splat chapter thirty-five

SPLAT CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The graphic is Sniper Captured in big bold paint-splattered letters. The announcer is a way chipper blonde in a bright red suit. 'Our top story this morning,' she chirped, 'police have arrested the Sniper of Atlanta after a bizarre shootout in North Georgia early this morning.'

The screen shows his photo. 'Elwood Dwayne Collier, fifty-six, head of a multimillion dollar development company, was captured after a struggle with police this morning. His car was discovered by police in a ditch on Brown's Bridge Road in Forsyth County at about one a.m. this morning. Apparently he went off the road after a gunfight with what police are calling an underworld colleague. Police attempting to rescue Collier were fired upon, and returned the fire.'

The screen shows stock footage of a rescue helicopter landing on a hospital helipad. 'The suspect was life flighted to Grady Hospital with multiple gunshot wounds and other serious injuries sustained in the accident. Police found an illegal handgun in the vehicle, alcohol, as well as cocaine and marijuana, bomb making materials, and paint similar to that used by the Sniper in the recent death of his business partner, Jerald Sweat.'

The anchor looks personally relieved that the Sniper has been caught. 'Police are charging Collier with multiple acts of terrorism, as well as the shooting death of his former partner, firearm violations, drug trafficking, DUI, interfering with an officer, assault with a deadly weapon, and resisting arrest. According to police, Collier is said to be well-connected socially and politically, with ties to white supremacist gangs, organized crime, Latin American drug cartels, and,' she looks at the camera significantly, 'he has a history of domestic violence interventions. Police say that when he is out of intensive care, he will undergo drug treatment and psychiatric evaluation before receiving a formal hearing.'

Uncle Daddy grunted in satisfaction and settled further into his chair. Maybe there was hope for Suzie after all.

The same house-in-flames graphic comes up. The graphic hasn't changed in a while because the artist responsible for the Suspicious House Fire series of illustrations has recently been arrested for unpaid taxes.

'In a new development,' the woman says happily, 'police have apprehended the arsonists responsible for the recent fires, including yesterday's apartment fire, which resulted in six deaths, widespread evacuations, and millions of dollars in damage to the CSX railroad terminal.'

She looks gleeful. 'The arsonists told police that they were acting under orders from,' she paused for emphasis, 'developer Elwood Collier and his former business partner Jerald Sweat. The accused arsonists confessed to thirty-two arson attacks in the past six months. Police plan to charge Collier with these crimes as well.'

Uncle Daddy grunted again, and got up to get himself a glass of sweet tea. But there wasn't any, so he got a beer instead.

The graphic changes to black letters that read Fraud. 'Police are also investigating whether other crimes were committed in the redevelopment of that section of Reynoldstown. They are looking into allegations that Collier committed insurance, mortgage, and tax fraud. He is also suspected of attempting to bribe local police and government officials. The GBI has moved to seize his assets pending the outcome of this investigation.' She looks smug. Maybe she'd been hit on by him at some party.

The anchor turns serious now. 'In a sudden reversal of policy, lawmakers say they will be tightening restrictions on the shipping of hazardous waste through populated areas, effective immediately. Restrictions were loosened on the eve of the recent rail yard fire, which is still being investigated by the EPA. This is a bipartisan action sponsored by six members of the legislature, who spent an uncomfortable night with their families in city shelters when their nearby Inman Park neighborhood was evacuated.'

Uncle Daddy sipped his beer as a legislator in a crumpled suit and a loud voice vows to reevaluate conditions in Atlanta's shelters. 'Damn straight,' he muttered, and has another sip.

The graphic shows a traffic jam, the letters read The Big Mess. 'More traffic-related problems in the aftermath of the Big Mess today. The south end of I-285 is still closed while workers remove debris from the roadway.' The screen shows a shot of cranes in the road, hauling off plane bits.

The graphic still reads The Big Mess, but shows a t-shirt inside a red circle with a line through it. 'Police have confiscated 10,000 t-shirts bearing the slogan, I Survived The Big Mess. They say Atlanta's traffic problems are being made worse by the thousands of rubberneckers and tourists who have jammed the roads around the airport trying to get a glimpse of the clean-up efforts. There are reports of whole families traveling from South Carolina and Alabama to view the site of the incident. Police have threatened to arrest sightseers and loiterers.'

The anchor grows somber. 'Airport officials announced probable delays in finishing the long-awaited Fifth Runway. While it may be possible to step up production, they say, the extent of repairs to the future runway surface may endanger their record for being on time and under budget.' She looks at the camera encouragingly. Go team.

The graphic changes to that annoying panda. 'Plans to turn Grant Park into a multi-use development met with opposition from the top today, as the Governor came out in support of keeping it as a public park.'

The Governor appears on screen, looking severe. 'Plans are being redrawn at this time to keep Grant Park out of the hands of unscrupulous developers who are trying to ruin one of Atlanta's beloved features.'

The announcer comes back and smiles. 'New plans include a three-story parking deck, and officials say a small admission fee is being considered to help defray the projected $13 million cost.' She pauses. 'And now, a word from our sponsor.'

An ad comes on. The sound gets louder. Uncle Daddy shifted slightly in his chair. He was feeling a little tired.

The scene opens on the exterior of an upscale suburban McMansion. A team of Mexican gardeners works on the beautifully kept front lawn. We cut to the interior and see a blonde wife in the dining room, dressed in designer casual clothes, arranging schedules and to-do lists. Around her, black maids are hard at work cleaning, dusting, vacuuming, washing the windows. A Chinese cook stirs several pots on the stove and bends over to check something in the oven. Through the bay window overlooking the back yard, we can see a black nanny pushing the children in their swings. Everybody's smiling.

The scene cuts back to the housewife in charge of it all. She says, in honeyed, southern belle tones, 'I used to do all this myself.' She nodded toward the workers.

'I worked my fingers to the bone to keep my family comfortable.' She shows her manicured hands, looking like she's never done a hard day's work in her life.

She sighs and smiles and gestures at the servants. 'I never imagined how easy life could be. Now I have time for all the little things that are so important.'

She rises from her seat and grabs a tennis racquet and a sports bag. 'Like a game with the girls. And lunch at the Club. And after that, my daughter and I are going to the mall.'

She heads for the door. A smiling tuxedoed footman opens it for her. She turns back to the camera and smiles broadly. 'Make all your dreams of luxury come true with certified service personnel.'

The woman steps lightly out to her Escalade on the curb. A servant holds it open for her and bows. She bounces in and pulls away. Her license reads RentaslaveTM and a phone number comes up on the screen beneath it: 1-800-SERVANTS.

The news is back. The graphic reads Wanted in bold black letters over a fuzzy driver's license photograph of a man. 'Police are looking for Nelson Tatum, a forty-two year old white male residing in Douglasville. Police say the suspect is 6'9½'' tall, and weighs 195 pounds. He was last seen in the Riverdale area yesterday. Police consider him armed and dangerous and caution citizens not to attempt to apprehend him themselves, but to call the police immediately.' She looks at the camera with disapproval on her chipper face. 'Nelson Tatum has been linked to Elwood Collier, the alleged Atlanta Sniper, and is said to be the head of the biggest stolen car ring and illegal drug operation in the South.'

Uncle Daddy stirred long enough to see Nelson's picture. A redneck. He closed his eyes.

The graphic changes to flames. It reads Up In Smoke. 'In a related story, the Riverdale auto repair shop where the fugitive worked burned to the ground yesterday evening.' The screen shows footage of a huge fire, completely engulfing the building. Only the sign is undamaged - Stoners Ato Repar, appearing intermittently in the thick black smoke.

'Flames reached one hundred and fifty feet at times. Five fire engines responded to the call, and it took them hours to get the fire out. Police speculate that the fire involved petrochemicals of various kinds, as well as tires and automobile interiors .'

The screen cuts to a picture from a helicopter. It hovers over the highway and pans over to show how close the fire is to evening commuters on Tara Boulevard. The camera zooms closer to show onlookers, the street closed for a block surrounding the building, fire trucks and cops sprawled across the lanes, traffic backed up all the way to I-75. 'Police consider this fire the work of arsonists, and are examining the wreckage for clues.'

Uncle Daddy started to snore softly.

The graphic changes to a set of scales. 'In the state legislature today, the Republican majority overwhelmingly made the Democratic party illegal, due to alleged ties with terrorist organizations. Police have started rounding up registered Democrats.'

The screen shows people scraping bumper stickers from their parked cars. 'Police are manning roadblocks to catch suspected Democrats. In a similar move, being a Liberal has now also been declared illegal, but police are unsure how to identify these criminals and are waiting for guidelines.'

Uncle Daddy shifted in his chair to get more comfortable. The snoring stopped, but he slept on, exhausted.

The graphic is a medical caduceus behind bars. 'Doctor Jeremiah Buford, head of HeatHealingTM Technologies and the Jeremiah Buford Clinic for Cancer Solutions, is being charged today with several felony counts of receiving stolen goods, animal abuse, and operating a laboratory without a license.'

The screen shows animals in pitiful condition sitting woefully in their cages. 'Five chimpanzees from our very own Zoo Atlanta were discovered in cages in his basement, most suffering from apparent brain damage, as well as radiation burns to various parts of their bodies. Doctor Buford said in a statement that he was performing tests to assure the safety of his company's product.'

The screen shows a still picture of the doctor, dripping with jewelry. 'Dr. Buford is one of the founders of the Jeremiah Buford Clinic for Cancer Solutions, which has been ordered closed by the FDA pending investigation. According to officials, as head of HeatHealing Technologies, he is faced with serious legal liability due to fatal product defects that they allege he has hidden from federal officials.'

Uncle Daddy slept on.

A new graphic reads Bad Boy. The anchor looks at the camera. A small smile creeps over her features as she tries to remain professional. 'In national news, internationally known televangelist Pat Robertson was arrested for making terroristic threats against whole communities and heads of foreign governments.' The picture is a stock photograph showing his smiling face. He looks deranged. 'Reverend Robertson, who once ran for President of the United States, is being kept in an unknown location, and is being charged with violations of the Patriot Act. No arraignment date has been set. Calls to the Christian Broadcasting Network asking for their response have not been returned.'

Another graphic reads Emerald City scrawled on a bridge with cops scratching their heads above it. 'Another movie fan comes to Atlanta,' the anchor says, smiling happily. 'A graffiti artist tagged,' she emphasizes tagged with her eyebrows, 'a bridge on the Connector late last night, and then escaped capture by police.'

A fuzzy traffic camera photo comes onscreen: Suzie being cool in her black clothes and her backpack, attaching spraycans to her harness. 'Police are searching for this person, who was nearly apprehended in the act of what they're calling terroristic vandalism late last night. Police were alerted by vigilant DOT traffic operators to the attempted vandalism, and rushed to the scene, but the culprit escaped capture, assisted by an accomplice in a getaway tractor trailer that stopped on the highway to pick him up. The two escaped pursuit by both police car and helicopter, and their whereabouts are currently unknown.'

The screen shows a traffic camera picture of Uncle Daddy's truck, its fangs gleaming. 'Police are also looking for the driver of the Kenworth truck that stopped to illegally give aid to the suspected terrorist. Police think the vandal may be a teenager wanted for multiple graffiti crimes in Atlanta. Plans to remove the graffiti are being made, which police say will cause the closure of the northbound Connector for several hours. Graffiti removal will be scheduled for nighttime hours when impact on traffic will be minimized.'

She looks at the camera with a big smile on her face. 'Next up, it's going to be hot enough to fry an egg out there today.'

Uncle Daddy turned in his sleep and started to snore again.

It was getting to be dawn. The birds were louder than the crickets. Suzie was lying in a handy ditch between tracks, in an unknown yard, waiting for another chance to catch a freight train out of town. She was cold in the morning air, wet from the dew, stiff, sore, bruised, tired, and yes, hungry and thirsty. She had no idea where she was. She dozed, her head resting on her bag, hoping for some luck.

And luck was to be had. Suzie happened to be in Tilford Yard, one of the busiest yards in Atlanta. Forty trains a day. Since she didn't know enough to approach a friendly trainman and ask him where there was a train making up, she was going to need crazy luck.

She awoke to the sound of a train pulling out. She looked up and saw a bunch of shadowy figures emerging from the same gully as she was lying in. They gravitated toward the train, spotting a couple of likely cars, and exploded into action.

She watched as they chased a string of cars; a boxcar with its door open, a grain carrier with ladders on the end, a flatbed with a steel structure held upright by clamps. It seemed like a dozen people running for the train. Suzie hurriedly got up and ran to join them. All around her they were jumping on, catching hold of rungs, diving through the boxcar door.

She paced the boxcar and threw her bag inside. It was chest high off the ground and the train was picking up speed. How was she going to get inside? She'd seen several people vaulting into the open car. It looked like it took some serious vertical lift, and she was a shrimp. She felt scared. But she was running alongside the boxcar and it was starting to outrun her. It was now or never.

Several faces watched from the inside. Someone shouted encouragement. She leaped into the car, diving headfirst onto the slippery metal floor. Her hands were grabbing like a gecko's. Her legs were hanging out of the door. She heard someone telling her to keep them straight. She was too afraid of getting caught in the wheels to let them drop, but she could feel herself starting to slip out, her legs sagging. She tried arching her back to bring her legs up, and felt a searing pain as she aggravated the injuries she'd gotten in her fall onto the top of Uncle Daddy's truck.

And then she felt strong hands grabbing her shoulders and pulling her in.

She looked at her benefactor. It was a tall, skinny guy a couple of years older than her, with a warm smile on his face. She arranged herself along the wall in the middle of a crowd of rail kids, marveling at her luck and trying to catch her breath.

'Does anybody know where we're going?' she asked.

The guy who hauled her aboard said, 'We're on the A&WP line to Montgomery and points south.'

She looked at him. He was kind of cute. She noticed his backpack. There were two bullet holes in it. He saw her looking. 'Yard bulls,' he said, and she nodded. 'I'm Maximillian. I'm a poet.'

'Suzie. Uh, I do graffiti.'

He pointed around at the others and introduced them. 'Gracie,' who looked about fifteen, 'she's emancipated from her parents. Gracie nodded. 'Johnny Thunder,' he nodded at an older guy, about forty-five. 'He's up for King of the Hobos this year.' Johnny said Hey and grinned. 'That's Kathleen,' he said, pointing to an old lady. 'She's from Ireland.'

Suzie said, 'My mom lived in Ireland.' Kathleen smiled. 'You got shoes, girl?' Suzie's feet were cut and blackened. The woman fished around in her bag and tossed her a pair of tennis shoes. Suzie choked up.

Maximillian pulled a forty-ounce bottle of beer out of his pack. Suzie wondered how it had managed to remain unbroken. He must have a method. He passed it around and everybody had a swig.

The train passed yards full of rusted out industrial items, ex cars, ex buildings; picked up speed. It swayed pleasantly. The wheels made screeching noises at odd moments. The passengers talked quietly. Suzie looked at Maximillian and wondered if he was as nice as he looked. He looked back, and winked.

The train rode off into the sunrise. The moon set.

* * *

The end