The Trojan Horse

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Near Mannington, Virginia

USA, Day 48

The Rawson Family hadn’t been terrorists. They hadn’t really been militia. They’d really been nothing more than a set of loudmouths bitching about the IRA, the EPA and every other federal organisation that made it harder for them to turn a profit from their small farm. And they’d had illegal weapons, depending on what measure was used. The definition seemed to change from time to time to whatever suited the Feds best, as far as the Colonel could tell. They never seemed to have read the Constitution. The right to bear arms could not be legally infringed.

It hadn’t helped the Rawson Family. The Colonel watched from his hiding place as Betty Rawson was hauled out of her home in handcuffs and half-pushed, half-carried towards the waiting vehicles. Behind her, her youngest child was screaming in the grip of a black-suited federal officer who was clearly finding it hard to hold on to the child. On the ground, the bodies of Pat Rawson, the Patriarch of the family, and three of his sons were waiting to be taken away. They’d seen the writing on the wall the moment the Feds had arrived and put up a fight, for all the good it had done them. The Colonel doubted that any court would declare against the Feds, even though they’d killed four people. And the shootout would convince the Feds to go in hard next time.

Coming to the farm had been a risk, but it was one he had to face. He knew Blake Coleman was dead; he’d been dead long before his reanimated corpse had been used to murder dozens of innocent children, along with one of the Snakes. And yet the Colonel couldn’t escape the feeling that he bore at least partial responsibility for the crime and its aftermath. All of Coleman’s heroics in war would be forgotten in the wake of the terrible crime, a crime he had never truly forgotten. The history books would forever damn him alongside all the other terrorists who’d shown their cowardly natures by striking at unarmed and defenceless sheep. There was no way to prove otherwise. That, he was sure, was why the aliens controlling him had destroyed his body. There would be no physical evidence of what they’d done.

Carefully, he peered down at the lead Federal Agent. There seemed to be something not quite right with the man, an odd inhumanity in his face. Certainly the other Feds were giving him a wide berth, as if they didn’t trust him, or as if they were afraid of him. The Colonel had met his fair share of commanding officers who invoked fear rather than respect in their men, but this was different. He had the uneasy feeling that he was looking right at an alien-controlled pod person.

Having killed or captured the family, the Feds didn’t seem interested in actually searching the farm, or doing anything that might allow them to track down other leads. Instead, they were just waiting. A handful were smoking, while two others were leaning against the vehicles doing nothing. The Colonel couldn’t understand it. It was almost as if they were waiting for something, but what? A moment later, he saw the answer flying through the air towards the farm. The alien shuttle slowly came to a halt over the farm and lowered itself to the ground, forcing the Feds to scatter to give it plenty of room. A hatch opened and the first alien appeared, hopping neatly down to the ground.

The Colonel stared. It was the first alien he’d seen with his own eyes and he found himself absolutely fascinated. As a child, he’d once studied spiders and crustaceans, revelling in the feeling of staring at something utterly inhuman. He felt the same way now as the aliens advanced towards the farm. They moved with snake-like motions, bright red eyes flickering from left to right. The devices they carried in their hands had to be weapons. They were clearly designed for alien hands, rather than human usage, but the principle had to be the same. The Colonel smiled, despite himself. Some constants were truly universal.

The aliens stopped in front of the pod person and there was a brief exchange of words. It was impossible to lip-read at his distance, leaving the Colonel unaware of what was going on. A moment later, the pod person barked orders and the federal agents scrambled for their vehicles, the one with the child unceremoniously tipping him into the prisoner van along with his mother. The Feds departed at speed, leaving the aliens behind. Moments later, the aliens returned to their shuttle and departed. The boxy craft ascended to the heavens and vanished.

Puzzled, disturbed by a feeling he would have found it impossible to articulate, the Colonel slipped back and crawled away from the farm. The aliens had come for a purpose, but what? Why had they come to the farm? There was no reason to check up on their pod person, was there? Or did they fear that the other Feds might not obey his orders properly and wanted to check it for themselves? Or…? There was no way to know, so the Colonel put it out of his mind. At least Toby had confirmed that the FBI didn’t know about his group, so they should avoid the initial sweeps unless they found something at Coleman’s house that led them right to the Colonel. Coleman had known the dangers. His house should have been clean.

Ten minutes later, he reached the place he’d stashed the car and climbed into the front. Starting the engine, he drove down the road and into Mannington. The small town was buzzing like a nest of angry bees, with policemen trying desperately to control the crowds. Blake Coleman had been popular; not everyone believed that he’d carried out the assassination and no one was keen on the idea of federal agents running through the town. Coleman’s house had been secured by the Feds and they were going through it slowly and remorselessly. The Colonel silently congratulated himself as he drove back out of town; at least Coleman’s family were safely hidden. They’d have to find some way to get them back into the mainstream without alerting the Feds, but it should be doable with Toby’s help.

He turned the corner and almost ran right into the roadblock. Two police cars had been parked to block the road, with a pair of policemen standing by the side watching the traffic. The Colonel almost reached for his gun before realising that they shouldn’t have anything on him, at least not yet. He watched the two policemen as one of them approached the window while the other stood back and watched, one hand on his holstered gun. The Colonel lowered the window and put on his best face.

“Yes, officer?”

“I’m afraid I need to see your driving licence,” the policeman said. The Colonel nodded and produced it. Legally, they couldn’t search the vehicle without his permission, unless they had a warrant or some other evidence, but he had a feeling that legality wouldn’t be the top issue at the moment. “We’re looking for a number of escaped criminals.”

The Colonel didn’t believe a word of it. He watched with considerable alarm as the policeman checked and rechecked the driving licence and then passed it back to him without comment. Instead, the policemen stood back and waved him onwards. The Colonel allowed himself a sigh of relief as soon the roadblock was out of sight. God damn it; it was like being in Russia, another state where ordinary people couldn’t travel without being harassed by the police. He’d met enough Russians who’d fled the state to know that Communist rule hadn’t been a worker’s paradise, whatever the socialists claimed. The Russian communists happily rewrote history to ensure that their version of events remained unquestioned.

He was still fuming when he reached the farm. As he’d ordered, one of his grandsons was keeping a watch from the gate. If the Feds came to visit, there would be some warning, for all the good it would do. The Colonel harboured no illusions about their ability to fight off a direct attack from anyone with the proper training and weapons. They’d planned to cope with raiders from devastated cities in the wake of a nuclear attack, not for attacks from federal agents and aliens. Most of their supplies had been carefully hidden, but if the agents decided to search the farm thoroughly, they’d be discovered. And then the shit would really hit the fan.

Inside, he ran into Bob Packman. The former CIA agent had been monitoring the internet and television channels, trying to pull the truth from the relentless barrage of propaganda on the mainstream media. CNN and Fox, opposites in so many ways, had united to condemn the terrorist attack on the school and support any government measures designed to hunt down and eradicate the terrorists who’d launched the attack. They were both screaming about casualties among federal agents who had tried to seize illegal weapons, demanding that the government impose even more draconian legislation to hunt down the terrorists and cut off their sources of supply. The internet was more balanced, with stories about deaths caused by federal agents and a number of people who’d been effectively kidnapped, taken away without due process. And the aliens, hovering high overhead, were clearly assisting in directing the operation.

“It’s getting worse,” Packman said, without preamble. “Anyone who’s ever been on a federal shit list is going to be targeted. We always feared that the government would come after us — now, they have the excuse they need to hunt down anyone who thinks that the government doesn’t know best. The sheep will bow and scrape as always; the ones who will fight will be broken and killed. And the aliens will inherit the world.”

The Colonel nodded, hanging up his coat. If the police officers manning the roadblock had known about his connection to Coleman, he would have had to kill them both to avoid capture. And the policemen would have been simply following orders. The true genius of the alien plan was easy to see. They would turn human against human and pick up the pieces afterwards. By using the federal government as their weapon, they would destroy faith in the federal government — such as it was — and in the country’s ability to stand up for itself. The organisations that could be expected to resist the aliens would be weakened by what was, in effect, a civil war.

“Do we have anything on where they’re taking the prisoners?”

“Not yet,” Packman admitted. “The scuttlebutt online suggests that they’ve been setting up prisons — detention camps, really — in the desert, but there’s no real proof. They could be handing them over to the aliens for interrogation for all we know. I wonder if they’ve learned all they can from anal probes…”

The Colonel scowled at him. He’d never had any time for people who’d claimed to have been abducted by little gray aliens and taken onboard flying saucers. Some of the claims were clearly nonsense, while others probably originated in the victim’s subconscious. But now there were real aliens and they might well have a use for human prisoners. Convert them into pod people and put them to work. The chances were that they could interrogate their pod people, find out everything they knew, and then start rolling up their contacts. It didn’t seem fair, somehow. No other invading force had ever had such an advantage.

He winced as a nasty thought struck him. Toby was right in the heart of Washington, close to the President and the bitch who would succeed him if something happened to the President. In such a position, wouldn’t the aliens consider turning him into a pod person? And Toby knew enough to track down the Colonel’s group if the aliens ever did convert him to their side. The thought was bitterly ironic. He’d spent years cursing Toby as a traitor, only to realise that his son served in his own fashion. But now he might be turned into an involuntary traitor.

And there was nothing the Colonel could do about it.

“Or maybe they’re eating us,” Packman added. His voice was light, teasing. He didn’t understand; he hadn’t seen what the Colonel had seen. The death of America itself. “Perhaps Roast Human is a delicacy where they come from…”

“Then they might catch the common cold and drop dead,” the Colonel snarled. He wasn’t in the mood. Besides, the aliens wouldn’t have made contact if they thought there was a chance of being infected with human diseases. And they’d helped cure humans, showing off their medical science. The diseases that terrorised humanity wouldn’t hold any fears for them. “And they could probably have convinced the Chinese or the Russians to see them a few hundred thousand undesirables in exchange for technology.”

He stalked into the sitting room and sat down, reaching for a can of beer and popping it open. Mary would have disapproved of him drinking so much, but Mary was dead. The question echoed through his mind, mocking him; could the aliens have saved her life? She’d died in childbirth, but their medical science might have been able to save her. Or could they resurrect her from the grave?

The thought made him shudder. There were already too many humans who worshipped the aliens. If they actually started resurrecting the dead, they’d be taken for gods — who knew, if they could do that, they might well be gods. The temptation tore at the Colonel’s heart, before he pushed it aside, angrily. Mary’s body would have decomposed by now, leaving the brain a useless mass — and besides, Mary would have cursed him for being a fool if he sold out his country to get her back. She’d always known what was important.

He shook his head, bitterly. There was no way to get her back. He would just have to have faith that she was in the arms of Jesus, waiting for him in Heaven. One way or the other, the Colonel knew that he didn’t have much time left. His body was aching after his crawl, where once he would have crawled for miles with enemy bullets whipping through the branches over his head. The thought of growing old, of becoming senile, was terrifying. He couldn’t face it.

Susan bellowed for dinner and the Colonel stood up. Old or not, he could still fight, and he intended to fight. And if his time finally ran out, he would die in a manner that would make Mary proud. It was all he’d ever asked for from his country.

The Colonel had once heard a joke about American dinnertimes. There were three subjects that should never be discussed over dinner; politics, religion and sex. And there were three subjects that were always discussed over dinner; politics, religion and sex. The joke had gone on to claim that most fractured households came from disputes over dinner, but the Colonel hadn’t seen the joke. Most people had more important things to worry about than politics, religion and sex.

Dinner was a subdued affair. He briefly explained what he’d seen at the Rawson Farm and Packman explained what he’d seen on the internet. The official story from the Feds was that the Rawson Family had been linked to a terrorist plot against the President and vast quantities of explosives and illegal weapons had been removed from their farm. Given that he hadn’t seen the Feds bother to search the house, the Colonel suspected that some scriptwriter had simply pulled it out of his ass. Or maybe they’d conveniently assembled the evidence beforehand in some federal warehouse where they’d shown it to tame journalists.

Afterwards, he got together with a handful of the others and started outlining possible courses of action. They couldn’t allow the feds — and the pod people, and the aliens — to have it all their own way. And yet, the Colonel hesitated from the prospect of causing more human deaths. Many of the Feds would be honest men, unaware that they were actually working for the aliens. But then, if they’d gone to work destroying the Constitution — did they really deserve to survive? Making a moral choice was hard enough at the best of times, but when the economic climate was so low and jobs were scarce… who would want to lose one by standing up to his superiors?

“We have to find a way to put a spoke in their gears,” he said, finally. Bitter frustration coloured his voice. He hated feeling helpless, at the mercy of others. “There has to be some way of making them sit up and take notice that we won’t allow them to wreak havoc on innocent people.”

And slowly, very slowly, a plan started to come together in his mind.