N.L. WILLIAMS ~ A Matter of Destiny
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N. L. Williams
528 Meadowlark Trail
Suite 357
Chattanooga, TN 37412
CHAPTER 1
Destin pushed through the throngs of people packed against him and groaned. In these crowds, George Eisenhardt would be impossible to find. He’d already blown fifteen minutes, searching the masses of people jammed on the main convention floor of the Orlando, Florida Hamfest, an amateur radio convention. Had George vanished into thin air? Destin brushed back his thick hair. At twenty-nine he might be a good PR man for Lockheed Martin, but he’d failed in the lost friend department.
He squeezed past men and women, past vendors selling radios, trays of
connectors, baseball caps, coaxial cables, DC and antenna wire, and antennas.
The air, thick with the aromas of chilidogs and cokes, made his mouth
water, but he put his hunger on hold.
At the far end of the convention floor, he found the Icom radio sales
booth, their meeting spot, but George wasn’t there. He leaned against
the table, slipped his portable ham set from his shirt pocket, and tried
to call George. No luck.
“Excuse me,” a voice said near his side. He wheeled to face a young Puerto Rican radio dealer who stood inside the booth.
“Yes?”
“You Destin Campbell?”
Destin straightened, surprised. “How’d you know?”
The Icom salesman grinned. “Mr. Eisenhardt told me to look for a six foot guy with brown hair and a square jaw. Said you’d come here and to tell you he’s in the bathroom. He wants you to meet him there.”
“The bathroom? Destin frowned. “Odd place to meet me.”
“Yeah.” The rep rubbed his ear. “I thought so too.”
“Thanks. Where’s the restroom?”
“Out those doors.” The technician pointed, and then turned
to waiting customers.
Destin nodded and made his way to the rear entrance foyer. The empty lobby’s
silence unnerved him. It was weird that George, a fellow ham, had driven
all the way to Orlando from North Carolina for ham radio equipment. Earlier,
his secretary said George was upset when he called. Now the bathroom.
Two bored volunteer guards in orange vests stood near the outer doors and checked arrivals. George was not there.
He entered the restroom, tucked down a short hall. Without air conditioning, the room was oppressively humid and redolent with decaying odors. Destin stopped. Something’s not right. Too damn quiet.
The suffocating heat and smell bothered him, and his pulse thumped in cadence to dripping faucets. Drip, tick, drip, tick – it pounded an eerie beat.
On his right most of the room’s four stall doors hung open. Only one was closed near the far wall of the windowless room.
He inched toward the closed stall door at the rear. In the stall before
it, through the open door, a man sat hunched on a toilet seat, leaning
on the stall wall for support. It was George.
George’s vacant eyes stared beyond the stall and the restroom. Splotches
of red dripped down his face. Destin leaned close and heard a gurgle well
from deep within. George gasped. “Destin, I couldn’t -- stop
them.”
A shadow of a man coalesced and sprang from the last stall as he shoved the adjacent stall door forward.Too late Destin straightened. When the door slammed full force into his head, he dropped to his knees in agony. The room spun wildly and through the blur he watched his attacker, a man dressed in black clothes and white sneakers sprint out the restroom door.
The silent room unnerved him. He pulled himself up and looked back. But George didn’t move and didn’t see anything anymore.
“Oh God,” Destin murmured. “Friend, how’d you get yourself shot?” A bubbling fountain of blood welled up and spread across the entire side of George’s head. He sat to one side, his pants unzipped.
Destin leaned forward and touched George’s face. He ached to move his friend, to help him, but he stopped himself. If he searched George’s pockets, he might send his friend sprawling.
A second cascade of pain hammered his head. He stepped back and grabbed the stall for support as the floor moved and rose. When his vision blurred, his tongue thickened and he couldn’t shout. He touched his head and found his hand wet with his own blood. He slid to the floor and allowed the pain to help him focus. Helpless rage replaced his shock.
Why? What the hell was going on? He looked back at his friend and spotted a scrap of paper protruding from George’s fingers.
Destin inched back into the stall and tugged the paper free. He dragged himself across the room and pulled himself upright at the sinks where the light was better. The paper, now blood soaked from his own hands, had four letters scrawled on it followed by two words: QGPB, alien tech. He tried to stuff the paper in his slacks pocket, but the scrap, less than a one-inch square and now limp with blood, fell to the floor.
He bent over and retrieved it in pieces, but a fresh wave of pain and dizziness cascaded over him. The scrap dropped again. He watched in horror as it dissolved in a pool of slowly draining water in the sink while the faucet continued its staccato drip. Nauseated, Destin slipped to the floor and crawled toward the stall.
A hefty, jeans-clad stranger sauntered into the bathroom, studying a radio magazine. When he saw Destin, the man’s eyes protruded. He backed toward a stall. “Hey, man.” The stranger’s voice trailed away into a moan, which reverberated in the dead air. Then he bumped into George’s stall door. At the sight of George’s body he fled, screaming.
Destin heard sounds of a scuffle as two Orlando police officers in short-sleeved blue uniforms ran into the room, guns drawn.
“Freeze!” The taller officer sidled forward.
Behind him crept his companion, a guy whose head touched his shoulders, a guy with little neck.
“Don’t move!”
“I didn’t…” Destin stood up.
“I said freeze,” the taller officer said. “Get your hands up!”
Destin nodded, raised his arms, and the tall officer shoved him toward the nearest sink. Before Destin could protest, they’d frisked him and spun him around. No-neck holstered his gun. He moved to the stall and checked George’s pulse. “Do you know this man?” The expression on No-neck’s bulldog face was ugly.
“My friend, George.” Destin slurred the words. Both officers stiffened. Wrong thing to say? The one in the stall drew his gun again.
“Hey, slow down, Burns,” the taller one said. “This guy’s seriously hurt. Can’t you see that? Look at his head.”
No-neck holstered his pistol. He said something, but the words reverberated
from the walls, as the moans had earlier. And though he tried, Destin
could not understand. The voice and his vision rushed away from him at
full speed, echoing within a vast and darkening tunnel. He slid into the
welcome peace and darkness of unconsciousness.
