Carrier Wave: A Day Of Knowing Tale

Carrier Wave

A Day of Knowing Tale

By Robert Brockway

Published by Brockwar Press: The
Fightin’est Press In The West

Copyright 2015

About the Collection

The Day of Knowing is a collection
of interconnected horror shorts that each build upon a larger
fictional world. Every tale is self-contained, and no single story
will require that you read any others first. However, every short
also builds the lore of the Day of Knowing universe, and readers
that follow all of the stories in chronological order will reveal a
larger tale that spans dozens of short stories across several
decades. The order thus far is:
M55,
Carrier Wave, The Judas Goat
(collected
in
Tomorrow’s Cthulhu
from Broken Eye Books).

About the Author

Robert Brockway is a
senior editor and columnist for Cracked.com. He is the author of
the
urban fantasy/horror
Unnoticeables trilogy from Tor Books
,
the cyberpunk novel
Rx: A Tale of Electronegativity
, and
the apocalyptic non-fiction essay collection
Everything Is Going To Kill Everybody
. The Day of Knowing shorts and others are published on his
website,
Robertbrockway.net
.
Follow him on Twitter
@brockway_llc
.

“So this man walked into the Shop Shop,
pulled out a boombox, played some music-“

“Some new wave
faggot
music,” the man
said, then spat chaw-juice onto his own boot. He glared at it with
disapproval.

“Played some music, and left. Then the clerk
jumped over the counter and beat the victim to death? Just like
that?”

“Just like that,” the man agreed. He
squinted at Helms’ badge again, like he couldn’t believe what he
was seeing.

“So what did this man look like?” Helms
asked, not looking up from her notebook.

“Like some sort of communist hippy liberal
pussy. Or something. I don’t know, I can tell you he didn’t vote
for The Gipper, that’s for damn sure.”

Helms glanced up from her notes and fixed
the witness, one Jeremy Boont, with a questioning stare.

Boont winced a little, spat more chaw, and
stared off at his truck like he thought that description should
suffice.

“How tall was he?” Helms prompted.

“I don’t know. Not very.”

“What color was his hair? His eyes?”

Boont leaned in close to Helms, his gut
pushing her notepad back into her writing hand.

“What do I look like to you?” He asked,
slowly.

“Excuse me?” Helms took a step back. Thought
that might have been a mistake: Probably should have stood her
ground and made him back off.

“I look like some kind of faggot to you?”
Boont asked.

“I…I don’t…”

“Like I just stand around, gazing at men’s
hair, lookin’ deep into their eyes. You think that’s what I
do?”

“So you didn’t notice anything at all about
the man with the boombox?”

“I noticed -- and you can write this down
now, this here’s my statement: He looked like he didn’t vote for
Reagan, and sucks cocks in a rest stop bathroom. That’s all I saw.
Where I’m from men don’t look at other men, and if they do, they
sure as hell don’t
see
‘em. That’s faggot business.”

“So you couldn’t tell me what your own daddy
looked like?” Helms asked.

“You sayin’ my
daddy’s
a faggot now,
lady?
Are you kiddin’ me?
Who’s tellin’ you I’m gay for men,
huh? Who’s been spreading lies? I tell you, I find who’s been
sayin’ this stuff, I’m gonna stick my gun up his ass and fuck him
with forty four calibers.”

“See, now
that
sounds kind of
gay…”

“WHAT?!” Boont reared back, like he was
going to deck Helms, but Officer Price stepped between them and
stared him down.

Boont returned the glare for a minute, but
ultimately broke. He spat chaw, in what he probably thought was a
defiant gesture, and looked at his truck again.

“That’s all I got to say,” he finished.

“Why don’t you and your buddy get on outta
here before we break out the breathalyzers, all right?” Price
said.

Boont coughed, pulled up his belt and
adjusted his worn baseball cap – Federal Booby Inspector, it said –
before leaving. Made a big show of taking his time about it.

When he and his buddy finally made the truck
and pulled out, tires squealing, of course, Price turned to
Helms.

“You get anything useful out of the other
one?” She asked him.

“I asked if the suspect had any scars or
distinguishing tattoos. He asked me if I thought he was a faggot,”
Price answered.

Helms laughed.

“The bible-thumping hicks in this town, I
swear to god.”

“That’s not fair,” Price said, “it’s got
nothing to do with this town or the bible. I’ve known Jeremy Boont
since 6
^th
grade. His daddy owns a furniture company that
makes fancy wicker chairs and such. Sells ‘em to yuppies on the
west coast for thousands of dollars. Drives a bright yellow
Porsche. Boont isn’t some poor uneducated bible-thumper;
I’m
some poor uneducated bible thumper -- he’s just a dipshit.”

“Look, if it walks like a hick and fucks its
sister like a hick, I’ll call it a hick,” Helms replied. “Plenty of
them around here.”

“You should come to church with me
sometime,” Price said. “You’ll see where all the good people in
this town are hiding.”

“Price,” Helms said, “my mom was a Baptist
and my dad was a Bastard. Neither would want me anywhere near your
church.”

“Ah,” Price chuckled, “I’ll make a convert
out of you someday. If only for the free coffee.”

They fell quiet for a moment.

“So…” Helms said, eager to switch subjects.
“The other one told you the same thing about the music guy? Just
walked in, hit play, then left and the clerk went ballistic?”

“Basically, yeah.” Price looked around the
parking lot, saw nobody was watching, and pulled out a cigarette.
“Kid got any priors?”

Helms made a face at him as he lit it, and
took two steps upwind.

“Zip,” she said, “just out of high school.
Solid B student. Likes band, according to the manager.”

“A
band geek
nearly tore my throat
out?” Price said, gesturing to the three gouges on the side of his
neck.

“Quit being dramatic,” Helms said, “he
barely grazed you. Besides, you always got me to save your
ass.”

Price laughed.

“You see him in the back of the cruiser when
Jackson pulled away? He was trying to bite through the damn window.
What turns a pudding of a kid like that into a feral maniac all of
a sudden? Drugs?”

“Maybe,” Helms scuffed at the pavement with
her shoe, knocking cigarette butts towards the drain in the middle
of the parking lot. “Seems like there’s something new coming out
every day.”

“Yeah, maybe…” Price blew smoke from the
side of his mouth, angling it away from Helms.

She smiled at him.

***

“We’ve got reports of a 708 at the Bowl N
Chug. Two officers on scene requesting backup.”

“Price and Helms responding,” Price said,
then set the handset back in its cradle.

Helms hit the sirens and flipped a U-turn,
cutting off a bright yellow Porsche. Price watched the mirrors and
saw a hand slide out its window, giving them the bird.

“Ten to one it’s Joe Greene again,” Price
said.

“Probably decked some guy because his toe
was over the line,” Helms agreed.

Price grabbed the oh-shit handle as Helms
cut a wide, fast, turn down Everett and floored it toward Center.
Engine roar filled the cabin. The cruiser crested the dip just
before the courthouse and went airborne for a split second.

“Jesus!” Price laughed, “there’s no way the
call’s this urgent. You know that, right?”

“When do I get to do
this
?” Helms
grinned, but kept her eyes locked to the road.

She swung the tail wide and power slid to a
stop in the parking lot of the Bowl N Chug.

“Whoo,” Price let out the breath he forgot
he was holding, and shook his head as he stepped out of the car.
“Someday you’re gonna get us killed, driving like that.”

“Nah,” Helms said, slamming her door.
“Cheese dogs and cigarettes’ll get you first.”

Price thumbed the release on his holster and
let his hand rest on the grip of his pistol. He got to the door
first, checked his corners, stepped in and quickly moved to the
side. Helms did the same behind him. They spread out, each watching
half of the alley. There was nobody at the front desk, nobody in
any of the lanes, save the far one. Helms could see legs sticking
out from behind the ball delivery, and two males wrestling on the
ground between the benches. One of them was wearing blues – maybe
Jackson. Then she saw his partner, Hughes, backed up against the
rails, his pistol drawn and centered on the fighting men.

She glanced at Price, who hadn’t yet spotted
it from his angle. But he caught the meaning in her eyes. He pulled
his service revolver and pointed it at the floor in front of him.
Helms followed suit. They covered the distance quickly, sticking to
their sides and watching the blind spots behind pillars. Helms made
the scene first, came around the ball delivery and eyeballed the
limp body. Male, just shy of six feet, probably over 200 pounds.
Lying face down, not moving, no blood or signs of serious injury.
Likely just unconscious. The priority here was Jackson and his
assailant.

The attacker was straddling Jackson, his
back to Helms, one hand locked on Jackson’s throat, the other
fighting off Jackson’s frantic grabs toward his face. Jackson tried
to kick out of the hold, and the pair rolled into the gutter,
shifting position so Helms could see the assailant’s face.

Shit, it
was
Joe Greene.

He was a troublemaker and a bit of a prick,
sure, but he never took an argument beyond a little dust-up, and
usually apologized by buying the other guy a beer afterward.
Besides, he always cowed like a scolded schoolboy when the cops
showed up. But he wasn’t just resisting arrest here – Jackson was
pouring blood from his left eye, teeth smashed through his lips –
this was
attempted murder
.

“Police!” Helms tried, knowing it was
pointless.

Helms looked to Hughes. He was trying to
back up the stairs to the concession stand, but he couldn’t take
his wide, unfocused eyes off the fight long enough to get his
footing. He had his gun drawn, but pointed in the air, weaving back
and forth above the commotion.

Shellshocked.

She called out ‘police’ and ‘on the ground’
one more time, then let off and focused on moving into position to
cover Price. If she’d been alone, she would have had to try to
wrestle Joe Greene off, but she knew Price was stronger, and he
knew she was the better shot. It didn’t need to be said. Price had
holstered his weapon and was running in low, hoping to use the
momentum to knock Greene loose from Jackson’s throat. He caught
Greene hard around the waist, and they rolled into the next lane,
freeing Jackson, who immediately started crawling away, down the
lane toward the pins.

Greene didn’t seem to understand that he’d
been grabbed from behind. He was making no effort to break out of
it, his eyes still locked on Jackson and the ragged trail of blood
he left in his wake. Greene was kicking his legs, thrashing and
clawing wildly at the air, but making absolutely no effort to pry
Price’s hands from around his midsection. Price scooted backward
across the lane until he reached the far side of the alley, then
levered Greene up and swung him face first into the wall. He pulled
one of Greene’s arms down around his back, but couldn’t get a hold
of the other. Helms holstered her gun and ran to help. She put her
weight into Greene’s shoulder and twisted his free arm downward.
She held it in place while Price finished cuffing him, then made
the mistake of looking into Greene’s face.