Authors: Ken Goddard
Bauer then thumbed a couple of buttons on the phone, listened for a response, and then seemed to engage in an increasingly animated conversation for a good three minutes before he finally closed the cell phone, slipped it back into his jacket pocket and walked back to Cellar’s booth.
“We’ve got to continue this conversation outside, not in here,” he said, motioning with his head for Cellars to get up.
“Okay, I’m fine with that,” he said agreeably, standing up and pulling on his jacket while his frontal lobes suddenly started churning furiously.
Now he’s acting absolutely freaked; voice is all stressed out. All because of that phone call? What the hell —?
“Go ahead,” Bauer said, motioning Cellars to lead the way out the door.
“Listen, Tom, I —”
“Get going,” Bauer ordered, using the palm of his left hand to guide Cellars through the door.
Then, when both men were through the door, Cellars suddenly felt himself being propelled sharply forward by that same guiding hand.
“Hey!”
He was still staggering forward, trying to regain his balance, when he heard Bauer yell — in a demanding and even more frightened voice:
“Stop right there, and put your hands over your head! You’re under arrest!”
Stunned, Cellars turned around slowly with his hands light over his head, and stared incredulously at Bauer, who now had a semiautomatic pistol clenched in both hands and aimed directly at his head.
“But —”
“Do exactly what I tell you, Cellars — whoever or whatever you are — or I swear to God, I’ll drop you right where you stand!”
CHAPTER 13
The storm had increased in intensity by the time Cellars and Bauer walked outside, the burst of icy wind rattling the restaurant’s wooden shutters loudly.
“I don’t understand,” Cellars argued, wincing against the bitter cold wind and swirling clumps of snow as he walked towards a dark blue OSP patrol car parked next to his military ambulance in the restaurant’s parking lot with his hands clasped behind his head, “why would you want to arrest me if you really think I’m one of you guys?”
“Shut up,” Bauer ordered, staying a good eight feet back and keeping his pistol centered on a spot between Cellars’ shoulder blades.
“But —”
“Look, Cellars, I really
don’t
know who or what you are; but something I do know is that you and Talbert and I are going to —”
“OH, MY GOD, LOOK, THE GUY IN THE ARMY UNIFORM — IT’S THAT BASTARD CELLARS, RIGHT THERE, IN THE PARKING LOT!”
Cellars snapped his head up in the direction of the screaming voice just as an old and battered blue Ford pickup came to a brake-screeching and slush-flinging stop on the adjacent road, paused, then made a tire-squealing left turn — going up and over the curb in a pair of brain-rattling bounces — heading straight for Cellars.
“Hey, what the hell —?!” Cellars started to yell.
But then, a half-second later, when he realized the truck wasn’t going to stop, he instinctively pulled his hands away from the back of his head, took a lunging step forward, leaped up … and then used his hands and the momentum of his twisting body to tumble wildly up and over the hood of the oncoming truck.
Bauer had a half-second more to react … but he wasted it making a ‘no-don’t-shoot’ decision, then had no time at all to do anything other try to dive sideways out of the truck’s path.
He was a quarter of a second too late, the rusted bumper of the careening truck impacting his outstretched legs just below knee level and flinging him sideways across the snow-and-slush-covered asphalt.
Sprawled across the still-accelerating truck’s ice-and-snow-splattered front windshield, Cellars was vaguely aware that Bauer had been hit; but had no idea that he was blocking the forward view of the truck’s driver … until the truck slammed head-on into the side of a sixteen-year-old Toyota Camry, the only other car in the parking lot.
The impact sent Cellars spinning back across the slippery rusted hood of the truck, and then bouncing off the rear trunk of the Camry before landing half-stunned onto the slush-filled parking lot.
Cellars was still trying to regain his sense of awareness when he heard a door being flung open, and then felt himself being grabbed upright by a big man with a huge bushy brown beard beneath his widened eyes, and a very strong and colorfully-tattooed left arm. The man’s right arm — looking equally strong and colorful — held an aluminum baseball bat up high in a clearly threatening manner.
“GIVE IT TO ME, YOU HEATHEN!” the bat-wielding man screamed into Cellars’ face.
“Give you — what?” Cellars rasped uncertainly.
“THE EVIDENCE, GOD DAMN YOU TO HELL! GIVE ME THE EVIDENCE THAT BELLRINGER TOLD EVERYONE YOU HAVE IN YOUR POSSESSION — THAT’S WHAT HE SAID! I HEARD HIM SAY IT!”
Evidence? Bellringer?
Cellars blinked, trying desperately to clear his head so he could make some sense out of what the almost-frothing man was screaming when another voice — the truck driver, on the opposite side of the truck, sounding far more frightened and even panicked than his partner — registered in his dazed mind.
“Oh, my God, Jesse, I hit that cop! Jesus, I didn’t mean to ... I was just trying to hit Cellars, knock him on the ground, so you could —”
“Hey, man, don’t worry about it … not your fault … you couldn’t stop and the cop didn’t get out of the way in time,” the man with the bushy beard yelled into the storm, turning his head to first gaze indifferently down at the seemingly-lifeless Bauer sprawled a few feet away in the blowing snow, and then over to his friend.
“But —”
“Hey, I’m telling you, man, don’t worry about it! We’re doing the right thing here!
The
right thing! Now hurry up and call the Reverend, let him know everything’s okay, ‘cause
we
found Cellars and
we’ve
got him in custody!”
“Okay, okay, just a second —”
“Jesus,” the bush bearded man raved on, his eyes glistening wildly, “we’re gonna be hero’s. The Reverend’ll probably make us deacons … guardians of the ark at the very least. Yeah, man, guardians … can you imagine that? I’m gonna have
that
tattooed —”
The Reverend?
Cellars blinked again, and saw that the driver on the other side of the truck was holding a pump shotgun in one hand, but was talking excitedly now into a cell phone. He faintly heard the name ‘Slogaan.’
Slogaan?
The
Reverend Slogaan. The fruitcake with the legion of fire-breathing fanatics who’d do just about anything to —
Oh shit.
Working off of pure rage and instinct, Cellars drove his right knee up into the bearded man’s crotch as hard as he could … heard him scream in an amazingly high-pitched voice ... slammed his right forearm into the side of the man’s neck … followed through with a slashing right elbow to his left temple … ripped the bat out of the man’s loosening hand … spun away from the collapsing figure … swung the bat hard, aiming at the fullest part of the bushy beard … heard it connect solidly against the man’s lower jaw … heard another — harshly-metallic ratcheting — sound … and then away twisted to the ground just as the driver fired the pump shotgun at his head.
Cellars heard the metallic ratcheting sound again ...
Reloading!
… and started to dive against the truck for protection.
No! Other way!
But then, an instant later, he found himself scrambling forward instead for the Sig Sauer semiautomatic pistol lying in the snow next to Bauer’s still and outstretched right hand as his frontal lobes and feral instincts took over.
He got to the pistol and spun sideways in the direction of the truck as a second round of shot ripped into the snow-covered asphalt less than a foot from his head … then whirled around face down in the snow … extended the familiar-feeling pistol outward in both hands … and fired four rounds at the pair of boots he could see from underneath the truck.
He heard the driver’s high-pitched screaming, then the sound of something heavy and metallic clattering against much thinner sheet metal.
Lunging to his feet, Cellars levered himself up and into the Ford’s truck bed … rolled over to the far side … came up on his knees with Bauer’s pistol pointing down at thrashing and screaming figure … saw that the pump shotgun was now lying in the snow by the Camry, several feet away and out of the driver’s reach … jumped down out of the truck bed, landing in a bent-kneed position next to him … yanked his head up by the hair … and slammed the butt of the pistol as hard as he could into a spot just behind his jaw and below his ear.
The screaming and thrashing stopped as the man went limp.
Cellars paused for a second to catch his breath, aware only then that his ears were ringing sharply …
Gotta start wearing ear plugs!
… and thus barely heard the voice coming out of the cell phone lying beside the truck. Curious, he brought the small phone up against his ear.
“— going on out there? Answer me, goddamn it! Who’s shooting?”
“Nobody’s shooting,” Cellars snarled into the phone. “They’re all done with that.”
“Who’s this?” the voice demanded.
“Cellars.”
He really couldn’t tell, because his ears were ringing so badly, but it sounded to Cellars as if the man behind the voice had suddenly sucked in a huge lungful of air.
“You —” the voice finally rasped.
“Yeah, me,” Cellars growled. “You have a problem with that?”
“You’re going to burn —”
“I don’t think so,” Cellars interrupted. “But the next one of your lunatic legion idiots who comes after me with a baseball bat or shotgun or anything else that even remotely resembles a weapon is
definitely
going to end up with a bullet between his fanatical eyes, as opposed to just a serious headache or a bruised shin. Are we clear about that? No more screwing around. You guys keep up this little rabid mob act of yours, and I’m going to start going lethal on your asses. I’ve got enough problems in life right now; I don‘t need to be fending off a bunch of religious fruitcakes every time I turn around.”
“You’re … evil,” the voice on the other end of the line rasped hoarsely.
“No, I’m just a guy trying to protect himself from a bunch of crazies all riled up by a supposed Reverend with shit for brains. I’m sure the judge will understand that, and rule accordingly.”
“Where are you, right now, Cellars?” The man’s deep voice dripped with revulsion. “You can’t hide from us. We know you’re in Jasper Springs somewhere. My people will find you … and when they do, Hellfire shall raise forth above you. Mark my words. Hellfire!”
“Oh, and speaking of shit-for-brains,” Cellars said, ignoring the question and related threat, “kindly tell your ‘people’ that — contrary to what that idiot Ace Bellringer said on the radio a few hours ago — I do
not
have any evidence of extraterrestrial contact, either in my possession or in some secret hiding place. Repeat, do not.”
“You … don’t?”
“No, I don’t,” Cellars said emphatically.
“You are lying.” A deep echoing declaration from ‘up on high’.
“Why the hell would I do that? Personally, I really don’t give a shit if extraterrestrials are wandering around this planet, as long as they’re leaving people alone. But if I had proof they
were
here, I’d be happy to share it with you and the rest of the world, no problem.”
“Oh, god … no … you must never do
that
,” Slogaan said in a suddenly hushed and seemingly shocked voice.
“Why not? Evidence is evidence … it is what it is. What do you characters want to do, hide something like that away from the world? Stick your pointy little heads in the sand and pretend they don’t exist?”
Silence on the other end of the phone.
Cellars started to say something else, but then he remembered Bauer.
“Idiots,” he muttered into the cell phone, then closed it shut and flung it as far across the parking lot as he could.
* * *
Sergeant Tom Bauer was still unconscious, lying face down in the snow, when Cellars got back to him; but his pulse was steady and there were no apparent head wounds … all of which he took as positive signs.
“Okay, sergeant, buddy or not, let’s see if we can get you some medical attention.”
Working as carefully as he could, Cellars disconnected the patrol sergeant’s radio and extended microphone from his belt and shirt collar, respectively … turned the radio on … started to press the mike button … and then hesitated.
Whoever Bauer talked with on the phone — apparently some guy named Talbert — must have ordered him to put me under arrest. So who’s Talbert? The watch commander? Must be at least a lieutenant or captain to give him direct orders. In any case, probably somebody who isn’t going to change his mind about me, just because I’m being a Good Samaritan.
Cellars didn’t like the way all of that sounded.
So I call the cops, they show up, see all the carnage, and I’m back in custody again. But if I don’t call —
Then he remembered.
Oh shit, the waitress. She must have heard the shots. Probably called the cops already … gotta do something about that, fast!
He fumbled with the radio mike again, trying to remember what Bauer’s voice had sounded like.