ExTank took a deep breath, and began taking stock of the situation. He dropped his magazines and made an eyeball check of his ammo status as he sized up Oak’s retreating back and thought, He really thinks someone is after him. Poor bastard.
People leave the Organization one of two ways: feet-first or brain burned, with the former far outnumbering the other. In the old days, there were more than a few screaming lunatics in asylums that were former Guardians; by the latter half of the 20th century, the technique for mind-wiping someone had advanced far enough to leave the vic-, er, subject, a mumbling, shuffling moron wandering the streets and eating out of dumpsters, or standing on street corners spewing insanities about the coming apocalypse.
The newest techniques just left people like Oak: strange and quirky, but with either little or no memory of their former life, or conditioned against talking about it with anyone other than Organization Operatives.
Into the confused babble of semi-hysterical voices, Tank let loose a piercing whistle and said, “Listen up folks; that was just the beginning, and these bozos,” he indicated the dead hellcats, “are little more than foot soldiers. They’re nasty enough to us, but expendable. We have to locate the source of these things, and take it out.” He racked the big 12ga. shotgun meaningfully, and said, “And this is just enough to get its attention, but not do much more than piss it off.”
“You folks are mostly locals,” he continued, “so if anyone is going to figure it out who’s who and who’s not-what-they-appear-to-be, it’s gonna be you folks.” Tank was interrupted by his cell phone ringing, and he stopped his address to fish it out of his pocket, looking at the number on the incoming call.
“What?” He snapped into the phone.
“We’re getting preliminary indications of multiple incursions in Tennessee or Kentucky, South Carolina, and possibly D.C. But the locus is around you; whatever’s causing this is somewhere in your vicinity.”
“Okay, we’re on it!” Tank replied, and hung up.
Turning back to the crowd, Tank went on, “Okay, it’s worse than you think; similar outbreaks are taking place in the midwest and on the Atlantic seaboard. But it’s centered here. So unless y’all want to live in lakes of fire and breathe sulfur, it’s up to us.”
Opposite the President (who had just finished reading an incredible-to-believe precis of an even more stupifying file) sat a four-star General, a Cardinal of the Catholic church, and a famous (at least within certain esoteric acedemic circles) Rabbi. The President carefuly closed the file, sat it with equal care on his desk, leaned forward, calmly crossed his hands on his desk, looked at his visitors, and said, “Y’all’ve gotta be shittin’ me!” The general, Cardinal, and the Rabbi gazed back levelly, and shook their heads.
The Cardinal replied, “No, signore Presidente. We can assure you, it is most real.” The general and Rabbi nodded gravelly in agreement.
POTUS picked up an ordinary looking phone (in all the movies, it was depicted as being large and red) with no number buttons on it, and said, “Get me the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. We’re going to DefCon2 immediately. NO! This is NOT a fuckin’ DRILL!”
At several different U.S. air force and naval bases and aircraft carriers, protocols were being enacted. Coded signals had gone out with “NCA” (National Command Authority; POTUS) all over them, been challenged, and verified. Keys opened safes, code cards were read from and their numbers entered into computers, which pondered, and then released additional codes. Bunkers were opened, and row-upon-row of B61 tactical nuclear warheads were wheeled out to jet fighters being hastily, but thoroughly, prepped for war-shot missions.
Hell, in one form or another, was coming to Earth.