Phantoms

that swung and clanged under the peaked roof.
    Tal shuddered.
    “Maybe we should go over to the church and see who’s there,” Frank said.
    “No,” Bryce said instantly. “That’s what it wants us to do. It wants us to come have a look. It wants us to go inside the church, and then it’ll turn out the lights again…”
    Tal noticed that Bryce, too, was now using the pronoun “it.”
    “Yeah,” Lisa Paige said. “It’s over there right this minute, waiting for us.”
    Even Stu Wargle wasn’t prepared to encourage them to visit the church tonight.
    In the open belfry, the visible bell swung, splintering off another shard of brassy light, swung, gleamed, swung, winked, as if it were flashing out a semaphoric message of hypnotic power at the same time that it issued its monotonous clang: You are growing drowsy, even drowsier, sleepy, sleepy… you are deep asleep, in a trance… you are under my power… you will come to the church… you will come now, come, come, come to the church and see the wonderful surprise that awaits you here… come… come…
    Bryce shook himself as if casting off a dream. He said, “If it wants us to come to the church, that’s a good reason not to go. No more exploring until daylight.”
    They all turned away from Vail Lane and went north on Skyline Road, past the Mountainview Restaurant, toward the substation.
    They had gone perhaps twenty feet when the church bell stopped tolling.
    Once more, the uncanny silence poured like viscous fluid through the town, coating everything.
    When they reached the substation, they discovered that Paul Henderson’s corpse was gone. It seemed as if the dead deputy had simply gotten up and walked away. Like Lazarus.
     

Chapter 14
    Containment
     
    Bryce was sitting at the desk that had belonged to Paul Henderson. He had pushed aside the open issue of Time that Paul apparently had been reading when Snowfield had been wiped out. A yellow sheet of note paper lay on the blotter, filled with Bryce’s economical handwriting.
    Around him, the six others were busily carrying out tasks that he had assigned to them. A wartime atmosphere prevailed in the stationhouse. Their grim determination to survive had caused a fragile but steadily strengthening camaraderie to spring up among them. There was even guarded optimism, perhaps based on the observation that they were still alive while so many others were dead.
    Bryce quickly scanned the list he had made, trying to determine if he had overlooked anything. Finally, he pulled the telephone to him. He got a dial tone immediately, and he was grateful for it, considering Jennifer Paige’s difficulties in that regard.
    He hesitated before placing the first call. A sense of the immense importance of the moment weighed heavily on him. The savage obliteration of Snowfield’s entire population was like nothing that had ever happened before. Within hours, journalists would be coming to Santa Mira County by the scores, by the hundreds, from all over the world. By morning, the Snowfield story would have pushed all other news off the front pages. CBS, ABC, and NBC would all be interrupting regularly scheduled broadcasts for updates and bulletins throughout the duration of the crisis. The media coverage would be intense. Until the world knew whether or not some mutated germ had a role in the events here, hundreds of millions of people would wait breathlessly, wondering if their own death notices had been issued in Snowfield. Even if disease were ruled out, the world’s attention wouldn’t be diverted from Snowfield until the mystery had been explained. The pressure to find a solution was going to be unbearable.
    On a personal level, Bryce’s own life would be forever changed. He was in charge of the police contingent; therefore, he would be featured in all the news stories. That prospect appalled him. He wasn’t the kind of sheriff who liked to grandstand. He preferred to keep a low profile.
    But he couldn’t just walk away from Snowfield now.
    He dialed the emergency number at his own offices in Santa Mira, by-passing the switchboard operator. The desk sergeant on duty was Charlie Mercer, a good man who could be counted on to do precisely what he was told to do.
    Charlie answered the phone halfway through the second ring. “Sheriff’s Department.” He had a flat, nasal voice.
    “Charlie, this is Bryce Hammond.”
    “Yes, sir. We’ve been wondering what’s happening up there.”
    Bryce succinctly