Blind Panic

by Graham Masterton

  “Orgasmic!” said Tina. “I love it!”

  As they sped westward, however, they could see that the sky up ahead of them was growing darker and darker, almost charcoal gray, even though it was not yet noon. Tina leaned forward and shouted, “Armageddon!”

  Up in the hills and canyons, even more fires were burning. Behind the smoke, orange flames were leaping over a hundred feet into the air, and shoals of sparks were whirling everywhere. The dry leaves of the yucca trees that lined Franklin Avenue were spontaneously starting to burst into flame.

  And power was given unto him to scorch men with fire.

  When they reached the intersection with North Highland, Tyler tilted the motorcycle north, and then he tilted left onto Camrose. But as they approached La Presa, they saw thick gray smoke billowing across the road. Tyler slowed down, and as they came around the last curve, they saw that the street ahead of them was blocked with blazing cars, and strewn with bricks and torn-down fencing. They could see people running everywhere, and struggling with one another.

  Tyler brought his bike to a halt, with the front suspension dipping. “It’s a riot,” he said. “For Christ’s sake, look at them. They’re looting.”

  At least thirty young men were smashing their way into one house after another, breaking windows and kicking down doors. The homeowners were trying to stop them, but it was obvious from the way that they were waving their arms and shouting and milling helplessly around in circles that they were blind.

  One white-haired man in a maroon tracksuit came lurching across his driveway brandishing a shotgun. “Get the hell out of here!” he screamed. “Get the hell off of my property!" One of the looters struck him across the back with a piece of fence post, and he fired his shotgun wildly into the air. Another looter dodged up behind him and pushed him, and he fired again. His second shot hit the door of his own Ford Explorer. He was immediately knocked to the ground and kicked by three or four jeering young men.

  “Holy Christ,” said Tyler. “Can we reach your home any other way?”

  “We could try Outpost Drive,” Tina suggested. “Go back down North Highland and hang a right.”

  But as Tyler began to maneuver his motorcycle around so he could go back the way they had come, they saw a pattern of bright flashing lights inside the smoke, as if a crowd of hidden photographers were taking pictures.

  Tyler said, “What the hell is that?”

  The lights flashed again and again, almost dancing, and each time they flashed even more intensely. One of the looters suddenly fell to his knees with his hands clamped over his face and started screaming.

  “I can’t see, man! I can’t fucking see!”

  Another looter abruptly dropped the television that he was carrying off, so that it fell on its edge onto the sidewalk, and smashed. He whirled around and around, waving his arms, before he lost his balance and pitched over onto his side.

  “I’ve gone blind! Martinez! Help me! I’ve gone blind! Martinez!”

  A few of the looters started to stumble away, but it was obvious that most of them were confused about what was happening, and reluctant to leave all of their plunder behind. They had loaded themselves up with computers and high tech equipment and had plastic refuse bags crammed with anything they could lay their hands on—silverware, clocks, blenders, bottles of liquor. One of them was even toting a full bag of Callaway golf clubs. But as they hesitated, the lights flashed again, and the smoke was pierced by dazzling shafts of brilliance. Six or seven of the looters were blinded instantaneously. They toppled sideways onto the ground almost as if they had been hit hard with baseball bats, and then they began to twitch around on their backs, like dying stag beetles, or crawl across the roadway on their hands and knees, shouting for help in a hoarse and desperate chorus.

  “Man! Help me, man! I can’t see nothing! Help me!”

  Tina said, “My God, Tyler. What’s happening?”

  “I don’t think we ought to stay here to find out.”

  “But this is the story, Tyler! These lights! These lights must be the reason why everybody is losing their sight!”

  “Maybe they are, but I don’t feel like losing my sight, do you?”

  He revved the Electra Glide’s engine, but just as he was about to release the brakes, a heavily built man appeared out of the smoke like a stage magician. He was wearing a black suit with a black vest, and a wide-brimmed hat with a conical crown. He was at least seventy yards away, so Tyler was unable to see his face clearly.

  The man stood in the middle of La Presa Drive, looking around at the blinded looters as they moaned and shouted and begged and screamed, but making no attempt to help them. The rest of the looters were scattering now, most of them running down Glencoe Way. They left behind them a trail of discarded decorations and DVDs, as well as a coffeemaker and a brown leather jacket.

  “Give me your cell,” said Tina.

  Tyler took out his phone and listened to it. “It’s still not working. Come on, hold tight, we’re getting out of here.”

  “I don’t want to make a call, stupido. I want to take a picture.”

  “What?”

  She snatched the phone from him and held it up to focus on the man in black. She had taken only two photographs, however, before the man in black turned his head and saw her. He frowned, and then he started to walk toward them, with a steady, unhurried but distinctly menacing stride.

  “That’s it,” said Tyler, and he twisted the throttle so that the motorcycle surged forward.

  But Tina slapped him on the back and screamed out, “Stop! Stop! Just for a second! Stop!”

  Tyler jerked to a halt and twisted around in the saddle. The man in black was no longer walking toward them, since he could clearly see that he had no chance of catching them. But behind him, out of the smoke, at least eight figures had emerged, all of them dressed in bizarre costumes. Their faces were as flat and as white as dinner plates, with slitted eyes, and their bodies looked like makeshift coffins, painted black, with dark red designs on them, and double-jointed arms and legs.

  “Now, what in God’s name are they?” said Tina.

  Tyler shielded his eyes with his hand. He couldn’t work out whether the figures were human or whether they were some kind of mechanical automatons. They certainly looked more like giant puppets than real people, but how could they be? He couldn’t even work out how many there were. Maybe it was the smoke drifting across the road and briefly obscuring them, but sometimes he thought there were nearly a dozen of them, and then he thought that he could count only five, or maybe six. He also found it difficult to decide how near they were, or how far away. Sometimes they appeared to be standing in front of the man in black, and standing only five or six feet high; but then they appeared to be standing well behind him, which would have meant they were almost twice that height.

  “They’re an optical illusion,” said Tina. “Maybe some kind of laser projection.” She took three more photographs, but then the man in black and his white-faced figures started to walk toward them again.

  “Hold on to me!” Tyler shouted, and they roared back down Camrose Drive, swerving right on North Highland Avenue, and then right again on Franklin, cutting in front of a speeding SUV, whose driver blared his horn at them and furiously gave them the finger.

  “Do prdele!” Tina screamed back at him.

  “What did you say?” Tyler shouted.

  “Sorry. My dad is Czech. My family name is Fiala, not Freely. ‘Do prdele’ is Czech for ‘up yours!’”

  They tried Outpost Drive, but they had ridden uphill for only a quarter mile before they splashed into water that was running across the roadway in a crisscross pattern. A few hundred yards farther on they reached a fire department barricade. Through the trees, they could see that six or seven houses were burning and three fire trucks were parked at an angle across the road.

  Tyler brought his motorcycle to a halt. A fire captain with a heavy mustache waddled up to the barricade in his boots and
said, “Road’s closed, sir.”

  “But this is Tina Freely, from the LA Times. She urgently needs to reach her car. It’s only up on La Presa Drive.”

  “Wouldn’t matter if she was Tina Turner, sir. Road’s closed.”

  “Maybe one of your guys could get her car for her?” Tyler suggested.

  “We’re firefighters, sir, with all due respect, not parking valets.”

  Tyler turned around to Tina and said, “Maybe I can take you down to your office myself.”

  “LA Times office?” asked the fire captain. “Wouldn’t bother, if I were you. Last I heard, a media helicopter crashed on the rooftop, Bell Jet Ranger, fully loaded with fuel. They had to evacuate the whole building.”

  “Oh God,” said Tina. “Was anybody hurt?”

  “Haven’t had an update. All of our communications are out.”

  Another firefighter called out to him, “Captain! We’re losing pressure fast!” and without another word, the fire captain left them by the barricade.

  “So, what do you want to do now?” Tyler asked Tina.

  “I’m not sure. I think we should tell somebody about those flashes of light, don’t you? And those things we saw, whatever they were. I mean, suppose they’re aliens, and this is a real, genuine alien invasion? Like The War of the Worlds. We should warn people.”

  “So who do we tell? And more to the point, how?”

  “Let’s flag down the first police car we see.”

  “And say what, exactly? We know why everybody’s going blind? There’s all these flashes of light, and men dressed up in boxes? Only they’re not really men at all, they’re optical illusions? Or maybe they’re not optical illusions—maybe they’re men from Mars?”

  “Tyler, we saw those boys lose their eyesight. That wasn’t any kind of optical illusion. And what else could have caused it except for those lights?”

  Tyler checked his watch. It was still only 12:25, but he wanted to make a start for Memory Valley as soon as he could.

  “Look,” he said, “why don’t you come with me? Over a hundred people up in Memory Valley have gone blind, too. If we can find out why, maybe we can link the two together, and then we’ll have some real proof to take to the cops.”

  Tina brushed her hair back and thought for a moment. Then she looked around, and nodded. “Okay…maybe you’re right. It doesn’t look like there’s much I can do here, does it? What with all the phones out and the office evacuated.”

  She laid her hand on his shoulder and attempted a smile. “In any case, this should make a really great story in itself, shouldn’t it? Us riding to San Francisco, trying to prove that America has been taken over by aliens?”

  “Let’s go, then,” said Tyler. He steered the motorcycle back down Outpost Drive, and then he headed back along Franklin Avenue toward the Hollywood Freeway.

  All around them, Hollywood was burning, and the sun was only a pale white disk suspended behind the smoke. There was hardly any traffic on the streets, although somewhere to the southwest they could still hear ambulance sirens blaring, and the deep honk of fire trucks. As Tyler reached the ramp that led up to the freeway, a police squad car approached them from the opposite side of the street. It slowed down, and they were coldly scrutinized by two pairs of mirror sunglasses. But after a few slow-motion seconds of suspense, the cops seemed to decide that they didn’t look like looters, vandals, or arsonists, and that stopping them would be too much trouble. They sped away, and Tyler and Tina turned north.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Portland, Oregon

  “Yes?” I asked.

  A man in a black three-piece suit was standing right outside the door. He was tall, at least three inches taller than me, and stockily built, with a big moonlike face pitted with acne scars, and tiny, glittery eyes. His hair was gray and greasy and very long, tied at the back in a ponytail. Underneath his suit he wore a white collarless shirt, and several heavy silver chains around his neck, although if they had pendants fastened to them they were all tucked well out of sight. With both hands, like a respectful mourner attending a funeral, he was holding a black wide-brimmed hat, its crown and its edges shiny with wear.

  I looked down at his shoes. I always check out people’s shoes, almost the first thing I do, because shoes speak volumes about people’s character, and their aspirations, and most important of all, how much of the old folderooni they have stuffed in their wallets. All of which is vital information for a fake teller of fortunes—fair fortunes or foul.

  This fellow’s shoes were black and dusty, with chisel toes that were slightly turned up. Well-made, but oddly out of style, and they could have done with a touch of the famous Lincoln Stain Wax.

  “Help you?” I said.

  He gave me the ghostliest ghost of a smile. “It has been far too long,” he said in a whispery, rattly voice, like dry leaves blowing across a driveway.

  “Erm, are you sure you have the correct room here? This is room two-one-three.”

  He leaned slightly to one side, as if he were trying to look past me. I leaned the same way, to block his view.

  “Harry?” called Amelia. “Who is it?”

  “Wrong room,” I called back. I gave the man one of my toothiest, insincerest grins, and repeated, “Wrong room. Sorry. Ask at the desk, why don’t you?”

  “He is here,” the man in black whispered. “I have waited with great patience for this moment, and now it has arrived.”

  “Look,” I told him, “I have absolutely no idea who you are, or why you’ve come knocking on my door, but you’ve made a mistake here, pal. This is room two-one-three, okay? Go back downstairs and check.”

  The man in black showed absolutely no indication that he was going to go away. “I have come for the one who betrayed us,” he said. “This is the time of reckoning, at last.”

  “Well, whatever time it is, too bad,” I replied, and shut the door in his face. But then I turned around, and shouted out, “Ha!” in shock. The man was standing inside the room, right in front of the balcony door, still with his hat held in both hands.

  I think Singing Rock was as shocked as I was. “Tácu eniciyapi hwo?” he demanded.

  “Háu kola.” The man in black smiled. “Khoyákiphela he?”

  “Tácu eniciyapi hwo?” Singing Rock shouted at him. I don’t think I had ever heard him sound so angry and so frightened—even in the Sisters of Jerusalem Hospital, back in New York, when Misquamacus had called on the Great Old Ones to wipe us all out, and the ceilings had been collapsing all around us.

  “Tácu eniciyapi hwo? What is your name?”

  The man in black stepped toward him. “You can call me Wovoka, if you like, my little brother from the plains.” He pressed one hand across his heart. “This, after all, is Wovoka’s body. This is Wovoka’s face.”

  “What is your real name?” asked Singing Rock. “Wovoka was a Paiute. You speak to me in Sioux.”

  The man in black continued to come closer. “Whoa,” I said, holding out one hand. “Why don’t you just keep your distance, feller?”

  The man in black ignored me. “I am all men, from all tribes. I speak all tongues, although the tongue of the Sioux always leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. The taste of snake venom.”

  He turned to me, still with that ghostliest ghost of a smile on his face. “Do you know how the Sioux got their name? It is what the French invaders called the Nadewisou people, when they first encountered them, and Nadewisou means ‘treacherous snakes.’”

  He turned back to Singing Rock. “And here, of all the snakes, here is the most treacherous. The one who betrayed his own people not just once, when he was living in the world of touching flesh, but in the afterlife, too, when he was a spirit. And again, now, by helping you.”

  Singing Rock raised both arms, his fists clenched and his wrists crossed. “You are not Wovoka, even if you stand here in Wovoka’s body. I know who you are! You must leave Wovoka—let him sleep in peace! Leave all of the spirits that you have distu
rbed!”

  “I have not disturbed them, but raised them,” said the man in black. “Life and death are one circle, and all of those wonder-workers left so much unfinished when they died. Divided and alone, they were defeated. But together, they will bring us back our sacred lands, and our languages, and most of all they will bring us back our pride. We will breathe the wind again, and it will no longer be tainted by the white man’s smoke.”

  Now he was towering over Singing Rock, although Singing Rock kept his arms up and his wrists crossed.

  “You must leave Wovoka’s spirit!” Singing Rock shouted. “In the name of Something That Moves, Takushkansjkan the Sun! In the name of Wi the Moon, and Wohpe his daughter, the Falling Star! In the name of Ite, the Face!”

  He hesitated, and then he almost-screamed out, “In the name of White Buffalo Calf Woman!”

  One night, after too many shots of Jack Daniel’s had rendered both of us almost unintelligible, Singing Rock had told me all about the gods who were worshipped by the Lakota Sioux, and I knew that White Buffalo Calf Woman was the goddess they revered the most. White Buffalo Calf Woman was the business, apparently, and no Sioux shaman would dare to invoke the name of White Buffalo Calf Woman unless he was desperate.

  But the man in black didn’t seem to be at all fazed by these invocations, even the great and holy WBCW He placed his hat carefully on his head, and then he grasped Singing Rock’s upraised wrists.

  Amelia snapped out, “Misquamacus!”

  The man in black hesitated, and lowered his head a little, as if he were waiting for her to say something else.

  Singing Rock glanced across the room at her, and then turned back to the man in black. His face was taut with dread, his eyes bulging and the veins standing out on his forehead. He was already dead. He was nothing but a mirage of a human being who had once been John Singing Rock, a memory made visible only by smoke and light and spiritual energy. In reality, he had little more substance than a hologram, but I could see that he was terrified by what he knew the man in black could do to him.