Strange Highways

by Dean Koontz

  “No, he was scared of it until he was almost three,” she said as she took from the refrigerator a packet of Buddig dried beef, with which she intended to bait the traps.

  Sitting on the floor beside his young master’s chair, the dog rolled his eyes at Meg and whined softly.

  In truth she was as unnerved by the Labrador’s behavior as Tommy was, but by saying so she would only feed the boy’s anxiety.

  After filling two dishes with the poisoned pellets, she put one in the cupboard under the sink and the other in the cabinet with the Saltines. She left the ravaged crackers as they were, hoping the rat would return for more and take the warfarin instead.

  She baited four traps with beef. She put one in the cabinet under the sink. The second went in the cabinet with the Saltines and the dish of warfarin, but on a different shelf from the poison. She placed the third trap in the walk-in pantry and the fourth in the basement.

  When she returned to the kitchen, she said, “Let me finish washing the dishes, then we’ll move into the living room. We might nail it tonight, but certainly by tomorrow morning.”

  Ten minutes later, on leaving the kitchen, Meg turned off the lights behind them, hoping that the darkness would lure the rat out of hiding and into a trap before she retired for the night. She and Tommy would sleep better knowing that the thing was dead.

  While Meg built a fire in the living-room fireplace, Doofus settled in front of the hearth. Tommy sat in an armchair, put his crutches nearby, propped his castbound leg on a footstool, and opened his adventure novel. Meg programmed the compact-disc player with some easy-listening music and settled into her own chair with a new novel by Mary Higgins Clark.

  The wind sounded cold and sharp, but the living room was cozy. In half an hour Meg was involved in the novel when, in a lull between songs, she heard a hard snap! from the kitchen.

  Doofus lifted his head.

  Tommy’s eyes met Meg’s.

  Then a second sound: Snap!

  “Two,” the boy said. “We caught two at the same time!”

  Meg put her book aside and armed herself with an iron poker from the fireplace in case the prey needed to be struck to finish them off. She hated this part of rat catching.

  She went to the kitchen, switched on the lights, and looked first in the cabinet beneath the sink. In the dish, the poisoned food was almost gone. The beef was gone from the big trap too; the steel bar had been sprung, but no rat had been caught.

  Nevertheless, the trap wasn’t empty. Caught under the bar was a six-inch-long stick of wood, as if it had been used to spring the trap so the bait could be taken safely.

  No. That was ridiculous.

  Meg took the trap from the cupboard to have a closer look. The stick was stained dark on one side, natural on the other: a strip of plywood. Like the plywood backing in all the cabinets, through which the rat had chewed to get at the Saltines.

  A shiver shook her, but she remained reluctant to consider the frightening possibility that had given rise to her tremors.

  In the cupboard by the refrigerator, the poisoned bait had been taken from the other dish. The second trap had been sprung too. With another stick of plywood. The bait had been stolen.

  What rat was smart enough … ?

  She rose from her knees and eased open the middle doors of the cabinet. The canned goods, the packages of Jell-O, the boxes of raisins, and the boxes of cereal looked undisturbed at first.

  Then she noticed the brown, pea-size pellet on the shelf in front of an open box of All-Bran: a piece of warfarin bait. But she had not put any bait on the shelf with the cereal; all of it had been in the dish below or under the kitchen sink. So a rat had carried a piece of it onto the higher shelf.

  If she hadn’t been alerted by the pellet, she might not have noticed the scratch marks and small punctures on the package of All-Bran. She stared at the box for a long time before she took it off the shelf and carried it to the sink.

  She put the poker on the counter and, with trembling hands, opened the cereal box. She poured some into the sink. Mixed in with the All-Bran were scores of poison pellets. She emptied the entire box into the sink. All the missing bait from both plastic dishes had been transferred to the cereal.

  Her heart was racing, pounding so hard that she could feel the throb of her own pulse in her temples.

  What the hell is going on here?

  Something screeched behind her. A strange, angry sound.

  She turned and saw the rat. A hideous white rat.

  It was on the shelf where the All-Bran had been, standing on its, hind quarters. The shelf was fifteen inches high, and the rat was not entirely erect because it was about eighteen inches long, six inches longer than an average rat, exclusive of its tail. But its size wasn’t what iced her blood. The scary thing was its head: twice the size of an ordinary rat’s head, as big as a baseball, out of proportion to its body—and oddly shaped, bulging toward the top of the skull, eyes and nose and mouth squeezed in the lower half.

  It stared at her and made clawing motions with its upraised forepaws. It bared its teeth and hissed—actually hissed as though it were a cat—then shrieked again, and there was such hostility in its shrill cry and in its demeanor that she snatched up the fireplace poker again.

  Though its eyes were beady and red like any rat’s, there was a difference about them that she could not immediately identify. The way it stared at her so boldly was intimidating. She looked at its enlarged skull—the bigger the skull, the bigger the brain—and suddenly realized that its scarlet eyes revealed an unthinkably high, unratlike degree of intelligence.

  It shrieked again, challengingly.

  Wild rats weren’t white.

  Lab rats were white.

  She knew now what they had been hunting for at the roadblock at Biolomech. She didn’t know why their researchers would have wanted to create such a beast as this, and though she was a well-educated woman and had a layman’s knowledge of genetic engineering, she didn’t know how they had created it, but she knew beyond a doubt that they had created it, for there was no place else on earth from which it could have come.

  Clearly, it had not ridden on the undercarriage of their car. Even as Biolomech’s security men had been searching for it, this rat had been here, out of the cold, setting up house.

  On the shelf behind it and on the three shelves below it, other rats pushed through cans, bottles, and boxes. They were repulsively large and pale like the mutant that still challenged her from the cereal shelf.

  Behind her, claws clicked on the floor.

  More of them.

  Meg did not even look back, and she didn’t delude herself into thinking that she could handle them with the poker. She threw that useless weapon aside and ran for her shotgun upstairs.

  5

  BEN PARNELL AND DR. ACUFF CROUCHED IN FRONT OF THE CAGE THAT stood in one corner of the windowless room. It was a six-foot cube with a sheet-metal floor that had been softened with a deep layer of silky yellow-brown grass. The food and water dispensers could be filled from outside but were operable from within, so the occupants could obtain nourishment as they desired it. One third of the pen was equipped with miniature wooden ladders and climbing bars for exercise and play.

  The cage door was open.

  “Here, see?” Acuff said. “It locks automatically every time the door is shut. Can’t be left unlocked by mistake. And once shut, it can only be opened with a key. Seemed safe to us. I mean, we didn’t think they’d be smart enough to pick a lock!”

  “But surely they didn’t. How could they—without hands?”

  “You ever take a close look at their feet? A rat’s feet aren’t like hands, but they’re more than just paws. There’s an articulation of digits that lets them grasp things. It’s true of most rodents. Squirrels, for instance: You’ve seen them sitting up, holding a piece of fruit in their forepaws.”

  “Yes, but without an opposable thumb-“

  “Of course,” Acuff said, “th
ey don’t have great dexterity, nothing like we have, but these aren’t ordinary rats. Remember, these creatures have been genetically engineered. Except for the shape and size of their craniums, they aren’t physically much different from other rats, but they’re smarter. A lot smarter.”

  Acuff was involved in intelligence-enhancement experiments, seeking to discover if lower species, like rats, could be genetically altered to breed future generations with drastically increased brain power, in hope that success with lab animals might lead to procedures that would enhance human intelligence. His research was labeled Project Blackberry in honor of the brave, intelligent rabbit of the same name in Richard Adams’s Watership Down.

  At John Acuff’s suggestion, Ben had read and immensely enjoyed Adams’s book, but he had not yet quite decided whether he approved or disapproved of Project Blackberry.

  “Anyway,” Acuff said, “whether they could have picked the cage lock is debatable. And maybe they didn’t. Because there’s this to consider.” He pointed to the slot in the frame of the cage door where the stubby brass bolt was supposed to fit when engaged. The slot was packed full of a grainy brown substance. “Food pellets. They chewed up food pellets, then filled the slot with the paste, so the bolt couldn’t automatically engage.”

  “But the door had to be open for them to do that.”

  “It must have happened during a maze run.”

  “A what?”

  “Well, there’s this flexible maze we constantly reconfigure, half as big as this whole room. It’s made of clear plastic tubes with difficult obstacles. We attach it to the front of the cage, then just open their door, so they go straight from the cage into the maze. We were doing that yesterday, so the cage was open a long time. If some of them paused at the door before entering the maze, if they sniffed around the lock slot for a few seconds, we might not have noticed. We were more interested in what they did after they entered the maze.”

  Ben rose from a crouch. “I’ve already seen how they got out of the room itself. Have you?”

  “Yeah.”

  They went to the far end of the long room. Near floor level, something had tampered with an eighteen-inch-square intake duct to the building’s ventilation system. The grille had been held in place only by light tension clamps, and it had been torn away from the opening behind it.

  Acuff said, “Have you looked in the exchange chamber?”

  Because of the nature of the work done in lab number three, all air was chemically decontaminated before being vented to the outside. It was forced under pressure through multiple chemical baths in a five-tiered exchange chamber as big as a pickup truck.

  “They couldn’t get through the exchange chamber alive,” Acuff said hopefully. “Might be eight dead rats in those chemical baths.”

  Ben shook his head. “There aren’t. We checked. And we can’t find vent grilles disturbed in other rooms, where they might have left the ducts-“

  “You don’t think they’re still in the ventilation system?”

  “No, they must’ve gotten out at some point, into the walls.”

  “But how? PVC pipe is used for the ductwork, pressure sealed with a high-temperature bonding agent at all joints.”

  Ben nodded. “We think they chewed up the adhesive at one of the joints, loosened two sections of pipe enough to squeeze out. We’ve found rat droppings in the crawl-space attic … and a place where they gnawed through the subroof and the overlying shingles. Once on the roof, they could get off the building by gutters and downspouts.”

  John Acuff’s face had grown whiter than the salt part of his salt-and-pepper beard. “Listen, we’ve got to get them back tonight, no matter what. Tonight.”

  “We’ll try.”

  “Just trying isn’t good enough. We’ve got to do it. Ben, there are three males and five females in that pack. And they’re fertile. If we don’t get them back, if they breed in the wild … ultimately they’ll drive ordinary rats into extinction, and we’ll be faced with a menace unlike anything we’ve known. Think about it: smart rats that recognize and elude traps, quick to detect poison bait, virtually ineradicable. Already, the world loses a large portion of its food supply to rats, ten or fifteen percent in developed countries like ours, fifty percent in many third-world countries. Ben, we lose that much to dumb rats. What’ll we lose to these? We might eventually see famine even in the United States—and in less advanced countries, there could be starvation beyond imagination.”

  Frowning, Ben said, “You’re overstating the danger.”

  “Absolutely not! Rats are parasitical. They’re competitors, and these will be competing far more vigorously and aggressively than any rats we’ve ever known.”

  The lab seemed as cold as the winter night outside. “Just because they’re a bit smarter than ordinary rats-“

  “More than a bit. Scores of times smarter.”

  “But not as smart as we are, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Maybe half as smart as the average man,” Acuff said.

  Ben blinked in surprise.

  “Maybe even smarter than that,” Acuff said, fear evident in his lined face and eyes. “Combine that level of intellect with their natural cunning, size advantage-“

  “Size advantage? But we’re much bigger

  Acuff shook his head. “Small can be better. Because they’re smaller, they’re faster than we are. And they can vanish through a chink in the wall, down a drainpipe. They’re bigger than the average rat, about eighteen inches long instead of twelve, but they can move unseen through the shadows because they’re still relatively small. And size isn’t their only advantage, however. They can also see at night as well as in daylight.”

  “Doc, you’re starting to scare me.’

  “You better be scared half to death. Because these rats we’ve made, this new species we’ve engineered, is hostile to us.”

  Finally Ben was forming an opinion of Project Blackberry. It wasn’t favorable. Not sure he wanted to know the answer to his own question, he said, “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  Turning away from the wall vent, walking to the center of the room, planting both hands on the marble lab bench, leaning forward with his head hung down and his eyes closed, Acuff said, “We don’t know why they’re hostile. They just are. Is it some quirk of their genetics? Or have we made them just intelligent enough so they can understand that we’re their masters—and resent it? Whatever the reason, they’re aggressive, fierce. A few researchers were badly bitten. Sooner or later someone would’ve been killed if we hadn’t taken extreme precautions. We handled them with heavy bite-proof gloves, wearing Plexiglas face masks, suited in specially made Kevlar coveralls with high, rolled collars. Kevlar! That’s the stuff they make bulletproof vests out of, for God’s sake, and we needed something that tough because these little bastards were determined to hurt us.”

  Astonished, Ben said, “But why didn’t you destroy them?”

  “We couldn’t destroy a success,” Acuff said.

  Ben was baffled. “Success?”

  “From a scientific point of view, their hostility wasn’t important because they were also smart. What we were trying to create was smart rats, and we succeeded. Given time, we figured to identify the cause of the hostility and deal with it. That’s why we put them all in one pen—‘cause we thought their isolation in individual cages might be to blame for their hostility, that they were intelligent enough to need a communal environment, that housing them together might—mellow them.”

  “Instead it only facilitated their escape.”

  Acuff nodded. “And now they’re loose.”

  6

  HURRYING ALONG THE HALL, MEG PASSED THE WIDE ARCHWAY TO THE living room and saw Tommy struggling up from his chair, groping for his crutches. Doofus was whining, agitated. Tommy called to Meg, but she didn’t pause to answer because every second counted.

  Turning at the newel post, starting up the stairs, she glanced back and could see no rats following her. The li
ght wasn’t on in the hallway itself, however, so something could have been scurrying through the shadows along the baseboard.

  She climbed the steps two at a time and was breathing hard when she reached the second floor. In her room, she took the shotgun from under the bed and chambered the first of the five rounds in the magazine.

  A vivid image of rats swarming through the cabinet flickered across her mind, and she realized that she might need additional ammo. She kept a box of fifty shells in her clothes closet, so she slid open that door—and cried out in surprise when two large, white rats scuttled across the closet floor. They clambered over her shoes and disappeared through a hole in the wall, moving too fast for her to take a shot at them even if she had thought to do so.

  She had kept the box of shells on the closet floor, and the rats had found it. They had chewed open the cardboard carton and stolen the shells one at a time, carrying them away through the hole in the wall.

  Only four rounds were left. She scooped them up and stuffed them into the pockets of her jeans.

  If the rats had succeeded in making off with all the shells, would they then have tried subsequently to find a way to remove the last

  five rounds from the shotgun’s magazine as well, leaving her defenseless? Just how smart were they?

  Tommy was calling her, and Doofus was barking angrily.

  Meg left the bedroom at a run. She descended the steps so fast that she risked twisting an ankle.

  The Labrador was in the first-floor hall, his sturdy legs planted wide, his blocky head lowered, his ears flattened against his skull. He was staring intently toward the kitchen, no longer barking but growling menacingly, even though he was also trembling with fear.

  Meg found Tommy in the living room, standing with the aid of his crutches, and she let out a wordless cry of relief when she saw that no rats were swarming over him.

  “Mom, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “The rats … I think … I know they’re from Biolomech. That’s what the roadblock was all about. That’s what those men were looking for with their spotlights, with the angled mirrors they poked under the car.” She swept the room with her gaze, looking for furtive movement along the walls and beside the furniture.

  “How do you know?” the boy asked.

  “I’ve seen them. You’ll know it too, if you see them.”

  Doofus remained in the hall, but Meg took small comfort from the warning growl he directed toward the kitchen. She realized the dog was no match for these rats. They’d trick or overpower him without difficulty, as soon as they were ready to attack.

  They were going to attack. Besides being genetically altered, with large skulls and brains, they behaved differently from other rats. By nature rats were scavengers, not hunters, and they thrived because they skulked through shadows, living secretively in walls and sewers; they never dared to assault a human being unless he was helpless—an unconscious wino, a baby in a crib. But the Biolomech were bold and hostile, hunters as well as scavengers. Their scheme to steal her shotgun shells and disarm her was clear preparation for an attack.

  His voice shaky, Tommy said, “But if they aren’t like ordinary rats, what are they like?”

  She remembered the hideously enlarged skull, the scarlet eyes informed with malevolent intelligence, the pale and plump and somehow obscene white body. She said, “I’ll tell you later. Come on, honey, we’re getting out of here.”

  They could have gone out the front door, around the house, and across the rear yard to the barn in which the jeep was parked, but that was a long way through driving snow for a boy on crutches. Meg decided they would have to go through the kitchen and out the back. Besides, their coats were drying on the rack by the rear door, and her car keys were in her coat.

  Doofus bravely led them along the hall to the kitchen, though he was not happy about it.

  Meg stayed close to Tommy, holding the pistol-grip, pump-action 12-gauge ready in both hands. Five shells in the gun, four in her pockets. Was that enough? How many rats had escaped Biolomech? Six? Ten? Twenty? She would have to avoid shooting them one at a time, save her ammunition until she could take them out in twos or threes. Yes, but what if they didn’t attack in a pack? What if they rushed at her singly, from several different directions, forcing her to swivel left and right and left again, blasting at them one at a time until her ammunition was all gone? She had to stop them before they reached her or Tommy, even if they came singly, because once they were on her or climbing the boy, the shotgun would be useless; then she and Tommy would have to defend themselves with bare hands against sharp teeth and claws. They’d be no match for even half a dozen large, fearless—and smart—rats intent on tearing out their throats.