Psychlone (26 page)

A boy stood at the foot of a flight of stairs. Thesiger introduced the new people and said, “This is my colleague, Timothy Townsend. Tim has met our adversary before and is proving quite useful."

They sat on the couch and chairs in the living room and Simons offered to bring in coffee and soft drinks. Jacobs asked for a ginger ale, if any was to be had.

Machen took a chair from the dining room and straddled it. “From here in, all we're going to do is sit and watch and take orders from you folks,” he said. “We'll have trucks outside in a few hours, but they won't bother us here."

“Where is the rest of the team?” Thesiger asked.

“Heading for Dayton now."

“And when will it reach us?"

“We estimate eleven p.m."

“We are not the only team of psychics being utilized, I understand."

“No,” Machen said. “We have four teams between here and Haverstock, and five more teams spread around the straight-line path. They're all in radio contact with us."

“The radio doesn't work when it's here,” Tim said.

The general smiled. “We have other means of getting messages through."

“Mr. Thesiger is your center of operations?” Jacobs asked.

“He is."

“You're brighter than I gave you credit for."

Machen nodded. “None of you has a complete overview of Silent Night, any more than the soldier in the field sees a complete battle strategy."

Simons brought in a tray of glasses and Jacobs sipped his ginger ale appreciatively. “Why is Timothy here?"

“Because he wanted to be,” Thesiger said. “He's a very capable young man."

“So he is,” Jacobs said. “Shall we start planning for tonight?"

“We're putting ten volunteers into the center of Dayton,” Silvera said. “We have trucks and trailers ready. The trailers are rigged with padded cells and they'll be assigned one to a cell. Machines will record their reactions."

“They're guinea pigs,” Fowler said.

“And they volunteered. Very brave of them, I'll admit. For the rest of us, there's a station being set up just outside the postulated attack zone. We'd like all of you to help us record and analyze the subjects’ reactions.” He paced back and forth across the small hotel room.

Burnford shook his head. “I'm not a doctor."

“No, but your expertise is just as important."

“When is the evacuation starting?” Fowler asked.

“Tonight at five o'clock. The target area is just outside a chemical plant. We can stage a mock release of poisonous gases and clear a large section of the city for at least twenty-four hours. We'll be well outside the danger zone."

“You might as well tell the volunteers to commit suicide,” Fowler said.

“Our program is well-planned,” Silvera countered, looking at him sharply. “They won't be able to hurt themselves. We need the information badly or we wouldn't risk them."

Fowler was unconvinced. “Why do you need me? I can understand George—I can see he's central to some aspect of your project—but me?"

“You've experienced a similar attack. You can provide essential insight."

“And at any rate, you won't let me go anyplace for a few more days."

“You can understand that, I hope,” Silvera said.

Fowler shrugged. “If it's a choice of sitting here for another week or doing something useful, I'll go with the team.” He had to give them that impression now; he hoped he sounded sincere.

“Fine,” Silvera said. “We'll drive to the outpost in an hour. Mr. Burnford?"

“I have a family. I don't think this is going to help any of us much. I'll have to think about it."

“Not in the target, remember. Only observing."

“We don't know how powerful the force is now. We won't know until after tonight. If it doesn't pick up ... doesn't kill any more people, we might firmly have established its power. Then again, maybe not."

“You're coming with us?” Fowler asked.

Silvera nodded.

“We're all very brave and noble,” Prohaska said. “Tell me if I'm stupid, but I want to be in there.” He put his cigarette out in a glass ashtray.

“You're stupid,” Fowler said.

“You don't have to go in with us, Mr. Fowler,” Silvera reiterated.

“Listen—” Fowler started to say, but cut himself off. If he told them why he had to leave—to get back to Dot and keep his last worthwhile anchor from breaking loose—they would watch him more closely than they already were. His value to them was over. They couldn't seriously expect him to be of much use. Burnford, perhaps—or some of the others now waiting under the straight-line path. They were useful. He was just a security burden, best kept under close surveillance.

He had to talk to Dot.

“Just in case,” Prohaska said, “I want an extra set of Pampers."

Burnford turned to Fowler and looked at him intently. “Larry has been having trouble with his girlfriend,” he said. Fowler shook his head vigorously.

“I can handle it."

“I'm sure Mr. Fowler understands this is more important than any temporary domestic upset,” Silvera said.

“Yes.” Fowler nodded. Damn them all! He was a virtual prisoner and of little use to them. He felt like he was being taunted. The sick sensation in his stomach—worry about Dorothy and the decisions she would be making right now—made his throat dry and he coughed. “We'll be fine."

“You can make a phone call if you wish,” Silvera said. “Might help cool things off until you can get back to her."

“I can't say anything meaningful with one of your soldiers listening in."

“Well, it has to be that way."

“Of course,” Fowler said.

“When we set up our communications center, we'll route you through. That'll be this evening, unless something delays us."

Starting at four p.m., December 24, in Kilkennie, Ohio, fifteen fires broke out in ten minutes. Vandals were blamed. In one fire at a nursing home, seven patients were burned to death. Witnesses said the fires seemed to erupt by themselves.

A wheatfield outside of Kilkennie was scorched in six wide swaths, forming a giant asterisk in the snow-spackled earth.

Twenty miles farther along the path, whole hillsides were marked with crude designs: weeping eyes suspended above flames, hands with fingers missing, stick figures with twisted limbs.

Two deserted farmhouses creaked and shuddered in an unnatural wind. Elms—weakened by recent disease—toppled. Birds walked on the ground and would not fly, even when threatened. On the roads, automobile accidents increased. Minor incidents between motorists erupted into violence; three homicides occurred in four square miles within an hour.

Insects fell from the air, burnt to cinders.

The sky darkened. More snow was forecast for the evening.

In Haverstock, a soldier guarding the university grounds found a pay telephone inadvertently left connected. Worried by rumors, he called his father in Dayton. By seven o'clock, the government's small evacuation effort was a shambles. Phones were tied up across the city. Roads and highways were jammed. Airports were mobbed.

The word was out. What had happened in Lorobu and Haverstock was going to happen in Dayton, only worse.

The clock finished chiming the tenth hour. Jacobs put away his book and sighed, turning to look at Trumbauer. Trumbauer was playing a game of chess with Tim; Thesiger looked on. Miss Unamuno was sitting by the window, looking at the black night and the flakes of snow faintly visible by the light in the room.

“Snow muffles sound,” Jacobs said. “That's why it's so quiet outside."

“No wind,” Tim said. “In Lorobu there was lots of wind."

Thesiger tapped the boy on the shoulder. “Pay attention to the game. This man will pick your brains if you're not careful."

“Really!” Trumbauer huffed.

Machen took a phone call in the kitchen. When he returned to the living room, he said, “It's getting worse.” Jacobs nodded. They had heard about the panic three-quarters of an hour before. Now, with the fireplace blazing and such calm domesticity all around them, the reports seemed far away and unimportant. Jacobs noticed the sensation and worried about it. They were too calm, too steady.

Outside, a truck generator coughed and stopped. They had ignored the gentle hum until now. Tim looked up and said, “I don't want to play any more."

“What can we do to protect ourselves if something goes wrong?” Jacobs asked.

“Nothing will go wrong,” Machen said, sounding too certain. “We've had no word of trouble—"

“Would we hear about minor things?” Thesiger asked. “Franklin is right. They might be normal occurrences for the most part, or too unusual to be reported by people not in the know, afraid they'll be called crazy. I can feel it. It's very strong now. More ... willful."

“It may accelerate as it approaches its prey,” Miss Unamuno said.

“The checkpoints report its progress is normal. Nothing unusual has happened."

“That we've heard about,” Thesiger added. “Please, General, allow us our fear. It may save us if anything goes wrong."

But Machen shook his head stubbornly. Jacobs could recognize the symptoms—fear solidifying into trust and reliance on a grand plan. Finding comfort in the chain of command, in the known and projected rather than the unknown and unpredictable. Jacobs could almost relax and let the need take him over, too. In dangerous situations in the Navy, he had done that. He had survived. Others with the same attitude hadn't.

“Chain of command is essential in an operation like this,” Machen said, staring at them one by one. His voice was subdued. The truck generator started again, louder this time, more abrasive.

“General, I think all electrical equipment should be turned off before the pass-over,” Thesiger said.

“The trucks are filled with equipment. It would be awkward to shut them down now."

“This is more than a hunch,” Thesiger said. “Mr. Trumbauer feels it and so do I. It has changed. I'm not sure how, but my—"

“Yes,” Trumbauer interrupted, rubbing his hands. “My guide is jumpy, if that's the right word.” He smiled weakly.

“Mine, too,” Miss Unamuno said. “The lights hurt my eyes. The noise hurts my ears."

“Back to the cave,” Machen said, almost fiercely. He pointed to Simons and Davies. “Move the trucks beyond the barn and put them all on battery power. Is that okay?"

Thesiger thought for a moment, head cocked. “Yes."

“Let's turn off all house appliances and lights and get candles going. Can we run our tape recorders on batteries?"

“Yes,” Thesiger said.

“And collect all weapons, knives and so on, as planned.” Davies left to pass on the orders. “Is it coming any faster?” Machen asked. He was sweating, though he was across the room from the fire.

“Marginally,” Trumbauer said, putting away the chess pieces. “If I'm right."

“You are,” Miss Unamuno said.

Candles were brought out of the kitchen and placed on tables, the mantle, and shelves. Two propane lanterns were set up in the middle of the room. Tim sat on the floor near one, watching the glow through slitted eyes. Outside, it was even more quiet than before. Two men shouted at one another, their words inaudible. Tim flinched, but the voices broke into laughter. A third voice told them to shut up.

The snow fell soft and slow and large.

“Mine's gone,” Miss Unamuno said, looking at Trumbauer. He nodded.

“What's gone?” Machen asked.

“Our guides,” Thesiger said. “We'll have to work alone now. It's very close."

“The angels abandon us,” Simons said. Davies returned, closing the screen door softly behind.

Tim closed his eyes. Thesiger was still strong, but he could hear voices as if they were in another room, with all the doors closed. The old man put his hand on the boy's shoulder. “They're getting through, aren't they, Timothy?"

“Yes."

“Do they care about our presence?” Jacobs asked.

Thesiger said he didn't know. His voice was soft but clear, its high notes returning from the walls.

“I've gone into battle many times,” Machen said. “Aachen, Inchon, during the Tet. Waiting is the worst time."

“Will we see anything?” Davies asked.

“We don't know,” Miss Unamuno said. “We don't know much at all."

“Downwind from Trinity,” Jacobs said.

Machen shook his head. “Mr. Jacobs has a theory about our problem."

“Trinity,” Thesiger said. “The first atom bomb explosion ... Alamagordo, New Mexico. 1945. And later—tests on animals where the researchers had nervous breakdowns. A whole village of goats and sheep subjected to a blast ... I could feel them for weeks."

“Feel what?” Machen asked.

“The wanderers. Like little dust-devils, not natural at all. Not like the small, simple soul of an animal—yet not unlike. Wherever we have killed in the interests of nuclear weapons research, they have started."

“Is this all straight?” Machen asked. “You're not just bullshitting?"

Thesiger closed his eyes. “Please, Arnold, Miss Unamuno, withdraw and close tight. General, Mr. Simons, turn your recorders on."

“They're ready,” Simons said.

“It isn't aware of us yet, but it talks to itself. They talk to themselves. The psychlone isn't integrated, not completely, but it behaves with one motive, one will."

“Where—” Machen began to ask, but Jacobs shushed him.

Thesiger lay back in the overstuffed chair, hands gripping the armrests. “Moving willfully. Now it knows where it is. It coerces the information. There is a portion not of the whole ... in the mass, but not of it. The foreigners who were killed. Falling rubble killed them, clubs, naked fists. Burned people beat on them. Sticks and bricks and anything handy. Flash burns, under walls. All died, but none in the center of light, in the fireball. The captives know this country. Parts are still familiar. Across the countryside, following roads, railways, just like someone in a light plane without a compass. Unwilling. Many were pilots then, and they're pilots now. Forefront. Showing the way.” He paused. Tim reached up and took one of his hands. The contact was almost electric.