 |
| The Follower Ignores the Signs - 31"x40" Inkjet Print |
Little Cory stared down at the hard plastic dinosaurs beneath him. They looked back without emotion. The collection had become extensive and the characters were very well-rounded for a five-year-old’s stage plays. The tyrannosaurus had just learned to cross the blanket ravine in search of food. The stegosaurus recently defeated a pack of raptors which were squatting in his under-bed lair. Even the pterodactyls had finally learned to fly with the help of some yarn. But something had happened and Cory wasn’t sure what.
As far as he could tell, nothing had changed about the toys. Their strange painted eyes were as dead as usual, but he could still imagine them looking up in terror at his looming shadow. Their collective number had reached two-dozen individual figures and they were all present and accounted for. Cory let no one touch the figures; his friends were too careless with his subjects and his parents never asked to see them. Cory never realized the change in his interaction with the dinosaurs. At first he played – T-Rex would hunt down triceratops and their landscape was rather bleak, but it evolved and he no longer played. Instead he watched. The lives of these toys became intuitive and if anyone cared to notice they would have been impressed with the intricate relationships between the figures, a level not naturally possessed by a five year old. His watching became passive and the story evolved.
What had happened? Cory wondered. His shadow moved over the figures as he looked at each piece.
The change was not something you could see, not something Cory could see. He was simply bored with them. He was done. Their drama had played out and it was time to end.
Their demise crept over him, even if he couldn’t understand why he could feel that a drastic change was necessary. He stood and padded around the room idly looking, but for what he did not know. His sock-clad feet carried him out into the hall. The living room. The front door. The garden.
On hands and knees Cory searched through the dirt. His tiny fingers pushed aside grass and bugs and woodchips before he found what had compelled him so.
He considered the stone and its smooth surface. He needed both hands to wrench it from the earth’s grasp and cradled it like a bowling ball as he carried it back inside.
In his room, Cory rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, suddenly less sure this was the right choice.
Could he undo this if he went forward? The consequences of his actions weren’t easily grasped under normal circumstances; five-year-olds might be able to understand that turning a screw would make it go down, but the exact ramifications were a little too abstract and the brain-function wasn’t yet there.
But it didn’t matter, he hefted the stone like a shot-put and hurled it down on the unsuspecting plastic dinos beneath.
The phone rang.
“Hi darling. Lunch time aleady?”
Cory’s mother didn’t hear the crash from his room.
“Yeah, okay baby. Which news? …Okay! Okay! Stop yel-“
The broadcaster’s terrifi ed voice came in over their surround sound.
“-has simply remained stationary as National Guard and Coast Guard continue to arrive at Liberty Island and shuttle tourists off via ferry.”
“John, what is that?” Cory forgot his toys and peered into the living room. His mother stared transfixed into the TV, phone loosely held near her head. She was in her Time to Clean clothes that Cory associated with his being forced to do chores.
“John?”
The broadcaster continued: “For those of you just joining, this is Harris Fields for NBC New York 4 coming to you live from our broadcast helicopter, hovering in New York Harbor. National Security forces and press have surrounded Liberty Island as we watch and wait. A … what I can only describe as a “figure” has appeared at the base of the statue – witnesses saying it has been present since early this morning…”
“John!” Cory’s mother was losing color, already pale skin turning to stretched sheets of milk, “Don’t scare me like that… I don’t know - you could be right there in it.”
Cory felt disquieted by his mother’s voice, so he returned to his room. The plastic corpses were cast across the floor like a frog’s insides after a journey through lawnmower blades. The pieces – to a less familiar eye – would be unidentifiable bits of green, yellow and brown. Cory surveyed the destruction and was satisfied. The stone dented the floorboards but it was a necessary sacrifice. Time to start over.
Muffled words would drift through his door, “… you… No!... of there…”
The broadcaster talked back: “we’re being told… the area… -tional Guard…”
Maybe Cory would ask dad for new toys when he got home.
Chapter 1 – Arrival
Dusk had shown its orange face to the Upper Bay, the Statue of Liberty’s long shadow draped across the island like a rook dominating its corner in Chess.
The Guard brought in spots and started flipping them on one by one. It helped that Lady Liberty already demanded a small corona on any given New York evening; there would be no darkness there tonight. The press had been fully cleared off the island, but they kept up pressure with boats and choppers. The last civilian ferry made it across the water two hours before.
The statue has a live-streaming camera on her crown. It faces down her front like a tall guy trying to sneak a peek at some cleavage. Thousands of New Yorkers and even more Americans at large had their computers, phones and tablets displaying the same screen as they watched a thirty foot monster lay waste to dozens of men and women on Liberty Island. The camera was hundreds of feet in the air, but the images it displayed were crystal clear, outlined by countless lights beneath. The collective silence across the harbor – in apartments, penthouses, ghettoes and subways – was one of complete dread, peppered with rage. The husbands and wives of those soldiers, the mothers and fathers who sat down at their desktops and gaped at the flying bullets and exploding bodies were paralyzed by the massacre in the harbor.
They had all heard the words: “…claims this island of Manhattan, it is no longer the territory of Man.” But no one understood why or how or where this monster came from. The few who could rip their eyes from the screen would call relatives and text friends from places near and far. Boyfriends in LA and children in Houston, most of them didn’t respond because they had crises of their own.
Henry Pierce watched his two desktop monitors – the one on the left showing the LIVE Torch Cam from Liberty Island and the one on the right his basic cable news in the City of Angels – with growing pleasure.
The pier in Santa Monica had a similar being standing near the shore, still draped in daylight and setting the boardwalk on fire. The banner across the bottom of the screen told him that the islands in Lake Erie were under siege, parts of London, Tokyo and Dubai were meeting similar fates. Small bits of the world were being taken from humans and it looked like our reaction time had been a bit slow.
Click. CNN. The President says he’s mobilizing troops to New York and LA. That’s a shame. Pierce read on with dismay: “… our nation has come under attack from an unknown foe and will be met with the force and strength of Amer-…” Boring. A video clip on the same article showed past footage of remote controlled drones commencing air strikes and speculated on their presence amongst civilians.
“So, I bet the police won’t be looking for you much longer; they’ve got their hands full.” Pierce let the monitors go on amusing themselves and turned back to his guest.
The girl – tied to a wooden chair, bolted to the ground – looked on with her own brand of confusion and disappointment. Pierce had been letting her watch the news stories unfold as the legend of her kidnapping grew: Hannah Walker, daughter of multi-millionaire industrialist Bernard Walker vanished from her high school Wednesday afternoon. With signs of foul-play littered around her abandoned Civic, police investigators and hired detectives have begun a city-wide manhunt for the sixteen-year old heiress. The effect of twenty-four-hour news coverage was the saturation of small details and their subsequent exaggeration and transformation into myth. Hannah got to sit back and absorb the grey-haired newscasters tell her how the police found her diary detailing her depression and thoughts of suicide (planted), how her friends thought she had an older boyfriend (lies) and how she may have been experimenting with designer drugs (… maybe that was true).
Each story made her seem more desperate, more likely a runaway even with evidence to the contrary. More and more people were convinced she was some snobby rich girl who just wanted to piss off daddy, slowly media covered died off and she got only a few mentions a day. It took only three weeks for her to go from precious victim of deranged kidnapper to filthy slut who deserved it.
But then this happened. The appearance and attacks from these interlopers demanded immediate and full media attention. National coverage of Hannah Walker would vanish over-night and local fascination would fade soon after. Of course it was disappointing to Pierce who hadn’t fully convinced Hannah that she was forgotten, but it certainly had an amusement level all on its own. Pierce lived near the 405 between LA and Santa Monica, he could probably get in his car and be at the scene of the devastation within ten minutes, but Hannah had to be fed soon and watching from a distance was okay.
“Thoughts?” He removed the cotton gag he kept fed in her mouth.
She tried to spit on him, but Pierce kept her fairly dehydrated and all she managed was a light misting.
“Now, now, be nice.”
“I hope they come here and kill you.”
The embers still glowed in this one. Pierce was technically known as a serial kidnapper, but since his victims came from such diverse backgrounds there was little or no speculation that they were connected. Girls he took usually broke down quickly, they saw their family and friends turn on them and just wanted it all to end, which Pierce was more than happy to do, but Ms. Walker here looked like she still had hope. “What do you see in this?”
He offered her a squirt of water from his Camelbak water bottle.
“They’re coming for you. All the rest of it is just for show. These monsters were sent by God.” Oh, come on. Only in the last few days did she decide that God would save her. There was no God, at least not in Pierce’s basement.
“But will they save you? Or will they be too late?”
“Doesn’t matter. You get your eternal punishment whether I live or die.” The monitors dimmed because of Pierce’s inactivity. “I will watch you burn from the right hand of Christ.” It was weird because this girl didn’t seem the God-fearing type. She did drugs, messed around with boys and was overall the prime example of a contemporary teenager – an archetype which thoroughly bored Pierce. That was the whole point of this exercise after all, wasn’t it? To show how fragile such an easy life is to shatter and how pointless it all becomes.
Upstairs, Pierce’s house phone rang.
“Excuse me.” He stuffed the gag back in her mouth and hustled to beat the four ring time limit.
“Hello?” Who was calling him at a time like this? Sure there was a world-shattering event happening, but really…
“This is an emergency broadcast recorded message. Citizens in your area are being asked to evacuate to your nearest shelter. Your nearest shelter is… the Los Angeles Convention Cent-“ Pierce hung up the phone.
“Waaaay too busy for that, sorry telephone robot.”
*******
Texts from Manhattan, New York:
Hey, can you see the island from your roof?
-Ya, I found my telescope. where are you?
OMW, I shouldn’t have to tell you, but traffic is fucking fucked
-You think the Cash Cab is running?
Lol yeah someone is getting trivia’d right now, question for our contestant?
-Uh, ya, ‘what the fuck, bro? get out of my cab’
LOL.
-‘RED LIGHT CHALLENGE!!! Name all the places you’ve shit yourself in the last two hours!’
Oh, Ben Bailey. How I loved thee.
-Holy shit, stuff – STUFF – is happening. I’m calling you.
Texts and Voicemail from Kelley’s Island, Lake Erie; Cleveland:
Hey Mom, you didn’t answer your phone so I hope you read ths or get my voicemail. W/e. Some other residents and me have driven into the east quarry and are just hiding out. The rest of teh island is burning and most of the police are here wi-
(continued) -th us, they look just as scared. Someone brought a bottle of wine and is now completely drunk. Im scared. I just wnted to see what you knew from the outside and tell you I love you. I know we’ve been a little fucked up and being apar-
(continued) –t didn’t help, but I still love you. Call me.
(Later) “Krista, Krista! Call me back immediately. I don’t know when your text was from, I can’t…I can’t figure it out. The news said the Coast Guard was moving to the island, but they spend all their time on New York and Los Angeles and those stupid, stupid places. Baby, oh c’mon call me back. Please. I love you.
Texts from Ota, Japan:
(Translated from Japanese) Send me that picture again, I accidentally deleted it.
-the one of the titan?
Titan, whatever, yeah. I want to show it to my brother.
-(Picture, from the vantage point of a high window showing a three-story tall figure wading through burning cars and debris on a well-lit street. Covered in flowing fabric and metal plates, the giant is splattered with dark stains) Here ya go.
It still blows my mind, you’ve gotten out, right?
-Ya, we’re clear. We got to the train before they stopped running.
What time is this photo from?
-14, a few hours ago. Why?
Just trying to imagine what the hospital looks like.
Texts from Houston, Texas:
Are you at the airport yet?
-No, they won’t let us pass Tiki Island. We’re stuck on the causeway
Okay, try and find a way around. Get back to me within the hour.
(later) – We left the van, took one camera and made it past the barriers on foot. Keep an eye on your computer for our footage.
It’s about time, I almost sent out another team.
-Have confidence, Tom. We’ve got this.
********
KHOU’s monitor bank was sprawled out in front of Tom like a sci-fi monster with fourteen glowing faces. Each screen showed various footage and camera angles of the anchors as they discussed – obviously – the impending doom of mankind, or whatever. Tom tapped his pen rapidly on the one blank screen to his left, a black and glossy depths that should contain award-winning images of destruction, death and heroism on the part of a reporter and his cameraman. Rafe Dillinger and his chubby cameraman Terry have had all fucking day to get across a single bridge and onto Galveston Island where one of the interlopers has made camp, so to speak.
The last text from Rafe was at 7:33, forty minutes earlier and Tom – not normally the sentimental type – was starting to worry about them. He didn’t expect those two idiots to do anything particularly courageous, but they’d surprised him in the past. The entire broadcast evening – interrupting all regular programs and commercials and everything was coverage of this debacle. The Houston HQ for KHOU was a decent distance from the island and – even after requests to evacuate – the bare bones for operating the station remained: two anchorpeople, one meteorologist, two cameramen and Tom – single handedly filling the roles of three technicians. Hard work is in the dictionary as a picture of these six people with a footnote mentioning Rafe and Terry. Of course, KHOU – the Houston CBS affiliate – was telling viewers to evacuate and where their shelters were, but they all decided together that they were safe enough and they were responsible for manning the station in a time of crisis.
The grey-haired former jock on screen at present was babbling about the extent of the damage thus far, according to a National Guard Intelligence source, and pontificating idly about the origin point of the –what he calls – “invaders.”
It’s probably a good word for it, but Tom felt it was a bit terrifying (not that these circumstances aren’t terrifying).
“- claims that these invaders are visitors from another plan-“
Wow. Aliens. Tom wanted to just shut the whole thing down. The anchorman (broadcast name “James Wulff”) was pulling from his imagination and his imagination alone about these creatures being aliens. The station had no speculative influx so far, their only information came from their military source and he was confidential.
The abyssal depths of the screen filled with an orange glow. “-we ready? C’mon I don’t want-“
“Jimmy, JIMMY!” Tom blared into his microphone – patched directly into “James Wulff’s” ear bud, “we’ve got incoming footage, get ready.”
“Ladies and gentlemen I’m being told that our field correspondent - Rafe Dillinger – is filming live from Galveston Island. Rafe are you there?”
Tom hit one of a million buttons and the broadcast image flipped to Rafe standing in front of a dark body of water with a rolling wave of flame on the landmass across.
“Yes, James, we have bypassed military blockades and managed to travel on foot across the darkened roads of Galveston Island. We’re here near Jones Park and behind me is the Scholes International Airport as it burns. The interloper has arrived here on Galveston Island and claimed it as its own, from what we’ve seen the military presence here on the island is extremely heavy and –“
Automatic weapon fire popped in the audio of the footage. Rafe and cameraman dropped to their hands and knees, yelling expletives which Tom will try to snag with a bleep. The viewers would see the camera eat dirt and grass and hold for a moment before rising back up, zooming in on the rising cinders in the distance.
“Rafe? Rafe are you there?”
“We’re here, gunfire has erupted behind us. We need to get closer. We’ll keep you updated.” And the screen went dark.
“Powerful, frightening imagery. We’ll return in a moment, please stand-by for a list of emergency shelters and facilities in the Houston area.” Wulff held a somber face as the cameraman counted down from two. One. He gave the O.K. signal. “What the fuck, Tom? I swear it feels like my fucking ear is bleeding!”
