Omnicron Imperative (Part XII)

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KA-WHAAAM!!!

The hangar on the outskirts of Lockport, New York disintegrated suddenly and a millisecond later a hundred-yard-wide ball of crimson fire took it’s place. Smoking sheets of corrugated steel and half-melted airplane parts rained down for half a mile around.  

Several smaller explosions followed as a fuel depot near the site of the former structure erupted sympathetically generating huge billows of oily, ebony smoke that curled toward the heavens. A few minutes later fire trucks and ambulances on the way to the scene roared past two figures trudging toward the highway.

"Sweetheart?"

"Yes, love?"

"We have been together for forty years..."

"Forty-one, actually, love," the septuagenarian woman responded as she returned the remote detonator to the depths of her bedraggled knitting bag.  Several squad cars rocketed by in the direction of the mayhem. 

"... and in all that time," the man in the fedora continued, "I believe you have blown up every single conveyance we have ever used as soon as we were done with it."   He halted and mashed a glowing ember that had fallen to the ground with the tip of his cane and lifted it to the panatela clutched between his teeth.  After a few quick puffs he inhaled deeply and continued walking.

“Mustn’t leave tracks.  DNA and so forth.  You know the rules, dear.  Besides, in order to be the best we need plenty of practice to stay in tip-top shape.”

“Yes, I know,” he sighed.  “Still, it would have been nice to be able to ride a little while instead of having to walk all this way.  The heel of my shoe is giving me fits - I think it’s about to come off. When we landed that so-called spacecraft in this cow pasture the locals reckon is an airport I thought for sure we were closer to the main road...”

They shuffled onward a while.  The woman spoke.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better soon you will be able to sit for a spell and practice your trade, assuming Mr. Twikowski’s fancy gold envelope is accurate.”

“True, that,” he said and absentmindedly crushed out the cigar between his forefinger and thumb before dropping it onto the rocky path.  This demonstration of his near-immunity to pain never failed to make an impression on the people he was sent to interview. 

Today would mark his five-thousandth ‘customer’, as he called them.  He smiled a little.  

They reached the highway and the man in the fedora waved his cane a little at the traffic that had slowed to gawk at the inky cloud roiling into the sky behind them.  Eventually, a blue Ford Escort pulled into the shoulder and ground to a halt.  A smallish, squat man reached over and rolled down the passenger side window a bit so he could be heard.

“Wow!  You folks okay?  You need a lift somewhere?  You’ll both have to sit in the back - the door handle’s fallen off that side and the lock’s all rusted shut in any case.  Sorry ‘bout that.”

“That would be most kind, young man.  Downtown, if it’s not too much trouble,” the woman said.  The couple climbed into the rear of the vehicle and the driver made a quick U-turn and headed in the direction of the city proper.

They rode in silence for a bit, the man assessing the damage to his left shoe and the woman preparing a small Semtex charge about the size of a pack of cigarettes.

“Really, forty-one years?” he asked.

“Yes, dear, forty-one,” she responded as she wedged the device underneath the driver’s seat and activated the receiver.  Both stared out the window for a while at the various defunct businesses that lined the street - businesses awaiting an upturn in the local economy that could once again support four trophy shops for every nail salon.

After a few more blocks he reached out and held her hand.

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

(To Be Continued...)