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Follow-Up Week, Day Five
Oct. 5th, 2007 11:00 amFriday, October 5, 2007
Presidential Oceanside Retreat
Ogunquit, Maine
". . . so that's the deal, Mr. President. The NPAS field staff's been filing so many reports that the director's gonna file his official preliminary report next week."
President Randall M. Winston, Jr., sighed; his attention was partly on the Secretary of State's words and partly on what he was trying to do with a fish hook and a lead sinker, and both activities were suffering for it. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Mike," he said, "but aren't they jumping the gun a little on this? I seem to remember the plan was for a two year survey."
"It was, sir." Mike Flaherty was, if anything, significantly worse than the President at anything to do with fishing. He privately suspected that he got invited to Ogunquit more often than not precisely because of this fact. Still, one had to keep up appearances, and so he was half-heartedly fiddling with his own reel as he waited for some sign that the President was paying attention. "But I gotta say, Mr. President, I've seen a bunch of their reports myself. I don't know that we even really need to finish the national survey for anything except a baseline. . ."
"Ow! Stupid hook. . . I'm sorry, Mike." The President stuck his thumb in his mouth a moment. "It's really that bad out there, huh?"
"Sir, according to the field reports, at least fifteen states are showing the exact same signs of all hell breaking loose as New York City did back in early 2003. Some places more than others."
Winston leaned against one of the pier's pilings, tightening the knot on his hook one last time. "Gimme a for instance."
"Skokie, Illinois," Flaherty said immediately. "The Illinois Nazi Party was assembling for a court-protected march down the main street of town on September the first-"
"Ooh. Talk about timing."
"Yes, Mr. President. Anyway, the Party members had assembled for their march when fourteen hundred witnesses, including an NPAS field researcher who was on her way to an assignment in Crystal Lake, all saw a 1980 black-and-white Dodge sedan materialize in the middle of the street and drive straight into the middle of the Nazis."
"Mike," said the President patiently, "that's a scene from The Blues Brothers."
"I'm aware of that, Mr. President. Agent Goldberger said the sedan vanished a moment later, only to re-materialize once the Nazis had reassembled. They didn't bother getting out of the way this time." Flaherty paused. "Old Orchard Hospital's psychiatric admissions room had to use a fire hose to get rid of all the ectoplasm."
"Huh," said the President, his fishing rod all but forgotten. "Okay, anything else? Maybe something a little less movie-inspired this time?"
"Ghosts do have a tendency to be associated with stories told the same way over and over again, Mr. President," Flaherty pointed out. "But sure. St. Augustine, Florida, is experiencing a major surge in their tourism-based economy ever since an NPAS field research team verified that the Old Drug Store- that's it's actual name, before you ask-"
"I wasn't going to ask."
"Yes you were, sir, I could see it. The Old Drug Store was built on a Native American burial site, and as of this past April, four of the Seminoles buried there have been sighted and photographed harassing the tourists. The NPAS team was there for a week. They've got video footage, film footage, sworn testimony, and a torn shirt from two frat guys from Cleveland who irritated the Seminoles."
"Huh," said the President again.
"And then there's pretty much the entire state of Massachusetts," said Flaherty. "It's incredible, sir. Starting with what they found when the NPAS guys got to go out on a Woods Hole expedition-"
"Yeah," said a slick, faintly gurgly voice from the water at their feet. "About that."
Flaherty scrambled backwards several steps as a pair of big, blue-grey, webbed-fingered hands clapped themselves onto the pier. The being that pulled itself up a moment later was shaped not unlike a man, if one looked past the blue-grey skin, the fins where hair probably ought to have been, the other fins running along its spine and the backs of its limbs, the almost total lack of nose, the widely-spaced unblinking eyes, and the very very visible gills. Flaherty had just enough time to think We don't pay those Secret Service frogmen enough to deal with this before it shook itself off and said, "Mr. President. . . we gotta talk."
The only thing that kept Winston from leaping off the other side of the pier in terror was the fact that Mike Flaherty was in the way.
Presidential Oceanside Retreat
Ogunquit, Maine
". . . so that's the deal, Mr. President. The NPAS field staff's been filing so many reports that the director's gonna file his official preliminary report next week."
President Randall M. Winston, Jr., sighed; his attention was partly on the Secretary of State's words and partly on what he was trying to do with a fish hook and a lead sinker, and both activities were suffering for it. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Mike," he said, "but aren't they jumping the gun a little on this? I seem to remember the plan was for a two year survey."
"It was, sir." Mike Flaherty was, if anything, significantly worse than the President at anything to do with fishing. He privately suspected that he got invited to Ogunquit more often than not precisely because of this fact. Still, one had to keep up appearances, and so he was half-heartedly fiddling with his own reel as he waited for some sign that the President was paying attention. "But I gotta say, Mr. President, I've seen a bunch of their reports myself. I don't know that we even really need to finish the national survey for anything except a baseline. . ."
"Ow! Stupid hook. . . I'm sorry, Mike." The President stuck his thumb in his mouth a moment. "It's really that bad out there, huh?"
"Sir, according to the field reports, at least fifteen states are showing the exact same signs of all hell breaking loose as New York City did back in early 2003. Some places more than others."
Winston leaned against one of the pier's pilings, tightening the knot on his hook one last time. "Gimme a for instance."
"Skokie, Illinois," Flaherty said immediately. "The Illinois Nazi Party was assembling for a court-protected march down the main street of town on September the first-"
"Ooh. Talk about timing."
"Yes, Mr. President. Anyway, the Party members had assembled for their march when fourteen hundred witnesses, including an NPAS field researcher who was on her way to an assignment in Crystal Lake, all saw a 1980 black-and-white Dodge sedan materialize in the middle of the street and drive straight into the middle of the Nazis."
"Mike," said the President patiently, "that's a scene from The Blues Brothers."
"I'm aware of that, Mr. President. Agent Goldberger said the sedan vanished a moment later, only to re-materialize once the Nazis had reassembled. They didn't bother getting out of the way this time." Flaherty paused. "Old Orchard Hospital's psychiatric admissions room had to use a fire hose to get rid of all the ectoplasm."
"Huh," said the President, his fishing rod all but forgotten. "Okay, anything else? Maybe something a little less movie-inspired this time?"
"Ghosts do have a tendency to be associated with stories told the same way over and over again, Mr. President," Flaherty pointed out. "But sure. St. Augustine, Florida, is experiencing a major surge in their tourism-based economy ever since an NPAS field research team verified that the Old Drug Store- that's it's actual name, before you ask-"
"I wasn't going to ask."
"Yes you were, sir, I could see it. The Old Drug Store was built on a Native American burial site, and as of this past April, four of the Seminoles buried there have been sighted and photographed harassing the tourists. The NPAS team was there for a week. They've got video footage, film footage, sworn testimony, and a torn shirt from two frat guys from Cleveland who irritated the Seminoles."
"Huh," said the President again.
"And then there's pretty much the entire state of Massachusetts," said Flaherty. "It's incredible, sir. Starting with what they found when the NPAS guys got to go out on a Woods Hole expedition-"
"Yeah," said a slick, faintly gurgly voice from the water at their feet. "About that."
Flaherty scrambled backwards several steps as a pair of big, blue-grey, webbed-fingered hands clapped themselves onto the pier. The being that pulled itself up a moment later was shaped not unlike a man, if one looked past the blue-grey skin, the fins where hair probably ought to have been, the other fins running along its spine and the backs of its limbs, the almost total lack of nose, the widely-spaced unblinking eyes, and the very very visible gills. Flaherty had just enough time to think We don't pay those Secret Service frogmen enough to deal with this before it shook itself off and said, "Mr. President. . . we gotta talk."
The only thing that kept Winston from leaping off the other side of the pier in terror was the fact that Mike Flaherty was in the way.
