Sorry this is a bit late - a combination of real life and numerous rewrites. I'm a bit nervous about this one, but I'm taking my lead from the other boys here: it's all John's fault, he made me write it! Whirlgirl, thanks as always for the lovely comments.
Chapter Nine
"No way! That's insane!" Scott was actually wondering if he was the one who was insane for having entertained, even for a moment, the idea that he could go along with one of John's plans.
Unfortunately for him, however, his other brothers seemed quite engaged by the idea. Well, he wouldn't have expected anything else from Gordon and Alan, but to his surprise Virgil seemed to be giving it some serious consideration too and Scott couldn't help groaning inwardly at the irony of the situation. As much as he enjoyed being hero-worshipped by his middle brother, there were times it oppressed and worried him and lately he'd actually been trying to get Virgil to detach himself a little - he was quickly learning that you couldn't get very far with a girl if you had a kid brother tagging along all the time. Talk about being careful what you wished for, he thought. It had been such a peculiar day already that it wouldn't surprise him if Virgil chose this moment to cut himself loose and turn to the dark side.
John was definitely doing his best to convince his next-youngest brother. "Come on, Virg. You know we can't pull this off without you."
Virgil looked from Scott to John, clearly wavering. Usually there would be no question about it, he'd side with Scott, especially when he was mad at John. But that creative, imaginative side of his character couldn't help but be caught up in the idea. Oh, Scott was right, it was crazy. Totally insane. And yet..
With the combined forces of John, Gordon and Alan against him, plus the fact that no one had a better idea, Virgil finally gave in. It felt strange to be going against Scott, but then again, as John had pointed out, if it all worked out, he'd be saving his favourite brother from all sorts of trouble, since as the eldest, Scott was bound to bear the brunt of the blame for Morten's imprisonment.
"Okay. But if we get caught I'm telling them it was your idea."
John didn't seem to have a problem with that. In fact, he seemed more than happy to take full credit, dismissing Virgil with an airy wave of his hand and turning to the one brother who remained unconvinced. "Scott?"
"It's stupid, John."
"So do you have a better idea?"
"I'm worried about the gun," Scott said, deliberately ignoring John's challenge since they both knew he didn't.
"It went off when I pushed him in the cellar and then he shot at the window," John said. "It's a double-barrelled shotgun. He'll be out of ammo."
"He's got pockets," Scott pointed out. "He could have kept a few spare shells in them."
John was unperturbed. "All the more reason to make sure our diversions work. Look, I know it's a bit... unusual... but we'll be here all night if we try to come up with something else. Unless you want to just give in, call the police and wait to be arrested?"
"Or worse," Gordon interjected. "Grandma's going to kill us if she finds out."
It said a lot for Ruth Tracy that a scolding from her was feared more than any punishment the police or even their father might dish out. Even John paled a little before pulling himself together and marshalling the troops.
"All the more reason to make sure this works. Right, let's get going. You all know what you have to do?"
There were enthusiastic responses from Gordon and Alan. Now that Kurt Morten had been exposed as a somewhat sad - if not actually mad - individual, their initial fears had gone. Even the threat of the gun didn't worry them too much. They both felt a real sense of awe at their blond brother's intellect and if John said this would work, then they saw no reason to argue. As much as they respected Scott, they couldn't help feeling that he was often too cautious, too worried about consequences and punishments, spoiling their fun on far too many occasions. They both had more than their fair share of whatever mischievous gene John had been blessed with - or cursed with, if you looked at it from Scott's point of view - and the prospect of being let loose to exercise it to its full was something they'd always dreamed of, never expecting the opportunity would ever come their way. And if it all went wrong, well, at eight and six respectively, they had the utmost confidence that a simple, "Johnny made us do it!" would exonerate them from even the slightest bit of blame.
Virgil looked uneasily at Scott for a moment, took a deep breath, then nodded.
"Way to go, Virg! Scott?"
Scott just shook his head.
"Okay," John said, turning away. "Stay here then and we'll see you later. Come on, boys."
As he'd expected, they'd only taken a few steps when Scott caught them up.
"I'm only doing this so I can help out if you get into trouble," Scott muttered. "I must be out of my mind." Even so, he couldn't help but smile at the cheers his presence elicited from his three youngest brothers.
John clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll be fine. Trust me."
Scott just hoped his brother was right.
When they reached the house they split up. John and Virgil heading for the back door, whilst Scott and the others made for some nearby outbuildings.
John led Virgil into the house and over to the door which led down to the cellar. He paused, wondering whether or not to put the light on, then decided against it. He and Scott had been alerted to the arrival of someone - Virgil as it had turned out, though they'd expected Morten - when a bright slant of light had suddenly shone from under the ill-fitting door of their prison. The last thing he wanted to do was to alert Morten to the presence of an intruder. He might have dismissed the idea of him having any more ammunition when talking to Scott, but if he was honest with himself, he had to admit that there was a fair chance he did - and he really didn't want to be shot. He might be addicted to comics in the same way that Morten appeared to be, but he knew full well that in real life, if someone was shot, they tended not to get up and carry on as if nothing had happened.
Whispering a warning to Virgil to be both quiet and careful, he crept down the stairs, making his way to Morten's survival shelter. Shutting the door once Virgil had joined him, he felt more than confident in turning on the light - this door was thick and well-fitting, not a millimetre of space remaining. Looking around, he wished he had more time to explore. Morten's treasures were here - valuable first editions of Superman comics, along with every edition of a cult series that John and his science club friends had been pretty much addicted to. The author was a former secret service man who had died in mysterious circumstances. This had given rise to any number of conspiracy theories, the kind Morten apparently believed in so strongly, given the number of newspaper cuttings pinned to the wall. Many insisted that the author hadn't just made up the saga of alien criminals who hid from their planet's authorities in the bodies of ordinary humans, slowly destroying a person's very soul as their body became a mere puppet of the invader, but that he was actually writing about a reality he'd come to know well through his government work - a reality the authorities would prefer people to remain ignorant of, of course.
When he'd been in here earlier he'd thought he'd spotted the series bible nestling on the bookshelves, the same weighty volume that sat on his own bookshelf at home, his brothers having clubbed together to buy it for him a few Christmases ago. Sure enough there it was, and he grabbed it, flicking through it and smiling when the pages fell naturally open at exactly the page he wanted. This really was going to work, he thought.
At least, he hoped so.
"Here you go, Virg," he said, handing the book to his brother.
Virgil had settled himself at a small table, searching through the paperwork on there - Morten's tax records by the look of it - until he found a blank page. Pulling a pencil out of his pocket he looked expectantly at John, only to find him engrossed in one of Morten's comic books.
"Leave it alone, John."
"Virg, it's a first edition. Look, it's even signed by the illustrator. This must be worth a fortune." He continued to flick through the pages.
"You're supposed to be showing me what to do."
Reluctantly, John replaced the book. Taking Virgil's pencil and grabbing a second sheet of paper, he wrote a few sentences, wincing as the action put stress on his injured wrist. "You'll be okay for a few minutes?" he asked. But there was no response, Virgil already engrossed in his task.
John sneaked back along the corridor and up to the kitchen where he found Scott waiting for him.
"Everything okay? Where are the others?" he asked.
Scott didn't need to answer, since at that moment, Gordon and Alan dashed into the kitchen, whooping enthusiastically as they revealed the treasure they'd discovered.
"Look, Johnny, look!"
John might have been taking more interest in real life than fantasy since meeting Tammi Davis, but he felt the old fascination sweep over him as he saw what Alan was holding: a replica weapon, the kind the heroes carried and used to drive the invading creatures from their human hosts. He made to grab the gun, deciding it was far too valuable to risk in the hands of his youngest brother, but Alan dodged away, aiming it at Gordon, who pretended to die dramatically as a loud, shrill sound pierced the air, accompanied by pulses of neon green light.
Scott rolled his eyes. The deeper into this he got, the worse it all became. Any moment now he would wake up to find it was all some horrible dream.
But no. He was stuck with it.
"Enough!" he snapped. "Alan, put that back where you found it. John, are you ready? What about Virgil?"
"All set here," John said. "How about you?"
"Just about done. I need something for that light, though. I can't find anything in the barn."
John glanced around, then indicated an old red bandana he saw on the kitchen table. Gingerly, Scott picked up the sweat-stained, grimy piece of cloth. "Let's just get this over with," he said. "Five minutes?"
"Five minutes."
Gordon made a great show of checking his watch. Alan didn't wear one, instead grabbing John's injured wrist and making his brother yelp in pain as he twisted it to see the time.
Scott whistled as he checked his own watch. "It's late," he muttered. "Guys, we'd better get a move on, because I'm betting Dad or Grandma will be trying to call the house. We'll be lucky not to run into a search party on the way home."
This thought sobered all the boys, then John shook himself, reminded them that they'd come too far to run away now, and headed back down to the cellar with a quick 'good luck' to the others.
Virgil had been busy writing the note John had drafted. Using the guide his brother had found for him, Virgil translated it into the alien language, producing something far more elegant than John himself would ever have managed, shading and embellishing to make the symbols seem unmistakeably other-worldly. He hardly noticed when John returned.
John took the opportunity to have a look at the technology Morten had accumulated. The man had certainly bought into the idea of alien invaders and government surveillance. John couldn't help but feel sorry for the man, living in squalor whilst spending his money on kit like this. If Morten had had the usual run-of-the-mill equipment John would have hacked into his computer and left a more sophisticated message, but whilst his skills in that area were developing fast, he wasn't quite good enough to crack this lot, not in the limited time available to him. No, Virgil's old-fashioned hand-written note would have to do.
He thought about the equipment he had in his room. No scanners and communication scramblers there, just the best hardware money could buy, his screensaver a picture of Tammi that he'd snapped surreptitiously that summer when she'd first caught his eye.
He'd never expected to be on the verge of dating the girl.
He'd certainly never expected to be orchestrating an alien raid.
An unearthly wailing noise from outside warned him that time was up.
"That's our cue," he said softly. "You done, Virg?"
Virgil made a few more marks on the paper then got to his feet.
"See you in a minute," he said, then made his way back up to the kitchen. John put the reference book back in its place, then moved towards the room which held Kurt Morten, a shaft of pink light filtering through from the gap at the foot of the door. He held his breath and listened. There was plenty of noise coming from the yard, but nothing from Morten. Certainly he didn't seem to be anywhere near the door. If all was going to plan, his full attention would be elsewhere. John moved right up to the door, took the key from his pocket and placed it into the lock.
John might have been taking the biggest risk in letting Morten loose, but Scott wasn't shying away from danger himself. He'd argued with his brother over who should open the door, but John's insistence that he look after the youngest had got through to him. As carefully planned as the whole operation was - and he had to admit John had a definite talent for scheming, something he'd only had glimpses of up till now and something he was determined was not going to be encouraged in future - there was a danger that the kids would get carried away, and if that happened, they'd need their biggest, strongest brother to restrain them. Anyway, who else would have been able to push Morten's old truck out of the barn and over to the house? If only they'd been able to use a flashlight, but although they'd found three in the outhouses they'd searched, the batteries had long since died in all of them.
So there he was, crouching at the side of the cellar window with one hand snagging Gordon's collar whilst the other twirled a crowbar. Gordon didn't seem to realise he was being restrained, too intent on staring at his watch. As the second hand crept up to the 12, he raised his head to look at Scott. Scott glanced at his own watch, prayed that John and Virgil had done what they needed to do, then gave the agreed signal to Alan, perched in the cabin of truck.
Alan switched the headlights on. The beam, given a pink glow by means of the bandana they'd found in the kitchen, hit the boarded-up cellar window, the hole in the wood made by Morten's shotgun large enough to let plenty of light in. At the same time, the youngest brother set up a high-pitched - and definitely inhuman - howling sound, something he'd heard when he'd watched the TV adaptation of the novels with John, and which he often delighted in subjecting the family to at home - until quietened by an admonishment from Grandma. Now, with no one to hold him back, he gave it all he had. Which was a surprisingly large amount, given how small he was.
Gordon, ever the mimic, made a noise that sounded pretty much like the gun Alan had found, interspersing it every now and again with some suitably alien cries of agony, the kind of noises a being might make if they were being sucked out of a human host. As Morten's dogs responded with a furious barking which made all the boys glad they were safely shut away, Scott, keeping well to the side, out of the way of any bullets that might come smashing through the board, began to crowbar it away from the window - not to allow Morten out, since the man was too old and frail to climb up, but to distract the man further from the fact that John was opening the door to set him free. John had pointed out that such an action was unnecessary, given the battle of the aliens taking place in the man's own backyard, a major distraction in anyone's eyes, but Scott, refusing to accept that Morten would accept such a scenario - well, he'd never been the sci-fi obsessive John was - insisted on having a more mundane diversion, just in case.
Between the three of them, the noise and light seemed to do the trick. At least, John encountered no irate farmer when he turned the key of the door and pushed it ajar ever so slightly before hurrying back down the corridor and up the stairs, tensed all the while for a bullet in his back. Virgil was waiting for him at the back door and, pausing only for a quick high-five, the pair made their escape.
Dashing round the corner of the house, they joined their brothers. Gordon gave one last, dramatic howl of agony, then he and Alan fell silent. Only the sound of the dogs remained, and they didn't seem likely to calm themselves any time soon. Scott could only wonder what Morten's reaction to all this had been.
Alan shut off the truck's headlight as Gordon removed the cloth from the light, then all five brothers joined forces to push the truck back into place in the barn before running back through the gap in Morten's hedge to the safety of the next field.
"Go!" Scott hissed, and his brothers started to run. He hesitated, however, unable to leave until he knew their efforts hadn't been in vain. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Morten emerged from the house. The moonlight was enough for Scott to see the paper he held reverently against his heart as he gazed up into the night sky, a look of the utmost awe on his face. He whispered something Scott didn't understand, but which he recognised as the language from John's sci-fi show, then turned and went back into his house.
Scott made his escape, sprinting across the field towards his brothers, hardly able to believe they'd got away with it.
