The same slightly pompous-sounding reporter was currently talking about a terrorist bombing in the Mideast, and Sam, the clerk, clicked a knob on the radio, cutting him off in midsentence. “I'm plain sick of hearing about those damn A-rabs,” he said to Ben.
“Who isn't?” Ben said, completing the last line of the form.
“Far as I'm concerned,” Sam said, “if they give us any more grief, we should just nuke 'em and be done with it.”
“Nuke 'em,” Ben agreed. “Back to the Stone Age.”
The radio was part of the tape deck, and Sam switched that on, popped in a cassette. “Have to be farther back than the Stone Age. They're already living in the damn Stone Age.”
“Nuke 'em back to the Age of Dinosaurs,” Ben said as a song by the Oak Ridge Boys issued from the cassette player.
Rachael was making astonished and squeamish sounds as the fisherman told her how the tattoo needles embedded the ink way down beneath all three layers of skin.
“Age of the Dinosaurs,” Sam agreed. “Let 'em try their terrorist crap on a tyrannosaurus, huh?”
Ben laughed and handed over the completed form.
The purchases had already been charged to Ben's Visa card, so all Sam had to do was staple the charge slip and the cash-register tape to one copy of the firearms information form and put the paperwork in the bag that held the four boxes of ammunition. “Come see us again.”
“I'll sure do that,” Ben said.
Rachael said good-bye to the tattooed fisherman, and Ben said hello and good-bye to him, and they both said good-bye to Sam. Ben carried the box containing the shotgun, and Rachael carried the plastic sack that contained the boxes of ammunition, and they moved nonchalantly across the room toward the front door, past stacks of aluminum bait buckets with perforated Styrofoam liners, past furled minnow-seining nets and small landing nets that looked like tennis rackets with badly stretched strings, past ice chests and thermos bottles and colorful fishing hats.
Behind them, in a voice that he believed to be softer than it actually was, the tattooed fisherman said to Sam: “Quite a woman.”
You don' t know the half of it, Ben thought as he pushed open the door for Rachael and followed her outside.
Less than ten feet away, a San Bernardino County sheriff's deputy was getting out of a patrol car.
* * *
Fluorescent light bounced off the green and white ceramic tile, bright enough to reveal every hideous detail, too bright.
The bathroom mirror, framed in brass, was unmarred by spots or yellow streaks of age, and the reflections it presented were crisp and sharp and clear in every detail, too clear.
Eric Leben was not surprised by what he saw, for while sitting in the living-room armchair, he had already hesitantly used his hands to explore the startling changes in the upper portions of his face. But visual confirmation of what his disbelieving hands had told him was shocking, frightening, depressing — and more fascinating than anything else he'd seen in his entire life.
A year ago, he had subjected himself to the imperfect Wildcard program of genetic editing and augmentation. Since then, he had caught no colds, no flu, had been plagued by no mouth ulcers or headaches, not even acid indigestion. Week by week, he had gathered evidence supporting the contention that the treatment had wrought a desirable change in him without negative side effects.
Side effects.
He almost laughed. Almost.
Staring in horror at the mirror, as if it were a window onto hell, he raised one trembling hand to his forehead and touched, again, the narrow rippled ridge of bone that had risen from the bridge of his nose to his hairline.
The catastrophic injuries he had suffered yesterday had triggered his new healing abilities in a way and to a degree that invasive cold and flu viruses had not. Thrown into overdrive, his cells had begun to produce interferon, a wide spectrum of infection-fighting antibodies, and especially growth hormones and proteins, at an astonishing rate. For some reason, those substances were continuing to flood his system after the healing was complete, after the need for them was past. His body was no longer merely replacing damaged tissue but was adding new tissue at an alarming rate, tissue without apparent function.
“No,” he said softly, “no,” trying to deny what he saw before him. But it was true, and he felt its truth under his fingertips as he explored farther along the top of his head. The strange bony ridge was most prominent on his forehead, but it was on top of his head, as well, beneath his hair, and he even thought he could feel it growing as he traced its course toward the back of his skull.
His body was transforming itself either at random or to some purpose that he could not grasp, and there was no way of knowing when it would finally stop. It might never stop. He might go on growing, changing, reconstituting himself in myriad new images, endlessly. He was metamorphosing into a freak… or just possibly, ultimately, into something so utterly alien that it could no longer be called human.
The bony ridge tapered away at the back of his skull. He moved his hand forward again to the thickened shelf of bone above his eyes. It made him look vaguely like a Neanderthal, though Neanderthal man had not had a bony crest up the center of his head. Or a knob of bone at one temple. Nor had Neanderthals — or any other ancestors of humanity — ever featured the huge, swollen blood vessels where they shone darkly and pulsed disgustingly in his brow.
Even in his current degenerative mental condition, with every thought fuzzy at the edges and with his memory clouded, Eric grasped the full and horrible meaning of this development. He would never be able to reenter society in any acceptable capacity. Beyond a doubt, he was his own Frankenstein monster, and he had made — was continuously making — a hopeless and eternal outcast of himself.
His future was so bleak as to give new meaning to the word. He might be captured and survive in a laboratory somewhere, subjected to the stares and probes of countless fascinated scientists, who would surely devise endless tests that would seem like valid and justifiable experiments to them but would be pure and simple torture to him. Or he might flee into the wilderness and somehow make a pathetic life there, giving birth to legends of a new monster, until someday a hunter stumbled across him by accident and brought him down. But no matter which of many terrible fates awaited him, there would be two grim constants: unrelenting fear, not so much fear of what others would do to him, but fear of what his own body was doing to him; and loneliness, a profound and singular loneliness that no other man had ever known or ever would know, for he would be the only one of his kind on the face of the earth.
Yet his despair and terror were at least slightly ameliorated by curiosity, the same powerful curiosity that had made him a great scientist. Studying his hideous reflection, staring at this genetic catastrophe in the making, he was riveted, aware that he was seeing things no man had ever seen. Better yet: things that man had not been meant to see. That was an exhilarating feeling. It was what a man like him lived for. Every scientist, to some degree, seeks a glimpse of the great dark mysteries underlying life and hopes to understand what he sees if he is ever given that glimpse. This was more than a glimpse. This was a long, slow look into the enigma of human growth and development, as long a look as he cared to make it, its duration determined only by the extent of his courage.
The thought of suicide flickered only briefly through his mind and then was gone, for the opportunity presented to him was even more important than the certain physical, mental, and emotional anguish that he would endure henceforth. His future would be a strange landscape, shadowed by fear, lit by the lightning of pain, yet he was compelled to journey through it toward an unseen horizon. He had to find out what he would become.
Besides, his fear of death had by no means diminished due to these incredible developments. If anything, because he now seemed nearer the grave than at any time in his life, his necrophobia had an even tighter grip on him. No matter what form and quality of life lay ahead of him, he must go on; though his metam
orphosis was deeply depressing and bloodcurdling, the alternative to life held even greater terror for him.
As he stared into the mirror, his headache returned.
He thought he saw something new in his eyes.
He leaned closer to the mirror.
Something about his eyes was definitely odd, different, but he could not quite identify the change.
The headache became rapidly more severe. The fluorescent lights bothered him, so he squinted to close out some of the white glare.
He looked away from his own eyes and let his gaze travel over the rest of his reflection. Suddenly he thought he perceived changes occurring along his right temple as well as in the zygomatic bone and zygomatic arch around and under his right eye.
Fear surged through him, purer than any fear he had known thus far, and his heart raced.
His headache now blazed throughout his skull and even down into a substantial portion of his face.
Abruptly he turned away from the mirror. It was difficult though possible to look upon the monstrous changes after they had occurred. But watching the flesh and bone transform itself before his eyes was a far more demanding task, and he possessed neither the fortitude nor the stomach for it.
Crazily he thought of Lon Chancy, Jr., in that old movie, The Wolfman, Chancy so appalled by the sight of his lupine metamorphosis that he was overcome by terror of — and pity for — himself. Eric looked at his own large hands, half expecting to see hair sprouting on them. That expectation made him laugh, though as before, his laugh was a harsh and cold and broken sound, utterly humorless, and it quickly turned into a series of wrenching sobs.
His entire head and face were filled with pain now — even his lips stung — and as he lurched out of the bathroom, bumping first into the sink, then colliding with the doorjamb, he made a thin high-pitched keening sound that was, in one note, a symphony of fear and suffering.
* * *
The San Bernardino County sheriff's deputy wore dark sunglasses that concealed his eyes and, therefore, his intentions. However, as the policeman got out of the patrol car, Ben saw no telltale tension in his body, no indications that he recognized them as the infamous betrayers of Truth, Justice, and the American Way, of whom the radio newsman had recently spoken.
Ben took Rachael's arm, and they kept moving.
Within the past few hours, their descriptions and photographs had been wired to all police agencies in California and the Southwest, but that did not mean they were every lawman's first priority.
The deputy seemed to be staring at them.
But not all cops were sufficiently conscientious to study the latest bulletins before hitting the road, and those who had gone on duty early this morning, as this man might have done, would have left before Ben's and Rachael's photographs had been posted.
“Excuse me,” the deputy said.
Ben stopped. Through the hand he had on Rachael's arm, he felt her stiffen. He tried to stay loose, smile. “Yes, sir?”
“That your Chevy pickup?”
Ben blinked. “Uh… no. Not mine.”
“Got a taillight busted out,” the deputy said, taking off his sunglasses, revealing eyes free of suspicion.
“We're driving that Ford,” Ben said.
“You know who owns the truck?”
“Nope. Probably one of the other customers in there.”
“Well, you folks have a nice day, enjoy our beautiful mountains,” the deputy said, moving past them and into the sporting-goods store.
Ben tried not to run straight to the car, and he sensed that Rachael was resisting a similar urge. Their measured stroll was almost too nonchalant.
The eerie stillness, so complete when they had arrived, was gone, and the day was full of movement. Out on the water, an outboard motor buzzed like a swarm of hornets. A breeze had sprung up, coming in off the blue lake, rustling the trees, stirring the grass and weeds and wildflowers. A few cars passed on the state route, rock and roll blaring through the open windows of one of them.
They reached the rental Ford in the cool shadows of the pines.
Rachael pulled her door shut, winced at the loud chunk it made, as if the sound would draw the deputy back. Her green eyes were wide with apprehension. “Let's get out of here.”
“You got it,” he said, starting the engine.
“We can find another place, more private, where you can unpack the shotgun and load it.”
They pulled out onto the two-lane blacktop that encircled the lake, heading north. Ben kept checking the rearview mirror. No one was following them; his fear that their pursuers were right on their tail was irrational, paranoid. He kept checking the mirror anyway.
The lake lay on their left and below them, glimmering, and the mountains rose on their right. In some areas, houses stood on large plots of forested land: Some were magnificent, almost country-style mansions, and others were neatly kept but humble summer cottages. In other places, the land was either government-owned or too steep to provide building sites, and the wilderness encroached in a weedy and brambled tangle of trees. A lot of dry brush had built up, too, and signs warned of the fire danger, an annual summer-autumn threat throughout southern California. The road snaked and rolled, climbed and fell, through alternating patches of shade and golden sunlight.
After a couple of minutes, Rachael said, “They can't really believe we stole defense secrets.”
“No,” Ben agreed.
“I mean, I didn't even know Geneplan had defense contracts.”
“That's not what they're worried about. It's a cover story.”
“Then why are they so eager to get their hands on us?”
“Because we know that Eric has… come back.”
“And you think the government knows, too?” she asked.
“You said the Wildcard project was a closely held secret. The only people who knew were Eric, his partners in Geneplan, and you.”
“That's right.”
“But if Geneplan had its hand in the Pentagon's pocket on other projects, then you can bet the Pentagon knew everything worth knowing about the owners of Geneplan and what they were up to. You can't accept lucrative top-secret research work and at the same time hold on to your privacy.”
“That makes sense,” she said. “But Eric might not have realized it. Eric believed he could have the best of everyone, all the time.”
A road sign warned of a dip in the pavement. Ben braked, and the Ford jolted over a rough patch, springs squeaking, frame rattling.
When they came through to smoother blacktop, he said, “So the Pentagon knew enough about Wildcard to realize what Eric had done to himself when his body disappeared from the morgue. And now they want to contain the story, keep the secret, because they see it as a weapon or, at least, as a source of tremendous power.”
“Power?”
“If perfected, the Wildcard process might mean immortality to those who undergo treatment. So the people who control Wildcard will decide who lives forever and who doesn't. Can you imagine any better weapon, any better tool with which to establish political control of the whole damn world?”
Rachael was silent awhile. Then she said softly, “Jesus, I've been so focused on the personal aspects of this, so intent on what it means to me, that I haven't looked at it from a broader perspective.”
“So they have to get hold of us,” Ben said.
“They don't want us blowing the secret till Wildcard's perfected. If it were blown first, they couldn't continue research unhampered.”
“Exactly. Since you're going to inherit the largest block of stock in Geneplan, the government might figure you can be persuaded to cooperate for the good of your country and for your own gain.”
She shook her head. “I couldn't be persuaded. Not about this. For one thing, if there's any hope at all of dramatically extending the human life span and promoting healing through genetic engineering, then the research should be done publicly, and the benefits should be available to everyone. It's im
moral to handle it any other way.”
“I figured that's how you'd feel,” he said, pulling the Ford through a sharp right-hand turn, then sharply to the left again.
“Besides, I couldn't be persuaded to continue research along the same avenue the Wildcard group has been following, because I'm sure it's the wrong route.”
“I knew you'd say that,” Ben said approvingly.
“Admittedly, I know very little about genetics, but I can see there's just too much danger involved in the approach they're taking. Remember the mice I told you about. And remember… the blood in the trunk of the car at the house in Villa Park.”
He remembered, which was one reason he had wanted the shotgun.
She said, “If I took control of Geneplan, I might want to fund continued longevity research, but I'd insist on scrapping Wildcard and starting fresh from a new direction.”
“I knew you'd say that, too,” Ben told her, “and I figure the government also has a pretty good idea what you'd say. So I don't have much hope that they just want a chance to persuade you. If they know anything about you — and as Eric's wife, you've got to be in their files — then they know you couldn't be bribed or threatened into doing something you thought was really wrong, couldn't be corrupted. So they probably won't even bother trying.”
“It's my Catholic upbringing,” she said with a touch of irony. “A very stern, strict, religious family, you know.”
He didn't know. This was the first she had ever spoken of it.
Softly she said, “And very early, I was sent to a boarding school for girls, administrated by nuns. I grew to hate it… the endless Masses… the humiliation of the confessional, revealing my pathetic little sins. But I guess it shaped me for the better, huh? Might not be so all-fired incorruptible if I hadn't spent all those years in the hands of the good sisters.”
He sensed that these revelations were but a twig on an immense and perhaps ugly tree of grim experience.
He glanced away from the road for a second, wanting to see her expression. But he was foiled by the constantly, rapidly changing mosaic of tree shadows and sunlight that came through the windshield and dappled her countenance. There was an illusion of fire, and her face was only half revealed to him, half hidden beyond the shifting and shimmering curtain of those phantom flames.
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