Mark Justice - The Green Dawn

September 1, 2048

The sky wasn’t supposed to be green.

Jubal Slate may have been a small town guy but he wasn’t a dumb hick. He was educated, for God’s sake-two years at New Mexico State University up in Las Cruces. Of course, his?eld of study was law enforcement, not science, but he had watched enough New Mexico sunrises in his twenty-two years to know that their breathtaking displays of colors never included green before, unless maybe a bad storm was imminent.

He stood next to his cruiser at the edge of Serenity by the empty boot plant and stared at the sky with growing apprehension.

The sunrise wasn’t completely green. The color didn’t even dominate. Jubal saw the familiar red and orange, even purple, the way the sun had risen-and set-his entire life. But there was a plentiful helping of green there, too, and that’s what was worrying him.

That, along with whatever had happened two weeks ago in Las Vegas.

The worry had wormed its way into his dreams and forced him out of bed far earlier than he would have liked. Images of a tall?gure, dressed in crimson, haunted him upon waking, but now the dream’s events had faded from his memory like the morning fog seared away by the sun. With the sheriff down, Jubal had more than enough on his plate. Sleepless nights wouldn’t help him deal with the work. But Jubal had never been one to wallow in self-pity. Once he was sure sleep had eluded him for the night, he had showered, dressed and gone to work.

He had left the house as quietly as he could, hoping that he hadn’t woken his mother. It wasn’t likely. She had been down with something for a couple of days, just like Damon, and had been sleeping heavily.

It was a little disorienting having the two authority?gures in his life out of commission at the same time. Though Jubal would be married soon and, hopefully, have a family of his own, he felt strangely adrift, as though the world was changing and he was being carried along like an insect buffeted by a strong wind, helpless, without choice.

All he knew for sure was that something nasty had happened in the Nevada desert and no one-the feds, the white house, the military-was talking about it. There was lots of speculation on the news and in town, but that’s all it was: speculation.

He shook his head and chuckled.

Silly, dark thoughts. His mom had always accused him of having too much imagination. “And I sure don’t know where you get it from, Jubal Slate,” she’d say, “because it doesn’t come from either side of this family.”

Jubal climbed back into the cruiser and started the old combustion engine.

He longed for one of the sleek new models with the large solar-powered motors. The city cops had them in Santa Fe and they were very popular on the TV cops shows. But not in Serenity. The county commission had twice turned down Sheriff Ortega’s request for upgrades, deeming them unnecessary expenditures. Jubal could see their point. Maybe it wasn’t necessary in a?yspeck on the map like Serenity.

But it sure would be cool.

Jubal chuckled again, his voice sounding loud in the emptiness of early morning. He took a sip from his coffee and turned the cruiser around. He had a pile of work waiting for him at the of?ce and he aimed to put a dent in it before lunchtime.

How could a sheriff’s department in a county where nothing happened produce so much goddamned paperwork?

That’s what Jubal wanted to know as he stood up from the old chair with the broken leg and tried to ease the knot of pain from his back.

Of course, if his mother or the sheriff were here, they would remind him that Serenity wasn’t always so uneventful. He didn’t need the reminder. If he wanted to recall how things in a small town could go horribly wrong very quickly he just had to walk over to the cemetery behind the Baptist church and stare at his father’s headstone.

He frowned at the forms scattered across the desk: payroll, delinquent property tax records (since the primary duty of the sheriff’s of?ce was still to collect the county’s taxes-a job Jubal loathed with a passion), subpoenas to serve, a passel of documents from the state requesting veri?cation of of?cer training and continuing education requirements.

Jubal swept the last of these into the trash.

Screw the state. If they wanted to send someone down here to check on him, he’d welcome the company. Denny and Rafe, the other two deputies, both called in sick today, as did Nora, the of?ce’s dispatcher-cum-receptionist.

On top of everything else, the air conditioning in the old concrete building had gone out overnight. Jubal pulled his sweat-drenched shirt away from his back and decided to head to lunch.

He locked the of?ce and stepped outside, where it seemed ten degrees cooler than inside the of?ce.

It was nearly 11 o’clock. He could get a bite to eat at Conchita’s, then take lunch to his mother and Damon.

Later, if the day were still as quiet as it had begun, he would slip over to the Rite-Aid and?irt with the cute pharmacist. He was pretty sure she’d?irt back.

He drove to Conchita’s, mostly so he could feel the air conditioning against his face. He would also need the cruiser for his lunch deliveries.

Conchita’s Grill was half full. It was usually packed during the morning and early afternoon. In addition to being the only restaurant in the city limits proper, it was Serenity’s best source of news and gossip. Since the credit card collection center closed down four years ago most of the town’s residents had little more to do than hang out downtown or stay home and drink. Jubal knew all the people in the restaurant and he imagined they did both. When the lunch crowd thinned out, he could picture the aging population of Serenity heading back to their modest homes and trailers, turning on the AC and the TV and opening a bottle.

Several of the patrons greeted him by name. He took a seat at the counter.

“What’ll it be, Jube?” Patty Felder ran the diner. Jubal?gured there must have been an actual Conchita long ago, but for as long as he could remember the place had belonged to Patty.

She was a large woman with short steel-gray hair and a body like a block of wood. She wore her regular uniform of jeans and a man’s white t-shirt. Her right sleeve was rolled up to display a faded tattoo of Elvis Presley’s face.

“What’s the special?”

“It’s Wednesday, boy. What do I always have on Wednesday?”

“Lobster and Roasted Red Pepper Salad?”

Someone once told Jubal that Patty had a laugh that sounded like a chainsaw stuck in a redwood. He decided that was an understatement. She bellowed out that painful noise, then slapped Jubal’s arm. “You always crack me up, Jube. You always have.” She wiped a dish cloth across her eyes. “So you want the roast beef and mashed potatoes?”

“Yeah. And two to go.”

“Your ma?”

“And the sheriff.”

Patty nodded. She pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen area.

Jubal felt comfortable here. When his dad was sheriff, Jubal’s mother would sometimes allow him to ride his bike downtown to the station. Then he and his dad would walk to the diner and sit at the counter. Little Jubal would beam with pride as everyone came up to his father to greet the big man and thank him for some small service he’d performed.

At his father’s funeral, no one had cried longer or louder than Patty.

She was back in a minute with his plate. It smelled wonderful and his stomach growled in response. It may have been the only restaurant downtown, but the food was always good and Patty never gouged you on the price.

“I’ll keep the other two dinners warm until you’re ready to go,” she said.