The Flock (2 page)

May 10, 1999

Ron Riggs turned off the radio and rolled down the window of the new Ford pickup. The Department of the Interior had seen fit to purchase a whole fleet of these white trucks for their valiant Florida employees, and damned if they hadn't given Ron the one without air-conditioning. That was going to be
tres
wonderful when summer kicked in. He could imagine it now, the cab of that truck like so many cubic feet of hot, soggy cotton. This morning was cool, though, by mid-state standards. It had hit sixty-five degrees just before sunup and now it was closing in on eighty-two. And it wasn't even noon. So went another Florida late spring day.

He checked his side view mirror, and caught only the top of his head, sandy-brown hair running amok in the high-speed wind whipping in as he cruised down the interstate highway. He glanced for a second into his own eyes, and thought he could catch just the barest glimpse of his last full-blooded Seminole ancestor, three times removed.

Driving one-handed, he readjusted the mirror until he could spy the other cars dogging his ass. He'd lay money that half of the cars behind him were rentals, tourists running off to Universal or Disney World or Berg Brothers Studios of Florida. He shuddered, eyeing the piney woods whipping past, each tree a dark stick against the grass-and-palmetto backdrop that the Board of Tourism loved to promote.

It was partly because of one of those theme parks that he was out and about that moment. The Brothers Berg had basked for long enough in the popularity and wealth brought in by their family oriented films and their family oriented amusement park. Now they had gone and bought a big chunk of undeveloped land and had built what they were calling “the perfect American township.”
Ooo la la and hokahey
. Ron couldn't wait to get there. He'd heard about it, but hadn't had the opportunity to cruise past and see what obscenity the Brethren were up to.

He sighed, looked again in the side view mirror and once more caught a glimpse of his sun-browned face, which quickly scowled at him as he realized the mirror had shifted out of position again. The damned thing was
brand new
. Oh. Great. He nudged the mirror with his left hand and made a mental note to tighten it up later.

A huge green sign ahead informed him that he was two miles from exit 117, which would take him to that perfect American village built from the ground up by Berg Brothers Studios of Florida. Its very name brought saccharine images to mind. His stomach did little flips at the very idea. It wasn't so much that Ron hated schmaltzy movies and false fronts; it was that he had grown to love his adopted state. When he'd come to Florida as a kid, there were still plenty of wide open spaces around. You could drive for miles down sandy roads and never see a soul. Just you and the birds and an occasional white-tailed deer. But now it seemed as if there was a shopping center cropping up every quarter mile or so, and all of those miles of piney woodlands were now subdivisions stretching off into infinity. He sighed.

He made the long, slow turn off the interstate and came to a halt at the top of the exit ramp.
Five miles to Salutations,
it read.

“Salutations,” Ron muttered. And then, recalling the old children's book, “Saaaaaaaaaal-yew-taaaaaaaaaay-shunz.” In a high, keening voice. Such as that made by a tiny, friendly spider.

Looking both directions, the way his driving instructor had taught him back in high school, he made a right turn down the state road that shot like God's yardstick into the pines. This had been one of the last unspoiled tracts of land left in Florida, Ron knew. For decades it had been locked up within the borders of Edmunds Military Base and Bombing Range. He had to chuckle. While he and his pals had been complaining about Uncle Sam and his free enterprise cohorts raping the environment, the arbitrary lines that marked the edges of Edmunds had protected this important chunk of real estate. There had been rumors there were even some Ivory-Billed Woodpeckers out there. But he didn't believe it. The EPA had been in there, searching, and had found nothing out of the ordinary.

Most of the land was still untouched. Berg Brothers had bought only a fraction of it, so far. Enough to get their perfect little town off and running. But the rest of it was tied up in legal limbo—about 450,000 acres—partly because some environmental groups were lobbying against any further sales, and partly because of Vance Holcomb, a crazy billionaire who wanted to buy up the rest for himself. No one knew exactly why, but Ron sure would like to ask the rich eccentric.

Ahead, down that straight-as-an-arrow road, he watched as a large animal appeared out of the forest, paused at the verge, and then leaped across the asphalt.
Deer
, Ron noted. Big one, too. Antler-less buck. By the time he got to where it had crossed, it was long gone and all he saw was the green pressing in all around him.

The singing mud tires of his new Ford pickup quickly gobbled the five miles up, and he slowed again and made a left into the entrance of Salutations, USA. Not Salutations, Florida. No. This was USA! He chuckled and keened out, “Saaaaaal-yew-TAY-shuuuuuuuuunz.”

Stopping at the gate, he was surprised to hear the not too distant yelp of a dog. A dog that was obviously in a great deal of either pain, or panic. The Berg Brothers engineers built up the road on a tall berm, a wise move, for this part of the country could get plenty soggy. Each side of the four lanes had a wide, solid-looking shoulder covered with a manicured coat of Bermuda grass. Taking his foot off the accelerator, Ron coasted to a stop on the right, where a bike-and-foot path crossed the ditch on that side.

Over the idling of the motor he heard the dog yelping again. And then he could hear a human voice, joining in with that of the dog. There was cursing: a man's voice. Ron switched the motor off and climbed out.

He stood beside the truck, glanced once at the
U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service
painted on the door, and walked briskly around the back of the vehicle and started down the paved pathway. This was the outer edge of Salutations, what the company propaganda was calling “a natural greenway surrounding this pristine community.” He'd read their spiel and had some detailed maps of the area in his truck. It seemed they were having trouble with prior residents, and that's what had brought him there. He took a few strides down the pathway, noticing as he did some of the vegetation around him. Even a cursory glance told him that several threatened plant species grew here. There was no way these bike paths should have been allowed.

The dog yelped again, and once more he heard a man cursing.

“Dammit! Hold
still,
dammit!”

Ron looked to his left, where the patch curved down toward an arm of the waterway that meandered into the forest. There were lily pads floating on the still surface, mirroring the action just beyond the pool.

“Hold
still!
” A paunchy man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties, dressed in white shorts, white short-sleeved shirt, white socks drawn almost up to his knees, and a pair of even whiter Nikes, seemed to flail madly at a silvery poodle that was bounding even more madly around his feet. The fellow's white porkpie hat was sitting at an odd slant on his balding scalp, and he was trying vainly to land a blow with his polished walking stick: solid oak, Ron realized. Attached to the dog's left foreleg was an impressive snake struggling vigorously against all odds.

Before Ron could announce his presence, the man finally landed a blow on the snake's thick body, a blow which was little more than a glancing thump that bounced off. Even if the strike had been aimed a little better, Ron knew it wouldn't have had much effect. This snake was a constrictor and heavily muscled. A healthy specimen, too, he noted—six feet, at least.

“Hey,” Ron yelled. “Hey, there! You! Stop that.”

The older man looked Ron's way, bringing his right hand up and knocking off the precariously perched hat. And Ron saw that the dog was tethered; the leash twisted around the man's left forearm and looped around the fellow's left ankle. He probably thought he was going to be bitten, too. A couple of long strides brought Ron up to the man and his frightened doggie.

“Hold still,” Ron told him.

The man had drawn his walking stick back again, but held it there. “What are you going to do?” he asked, puffing out the words.

“Just hold still,” Ron told him again, kneeling quickly and grasping the dog firmly by the nape of its neck. He reached around with his right hand and gripped the black snake tightly at the base of its jaws, applying a lot of pressure there. Quickly, the snake's jaws opened wide and Ron extricated the reptile's needlepoint teeth from the dog's flesh. The teeth were so fine that he spotted no blood as he pulled the snake free.

Standing, he let the snake loop itself around his right arm, and he chuckled in admiration at the strength the reptile displayed as it constricted, doing what it was born to do.

The man knelt and retrieved both dog and hat. The dog had begun to bark in anger at the black snake. “Prissy. Are you okay, girl? Is Prissy okay?” The man stared at Ron and his cold-blooded cargo. “Is it poisonous? Will she die?”

Ron smiled reassuringly at the transplanted Yankee. “No, sir. This is just a common black snake. They're pretty darned harmless, actually, unless you're a rat or a rabbit or something small.”

“
Harmless?
I'd hardly call it harmless!” He pulled the twenty-pound poodle to his face and rubbed his nose in its neck. “Poor Prissy,” he muttered.

“These guys are fine animals. An important part of the forest ecology around here.” He indicated the pine and oak forest around them. “Their population fluctuates with that of the small game they hunt,” he began, but noticed that the dog owner was scowling at him.

“I don't care about it. Are you going to kill it, now?”

“No, sir. Absolutely not. I'm going to release it.” He took a couple of steps off the asphalt trail and into the woods, setting the snake down between a couple of palmetto bushes. It uncoiled from his arm and raced off into the underbrush. In a couple of seconds it was just another silent shadow in the trees.

He turned to see the man gaping at him. “Why didn't you kill it? I can't believe you did that! You let it
go
.”

“They're completely harmless.”

“You said that. Try to tell that to Prissy.” He held the poodle out to Ron.

“They're harmless, Prissy,” he said.

The man, his face red with either too much sun or the excitement of the day, gaped again. “You're a crazy man,” he said.

“No, sir. Just with the Fish and Wildlife Service.” And he turned and went back down the trail to his truck. Once there, he paused and looked back, seeing nothing but the now empty path and the forest. “By the way,” he yelled. “You're
welcome
.”

As Ron continued on he was impressed with the beauty of the surrounding forests. It seemed ironic that this place, having been within the confines of the Edmunds Army Base and Bombing Range, had been spared the commercial exploitation of so much of the rest of the state. Certainly the military had been unkind to some of the property, but largely the forests and streams and wetlands had remained completely pristine. He thought again of the rumors that Ivory-Billed Woodpeckers were there, tucked away in the lower bottomlands. He personally doubted it, had passed it off as wishful thinking from some of the environmental activists who were trying to save the place.

But seeing another deer posing by the road, and spying the ever-present raccoons poking at the verge of the roadside waterway, he was ready to believe the improbable. The pines were thick and tall, the oaks sturdy and old, the cypress trees green and ancient. One never could tell, he supposed.

And then there was Salutations proper. He passed another of the old warning signs from the military days, before the recent round of base closings, and saw the garish yellow-on-white sign proclaiming Salutations, USA. Beneath those six-foot letters, somewhat smaller: Another Berg Brothers Production. Cartoon characters cavorted along the base of the sign, which formed a bridge over the roadway twenty feet overhead. He did an approximation of the voice of Sid the Squirrel. “Welcome Home, Everybody!”

There was a pair of guardhouses, yet another remnant of the base days. But, while they had been repainted and refitted with the latest in air-conditioning, there was no one manning either of the stations. Since this place was still what amounted to a gated community, he was surprised to find no one there, at least to hand out propaganda on what a wonderful and perfect place this was to live.

Salutations was spread before him, what there was of it, so far. He had to admit that if one was into the middle class ideal, this was certainly the place to be. The town was quite impressive. The Corporation engineers had laid the town out pretty much along the lines of the existing streets and structures of the old military base. Everything was there in almost perfect grids. Everywhere there were patches of grass and manicured shrubs. Even old-fashioned village greens right up front, a great white pagoda standing in the middle of that brilliant grass almost glowing in its limed and fertilized glory.

Off to the right was what was serving as a police station. The building was a sprawling, single story structure done up in red brick and white trim, pale shutters bordering the kind of windows one would expect to see on a house, rather than a police station. In fact, it was a private security firm, owned and operated by Berg Brothers Studios, that gave the citizens their sense of safety from the outside world. There was some debate already about how and when
real
police were going to be integrated into Salutations. Currently, the place didn't even have elected officials, but that was coming soon, since no other town was near enough to have incorporated these lands into its borders.

He drove on, passing the already thriving retail and entertainment district. The place looked busy with people, mainly young mothers, children in tow, and older women with silver hair and no one to fret over. He noticed a pair of competing groceries, the superstore types, and a small indoor mall took up most of a block. There was a sign for a cinema that was showing the latest films, including the newest Berg Brothers bomb that had ceased to show everywhere else save for the odd dollar cinema here and there. Ron admired the particularly long and tanned legs of a mom holding hands with her little blonde tyke, her short shorts giving a truly traffic-stopping view. He almost did run the next intersection and his tires barked quickly as he came to a stop. Even so, he watched the woman until she vanished into some kind of curio shop on the opposite corner. An older lady scowled at him from the parking lot of one of the groceries, and Ron felt a bit guilty. He would have tipped his hat at her if he'd been wearing one.

Taking a moment to refer to his street map, he looked at it, frowning at the parade of cartoon characters along the borders who smiled and pointed at various sights. “Harmony Way,” he muttered. “Give me a break.” He noted the address again: 100 West Harmony Way, and continued on, pressing the brightly colored map into the folds in the seat.

At the next intersection, he took a right. And there he was, right in front of Town Administration. The company men were keeping it neat and orderly until such time as the town voted to form their own government. He was sure they were looking forward to that. At least there was plenty of parking. He found a space well away from the building and got out. The temperature had already climbed another degree or two, and he paused just long enough to lower the windows a couple of inches on both sides of the cab. Once again he made a mental note to requisition a truck with air-conditioning.

The parking lot was busy with tourists, he noticed. It had seemed the way in was a road to nowhere, and he had seen no other vehicles coming in or going out along the way. But here they all were, Florida's combined curse and blessing: the tourists from points north. Everyone was a Yankee to a native Floridian. Overweight parents and their hamburger fatted broods went this way and that, going toward the curio shops and the enclosed mall and the theaters and the restaurants. Ron reckoned Salutations didn't really
need
any citizens to make this place work. The green oil from the tourists would probably lubricate the money machine just fine, thanks.

As he approached the red brick steps leading up to great, wide, whitewashed pine walls, the door opened and a tall, carefully groomed man in a neat suit came out. A wide face capped by a blond buzz cut beamed down. Although he was only standing two steps above, the fellow seemed to loom there, like a giant. Ron quickly decided the man stood at about six and a half feet, considerably taller than Ron. The big man's appropriately big hand shot out as Riggs came up the stairs.

“You must be Mr. Riggs from Fish and Wildlife.” He took Ron's hand and squeezed it. Ron squeezed back.

“Yes, sir. And you're Andrew Dorkin?” Dorkin was the company executive who had first called the Service, touching base with those who could be either the company's friend or adversary, depending on the circumstances.

The big man smiled, a perfect grin in a tanned face, crow's-feet webbing out upon skin that had spent considerable time in the sun. “Oh, nonono. I'm Bill Tatum,” he said, giving Ron's hand a final athletic squeeze and then releasing it. “I'm in charge of security here at Salutations. Have been since the studio broke ground two years ago.” He smiled even more broadly and gazed around them. “This place was just the old base going to weed when I got here.”

“I see,” Ron said. “Well, I just assumed I'd be talking with Mr. Dorkin, since he's the one who's been speaking with the boys down at the office.”

“Mr. Dorkin is very busy. I usually take up the slack in minor situations like this.” He breathed in, seeming to enjoy the intake. In fact, the air was sweet, scented by the forest and wetlands that lay all about the town like a carefully painted picture.

Tatum was staring hard at something in the parking lot behind them, his smile fading ever so slightly, and Ron turned to see what it was. The expression on Tatum's face was that severe.

A smallish man was coming their way. He was dressed in rumpled khaki, a new digital camera hanging from his neck. Ron almost smiled at the way the man bounced their way, until he realized that his odd up and down gait was probably due to some old serious injury or, perhaps, a moderate birth defect. The guy was very thin, a dark brown beard artfully covering what was a generally chinless face. Coke bottle lenses expanded a pair of friendly eyes above a beak of a nose. And the whole picture was capped by what had to be one of the thickest and curliest heads of hair Ron had ever seen. Three pens of various types jutted out of that hair like a tribal decoration on some ancient Neanderthal. Once again Ron wanted to chuckle, but quickly noted that all vestige of Tatum's friendly demeanor had vanished as the goofball came their way.

Tatum spoke first. “Mr. Dodd. We keep telling you there's no story here. And we can do without your kind of publicity.”

The Dodd fellow came up the steps, and Ron had in mind that the three of them looked to be a mismatched set of progressively smaller figures. “Hello,” he said, and extended his hand to Ron. Ron took it. “I'm Tim Dodd, with the
National Inquirer
. Down here to get the story on what's going on in paradise.” He smiled a lopsided grin.

“Ron Riggs,” Ron told him. “U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.”

Tatum cleared his throat and seemed to glare a message at Ron. Ron got the message, but lying to the press wasn't part of his job. At least not this one.

“Yes. I saw your truck,” the reporter said. “What exactly is the problem around here, Mr. Riggs?”

“There
isn't
a
problem,
” Tatum said. “Due to the outstanding status of most of the property surrounding Salutations USA, we are obliged by law to confer with various governmental and environmental agencies whenever the company wishes to make any kind of decision involving construction or modifications of almost any type.”

“Modifications, eh? Is that what you call a hunting party to exterminate the local wildlife?”

Whatever of friendliness remained in Tatum's face vanished and was instantly replaced with something quite darker. “Mr. Dodd. I've warned you once. You can't
find
a story here, so you're just trying to
create
one.”

“What story?” Ron asked.

“Don't you read the
Inquirer
? My column, ‘In Dodd We Trust'?” Dodd looked indignant.

“Afraid not,” Riggs told him, a grin cracking his face.

Dodd raised his thin arms in the air, as if asking the gods for a reason. “You're a deprived individual, Mr. Riggs. Which is better than being depraved, eh Tatum?”

“This
is
private property, Dodd.” Tatum ground out the words.

“Yes, it is, Mr. Tatum. But you don't really need or want the negative publicity of having me tossed out of here, do you? I know you've already discussed it in your various board meetings. So I'm just going to hang out until I dig up the truth. What do you say, Riggs? Want to cough it all up for me?”

Ron finally smiled at the little man. “I'm just here on minor business, actually. I'm going to scout the area here and see what kinds of populations the local forest currently serves as home. Nothing sinister or dramatic, I promise.”

“What
kinds
of creatures, Mr. Riggs? Giant snakes, maybe?” Dodd stepped back and lifted the camera to his face. Before either of the other men could complain, he had at least two shots of them there in front of the security building.

“Stop that, Dodd. I mean it.” Tatum was pointing at the reporter and was rewarded with having a shot taken of his menacing posture.

“You can't stop the Press, Tatum. You know that.”

Tatum was at the end of his patience. He put his hand on Ron's shoulder and nudged him toward the door. “Let's go inside, shall we? Where we'll have some privacy.”

Dodd called out to them as they went in. “Riggs. I'm at the Executive, down the street. Give me a ring or leave a message with the front desk. I'd like to talk to you.”

And then Riggs and Tatum were inside, walking down a neat, pale yellow corridor with doors on each side leading into offices from which young secretaries and junior clerks emerged and vanished as the two men went toward an elevator at the end of the hall. Once in the elevator, Tatum breathed in, held it, then released, calming himself.

“Do you know what they've been calling Salutations in that rag he writes for?”

“Um. No. I have to say I don't read that paper.”

“
Jurassic Park
. They're calling us
Jurassic Park
.”

Ron, in spite of himself, laughed. He looked guiltily up at Tatum. “I'm sorry. But you have to admit that it's funny.”

“We have some trouble with alligators, a couple of people are snakebit. Next thing we see, the
National Inquirer
is calling us
Jurassic-freaking-Park
and claiming we've got a monster living in the forest around the town.” Tatum squinted his eyes, an expression of exasperation, then seemed to recover a bit. “Sorry. But that guy gets on my nerves.”

“No offense. I can see where you're coming from.” Still, if Dodd was writing that stuff, he at least had a good sense of humor.

They came to the third floor. “This way,” Tatum indicated with a wave of his arm. “The office up here has a truly impressive view of the area. You'll see.” They went through a door at the end of the short hallway, and Ron noted that the third floor was much smaller than the two below it. He hadn't noticed from the parking lot.

As Tatum had promised, the office did afford an impressive view of the town and its environs through the wide window set in the north wall. The town's roads led into a residential area a few blocks north, then vanished at the forest that stood like a frozen green wave. Off in the distance, Ron could make out what looked to be a patch of longleaf pine savanna, a truly rare environment in America. To the left, and west of the town, he noticed a series of buildings that looked completely out of place, almost what appeared to be a fort of some kind, although a modern one.

“What is
that?
” Ron asked, pointing at those odd buildings.

Without turning to look, Tatum answered. “
That
is what we've taken to calling the Eyesore.”

“Eyesore?” It did look terribly out of place, and was not characteristic of the rest of this carefully planned community.