“I was thinking on this while I was in the kitchen,” Greg said. “I reckon that fella you met was wrong. It ain’t black people that are doing this.”
“Who do you think it is?” Gus asked.
“That’s easy. The NWO.”
Groaning, Gus rolled his eyes. “Oh, Greg. Now ain’t the time to start with that goddamn New World Order nonsense again. I swear to God, you’re worse than that crazy Earl Harper wing nut who lives up above Punkin Center. Always with the NOW bullshit.”
“N-W-O, not N-O-W. And it ain’t bullshit, little brother.”
“The hell it ain’t. First you thought Y2K was gonna kill us all. Then you said nine eleven was an inside job. Then there was all the crap about how President Obama didn’t have a birth certificate. And then you—”
“And all of that stuff is connected. Bush and Obama are pawns of the same people. But that ain’t my point. You guys ever hear of eugenics?”
“No,” Gus said, “and neither did you until you got on the Internet. Swear to God, somebody ought to take away your computer access.”
Greg ignored the comment. “They want to control humankind through what they call selective breeding. The Nazis started it, but the NWO are continuing it. See, the only way to control the population is to first get it back down to a manageable size. They’re culling the herd, same way the game commission does when the deer population gets out of control. That’s why we’ve got diseases like cancer and AIDS. You telling me that we can put a little goddamn skateboard-looking robot on Mars and have it send back pictures, but we can’t find a cure for cancer? There’s a cure. You can bet on that, boys. There’s a goddamn cure. They just won’t release it because cancer helps cut down the population.”
Paul drained his beer and belched. The Pheasant brothers both fanned the air and frowned.
“Seems like cancer would take a long time to cull the population,” Paul said. “Wouldn’t they try something that worked a little quicker?”
“Don’t encourage him,” Gus said.
“Well, they ain’t just using cancer. That was just one example. Look at the world! We’ve got a high child-mortality rate among the poor. We’ve got war everywhere. These are all ways of whittling down the population. Another way to do it is shooting sprees. See, the CIA are in on it. So is the KGB.”
“There ain’t no KGB anymore, Greg.”
“So you say, Gus. Me, I don’t believe everything I hear from the mainstream media. I’ll tell you something. That old Putin ain’t no dummy. The KGB are still around. They’re just called something different now.”
“Look,” Paul said, “I’ve never been one to tell a man what he should or shouldn’t believe, Greg, but I just don’t understand what any of this has to do with what’s happening outside. I don’t reckon Vladimir Putin declared war on Brinkley Springs.”
“The CIA and the KGB both developed ways to control people’s minds. One morning, you could wake up and everything could be fine, and then, all of the sudden, you grab your rifle and start shooting. Haven’t you guys noticed how things like that are on the rise? Every week, we hear about a school getting shot up or some nut killing all his co-workers. It’s all just another method of population control.”
“Goddamn it, Greg.” Gus slammed his bottle down on the coffee table, sloshing beer all over his hand. “The NWO aren’t shooting up Brinkley Springs any more than that Amish fella staying at Esther’s is. That’s stupid talk, and it ain’t helping us any right now.”
“Then tell me why we haven’t heard any sirens. Tell me why the cops haven’t shown up yet. Why are the phone lines down? And none of the electronic stuff is working. This is a controlled situation, Gus. Hell, they’ve probably got the town cordoned off. Nobody gets in or out, I bet.”
Paul stood up. “I think we should put that theory to the test.”
The Pheasant brothers stared up at him. “What do you mean?” Gus asked.
“Personally, I don’t believe in this NWO stuff, but one thing’s for sure, you’re right about the police and firemen. Nobody has shown up to help, but maybe that’s because nobody knows about our situation. I think we should try to leave, try to go for help.”
“I don’t know,” Gus said. “It’s like a war zone out there. Maybe we’d be better off just staying put.”
“Screw that. People are dying outside. Our people! We saw it. I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna let it end this way. Brinkley Springs may have been dying, but it doesn’t deserve to get murdered. I’m going. On foot, if I have to, but I’m going, either way. It would mean a lot to me if you guys came along. I could use the backup.”
The brothers glanced at each other for a moment and then stood up as one.
“You’re right,” Gus said. “This is too big for us to handle on our own, but that doesn’t mean we should just hide out like a bunch of kids. Let’s go.”
“Hang on a second.” Greg glanced down at his sweatpants. “I reckon I ought to change first. And maybe we should all drink another beer, just to get ourselves ready.”
“You’ve got five minutes,” Paul said. “Chug the beer while you get dressed. You ain’t gonna come back downstairs in a pair of Spider-Man slippers, are you?”
Greg and Paul began laughing. Gus shook his head.
“Fuck you both.”
Paul grinned. “I’ll remember you said that if it turns out your brother was right about the New World Order.”
“If he’s right, then I hope the NWO shoots you first.”
Melanie Candra peeked through her curtains and watched in terror as a tall, looming figure dressed entirely in black chased a fat man in flannel boxer shorts down the sidewalk. As she stood there trembling, the pursuer caught up with his prey, grabbed the man’s hair with one hand and yanked him off his feet. The fat man uttered a short, surprised squawk and then his attacker swung him through the air. His scalp tore free. The loose flap of skin and hair dangled from the black figure’s hand. Its owner soared halfway across the street and then slid across the asphalt on his face and chest. He quivered, but did not rise. The dark shape then raced over to him and knelt beside the body. Melanie let the curtains fall shut again and backed away from them, biting her lip to keep from screaming.
She’d moved to Brinkley Springs from New Jersey a year ago, hoping to open an equestrian center and horse farm. Real-estate prices were cheap and she’d found the small-town sentimentality a refreshing change from that of the Mid-Atlantic suburbs. She hadn’t counted on the economy changing so drastically, however, and now her dreams of running a horse farm were just that—dreams. Instead, she was stuck in a dingy little farmhouse that was drafty in the winter and filled with insects in the summer, in a town that seemed to die a little bit more each day. And if Brinkley Springs hadn’t been dying before, it certainly was now. Judging by the sounds outside, it was being murdered. Exterminated.
The street fell silent again. Still shaking, Melanie tiptoed into the kitchen and pulled a large butcher knife out of the top drawer. She’d thought that having a weapon—any weapon—might make her feel better, but instead, she wanted to puke. She crossed the kitchen and back into the living room. She glanced down at the cordless phone. The light was still off. The power was still dead. She found herself longing for the days of rotary phones. They still worked during a blackout. She wondered, however, if that would be the case in this instance. Earlier, when she’d tried dialing 911 on her cell phone, it had been dead, as well. She couldn’t even get it to come on, let alone dial for help.
She stood there in the silence, wishing for a sound. The ticking of her cuckoo clock. The ring of a phone. The engine of a car driving by. A bird chirping. A dog barking. Anything would be better than this oppressive stillness that seemed to have suddenly settled over the street. Well, except another scream, of course. She didn’t think she could handle another one of those. Maybe the man in black was gone. Maybe the fat guy in the flannel boxer shorts was dead. Maybe that was why it was so quiet out there now—the murderer had moved on to find another victim.