by Dean Koontz
She couldn’t just tell Tersch what she had in mind, for she was certain the ancient enemy was listening in. There was an odd, faint hissing on the line...
Finally she spoke of her need for additional laboratory equipment. “Most of this stuff can be borrowed from university and industry labs right here in Northern California,” she told Tersch. “I just need you to use the army’s manpower, transportation, and authority to put together the package and get it to me as quickly as possible.”
“What do you need?” Tersch asked. “Just tell me, and you’ll have it in five or six hours.”
She recited a list of equipment in which she actually had no real interest, and then she finished by saying, “I will also need as much of the tenth generation of Dr. Chakrabarty’s little miracle as it’s feasible to send. And I’ll need two or three compressed-air dispersal units, too.”
“Who’s Chakrabarty?” Tersch asked, puzzled.
“You wouldn’t know him.”
“What’s his little miracle? What do you mean?”
“Just write down Chakrabarty, tenth generation.” She spelled the name for him.
“I haven’t the vaguest idea what this is,” he said.
Good, Sara thought with considerable relief. Perfect.
If Tersch had known what Dr. Ananda Chakrabarty’s little miracle was, he might have blurted something before she could stop him. And the ancient enemy would have been forewarned.
“It’s outside your area of specialization,” she said. “There’s no reason you should recognize the name or know the device.” She spoke hurriedly now, trying to move away from the subject as smoothly and as rapidly as possible. “I don’t have time to explain it, Dr. Tersch. Other people in the CBW program will definitely know what it is I need. Let’s get moving on this. Dr. Flyte very much wants to continue his studies of the creature, and he needs all the items on my list just as soon as he can get them. Five or six hours, you said?”
“That should do it,” Tersch said. “How should we deliver?”
Sara glanced at Bryce. He wouldn’t want to risk yet another of his men in order to have the cargo driven into town. To Captain Tersch, she said, “Can it be brought in by army helicopter?”
“Will do.”
“Better tell the pilot not to try landing. The shape-changer might think we were attempting to escape. It would almost certainly attack the crew and kill all of us the moment the chopper touched down. Just have them hover and lower the package on a cable.”
“This could be quite a large bundle,” Tersch said.
“I’m sure they can lower it,” she said.
“Well... all right. I’ll get on it right away. And good luck to you.”
“Thanks,” Sara said. “We’ll need it.”
She hung up.
“All of a sudden, five or six hours seems like a long time,” Jenny said.
“An eternity,” Sara said.
They were all clearly eager to hear about her scheme but knew it couldn’t be discussed. However, even in their silence, Sara detected a new note of optimism.
Don’t get your hopes too high, she thought anxiously. There was a chance that her plan had no merit. In fact, the odds were stacked against them. And if the plan failed, the shape-changer would know what they had intended to do, and it would wipe them out in some especially brutal fashion.
Outside, dawn had come.
The fog had lost its pale glow. Now the mist was dazzling, white-white, shining with refractions of the morning sunlight.
39
The Apparition
Fletcher Kale woke in time to see the first light of dawn.
The forest was still mostly dark. Milky daylight speared down in shafts, through scattered holes in the green canopy that was formed by the densely interlaced branches of the mammoth trees. The sunshine was diffused by the fog, muted, revealing little.
He had passed the night in the Jeep station wagon that belonged to Jake Johnson. Now he got out and stood beside the Jeep, listening to the woods, alert for the sounds of pursuit.
Last night, a few minutes after eleven o’clock, headed for Jake Johnson’s secret retreat, Kale had driven up the Mount Larson Road, had swung the Jeep onto the unpaved fire lane that led up the wild north slopes of Snowtop—and had run smack into trouble. Within twenty feet, his headlights picked up signs posted on both sides of the roadway; large red letters on a white background read QUARANTINE. Going too fast, he swung around a bend, and directly ahead of him was a police blockade, one county cruiser angled across the road. Two deputies started getting out of the car.
He remembered hearing about a quarantine zone encircling Snowfield, but he’d thought it was in effect only on the other side of the mountain. He hit the brakes, wishing that, for once, he’d paid more attention to the news.
There was an APB circulating with his photograph. These men would recognize him, and within an hour he’d be back in jail.
Surprise was his only hope. They wouldn’t be expecting trouble. Maintaining a quarantine checkpoint would be easy, lulling duty.
The HK91 assault rifle was on the seat beside Kale, covered with a blanket. He grabbed the gun, got out of the Jeep, and opened fire on the cops. The semiautomatic weapon chattered, and the deputies did a brief, erratic dance of death, spectral figures in the fog.
He rolled the bodies into a ditch, pulled the patrol car out of the way, and drove the Jeep past the checkpoint. Then he went back and repositioned the car, so that it would appear that the deputies’ killer hadn’t continued up the mountain.
He drove three miles up the rugged fire lane, until he came to an even more rugged, overgrown track. A mile later, at the end of that trail, he parked the Jeep in a tunnel of brush and climbed out.
In addition to the HK91, he had a sackful of other guns from Johnson’s closet, plus the $126,880, which was distributed through the seven zippered pockets in the hunting jacket he wore. The only other thing he carried was a flashlight, and that was really all he needed because the limestone caves would be well stocked with other supplies.
The last quarter of a mile had to be covered on foot, and he had intended to finish the journey right away, but he had quickly found that even with the flashlight the forest was confusing at night, in the fog. Getting lost was almost a certainty. Once lost in this wilderness, you could wander in circles, within yards of your destination, never discovering how close you were to salvation. After only a few paces, Kale had turned back to the Jeep to wait for daylight.
Even if the two dead deputies at the blockade were discovered before morning, and even if the cops figured the killer had come onto the mountain, they wouldn’t launch a manhunt until first light. By the time the posse reached here tomorrow, Kale would be snug in the caves.
He had slept on the front seat of the Jeep. It wasn’t the Plaza Hotel, but it was more comfortable than jail.
Now, standing beside the Jeep in the wan light of early morning, he listened for the sounds of a search party. He heard nothing. He hadn’t really expected to hear anything. It wasn’t his destiny to rot in prison. His future was golden. He was sure of that.
He yawned, stretched, then pissed against the trunk of a big pine.
Thirty minutes later, when there was more light, he followed the foot-path he hadn’t been able to find last night. And he saw something that hadn’t been obvious in the dark: The brush was extensively trampled. People had been through here recently.
He proceeded with caution, cradling the HK91 in his right arm, ready to blow away anyone who might try to rush him.
In less than half an hour, he came out of the trees, into the clearing around the log cabin—and saw why the footpath had been trampled. Eight motorcycles were lined up alongside the cabin, big Harleys, all emblazoned with the name DEMON CHROME.
Gene Terr’s bunch of misfits. Not all of them. About half the gang, by the looks of it.
Kale crouched against an outcropping of limestone and studied the mist-wrapped cabi
n. No one was in sight. He quietly fished in the laundry bag, located a fresh magazine for the HK91, rammed it in place.
How had Terr and his vicious playmates gotten here? A two-wheel trip up the mountain would have been difficult, wildly dangerous, a nerve-twisting bit of motocross. Of course, those crazy bastards thrived on danger.
But what the devil were they doing here? How had they found the cabin, and why had they come?
As he listened for a voice, for some indication of where the cyclists were and what they were up to, Kale realized there weren’t even any animal or insect sounds. No birds. Absolutely nothing. Spooky.
Then, behind him, a rustle in the brush. A soft sound. In the preternatural silence, it might as well have been a cannon shot.
Kale had been kneeling on the ground. With catlike quickness, he fell on his side, rolled onto his back, brought up the HK91.
He was prepared to kill, but he wasn’t prepared for what he saw. It was Jake Johnson, about twenty-five feet away, coming out of the trees and fog, grinning. Naked. Utterly bare-assed.
Other movement. To the left of Johnson. Farther along the treeline.
Kale caught it from the corner of his eye and whipped his head around, swung the rifle in that direction.
Another man came out of the woods, through the mist, with the tall grass fluttering around his bare legs. He was also naked. And grinning broadly.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst part was that the second man was also Jake Johnson.
Kale looked from one to the other, startled and baffled. They were as perfectly alike as a set of identical twins.
But Jake was an only child—wasn’t he? Kale had never heard anything about a twin.
A third figure advanced from the shadows beneath the spreading boughs of a huge spruce. This one, too, was Jake Johnson.
Kale couldn’t breathe.
Maybe there was an outside chance that Johnson had a twin, but he damned well wasn’t one of triplets.
Something was horribly wrong. Suddenly, it wasn’t just the impossible triplets that frightened Kale. Suddenly, everything seemed menacing: the forest, the mist, the stony contours of the mountainside ...
The three look-alikes walked slowly up the slope on which Kale was sprawled, closing in from different angles. Their eyes were strange, and their mouths were cruel.
Kale scrambled to his feet, heart lurching. “Stop right there!”
But they didn’t stop, even though he brandished the assault rifle.
“Who are you? What are you? What is this?” Kale demanded.
They didn’t answer. Kept coming. Like zombies.
He grabbed the bag that was filled with guns, and he backed rapidly and clumsily away from the nightmarish trio.
No. Not a trio any more. A quartet. Downslope, a fourth Jake Johnson came out of the trees, stark naked like the rest.
Kale’s fear trembled on the edge of panic.
The four moved toward Kale with hardly a sound; dried leaves underfoot; nothing else. They made no complaint about the stones and sharp weeds and prickly burrs that must have hurt their feet. One of them began to lick his lips hungrily. The others immediately began to lick their lips, too.
A quiver of icy dread went through Kale’s bowels, and he wondered if he had lost his mind. But that thought was short-lived. Unfamiliar with self-doubt, he didn’t know how to entertain it for long.
He dropped the laundry bag, clutched the HK91 in both hands, and opened fire, describing an arc with the spurting muzzle of the gun. The bullets hit. He saw them tear into the four men, saw the wounds burst open. But there was no blood. And as soon as the wounds blossomed, they withered; they healed, vanished within seconds.
The men kept coming.
No. Not men. Something else.
Hallucinations? Years ago, in high school, Kale had dropped a lot of acid. Now he remembered that flashbacks could plague you months-even years—after you stopped using LSD. He’d never had acid flashbacks before, but he’d heard about them. Was that what was happening here? Hallucinations?
Perhaps.
On the other hand... all four of the men were glistening, as if the morning mists were condensing on their bare skin, and that wasn’t the sort of detail you usually noticed in a hallucination. And this entire situation was very different from any drug experience he’d ever known.
Still grinning, the nearest Doppelganger raised one arm, pointed at Kale. Incredibly, the flesh of that hand split and peeled away from the fingers, from the palm. The flesh actually appeared to ooze bloodlessly back into the arm, as if it were wax melting and running from a flame; the wrist became thicker with this tissue, and then the hand was nothing but bones, white bones. One skeletal finger pointed at Kale.
Pointed with anger, scorn, and accusation.
Kale’s mind reeled.
The other three look-alikes had undergone even more macabre changes. One had lost the flesh from part of his face: A cheekbone shone through, a row of teeth; the right eye, deprived of a lid and of all surrounding tissue, gleamed wetly in the calcimine socket. The third man was missing a chunk of flesh from his torso; you could see his sharp ribs and slick wet organs pulsing darkly inside. The fourth walked on one normal leg and one leg that was only bones and tendons.
As they closed on Kale, one of them spoke: “Baby killer.”
Kale screamed, dropped the HK91, and ran. Stopped short when he saw two more Johnson look-alikes approaching from behind, from the cabin. Nowhere to run. Except up toward the high limestone outcroppings above the cabin. He bolted that way, gasping and wheezing, reached the brush, whimpering, waded through it to the mouth of the cave, glanced behind, saw that the six were still coming after him, and he plunged into the cave, into darkness, wishing he’d held onto his flashlight, and he put one hand against the wall, shuffled along, feeling his way, trying to recall the layout, remembering it was more or less a long tunnel ending in a series of doglegs—and suddenly he realized this might not be a safe place; it might be a trap, instead; yes, he was sure of it; they wanted him to come here—and he looked back, saw two decomposing men at the entrance, heard himself wail, and hurried faster, faster, into the deep blackness because there was nowhere else to go, even if it was a trap, and he scraped his hand on a sharp projection of rock, stumbled, flailed, charged on, reached the doglegs, one after the other, and then the door, and he went through, slammed it behind him, but he knew it wouldn’t keep them out, and then he was aware of light, in the next chamber, toward which he now began to move in a dreamlike haze of terror, passing stacks of supplies and equipment.
The light came from a Coleman lantern.
Kale stepped into the third chamber.
In the frost-pale glow, he saw something that made him freeze. It had risen from the subterranean river, up through the cave floor, out of the hole in which Jake Johnson had rigged a water pump. It writhed. It churned, pulsated, rippled. Dark, blood-mottled flesh. Shapeless.
Wings began to form. Then melted away.
A sulphurous odor, not strong yet nauseating.
Eyes opened all over the seven-foot column of slime. They focused on Kale.
He shrank from them, backed into a wall, held on to the stone as if it were reality, a last place to grip on the precipice of madness.
Some of the eyes were human. Some were not. They fixed on him—then closed and disappeared.
Mouths opened where no mouths had been. Teeth. Fangs. Forked tongues lolled over black lips. From other mouths, wormlike tentacles erupted, wriggled in the air, withdrew. Like the wings and eyes, the mouths eventually vanished into the formless flesh.
A man sat on the floor. He was a few feet from the pulsing thing that had come up from beneath the cave, and he was seated in the penumbra of the lantern’s glow, his face in shadow.
Aware that Kale had noticed him, the man leaned forward slightly, putting his face in the light. He was six feet four or taller, with long curly hair and a beard. He wore a rolled bandanna
around his head. One gold earring dangled. He smiled the most peculiar smile Kale had ever seen, and he raised one hand in greeting, and on the palm of the hand was a red and yellow tattoo of an eyeball.
It was Gene Terr.
40
Biological Warfare
The army helicopter arrived three and a half hours after Sara spoke to Daniel Tersch in Dugway, two hours earlier than promised. Evidently, it had been dispatched from a base in California, and evidently her colleagues in the CBW program had figured out her war plan. They had realized she didn’t actually need most of the equipment she had asked for, and they had collected only what she required for the attack on the shape-changer. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have been so quick.
Please, God, let it be true, Sara thought. They must have brought the right stuff. They must have.
It was a large, camouflage-painted chopper with two full sets of whirling blades. Hovering sixty to seventy feet above Skyline Road, it stirred the morning air, created a turbulent downdraft, and sliced up what little mist remained. It sent waves of hard sound crashing through the town.
A door slid open on the side of the helicopter, and a man leaned out of the cargo hold, looked down. He made no attempt to call to them, for the chattering rotors and roaring engines would have scattered his words. Instead, he used a series of incomprehensible hand signals.
Finally Sara realized that the crew was waiting for some indication that this was the drop spot. With hand signals of her own, she urged everyone to form a circle with her, in the middle of the street. They didn’t join hands, but stood with a couple of yards between each of them. The circle had a diameter of twelve to fifteen feet.
A canvas-wrapped bundle, somewhat larger than a man, was pushed out of the chopper. It was attached to a cable, which was reeled out by an electric winch. Initially, the bundle descended slowly, then slower still, at last settling to the pavement in the center of the circle, so gently that it seemed the chopper crewinen thought they were delivering raw eggs.
Bryce broke out of the formation before the package touched down and was the first to reach it. He located the snaplink and released the cable by the time Sara and the others joined him.
As the chopper reeled in the line, it swung toward the valley below, moved off, out of the danger zone, gaining altitude as it went.
Sara crouched beside the bundle and started loosening the nylon rope that was threaded through the eyelets in the canvas. She worked feverishly and, in a few seconds, unpacked the contents.
There were two blue cannisters bearing white stenciled words and numbers. She sighed with relief when she saw them. Her message had been properly interpreted. There were also three aerosol tank sprayers similar in size and appearance to those used to spread weed killer and insecticide on a lawn, except that these were not powered by a hand pump but by cylinders of compressed air. Each tank was equipped with a harness that made it easy to carry on the back. A flexible rubber hose, ending in a four-foot metal extension with a high-pressure nozzle, made it possible to stand twelve to fourteen feet from the target that you wished to spray.
Sara lifted one of the pressurized tanks. It was heavy, already filled with the same fluid that was in the two spare, blue cannisters.
The helicopter dwindled into the Western sky, and Lisa said, “Sara, this isn’t everything you asked for—is it?”
“This is everything we need,” Sara said evasively.
She looked around nervously, expecting to see the shape-changer rushing toward them. But there was no sign of it.
She said, “Bryce, Tal, if you’d take two of these tanks...”
The sheriff and his deputy grabbed two of the units, slipped their arms through the harness loops, buckled the chest straps, shrugged their shoulders to settle the tanks as comfortably as possible.
Without having been told, both men clearly realized the tanks contained a weapon that might destroy the shape-changer. Sara knew they must be eaten by curiosity, and she was impressed that they asked no questions.
She had intended to handle the third sprayer herself, but it was considerably heavier than she’d expected. Straining, she would be able to carry it, but she wouldn’t be able to maneuver quickly. And during the next hour or so, survival would depend on speed and agility.
Someone else would have to use the third unit. Not Lisa; she was no bigger than Sara. Not Flyte; he had some arthritis in his hands, of which he’d complained last night, and he seemed frail. That left Jenny. She was only three or four inches taller than Sara, only fifteen or twenty pounds heavier, but she appeared to be in excellent physical condition. She almost certainly would be able to handle the sprayer.
