Strangers

I'll bet. Things have changed since then, man. Haven't you heard about the high-tech revolution? Shit, they don't need to come in here and physically plant listening devices. Rifle mikes are a hell of a lot better than they used to be. Or they can just hook up an infinity transmitter to their phone and dial your number." Jack pushed rudely past Ernie and stepped to the living room extension, which stood on a table by the sofa. He put his hand on the phone. "You know what an infinity transmitter is, Ernie? When they dial your number here, an electric tone oscillator deactivates the bell while it simultaneously opens the microphone in your telephone handset. There's no ringing for you to hear; you've no way of knowing you've been called, that your line's wide open. But they can monitor you in any room where you've got an extension." He plucked up the handset and held it toward them with a calculated look of scorn. "Here's your bug. You had it installed yourself." He slammed the handset back into the cradle. "You can bet your ass they've been tuning in on you a lot lately. Probably listened all through dinner. You people keep this up, you might as well just cut your own throats and save everybody a lot of trouble."
        Jack's caustic performance had been effective. They were stunned. He said, "Now, is there a room without windows, big enough to hold a war council? Doesn't matter if there's a phone; we'll just unplug it."
        An attractive middle-aged woman, apparently Ernie's wife, whom Jack vaguely remembered from checking into the motel two summers ago, thought for a moment and said, "There's the restaurant, the diner, next door."
        "Your restaurant doesn't have any windows?" Jack asked.
        "They were… broken," Ernie said. "Right now they're boarded up."
        "Then let's go," Jack said. "Let's work out our strategy in privacy, then come back here for some of that pumpkin pie I heard you talking about. I had a lousy dinner while you people were in here eating yourselves into a stupor."
        Jack went quickly down the stairs, confident they would follow.
        

        
        Ernie loathed the crooked-eyed bastard for five minutes. But slowly, the hatred turned to grudging respect.
        For one thing, Ernie admired the caution and stealth with which the guy had answered his own call to the Tranquility Motel. He had not just walked in like the others. He'd even brought a submachine gun.
        But as he watched "Thornton Wainwright" slip the carrying-strap of the Uzi over one shoulder and head out the front door of the motel office, Ernie was still stung by the criticism he had endured. In fact, his rage was so great he did not pause to grab a coat, as most of the others did, but plunged after the stranger, through the door and across the macadam toward the diner, keeping pace with him in order to chew him out. "Listen, what the hell's the point of being a wise-ass? You could've made your point without being so goddamn snide."
        The stranger said, "Yeah, but I couldn't have made it as fast."
        Ernie was about to reply when he abruptly realized he was outside, vulnerable, at night, in the dark. Halfway between the office and the diner. His lungs seemed to collapse; he could not draw the slightest wisp of breath. He made a disgustingly pitiful mewling sound.
        To Ernie's surprise, the newcomer immediately grasped his arm, providing support, with no trace of the scorn he'd shown before. "Come on, Ernie. You're halfway there. Lean on me, and you'll make it."
        Furious with himself for letting this bastard see him disabled and weak with childish fear, furious with the guy, too, for playing the Samaritan, humiliated, Ernie jerked his arm away from the helping hand.
        "Listen," the newcomer said, "while I was eavesdropping, I heard about your problem, Ernie. I don't pity you, and I don't find your condition amusing. Okay? If your fear of the dark has something to do with this situation we all find ourselves in, it's not your fault. It's those bastards who messed with us. We need one another if we're going to get through this thing. Lean on me. Let me help you over to the diner, where we can turn on some lights. Lean on me."
        When the newcomer began to talk, Ernie was unable to breathe, but by the time the guy finished his spiel, Ernie had the opposite problem; he was hyperventilating. As though pulled by a magnetic force, he turned from the