Psychlone (4 page)

“Cynthia,” he said, swallowing. “All the power's out.” Goosebumps ran up his arms. “Don't creep up on me,” he said. The 6 went out.

He stood still in the dark, bare feet on the kitchen floor, suddenly aware he was naked except for his BVDs. He started to raise his hands, to fend something off. One hand touched a breast. It was Cynthia. His breath whooshed out.

“Jesus, Michael,” she sighed, coming into his arms, feeling for his crotch. “Again. I need it real bad."

“Shit,” Michael said. “Can't cook anything now."

“Up against the kitchen table,” she said. “Hard."

She'd never been like this before. She grabbed him tight and bit his shoulder as he entered her, grunting through her teeth. Her hand touched a carving knife and she opened her eyes.

Someone was watching them. A crowd.

“Stop squeezing so hard,” she told him. “Michael.... “They came apart. She could see right through him, bones and everything. She rolled off the table and landed hard on the kitchen floor. The knife in her left hand rose.

Officer Lawrence Perez Preston—nicknamed “Sergeant Preston of the Mexies"—entered the west end of Lorobu on Highway 54 at five minutes after twelve. The restaurant at the Lorobu Inn stayed open round the clock to catch the scant truckers’ business, and he was looking forward to coffee and doughnuts fresher and warmer than the remains in Thermos and Baggie. He pulled off the road next to the inn and cut his lights, noticing for the first time that the town was completely dark.

He got out of the patrol car and walked up the steps to the restaurant door. At least the few regulars would be huddling around the candles inside, warming coffee over the gas stove and passing out Coleman lanterns for those going home. That was the way it had been six months ago when a flash flood had brought down the main power lines into the town.

Preston's beat was one-fourth of the state of New Mexico, covering US 54 from Carrizozo north to Vaughn, then taking US 60 to Encino, then branching back to 54 and patrolling north to Lorobu. After Lorobu he would retrace his route to Interstate 40 and take 84 to his home in Las Vegas, New Mexico (not to be confused with—), and a warm bed, where he would snuggle in his electric blanket, or—if he was lucky—Lucy's arms, or Marguerita's.

It was lonely work, but he generally liked being alone. He tried the screen door and then the glass door. Both opened freely and a bell tinkled.

The restaurant interior was dark. No candles, no lanterns, and silence. “Evie?” he called. “Barney?"

He shined his flashlight along the counter and rows of booths. Their red vinyl, barely held together by brass studs, was the brightest color in the room. Along the walls, paintings of coyotes and jackrabbits alternated with standard pastel desert scenes, cards in the corners of the frames announcing prices and the artist's address.

“Anybody here?"

The counters were clean. There were four pieces of pie in the mirrored display case over the soda and coffee machines. He could take a piece and lay down change ... but he shook his head and closed the glass door. The back of his neck tightened and he flinched, then looked up. Preston was not one to believe in a patrolman's ESP, but something was spooking him, and he didn't like being spooked. He crossed himself quickly and returned to the car. Occasionally, on the whim of the owner, the Alamogordo Bar and Grill was open late. He backed the car out of the lot and drove through the dark, empty street, flashing his spot back and forth across the houses and storefronts.

He was halfway through Lorobu, nearing the turnoff for Crabber's bar, when he saw a light in the back of Park's Hardware and Sundries. It was a weird sort of glow, not like a candle or a Coleman, perhaps a fluorescent lantern with a battery pack, or one of those chemical light tubes he had seen in Albuquerque. He stopped the car and turned on his rotating yellow and blue lights, in case some truck driver came barreling through without noticing the town. There was a tricky intersection just before the Holiday Inn. With all the lights out, someone could get hurt.

The door to the hardware store was open. The light had gone out or been moved, however, and now the store was dark. He waved the beam of his flashlight back and forth in slow arcs. Everything seemed to be in order. Then the light fell on the floor and he saw paperback books scattered all over. The wire display rack was resting across the yellow wood magazine stand, a few books still leaning in the wire bins. There were bits of paper scattered, but not a whole lot of them—as if one book had been picked out and torn to shreds. He retrieved a corner of a mangled cover. “Hiro—” he read. “By John—"

He kneeled and rummaged his hand through the piles of books, frowning, feeling he was missing something important. “Anybody here?” he asked.

He returned to the patrol car and proceeded down Main Street, lights flashing. He resorted to the loud-hailer but nobody came out. “Jesus God,” he said under his breath as he approached the end of Lorobu. Then all the town's lights came on and he jerked in his seat, hand automatically reaching for his pistol.

“Now they'll show,” he reassured himself, but he was still doubtful. He finished his drive to the edge of the town, slowing to read the notice on the Holiday Inn sign.

Relax! it said in bright-red plastic letters, like a theater marquee. You've made it this far.

Preston pulled the patrol car over a mile east of Lorobu and lit a cigarette to calm his nerves. He hadn't felt that scared since Korea. It was like a drive-in movie. He had half-expected to see trucks filled with seed-pods drive by.

“Where is everybody?” he asked himself.

Every light in the town seemed to be on. It looked like stage lighting, a bit too bright for reality.

Perhaps all the townsfolk had gathered together in a meeting place—the church or an Elks’ Club hall—until power was restored. Lorobu didn't have to worry about looters much. He nodded. They were all together.

All eight hundred of them? No; he hadn't looked into every house, just a few. It was just chance that the ones he saw were empty.

He threw the cigarette onto the roadway, half-smoked, looked at it guiltily for a moment—there was a Smoky-the-Bear sticker on his dash—and swung the car around. No matter how much he rationalized, it was hard to drive back into the town.

Nobody had come out with the lights. He cruised slowly down the center of town, stopping at every intersection, hoping to see a face, someone he could question: What had happened to Lorobu? Logically, nothing had happened—the buildings were intact, no fire, no flood.

His shoulders itched again. He saw a streetsign on the corner ahead—Gila Lane—and looked between the rows of homes and the old warehouses which had once serviced trains. His foot hit the brakes and the car skidded to a stop. A sheriff's car was parked at the end of Gila Lane, lights so dim he could barely see them. He picked up his mike and pressed the button on the loud-hailer.

“Norm, you near your car? This is Perry Preston, Highway Patrol.” There was no answer. He knew Blake would never leave the car with its lights on, not unless he planned to return quickly.

Preston turned onto Gila Lane and approached the end of the street. His spinning lights cut arcs of yellow and blue along the houses and old buildings. He stopped behind the car and shifted into neutral.

“Norman?” he called out. With his hand near his pistol, he opened the door and stepped out, automatically hunched to let the door protect him. It smelled like an ambush. At the very least, there was something unpleasant near.

Preston straightened and drew his gun. He walked toward Blake's car slowly, peering into the shadows behind the old warehouses, trying to outguess whoever—whatever—was waiting for him.

He stopped and his breath left him. Blake was lying a few yards in front of his car. Blood puddled under his middle.

“Norman!” Preston groaned. He kneeled by the sheriff and noticed instinctively the man's holster was empty. Then he saw the revolver lying near the barricade at the end of the lane. He aimed his pistol in that direction. Something was slumped behind the road reflectors.

“Get up and walk over here, hands in the open,” he said, voice quavering.

“Won't hear you at all,” Blake said weakly. Preston bent over and saw the sheriff's eyes flick open.

“His hand,” Blake said.

“Hold still, Norm. I'm calling an ambulance."

“I been here a long time, don't have much blood or spit left. Listen, then call the ambulance. It was Land. He ... his hand was burning, like a torch. He tried to touch my face and he got my gun with his other hand. Shot me in the stomach and leg, I think ... three shots. But I turned the gun on him and damn near blew his head off. He flew back over the posts. I been lying here, listening."

Everything was silent except for Blake's voice.

“What you listening for?” Preston asked.

“It's gone now. It was here. People screaming. A tornado. Bunch of damned...” His throat crackled and he tried to wet his lips and tongue. “Souls. Not God. On Tinian ... some guy I didn't know. Couldn't help himself."

“Don't say anything, Norm. I'm getting an ambulance."

“From where?” Blake rasped, his voice echoing. “Perry, you stupid Mex, everybody's dead. Clinic's dead. Everybody. I heard them."

Preston returned to his car and called for emergency vehicles. “Get the State Police out here. Sheriff is down, I don't see anything moving in this fucking town. I don't want to be here alone!"

He took out a first-aid kit from its attachment under the dash and squatted by Blake again, shaking his head, trying to figure out what to do first. Nothing. Blake was hurt bad, in the gut. There was so much blood all around him. Then he saw that Blake's chest was motionless.

He tried to administer CPR, but when his palms pressed the lower sternum, blood welled out of the holes in Blake's shirt. There was nothing he could do. The sheriff was dead. Preston wiped his eyes clear and sobbed, standing up. He lurched over to the barricade and looked down on Kevin Land, avoiding the head, which was half gone.

Blake had mentioned the man's hand. It was dark behind the barricade, but he could see the arm and hand clearly enough. The fingers were gone and the palm was a charred stump.

“Daddyyy!"

He twisted around and looked up Gila Lane. A boy was walking down Main.

“Hold it, son!” Preston shouted. He ran toward the boy, who had stopped in the middle of the street.

“Have you seen my dad?” the boy asked as Preston came near him, out of breath.

“Where are your folks, son?"

The boy was crying. “I don't know."

Then Preston, saw that the boy's hands were covered with blood.

“What's your name?"

“Where's my father?"

“Your name—I have to know your name to find him."

“Everybody's gone, mister.” The boy trembled.

“You from this town? Lorobu?"

“I'm Tim,” the boy said. “Tim Townsend."

“I know your dad, Tim. I've been in his garage. What's happened to you?"

“I want to find them."

“Sure.” He heard a rumbling noise and looked up, eyes widening. Four headlamps bore down on them, air brakes screaming. He grabbed the boy and ran out of the way. The semi was jackknifing on the road. Its rear wheels jumped the curb and two tires blew, lurching the trailer over until it threatened to topple. But it leaned, steadied, and fell back with a thump.

“God damn, right in the middle of the road!” the driver shouted from the cab. “What in God's name were you two doing?” He leaped from the cab and rounded the truck to confront them. Then he saw Preston's uniform. The driver looked around, nostrils flaring, his paunch rising and falling under a half-tucked-in T-shirt. “What kind of asshole carnival is going on around here?” He looked at the boy's bloody arms and his paunch froze. Then he backed away.

“Something's wrong here,” he said.

“Stay and help us,” Preston said. “I've got the State Police coming in."

“Something's very wrong."

“Stay here and help! We need somebody else!"

But the trucker was in his cab, revving the diesel and pouring black smoke over the road. He pulled the trailer around and the truck roared west, rear duals flopping and smoking.

“Help me!” Preston shouted.

They stood by the side of the road, Preston clutching the boy's bloody fist. “Shit,” he said.

“One frozen cat and a nightmare,” Fowler said, standing by the truck. “Sum total."

“Sorry,” Henry said, helping him heave the last of the equipment into the rear. They brought up the tailgate and lowered the rear window.

“No, that's quite all right. The nightmare was enough for me."

“If."

“If what?"

Henry smiled and shook his head. “Go back and tend your machines. I'm staying with Dad for a few more days."

“You mean, I take the truck? How will you get back?"

“Drop it off in town and pick up your car. I'll have Sam Cooper drive the truck up here loaded with groceries and take him back myself. I've got to make some arrangements in town, but I don't want to leave now. In a few days. We'll be fine."

“Your dad wasn't too impressed."

“Well, shit, Larry, you practically had a nervous breakdown, but you won't admit there's anything funny going on up here."

“The cat almost qualifies."

“But you can explain it?"

“I don't want to try,” Fowler said. “You don't need me up here. You need ... I don't know who. I'm an engineer. I deal with repeatable phenomena. Anything else and I'm way out of my depth."

“The microwaves jumped when you were outside having your dream. That's your equipment; the needle registered a whopping increase."

“Other things could cause that."

“Other what sort of things?"

“Henry, I'm not even personally qualified. This sort of thing disturbs me in a way I don't need right now. My real world is shaky enough without having my metaphysics challenged."

“Sounds like a copout to me,” Henry said.