into the tank and closed the hatch behind him, his sense of confinement
entirely faded.
Deprived of sensory input-no sight, no sound, little or no taste, no
olfactory stimulation, no sense of touch or weight or place or
time-Shaddack let his mind break free of the dreary restraints of the
flesh, soaring to previously unattainable heights of insight and
exploring ideas of a complexity otherwise beyond his reach.
Even without the assistance of sensory deprivation, he was a genius.
Time magazine had said he was, so it must be true. He had built New
Wave Microtechnology from a struggling firm with initial capital of
twenty thousand dollars to a three-hundred-million-a-year operation that
conceived, researched, and developed cutting-edge microtechnology.
making no effort to At the moment, however, Shaddack was focus his mind
on current research problems. He was using the tank strictly for
recreational purposes, for the inducement of a specific vision that
never failed to enthrall and excite him.
His vision Except for that thin thread of thought that tethered him to
reality, he believed himself to be within a great, laboring machine, so
immense that its dimensions could be ascertained no more easily than
could those of the universe itself. It was the landscape of a dream but
infinitely more textured and intense than a dream. Like an airborne
mote within the eerily lit bowels of that colossal imaginary mechanism,
he drifted past massive walls and interconnected columns of whirling
drive shafts, rattling drive chains, myriad thrusting piston rods joined
by sliding blocks to connecting rods that were in turn joined by crank
wrists to well-greased cranks that turned flywheels of all dimensions.
Servomotors hummed, compressors huffed, distributors sparked as
electrical current flashed through millions of tangled wires to far
reaches of the construct.
For Shaddack, the most exciting thing about this visionary world was the
manner in which steel drive shafts and alloy pistons and hard rubber
gaskets and aluminum cowlings were joined with organic parts to form a
revolutionary entity possessed of two types of life efficient mechanical
animation and the throb of organic tissue. For pumps, the designer had
employed glistening human hearts that pulsated tirelessly in that
ancient lubdub rhythm, joined by thick arteries to rubber tubing that
snaked into the walls; some of them pumped blood to parts of the system
that required organic lubrication, while others pumped high-viscosity
oil. Incorporated into other sections of the infinite machine were tens
of thousands of lung sacs functioning as bellows and filters; tendons
and tumor-like excrescences of flesh were employed to join lengths of
pipe and rubber hoses with more flexibility and surety of seal than
could have been attained with ordinary nonorganic couplings.
Here was the best of organic and machine systems wedded in one perfect
structure. As Thomas Shaddack imagined his way through the endless
avenues of this dream place, he was enraptured even though he did not
understand-or care-what ultimate function any of it had, what product or
service it labored to bring forth. He was excited by the entity because
it was clearly efficient at whatever it was doing, because its organic
and inorganic parts were brilliantly integrated.
All of his life, for as many of his forty-one years as he could recall,
Shaddack had struggled against the limitations of the - 41 human
condition, striving with all his will and heart to rise above the
destiny of his species. He wanted to be more than merely a man. He
wanted to have the power of a god and to shape not only his own future
but that of all mankind. In his private sensory-deprivation chamber,
transported by this vision of a cybernetic organism, he was closer to
that longed-for metamorphosis than he could be in the real world, and
that was what invigorated him.
For him the vision was not simply intellectually stimulating and
emotionally moving, but powerfully erotic too. As he floated through
that imaginary semiorganic machine, watching it throb and pulsate, he
surrendered to an orgasm that he felt not merely in his genitals but in
every fiber; indeed he was unaware of his fierce erection, unaware of
the forceful ejaculations around which his entire body contracted, for
he perceived the pleasure to be diffused throughout him rather than
focused in his penis. Milky threads of semen spread through the dark
pool of magnesium-sulfate solution.
A few minutes later the sensory-deprivation chamber's a matic timer
activated the interior light and sounded a soft alarm. Shaddack was
called back from his dream to the real world of Moonlight Cove.
Chrissie Foster's eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she was able to
find her way swiftly through even unfamiliar territory.
When she reached the rim of the canyon, she passed between a pair of
Monterey cypresses and onto another mule-deer trail leading south
through the forest. Protected from the wind by the surrounding trees,
those enormous cypresses were lush and full, neither badly twisted nor
marked by antler-like branches as they were along the windswept shore.
For a moment she considered climbing high into those leafy reaches, with
the hope that her pursuers would pass beneath, unaware of her. But she
dared not take that chance; if they smelled her or divined her presence
by some other means, they would ascend, and she would be unable to
retreat.
She hurried on and quickly reached a break in the trees. Beyond lay a
meadow that sloped from east to west, as did most of the land
thereabout. The breeze picked up and was strong enough to ruffle her
blond hair continuously. The fog was not as thin as it had been when
she'd left Foster Stables on horseback, but the moonlight was still
unfiltered enough to frost the knee-high, dry grass that rippled when
the wind blew.
As she ran across the field toward the next stand of woods, she saw a
large truck, strung with lights as if it were a Christmas tree, heading
south on the interstate, nearly a mile east of her, along the crest of
the second tier of coastal hills. She ruled out seeking help from
anyone on the distant freeway, for they were all strangers headed to
faraway places, therefore even less likely than locals to believe her.
Besides, she read newspapers and watched TV, so she had heard all about
the serial killers that roamed the interstates, and she had no trouble
imagining tabloid headlines summing up her fate YOUNG GIRL KILLED AND
EATEN BY ROVING CANNIBALS IN DODGE VAN; SERVED WITH A SIDE OF BROCCOLI
AND PARSLEY FOR GARNISH; BONES USED FOR SOUP.
The county road lay half a mile closer, along the tops of the first
hills, but no traffic moved on it. In any case she already had rejected
the idea of seeking help there, for fear of encountering Tucker in his
Honda.
Of course she believed that she had heard three distinct voices among
the eerie pulings of those who stalked her, which
had to mean that
Tucker had abandoned his car and was with her parents now. Maybe she
could safely head toward the county highway, after all.
She thought about that as she sprinted across the meadow. But before
she had made up her mind to change course, those dreadful cries rose
behind her again, still in the woods but closer than before. T,vo or
three voices yowled simultaneously, as if a pack of baying hounds was at
her heels, though stranger and more savage than ordinary dogs.
Abruptly Chrissie stepped into thin air and found herself falling into
what, for an instant, seemed to be a terrible chasm. But it was only an
eight-foot-wide, six-foot-deep drainage channel that cleaved the meadow,
and she rolled to the bottom of it unharmed.
The angry shrieking of her pursuers grew louder, nearer, and now their
voices had a more frenetic quality . . . a note of need, of hunger.
She scrambled to her feet and started to clamber up the six-foot wall of
the channel, when she realized that to her left, upslope, the ditch
terminated in a large culvert that bored away into the earth. She froze
halfway up the arroyo and considered this new option.
The pale concrete pipe offered the lambent moonlight just enough of a
reflective surface to be visible. When she saw it, she knew immediately
that it was the main drainage line that carried rainwater off the
interstate and county road far above and east of her. Judging by the
shrill cries of the hunters, her lead was dwindling. She was
increasingly afraid that she would not make the trees at the far side of
the meadow before being brought down. Perhaps the culvert was a dead
end and would provide her with a haven no more secure than the cypress
that she had considered climbing, but she decided to risk it.
She slid to the floor of the arroyo again and scurried to the conduit.
The pipe was four feet in diameter. By stooping slightly she was able
to walk into it. She went only a few steps, however, before she was
halted by a stench so foul that she gagged.
Something was dead and rotting in that lightless passage. She could not
see what it was. But maybe she was better off not seeing; the carcass
might look worse than it smelled. A wild animal, sick and dying, must
have crawled into the pipe for shelter, where it perished from its
disease.
She backed hastily out of the drain, drawing deep breaths of the fresh
night air.
From the north came intermingled, ululant walls that literally put the
hair up on the back of her neck.
They were closing fast, almost on top of her.
She had no choice but to hide deep in the culvert and hope they could
not catch her scent. She suddenly realized that the decaying animal
might be to her benefit, for if those stalking her were able to smell
her as though they were hounds, the stench of decomposition might mask
her own odor.
Entering the pitch-black culvert again, she followed the convex floor,
which sloped gradually upward beneath the meadow. Within ten yards she
put her foot in something soft and slippery. The horrid odor of decay
burst upon her with even greater strength, and she knew she had stepped
in the dead thing.
"Oh, yuck.
" She gagged and felt her gorge rise, but she gritted her teeth and
refused to throw up. When she was past the putrid mass, she paused to
scrape her shoes on the concrete floor of the pipe.
Then she hurried farther into the drain. Scurrying with her knees bent,
shoulders hunched, and head tucked down, she realized she must have
looked like a troll scuttling into its secret burrow.
Fifty or sixty feet past the unidentified dead thing, Chrissie stopped,
crouched, and turned to look back toward the mouth of the culvert.
Through that circular aperture she had a view of the ditch in moonlight,
and she could see more than she had expected because, by contrast with
the darkness of the drain, the night beyond seemed brighter than when
she had been out there.
All was silent.
A gentle breeze flowed down the pipe from drainage grilles in the
highways above and to the east, pushing the odor of the decomposing
animal away from her, so she could not detect even a trace of it. The
air was tainted only by a mild dankness, a whiff of mildew.
Silence gripped the night.
She held her breath for a moment and listened intently.
Nothing.
Still crouching, she shifted her weight from foot to foot.
Silence.
She wondered if she should head deeper into the culvert. Then she
wondered whether snakes were in the pipe. Wouldn't that be a perfect
place for snakes to nest when the oncoming night's cool air drove them
to shelter?
Silence.
Where were her parents? 'and Tuckerr? A minute ago they had been close
behind her, within striking distance.
- 45 Silence.
Rattlesnakes were common in the coastal hills, though not active at this
time of year. If a nest of rattlers She was so unnerved by the
continuing, unnatural silence that she had the urge to scream, just to
break that eerie spell.
A shrill cry shattered the quietude outside. It echoed through the
concrete tunnel, past Chrissie, and bounced from wall to wall along the
passage behind her, as if the hunters were approaching her not only from
outside but from the depths of the earth behind her.
Shadowy figures leaped into the arroyo beyond the culvert.
Sam found a Mexican restaurant on Serra Street, two blocks from his
motel. One sniff of the air inside the place was enough to assure him
the food would be good. That melange was the odiferous equivalent of a
Jose Feliciano album chili powder, bubbling hot chorizo, the sweet
fragrance of tortillas made with masa harina, cilantro, bell peppers,
the astringent tang of jalapenio chiles, onions. . . .
The Perez Family Restaurant was as unpretentious as its name, a single
rectangular room with blue vinyl booths along the side walls, tables in
the middle, kitchen at the rear. Unlike Burt Peckham at Knight's Bridge
tavern, the Perez family had as much business as they could handle.
Except for a two-chair table at the back, to which Sam was led by the
teenage hostess, the restaurant was filled to capacity.
The waiters and waitresses were dressed casually in jeans and sweaters,
the only nod to a uniform being white half-aprons tied around their
waists. Sam didn't even ask for Guinness, which he had never found in a
Mexican restaurant, but they had Corona, which would be fine if the food
was good.
The food was very good. Not truly, unequivocably great, but better than
he had a right to expect in a northern coastal town of just three
thousand people. The corn chips were homemade, the salsa thick and
chunky, the albondigas soup rich and sufficiently peppery to break him
out in a light sweat.. By the time he received an order of crab
enchiladas in tomatillo sauce, he was half convinced that he should move
to Moonlight Cove as soon as possible, even if it meant robbing
a bank
to finance early retirement.
When he got over his surprise at the food's quality, he began to pay as
much attention to his fellow diners as to the contents of his plate.
Gradually he noted several odd things about them.
The room was unusually quiet, considering that it was occupied by eighty
or ninety people. High-quality Mexican restaurants with fine food, good
beer, and potent margaritas-were festive places. At Perezs, however,
diners were talking animatedly at only about a third of the tables. The
other two-thirds of the customers ate in silence.
After he tilted his glass and poured from the fresh bottle of Corona
that had just been served to him, Sam studied some of the silent eaters.
Three middle-aged men sat in a booth on the right side of the room,
scarfing up tacos and enchiladas and chimichangas, staring at their food
or at the air in front of them, occasionally looking at each other but
exchanging not a word. On the other side of the room, in another booth,
two teenage couples industriously devoured a double platter of mixed
appetizers, never punctuating the meal with the chatter and laughter one
expected of kids their age. Their concentration was so intense that the
longer Sam watched them, the odder they seemed.
Throughout the room, people of all ages, in groups of all kinds, were
fixated on their food. Hearty eaters, they had appetizers, soup,
salads, and side dishes as well as entrees; on finishing, some ordered
"a couple more tacos" or "another burrito, " before also asking for ice
cream or flan. Their jaw muscles bulged as they chewed, and as soon as
they swallowed, they quickly shoveled more into their mouths. A few ate
Dean Koontz - (1989) Page 6
