Chapter 37
It was almost six o’clock.
Mrs. Hickman had made them a dinner of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, homemade dinner rolls, and something called Snickers Salad, but Colt wasn’t hungry. He couldn’t stop thinking about what they were going to do if the town voted against shutting down their hydroelectric power plant. Violence would be unavoidable.
Now he followed Mayor Cross, Dr. Hickman, and Sheriff Sutherland onto the stage of the Sanctuary High School auditorium. The mayor was all smiles as he walked over to the rickety podium, but thanks to Jonas, Colt knew it was just an act. He was half surprised to see an American flag hanging from a brass pole next to the state flag of West Virginia instead of the red flag with Koenig’s black Defense Corps symbol against a white circle.
The other members of Phantom Squad were sitting up front as requested—supposedly as guests of the town, even though it was obvious they were sitting there so the mayor and his cronies could keep them in full view. Their armor had been confiscated along with their weapons, but Jonas, with his father’s assistance, had equipped them with small earpieces that had microphones so they could remain in contact.
The residents of Sanctuary filed in until every seat from the front row to the top of the balcony was filled. The custodians even set up folding chairs along the back wall and down the aisles, but there still weren’t enough seats.
According to Dr. Hickman, the town was split down the middle. One faction wanted to join Koenig’s Defense Corps, and the other wanted to side with humanity and fight them. The only problem was figuring out how to tell them apart. Colt scanned the audience, but they looked like average people, not warmongering aliens.
The mayor stood there waiting for everyone to quiet down. He didn’t clear his throat or even tap on the microphone. He just leaned against the podium like a farmer watching his crops grow.
Soon people nudged their neighbors and pointed to the stage, and in a few minutes it was quiet enough that Colt could hear the hum of the radiators blowing warm air into the freezing auditorium.
“That’s better,” Mayor Cross said as he adjusted the microphone stand that was fixed to the top of the podium. “Now, I don’t need to tell you why we’re here tonight.”
“We’re here because the federal government turned its back on us, just like I always said it would!”
“Is that you, Earl Drummond?” the mayor asked as dozens of others echoed their agreement.
“You know good and well that it is.” An older man with the beginnings of a beard stood up and removed his John Deere cap. He wore blue jeans and a flannel shirt, and even though he had a bit of a paunch that hung over his belt buckle, his shoulders were wide and his chest was broad.
“What if these kids are telling the truth?” the mayor said. “Would you be able to sleep at night knowing that we could have saved millions of human lives? Or perhaps the better question is, should those lives even matter?”
A woman with blond hair pulled back in a twist stood up in the front row of the balcony. “I suppose you want us to grovel before Koenig and his thugs, is that it? Do we beg for mercy, or have you forgotten why we defected from Gathmara to begin with?”
“I merely ask the question,” the mayor said, his voice pleasant and a smile on his face.
There was a commotion as a group of men pushed their way to the stage, each of them wearing a red armband with Koenig’s Defense Corps symbol. “Enough talk,” one said. “It’s time to declare our loyalty to our people!”
“Easy now.” The sheriff walked toward them with his arms held wide. “Whatever it is you boys are planning to do, you’d best think—”
The first man with the armband bounded up the stairs on the side of the stage, lowered his shoulder, and caught the sheriff in the midsection. The sheriff slid across the floor and into the podium, which fell with a bang. Feedback screeched through the speakers as the man turned and rushed at Colt. Bones cracked and skin morphed into scales as the man shape-shifted into a Thule.
Jaws wide and claws raised, it attacked. Colt caught two of its hands and fell back, bending his knees and planting his feet in the Thule’s stomach. He kicked with all his strength as he rolled into a backward somersault, and the Thule flew through the air and into the orchestra pit.
As Colt rolled to his feet, a heavyset man in faded blue jeans and a thermal undershirt raised a shotgun to his shoulder and took aim at him, but Jonas jumped onto the stage and stepped between Colt and the gunman.
“We’re not like them, Mr. Tasker!” Jonas said. “We’re not monsters, and we don’t have to resort to violence. You taught me that in seventh-grade history.”
“Maybe I was wrong,” the man said.
“No, you weren’t.” Jonas took a careful step toward him, then another. “Please, Mr. Tasker. If you do this, then everything we sacrificed for all these years will be for nothing. We can show everyone that we really are different—that when humanity needed us most, we were right there standing beside them.”
“I’m sorry.” Mr. Tasker’s hands were shaking, and there were tears in his eyes as he pulled the trigger.
“No!” Dr. Hickman stepped in front of his son, and as buckshot that glowed blue hit him, his arms flew up and his back arched. He fell, and a bloom of green liquid spread across his crisp white shirt.
“Dad! Please, you have to get up. Please.” Jonas was crying as he knelt beside his father, shaking his shoulders as he pleaded with him. “Don’t do this. Don’t leave me!”
Dr. Hickman pulled his hand away from the wound, and it was covered in blood. He closed his eyes and took a series of shallow breaths, but when he tried to get up he only had the strength to lift his head before he fell back to the floor. “I’m . . .” He grimaced as he started to cough. “I know it looks . . .”
“You’re going to be okay,” Jonas said, brushing away his tears with the back of his sleeve.
“Find . . . your mom,” Dr. Hickman said, the coughing fits staining his lips with green blood. “Get . . . her . . .” He closed his eyes. “Out . . .” His head fell to the side.
Jonas was crying openly, and when he looked up he saw the barrel of the mayor’s pistol pointed at his head.
“I’m sorry, son,” the mayor said. “But I’m afraid you’re next.”
The shriek of a whistle cut through the air, distant at first but growing louder with each passing moment. The mayor’s eyes grew wide and he lowered his gun just a little.
Colt took advantage of the distraction. He lashed out, hitting the mayor in the wrist, and the gun flew from his hand and skittered across the floor. The mayor’s eyes flashed red, and as he snarled he revealed a set of wicked teeth meant for rending flesh from bone. For a split second Colt thought the mayor was going to morph into his native Thule form, but a missile struck and the auditorium shook.
Colt was knocked to his feet as chunks of plaster fell from the ceiling. Dust and debris clung to the air like fog. The room was a cacophony of screaming, coughing, and crying as people ran for the exits. Another missile struck, this time punching a hole in the ceiling. His ears ringing and vision blurred, Colt looked for the mayor but couldn’t find him.
“Colt!” Oz grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. His eyes were crazed, and his face and hair were caked in dust.
“What’s going on?” Colt demanded. “Who’s firing missiles?”
“There’re at least three Trackers outside,” Oz said.
“Trackers? Did they come through the portal?”
“Heck if I know.”