He woke, bathed in sweat, his body odor and whiskey breath mingled together disagreeably. The house was silent. It had been a dream. The children were all right. Thank God for that. Patricia would have killed him if he had let anything happen to them.
He became aware that something was in the bed with him. One of the children, of course. They had forgiven him at last! Which one was it? Martin? Yes, little Martin, who frequently had nightmares and called out in his sleep. He had been crying before, and when his father had not come, he had forced himself down the hall and into the safety of his father’s bed. Randall did not stop to think how odd it would be for a frightened child to walk down a dark corridor alone, but he was glad his son had come to him at last. Or was it Martin? Maybe it was Teddy, or even Gladys. He seemed to feel pressure way down on his leg, and Martin was not too tall yet. He put his arm around the child and pulled him closer. He was full of fatherly love and affection. God, he wanted the children with him always and he would never, ever, hurt them again.
But it wasn’t Martin, or Gladys or Ted. He pulled back his arm, which was covered with filth. Beneath his own bodily and breathly odors, there was another smell, a stench really, that was nearly indescribable in its foulness. They had played a trick on him, the little beasts, a nasty, revolting trick which he would never forgive them for. Now, when he needed them so badly, they had dared to do this, to put—filth—in his bed, his own bed, while he was sleeping. How dare they do this to him!
But then the filth moved, and he knew it was not a mound of earth from the yard, or wet leaves, or a sack of potato peels or a pile of refuse. It was something alive. It was fat and thin all at the same time, for it wiggled under his embrace, and seemed to undulate. It made terrible sounds. Grease came off its body and stuck to Randall’s arm and clothes and face.
Randall felt hot breath at his neck. A bite. No, the children could not be doing this. Not this. He felt a sharp pinch on his arm. Blood. Blood from both wounds. And those horrible noises.
His eyes had adjusted somewhat to the lack of light. He had to maneuver so that he could turn on the night table lamp, see what was in bed with him. It seemed not much bigger than one of the children, and there was a white head above its oddly shaped body. Were those arms or legs? He fought off his revulsion, reached up and over the thing, and turned on the light.
A face stared into his own. It was no one he had seen before; it was not human at all. It was as if someone had grafted a human head onto—onto a thing.
Randall froze and pushed backwards, for the face was coming in closer, and already there was blood—his blood—smeared all over it. Randall sunk into his pillow, too shocked to scream. He could not take his eyes off the thing’s most horrible feature. The face did not have a normal mouth. When it opened its “lips,” there was no tongue, no teeth. Instead, there was a strange collection of oddly shaped hooks and tubes, pincers and mandibles made for biting, grasping and sucking. What was worse, they were constantly in motion, the mouthparts darting up and down like the legs of a fly. The effect of seeing such an assemblage of biological equipment in the middle of a human face where the mouth should have been, only inches from his own head, was enough to make Randall succumb almost eagerly to unconsciousness.
And while he lay there in a faint, the animal pulled itself up and over him, its companions clambering up from the floor and onto the bed. They struggled for position, eager to feast, piling on top of one another, not satisfied with the meal that the children had made. Still, they had traveled far tonight and they were sluggish.
And Randall Thorp was eaten alive.
Slowly.
Chapter Fourteen
The following morning, Ted Bartley sat at the breakfast table with his wife while Mimi served the coffee and eggs. It was a sunny day and the temperature had risen nearly ten degrees. Despite the nice weather and the clean air coming in through the open window behind the table, neither the Bartleys looked in the peak of health. Mr. Bartley wore a grim expression and the bags which had lately developed beneath his eyes were more pronounced and bluish than ever. Mrs. Bartley simply sat in her chair and picked at her food, her face a blank mask that seemed to mirror no emotion at all, as if everything had been drained out of her the night before. As usual, Mimi asked no questions and offered no sympathy. She simply did as she was told, and answered any questions put to her. When everything had been put on the table, the woman went back to her dusting, and left her odd employers to their own devices.
The Bartleys made an effort to snap out of their moods, but it wasn’t easy. They both knew that their marriage was over, even though it was unlikely they’d separate or get a divorce or anything messy like that. They had stopped having sex with one another seven years before, simply lost the interest as time went by, and one could say they were accustomed to each other instead of being in love. Neither of them wanted out of the relationship entirely. Where would they go? What would they do? They would stay together, each blaming the other for the tragedy that had befallen their son. Mrs. Bartley would feel that her husband had betrayed his own son for the rest of her life, and Mr. Bartley would rationalize that, had his wife not been forever nagging him to get ahead in life, he would never have taken the drastic steps he had.
Eating his toast, Mr. Bartley sat mulling over a phone call he had received from the Corporation early that morning. They had done what Anton had told him they would do. They had not yet determined the death toll, although they insisted it wouldn’t be that high, as only the isolated homes on the outskirts of town had been hit. Still, it would nag at his conscience forever.
Mrs. Bartley had started to make idle chatter. It was such a trial listening to her go on and on about her ladies’ clubs all the time, such an effort to listen. He let her talk, hoping it would take her mind off what she had seen last night. That would have been enough to drive anyone insane. He’d had no idea that things would get that bad.
“She looked just like she does on television,” Mrs. Bartley was saying. Her face held none of its usual animation and she spoke without feeling. Bartley wondered if she even bothered to pay attention to herself.
“What’s that, dear?”
“Anna Braddon. The woman David Hammond was with last night. Such a beautiful creature. Wish I looked like that.”
“You’re perfectly lovely darling, and you know it.” He wiped his lips with a napkin.
She kept droning on, Bartley’s attention wandering. He finished his breakfast and excused himself. He had a phonecall to make. Clair seemed not to notice. She was still talking as he left the kitchen. “I must call David’s father. Must have them over for dinner some night. I’m sure David would love to see George again. And I haven’t seen Laura Hammond in ages.”
Bartley was worried about his wife’s sanity. David Hammond’s mother had been dead for years. This whole thing with George was slowly driving her over the edge. Something would have to be done. When he reached his study, he put her out of his mind and turned his attention to other, more immediate concerns.
Anton answered on the first ring.
“I’ve been told about last night,” Bartley said. “What’s going to happen when they find the bodies? The police—”
“Poor Ted. Don’t you realize that we own the police? There won’t be anything left to find in any case. Our men went out at the crack of dawn, when it was safe, and took care of things in their own inimitable fashion. A burglary here, a fire there. People will be suspicious, but what can they do? Really, Ted, what can they do?”
“But it’s murder! Cold-blooded murder! What will we do, wipe out the whole town? That would be one way of squelching curiosity.”
“We have already worked out a solution, dear boy. We have the perfect testing ground.”
“What do you mean?”
“The clearing, Ted. The clearing in the woods.”
“You don’t mean Felicity Village? But there are families living there. A dozen or more. Bunched together. Isolated. You can
’t do that. Besides, some of those people must have developed friendships, connections, with people in town. You won’t get away with it this time.”
“Nonsense. It makes more sense than destroying all of Hillsboro. The village has fewer victims, which should please you, and is also self-contained. There’s less danger of things getting out of control, of the creatures getting so far away from their lair that they’ll set up a new one. Besides, it would be so easy for, say, a ‘fire’ to sweep through the woods, destroying everyone and everything in the village overnight. No one would be the wiser. No one would ever know. We would have done it last night, but we wanted to see again how capable the creatures were of hunting out victims on their own. We simply neglected to supply them with food, and once more they went out under their own initiative. Some of them went quite a long distance in a relatively short time.”
The whole conversation was taking a sickening turn. Bartley was reminded again of how much he wished he weren’t a part of it. “I still think about that poor Harper family.”
“They would have been honored, had they known what hit them. A noble sacrifice for science.”
“Stop it, Frederick.”
“Anyway, tonight we shall again neglect to feed our little pets. Instead we shall release special attractive scents into the air near Felicity Village, drawing them to the clearing like flies. The results should prove most interesting. Would you care to drive up with me tomorrow to see?”
“I can’t believe the Corporation is approving this. I can’t believe they would sacrifice an entire village!”
“You fool! The Corporation owns that village. The Corporation built it!” Anton’s voice thundered into the phone. “What do you think they built it for, you idiot?”
Ted Bartley was too dumbstruck by the realization to answer. He simply put the phone down, severing the connection. The man was a monster! They were all monsters! It had gone too far. No one was on his side in this, no one cared about the immorality of it. All that concerned them was profits, and scientific progress, no matter at whose expense, no matter how grotesque their actions were. There was no one to turn to, either. His wife was losing her faculties, and in any case would be completely useless in a situation like this. None of his friends could help. And the police, as Anton had reminded him, were merely Barrows pawns who’d been placed in their positions in order to serve the Corporation and no one else. Even if there were those at the plant who were sympathetic to his viewpoint, they’d be too frightened to admit it, and certainly too concerned with self-preservation to come to his aid.
His mind raced wildly wondering what to do, who to contact. Would they let him leave the town alive? Could he take Clair and run? But what about George, connected to life-sustaining tubes and instruments? No, he had to stay, had to stick it out. Could he write or phone some out-of-state newspaper or TV show? They’d think he was mad. He’d need to get proof, and before he did that he would be killed in the night, his house set afire, or “burgled” by killers who came in the night to do away with him. He had to get that proof first, had to pretend that he was going along with everyone else. Or was it too late for that? Would they really believe that he had come around to seeing their way? No, it couldn’t be too late for him to save himself. All he needed was time. God, he wished he had never known about this project, that he had stayed with his own lower administrative position instead of being promoted so that he knew about and was implicated in every one of the Corporation’s dirty and horrible schemes. But he had wanted so much to get ahead. Now look where he was.
But, he thought, better to know what they were up to, or else he might have become a victim of one of those— things—those horrible things, himself. He picked up the phone and dialed Anton’s number; it was time to give the performance of a lifetime. And while he dialed he thought of someone he could contact.
David Hammond had been so anxious to know where George was. David Hammond had actually seen George, in the earlier stages, of course, before his son’s condition had gotten as bad as it was today. David Hammond was sleeping with Anna Braddon, a famous model and personality who would surely have contacts, high-powered contacts, in the media. Yes, he would have to get in touch with David. He couldn’t handle this himself.
Anton answered again. “Hello, Anton. Bartley. Listen, I’ve been thinking . . .”
Five minutes later, when the phone call had ended, the phone rang immediately in another part of the house, the bedroom Nurse Hamilton occupied while she watched over George. She had been lying in bed, thumbing through a fan magazine. She, too, lifted the receiver after only one ring.
“Hello,” she said. “Yes, Frederick. What is it you want me to do? “
Early that evening, all was quiet at the Hammond house. David and Anna had spent most of the day in bed, resting up from the exertion—both physical and emotional—of the night before. When David woke, Anna was sitting up sneezing violently, a worried look on her face.
“Oh, God,” she moaned, looking at him for commiseration. “I think I’m getting a cold. I can’t be getting a cold. I’ve got twelve more days before I have to go home. I must not get a cold.”
“You didn’t get it from me,” David said, “unless you caught a chill from somewhere. Was it too cold in here last night?”
“A bit. Summer nights can be deceptive. You think you’re going to smother, and instead . . .”
“Where did my socks go?”
“They’re underneath the pillow. Don’t ask me how they got there.”
They pulled themselves out of bed, Anna still sniffling, David stretching. He looked at her and laughed. “Poor thing, you look so miserable. Is the cold that bad?”
She sneezed in reply. “I think it’s just one of my accursed allergies, if you want to get technical. Hay fever.” She went over to a chair in the corner of the room and started digging through her bag. “I have some medicine in here. I’m sure I brought it with me. I’ll be back to normal in a few hours.”
Anna took her pills, which made her terribly drowsy again, and went back to bed while David prepared dinner, an easy blend of tuna and tomatoes served on a bed of lettuce. He called her to the table in half an hour and she forced herself to get up. “Damn medication makes me feel like Rip Van Winkle.”
“Just as long as you stay off the highways.”
She bit into a stalk of celery and tried to concentrate on the plate in front of her. At least she had stopped sneezing, although her face had become a bit puffy, and her eyes were watering. “You don’t know how much of my income goes to the allergist,” ?he sighed. “Poor man doesn’t seem to be able to do a thing for me.”
They were nearly finished when the doorbell rang. “Who would that be?” David wondered aloud. Anna shrugged, busy picking at a mound of tuna, too tired to summon up any interest. “Keep your mitts off my plate while I’m gone,” he told her.
She threw a piece of lettuce at him playfully as he walked down the hall to the front door. He reached out and turned the knob; a warm breeze came into the hall as the door swung open.
Standing at the door was the last person David had expected to see: Ted Bartley. He was dressed in a casual outfit—slacks, yellow short-sleeved shirt, his rayon jacket folded over his arm. David realized he had never seen him when he had not been dressed to the nines. His fine wore an agitated expression, and his movements seemed nervous and jerky. “May I come in, David? For a moment?”
“Of course. Come on in, Mr. Bartley. What can I do for you?” He stepped hack to allow him entrance, then closed the door behind them. Bartley stepped into the living room, and peeked out through the curtains as if looking for someone. He seemed satisfied.
He turned to face David as the younger man came over to him, a puzzled expression playing on David’s face.
“David,” Ted Bartley said, his voice quivering with desperation. “I must speak to you.”
After listening to Ted Bartley in the living room, David had gone back into the kitchen to get Ann
a. He wanted her to hear this. But she had already left the table and gone back to bed. She was sleeping soundly and David thought it best not to wake her; perhaps she could sleep off this attack and would feel better in the morning. Bartley was disappointed that Anna could not come with them; but he did not press it.
Now David drove across town with Bartley in the other’s Chevrolet. “It’s actually my wife’s car,” the older man explained. “I didn’t dare take the limousine I usually use, in case anyone wondered where I was going, or spotted the car. Things have gone too far, much too far. You say you’ve suspected all along that I was lying about George?”
David could tell from the older man’s demeanor that all facades were, to be dropped, leaving a raw, exposed truth to be dissected. “Yes. I knew I had seen him in New York,” David replied, not sure if he really wanted to finally learn the answers behind the mystery. Now that he had consented to go with Bartley to “see George,” to be “convinced of the danger” they were all in, he wondered if the man was even sane.
“I couldn’t tell you the truth,” Bartley explained. “I should have made up a better story, I suppose, but your appearance at the house was so unexpected. I had no idea you’d be spending the summer here. So few of the youngsters ever come back.” There was pain in his voice, deep pain, as if each desertion took away a little part of himself. David suspected, however, that his anguish came from another source entirely.
“Just what did happen to George? Why is he isolated in your house?”
“You’ll see. You’ll see what they’ve done to him. What I allowed them to do. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself. My wife has become—unhinged—because of it. I’ve let the Corporation destroy my family. Well, I’ve finally awakened to the truth. I’ll stop them from doing any more harm if it’s the last thing I do.” His voice quivered with fury and frustration.
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