Strangers

himself of the poison. The first man said, "We need a stomach pump." And the second said, "We don't have a stomach pump." They pressed Dom's face deeper into the porcelain bowl. The crushing pressure grew worse, and Dom could hardly breathe at all now, and hot greasy waves of nausea washed through him, and sweat gushed from him, but he could not puke, could not, could not. And then he did.
        Flash-cut. In bed again. Weak, kitten-weak. But able to breathe, thank God. The men in the decontamination suits had cleaned him up and strapped him to the mattress once more. The one on the right prepared a hypodermic and administered an injection of something apparently meant to counteract the remaining effects of the poison. The one on the left reconnected him to the intravenous drip from which he was receiving drugs, not nourishment. Dom was woozy, holding on to consciousness only with considerable effort. They hooked him to the EKG again, and as they worked, they talked. "Falkirk's an idiot. We can keep a lid'on this, given half a chance." "He's afraid the memory block will wear off. He's afraid that some of them will eventually remember what they saw." "Well, he may be right. But if the asshole kills them all, how's he going to explain the bodies? That's going to draw reporters like raw meat draws jackals, and then there'll be no way to keep the lid on. A nice memory wipe - that's the only sensible answer." "You don't have to convince me. Go burn Falkirk's ear about it."
        The dream-figures faded away, as did their voices, and Dom passed into a different nightmare country. He no longer felt weak, no longer sick, but his fear exploded into stark terror, and he began to run with that maddening slow-motion panic indigenous to nightmares. He did not know what he was running from, but he was certain that something was pursuing him, something threatening and inhuman, he could sense it right behind him, closer, reaching for him, closer, and finally he knew he could not outrun it, knew he must face it, so he stopped and turned and looked up and cried out in surprise:
        "The moon!"
        Dom was awakened by his own cry. He was in Room 20, on the floor beside the bed, kicking, flailing. He got up and sat on the bed.
        He looked at his travel clock. Three-oh-seven A. M.
        Shivering, he blotted his damp palms on the sheets.
        Room 20 was having precisely the effect on him that he had thought it would. The bad vibrations of the place stimulated his memory, made his nightmares more vivid and more detailed than ever.
        These dreams were radically different from all others he had ever known, for they were not fantasies but glimpses of a past reality seen through a distorting lens. They were not dreams as much as they were memories, forbidden recollections that had been weighted and dropped into the black sea of his subconscious, like dead bodies encumbered with cement shoes and thrown from a bridge into the deeps. Finally, the memories had slipped out of the cement and were surging to the surface.
        He really had been imprisoned here, drugged, brainwashed. And during that ordeal, someone named Colonel Falkirk had actually poisoned him to prevent him from talking about whatever he had seen.
        Falkirk was right, Dom thought. Eventually, we'll overcome the brainwashing and remember the truth. He should have killed us all.
        

    ***
        
        Sunday morning, Ernie purchased panels of plyboard from a friend in Elko who owned a building supply. With his portable tablesaw, he cut the panels to fit the busted-out diner windows. Ned and Dom helped nail the plyboard in place, and by noon they had completed the job.
        Ernie did not want to call a glazier and have the windows replaced because last night's phenomena might recur. Until they knew what had caused the thunderous noise and shaking, installing new glass seemed foolhardy. In the interim, the Tranquility Grille would not be open.
        The Tranquility Motel also would be closed. Ernie did not want business to distract him from helping Dom and the others probe into the mystery of the "toxic spill." When the last of yesterday's check-ins departed later today, the motel would house only Ernie, Faye, Dom, and any other victims who, when contacted, might decide to journey to Elko County to participate in the investigation. He did not know how many rooms he might need for those fellow-sufferers, so he decided