Six people were trampled to death leaving a crowded casino in Las Vegas. An employee at the MGM lost his marbles and got on the intercom and screamed out they were being attacked and for everyone to run for their lives if they wanted to live. People were lying on the floor in pain from throwing up until their stomachs were dry on the casino floor. The casino security staff tackled the employee who screamed on the intercom. In all his madness, the employee went over the deep end when he grabbed one of the guards’ guns and waved it around, threatening to shoot anyone who came near him. He turned the gun on himself moments later and blew the back of his head off by putting the gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. Seems he didn’t want to stick around for the worst to come. This is when people in the casino screamed as they heard the confrontation and the gunshot over the intercom. Everyone made a mad dash for the door, trampling over anyone that was in the way.
The madness on the streets in Las Vegas topped the craziness that happened inside the casinos. Cars swerved to miss the people running out into the middle of the strip. Some actually made it safe to the other side, not knowing why they ran to the other side of the street, but they did. Some were mowed down as they ran in front of passing cars and were flung high off the ground and tumbled back across the car when they were hit, then only to be run completely over by the following car. A big Chevy Silverado hit a showgirl that was still wearing her costume. Her body landed in the back of the truck all mangled.
Even the small towns were experiencing their fair share of the sudden stomach virus, or food poisoning or whatever you want to call it. Children lay in a bed of caked puke, screaming and holding their stomach, and parents rushing in to check on them and comfort them while they waited for it to pass. Their faces pale from the sight of their children being so miserably sick, and the children’s faces pale from the sudden dehydration and upset stomach. It happened everywhere and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Police communications were backed up, firefighters were attending to blazing accidents, doctors were dumbfounded at what to do, and the people in general had no idea what had just struck them. They had no idea it happened everywhere. Many thought it was some kind of terrorist attack.
The sickness had come and gone within a matter of about one hour from the time everyone started getting that butterfly feeling in their stomach until the time they finished wiping the last drops of stomach acid from their lips and then wiping the watery mess from between their cheeks. At first, the news stations reported on the accidents that happened on the roadways in their locale. Then the word spread like wildfire and the people became more afraid of what had happened, but by the time the word made it to the national news, everyone was fine. It was just a bout of sickness that struck unexpectedly and without any type of warning. It was no terrorist attack because it was over so fast and nothing came of it. So what if it was a coincidence that 85 percent of the population had just puked and shit their guts out? It was over within the span of an hour. No one died and no one was hurt, except for their feelings. Well, people did die, but not because of the sudden stomach twisting and gut wrenching sickness. They had died because of their own stupidity of losing all commonsense and running about recklessly into the streets like someone who had lit themselves on fire by mistake. People died in their cars because other drivers were too busy worrying about themselves and the puke that was dripping from their steering wheels to pay attention to the road. That is right, no one died from being sick.
Fortunately, the police and the hospitals were able to regain control within a matter of hours. The news advised everyone to stay at home if they were not still sick and to visit their healthcare provider the next morning. The government decided to raise the terrorist threat level to SEVERE and grounded all flights until the next day. Everyone was advised to stay in their homes for the night until everything could be sorted out, but not everyone watches the news.
THE DRIVE-IN PART TWO
Sheriff Johnson stood against the fence on the Miller farm, smoking a cheap cigar and watching the CDC and the USDA conduct tests on the chickens and cows. “Sure is a shame ain’t it, Carl.”
“No kidding,” said Sergeant Anderson as he leaned against the fence next to the Sheriff.
“I just don’t understand how something like this could happen. I mean they can’t find shit wrong with the ones they’ve tested so far,” Sheriff Johnson said, as he blew smoke out of his mouth. “Poor Miller’s been keeping the whole damn farm fed the way he always has.”
“I don’t understand it myself.” Sergeant Anderson flicked his cigarette over the fence. “It’s gonna be hell around here tomorrow when all those city reporters start showing up. You just wait and see. We got the first wave in today. The local boys, but you wait until tomorrow. They’ll be fucking reporters from across the country wanting to get a piece of this place.”
“I don’t doubt it none myself,” said Sheriff Johnson. “They’ll do anything for the attention. It’ll be just like those damn Nazis up in Boone County. Ruthless sons of bitches.”
“That’s for sure. Don’t matter if it’s true or not. They’ll send a reporter out to make the story however they see fit. Whatever will sell on television.” Sergeant Anderson thought to himself what it could be that could have caused the massive herds to die. He’s never seen anything like this in all his years as a trooper.
“That’s right. Anything to make the ratings go up.” The Sheriff walked away, leaving Sergeant Anderson by the fence.
Sergeant Anderson jumped at the sound of one of his troopers screaming through on the radio. Sheriff Johnson heard his radio just the same. They were getting the call about the sickness happening at Steven’s Drive-In. George Stevens had called the Sheriff
and
the state police, screaming that he and all his customers had been gassed with some chemical, “probably mustard gas” he told the deputies and the troopers.
“Sergeant Anderson,” a voice screamed through the radio in the patrol car. “Sergeant Anderson. Pick up right away, Sarge.”
Sergeant Anderson ran over to his car. Sheriff Johnson did the same when he heard his name being called out from his radio. Sergeant Anderson grabbed the microphone. “This is Sergeant Anderson. What’s wrong West?”
“Sarge.” Trooper West spoke quickly. “George Stevens just called here screaming his brains out about poison gas or something. People throwing up everywhere. Said it looks like some kind of terrorist attack or something. He thinks they’re probably going to invade the place next.”
“Wait a minute,” said Sergeant Anderson. “Calm down. I’ll be over there in a minute. You keep your shit together and keep me posted if anything else comes up.” He let loose of the microphone and tossed it back in the car. “What the hell is going on here?” he said aloud. He opened the door and quickly got in the car.
Sheriff Johnson wobbled over to Sergeant. The fat jiggled from his neck down to his waist that hung over his duty belt, nearly covering his gun and handcuffs. Heaven forbid if he ever needed to pull his gun on a suspect. He would have to either lose forty pounds or use both hands to pull that drooping fat up and have the suspect get his gun out for him. “Hey Carl. You get the same call, too?”
“Yeah,” said Sergeant Anderson. “Something about Steven’s drive-in over on the main road.”
“That’s right. You heading over there?”
“Leaving right now. Want to just ride with me?”
“What about all these government officials?”
“The hell with those city boys. You got your best deputies here. They can handle it,” Sergeant Anderson said as he put his foot on the brake and put the car in gear.
Sheriff Johnson walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. “Ain’t that the truth. Better than your boys can handle it,” he said jokingly as he got inside the car, using the roof rail to balance his weight down on the front seat.
“Shit,” Sergeant Anderson said smiling. ‘Your boys couldn’t pick a jackass out of a lineup of shit-kickers.”
“Bullshit,” said Sheriff Johnson. “You know your boys are always sitting on the side of the highway with the radar gun, timing their hand jerks.” They both laughed.
As they sped off down the road toward Steven’s Drive-In, the government workers still conducting tests. Mr. Miller sat on his porch the entire time, drinking his cold Kentucky beer. The depression had already kicked in, knowing the insurance wouldn’t be enough to keep him on his feet, if there would be any insurance claim. He would have to wait for the results to come back on what happened to his livestock, and then it would take several weeks for him to receive a settlement. He was feeling low at this point. He had called his farm hands and informed them not to bother coming in to work that morning. He sat there drinking his beer, staring at the workers as they ran their high-tech machines in the back of white vans. They were all dressed in white suits with respirators covering their faces. Mr. Miller thought it was ridiculous that they were wearing the special equipment, but hadn’t offered him anything to prevent the spread of disease or whatever it is the cows had from going into his own lungs. He figured it really didn’t matter since it would be too late considering he’s been hanging around the animals since before they passed. He took another sip of beer and it spilled down the front of his shirt. He looked at the wet spot and shrugged his shoulders and said to himself, “Doesn’t matter anyway. Day couldn’t get any worse.”
The team of government officials had been conducting their tests since eight o’clock that morning and hadn’t come up with any explanation thus far. The clock was going on 8:30 p.m. now and still everything turned up negative. The man in charge, Mike Sampson, stood by his Ford Crown Victoria, obviously a plain-Jane government owned vehicle, smoking a cigarette and watching the stars twinkle up above. Mike Sampson is a hardnosed G-Man who never takes shit from anyone and wants the answers to come from him and no one else. He’s been with the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s investigation team since he returned from the Gulf War in the early 90s. He divorced his wife when she pleaded with him that she wanted children, but he always told her he would never bring kids into this shit-hole of a world, his words. He’s kept the slang and the attitude he developed from his time in the Army and now uses it to get by in the USDA. He doesn’t care for animals that much, but he enjoys a top grade steak so he figures he’ll get out there and regulate so he can make sure the meat is tender on his plate when he orders it rare. Screw it, it’s a job like any other, he would always say.
Sampson wondered what the hell is going on here in this backwoods area of Kentucky. He hadn’t seen anything like this since he’s been with the USDA in over twenty years. He thought back to the time he had to investigate a case of poisoning that had gone on in Kansas. It was a time that he would never forget in late 1999. There had been a farmer who maliciously poisoned his entire livestock in order to collect a large insurance claim. It was a time when the farmer was going under and couldn’t produce enough income to support his family. Sampson began to wonder if this was the same thing happening here on the Miller farm.
After Sergeant Anderson and the Sheriff headed out to attend to their call at Steven’s Drive-In, Sampson stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his boot and tossed it out in the open field. The same field where hundreds of dead cows lay, smelling of something foul. That deathly rotting carcass smell it was. He walked over to the porch that was dimly lit by the dusty bulb that dangled from the porch ceiling. He stared at Mr. Miller, who by this time is already going on his eleventh beer since the afternoon. He wondered if Miller would be able to give him any straight answers to the questions he wanted to ask him. Sampson thought whether he should question him now or just sit down next to him in the worn out chair and crack open a beer with him. He felt like he needed a beer at this point, having been on his feet since he arrived on scene. He walked up to the porch and leaned against the railing of the short set of steps that led up to where Miller sat.
“How ya doin, Mr. Miller?” said Sampson with a slight smile.
Mr. Miller’s chin lay flat against his chest with the Kentucky Blue beer in his right hand and the other hand drooping over the arm of the chair. He raised his head at the sound of Sampson’s voice and looked at him, his eyes blood shot and sitting far back into his eye sockets. “Any better I couldn’t stand it.” His words seemed to slide across his tongue all jumbled and came out slurred together.
“Well,” said Sampson, as he proceeded to walk up the steps, his boots clacking with each footstep. “I know we spoke when my team first arrived, but I’m at a loss for words right now. I’m not sure where to begin with this whole ordeal. Do you think you could run the story by me again?”
“I told you this morning and I’ll tell you again.” Mr. Miller’s voice was filled with anger. “It’s got to be those damn Grant boys musta had something to do with it.”
“I know you told me that, but we’ve been through a hundred tests already and have found not one positive result for any type of poisoning. You—”
“It’s those Grant boys!” Mr. Miller jumped from his chair, nearly knocking it over on its side. He nearly fell over on top of it, but caught himself on the paneling of the house.
Trooper Anderson, who was standing near one of the white vans that had one of the cattle spread out behind it, overheard the commotion on the porch. He looked up and saw Miller waving his hands in the air, screaming at the top of his lungs about the Grant boys. He wondered himself if Miller hadn’t poisoned his own cattle. Miller is getting up there in old age and could be going delirious, Trooper Anderson thought. He could have done it so he could fire his farmhands and settle off into retirement down near Nashville or up in Bowling Green. It would make sense. Mr. Miller has no family. He ran his wife off nearly 30 years ago with the drinking and the time he got caught with the town whore. Mrs. Miller had caught her with him and tried to shoot both of them as they lay in bed. Poor woman caught them in the middle of the act. She blew a hole in the wall above the headboard with a 12-gauge shotgun loaded with buckshot. She would have killed them both if the other shell hadn’t been a dud. Mr. Miller though it was best not to press charges.
“I don’t give a hoot what you say you found or ain’t found,” yelled Mr. Miller. “I’ll go to my grave knowing who is responsible for this. You damn city G-Men couldn’t tell you’re ass from a hole in the ground.”
Sampson stood, staring at him, thinking to himself that this crazy old man might be dumb enough to pull a shotgun from the house and start shooting at his men while they try to do their job. He looked down and saw a red ice chest sitting on the porch next to Miller’s chair. “Now you boys just finish up what you were doing out—”
Sampson interrupted Mr. Miller and said, “You got anymore Kentucky Blue in there?”
Mr. Miller squinted his eyes and cocked his chin up. “I might...What’s it to ya?”
“Oh, I just wouldn’t mind having one myself,” Sampson said as he stepped up on the porch and leaned back against the railing. They stared at each other for a moment. Miller gave in and pointed down to the ice chest, motioning for Sampson to grab a cold one. “Thank you,” said Sampson.
Trooper Anderson got a call on the police radio. His uncle kept yelling for him over the speaker. Trooper Anderson ran over and grabbed the microphone. “What’s wrong Sarge?”
“Damn it boy,” he yelled louder this time, causing the speaker on the radio to rattle. “Don’t ask questions, just get your ass on the road now and bring that guy Sampson with you.”
“10-4,” said Trooper Anderson. He yelled up at the porch to Sampson “Mr. Sampson. We got to get up the road pretty quick. I think something’s wrong at the drive-in. My uncle said to bring you along.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Sampson.
“I don’t know, but we need to go now. My uncle called for us.”
“Wait a minute,” yelled Sampson. “Where’s this drive-in?”
“It’s up the road a piece,” said Miller, as he raised his beer can to his lips, nearly missing his mouth entirely. “You can’t miss it.” The last few words muffled as he pressed the can to his lips and gulped down his beer. Sampson jogged to the car and got in with Trooper Anderson.
“Damn, Mr. Sampson,” Trooper Anderson shook his head as they sped out of the driveway. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s got to be something bad up there.”
“How do you know that?” Sampson said, as he looked down, realizing he still had the beer in his hand.
“It’s got to be something bad if my uncle wants you there. No offense.” He looked over and noticed the beer can, but said nothing about it. “I mean he don’t like the big dogs, but if it’s something he needs to sick them on, he’ll call them in.”
“None taken.” Sampson finished up the last of his beer.
They arrived at Steven’s Drive-In in less than three and a half minutes. Sampson stepped out of the patrol car and his mouth fell open wide as though he were catching flies with his tongue. He gazed at the site of people lined up at the restrooms with brown, wet smudges on the back of their pants. A middle-aged lady had brown running down the insides of both of her legs as she stood in line with the front of her shirt covered in chunks of potatoes and bits of hamburger meat mixed up like the shit on the shingle they served to the troops back in Desert Storm. This almost made Sampson lose the beer that was sloshing around inside his stomach. Across the parking lot, the sight was much worse. Sampson noticed what looked like a man holding a small boy upside down, as if he were shaking the rest of whatever it was they were all puking up right out of the boy. Sampson shook his head and rubbed his eyes, hoping that what he is seeing isn’t actually happening. It was not a boy upside down; it was a small girl the man was shaking. What the hell is going on here, thought Sampson as he slowly walked toward the main building, looking around at all the people.