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himself.
    It was a dream. He'd fallen asleep standing up. That had to be it. Back to the cabin. Not running. Then, running.

Psychlone

CHAPTER FIVE
    Cynthia Furness looked at herself in the bathroom mirror and liked what she saw. Then she scowled and shut her eyes. All these impure thoughts. She was so pretty, though. And Michael wasn't around enough. So impure to think of pleasuring herself.
    She put on her bra and stopped, turning off the bathroom light and the blower to listen for Michael making dinner in the kitchen. Then the dark became pleasant by itself. She reached down and touched her pubic hairs lightly. Less guilt not to see herself.
    Michael had taught her how to do this, had done it for her the first time.
    She closed her eyes and it was no different, just as dark, but she couldn't even see the crack of light under the door.
    Then she jumped, almost screaming. Her eyes flew open. There was something with her in the bathroom. Her hand fumbled over the switch. She couldn't find it. But her fright was already subsiding.
    She could see it in the mirror. Her breath slowed.
    It was a long ways away.
    “Sweet Jesus,” she said. “Come for me. It's life in death."
    In the kitchen, Michael was listening to the six o'clock news from Albuquerque, which was half over. He wanted to hear the sports scores. He didn't like the announcer much, but he put up with him for the list of teams and figures. He was thinking about buying a football franchise some day. Maybe he would become New Mexico's next sports tycoon.
    The television set dimmed. Michael swore and dropped the tenderizing hammer on the steaks he was preparing. He tried to bring the set back to life, but it was gone. Then the kitchen light went out. He jumped and swore again. Through the window, he could see that every light in the neighborhood was off. “Goddamned road crews,” he said. Then he wondered whether road crews would be working this late at night. Didn't the town have old emergency generators, from when they had made their own power? He waited in the dark for a minute, hoping everything would come back.
    There was a footstep behind him. He turned and saw someone standing in the kitchen doorway—just the hip of someone actually, blocking out the Everlight digital display on the living-room clock, but leaving one number visible—6.
    “Cynthia,” he said, swallowing. “All the power's out.” Goosebumps ran up his arms. “Don't creep up on me,” he said. The 6 went out.
    He stood still in the dark, bare feet on the kitchen floor, suddenly aware he was naked except for his BVDs. He started to raise his hands, to fend something off. One hand touched a breast. It was Cynthia. His breath whooshed out.
    “Jesus, Michael,” she sighed, coming into his arms, feeling for his crotch. “Again. I need it real bad."
    “Shit,” Michael said. “Can't cook anything now."
    “Up against the kitchen table,” she said. “Hard."
    She'd never been like this before. She grabbed him tight and bit his shoulder as he entered her, grunting through her teeth. Her hand touched a carving knife and she opened her eyes.
    Someone was watching them. A crowd.
    “Stop squeezing so hard,” she told him. “Michael.... “They came apart. She could see right through him, bones and everything. She rolled off the table and landed hard on the kitchen floor. The knife in her left hand rose.

Psychlone

CHAPTER SIX
    Officer Lawrence Perez Preston—nicknamed “Sergeant Preston of the Mexies"—entered the west end of Lorobu on Highway 54 at five minutes after twelve. The restaurant at the Lorobu Inn stayed open round the clock to catch the scant truckers’ business, and he was looking forward to coffee and doughnuts fresher and warmer than the remains in Thermos and Baggie. He pulled off the road next to the inn and cut his lights, noticing for the first time that the town was completely dark.
    He got out of the patrol car and walked up the steps to the restaurant door. At least