Silver Star by Norsebard

SILVER STAR

by Norsebard

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DISCLAIMERS:

This SciFi/humor mash-up is to be categorized as an Uber. All characters are created by me, though some of them may remind you of someone.

The story contains some profanity. Readers who are easily offended by bad language may wish to read something other than this story.

All characters depicted, names used, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons is intended nor should be inferred. Any resemblance of the characters portrayed to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

The registered trademarks mentioned in this story are © of their respective owners. No infringement of their rights is intended, and no profit is gained.

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NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:

Written: August 20th-24th, 2024, for the 2024 Royal Academy of Bards' Halloween Invitational.

This twenty-third entry into the long-running series featuring Wynne Donohue and Mandy Jalinski is a bit of a blast from the past. All twenty-two previous stories are available at the website of the Royal Academy of Bards.

Thank you very much for your help, Bard Of New Mexico! :D -- *Wave* Hi, Phineas!

As usual, I'd like to say a great, big THANK YOU to my mates at AUSXIP Talking Xena, especially to the gals and guys in Subtext Central. I really appreciate your support - Thanks, everybody! :D

Description: Few things in life are as reliable as Wynne 'The Last Original Cowpoke' Donohue's legendary rotten luck. Even on a day when the most exciting thing on her agenda is to watch a recording of a wrestling event, she ends up knee-deep in another mess involving an otherworldly craft, the US Air Force and a deja vu-inducing drive through the desert with her partner, Sheriff Mandy Jalinski, while searching for what the authorities call a weather balloon…

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SILVER STAR

Monday, October 14th - a sunny, though chilly, autumn morning - 10:15am

Enough energy had been poured into uncovering the details of the shocking end to the sheriff's election in September to illuminate half of Goldsboro, Nevada for a week. Following a joint hearing conducted by senior law enforcement officers and the District Attorney's Offices of MacLean and Wilmer Counties that had lasted for nine grueling days and that had produced a mountain of paperwork that would most likely never see the light of day again, everyone was cleared of any wrongdoing and was thus free to return to the important matters like running the town and chugging beers.

With the rough seas calming, a sense of peace once again fell over the Goldsboro sheriff's office and the small trailer park eight miles south of the desert hamlet.

The residents used it for all the typical, everyday tasks: Deputy Sheriff Beatrice 'Quick Draw' Reilly bought a bed in Goldsboro's popular thrift store so she didn't have to sleep on the floor of the trailer she rented.

Next to Beatrice, the experienced hunter Diego Benitez and his Rottweiler Freddie - whose recent terrible ordeal made him want to stay as far away from the crude and violent Humans as possible - went deep into the surrounding desert on multi-day hunting expeditions to test new equipment and to hunt jackrabbits they would skin, salt, freeze and ultimately sell.

To fight the rising cost of living, the hardworking cleaning lady Estelle Tooley had been forced to take a third job to make sure her young daughter Renee had neat, modern clothes to wear for school. To make matters worse, Estelle's drunkard husband Frank threatened to use it against her in their battle for custody over their daughter.

The coders and IT-specialists Brenda and Vaughn Travers had worked day and night for an entire week to help one of their Middle-Eastern clients implement a new customer interface module. The first four days were such an uphill struggle that Brenda had nearly pulled out her corkscrew curls, but once she and Vaughn discovered that the main culprit was a literal case of misinterpretation on the client's part, the rest went smoothly.

The original trailer at the site, the one belonging to Wynne Donohue and Sheriff Mandy Jalinski, echoed with sounds closely associated with the tall, denim-clad gal: slurping, crunching and the occasional joyous outburst when something cool happened on the TV.

At present, the slurping came from Wynne chugging down a can of H.E. Fenwyck Brewery Company's Double-Zero non-alcoholic beer; the crunching came from throwing crispy, salty pork rinds into her mouth, and the joyous outbursts were courtesy of a recording of the weekend's big wrestling extravaganza on Channel Seventy-Eight. The match-up she had so much fun with was a loud, colorful tag-team event where The Knuckleheadz battled The Unnatural Disasters for the Baddest Team In Town belt.

Down on the floor, Wynne's Golden Retriever - aptly named Goldie - wasn't about to let her owner steal all the spotlight, so she had her own noisy thing going by slurping water from a bowl, chowing down a bucketful of Lafayette's Dry Feed and letting out the occasional Yap! to show her gratitude.

A powerful, bassy WOOF? somewhere out near the back porch made Goldie look up in a hurry. Another WOOF? soon followed. It was clear by the Golden Retriever's panic-stricken look that she wasn't quite ready to meet her special friend Freddie. When a third, and somewhat downcast, WOOF… was heard a few moments later, Goldie quickly gobbled up the rest of the dry feed in a huge mouthful before she spun around and ran out into the kitchenette.

The inner door stood open to allow some of the cool desert air to circulate inside the trailer, so the dogs only needed to look through the screen door to see each other. The black Rottweiler Freddie had made himself comfortable on the small patch of grass behind the trailer, but he jumped up to look his big-boy best now he had been joined by a real lady.

Goldie still chewed on the mouthful of dry feed so she couldn't reply in her usual yapping manner. Instead, she used her nose to push open the screen door so she could join Freddie outside. After a little fur-rubbing, the dogs soon ran into the desert to play a little away from the prying eyes of the Humans.

Back in the trailer's living area, Wynne added an electronic bookmark to the wrestling extravaganza so she could continue at a later time. Yawning, she scratched herself here, there and everywhere before she took the final swig of beer. With little to do, she got up from the old couch to shuffle into the kitchenette. The empty can soon joined seventy or so of its brethren in a plastic bag labeled For Aluminum Recycling that she kept under the kitchen counter.

The exact same moment she closed the bag, a weird hum reached her ears. She let out a mumbled "Haw? Whaddahell izzat now?" in her trademark inch-thick Texan accent as she looked around for a possible source without finding anything untoward. The humming - that had the droning quality of an electric lawn mower while also having the deeper undertones of an idling combustion engine - seemed to rise and fall in volume and intensity depending on where she stood in the kitchenette.

A look into the refrigerator yielded no answer, nor did checking out the microwave and peeking behind the stove to see if a wire had come loose. "Okeh, this be gettin' weird. An' I sure ain't too fond o' weird! Whaddahell izzat dang-blasted hummmmm-in'?" she said, scratching her neck.

She was about to head back to the living area when an even stranger noise caught her attention. This time, it was a combination of a whine and a whoosh that made her think of a leaf blower run amok. It was impossible to tell from where it originated, so just to be on the safe side, she opened the door to the small bathroom to make sure the septic tank wasn't about to explode once more.

Everything was quiet in there, so she closed the door again. "Haw… that sure be a load off. Yessirree," she mumbled, treating her neck to an even better scratching. "But now whaddahell be goin' on out he' in da middle o' dang-blasted nowhe'ah?"

The triple-digit temperatures of late August were but a distant memory: the outdoors thermometer installed on the frame of the window above the kitchen sink showed a cool 60 degrees. Wynne's indoor outfit was a perfect match for the autumn weather. She wore white tennis socks in purple flip-flops, faded jeans and a blue, long-sleeved sweatshirt that sported the classic In GM We Trust slogan.

Stepping outside to get a lungful of fresh air, she had barely stepped off the crooked back porch when the whooshing, whining and humming seemed to join forces. Within moments, it built to a crescendo that seemed to come from somewhere on the far side of the trailer.

A cry of "Good shittt almighty!" escaped her when the noise was revealed to be a silvery spherical object that had to be at least twenty feet in diameter. The perfectly round craft had no external engines, pilot's compartment, wings or tail section, but that didn't stop it from zooming along at high speed a mere ten yards off the ground.

The craft had barely made it out over the leading edge of the desert before it tilted back and shot skyward at an even greater pace. Before Wynne could as much as open her mouth to add a quip, a cry or indeed a Holy Shittt, a chasing pack consisting of three F-15 Eagle interceptor jets tore across the heavens at a much lower altitude and a far higher speed than usual.

To keep up with the dull-gray fighters as they flew over the trailer park, Wynne spun around so fast that she lost her balance and had to scramble to stay aloft. Another cry of "Whoa!" burst out of her as the jets lit their afterburners and began climbing almost straight up to catch the escaping spherical craft.

She needed to shield her eyes to keep track of them, but it was to no avail as they moved so fast they went out of sight within seconds. "Lawwwwwr-die! This I gotta check out!" she said as she spun around once more and hurried back to the trailer.

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Three minutes later, she emerged wearing the full outfit that had earned her the eternal moniker of The Last Original Cowpoke: decorated cowboy boots, faded jeans, a wool-lined denim jacket and her beloved, battered and sweatstained cowboy hat. Her sheepskin gloves were tucked into the right-hand pocket of her jacket, and her trademark red bandanna peeked out of her left-rear jeans pocket in proper Cowpoke fashion.

There was no telling if her plan would turn to glory or merely become a big dud, but the one absolute certainty about her endeavor was that she would need plenty of liquid sustenance along the way. Grinning, she pulled the carrier strap of a twelve-can cooler box over her shoulder before she hurried over to the utility shed.

Once she had reached the shed's wooden door, she worked the padlock and dug out the ladder that she always used whenever she needed to go up on the roof to knock some sense into the satellite dish.

She winced as her sore left knee made its presence felt. Although it, and she, had made a 98% recovery relative to their lowest point during the medical crisis and subsequent surgery in August, the joint had yet to regain full mobility. Another wince tainted her face when she put the ladder over her shoulder to carry it back to the trailer. "Owch… y'all can complain all ya like, son, but it jus' be too dang bad 'cos this be way too excitin' ta ignore… yessir," she mumbled as she walked back to the trailer so she could proceed with her intended task: to climb up onto the roof to watch the deep-blue skies.

Waiting too long would make no sense, so she leaned the ladder against the upper rain gutter and began climbing up onto the flat roof. Two seconds after stepping off the ladder upstairs, she smacked her forehead when she realized she had forgotten her electronic binoculars downstairs. "Aw, Wynne Donnah-hew, ya dang-blasted foo'… now I gotta climb down ag'in!"

She was spared the task when a male voice said: 'Hello, Wynne! Man, did you see those jets?' somewhere down below.

"Haw? Who dat dere tawkin'?" Wynne said as she moved over to the edge of the roof to peek down. A moment later, she clapped eyes on the unmistakable round shape of her neighbor Diego Benitez. "Whah, howdy, Diegoh! Yessir, I sure did. Heard 'em an' saw' em. They sure wus loud. Haw, that be tha reason whah I be up he', anyhows."

The passionate hunter didn't wear his trademark Marine Corps-surplus desert fatigues for a change. Instead, he had jumped into work boots, old blue jeans and an even older gray short-sleeved shirt that hung loose over a white T-shirt. A Remington Arms ball cap graced his dark locks.

The short sleeves offered a good look at his hairy arms that he needed to shave whenever he visited his sister or else he would frighten his five-year-old nephew into a fit. Because of his strong genes, his slick hair, bushy mustache and neat sideburns remained dark and voluminous although he had reached his late forties.

"I can't recall the last time we saw three jets scramble from Bradley Air Force Base. Somethin' must have rattled their cage," he said, stepping over to the bottom rung of the aluminum ladder.

"Whah, som'tin sure did, Diegoh. Y'all didden see that there silvery thing they wus chasin'? An' didden-cha he'ah all that hummin' an' whinin' an' dronin' an' mo' hummin'?"

"No, I was listenin' to the radio… what silvery thing?"

"Haw, I ain't sure, friend," Wynne said, pushing her hat back. "A big-ass silvery thing… yuh. Completely round like a cue ball. 'Cept it wussen black but… haw… silvery. Done raced past he' like tha three-cahh-r on a hawt lap at Tallahdegah. Yuh. Sure wussen from 'round these he' parts, nosirree."

"Wynne, have you been drinkin'?"

"Whaddahell kinda ques-chun izzat, friend? O' course I have!" Wynne said and let out a braying laugh. "Only them Dubbel-Zerahs, tho'. Ain't nuttin' strongah 'cos I be drivin' up ta town in a li'l while, yuh? But I reckon I'mma-gonn' strangle a can o' Extra Strong fer suppah tanight 'cos they be great with them baked chili beans an' onions an' them there awesome chorizos y'all done made fer me."

"Yeah, okay… anyway, do you have room for two up there?"

"Ya betcha, but y'all need-a do a li'l favahr fer me first. Yuh? Go inta mah kitchen an' take them there binoculahs 'cos I plum fergot 'em…"

Diego started shaking his head even before Wynne had reached the end of the sentence. "I brought something much better," he said as he held up a twenty-inch telephoto lens. "With this bad boy, you can see if the pilots remembered to brush their teeth last night."

"Ain't dat neat? Well, come on up, friend… if y'all can? I reckon y'all be gettin' a li'l round 'round tha middle there, catch mah drift?"

Chuckling, Diego took it one rung at a time until the top of his head appeared above the rain gutter. "I'm not gettin' bigger. My clothes are gettin' smaller."

"Whah, obvi'sly!" Wynne said with a grin as she reached out to drag her friend the last short stretch of the way up onto the flat roof.

Panting and groaning upon reaching the destination, Diego needed to pull up his drooping jeans so a full and rather hairy moon wouldn't suddenly appear in broad daylight. "Thanks, Wynne," he said, already scanning the skies above.

"No sweat, son. While y'all attach that there big-ass lens ta yer eye an' all, I'mma-gonn' grab mahself a beer. Y'all wan'some-"

"I thought you'd never ask! A Dark Lager if ya got one," Diego said with a chuckle.

"Shoot, that be a no-can-do, friend. I only done brought them Dubbel-Zerahs."

"Okay… yeah, all right."

Diego soon put the powerful lens to good use by studying the wide expanses of the upstairs department. "Hmmm, well… there's a bunch of contrails up there, but- oh! Yeah, there's an F-15- no, I lost it again. Strange… if I were to guess, I'd say they're engaged in a dogfight of some kind."

"He' y'all go," Wynne said, handing Diego an H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zero non-alcoholic beer before she took another one for herself. Within moments, both cans had been cracked open with the traditional Psssshhht! "Yuh, they prolly be fightin' that there round object I done tole y'all 'bout. Say, pardnah, speakin' o' dogfightin', how's ol' Freddie hangin' on?"

"Oh, he's better now. The physical wound was gone after a short week, but… you know, the psychological aspects linger on. The fight set him back several months."

"Yuh, I reckon it hadda."

Diego had barely put the half-full can down next to his boots when he yelled "Two contacts! Ten o'clock!" and pointed at a spot somewhere out in the desert to the east of them.

"Haw? Ten o'clock been an' goah-ne, friend… it be a quartah ta eleven," Wynne said as she found her telephone. Several seconds went by before she remembered the other meaning of the common phrase. Groaning, she stuffed the telephone back into her pocket and turned to look toward the spot Diego pointed at. "Disregard that there las' transmis-shun o' mine, yuh? I reckon I be a li'l slow on the uptake taday," she mumbled before she took a long swig of the non-alcoholic beer.

"Twin rotors. That makes 'em Air Force Chinooks. Transport helicopters. They're moving north… make that north-east," Diego said while still looking into the ocular of the telephoto lens. "Wynne, do you have the transponder tracker app on your phone?"

"Tha whut? Lawrdie, I ain't even got no clue what that there thing is…"

"Okay… never mind. I don't think it'll track military aircraft, anyway," Diego said, once again scanning the skies through the powerful lens. "No, I can't see anything. Eh. Whatever. I did see one of the F-15s before. It was fun while it lasted," he said before he swapped the expensive equipment for the can of beer.

Wynne mirrored her friend by holding one end of her Double-Zero to her mouth while the can's far end reached for the sky. Two identical glug-glug-glugs were soon heard. "Okeh. I reckon I'mma-gonn' call mah darlin' Sheriff Mandy an' tell 'er 'bout that there li'l excitement we done had," she said as she reached for her telephone once more.

Unfortunately, she only made it to the wake-up screen before she furrowed her brow. "Haw… that be weird. It done says no signal. Y'all got a signal, pardnah?"

Diego let out a grunt as he looked at his own telephone. "No. Nothing. Maybe those jets bombed the repeater tower by accident or something," he continued before he turned around to study the horizon toward the south-west through the lens. "Darn, Brenda and Vaughn's trailer is just tall enough to block the view."

"Dontcha go peekin' inta their bedroom windah or nuttin, friend!" Wynne said, nudging an elbow into Diego's substantial side.

Diego broke out in a wide, cheesy grin as he lowered the lens. "I won't. Hell, we only need to watch Brenda's morning yoga sessions for two minutes to cover all our basic needs…"

"Lawrdie almighty, son, y'all didden jus' say that!"

"Sure I did!"

"Haw… okeh. Whutevah. Tell y'all whut… les'grab anothah beer. If nuttin' excitin' done happened by then or if them jets didden return ta base or whutevah, I'mma-gonn' call it a day an' mosey on down ta tha ground," Wynne said, once more reaching for the cooler box.

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Eight miles north and ten feet down from Wynne and Diego's position atop the trailer, another group of people watched the skies through powerful binoculars. The compact, athletic shape of Sheriff Mandy Jalinski was easy enough to recognize even though most of her face was obscured by the large pair of binoculars.

Her uniform was impeccable as always. The shiny boots and the light gray pants - that featured razor-sharp creases and black stripes on the outside of the pant legs - looked as if they had just been used as the template for a recruitment poster. The black, long-sleeved shirt had light gray epaulets as well as flaps for the two breast pockets. Curved patches with the words MacLean County Sheriff's Department had been added to the outside of the sleeves at the shoulders to make sure nobody would forget which county they worked for.

A golden star identifying Mandy as the Sheriff of Goldsboro had been sewn onto the left side of the shirt's chest underneath a brass name tag and her row of ribbons. No uniform could be considered complete without the light gray necktie, so she had tucked it in between the third and fourth buttons to adhere to the dress code that carried her signature on the dotted line.

Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez stood next to the sheriff with his own pair of binoculars. Since his two companions had chosen to look north, he turned to look south along Goldsboro's Main Street. His golden brown skintone, slicked-back hair, pencil-thin mustache and matinee-idol good looks certainly made him stand out in a crowd. Though the mid-thirty-something Senior Deputy remained a perennial charmer, he had surprised everyone by becoming engaged to his long-time sweetheart, the livestock broker Dolores de la Vega, on October 1st.

The third person in the small cluster of people was Deputy Beatrice Reilly who was at a clear disadvantage to her colleagues. While the Sheriff and the Senior Deputy - who both had far greater seniority with the MacLean County Sheriff's Department than she - had nabbed the most powerful binoculars, she only had an old pair of opera glasses to look through. As an inevitable result, she couldn't see anything no matter how hard she strained her eyes.

"There's definitely something going on up there," Mandy said as she observed the fighter jets moving through twists and turns far, far above the small desert hamlet in the middle of absolute nowhere. "Perhaps a mock dogfight? I know for a fact that the Air Force has signed a paper that restricts exercises so close to town, but… that's what it looks like. Oh, I can't say. They're too far away."

"Sheriff," Rodolfo said, lowering his binoculars, "what was the name of the Air Force officer you dealt with during the mess with the lizard creature? I'll bet he knows something."

Grunting, Mandy turned to look at the Senior Deputy. "I'm sure he'll know plenty. If he's interested in sharing the information is another thing entirely. Still, it's a very good suggestion." The binoculars were soon swapped for her telephone, but that particular course of action only prompted another grunt. "Strange… there's no signal. Do you have anything?"

A few seconds went by before Rodolfo shook his head. "Nothing, Sheriff. Not a single bar."

"Mine's dead too, Sheriff," Beatrice added.

One telephone that continued to work was the old Bakelite contraption on the watch desk inside the sheriff's office. That particular telephone hadn't stopped ringing in the ten minutes that had gone by since the jets had appeared over Goldsboro. A look through the large panes proved that their civilian dispatcher Barry Simms was so overworked that not only did he sport a wide-eyed look of panic, his hair stood out in all directions.

"Deputy Reilly," Mandy said over her shoulder, "I want you to drive up to the northern end of town. You'll have a clear view of the desert there. Update us at once if you see anything unusual. Like sneaky UFOs. You never know around here."

"Yes, Ma'am," Beatrice said, briefly saluting the sheriff before she hurried over to the second of the three white and gold Dodge Durangos that were lined up at the curb. Instead of getting behind the wheel, she opened the rear doors and dove into one of the equipment boxes to swap the worthless opera glasses for a pair of professional binoculars similar to the ones used by the Sheriff and the Senior Deputy. Once that had been accomplished, she hopped in behind the wheel and took off in a cloud of dust.

Mandy kept track of the official vehicle for a few moments, but soon resumed studying the skies above Goldsboro. She caught the briefest of glimpses of something round and silvery, but it was out of sight before she could process the visual contact into an actual thought. "It's no use. All I can see are reflections when the jets catch the sun."

Rodolfo let out a grunt. "Let's hope they'll stay up there. They were so loud before they rattled my fillings."

Lowering the binoculars once more, Mandy glanced through the pane at Barry Simms who seemed about ready to drop. Sighing at the odd way Goldsboro had an ability to mess up even the quietest of days, she spun around on her bootheel and barged through the sticking glass door to come to his rescue.

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The watch desk looked as if someone had fired a Sidewinder missile at it: there wasn't a square inch of the table's top that didn't feature piles of candy wrappings, lollipop sticks, pencil and eraser shavings, cookie crumbs, paper scraps and assorted other litter. The ashtray was an R-rated movie unto itself by way of the inch-tall volcanic cone of ash, cigarette butts and spent matches that rose from its center.

If the desk was rated 'R', the thirty-year-old Barry Simms had to be at least an 'X' with his wild hair, red-rimmed eyes, waxen complexion and amber fingers. The suit of unfortunate attributes stemmed from his extraordinary smoking habit that saw him puff on sixty home-rolled cigarettes a day. Made of waste tobacco that he bought wholesale from the factories, they never failed to create a foul smell that Wynne had dubbed The Cloud Of Stinky Doom during one of her many visits to the sheriff's office.

"Mr. Simms, I want you to take five. No, better make that ten," Mandy said as she strode over to the watch desk and the disheveled dispatcher.

Barry let out a croaking "Thank Gawwwd…" before he got up from the chair by the watch desk. His exit was given extra impetus by the Bakelite landline ringing once more. Staggering away like a fellow on a five-day bender, he lit a new cigarette with the dying embers of the old one before he disappeared into the crew room at the back of the office.

Two seconds later, Wynne and Mandy's black German Shepherd Blackie stormed out of the crew room to escape the foul stench from the cigarette; her paws clicking furiously on the cracked linoleum as she made a mad dash to safety. The K9 officer let out a grrrrrrrowl and an annoyed Woof! on her way back to the blanket that had been spread out just inside the front door.

Mandy shook her head at the mess on the watch desk. The important incident report sheet was somewhere underneath all the clutter, but it took several long moments for her to find it and then brush it off. Once she had cleared it of debris and had readied her trusty ball point pen, she picked up the receiver. "You've reached the- Hello, Mr. Williams. No, we don't know what's going on- yes, it was certainly loud. Yes. Very well. Goodbye, Mr. Williams."

While she had spoken, the pen had flown across the incident sheet to add the date, the time, the nature of the call and the responding officer. A quick count proved the call from Keshawn Williams had been the sixteenth since the jets had first been seen above Goldsboro.

The receiver had barely touched the hook before the telephone rang again. "You've reached- no, Miss Lorenzen, we can't- no, we're not part of a conspiracy led by the CIA or the government- yes, I know it was scary, Miss Lorenz- yes, we'll inform the public as soon as-"

Sighing at the abrupt way the conversation ended, Mandy updated the incident report sheet before she put the receiver back on the hook. She kept her hand near it, a decision that was rewarded five seconds later when the telephone rang again.

At the exact same moment, the base unit of their portable radios crackled to life. Rolling her eyes at the typically rotten timing of it all, Mandy rose to her feet and drew a deep breath. "Senior Deputy! Please respond to Deputy Reilly's call! I don't have the time!" she said strongly so Rodolfo could hear her out on the sidewalk.

Down on the blanket by the door, Blackie jumped to attention at once. She looked at her owner with barely hidden excitement in her dark eyes, but when nothing further happened beyond the strongly worded command, she let out a sigh and moved back down on her stomach. A short while later, she returned to her water bowl and the turkey-flavored treats.

Once Rodolfo had flashed a thumbs-up, Mandy sat down once more and took the receiver off the hook. "Hello, you've-"

Even while she spoke, the strip lights flickered off and on twice in rapid succession. The strange event was accompanied by a loud whoosh and a weird, droning hum that disappeared as soon as it had shown up. "Oh, for cryin' out loud… now what?" she mumbled before she focused on the next caller. "Hello, Mr. Browne. I'm afraid we don't know. I wish we could tell you what's going on, but we can't. No. No, this is- yes, very much so. Yes. Mr. Browne, did the lights flicker- they did? All right. We had that too. Yes, we'll keep you posted. Goodbye, Mr. Browne."

The incident sheet was soon updated with the fact that Cletus Browne, the always suave used-car dealer up at the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop, was the eighteenth caller.

In the middle of all that, Rodolfo stepped into the office holding his portable radio unit. "Sheriff, the connection was so bad I could hardly hear what Deputy Reilly said, but I believe she told me that she could see two twin-rotored Air Force helicopters circling a mile or so into the desert east of here."

"Very well. Perhaps they're conducting a search and rescue exercise. Or maybe they're testing some kind of device that jams all communication… I still don't have a signal on my telephone," Mandy said, looking at the red symbol on the smartphone's display.

"Same here," Rodolfo said, studying his own telephone.

Mandy leaned back and began tapping her fingers on the watch desk. There seemed to be a lull in the calls, so she had time to open the bottom drawer to search for their special directory of important telephone numbers. A series of increasingly disgusted groans escaped her as she had to wade through pencils, crossword puzzle magazines, pulp detective novels, candy wrappers, stale cookies and finally Barry's spare socks to find the sought-after little black book that contained all the important contact information.

She had barely located the directory when the landline telephone rang for the umpteenth time. "Senior Deputy, please find the number for the AFB's liaison officer. We need to get to the bottom of this nonsense before we have another riot on our hands. This kind of thing is tailor-made for the conspiracy theorists out there," Mandy said before she took the receiver off the hook.

Rodolfo nodded before he moved over to the smallest of the three desks to carry out the request.

Sighing, Mandy readied the ball point pen and put the receiver to her ear. "You've reached the MacLean County Sheriff's Department. How may we help you? Hello, Mrs. Gilmore. No, I'm afraid I don't have any information with regards to the earlier flyby. Yes, it was certainly loud…"

-*-*-*-

Half an hour later, a different kind of vehicular thunder spread through the southern end of Goldsboro. Even a casual observation of the State Route that stretched out to the horizon would reveal a fast-moving, bright red dot that grew larger by the second.

Though its extraordinary noise and high speed made it appear otherworldly at first glance, there was nothing alien about it unless Van Nuys, California, would be considered an extraterrestrial outpost.

The thunderous roar and the red dot eventually merged into a 1989 Pontiac Firebird TransAm when the sports car slowed down to adhere to the local 25mph speed limit at the southern city limits sign.

Despite only running at a few hundred revs above idling, the TransAm's open pipes created such a racket on the quiet Main Street that people waiting at Doctor Byron Gibbs's animal clinic several hundred yards away turned to shoot it concerned glances.

Wynne Donohue grinned from ear to ear as she came to a halt on Main Street, selected reverse and backed into the parking spot reserved for her in the alley next to Moira MacKay's Bar & Grill. She blipped the throttle a couple of times just for the hell of it before she switched off the ignition and took out the keys. "Hawt-dang, that there open pihhhh-pe symphony be sweet music ta mah ears, yessirree! Ain't nuttin' like it! Whadda-y'all reckon, Goldie? Haw? Goldie, y'all didden go deaf, didya?"

A muted Yap… was soon heard from the footwell on the passenger side of the sports car. The golden ball of fur down there moved around a little to show her owner - and the rest of the world - that she was still among the hearing.

"Aw, that sure be good, girl," Wynne said, leaning down to rub Goldie's fur. "Yuh. I promise I'mma-gonn' flip that there levah 'round befo' we drive hoah-me so that there RoarMastah mufflah out back gonn' take ovah."

Yap!

Nodding, Wynne reached for her telephone that she had stuffed into her right-hand jacket pocket. "Now les'see if that there signal finally done came back- whaddahell, still nuttin'… even up he' in Goldsborah an' all. An' lemme see… naw, ain't no data transfah, neithah. Shoot."

Yap…

"Yuh. Anyhows, as long as them refri-gy-ratahs work, I ain't botha'd bah no lack o' phoah-ne service. It be jus' like them ol' days, yuh? 'Member them? Where we had that there landline kitchen telephoah-ne with tha super-long cord? Man, I could be sittin' on mah couch while usin' the phoah-ne in tha kitchen! Yuh, them sure wus the fuhh-n days befo' all that there crap technology an' shit. C'mon, girl, les'go inta Moira's fer a li'l restockin', dontchaknow. An' then we be goin' ovah ta Blackie an' mah darlin' Mandy."

An enthusiastic series of Yap-yap-yappety-yap-yaps proved that Goldie agreed with that particular notion, even if she hadn't understood a word of the rest of the speech.

---

Five minutes later over by the sheriff's office, Wynne took full advantage of the thickness of her wool-lined denim jacket by using her shoulder as a ramming tool on the sticking glass door. "Howdy, all y'all fine folks! An' dawggie!" she said, waving her cowboy hat high in the air. As she moved, her jacket pockets produced the characteristic metallic cling-clanging that beer cans always made when they knocked against each other.

Blackie was still resting on her blanket just inside the door, but she bolted to her paws at the sudden appearance of her owner. When Goldie showed up as well, the black dog let out a long series of happy Woof-woof-woof-woofs! that were soon responded to in kind. After a little mutual fur-rubbing, Blackie invited her doggy companion over for a grand feast consisting of cool water and salty beef jerky.

"Hiya, Wynne," Rodolfo said from his spot at the smallest of the three desks. "Did the fighter jets come by the trailer park?"

"Mercy Sakes, did they evah! An' they wus loud! Yuh, them there jets an' that there weird silvah star thing they wus chasin', too. Dunno whaddahell that wus an' I ain't too sure I wanna find out. Say, pardnah, where y'all be keepin' that there Sheriff o' ou'ahs?"

Rodolfo cocked his head at Wynne's comment. "The Sheriff's in the crew room typing up some of the incident reports, but… what silver star?"

"Haw, y'all didden see it? It be kinda hard ta describe. It wus… it wus… aw… a big-ol' silvah thing. Round as a cue ball… only silvah. An' bright as a star," Wynne said and put out her arms in a typical Cowpoke shrug.

Rodolfo nodded a couple of times before he broke out in a grin. "Okay… never mind."

"Yuh… 's what I always done say when there be som'tin I ain't- Lawwwwr-die! Barry, whaddinda'wohhhhhh-rld 'zamattah with y'all taday?!"

An urgent double take followed by a thorough eye-rubbing were required as Wynne got her first glimpse of Barry Simms's ruffled clothing, wild hair and reddish-gray-amber complexion. "Dag-nabbit, friend… y'all sure ain't lookin' too good. Ya got da floooh or som'tin?"

"No," Barry said between two puffs of a cigarette. He did in fact follow the dress code for civilian employees of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department by wearing elegant clothing in subdued colors, but his pants were covered in ash, his pullover had a coffee stain on it, his necktie had been yanked to the side, and the upper three buttons of his shirt had been undone. "But we've had twenty-seven calls already… I can't take it anymore, Wynne!"

"Okeh-"

"I just can't keep up and I don't even have time to smoke and the first ball point pen ran dry so now I have to update the incident sheet with a pencil-"

"Lawrdie! Coudden'cha jus'-"

"-but the Sheriff doesn't like that so I'll need to do it all over again afterwards with a new ball point pen but the telephone keeps ringing and I don't even have time to smoke!"

"Yuh, okeh, y'all done tole me that alreddy, but y'all got one o' them there stinkarooneys in yer-"

Without warning, the telephone rang again. Barry grabbed his head in a clear state of borderline panic. The head grabbing didn't seem to have the desired effect so he lit a second cigarette and stuck it between his lips next to the one that was already there. Puffing like a weak-chested steam locomotive scaling Haddersfield Pass, he picked up the receiver with shaking hands. He soon let out a croaking "He- Hel- Hel-looooo… how- how- how- hel-looooo…" that couldn't have done much for the peace of mind of the person calling.

Wynne bared her teeth in a worried grimace. Barry didn't appear too stable, so she crabbed sideways to get away from the overstressed individual in case he detonated. "Aw… yuh… okeh… I reckon ol' Barry could use a break or som'tin," she said once she had made it over to the door to the crew room.

"He just had one," Rodolfo said without looking up from the paperwork.

"Okeh… I reckon it wussen long enuff, yuh? Tawk ta y'all latah, Rodolfoh."

Slipping away almost unnoticed, Wynne entered the crew room where Mandy sat at the round table giving the keyboard of their highly advanced electronic typewriter a solid workout. An inch-tall pile of incident report sheets took up space on her left, but it paled in comparison to the three hefty tomes on her right: the installation guide, the actual instruction manual and a how-to book that some clever soul in a marketing department somewhere had had the audacity to call a Quick-Look Guide.

Mandy - who had yet to spot her partner standing at the door - let out two mumbled curses for every ten keys she hit, so Wynne tip-toed the long way around the round table so she wouldn't be mistaken for some critter that needed to be yelled at. Digging into a pocket, she found a white handkerchief that she waved in the air just to show she was one of the friendlies. "Howdy, darlin'," she said in a stage whisper.

Sighing, Mandy fell against the backrest with a despondent look upon her face. "Hello, hon. I wonder if it's too late for a career change? Right now, I feel it would be safer to join a bomb disposal unit… or perhaps become a door-to-door salesperson for shoe polish. Anything to get away from this thing."

"Haw, yuh… take it from somebodda who done pounded tha pavement sellin' them there en-sicko-pedias ovah yondah in Jarrod City an' North Greenville, that job ain't all that spe-shul. It had a-cuppel-a haaah'lights now an' then, but all in all, it sure wussen nuttin' spe-shul. Mebbe y'all could ask ol' Keshawn if he got an ol'-fashunned typewritah or som'tin?"

"Guess what? I have."

"Aw!"

"And he actually has one. An old Vandergriff similar to the one I learned to type on."

"Well, there y'all got it, darlin'! Yessirree!" Wynne said, tipping her cowboy hat. "Case closed… I reckon it be Fenwyck time!"

Sighing, Mandy rubbed her face. "I've thought of buying it, but I'll bet we'll have nothing but problems finding ribbons and spare parts… no. Won't work."

Wynne was about to make a counter-quip when Goldsboro chose the moment to strike back. Somewhere in the distance, a hard noise akin to a sonic boom was heard. From one moment to the next, sounds of people yelling, hollering and even screaming filtered through the walls of the sheriff's office. She and Mandy shared a quick look before the latter jumped up from the chair and tore out of the crew room.

"Yuh, I reckon that hadda happen. An' we didden even ha' time fer a li'l kiss or nuttin', dad-gummit," Wynne mumbled as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "I sure be hopin' it be ol' Barry who done went batshit or som'tin. Prolly wussen, tho'… naw, this deffa-nete-ly be Fenwyck time."

Reaching into her jacket pocket, she quickly found a can of Double-Zero that was cracked open with the traditional Psssshhht! before she left the crew room.

A single glance at the large windows toward Main Street proved the cause of the breakout of mass hysteria wasn't Barry as he stood there all agape while looking north. "Now whaddahell be goin' on he', Barry? Haw?"

Instead of a verbal reply, Barry just pointed out onto Main Street where Mandy, Rodolfo and several Goldsborians had gathered in a cluster. Everyone had their heads back looking at the sky. Many of the crowd pointed upward at something; two of them even ran away.

"Haw? Much obliged, buddy," Wynne said before taking a long swig of beer. "Snakes Alive, I bettah go check it out. Mebbe it be som'tin Tha Las' Ohhh-ree-gee-nal Cowpoah-k can fix fer all them nice folks o' Goldsborah."

Standing on the cracked linoleum next to the sheriff's desk, Blackie let out a few Woofs to try to coax Goldie out of her personal air-raid shelter underneath the desk. No matter how far the black German Shepherd pushed a stick of beef jerky and the last of the turkey-flavored treats in toward her companion, the scaredy-dawg Goldie responded by curling herself into an even tighter knot of golden fur. Blackie eventually gave up and ran out onto the street.

Predictably, the landline telephone began ringing all over again, so Barry hurried back to the watch desk to pick up the receiver.

Wynne didn't want to get caught up in anything weird, so she shuffled outside to see what all the hubbub was about. She had barely set foot on the sidewalk when the sight that greeted her sent her next swig of beer down the wrong pipe.

Hacking, spluttering and hiccuping, she stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the truck-sized fireball that raced down toward Goldsboro at incredible speed. Debris rained down from the fireball itself and the comet-like tail that stretched out for several hundred yards. An eerie soundtrack of hissing steam, crackling flames and creaking fuselage panels overpowered even the bursts of panicked screaming that rose from the spectators.

A perfectly spherical object could be seen at the leading edge of the fireball; a pair of deep indentations as well as a gaping hole had ruined the smooth, silvery surface. The fierce headwind and the nibbling flames conspired to tear away chunks at the edges of the hole which only added to the destruction.

"Mercy Sakes, Rodolfoh!" Wynne croaked as she held her cowboy hat in one hand and the beer in the other. Suds and beery droplets trickled down her chin, but she was fresh out of hands to wipe herself dry. "That there thing there be tha silvah star thing I done saw back hoah-me! Tha one I done tole y'all 'bout!"

"Well, great! Now it's gonna wipe us out!" Rodolfo said, staring at the flaming object with eyes that were just as wide as everyone else's.

Mandy shook her head. "No, it's further up than we think. It'll come down somewhere east of here… but the Goddamned debris is gonna carpet bomb all of Main Street! Senior Deputy, get these civilians out of here! Now! Take Blackie with you!"

An excited cry of Woof! Woof-woof-woof-woof! burst out of Blackie who even performed a quick 360-degree spin to show her gratitude for finally getting involved in some action.

Rodolfo didn't pause to salute or even acknowledge the order. Instead, he spread out his arms to shepherd the panicked residents to relative safety over on the west side of the street by Moira's Bar & Grill. Blackie did her part too by woofing at a few stragglers and even nudging her muzzle against the legs of the Humans who were too busy gawking to move.

While all that went on, Mandy whipped the portable radio off her belt. She gave it an extra check to see if it was on before she depressed the transmit button: "Mobile Unit One to Mobile Unit Three. Mobile Unit One to Mobile Unit Three. Deputy Reilly, this is urgent! Over!"

Crrrackle-crackle-crrrrackle-whine-hiss-whine-crackle.

"Mobile Unit One to Mobile Unit Three. Mobile Unit One to Mobile Unit Three. Are you on this frequency? Over."

Hiss-hiss-howl-whine-hiss-howl-whine-crrrrrrrackle.

Though a thunderous mask fell over Mandy's face, she showed remarkable restraint as she went through the procedure of shoving the radio back into its holster on her belt and swapping it with her telephone. A long sigh escaped her when the phone was still unable to pick up any kind of signal.

"Yessir, that sure be som'tin y'all don't see ev'ry day… not even he' in Goldsborah," Wynne mumbled before she finally wiped her chin on a wadded-up tissue she had found in her pocket. All dry, she dug up a new beer that was soon cracked open with the traditional Psssshhht! "Darlin', I reckon y'all be right… it gonn' go long. Mebbe we be lucky an' some o' that deh-breeh there gonn' wipe out Derrike's dive. Would save us a whoooole lotta trubbel, haw?"

"Everybody, get down! Get down! Here it comes!" Mandy cried at the top of her lungs. "Watch out for the debris!"

Wynne jerked up on tip-toes at the sudden shouting not two feet from her ears. Before she could regain her balance, Mandy grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down onto the sidewalk. A predictable cry of "Lawwwwwr-die, I done dropped mah beer!" followed within moments as she took in the tragic sight of the golden nectar pouring out of the can and ending up in the gutter.

A high-pitched, goose bump-inducing wail suddenly emanated from the fireball. Not only did the creepy noise bounce between the buildings on Main Street, it muffled Mandy's flowery comment on the tragic outcome to Wynne's beery horror.

"Snakes Alive! Betcha he be trah'in' ta apply them air brakes!" Wynne cried as she looked up at the spherical object that seemed to be located directly above Main Street.

A split second later, the fast-moving fireball cleared the street and disappeared behind the roofs. Another few seconds on from that, an enormous Whummmmmm! rolled in from the desert beyond the eastern city limits.

As the shockwave reached Goldsboro, it rattled every building and released plenty of red desert dust that rained down like a small-scale dust storm. Antennas and satellite dishes were given a fair shaking, and an earthenware flowerpot fell out of a window further up the street. Elsewhere, several burglar alarms added to the confusion by going off.

An impressive howl and a manic burst of frantic yapping came from inside the sheriff's office, but nobody had time to see what Barry and Goldie were up to at that moment in time.

The last of the comet-like tail had only just followed the fireball into a nose-first collision with the desert floor when Mandy jumped to her feet. She didn't even need to shield her eyes to see the long line of jagged, burning chunks of debris that seemed dead set on smashing into the street, the buildings, the vehicles and the Goldsborians below.

"Get back! Get back!" she cried, waving her hands to get the residents across the street to go even further out of harm's way.

Wynne had already reached into her jacket pocket for the next can of H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zero, but she nearly dropped that as well when Mandy grabbed her free hand and led her across the street at high speed.

Behind them, the debris sounded exactly like a rapid-fire heavy machine gun as a slew of chunks bombarded the asphalt and ravaged the empty store right next to Dorothy Tyler's Yarn Spinners. The popular hot spot for all aficionados of crochet work, knitting, sewing and other types of needlework escaped the worst of the destruction, but one of the large storefront windows was blown out. With a deafening crash, it ended its days smashed into a hundred pieces upon landing on the unforgiving sidewalk.

To compound the misery, two of the Air Force interceptor F-15s buzzed Goldsboro at rooftop altitude before they both climbed to a far greater altitude. The wall of noise created by the jet engines as they screamed past upstairs was enough to make Wynne cry out and clap her hands over her ears. While the notion was solid, the execution was lacking as it sent the next can of golden nectar flying out of her hands and into the gutter by the curb.

"Lawwwwwwr-die, whaddahell all y'all flaaaah-boys be doin'?!" she roared, whipping off her cowboy hat and staring at the empty sky above Main Street. "Them sombitches done wrecked mah beer! Nobodda wrecks mah beer an' gets away with it! Whah, I oughttah-"

Roaring didn't seem enough of a response for such a heinous crime, so she clenched her fists and shook them at the planes that had already been reduced to tiny dots in the far distance. Finally calming down, she rubbed her nose, scratched her neck, wiped her brow and stuffed her hands into her rear pockets. Then her eyes fell on a familiar shape down in the gutter. "Haw! Wouldya lookie there… mah beer! An' it didden even get many dents innit or nuttin'. Lawrdie! Dontcha worry none, li'l beer… ol' Mommah Wynne be comin' ta rescue y'all!"

Hurrying over to the errant can, she picked it up to study it from all angles. It seemed fine as such apart from a small dent and a handful of scratches, but she knew that looks could be deceiving, especially when it came to cans of beer, so she wasn't about to open it without plenty of protective clothing. Nodding and grinning, she stuffed the can back into her jacket pocket and began looking around for Sheriff Mandy.

It wasn't long before Mandy jogged across the street once more. "Goldie is all right. She was hiding underneath my desk… she had a little accident on the floor, but it's nothing a mop and soapy water can't cure."

"Haw, that be awesome news, yes Ma'am! Yuh, I know all 'bout havin' li'l accidents on da flo'ah an' all. Lawrdie, back when I wus a li'l one, I wus offen so caught up in whutevah I wus doin' that I didden make it ta- aw, that don't mattah none now. Did ol' Barry get thru' it awright?"

"Oh… yes. One of the ceiling tiles fell down and hit his coffee mug that in turn splashed onto his pants, but-"

Snickering, Wynne dug into her jacket pocket to find another can of Double-Zero. "That ain't nuttin' new, neithah! Whah, I oughttah be a poet… yuh. So now whut we gonn' do, Sheriff Mandy?"

The portable radio on Mandy's belt crackled to life before she had time to answer. The noises it produced were mostly hisses and whines, but one or two words did in fact filter through. Whipping it up at once, Mandy adjusted a few of the knobs before she depressed the transmit button. "Mobile Unit One to Mobile Unit Three. Mobile Unit One to Mobile Unit Three. Deputy Reilly, I presume it's you… you need to repeat the transmission. Over."

Crrrrrackle-crrrrrackle-howl-whine-hiss-hiss-crrrrrackle!

"Mobile Unit One to Mobile Unit Three. Mobile Unit One to Mobile Unit Three. Deputy Reilly, are you receiving me, over?"

Howl-whine-hiss-whine-hiss-crrrrrackle-crrrrrackle-howl!

Mandy slammed her eyes shut and began shaking her head.

"Haw," Wynne said, cracking open a beer with the familiar Pssshhht! "I reckon y'all need some new ray-dee-ohhs, yuh? Didya considah buyin' some o' them there baby alarms or som'tin? Or mebbe a-buncha Space Rangah walkie-talkies! Anythin' gotta be bettah than them ol' pieces o' junk."

"This late in the year, we'll be lucky if there's room in the budget for buying toilet paper…" Mandy mumbled before she gave the recalcitrant radio such a whack with the root of her hand that the red LED on top of it flickered twice. Just as she was about to depress the transmit button again, the little red LED faded out for good. "Ohhhhhh, for cryin' out loud… crap!"

"Yuh, that be crap, awright. An' I know crap!"

Mandy shook her head once more before she thrust the dead radio into its holster on her utility belt. A quick glance up Main Street proved that several of the chunks of debris that had landed across the street continued to burn. "Senior Deputy!" she roared to be heard over the general din and the fighter jets that continued to circle high above. "Get everybody inside the restaurant and make sure they stay there! I'll deal with those damn bonfires!"

A cry of "Yes, Ma'am!" and several enthusiastic Woofs! were soon heard from a short distance up the street. Though some objected because they wanted to film everything, Rodolfo and Blackie were able to shepherd most of them inside Moira's Bar & Grill without too many dramas.

In the middle of all that, Mandy took off for the sheriff's office once more.

Wynne, who had been looking at something else, turned back to the spot where the sheriff had been only moments before. "Okeh, so now whut we… haw? Darlin'? Darlin'? She wus right he'… now she ain't right he' no mo'… awww-shoot. Welcome ta Goldsborah! Aw, I bettah make sure mah TransAm be safe an' all."

Getting up, Wynne shuffled into the alley where she had left her sporty Pontiac. After giving it a bumper-to-bumper check to make sure that no harm had come to it, she chugged down her latest can of non-alcoholic beer and shuffled across the street to catch up with Sheriff Mandy.

-*-*-*-

The next ten minutes went by in a blur of activity. Using a pair of CO2 fire extinguishers from the sheriff's office, Wynne and Mandy took care of most of the smaller fires that littered Main Street in a straight line going west to east. The most insignificant fires were left untouched since they presented no safety hazard as such save for the foul smells that were carried aloft by the plumes of smoke, but some of the larger bonfires required greater attention that included the use of fire blankets as well.

While Wynne helped Dorothy Tyler shovel up the hundreds of shards that were all that remained of the smashed storefront window, Mandy emptied the first of the two fire extinguishers onto a particularly stubborn conflagration.

The large chunk of debris - that created bluish-purple flames and plenty of vile-smelling smoke rivaling even the Clouds Of Stinky Doom produced by Barry's home-rolled horrors - was so difficult to bring under control that Mandy needed to walk around it several times to cover all angles. Even so, the flames insisted on springing back to life the moment she moved onto the next hot spot.

"Dammit!" she croaked as she took a long step back to wipe her stinging eyes. "This needs a foam extinguisher… but we don't have one!"

"Whazzat, darlin'?" Wynne said from over by the store.

Mandy needed to let out several coughs before she could reply. Ultimately, she settled for pointing at the large, stubborn bonfire. "We gotta let this one burn… I can't do anything about it… but it's too close to the stores to let it be… Goddammit!" she said in a rattling croak.

She shook her head, resigned to move onto some of the smaller fires when her eyes fell on the shovel Wynne leaned on. "That might work. Wynne, get that thing over here… we need to push or pull the debris further away from the buildings. All right?"

"Haw, ya betcha, Sheriff Mandy, Ma'am!" Wynne said as she hurried over to the stubborn chunk of debris. "Yes Ma'am, I be he'! Lawwwwwwr-die, this he' space shit stinks! Okeh, les'see if tha Las' Ohhh-ree-gee-nal Cowpoah-k can save the day, yuh?"

It took three tries before Wynne finally succeeded in ramming the shovel's blade under the debris. Making sure it stayed on the flat end took another two tries, but she and Mandy were soon able to drag it further into the street and thus away from the stores.

They had barely completed their task when some kind of runaway chemical process inside the debris created a small mushroom cloud of its own. The bluish-purple flames only flared up for a few seconds, but it was enough to release a cloud of smoke that smelled toxic enough to potentially be fatal upon the merest of touches or inhalations.

"Hooooooooly shittt! It be skedaddle tihhh-me, darlin'! Head fer them hills!" Wynne cried before she spun around and tore away from the cloud as it slowly dissipated in the updraft caused by the heat of the fire. "Lawwwwwr-die, that didden half stink, that! Good flip almighty… y'awright, darlin'?"

"I'm fine… are you okay?"

"Yuh, yuh… I be okeh. Dunno 'bout mah nose hairs, tho'-" Wynne cut herself off when she clapped eyes on the shovel they had been using. All that remained of the metal blade was the outer rim. The entire center was gone as if it had been dunked in a vat of acid. "Okeh… gotta be some hevvy shit, that. I reckon that debris prolly be that silvah thing's gas tank or som'tin… yuh? Now we gonn' hafta buy Mizz Dorothy a new shovel, too!"

"Better a new shovel than a new store. Thank you," Mandy said, staring at the dead tool.

"Aw, ya sure is welcome an' all, darlin'. Yuh… so now whut?"

"Oh, we're nowhere near done here. But first things first," Mandy said and reached for her telephone at once. The continued lack of a signal made her scrunch up her face even more. "Wynne, do you-"

From one moment to the next, the entire row of bars lit up like a small-scale Christmas tree literally signalling that the signal had been reestablished. "About frickin' time!" Mandy said, already moving through the registry to find Beatrice Reilly's number.

She spun around when the sound of a hundred telephones ringing all at once spread like wildfire behind her. It seemed that everyone wanted to call everyone else at the exact same moment. "Great… now they're going to crash the Goddamned grid!"

'Hello, Sheriff?'

Mandy shook her head as she put the telephone to her ear. "Deputy, where the hell are you? This is a madhouse! We need you down here on the double!"

'I'm on my way, Sheriff! The Durango broke down so I'm on foot-'

"Oh, for the love of… just get here as fast as you can! Out!" Once Mandy had terminated the call, the telephone didn't stay quiet for long. A long groan escaped her when the caller-ID read CnclWmn Skinner. "Not now… not now, for Pete's sake," she mumbled as she tapped the Reject Call bar.

Wynne, who had already cracked open another beer, strolled over to the frustrated sheriff. "Say, darlin', I reckon them phoah-nes be workin' ag'in. Haw?"

"It appears that way, yes," Mandy said with only the slightest undertone of sarcasm.

"Y'all coudda tawked twice alreddy but nobodda done called me or nuttin'! Whah, that sure be a li'l insultin'!" Wynne broke out in a snicker before she was too busy chugging beer to do anything else.

Mandy let out a deep, long sigh at the absurdity of it all. She held up the first of the fire extinguishers. "Like I said, this one's empty. I need to run back to the office to grab our spare."

"Whah, sure. Bah-bah, darlin'!" Wynne said, tipping her cowboy hat with one hand while using the other to take a swig of beer. A moment later, she had to crinkle her nose at the foul smells that permeated the area. "Pee-yuuu, that there smoke stinks like the inside of a bull's bunghole! Lawrdie, I'mma-gonn' mosey on ovah he' so I don't burn off mah tastebuds or nuttin'… or izzit smellbuds? Haw, ain't too sure an' it don't really mattah none, anyhows."

A cry of 'Wynne!' made her turn around a let out a highly eloquent "Haw? Whazzat? Now who dat dere tawkin'? Aw, it be ol' Bea… howdy, Bea. I be ovah he', yuh?"

When Deputy Beatrice Reilly arrived at the same spot occupied by the Last Original Cowpoke, she breathed hard after sprinting all the way down Main Street from her designated scouting position at the northern city limits sign. When she had enough air to breathe and speak at the same time, she said: "Wow, did you see that weird thing? What do you think it was?"

"Haw? Whut weird thing? Y'all need-a be mo' specific… I mean, this bein' Goldsborah an' all-"

"The fireball, Wynne! The fireball that just flew over town!"

"Aw, that weird thing. Okeh. Well, I reckon it wus a fi'ahball, awright."

Beatrice nodded a couple of times before she broke out in a shrug. "Yeah, okay. Where's the sheriff?"

"Aw, she be down at tha office. She done spent one o' them there exting-wishers on that there stinky-ass fi'ah ovah yondah so she took off fer tha spare. Say, how come y'all wus runnin', anyhows?"

"The Durango broke down. It was probably my fault… I backed up a little too hard and when I slammed the shifter into drive, it could only find a boxful of neutrals."

Wynne nodded several times before she took a long swig of the Double-Zero. "Ugh. Yuh, I done trah'd that once. I reckon tha department be down ta two Durangahs now, haw? One off'em still be parked up at tha impound yard 'cos ol' Otto tha Third don't wanna fix it befo' y'all done paid out yer credit or some such… ain't dat so?"

Beatrice shrugged briefly as a red tide spread over her face.

"Lawrdie. Mebbe y'all could get ol' Cletus Browne ta sponsah a-cuppel-a used vee-hickels or som'tin? They woudden be new, but they be workin'. Yuh. Aw, I don't wanna be holdin' y'all up or nuttin'. Y'all bettah report ta tha Sheriff, yuh?"

"Talk to you later, Wynne. Stay safe," Beatrice said before she took off in a fast jog that would see her return to the sheriff's office in no time.

---

Back at the office, Mandy pinched the bridge of her nose in an attempt to stop the explosive headache from getting any worse. Its cause wasn't the toxic smoke she had been exposed to, but the sight and sounds of Barry Simms laughing hysterically at the state of his wet pants, the drowned incident report sheet, the flooded ashtray and the fact that the heavy Bakelite telephone jumped around on the watch desk from ringing so hard.

To cap it all off, Mandy's own telephone rang again. Shaking her head in despair, she strode out of the sheriff's office to answer it. Beatrice arrived at the same time, so Mandy pointed through the window at the manic Barry before she patted Beatrice on the shoulder to send a clear, non-verbal message of 'Please rescue Mr. Simms before he tries to eat or smoke one of his spare socks.'

The caller-ID said Unknown Caller which didn't help much. It couldn't get any worse considering the entire world was already falling apart all around her, so she accepted the call, put the telephone to her ear and stuck her pinkie in the other ear to be able to hear what was said. "This is Sheriff Jalinski of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department, the office in Goldsboro. Who is this?"

'Sheriff, this is Lieutenant Colonel H.G. Pressley, US Air Force. I'm calling you from Bradley AFB-'

As the Air Force officer spoke, Mandy scrunched up her face as she recalled the mess that had nearly flattened Goldsboro the last time she'd had to deal with him. Back then, Pressley had been in charge of a top-top-top secret military convoy that had failed to take the typical Goldsboro weirdness into account when they had drawn up their plans. The top-top-top secret Thing they had been transporting had escaped right in the middle of Main Street and had caused untold destruction everywhere until it had been caught down by the trailer park.

'-you may have noticed some airborne activity earlier today. Well, to prevent the spreading of misinformation, I can tell you that our brave pilots were able to locate and eliminate one of those rogue weather balloons that I'm sure you've heard about on the news. We call them UAPs now, by the way. Yes, it had drifted into our patrol area-'

Mandy's eyes did a full 360-degree tour of her surroundings while Pressley continued to wax lyrically into her ear. His gushing tones almost made her forget about her headache as all her energy was diverted to put the lid on her inner volcano that had just erupted. "Nice try, Lieutenant Colonel. The entire town just witnessed a thirty-foot-wide flying sphere come in at rooftop height engulfed in flames! It sent burning debris all over the place before it crashed into the desert!"

'Oh… I see-'

"Good, because so did everyone here! I'm not telling you how to do your job, sir, but may I suggest that you redirect your Chinooks to the crash site on the double? There's bound to be some kind of contamination out there. We can still hear them flying around in the distance."

A slight pause developed before Pressley spoke on. The easily recognizable sound of papers being rustled came through loud and clear: 'Well, let me see… no… as far as I can tell from our patrol plans, we haven't had any helicopter presence in that sector-'

"Good day, sir," Mandy said and smacked a thumb onto the Close Connection bar. Growling and grumbling, she shoved the telephone into her pocket before she strode back inside the sheriff's office to get up to speed on not only Barry's mental state but, perhaps more importantly, how badly the incident report sheet had been damaged by the coffee flooding.

-*-*-*-

A few minutes later, Wynne appeared in the doorway holding a new can that, much to everyone's astonishment, wasn't a beer but a Summer Dreamz Sporty Red energy drink. Knowing when to butt in and when to stick to observing, she kept to herself over by the large windows.

Down on the blanket inside the glass door, Blackie acknowledged her owner's presence by letting out a brief Woof! before the pull of her gnawing bone and bowlful of chicken-flavored treats proved stronger.

A sheepish-looking Goldie was snuggled up to the black German Shepherd to seek protection from the evil, cruel, scary world that surrounded them. She had her golden head resting on her paws so she could at least keep up with what went on in the office, but it was clear by her body language that she would much rather be over in her cave underneath the pool table in the bar and grill, or - better still - back home playing in the desert with her special friend Freddie.

Mandy sat at the big desk with her telephone glued to her ear. Rodolfo stood at the outdated map of town holding a handful of colored pins that he used to plot the course of the fireball and the trailing debris. Beatrice had assumed duties at the watch desk where she spoke into the old-fashioned landline telephone while updating a new incident book. The drowned book was nowhere in sight, but the fact that the door to the bathroom at the far end of the office was ajar offered a hint that the book could be drip-drying out there.

Barry had been put at the smallest desk to look at some paperwork though it went beyond his job description. His unhealthy complexion and the wild state of his hair were clues that he was still on the brink of hysteria, but he had recovered enough to smoke. Thus, one of his infamous Clouds Of Stinky Doom rose toward the felt tiles in the ceiling. Since he didn't usually sit at that desk, the tiles were still clean and virginal.

"Yes, Councilwoman. Very much so," Mandy said, waving Wynne over to the big desk. "Lieutenant Colonel Pressley claimed- pardon? Yes, the same Pressley who was in charge of the lizard debacle. Well, he claimed that it was a weather balloon which it clearly wasn't. Did you see it? All right. Well, take it from me, it was no balloon. No, I'm afraid I can't say what it actually was. Mrs. Tyler's store received some damage, but we better leave that to her insurance company. Yes. Very well, Councilwoman. Goodbye."

"Lawrdie, things sure be hectic in he', haw?!" Wynne said as she planted a buttock on the corner of the sheriff's desk. "Barry still be lookin' like he be orbitin' Jupitah or som'tin… an' Bea looks all bizzness-like sittin' at that there watch desk, yuh? An' Rodolfoh… haw, I ain't got a clue whaddahell Rodolfoh be doin' come ta think offit."

Chuckling, the Senior Deputy added another red pin to the old map. "This is so we can make a guesstimate as to where it might have come down. It's the fireball's trajectory, Wynne."

"Okeh. Ain't sure whut that there word means or nuttin', but I reckon it would purr-haps be bettah jus' ta drive inta tha desuhrt an' follah tha line o' debris or som'tin. But whaddahell do I know 'bout them things?" Nodding, Wynne finished the unusually long sentence by taking a long swig of the Sporty Red energy drink.

Mandy and Rodolfo looked at each other for a moment before the sheriff let out a tired chuckle. "That's a good idea," she said as she got up and grabbed her winter jacket and the expensive Mountie hat. "Just in case there's trouble in store, you and I have the most experience in dealing with it, so… well, let's go."

"Haw!" Wynne said, moving off the desk with such speed that several droplets of the energy drink ended up on her lips and cheeks. "That sure wussen whut I done meant or nuttin'! Cantcha mebbe send Barry or somebodda? If them buhh-tt-ugly aliens be out dere, they gonn' run away screamin' when they clap eyes on ol' Barry…"

While Wynne had spoken, Mandy had unlocked the gun cabinet. "We'll take Blackie along for protection. And this one," she said as she took a Mossberg pump-action shotgun and a box of shells.

"Lawwwwwwwwwwwr-die, I sure be gettin' one o' them there flashbacks all ovah ag'in! We ain't takin' mah TransAm, no way, no how, no Ma'am! Betcha ten bucks them there ETs there be waitin' fer me ta show up so they can phoah-ne hoah-me an' say they done blowed up mah cahhhh-r, too!"

"Deal. We'll take one of the Durangos. Here, you're driving," Mandy said, lobbing the keys over to Wynne.

Wynne stared at the key fob that she had caught with amazing dexterity. "Wynne Donnah-hew… when y'all gonn' learn ta keep yer big trap shut? Awwwww-shoot!" The situation called for an extra dose of caffeine, so she downed the rest of the Sporty Red in a series of gulps.

"Deputy Reilly," Mandy said as she strode over to the watch desk, "what's the latest? Have you had any calls I need to deal with before we leave?"

Beatrice shook her head as she glanced at the seven incident reports she had added to the new sheet since she took over. "No, Ma'am. Torsten Jensen called to say that he had uploaded a video of the spherical object on Youtube, but that it had been flagged as fake by other users so it had already been taken down. I don't know what he thought we could about it. Also, Mr. Rossmann called to say that he's seen little green men running around on Josiah Street. They were approximately three feet tall, had antennas on their head and were… and I quote… kicking a soccer ball around."

Mandy let out a deep sigh. "All right. Thank you, Deputy. Even little green men need regular exercise so we'll let them play for the time being. Miss Donohue and I will be chasing the debris trail. You can reach me on my telephone."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Senior Deputy," Mandy said as she zipped her jacket, "you're in charge."

"Very well, Sheriff," Rodolfo said, already moving over to the big desk.

Down on the floor, Blackie nudged Goldie's fur one last time before she got up and shook her back. She briefly jumped into an aggressive stance and pulled her lips back in a feral sneer to have all the basic moves down pat in case they ran into someone who needed to be taught a lesson.

---

Five minutes later, Wynne drove one of the two remaining Dodge Durangos through the alley that ran past Grant Lafferty's Beer & Liquor Imports. A scant minute beyond that, they went by the impound yard where one of the other Durangos continued to sit forlornly after breaking its driveshaft.

Mandy had spent several long minutes trying to find a portable radio that still worked, but she had eventually given up the unequal struggle with the grimness of reality. At present, she sat on the passenger-side seat loading the shotgun.

Blackie throned on the back seat with her muzzle pressed up against the side window to see where they were going. The rear windows couldn't open as a precautionary measure to prevent prisoners from escaping, but it also meant she couldn't poke her head out like she loved to do. She wasn't too displeased with the situation as it certainly beat being transported in the far too restrictive K9 cage in the back of the SUV.

Though they weren't going fast as such, Wynne still needed to slow down as the paved alley gave way to a dirt trail that led out to the edge of the desert. At least the Durango had a permanent four-wheel drive system so she didn't have to stop to engage the front axle as well. Instead, she reduced the speed even further as they entered the desert itself.

"Okeh… now les'see where that there line o' debris done went," she said as she turned left to drive parallel to Main Street. After a distance of 200 yards or so, irregular-sized chunks of space debris appeared ahead of them. Some of them were still steaming or smoking, but it seemed that all but the most stubborn of the bluish-purple flames had died down. Here and there, the last remaining traces of the craft's silvery outer skin glistened in the sunlight.

Mandy put the stock of the shotgun between her boots so she could point ahead. "Once we reach the debris, turn right so we can follow the trail into the desert."

"Haw, that be a big ten-fo'ah! Yes, Ma'am!"

The smoking chunks of debris were soon reached. Turning right, Wynne was able to pick up the pace a little as it became obvious that the line stretched out quite far ahead of them.

Mandy craned her neck to look out of the left-hand side window. Down below, the debris was clearly visible as black objects that peppered the reddish-tan desert floor. "Don't get too close to it, hon. A distance of three to four yards will probably be safer. We can't afford to lose the vehicle. We saw how it destroyed the shovel's blade…"

"Haw, we sure did. Steerin' clear, yes Ma'am," Wynne said as she made a slight course correction to gain another few yards from the line of debris. "Yuh, an' now we be tawkin' 'bout that there shovel, I gotta make a note or som'tin ta go ovah ta Wyatt's hardware sto'ah an' buy a new one. I reckon ol' Dorothy got a li'l miffed 'bout us wreckin' her best shovel."

In the back, Blackie let out a Woof-woof-wooooooof-woof-woof-woof! to show that she had already moved past 'Enthusiastic' and 'Eager' and was well on her way to 'Excited' or perhaps even 'Ecstatic' at finally seeing some action. Not that there was any to see as such, but a healthy dose of giddy anticipation had never hurt anyone.

---

The white and gold Dodge Durango followed the trail of debris for a few minutes. The chunks continued to be of greatly varying shapes and sizes, but they had all been blackened by the fireball that had engulfed the spherical craft. Here and there, large, pitch-black patches had been scorched into the sand and rocks hinting at runaway chemical reactions similar to the one that had ruined the shovel's blade back on Main Street.

Blackie kept track of their progress from her spot on the back seat. Her frequent growls and brief woofs made it obvious that while giddy anticipation was fine, it was even better when it was rewarded by some action. In short, she was getting impatient. It was clear from her body language that she had hoped the mission would be an action-filled one like the time she had battled the fearsome Vampyre Ghoul creature down in the abandoned mining camp at Silver Creek, or even the horde of undead cannibals that had invaded Goldsboro at one of the craziest Halloweens in the town's existence.

"Ya know, darlin'," Wynne said after a short spell of silence, "I sure can't bah-lieve this shit be happenin' ag'in. Know whut I mean? Mebbe somebodda up there be trah'in' ta send us a mess-itch or som'tin?"

Mandy let out a bitter chuckle as she kept her eyes on the endless line of debris ahead. "Well, if they are, I wish they'd use the US Mail. It would save us a lot of trouble."

"Yuh, that sure ain't no lie. Ya know whut I reckon, darlin'? I reckon them flaaah-boys done kept this he' big-ass silvery thing undah lock an' key down at da base. Then som'tin done happened an' it wus able ta escape. When I caught wind offit flah'in' past tha trailah park, it wussen attackin' or nuttin'… naw, it wus runnin' from them fightahs like a bat outtah hell."

"I wouldn't put it past them."

"Naw."

Wynne fell silent as she needed to steer clear of a chunk of debris the size of Freddie's doghouse back home in the trailer park, but they were soon back on course.

"So the ol' geezer Alburht Rossmann saw them li'l green men, haw? Well, we know bettah… ain't dat so, darlin'? They ain't green. They be stark white. Or at least them we done saw wus. I jus' don't undahstand whaddahell they keep comin' he' fo'. I mean, othah places be much nicer, yuh? I done heard New Mexicoh be real perdy this time o' year an' all… but okeh, lookie at tha smelly mess that done happened at Roswell, yuh?"

"I believe that really was some kind of balloon," Mandy said with a chuckle.

"No shit? Haw. Tha weird thing is that I done drove that there Roo-te three-seven-five once. Tha one them clevah folks call tha Extraterrestrial Haaah'way, yuh? It goes past that there Area Fiddy-One ovah bah Rachel, Nevada an' them parts. An' guess whut? I didden see nuttin'! Nuttin' whut-so-evah. That wus… shoot… mebbe three weeks befo' we done met fer tha first time 'cos o' them there Q-Tip visitahs, yuh? So I reckon they musta follah'd me hoah-me or som'tin. If that ain't Wynne Donnah-hew in a dang-blasted nutshell, I ain't got no clue whut would be!"

Chuckling, Mandy leaned over to pat Wynne's thigh. "Maybe we got it all wrong back then. Maybe they only wanted your autograph, eh?"

"Mebbe… but then they done blowed up mah truck!"

---

Another few minutes on from Wynne's musings, the terrain became rougher. A trench fifty feet wide and eight feet deep had been carved in the desert floor revealing rocks that had been hidden since the dawn of time. Dozens of shapeless chunks of debris continued to litter the reddish sand on either side of the trench, but the spread turned narrower the further they went from the initial impact spot.

"All right… slow down. Slow down, Wynne, we're almost there," Mandy said, sitting up straight. The Mossberg was soon prepared by working the action.

"Okeh. Wheredahell we at, anyhows?"

Mandy retrieved her telephone to verify the GPS coordinates, but the signal had been lost once more - undoubtedly a result of their proximity to the wreck. "I can't say for sure, but I think we must be at the north-western entry point to Rattler Gulch," she said as she put away the telephone.

"Aw! I shoudden ha' asked! Them rattlahs gonn' be so dang-blasted P.O.'ed 'bout this he' deal they gonn' form a committee an' kindly ask us ta leave! Or som'tin…"

Wynne had the sun visor flipped down as they drove through the desert, but she moved it to its upper stop now she had something to look for. A moment later, a loud "Hoooooooly shittt!" left her lips as she took in the blackened, charred remains of the spherical object that came into view roughly 150 yards ahead of the white and gold Durango. "Mercy Sakes, there sure ain't gonn' be nobodda sayin' 'take me ta ya leadah' this time, haw?"

"No, that's been thoroughly destroyed…"

Falling quiet, Wynne needed a few moments before all her neurons had had time to synchronize their clocks. "Ya know, if somebodda evah done asked me that… I mean, like, take me ta ya leadah, yuh? Ain't no way I would say nuttin' but 'whaddahell y'all wanna do that fo'? How 'bout we jus' got usselves a-cuppel-a beers instead?' "

Mandy didn't reply to the joke. Instead, she opened the door once the Durango had slowed down to walking pace. She put her boots on the doorsill and used the upper edge of the door as an aiming and firing platform for the shotgun.

Although the smaller pieces of debris and the main chunk of the fuselage - that continued to smolder - didn't seem to pose any threats as such, she kept the firearm trained on them for the rest of the short drive. "All right… stop here, Wynne. Please let Blackie out while I survey the crash site."

"Yes, Ma'am," Wynne said, jumping out once the Durango had come to a halt.

Blackie's impatient barking from the back seat proved she was more than ready to gnaw on some interstellar butt. The door had barely been opened before she burst out of the vehicle and set off on a mad dash around the area to sniff out as much as she could in the shortest amount of time.

While Blackie had her nose to the ground, Mandy stepped out of the SUV and began moving closer to the rim of the deep trench and the charred craft it contained. She took it nice and easy with the shotgun held at her shoulder just in case someone - or something - would consider her a juicy morsel.

Back at the SUV, Wynne shut the rear doors before she shuffled over to the rim of the trench. "Snakes Alive, this shit stinks!" she said, reaching up to pinch her nostrils at once. The entire area reeked to high heaven of chemicals and other toxic substances, but she didn't have enough knowledge of such matters to decipher what they could be. All she knew was that it smelled worse than the average Texan dung heap in a 110-degree heatwave, and that said a lot.

"Good shittt almighty… whaddahell kinda fuel them guys be runnin' on, anyhows? Sour mash 'shine or som'tin?" she croaked as she dug into her pockets to find the white handkerchief. Once she had found it, she tied it around the lower part of her face. It quickly proved not to be enough, so she dug out her red bandanna as well. Once both layers of quality fabric covered her nose and mouth, her breathing grew far less rasping and labored.

"Darlin'! Darlin', y'all need-a wear a bandanna or som'tin!" Wynne cried, holding up her hand to use as an amplifier. "Dontcha be breathin' this he' shit or y'all gonn' see li'l green men ev'rywhere! An' I know whut I be tawkin' 'bout 'cos I done trah'd mesca-leeh-ne once an' that sure wussen no pleasure croooh-ze, lemme tell y'all! It ack-chew-ly made me chew on a-buncha banana peels 'cos I done thunk they wus sunflowah seeds…"

Mandy had made it over to the rim of the trench, but she turned around to shoot Wynne a long, wide-eyed and highly puzzled glance. She stood like that for several seconds before she reached into a pocket to find a handkerchief that she pressed against her mouth and nose with her free hand. It seemed to do the trick, so she began searching for a path to the deepest part of the trench that she could use to walk down rather than slide down on her backside.

Once Wynne had waded through the soft sand and across the hard rocks along the rim of the trench, she studied the blackened chunks of debris without recognizing anything whatsoever. She used the tip of her cowboy boot to kick one part over onto its side, but that didn't provide any shocking revelations, either. Strolling along to get closer to the shallow end of the trench that had been carved into the desert, she tried kicking over several other bits and pieces, but nothing she encountered gave her any kind of insight into the craft's origin or even purpose.

"Naw, I reckon we oughttah let them flaaah-boys deal with it… ain't nuttin' he' that nobodda can use fer nuttin'," she said, pushing her cowboy hat back from her brow. "Shoot, that thing right there looks like tha chroah-me hood ornament offa… haw… Buick Century or som'tin! Or mebbe a Bel Air. Dontcha reckon, darlin'?"

'I don't have time right now, hon.'

"Aw! Y'all found some li'l crittah or somebodda?"

'No. I just don't have the time right now.'

"Okeh. No skin offa mah buhh-tt," Wynne said with a grin. The gesture made the red Cowpoke bandanna shift downward, so she pulled it up at once to avoid getting the contaminated air into her lungs.

While the Humans had spoken, Blackie had run around in wide circles with her nose to the ground to investigate. The experienced K9 officer let out a series of increasingly disappointed woofs when it became obvious there was nothing to find and certainly no evil spacemen to gnaw on. After another run through the debris field yielded nothing, she found a spot well clear of the bad smells where she sat down and assumed a perfect pout.

Mandy had made it all the down to the eight-foot deep bottom of the trench without slipping, sliding or ending up on her backside. Moving around carefully, she investigated the largest chunks of wreckage they had found so far, but everything was so mangled and charred that even they offered no clues.

"Ya know, darlin'," Wynne said, standing near the rim of the deep trench, "I ain't sure if I be happy or peeved that it don't look like we gonn' get some clear answahs 'bout this he' thing he'. An' there sure ain't no aliens 'round these he' parts, neithah. Aw, I s'pose it ain't all bad. At least no killah UFOs done blowed up mah truck this time."

Woof! Woof-woof-woof-woof…

"Whazzat, girl?"

Woof!

"Yuh, I know y'all coudden wait ta sink yer eye teeth inta somebodda, Blackie, but I reckon this be one o' them there 'be careful whutcha done wish fer' kinda situa-shuns, yuh?"

Woof…

"Yuh. Anyhows, I got a li'l story fer y'all, yuh? The othah day, I lissened ta a-cuppel-a coo' horrah Hallah-ween dramatiza-shuns on tha Net where two o' them there Reptilian aliens done crash landed up in Oregon an' a-buncha stuff."

Woof?

"Yuh, no kiddin'! They fell outtah one o' them wormholes or som'tin in da skaaah an' found Earth. They thunk they wus gonn' find dinah-soars an' shit, but they found people instead!"

Woof?

"Haw?"

Woof-woof?

"Aw, dinah-soars wus them really big things, yuh? Huge bodies an' teeny-tiny brains an' all. I reckon they musta been the forefathahs o' Artie Rains, yuh?"

Woof…

"Naw, I ain't exaggeratin' or nuttin', Blackie. Anyhows. Them stories sure wus coo'."

Eight feet and a handful of inches below The Last Original Cowpoke, Mandy used the stock of her Mossberg shotgun to turn over a large piece of wreckage. When it released a plume of toxic, purple smoke into the air, she took a long step back to avoid coming into contact with it. "No, this is just a waste of time. We've done all we can here," she said in a voice muffled by the handkerchief. "Wynne! Does your telephone work?"

"Lemme see, darlin'! Checkin'… checkin'… checkin'… shoot. Nope."

"Dammit. All right. We'll need to contact the Air Force Base so they can deal with it. And probably the EPA as well. I don't know who'll have the final say in the matter, but this mess needs to be cleaned up in a hurry before the contamination spreads too deep. Okay, I'm coming up."

"Works fer me, darlin', 'cos I be down ta mah las' can o' beer an' all," Wynne said, patting her jacket pocket. When she turned to look at Blackie, all she saw was an empty spot where the black dog had sat only moments earlier. "Haw… Blackie? Blackie, whe'dahell y'all go? Where y'all at, girl?"

A slow turn revealed that Blackie had run over to the farthest side of the trench. As the silvery object's forward momentum had finally run out of steam, it had caused desert rocks and sand to be piled up in a multi-colored wall at least twelve feet tall. The wagging tail visible just beyond the pile proved that Blackie had found something interesting.

"Haw, girl, we be reddy ta go back an' all, yuh? It sure ain't no time ta be huntin' jackrabbits or nuttin'!" Wynne said as she set off for the tall pile and the black dog that used it to play hide and seek.

Somewhere behind The Last Original Cowpoke, Mandy finally made it up to the top of the trench. Though the walls at the shallow end were obviously far less steep than those at the deep end, the flat rocks and the finely-grained desert sand insisted on shifting and collapsing under her weight. Scaling it proved to be much harder work than anticipated, so she needed to use the white handkerchief to wipe her neck and her brow once she was in the clear.

The next few moments were spent trying to locate Wynne and Blackie. From somewhere out of sight, a couple of Woofs! were soon followed by a 'Lawwwwwwr-die, girl! If I hadden been drinkin' them Dubbel-Zerahs all dang day, I woudda said I wus drunk off mah ass!'

Woof!

'Mercy Sakes, jus' when y'all done thunk it wus safe ta go back inta tha desuhrt… man, I ain't sure I wanna be livin' ne'ah Goldsborah no mo'!'

Sighing, Mandy strode across the soft desert sand to hear all about the new chapter of the latest calamity to strike the desert hamlet.

Striding around the tall pile of sand and rocks that was peppered by smoldering chunks of debris, she came to an abrupt halt at the sight of Blackie and Wynne looking down at a four-foot long, vaguely humanoid body. Another deep sigh escaped her as she resumed walking toward the scene.

The terrible heat of the flames that had engulfed the spherical craft - not to mention the subsequent violent impact onto the desert floor - had inflicted too much damage on the body for any kind of positive identification, but the blackened remains Blackie had found seemed to have two legs, two arms, a slender torso and a round, somewhat bell-shaped head that seemed a little too big for the rest of the limbs. The hands only had three fingers but the feet had four toes to help keep the balance. Some parts of the body were still covered by silvery fabric akin to a flight suit.

"Wouldya lookie there, darlin'," Wynne said, speaking through her protective bandanna. She took off her cowboy hat and held it to her chest to pay her respects. "There be one gal or fella who ain't gonn' make it hoah-me fer suppah tanight. Wher'evah hoah-me wus, anyhows."

"Don't touch it, Wynne. There may be space germs on it."

"Lawrdie, darlin', I mebbe a li'l slow on the uptake, yuh? But there ain't no way in San José I'mma-gonn' be touchin' a smokin' corpse, nosirree! Space Germans or no space Germans. I done watched them zohm-bie mooh-vies!"

Mandy and Blackie both did brief double-takes but chose not to make a comment of a spoken or woofing kind. Instead, the former looked at her telephone to see if the signal had been restored, but the connection was just as absent as it had been back in Goldsboro when the spherical craft had still been racing across the skies with the interceptor jets on its tail. "All right, we've spent enough time out here. We need to get back to town so I can call the AFB. Wynne, are you done here?"

"Yuh," Wynne said, plonking her cowboy hat back onto her dark locks. Turning away from the non-human remains, she patted her thigh and let out a brief whistle to let Blackie know it was high time to get back to the real world. Ten paces into her journey, she whipped off her hat again, lowered her bandanna and leaned her head back to look at the sky.

"Ta all y'all fihhhh-ne folks out dere! Me an' Sheriff Mandy didden ha' nuttin' ta do with this he' thing, yuh? Not a dang-blasted thing! So there ain't no point in all y'all gettin' yer undies wadded up ovah this he' shit an' send somebodda or som'tin down he' ta zap us with one o' them there death rays or whaddahell-evah, yuh? I done thunk y'all-reddy undahstood it from tha las'time this kinda shit done happened, but it be obvious y'all didden! Dad-gummit! I sure as stink on shoot hope all y'all got it this time. This he' be tha one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew signin' off fer good! Bah-bah!"

Nodding to herself, Wynne moved her bandanna back up, mashed her hat onto her dark locks and stomped off toward the Dodge Durango. On her way there, she reached into her jacket pocket to get the last can of beer. It was the one that she had rescued after it had made a parabolic flight into the gutter over on Main Street, so she remembered to hold it away from her as she cracked it open. The sound it produced was closer to a Pssshhh-splash! than the regular Pssshhht! due to the abundance of suds, but it made no difference to its taste.

Mandy and Blackie shared a long look before they let out a chuckle and a drawn-out Woooooffff! and followed Wynne back to the SUV.

-*-*-*-

A short while later, the Durango had made it half a mile or so away from the crash site. They had chosen a more direct route back to town instead of following the trail of debris, so Wynne drove with her elbow on the windowsill and her head half-in and half-out of the window so she could keep track of the unknown terrain under the wheels.

The passenger-side window had been rolled down as well. Mandy held out the telephone in the hope the increasing distance to the chunks of space debris would enable her to pick up a signal, but the theory had yet to be proven correct. "Still nothing. Dammit," she mumbled before she pulled the telephone back inside. "If it's not the debris, then what the hell is it? Maybe the Air Force has launched drones equipped with jamming equipment? Or maybe it's coming from those Chinooks that allegedly aren't even out here… at least according to Pressley."

"Haw? Who dat be?"

"Lieutenant Colonel H.G. Pressley from Bradley AFB."

Wynne fell quiet for a moment while she tried to get her brain cells to stand in an orderly line. "Aw… I don't reckon I evah done heard- haw! Sure I have. Wussen that the fellah who fouled up perdy dog-gone bad back when that there big-ass lizard crittah made a run fer it?"

"Same guy. Same mess!"

"Haw, I reckon! Anyhows, it jus' goes ta show how vulnerable we be without them phoah-nes, yuh? Ain't nobodda got them ol' landlines no mo'. Can ya even ordah 'em these days? Ain't sure. Okeh, they could fail, but nowhe'ah near as offen as them technological marvels we got nowadays."

"Unless someone cut the wires."

"Hah, dat be true, yes Ma'am." Grunting, Wynne began studying the skies around them just in case her earlier message had fallen on deaf alien ears. She did in fact see a bright light where bright lights weren't supposed to be at that time of the day, but it turned out to be sunlight glinting off the canopy of one of the interceptor jets that continued to fly around in search of a new target.

When driving through unknown terrain, it's always best to keep one's eyes on the ground ahead instead of the heavens above. It's even better to keep one's eyes on the three-feet-deep hollow that seemed to open its arms to give the Durango a warm and highly sandy welcome.

On the back seat, Blackie stared wide-eyed at the odd way the desert floor seemed to disappear directly in front of the vehicle. Looking to her left, she noticed that one of her owners didn't pay any attention whatsoever to the actual driving. Worse, her other owner was busy with one of the annoying noisemakers. It soon became clear that she had to step up to the proverbial plate, and the best way to do that was to let out one of her trademark thunderous barks.

"Hoooooooooooooooooooooah-ly shittt, Blackie!" Wynne cried, jerking upright as if she had been stung by a bee in a spot that only saw the light of day under very specific circumstances. A split second later, she caught an eyeful of the deep hollow dead ahead and immediately spun the steering wheel to the right to clear the obstacle.

"Turn the wheel! Now!" Mandy cried, pointing at the chasm immediately in front of the SUV.

"I be doin' it! I be doin' it!"

In the back, Blackie let out a Woof! that eventually turned into a howl that meant 'Ohhhhh, Dawg!'

Both wheels on the Durango's left-hand side teetered on the edge of the abyss for several long seconds before its momentum carried it away from the danger. As a parting present, the top of the sandy dune crumbled under the left rear which made the heavy SUV tilt to that side.

While the tilting grew more pronounced, the howling inside the vehicle grew louder. Everything slid over to the left - including Blackie who thumped against the door panel - until Wynne planted her boot on the gas pedal which made the powerful engine roar and deliver enough power to all four wheels to escape the clutches of the evil monster lurking in the soft, deceptive sand.

"Hawwwwww-shittt, that wus dog-gone close, that! Sooooohm-bitch!" Wynne croaked in a voice that came closer to sounding like a demented chipmunk than her usual dulcet tones.

Next to her, Mandy wiped her face on the white handkerchief. "I'll say. Thanks for alerting us, Blackie. That'll earn you an extra box of treats once we get back home."

Woof!

Mandy let out a tired chuckle at their dog's enthusiastic bark. The chuckle lasted for all of two seconds until she noticed that something important had gone missing during the crisis. Quick looks down into the footwells and the tray between the seats were followed by a thorough pat-down of the carpet under her own seat. The lack of success confirmed her initial fears. Growling, she smacked her forehead. "Dammit, I lost my telephone!"

"It prolly went bah-bah thru' tha open windah an' all," Wynne said as she came to a halt in the middle of nowhere. Before she could add a little quip, the sheriff had already vacated the premises to search for the missing gadget. "Yuh, okeh… haw, I jus' be glad Goldie didden come along fer ou'ah road trip. I reckon she may ha' had anothah li'l accident on da upholstery or som'tin."

Woof…

"Aw-yuh, y'all sure don't hafta tell me how easy it be ta sit in a li'l puddle all offa sudden. Lawrdie, that done happened plenty in mah youngah years, 'specially when I wus still recuperatin' from mah head injury. Yuh."

Woof?

"Yuh, it be like this… when we humans be li'l ones, we wear these he' things called diapahs, yuh? They be meant ta catch this an' that, yuh? But sometimes, when da squirt be comin' too hard an' fast, it goes ev'rywhere."

Woof-woof-woof… woof?

"Y'all got dat right, Blackie. It sure wussen funny ta need-a wear a diapah when I wus eight. All mah friends did all them kid things an' I coudden. No, it sure wussen funny whut-so-stinkin'-evah."

'Found it!'

"Haw? Whazzat? Whadda mah darlin' find?" Wynne said, sticking her entire head out of the driver's side window. Mandy, who had backtracked about thirty yards or so, waved back to show that she had found her telephone. "Aw… yuh, okeh. Tha phoah-ne. Haw. I plum fergot."

When the sheriff returned to the Durango, she used the steps integrated into the rear doors to climb up onto the roof. Once she had planted her boots on the wide, flat aluminum platform that allowed access to the powerful LED spotlights, she held the telephone even higher to finally obtain a usable signal.

"Haw, I wus up on ou'ah roof as well back when all this shit done started this he' morn'. Yuh. Y'all gettin' anything up dere, darlin'?" Wynne said out of the open window.

'Yes, five by five. The GPS coordinates are being transmitted as we speak… okay, got 'em. Then I just need to subtract the distance back to the wreckage. All right, that ought to do it. I better call the office to hear if it's still standing.'

Chuckling, Wynne moved back inside the Durango. "A-may-zin'! Ain't dat right, Blackie?"

Woof!

"Yuh, sure ain't no lie. An' I deffa-nete-ly ain't got no clue how ta use them there gee-pee-ess data or nuttin'. None. Zilch. Zippo. Nada. Dat be Spanish, yuh? Mah pal Diegoh taught me."

Woof.

"Yuh, he sure did. He also done taught me how ta count ta ten in Spanish. Wanna hear? Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, five-o, six-o… an' som'tin. I plum fergot tha rest."

Woof…

---

Up on the roof, Mandy chuckled at the odd tangent the conversation had taken, but a familiar sound at the other end of the connection made her focus on the telephone. "Senior Deputy, this is the sheriff. We've found the wreckage. No, there's nothing left but burnt-out debris. That's an affirmative, I'll call the AFB in a moment."

While she spoke, she made a slow turn to take in as much of their desert surroundings as possible though she didn't have her binoculars with her. The vast landscape had returned to its regular desolate beauty after the traumatic events at the crash site. Nothing seemed to move anywhere, but she knew there was plenty of life to be found among the sand and under the rocks.

Contrails were still tainting the blue skies above. Whooshing produced by the powerful engines of the patrol and interceptor jets rolled over the open plains at irregular intervals, almost as if they were expecting more company of an otherworldly kind.

"What's the status at the office?" Mandy continued into the telephone. "All right. Very well. I don't have time to deal with Mr. Simms now. It'll have to be later. Yes. I'll be back in… oh, probably fifteen to eighteen minutes. In the meantime, please call Mr. Lane and ask him to prepare plenty of food and the good coffee. We have a long, long afternoon and evening ahead of us. Yes. Goodbye, Senior Deputy."

'Lawrdie, iz ol' Barry still not okeh?'

"No, he must've suffered some kind of nervous breakdown," Mandy said while she searched for the number to the liaison officer at Bradley Air Force Base. "The Senior Deputy said that Mr. Simms talks and acts like he's a character in one of those nineteen-forties pulp detective novels he loves."

'Holy shittt! Tha boy gonn' need some therapy!'

"I just hope he snaps back to normal sooner rather than later… we can't leave the watch desk unattended, but we don't have enough deputies to keep it manned, either."

Mandy suddenly remembered that Lieutenant Colonel Pressley had in fact called her earlier in the day. The correct number hadn't been registered as it had been listed as an Unknown Caller, but she was able to find the number in the activity log. Rolling her eyes at the unnecessary complexity of just getting someone on the horn, she selected Pressley's direct number and put the telephone back to her ear.

While she waited for the Air Force officer to establish contact, she could hear the characteristic flapping rotors of the heavy Chinook transport helicopters operating somewhere in the vicinity. She inched around on the roof to take a gander at the horizon but was unable to see where the large airborne vessels were.

'I he'ah a choppah!'

Woof!

'An' so does Blackie! I wondah if them flaah-boys finally got the mess-itch?'

"Well, I'm about to find out. I've called the air base."

'Okeh…'

Woof!

'Blackie says okeh, too!'

A moment later, a gruff voice over the telephone presented itself as 'Pressley. Make it brief, Sheriff.'

"Oh, I will, Lieutenant Colonel. Remember that rogue weather balloon that supposedly drifted into your patrol area?"

'Ah…'

"If you're interested in recovering the remains of its pilot, you need to vector your rescue helicopters… that aren't even here, of course… to Goldsboro. I presume you recall where that is? Then they'll need to follow a blackened trail of debris east for just over two miles. The crash site will be obvious from the air. The remains are located just beyond the site behind a wall of sand and rocks."

'Oh… Sheriff-'

"Gee, do you think the pilot was sitting in the balloon's gondola? That must've been windy considering how fast it was going- hello? Hello?"

Mandy chuckled as she turned off the telephone and shoved it into her pocket. "He hung up. Obviously a sensitive fellow," she said as she climbed down the steps on the rear doors.

Inside the Durango, Wynne let out a braying laugh that was accompanied by a series of merry woofing by Blackie. "Good flip almighty, Sheriff Mandy… y'all got an evil streak a mihhhh-le wide, ya know that?"

"I have my moments," Mandy said as she poked her head into the open window to kiss Wynne's cheek. The first one was just a little appetizer and the main course followed a moment later with a sweet lip-on-lip smooch.

"Lawrdie, I needed that! Luv ya," Wynne said in a warm whisper as she reached up to caress Mandy's smooth cheek.

Smiling, Mandy leaned in to add another kiss. "Love you too… but we gotta stop meeting this way."

"Haw-yuh… on the othah hand, this is how we done met in da first place! This is like ou'ah common thing, ya know? Othah gals 'membah tha restaurant or tha first dance or tha first song… we got that tihhh-me when aliens from outah space done chased us thru' tha desert!"

"True, but did we really need a rerun?"

"I reckon somebodda thunk we did. Anyhows. So now whut we gonn' do, darlin'?"

A clear and unmistakable flapping of several rotors answered the question a moment later. Mandy took a step back from the Durango to look north. Before long, the two Air Force Chinooks that had been in the area for most of the morning appeared out of the mid-day sun on their way to the crash site. Once they reached the line of debris, they reduced their altitude even further and flew east toward the deep trench, the tall pile of dirt and the remains of the pilot just beyond it.

Grunting, Mandy strode around the front of the SUV and climbed onto the passenger seat. "I can't deal with those people right now. Let's go back to town."

"Yes, Ma'am!"

As the Durango got rolling once more, Mandy began counting on her fingers: "One, we need to round up some volunteers to clean up the mess on Main Street. That'll keep people occupied for the next few hours. Two, we need to be honest about what we found out here to stop the crazy theories from developing. All right, the usual suspects will insist on jumping to all the wrong conclusions, but honesty always wins out."

"Sure ain't no lie, darlin'! Yuh, I can hear 'em alreddy… Mercy Sakes. O' course, most o' them there Goldsborians been thru' plentah o' shit ovah tha years. They know weird stuff be happenin' he'. That jus' tha way it always been, yuh?"

"Yeah. And three, we need to get Barry Simms back to normal. That'll be your job, Miss Donohue."

"Haw, izzat a fact? Yuh, mebbe a li'l pool an' some beers an' some o' Slow Lane's awesome pah-tah-tah salad gonn' cure 'im. Po'ah Barry… he always been kinda haaah-strung, yuh?"

Woof! Woof-woof-woof…

"Yuh, 's whut I done said, Blackie. Haaah-strung. I reckon this wus too much offa good thing for 'im. Yuh. Not that there silvah star in da skaaah… naw, it wus all them folks callin' the office! He jus' coudden keep up is all."

They drove on in silence for a few minutes before Wynne let out a grunt and rubbed her brow. "Lawrdie, darlin', I just done thunk'a som'tin… we still got two an' a half weeks ta Hallah-ween, yuh?"

"That's right."

"So if we done had all this he' shit alreddy… whaddahell ya s'pose gonn' happen come… haw… ya know… All Hallah's Eve? Awwww-shit, I bettah pack an extra set o' undies or som'tin. It gonn' be wild."

Wynne and Mandy shared a long, tormented look before the latter groaned out loud and buried her face in her hands. On the back seat, Blackie let out an excited Woof-woof-woof-woof! that meant 'As long as I'll get a bite of the action, I'll be a happy hound! Bring it on!'

*
*
THE END (for now…)