her own. They nodded in unison, thinking the same thoughts.

“You really think so?”

“Yeah.” Cass shakily snorted. Her vague attempt at humor did not help in the slightest in banishing the glassy stare of the smoker in her mind’s eye. He was staring at her, almost accusingly. It was her fault. Her fault another living human being with hopes and dreams was dead. But what choice did Cass have? The man had a gun. He was in the process of pointing it at Mark. If she had been a second late, Mark might have been dead. “No one around town would steal a squad car. Why wouldn’t they leave the keys?”

It was exactly as predicted. As soon as Cass wrapped a hand around the handle of the driver's side door, the car popped open. Unlocked, just as she thought. The keys weren't in the ignition or even on the seat, no officer would be that lazy. But, Cass could see that the sun visor above the driver’s seat was a little bit crooked. It could mean nothing, or it could mean…

Cass carefully thumbed the hammer to her dad’s revolver out of the ready position before stowing it back away in the pocket of her pajama pants. Her other hand flipped down the sun visor. The spare keys flopped from where they were stashed on top of the visor onto the cool leather of the seat. Jackpot.

Without further ado, Cass slid into the vehicle and fired it up. The handgun was a chilly, uncomfortable lump in the pocket of her PJs. Part of the wooden handle peeked out – a simple tragedy formed by the fact that the pockets of pants made for women were always criminally small.

Meanwhile, Mark shoved something in the back seat before sliding into the passenger seat next to her. The engine of the car purred to start. Strangely, though Cass had never particularly been a car girl, that sound was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever heard. No hiccups, no coughs, it simply started like a dream. A single flex of her foot on the accelerator pedal and the squad car, its paint scratched, a bit tarnished in places, but still overall proud, roared out of the alley. Its tires squealed against the pavement as Cass yanked the wheel to the right as soon as the alleyway ended, and the street began.

In the rearview mirror she could see the police station. The solemn stone building still stood strong. If she didn’t know any better, Cass could have sworn that it was just an ordinary night. Just her and Mark, heading out late to give her dad some cheer while he burned the midnight oil on a tough case.

Then another volley of gunshots split the air and the illusion was shattered. Cass cursed under her breath and pressed the car for all the speed it had. Another shot rang out and she flinched. Looking in the rearview mirror she couldn’t see anyone following them, though… Cass squinted her eyes. There was something in the back seat. She hadn’t paid any attention at all when Mark had shoved something back there. Her mind simply couldn’t spare the effort. But now that they were well away, with the station rapidly retreating in the rearview mirror, that was no longer the case.

“Mark?”

Mark’s reply was distant, obviously still in shock over the sudden violence that had filled the night.

“Yeah?”

“Why is that in the back seat?”

He squirmed uncomfortably. “Well…”

The alien was sitting motionlessly in the back seat of the squad car, instead of being back in the holding cell like it should have been.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The white yarn of the baseball was a polished sheen under the gentle rays of the sun, basking everyone in the park under their warm radiance. The ball soared through the air. Not particularly fast. It wasn’t like this was a competition. It was just a nice game of catch after work.

Soon enough the ball landed with a satisfying thud in Henry’s outstretched glove, causing Lisa to let out a shout of praise. Again, it wasn’t a competition, but the boy was doing good. It must have been two months ago that he couldn't catch it half the time? Or was it more like five months? Some days it felt like time was flying by, like a clock strapped to the wings of an airplane.

Henry threw the ball back. Mr. Moon casually caught it in a baseball glove of his own before sending it sailing back through the lazy summer air.

Henry caught it once more, perfectly snatching the ball out of the air with the center of his glove. Mr. Moon smiled at the sight.

They were happy.

The motel phone rang. Like all motel phones, or even hotel phones, the ringtone was both shrill and immensely irritating. That was good, though. Mr. Moon’s eyes shot open in an instant to reveal a room obscured by shadows. It hadn’t even taken a full ring to wake him up, both due to the loudness of the noise and the fact that he was by training an extremely light sleeper. Nearby, the armchair rustled as Dag's attention flipped from watching the windows and door to looking at the telephone. Though several hours had passed since Mr. Moon had handed over the watch shift to Dag, the man was still as alert as ever.

Mr. Moon’s eyes slid over to look at the phone, and then to his watch. From the faint light coming in through the window courtesy of the streetlight outside, he could see it was quite early in the morning. Four in the morning, to be precise. Another ring bored into his ears with all the force of a bullet tearing through a man’s head. Then, there was silence. Mr. Moon’s right hand held the phone off the receiver and put it to his ear.

“Moon.” Mr. Sun’s voice floated out of the phone. Light flooded the tiny motel room as Dag leaned over to flick the power to the nightstand lamp. Mr. Moon made a discreet hand signal to the man, causing him to imperceptively straighten in his seat, paying rapt attention. This was it. The only reason Mr. Sun would call is if he had a lead for them.

“Present.” Mr. Moon answered back.

Mr. Sun coughed, the sound exploding out of the cheap telephone before being replaced by the faint buzz of static that was customary for this kind of device.

“Carlston, Kansas. Small town. The police station there got hit not even an hour ago. Three men armed to the teeth and looking for blood. Cop killers at that. Station’s blasting the police scanners asking for backup. Communications took the liberty of responding before the message was spread too far. If there are any good Samaritans from nearby towns that come in after hearing it, tell them the Bureau has it covered. As for the Russians, don’t expect them to be in the same AMC Hornet they used in the raid. We found it two hundred miles outside D.C., abandoned in a ditch. Highway patrol called it in a few hours ago.”

Mr. Moon’s eyes narrowed. There was no mention of their target in Mr. Sun’s report. By all accounts one could assume the incident, while tragic, was unrelated. On the other hand… well-prepared men assaulting a police station? At this time of night? On this particular day?

Mr. Moon couldn’t call it a one-hundred percent shot, but the timing of such an extraordinary event was far too suspicious. If this truly was the break they needed, they needed to capitalize on it ASAP. Even if it was a bust, it wasn't like any other leads were presenting themselves. Even with the further complication of a swapped vehicle, it was what it was.

“Understood.”

As soon as Mr. Moon voiced the affirmative, the line went dead. He tossed the handset onto the nightstand.

“Carlston, Kansas.”

Dag had already risen from the armchair during Mr. Moon’s brief conversation with Mr. Sun, throwing his jacket on and stretching his arms. Once Mr. Moon said those two words, Dag reached over to the tiny end table situated near the door. On top of the table was a map of Kansas, freshly procured from a gas station stopped at during the long drive. Completely unfolded, the map stretched to be even wider than Dag’s massive torso, obscuring both that, the man’s head, and even part of his waist.

“Carlston… Carlston… can’t say I’ve heard of it.” Dag muttered, his fingers tracing up and down the map while he searched for the town.

Mr. Moon left Dag to his search and slid his black dress shoes on. Mentally he catalogued everything they’d need. It wasn’t much. Once they knew where the town was and what highway to take, everything else was already in his car. The only thing left was to inform Steve and Ms. Miller so they could follow up according to the plan.

He unlatched the door, sliding back the chain, the bolt, and popping up the lock in the handle with his thumb. Mr. Moon slid out of the room, moving as silently as a ghost. There were a few cars still in the motel parking lot. Five in total, which was three less than he’d initially counted when they had initially stopped for the night. Two Buicks, paint worn and chipped from years of use. A Chevie pickup truck sat in the far corner of the parking lot, adjacent to a smaller Toyota car. About fifty feet down and to the left was the inconspicuous shape of the white surveillance van. Mr. Moon picked up his pace, though his steps were still almost imperceptible under the cover of the noises of the night. His back was straight, filled with purpose. If he had still been the same man as he had at the very start of his career, perhaps Mr. Moon’s hands would have even been vibrating with the adrenaline that came with extreme excitement.

He drifted past room after room, carefully eyeing the few that still had lights on. He didn’t expect anything to happen, but habit was just that – habit. Motions that had been drilled into him and Quantico and kept in place through years of experience in the field.

Eventually, he reached the dark window of the room he knew to be the one Steve and Ms. Miller were sharing. The van was parked right outside it, sitting silently in the night air. Mr. Moon shot one last glance up and down the parking lot. At four in the morning, it was devoid of life, just as it should be.

His hand rapped quietly on the window. One second passed. Two seconds passed.

“It’s Moon.” He whispered.

The window cracked open. Behind it was a slim yet athletic form, one he recognized as belonging to Steve.

“Carlston, Kansas.”

“Roger that.” Steve’s voice whispered back. Satisfied the message had been passed on, Mr. Moon ghosted away from the window. He could hear it slide shut behind him. The sound was quiet, but there was no way to completely muffle it.

Mr. Moon shot another glance up and down the parking lot, then slid his vision over the silent rooms and the glowing light of the main office. There was still a man stationed at the front desk just out of sight from the window, that he knew. But the man wasn’t paying attention. This was just another long and unfathomably boring night shift for him. Most likely he was smoking cigarette after cigarette while watching whatever station he could get on the ancient television sitting on his desk. That kind of behavior was precisely what Mr. Moon had judged him of the second he met the man.

The room where Mr. Moon had been staying cracked open. No light shone from behind the door, nor was there any noise at all made by Dag as he too slipped out into the cloak of night. There was a partially folded map clutched in the man's left hand, while the other hand was left empty, ready for action.

Mr. Moon shot a swift nod toward Dag, who casually returned it. A hint of excitement shone on Dag’s face. In all reality, Mr. Moon’s face likely bore that same emotion, at least to the extent that was professional to do so. It was understandable. After walking away from Mr. Sun’s briefing, the unsaid question had hung in the air - would they be able to find the needle that was the Russians in the haystack that was Kansas? They had their answer now.

Both men both turned in unison and walked toward Mr. Moon’s car. The hunt was on.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“-repeat, officer down. Multiple assailants considered armed and extremely dangerous. Requesting immediate assistance. Repeat, this is the Carlston precinct requesting immediate assistance!”

Jack closed his eyes as he drove along the interstate, the voices speaking from the metal box he stole from the cop car sounding like music to his ears. Carlston. Carlston. The name sounded rather mediocre. How interesting that a mediocre name had such excitement behind it. His foot flexed on the accelerator pedal. On the dashboard, though the glass was so cracked it could barely be seen through, the needle on the speedometer pushed close to two hundred miles per hour.

“What do ya’ think, Jackie boy?” A familiar man smiled at him from where he lounged in the passenger seat. The man had teeth that resembled pearls of pure white, flawless blond hair that looked like he'd just walked out of the shower, and a peach-colored cowboy hat placed at a jaunty angle on top of it all. The man had no seat belt around his waist, and his legs were placed up on the dash in a show of perfect relaxed contentment.

“Remember lad, you came out here for a bit of fun, a bit of sun, and to increase your strength.” The man reminded Jack, knocking his fist into Jack’s muscled shoulder for extra effect. “Even if this isn’t caused by those godless heathens, maybe you can squeeze a lead out of them. Carlston! I bet you and I could get up to some real good trouble there!”

Jack nodded along, smiling with glee. The dried blood coating his face like a thick layer of paint would to a wall cracked with the motion, causing several large flakes to fall onto his lap. His eyes flashed open. The scenes of the interstate filled his vision. Handfuls of cars swerving to avoid his righteous path. Good. As they should. Those too weak to contend with the might of his mechanical stallion should be pushed aside to the shoulders. Trees were like green blurs in his side windows. No sirens followed him. Not anymore.

“Trouble…” Jack’s rusty voice muttered excitedly, and then he repeated the word with such volume that the lining in the back of his throat cracked badly enough to draw blood. “TROUBLE! Heh, what fun.”

The blond man grinned, but as soon as Jack blinked, he was gone. Only one word was left hanging in the tearing wind that buffeted the sides of his truck.

“Carlston.”

On the dashboard the metal box continued to crackle with life, repeating the message over and over again. Carlston. Cop killers. A police station brazenly raided. No suspects were apprehended.

A ragged ‘thump’ of an impact made the frame of his pickup truck shudder, but Jack’s speed was not affected. Gore rapidly painted his windshield with hues of vibrant crimson, but Jack’s vision was not affected. The windshield wipers struggled to clear the mess, so Jack simply rolled down the window and stuck his head out like an excitable dog so he could see where he was going.

As he did so, part of the deer that had tried its luck in crossing the road at the wrong time flew by his ear. An organ of some sort, most likely part of a stomach or the small intestine, landed with a splat on Jack’s face. A flick of his hand was enough to send the piece of meat soaring on its merry way to hit a car behind him.  

The head of the animal poked out from the front of his truck. Its eyes were glassy, and the sheer number of organs that had flown by told Jack that the deer was definitely dead. The head had to be stuck somewhere in the metal grill guard situated at the front end of his truck. Jack cocked an ear into the air. His truck didn’t sound too much different than it usually did, so it was probably fine for now. Likely the sturdy piece of metal did its job exactly as intended – keep the grille, the radiator, and the rest of the engine safe when something hits it.

And as the gore-covered pickup truck zoomed down the interstate highway at utterly ludicrous speeds, a green sign on the wayside was left ignored: Kansas, three hundred miles.

-------

Thus a simple car wreck on Mark's part snowballs. With the conclusion of the raid, both Mr. Moon's team and Jack are now aware of the location of the Russians, and therefore also a clue to the alien. Cass survives the raid but is left with a heavy burden on her shoulders.

It was very interesting researching the info on that .357. I feel rather fortunate that I live in the era of YouTube, which has a surprising number of people testing that specific gun on ballistic gel. That means with the videos combined with manufacturer pages/gun forums, I can get a decent idea of what it would do to a person and how it would feel to shoot. Still need to get around to heading out to the range to get a feel for it myself. Just need to check with a buddy of mine to see if he owns a .357 or if it's the only boomstick he doesn't have.

I think that's all I have, so as usual huge shoutout to all you patreons generously funding my coffee habit, to the ninja editors in the comments, and all you lovely readers.

The Leaf Club: https://discord.gg/jfRn8j5GaE

Peace