Terror Firma

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If you want to meet up, I shall be at the Hungry Dog Diner, at the junction of Lincoln and Twelfth Street, for the next two hours. It’s not far from your motel – get back to the main street and walk three blocks west. When you arrive my companion will make himself known to you.

I need your help. Please come quickly, and be sure to come alone.

Yours,

An exotic Friend.

Dave snorted in disgust. Another feeble practical joke. He was reminded of the wave of obviously faked photographs his magazine had been sent over the previous month, and of that ridiculous Glastonbury stunt – the lengths some hoaxers were prepared to go to made him shudder. Advanced alien civilizations no more used email to communicate with mankind than they used crop circles or thirteenth-century Mayan tomb carvings, despite what some of Dave’s esteemed colleagues might think. That some spotty thirteen-year-old hacker had obtained details of his personal account was only slightly less preposterous than the notion that aliens resort to 3D Martian landscape graffiti to get their message across.

When it came to his life’s work Dave had a very poor sense of humour. He’d met enough cranks in his time to take his privacy just as seriously as he took his UFOs. They’d be at the diner all right – hunched in some dingy corner, sniggering into their crusty keyboard laptop. He meant to find the individual responsible and give them a very stiff lecture on responsibility in this wired world. After all, he was a busy man. Or at least he would be if the Nevada State Saucer Convention ever actually phoned.

Even so, despite his best efforts Dave couldn’t help a tiny buzz of intense hope charging through his veins. There was always the million-to-one chance that this tip-off was genuine. If he didn’t check it out he’d never know for sure. After all, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do. Grabbing his shades and wallet, Dave hurried to the door.

15. Rendezvous (#ulink_e7da575c-e3f0-5f75-959b-3625f925dae3)

Frank looked up from his cheeseburger and checked the highway one more time. Good – no ice-cream vans, and none of the equally ubiquitous black stretch-limousines with the tinted windows, which the clandestine forces of government used when they were undercover and attempting to be discreet.

He’d cruised down Sunset Strip earlier that day in his stolen vehicle, experiencing a perplexing mixture of numb amazement and dim recognition. He knew this town, but he didn’t think he’d ever lived here, or even come to visit before. Driving past the casinos and the theme-park-sized hotels he’d been struck by their splendour, but also by their monotonous familiarity.

Frank was reminded yet again of the one central fact of his existence – there were huge chunks of his life which remained forever off limits to his straining memory. Over and above the fact that he’d once served in a very special military unit, the rest was just a blur. These days he accepted his black patches the same way he accepted the ever-present mutterings in his head. It was that just at moments like this, when some small detail sparked a flash of recollection – like the shape of a building, or the smell of gasoline from across the street – it became hardest to bear. The voices didn’t help. Though the upside of being a paranoid schizophrenic was at least you always had someone to talk to, even if the conversations weren’t up to much. The one claiming to be God which told him to go out and kill prostitutes was rather worrying, but he kept it well under control. He’d got the better of them and knew he’d beat these memory lapses too. He swore he’d beat them; he would do if it killed him.

At long last his aimless journey had taken him to the less opulent side of town. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he was fleeing his former flat and the uninvited guests he’d left many tired miles behind. The dull rumble from the trunk reminded him why they’d come a-calling.

When he spotted the run-down diner he experienced a maddening sense of déjà vu, all over again. He was sure he’d been here before, just as he was sure the short-order chef was a huge shovel-handed New Yorker with Marine Corps tattoos plastered up each arm. It wasn’t until he’d almost drawn level with the establishment that he realized he hadn’t eaten since his cereal that morning had been so rudely interrupted. His rumbling stomach had the final say in the matter. Swerving across two lanes of late-afternoon traffic he hung a left into the half-empty car park.

That had been more than two hours ago. In that time Frank had consumed four cheeseburgers, exchanging several wary nods of recognition with the sweat-laced kitchen-hand through the cluttered serving hatch.

For Frank this was a familiarly maddening experience. But you couldn’t just go up to folks who seemed to recognize you to ask ‘Where do you know me from?’ – it got you funny looks at the very least. For the time being Frank contented himself with the thought that their acquaintance must date back to some chance encounter before his army service came to an abrupt and painful end. He didn’t know for sure, but he felt certain he’d been happier then, with the warm companionship of comrades-in-arms to pull him through. He’d been alone so long now he’d almost forgotten what friendship meant.

Maybe he was going crazy. Carefully, he checked his hands for the first signs of palm-hair, just like the old wives’ tales advised. Outside in the trunk of his battered vehicle what was undoubtedly the find of the century was slowly rotting – so why was he suddenly so assailed by doubt? Maybe he should hire a room and buy some whisky and pills to end it all. Was this war really worth the fight? Slowly Frank rubbed his throbbing temples. What he needed most of all was a confidant; someone to remind him, after he’d gazed upon his insane find, or read that terrible book, that this was real after all and his mind hadn’t entirely slipped its gears. He also had problems of a more practical nature – like what to do next. Grand strategy had never been his area of expertise, the nitty-gritty of combat was his speciality. Frank needed an accomplice he could trust. He rocked slowly back and forth in his seat until his head sank so low it was scant inches above his plate. Closing his eyes he did something he hadn’t done for years: Frank prayed for guidance, for some sign that his struggle wouldn’t be in vain.

The sound of the bell above the doorway brought him sharply back to his senses – Frank couldn’t allow his survival instincts to let up for an instant. That was when he got his first clear look at the clean-cut young man who strode in like someone with a very definite mission in mind. But to be more precise it wasn’t the first time Frank had spotted him; he’d seen that face many times before, and that was why he now sat bolt upright in his chair. The newcomer had the sunburnt, gormless look of a tourist about him, but also the determined body language of a man searching for something he very badly needed to find.

There was no question how Frank recognized him. Not three days ago he’d read his carefully chosen words, and studied the small grainy picture above his magazine’s editorial – that was how he knew those serious, bookish features. Frank might have considered Dave to be hopelessly naïve in his conclusions, but there was no denying the young man produced a thorough and well-researched magazine, most of the time devoid of the usual mystic crap. For the moment, Frank was too shocked to appreciate his good fortune.

Pieces of half-chewed cheeseburger cascading down his tie-dyed T-shirt, he lurched to his feet and staggered towards the man he already felt he knew. Frank regretted not having tried religion sooner – he could appreciate what folks saw in it now. It seemed his fervent prayers had been answered.

For his part Dave saw the sad perversion of a human being stumble towards him far too late to do anything about it. For one horrible moment he thought the wild-eyed freak was going to pull a gun and demand money. Either that or beg the price of a cup of coffee.

‘You … you came so quickly.’ The vagrant croaked.

Dave spoke with some venom.

‘Of course I came quickly. When someone reaches me that way I always want to hear how they did it. You’re party to information not available to the general public and I’d like to keep it that way. I hope you know how sensitive we are to such things.’

Frank stared back at him with mounting admiration, and not a little awe. How could this man be so blasé about his breathtaking telepathic powers? He must take them for granted, just like any other individual’s ability to read or write. And here he was asking Frank how he’d done it – the clairvoyant elite had obviously guarded its secrets jealously.

Frank lightly tapped the grubby side of his head, just below his tattered bandanna. ‘Don’t worry, chum, your secret’s safe with me. We’ll say no more about it. What’s important is that you came.’

‘Just make sure it doesn’t happen again,’ Dave muttered. He looked the unkempt interloper up and down and came to a rapid but eerily perceptive conclusion. Just like Upton Park, this bloke was only two stops short of Barking. He was perhaps the most wizened man Dave had ever seen. His face had that ‘lived in’ look. Dave got the distinct impression he’d been round the block so many times he’d lapped people twice his age. Old before his time, perhaps, but he was hale and hearty like a seasoned tiger. His taut skin was like tea-stained leather, his wiry beard could have comfortably housed a family of voles. He was as thin as a rake, but well corded with sinuous muscle from head to toe. Very slowly, as if speaking to the inmate of an asylum for the terminally inane, Dave spelled out every word for the crazed stranger. ‘How – did – you – recognize – my – face?’