“The what?”
“The UFOs,” repeated Phil, nodding at Rosa. “At MAC, Inc., Mailer’s got this thing about the feds saying there’s no UFOs when we all know they’re everywhere. Says it’s a secret base for a secret war and the Asians and the Germans are in on it too. They’ve got UFOs over there. Aliens too. And we’re not talking fuckin’ illegals.”
“So Mailer doesn’t want the town, he wants the UFOs?” said Nora.
“Take over the world, is what he wants,” Phil replied. “He says if he don’t fight back, the feds are gonna enslave the common man. The United Nations... the Chinese...”
Nora put her elbows on the kitchen counter, hid her head in her hands, her shoulders quaking. Tears of frustration and silent laughter sluiced down her face.
Schemers. Every goddamn one of them had a goddamn scheme. She had left Vegas to get away from the circus and here she was, back in the center ring.
“Now what, Phil?” demanded Rosa.
“Don’t know, woman. You tell me.”
Nora raised her head and wiped away the tears. She stood and kissed her aunt’s forehead. “Call everyone and tell them to keep calm. We’re having an emergency meeting.”
“Even the Witnesses?”
“Yes, even the Witnesses. They may want to... duck.” God help her. The absurdity of it all. “But first, get the sheriff out here.”
“You really want that?” Rosa asked. “Him coming out here?”
Nora nodded. “No other choice. He’s the sheriff.”
“You know he’s not a real sheriff, Nor. He’s a doctor now. Real proud of him, we are. Just deputized a few weeks while Bert’s off fishing.”
“I said call him.” She turned to Phil. “The banker lied to you. Ask the piece of shit how Mailer got there first.”
“This is war!” shouted Phil.
“No, Phil. This is a problem,” Nora countered. “The circus lion’s loose, that’s all.” She clicked Stasi to follow, then stepped over shards of glass in a puddle of booze. Grabbing her daypack, she checked for her phone, fingered two keys on the chain around her neck, and made for the door.
“Take a wig,” Rosa insisted. “Can’t go out there lookin’ like that.”
Nora snatched the long blond one from the stands by the door — seven wigs, blond on Friday — and headed out. Stuffing the wig in her pack, she pulled on the watch cap.
“Think I’ll call Fox News,” Phil muttered.
Nora followed the thrum of idling vehicles, the thwack of notices being stapled to abandoned houses. A score of militiamen in army-surplus camo, semiautomatics slung across their shoulders, huddled outside the MAC, Inc. gate amid plumes of vehicle exhaust. In their center, Beau Mailer stood ramrod straight and flapped a large sheet of paper. He jabbed a finger toward three long buildings behind MAC, Inc.’s chain-link fence. He shook the paper at the barred gate. “Those buildings over there are ours. Part of the old man’s lien. MAC, Inc. is on our land, men, and we have the right to occupy it.”
One of Mailer’s militia rattled the gate. “We’re comin’ in, fuckers!” he shouted up at the security cameras, then, grinning at the camera, he took aim and shot the invisible face watching through its lens. Everyone laughed. His eyes roved over Nora without seeing her.
She pressed herself into the rotting walls of the building. Never show your fear, pipsqueak.
Inside the fenced area, air force sirens wailed. A warehouse door rolled up. Two jeeps filled with athletic clones in black body armor drove across the tarmac, stopped a hundred feet from the security gate, and halted while the drivers waited for orders from their earphones.
Outside the gate, the pavement shuddered beneath Nora’s feet. Expecting a lumbering circus elephant, she saw instead the militia’s refurbished tank clanking toward them. The tank rammed the main gate and broke the guard bar. After two more runs, the machine ground to a halt, its elephantine trunk jammed into the chain-link fence.
“I think something’s broke, boss!” the tank driver yelled over the MAC, Inc. sirens.
A voice behind Nora startled her: “What’re you up to, ma’am?” He was young, feigning tough. Acne fighting through his downy whiskers. A pile of leaflets in one hand, a power staple gun in the other.
“Walking my dog.”
He eyed the doberman. “You local?”
She nodded.
“Then where’s this commissary place? Shit all looks alike ’round here.” He showed her one of the leaflets. “Gotta post these warnings on the commissary.”
The sirens were getting louder. Nora covered one ear and tried to think. The illegals were inside the commissary and God knew what Mailer’s militia would do to them. And it was only a matter of time before they found Phil’s munitions factory.
She pointed toward the decaying elementary school that had failed to contain her. “Down there,” she said.
A cloud of dust rose from the state highway turnoff. A large black van was headed for the MAC, Inc. compound. Morning sun ricocheted off its tinted windows as it juddered over a pothole and flew toward the main gate, toward the stalled tank, toward the men in camouflage and their assault rifles.
The van pulled to a stop. Windows rolled down. Montana’s smiling congressman rode up front. Dazed Asians sat in back. Hungover. Saki time in cowgirl land. Little sleep and no context.
“Fuckin’ chinks!” one of the militia shouted at the Japanese delegation. He raised his rifle.
Nora took out her phone and dialed Rosa. Pick up, Rosa. Pick up the goddamn phone.
“Listen up,” Nora told her. “Don’t argue. Just do it. Now, goddammit!”
Another dust spiral from the highway turnoff. A blue light revolving on a beat-up pickup, its siren whining in the wind. Fifteen minutes since Rosa had called the new volunteer sheriff, and he’d beat the record from town.
Three brown high-powered SUVs slipstreamed the sheriff: duckers ready to test their new toys on the firing range they’d rented for the day from Phil.
Right behind them was a white van with four women hanging out the windows, shrieking up a party. Old Bert’s birthday girls.
The sun topped the water tower.
“Fuckin’ chinks!” the pin-eyed militiaman yelled again. He fired into the air, just missing the blades of the Fox News helicopter that chopped the sky.
How the hell did that get here? Nora wondered as the MAC, Inc. sirens drowned out the world. She set Stasi loose. Smaller mass. Smaller target.
A pickup honked behind Nora, forcing her into a ditch. Mike Smith was at the wheel and the extended cab was packed with fellow Witnesses, armed for gang warfare. Gravel sprayed like buckshot as he shimmied to a stop in front of the militia’s tank. The local volunteer fire engine rumbled behind, Phil riding shotgun, armed with the duckers’ arsenal.
Phil was out before the engine stopped, his posse close behind. Jabbing Mailer’s rooster chest with his fat ring finger. All set to press the red button on the console. Ready! Launch! War! Mailer stepped back slightly, then stepped forward and threw out his chest, smacking Phil in the nose. Mailer’s militia pressed forward, weapons ready. Phil’s posse raised theirs.
Nora stopped, closed her eyes, and waited for the violence. Instead of apocalypse, she heard a voice. His voice.
“Gentlemen.”
Nora heard Leonard Cohen in her head. Give me back the Berlin Wall. Maybe it was the painkillers.
“Gentlemen,” the voice said, gravelly, familiar, like the road home. “Let’s be reasonable.”
She opened her eyes to see the volunteer sheriff standing easily between two men ready to battle for their empires. His careworn face broke into rivulets of smile lines.