burnt her grilled cheese sandwich and failed to read the novel on her bed. She did succeed in lying on her bed, staring at the wall and replaying memories of the mysterious events of the wildfire.
Something weird was happening around her. But what did it all mean?
Smells Fishy
Standing in front of the WBN camera, reporter Lynn Meyers removed a handkerchief from under her nose and offered a firm, serious smile to the camera. “We’re here at the Flour Mill Run River in Fairfax County, Virginia, the site of a new case of mysterious animal deaths that are thought to be linked to the wildfire over the weekend. I’m joined by local fisherman Rob Ackerman. Mr. Ackerman, thanks for agreeing to talk. Can you tell us what you found this morning?”
A hefty, hairy man stepped in front of the camera, clearing his throat. “Well, I got out in my boat, just at the usual time. Set up my rod. Then I happened to notice one or two fish floatin’. I thought to myself, ‘This ain’t right.’ So I went ahead and motored up a bit, and that’s when I saw ’em.”
“Saw what?”
“About a hundred fish. Some belly-up, some washed out on the shore. Read ’bout things like that, but it’s not something we see around here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ackerman.” Lynn looked straight back into the camera. “This is another strange scene that greets us today.”
The cameraman panned past Lynn and across to the shoreline, showing all of the dead fish lying in a neat pattern along the bank. The morning sunshine glinted off of their silvery blue bodies, and for a moment, all the little fish looked like they were a pattern of scales on a much bigger fish. It was an eerie sight.
In the background, away from the camera’s gaze and Lynn’s attention, an engine roared. Although distant at first, gradually it became louder, and as the camera returned to Lynn, a large, black Suburban with blacked-out windows was speeding up behind her and moving much too fast for the dirt road it was on.
“Is he supposed to be doing that?” Rob asked, panic edging his voice.
Lynn turned to see the approaching vehicle, her immaculate features clouding over with anger.
“Not again,” she murmured.
The SUV came rushing toward them as if it were planning to knock them over. Lynn and her interviewee had to jump out of the way to avoid being hit. The cameraman lowered his camera, frustrated with his spoiled shot.
“Hey!” Lynn exclaimed furiously at the driver. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The engine growled low and the car stopped. After a moment, the doors opened, and two men in suits stepped out of either side. Agent Bishop ignored Lynn and, barely acknowledging the people his car had almost hit, stepped across to the shoreline. From his pocket, he produced a pair of latex gloves, snapped them on, and then crouched down to get a closer look at the fish.
His partner, Agent Carter, approached Lynn, holding up his ID.
“Ma’am, I’m Special Agent Carter, and that’s my partner, Special Agent Bishop. We’re from the FBI, and we’re investigating the area. We’ll need to confiscate your footage.”
“No way!” Lynn recoiled and went to stand next to her cameraman, as if he could afford her protection. “I’m not giving you our video again. This is an exclusive! The people have a right to know!”
Carter seemed to consider it for a few seconds. His warm brown eyes sparkled with something resembling amusement. “Rest assured, we can make sure you get the exclusive, Ms. Meyers. We’re looking into a possible bioterrorist threat to D.C.”
Lynn drew in a breath, her hunch confirmed.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, this stretch of river feeds directly into the Potomac River, which runs right next to Washington, D.C., and so we’re going to need someone to let the … people know about drinking the water, personal safety, so on. Someone people trust …”
“No other network?”
“If you cooperate.”
Lynn blinked and
Something weird was happening around her. But what did it all mean?
Smells Fishy
Standing in front of the WBN camera, reporter Lynn Meyers removed a handkerchief from under her nose and offered a firm, serious smile to the camera. “We’re here at the Flour Mill Run River in Fairfax County, Virginia, the site of a new case of mysterious animal deaths that are thought to be linked to the wildfire over the weekend. I’m joined by local fisherman Rob Ackerman. Mr. Ackerman, thanks for agreeing to talk. Can you tell us what you found this morning?”
A hefty, hairy man stepped in front of the camera, clearing his throat. “Well, I got out in my boat, just at the usual time. Set up my rod. Then I happened to notice one or two fish floatin’. I thought to myself, ‘This ain’t right.’ So I went ahead and motored up a bit, and that’s when I saw ’em.”
“Saw what?”
“About a hundred fish. Some belly-up, some washed out on the shore. Read ’bout things like that, but it’s not something we see around here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ackerman.” Lynn looked straight back into the camera. “This is another strange scene that greets us today.”
The cameraman panned past Lynn and across to the shoreline, showing all of the dead fish lying in a neat pattern along the bank. The morning sunshine glinted off of their silvery blue bodies, and for a moment, all the little fish looked like they were a pattern of scales on a much bigger fish. It was an eerie sight.
In the background, away from the camera’s gaze and Lynn’s attention, an engine roared. Although distant at first, gradually it became louder, and as the camera returned to Lynn, a large, black Suburban with blacked-out windows was speeding up behind her and moving much too fast for the dirt road it was on.
“Is he supposed to be doing that?” Rob asked, panic edging his voice.
Lynn turned to see the approaching vehicle, her immaculate features clouding over with anger.
“Not again,” she murmured.
The SUV came rushing toward them as if it were planning to knock them over. Lynn and her interviewee had to jump out of the way to avoid being hit. The cameraman lowered his camera, frustrated with his spoiled shot.
“Hey!” Lynn exclaimed furiously at the driver. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The engine growled low and the car stopped. After a moment, the doors opened, and two men in suits stepped out of either side. Agent Bishop ignored Lynn and, barely acknowledging the people his car had almost hit, stepped across to the shoreline. From his pocket, he produced a pair of latex gloves, snapped them on, and then crouched down to get a closer look at the fish.
His partner, Agent Carter, approached Lynn, holding up his ID.
“Ma’am, I’m Special Agent Carter, and that’s my partner, Special Agent Bishop. We’re from the FBI, and we’re investigating the area. We’ll need to confiscate your footage.”
“No way!” Lynn recoiled and went to stand next to her cameraman, as if he could afford her protection. “I’m not giving you our video again. This is an exclusive! The people have a right to know!”
Carter seemed to consider it for a few seconds. His warm brown eyes sparkled with something resembling amusement. “Rest assured, we can make sure you get the exclusive, Ms. Meyers. We’re looking into a possible bioterrorist threat to D.C.”
Lynn drew in a breath, her hunch confirmed.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, this stretch of river feeds directly into the Potomac River, which runs right next to Washington, D.C., and so we’re going to need someone to let the … people know about drinking the water, personal safety, so on. Someone people trust …”
“No other network?”
“If you cooperate.”
Lynn blinked and
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