by Dean Koontz
With a first-time-ever lack of respect for speed limits, Dolly Samples drove while she, her husband, Hank, and her sons, Whit and Farley, worked out who would do what when they arrived home.
Loreen Rudolph, her husband, Nelson, and their kids would be moving in with the Samples family for the duration because their house had some land around it and on first assessment seemed to be generally more defensible than the Rudolph place. Loreen and Nelson would be bringing a lot of canned food and bagged staples, tools, ammunition, and other goods that would be necessary to fortify and defend the Samples home.
“We lost dear friends tonight,” Dolly said, “and we have to hold fast to their memories. There’s going to be some hard times ahead, too, you better believe it.”
“Well, we always knew something was coming in our lifetimes,” said Hank. “We just figured it would be the Chinese or the Russians or some plague. We never thought outer-space aliens, but if that’s what it’s to be, so be it.”
“I wish I’d have thought to grab my dish from the buffet before we got out of there,” Dolly said.
“It’s just a dish,” Hank said.
“Well, it’s not just a dish. It was my grandmother’s dish, and it’s a favorite of mine. I figured to pass it along to my first daughter-in-law whenever Whit or Farley got married.”
“I’m sorry I diminished it,” Hank said sincerely. “I forgot what dish it was you took tonight. If we get through this with all of our fingers and toes, I’ll go back and retrieve it for you one day.”
“You’re a thoughtful man, Hank Samples.”
“And you did right getting all those kids gathered together in all that turmoil. You’re a good woman, Doll.”
“We sure love you, Mom,” Farley said from the backseat, and Whit echoed that sentiment.
“Love is what’ll get us through this,” Dolly said. “Love and the Good Lord and the backbone to protect our own. And pumpkin pie. I was planning to bake a couple tomorrow, but now, Lord willing, I’m going to bake them tonight.”
chapter 72
In their room at the Falls Inn, Carson and Michael unpacked the big suitcases that contained their Urban Sniper pistol-grip shotguns, which fired only slugs, not buckshot. These weapons were essential at the end in New Orleans and would probably again make the difference between dying and surviving. The kick was the maximum Carson could handle; however, she didn’t shoot this gun with the stock high, but instead from a forward-side position, so she didn’t have to worry about dislocating her shoulder. They loaded the Snipers and put them on the bed with boxes of spare shells.
Five-year-old Chrissy Benedetto sat in an armchair that dwarfed her, drinking a grape soda that Michael had bought from the motel vending machine. She hadn’t seen Carson kill the not-mommy, and in spite of her nasty teddy-bear experience, she seemed only mildly unsettled by recent events.
“When will my real mommy come to get me?” she asked as Carson and Michael prepared the guns.
“Soon,” Carson said, because she had no idea how to tell a girl this young that her mother was gone forever. The prospect of doing so made her throat tight and seemed to constrict her lungs so she could not draw deep breaths.
The girl said, “She’s going to be very mad at the stupid pretend mommy.”
“Yes, she will,” Michael said. “And she should be.”
“Where’d that stupid pretend mommy come from?” Chrissy asked.
“We’re going to find out,” Michael said, “and we’re going to send her back there and lock her away so she can never come here again.”
“That’s good,” Chrissy said. “This is good grape.”
“I made it myself,” Michael said.
“Oh, you did not.”
“Show me the bottle.”
The girl held the bottle so he could see the label.
“You’re right,” he said. “Carson here made that one. It’s one of your bottles of grape, Carson.”
Carson said nothing because she was afraid her voice would break. She couldn’t stop thinking about Denise Benedetto with the silver disc on her temple, blood oozing from it and from her nose. Me isn’t me. Tell my baby.
“Who’re you people?” Chrissy asked.
“We’re friends of your mommy’s. She sent us to get you.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s in the city, buying you new teddy bears.”
“What city?”
“The big city,” Michael said. “The biggest big city, where they have the most teddy bears to choose from.”
“Wow,” said Chrissy. “I wish she was here.”
“She will be soon,” Michael said.
Carson said, “I have to get some fresh air. Just a minute.”
She left the room, walked a few steps along the promenade, put her back to the motel wall, and wept quietly.
After a minute or two, someone squeezed her shoulder, and she thought Michael had come to comfort her, but it was Deucalion.
He said, “This is new for you.”
“There’s a little girl with us now. I’m pretty sure she’s an orphan. She’s not going to be the only one in this town.”
“What’s softened you?”
“Scout.”
“I guess she would.”
“Don’t worry. I can still handle myself.”
“I have no doubt you can.”
“But what are we going to do with her? Little Chrissy? She’s not safe with us.”
“I’ll take her to Erika.”
“Erika and—Jocko?”
He smiled. “What kid wouldn’t fall in love with Jocko—as long as he’s wearing a hat with bells when she first meets him?”
“All right. Let me tell you about her mother. Before it’s done, this is going to be worse than New Orleans.”
“It’s already worse,” Deucalion said. “I’ve got a few things to tell you, too.”
Jocko’s online path was through the satellite dish on the roof. Once online, he backlooped through the downtown-Denver telephone exchange. He sidelooped from Denver to Seattle. Seattle to Chicago. Hiding his origins. Not as easy to do when starting from a satellite uplink. But doable if you’re Jocko. Banzai!
He started with a light touch. Soon he hammered the keys. They kept spare keyboards in a closet. Sometimes Jocko busted them up a little when he used his feet for the keyboard, his hands for other tasks.
He wore his hacking hat. Green and red with silver bells. When he was plinking passcodes like ducks in a shooting gallery, the room filled with a merry jingle.
This was the best. He had never been happier. One of the good guys! Cyber commando! The only thing that would make it better was a bar of soap to nibble.
He calls himself Victor Leben these days. Leben is German for “life.” He is the creator of life and the ultimate destroyer of it. His life is about life.
The wall-size plasma screen is blank. He remains in the chair, thinking about what has occurred.
He is not concerned about the unexpected direction of events at the roadhouse. There are contingency plans for everything.
Besides, already many Builders are finishing in their cocoons, and as they come forth, the pace of the assault on Rainbow Falls will accelerate dramatically. The first should mature by morning.
He is confident that Jarmillo and his team will prevent anyone from leaving town. At their disposal is an extraordinary array of tools to quarantine Rainbow Falls, including a fleet of Predator drones equipped with night vision, and armed with missiles; they will henceforth ceaselessly circle over the surrounding fields and hills. Any hiker, off-road vehicle, or rider on horseback will be spotted and destroyed.
Victor Immaculate, unlike the original Victor, does not feel the need to be the puppeteer of all, to keep the many strings strictly in his hands. He has delegated well and can be confident in his people.
As he has meditated on the roadhouse, someone has discreetly come and gone, leaving a pink capsule in the white dish on the smal
l table beside his chair. He takes the capsule now with a swallow of the bottled water.
Mentally he reviews the strategy and tactics of the taking of Rainbow Falls. The plan is sublime. No need for adjustments. He has thought of everything.
Travis followed Bryce onto the porch and watched the old man ring the doorbell.
“You’ll like this friend of mine,” Bryce said. “Sully York. He’s led a life that any man would envy, with great spirit and on his own terms. He has put himself on the line in ways that most of us would never dare, in exotic and generally inhospitable places, always for the good of his country, and he’s come out of every tight spot in triumph.”
The door opened and before Travis stood a bald man with one ear, an eye patch, a mouthful of gold teeth, and a livid scar from his right eye to the corner of his mouth.
“Sully,” Bryce said, “I’d like you to meet Travis Ahern. Travis, Colonel Sully York.”
“Pleased to meet you,” York said in a low rasp-and-rattle voice, and he held out an elaborate mechanical hand of steel and copper to be shaken.
Mr. Lyss found a car with keys in it. He said people left keys in their car when they wanted other people to feel free to use it, but Nummy wasn’t fooled.
“This here is stealing is what it is,” he said.
They were on Cody Street, heading out of town.
“I once drove from Detroit to Miami without ever using the brake pedal,” Mr. Lyss said.
“That’s no more true than people leaving keys for you to use.”
“Peaches, after all we’ve been through, I think you’d trust me by now. I was bunking in a new car, on a car hauler, and I rode all the way from Detroit to Miami on that big old truck without needing the brakes or the steering wheel. The driver never knew I was there.”
Nummy saw how that might be true, especially when it was Mr. Lyss, who seemed to know how to do everything at no cost to himself.
He said, “Well, now I feel bad for saying it was a lie.”
“You should feel bad,” Mr. Lyss said.
“Well, I do.”
“Maybe you’ll be a little more trusting in the future.”
“I guess I might be,” Nummy said.
“Uh-oh,” said Mr. Lyss, and he stopped at the side of the road. Ahead were police cars with flashing lights, blocking both lanes. “Roadblock.”
“They’re looking for jailbreakers,” Nummy said, “and we’re it.”
“Those aren’t real police, boy. Those are monster police.”
Mr. Lyss turned the car around and drove back into town.
“What now?” Nummy asked.
“I’ll think of something,” Mr. Lyss said.
After half a minute, Nummy said, “You think of something yet?”
“Not yet.”
As they slowed for the red light at Beartooth Avenue, Nummy said, “You think of something yet?”
“Not yet.”
When the light changed, Mr. Lyss drove into the intersection.
As Nummy opened his mouth, Mr. Lyss said, “Not yet.”
In the gloom between streetlamps, Frost and Dagget sat in Frost’s car across the street from the Benedetto house. They watched two Rainbow Falls police officers carry the corpse out of the house in a body bag.
“Where’s the coroner’s van?” Frost asked.
“Apparently they have a different routine than we’d think was suitable for Bureau agents like us.”
The two cops dumped the bagged body into the trunk of their patrol car and slammed the lid.
“They’re as absurd as Abbott and Costello but not as funny,” Frost said.
“What the hell is going on in this town?” Dagget wondered.
“I don’t know,” Frost said as he watched the patrol car drive away from the Benedetto place. “But I’ve got a totally bad feeling about this.”
Deucalion had taken Chrissy with him to Erika’s.
Carson and Michael changed into storm suits and ski boots.
In a zippered pocket of her suit, Carson tucked one of her photos of Scout, where she could get it quickly for a final look if things went bad.
Michael said, “Are you ready?”
She said, “I was born ready.”
They were checking out of the Falls Inn. For the time being, the Jeep Grand Cherokee would be their base of operations.
Before they had realized that Victor was far along in his new venture, when they thought they needed to smoke him out, they had booked the room under their names. Considering everything that had happened since dinner and considering what Deucalion had told them about the fleet of unmarked trucks and the grisly scene at the warehouse, they didn’t need to smoke out Victor. His creations were everywhere around them, and therefore he was everywhere around them. He would be coming for them soon.
Their task now was fourfold: against all odds, to survive, to convince the people of Rainbow Falls of the threat they faced, to fight back, and somehow to alert the world beyond this town that the first battle of Armageddon had begun here.
They had consolidated their spare ammunition, other weapons, and various tools of their trade in one large suitcase, which they stowed in the Jeep.
As Michael closed the tailgate, Carson held out the keys to him. “You want to drive?”
He shook his head. “Bad idea.”
“This might be one of the last times you have a chance.”
“Changing our routine now would be like the British people voting Churchill out of office halfway through World War II. They weren’t that stupid and neither am I.”
In the Cherokee, after Carson started the engine, Michael leaned across the console, put a hand against the back of her head, and drew her to him. Eye to eye, lips to lips, he said, “You know how those New Race people he built in New Orleans each had two hearts? Seems to me like you and I—we have just one. If I die tonight, it’s been a better life than I deserved, just having you.” He kissed her, and she returned the kiss as if it might be their last.
When they pulled apart, she said, “I love you, Michael. My God, do I. But if you ever say anything about dying again, I’ll kick your ass up between your shoulder blades.”
As she put the Jeep in gear, the first snow of the season began to fall. Flakes as big as half-dollars, as intricate as fern fronds, floated down out of the night and trembled across the windshield. To Carson, every flake seemed to be a reassuring omen, proof that out of darkness can come one bright grace after another.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEAN KOONTZ is the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers. He lives in Southern California with his wife, Gerda, their golden retriever, Anna, and the enduring spirit of their golden, Trixie.
Correspondence for the author should be addressed to:
Dean Koontz
P.O. Box 9529
Newport Beach, California 92658
Read on for an excerpt from Dean Koontz’s
Frankenstein: The Dead Town
chapter 1
Owl-eyed and terrified, Warren Snyder occupied an armchair in his living room. He sat stiff, erect, his hands upturned in his lap. Now and then his right hand shook. His mouth hung slightly open, and his lower lip trembled almost continuously.
On his left temple, a silvery bead gleamed. As rounded and as polished as the head of a decorative upholstery tack, it looked like a misplaced earring.
The bead was in fact packed with electronics, nanocircuitry, and was rather like the head of a nail in that it was the visible portion of a needle-thin probe that had been fired into his brain by a pistol-like device. Instantaneous chemical cauterization of flesh and bone prevented bleeding.
Warren said nothing. He had been ordered to remain silent, and he had lost the power to disobey. Except for his twitching fingers and the tremors, which were both involuntary, he did not move, not even to change position in the chair, because he had been told to be still.
His gaze shifted back and forth between two points of interest: his wive
s.
With a silver bead on her left temple and her eyes glazed like those of an amped-out meth junkie, Judy Snyder perched on the sofa, knees together, hands folded serenely in her lap. She didn’t twitch or tremble like her husband. She seemed to be without fear, perhaps because the probe had damaged her brain in ways not intended.
The other Judy stood by one of the living-room windows that faced the street, alternately studying the snowy night and regarding her two prisoners with contempt. Their kind were the spoilers of the earth. Soon these two would be led away like a couple of sheep, to be rendered and processed. And one day, when the last human beings were eradicated, the world would be as much of a paradise as it had ever been or ever could be.
This Judy was not a clone of the one on the sofa, nothing as disgusting as a mere meat machine, which was all that human beings were. She had been designed to pass for the original Judy, but the illusion would not hold up if her internal structure and the nature of her flesh were to be studied by physicians. She had been created in a couple of months, programmed and extruded—“born”—as an adult in the Hive, deep underground, with no tao other than her program, with no illusion that she possessed free will, with no obligation whatsoever to any higher power other than Victor Leben, whose true last name was Frankenstein, and with no life after this one to which she needed to aspire.
Through the parted draperies, she watched a tall man crossing the snow-mantled street, hands in his coat pockets, face turned to the sky as if delighting in the weather. He approached the house on the front walkway, playfully kicking up little clouds of snow. Judy couldn’t see his face, but she assumed he must be Andrew Snyder, the nineteen-year-old son of the family. His parents expected him to return home from work about this time.
She let the draperies fall into place and stepped out of the living room, into the foyer. When she heard Andrew’s footsteps on the porch, she opened the door.
“Andy,” she said, “I was so worried.”