The Tesla Gate (17 page)

“For those of you just tuning in,” the host said. “You just heard from General Ott Garrison, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He has joined me here with the White House's scientific advisor, Dr. Ray Winder. We are discussing the Executive order coming out of Washington yesterday stating that all Impals that have passed away since the phenomenon started should be redirected to military bases until they can be acclimated into society or until the phenomenon passes, whichever comes first.”

My heart sank when I thought of Miss Chenowith and Shasta. My first instinct was to call and warn them, but I decided to get more information first. The fact that General Garrison was involved with this did not make me feel any better. He had been involved in some sort of human rights or war crimes investigation about a decade ago. I couldn't remember the details because it was quickly swept under the rug like so many other transgressions by people of power and influence. I guess the world forgot it completely when he was appointed by the current administration. I'm starting to think that my vote was severely misplaced.

“General Garrison, why can't we let these people's families take care of them and help them to acclimate?”

There was that unsmiling laugh again.

“It's not that simple. It's a matter of simple mathematics. In a very short period of time, we will start to have a population problem. Death is a natural thing; it is a necessary thing to make way for new generations. This storm, phenomenon, whatever you wish to call it, has removed death from the natural equation in a sense.”

“But General, people are still dying, are they not? I mean their bodies are dead.” The host said.

“Yes, but the individual is not removed,” Garrison said with what sounded like sterile indifference. “The storm gives their spirits, or whatever the hell you want to call them, physical substance. In my book it means they are still here. It is unnatural. It is quite frankly a little sick.”

The general breathed a deep sigh and continued, “Look, let me spell it out. In the United States alone, approximately 8,000 people die each day, not to mention some 12,000 births. If you take the births out of the equation as a given, the unnatural 8,000 which stay here gives us an unnatural population increase of about 56,000 Impals per week. That's each week! That's not even taking into consideration the untold thousands—if not millions—that were already here before this storm began. It is a crisis to the natural order and business of the country, make no mistake!”

His attitude was making me sick. These were people, for God's sake. I looked at Seth as if to confirm that, and he smiled back at me with a goofy grin. My heart melted but my stomach twisted; I didn't have a good feeling about what I was hearing.

CHAPTER 19

The Road Less Travelled

“So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.”

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

By the end of the interview with the two men, I felt much worse about the situation. They were going to be relocating RDIs, which was now the short term for
Recently Deceased Impals
. They were relocating them for their own safety and security to military bases around the country until they could figure out how to acclimate them. The first question I had, aside from how could this be morally acceptable, is how would they differentiate between an RDI and a PDI – what they were calling
Previous Deceased Impals
, the ones that were here before the storm. They both looked identical with their silvery sheens and physical capabilities, so who was to say whether they died today or 200 years ago?

I could tell from his tone and reactions that Dr. Winder was struggling with the decision. I think he probably felt like I did but he was stuck in his position between a rock and a hard place. General Ott Garrison, on the other hand, seemed to be relishing the decision. I don't know if he was enjoying the fact that he actually had something to do, a potential crisis to deal with, or if he got some kind of pleasure rounding up these “things,” as he referred to them at one point in the interview.

I suppose his military duties had been noticeably reduced since the conflicts overseas had subsided recently, but was that any reason to be a heartless bastard? He obviously didn't see the Impals as people, just some sick nuisance that needed to be rounded up and discarded. That was a dangerous attitude for anyone to have, but even more so for a soldier. I think the most troubling statement made by the man was when he was asked a legitimate question by the host.

“General, we only have so many military bases. What happens when we run out of room on the bases?”

He gave an arrogant laugh and replied in a chilling tone, “We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

He refused to elaborate on his response.

Did the president willingly order this? Had he been given fair and balanced advice? I did not know; I hoped he didn't know fully what he was doing because I voted for the man, for God's sake. Of course, the president makes decisions based on the best advice of those in his circle. Dr. Winder could be included in that exclusive group, but General Garrison could as well. That fact made my blood run cold.

As if on cue, when the interview was over, we were passed by a convoy of military transport trucks heading east. They were camo green with a canvas cover over the bed like a cloth camper shell. I noticed the last truck that passed; the flap on the back had become untied, affording me a glimpse of the interior as it sped past. I could make out the silvery luminescence of several Impals, but that was not what caught my attention.

A solitary Impal girl peered through the open flap at me. She smiled and raised her hands as if to wave. I had just enough time to see before the truck sped out of view that there was something blackish gray binding her wrists like shackles. She waved her right hand up and down in a friendly childlike greeting and smiled, but then the truck was gone. A sudden feeling of panic washed over me like an icy wave, forcing me to pull off on the shoulder.

I clicked on the flashers and then turned to look at Seth. He had been sleeping but my sudden stop had awakened him. He looked at me sleepily.

“What's wrong, Daddy?” he asked as he craned his neck like a turtle to look around.

I was still breathing heavily from my instant of panic and it took me a moment to compose an answer.

“Seth, buddy,” I breathed. “How would you like to play in the back for the rest of the trip?”

He looked over his shoulder and then looked doubtfully back at me.

“But it isn't safe, Daddy … you says I have to buckle up.”

“That's true buddy, I did say that, but I think it will be okay. We have a big safe vehicle in case anything happens. Besides,” I continued as I patted him on the head, “I know it can get boring for a little guy to sit up here, and you'll have plenty of room to play back there.”

He beamed excitedly.

“You mean it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Can Jackson come with me?”

“You bet.”

That was all the confirmation he needed. In a flash he was out of his seat belt and scurrying between the front seats and over the back seat into the cargo area. Jackson followed him over the seat like they were tethered together. We only had a couple of bags with us, so he had plenty of room to spread out and play. We had two bags plus a duffel bag full of Seth's favorite toys, of which I immediately heard the contents dumping onto the floor.

I smiled and faced forward. I could hear Seth getting thoroughly engrossed in play as his own personal playtime sound effects drifted up from the back. He was occupied and he was happy, and if he got tired he could stretch out and take a nap. As happy as he was, I had not sent him back there for his own enjoyment, but his own safety. The windows were tinted and it was impossible to see in from the outside. If we were passed by another convoy or stopped for any reason, I thought it was best if Seth were not seen.

Did I have anything to worry about? My head told me no but my gut told me a different story. My gut is seldom wrong. I knew I had just seen a convoy of trucks full of Impals being carted off to God knows where, but that wasn't the scariest part – the little girls hands had been bound with something. I would have thought that impossible if I had not seen it with my own eyes, the Impals that I had encountered could pass through anything if they desired. When I thought about it, I realized how stupid that sounded. Of all the materials on planet Earth, how many had I actually seen them pass through? It was probably one tenth of one percent, if it was even that high.

What I believed this meant is that any Impal could be bound and contained. Even if an Impal got put in a cinder block prison and under normal circumstances they could easily pass through the wall, they would be stopped like an anchor by whatever bound their wrists. I shook my head in disgust. If that weren't bad enough, they would be forced to face constant humiliation with their wrists bound in perpetuity. Maybe I was assuming too much. I mean, I had just caught a glimpse; maybe the girl was playing. I didn't think so. In any case, I wasn't taking any chances. As much as I enjoyed the little guy sitting next to me, Seth was spending the rest of the trip in the back.

We resumed our journey a few minutes later. It was hard for me to focus on the trip or our destination. I kept having a disturbing thought running through my mind: what if we got to our destination and Seth was taken into custody? I mean, we were going to Washington, D.C., just a short walk from the White House.

I had the sudden impulse to turn around and head back to Conway and our home. Seth and I could hole up in our house and no one would ever know about him. We could spend every minute together without fear. I almost got off at the next exit and reversed course when I heard a song coming from the back, one that Seth had made up to the tune of one of his favorite lullabies:
Are You Sleeping, Brother John?

Going to the moozem, going to the moozem, gonna see airplanes, gonna see airplanes, rockets and space ships, rockets and space ships … gonna have big fun, gonna have big fun …

I took my finger off the blinker and hit the gas, zooming past the exit ramp. I couldn't disappoint him again. Not again, not like this. His short life had been filled with too much disappointment, and most of it was my fault.

We would be careful; we would continue on. I would keep my promise. Besides, they were just rounding up RDIs, weren't they? Seth was a PDI, even if only by a couple of weeks. He wouldn't be subject to the Executive order. I tried to tell myself that he wouldn't, but my own question kept coming back to haunt me.
How could they tell the difference?

We drove on for the next few hours. I wanted to cover a lot of ground before we stopped to eat lunch, although Seth had asked for a Martian Burger a couple of times already. I didn't see another military convoy until we reached the other side of Nashville; this one was at a safe distance from us, way over in the westbound lane.

We stopped at a Martian Burger in Lebanon, Tennessee, per Seth's request, and then I made an executive decision of my own. I didn't feel comfortable continuing on a major thoroughfare like Interstate 40. It would take us a little longer, but I decided to take Highway 70, at least until dark. It turned out to be a mistake—a huge one.

The scenery was pretty except for the occasional redneck condo which consisted of a dilapidated mobile home with a sofa and recliner on the front porch for lawn furniture. Every state has them, it just seems that some states are more proud of them than others. Of course, the small towns had their own nostalgic charm that almost made you forget that anything strange or foreboding was going on in the world. That might have been completely possible for a while, to forget your troubles, if not for the lavender sky and yellow clouds that hovered just overhead.

It was nearing dusk when we passed a pristine little cemetery. We hadn't seen a town in a while, so it seemed as if we were in the middle of nowhere. The ancient rock wall surrounding it made me think of the one I had explored just yesterday when we were looking for Shasta. It reminded me of Miss Chenowith and Shasta. I knew I needed to call her and warn her about what was going on; after all, she has no radio. Her sister might know, but I wasn't sure if she had contacted her or not. She did not seem to be in any big hurry, but she did seem keen to experience the shock on her sister's face when she saw her.

Traffic was noticeably sparse. I don't think we had passed another vehicle in the last 15 minutes. Shortly after we passed the small graveyard, I saw a roadside park with picnic tables. There were no facilities, so thankfully nature wasn't calling me just yet, but I did need to stretch my legs and I thought this was as good a time as any to give Miss Chenowith a call. The nightly black light display was starting to creep across the sky, only tonight it was much more pronounced as it reflected off a mostly cloudy sky.

I thought about catching a few winks here because I had no intention of staying in a motel or with any relatives of motel employees again, not given the current circumstances. We had maybe eight to ten hours of driving time left, which meant we could be at the museum tomorrow. But I decided against snoozing in this little park. It was somewhat concealed from the road by a group of pine trees but it was still too close, I felt too exposed. We would find someplace more secluded; I had to keep Seth as hidden as possible.

Seth was asleep in the back with Jackson curled up beside him, so I carefully parked and got out, closing the door softly behind me. I took out my cell phone and turned it on. My heart sank for an instant when I saw no bars on my phone, but a second later, two bars grudgingly materialized. Maybe I could get a quick call off before they dropped out again. We were in a rural area, so that was probably as good as it was going to get. I removed the address and phone number from my pocket that Rose had given me at the motel on the day we arrived in Jackson. I entered the number in my phone and hit send as I leaned back against the front bumper. Much to my surprise, the phone was answered on the second ring.

“Yes,” rasped a woman on the other end. It did not sound like Miss Chenowith, but it was. It was the wrong one, though.

“Rose?” I said.

“Yes,” she repeated.

“This is Tommy Pendleton, from the hotel the other night. I …”

“I know who you are Mr. Pendleton,” she interrupted. I was starting to get a bad feeling. At first I thought Rose had been upset about her sister's change, but her demoralized tone seemed much worse than that.

“Well, may I please speak to Lizzie?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“She's not here,” she said, this time with a strong undertone of malice. Before I could respond she cut across me scathingly. “They took her and that … that thing away!”

My heart sank into my stomach like a block of ice. I knew who “they” were. I had seen “them” carting innocent people down the interstate today. I started to tremble with sadness and anger, the poor, sweet woman, but my thoughts turned suddenly to the other part of Rose's statement.

That thing?

I had to assume she was referring to Shasta. The anger in me started to boil over when I thought of her initial reaction to Seth. I thought she had come around after her interaction with my son, but perhaps she hadn't. I couldn't believe her fear and prejudice toward Impals would be enough to turn in her own sister.

“You … you turned them in?” I said loud enough that I woke Seth and Jackson up. “Why?? Why the hell would you do that?”

“You wait one minute, buster!” Rose retorted. “I was not the one who called 911 and reported it this morning!”

I didn't think it was possible, but my heart sank even lower. Rose had not called and turned them in, it was me. Of course, I didn't know what was going on this morning. I hadn't heard the radio reports yet. I thought I was doing the right thing. Maybe my intentions had been honorable, but that did not make me feel any less guilty. Obviously, emergency services were under orders to advise the military of any RDIs immediately. The terrible efficiency of this Executive order was even more horrifying than I had imagined. I found it hard to speak because I felt like someone had just knocked the wind out of me. I managed to rasp six short words.

“I'm sorry, Rose. I'm terribly sorry.”

There was a long silence that made me wonder if I had just uttered my apology to a disconnected line. Finally, after several long moments, I heard Rose start to cry. I waited patiently until I heard her sobs calm a little and then repeated my apology.