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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.

Psychlone

CHAPTER EIGHT
    “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