Book One: A Storm of Glass and Ashes

Chapter Three: The March of the New Gods

The first of the black trucks arrived a half hour later. It was an SUV with enough angry extras jutting from all sides. It looked like some sort of gun grip. You ought to need a special weapon's license just to sit inside. Alex told them who they were, and that they had the dead squirrel and the body of Elizabeth Cummings' dog and would be interested in speaking to someone about this level of disaster. Twenty minutes later, after the second, third, fourth, and fifth through seventh imposing vehicles had arrived and men in suits were swarming over the hospital like maggots on a corpse, two people in white plastic suits arrived, took the dead things, and left. They nodded at the Easts. That was the full extent of their contact.

Hawk, being a good, law abiding citizen, said, "Well, maybe they've got it all in hand," as she watched her baggie of cotton balls and dead, crystalized squirrel walk off with a stranger.

Alex, who had never been anything of the sort, said, "Fuck that noise, baby," and marched after the dead squirrel with all the majesty and promised violence of an army of Huns. Hawk followed after, a baggage train of repeated excuses and sanity that was going to be ignored until dinner or consequences, whichever came first. He searched through the cacophony of suits until he found the greatest concentration. Suits of this species tend to decant around their leadership. He'd finally found someone he could yell at for a while.

"Dude, they're not going to talk to us. We're randoms," Hawk said, in between his shouts of that's our evidence and where's your warrants and I want to talk to your superiors. He was doing his best impression of your average white Karen, minus too much hairspray in an asymmetrical cut. 

"They should talk to us. We saw this stuff happen."

"People see a tornado too. They don't think it's their job to put a house back together," she said.

"And you want to leave a ninety year old woman in the hands of strangers?" He snapped.

"They look like feds," Hawk said.

"Until I see credentials, I'm not thinking fed. I'm thinking trumped up private army. What do you think would happen if," Alex thought real hard about this next part, because ten minutes ago he'd been racking his brain for official telephone numbers and coming up blank. Radiation, he thought, and went with the scariest boogeyman he could. "What if I called the EPA and FEMA and told them I had a suspected radiation leak at the Cummings' place? That a whole bunch of angry looking suits just disappeared a grandmother and the body of her dead dog before the authorities had a chance to assess the situation. What would happen then?"

The man he'd been shouting at got a smug, self-satisfied look on his face. "You go ahead, sir. You do that."

Alex wanted to punch him. Hard. Instead, he smiled. "Thank you. I think I'll do that, then. And the CDC. Babe, you think you can find those numbers for me?" He looked at Hawk.

"It looks like they're already here," Hawk said, and waved at the smug man in the suit.

"Nah. They're not that. You know how I can tell?" Alex couldn't hit the guy, so this was the next best thing. "It's the shoes." And the guy made eye contact on that. Bingo. They weren't feds. He decided to elaborate. "Corporations have very specific safety requirements. Best way to meet those is to buy from the corporate store. Everybody here is wearing the same shoes. Not just the same brand, but the same model. Probably the nicest looking pair on a really cheap list. Nonslip, right? I can name the brand. Every corporation loves it. And maybe the CDC is happy letting private mercs handle public safety, but CNN is gonna fucking choke. Have a nice day, sir. I'm making those calls." And he turned around and walked away, pulling Hawk after him. "Look up the CDC, I've got FEMA," he said.