Phantoms

before it.
    Sweat trickled down the back of his neck.
    Eventually, he would have to tell the others what had happened. But not right now. Because right now he couldn’t trust his voice. They would surely hear the nervous flutter, and they would know that this strange experience had badly shaken him.
    Until reinforcements arrived, until their foothold in Snowfield was more firmly established, until they all felt less afraid, it wasn’t wise to let the others see him shaking with dread.
    They looked to him for leadership, after all; he didn’t intend to disappoint them.
    He took a deep, cleansing breath.
    He picked up the receiver and immediately got a dial tone.
    Immensely relieved, he called the CBW Civilian Defense Unit in Dugway, Utah.
     
    Lisa liked Gordy Brogan.
    At first he had seemed menacing and sullen. He was such a big man, and his hands were so enormous they made you think of the Frankenstein monster. His face was rather handsome, actually, but when he frowned, even if he wasn’t angry, even if he was just worrying about something or thinking especially hard, his brows knitted together in a fierce way, and his black-black eyes grew even blacker than usual, and he looked like doom itself.
    A smile transformed him. It was the most astonishing thing. When Gordy smiled, you knew right away that you were seeing the real Gordy Brogan. You knew that the other Gordy—the one you thought you saw when he frowned or when his face was in repose—was purely a figment of your imagination. His warm, wide smile drew your attention to the kindness shining in his eyes, the gentleness in his broad brow.
    When you got to know him, he was like a big puppy, eager to be liked. He was one of those rare adults who could talk to a kid without being self-conscious or condescending or patronizing. He was even better in that regard than Jenny. And even under the current circumstances, he could laugh.
    As they put the food on the table—lunch meat, bread, cheese, fresh fruit, doughnuts—and brewed coffee, Lisa said, “You just don’t seem like a cop to me.”
    “Oh?” Gordy said. “What’s a cop supposed to seem like?”
    “Whoops. Did I say the wrong thing? Is ‘cop’ an offensive word?”
    “In some quarters, it is. Like in prisons, for instance.”
    She was amazed that she still could laugh after everything that had happened this evening. She said, “Seriously. What do officers of the law prefer to be called? Policemen?”
    “It doesn’t matter. I’m a deputy, policeman, cop—whatever you like. Except you think I don’t really look the part.”
    “Oh, you look the part all right,” Lisa said. “Especially when you scowl. But you don’t seem like a cop.”
    “What do I seem like to you?”
    “Let me think.” She took an immediate interest in this game, for it diverted her mind from the nightmare around her. “Maybe you seem like… a young minister.”
    “ Me?”
    “Well, in the pulpit, you’d be just fantastic delivering a fire and-brimstone sermon. And I can see you sitting in a parsonage, an encouraging smile on your face, listening to people’s problems.”
    “Me, a minister,” he said, clearly astonished. “With that imagination of yours, you should be a writer when you grow up.”
    “I think I should be a doctor like Jenny. A doctor can do so much good.” She paused. “You know why you don’t seem like a cop? It’s because I can’t picture you using that .” She pointed at his revolver. “I can’t picture you shooting someone. Not even if he deserved it.”
    She was startled by the expression that came over Gordy Brogan’s face. He was visibly shocked.
    Before she could ask what was wrong, the lights flickered.
    She looked up.
    The lights flickered again. And again.
    She glanced at the front windows. Outside, the streetlights were blinking, too.
    No, she thought. No, please, God, not again. Don’t throw us into darkness again; please, please!
    The lights went out.
     

Chapter 15
    The Thing at the Window
     
    Bryce Hammond had spoken to the night-duty officer manning the emergency line at the CBW Civilian Defense Unit at Dugway, Utah. He hadn’t needed to say much before he’d been patched through to General Galen Copperfield’s home number. Copperfield had listened, but he hadn’t said much. Bryce wanted to know whether it seemed at all likely that a chemical or biological agent had caused Snowfield’s agony and obliteration. Copperfield said, “Yes.” But that was all