by Dean Koontz
“General Galen Copperfield. He’s the commanding officer of the Civilian Defense Unit of the CBW Division. This is precisely the kind of situation they want to be notified about. Within hours, Copperfield can put a team of well-trained scientists into Snowfield. First-rate biologists, virologists, bacteriologists, pathologists with training in the very latest forensic medicine, at least one immunologist and biochemist, a neurotogist—and even a neuropsychologist. Copperfield’s department has designed elaborate mobile field laboratories. They’ve got them garaged at depots all over the country, so there must be one relatively close to us. Hold off the State Health gang, Jack. They don’t have people of the caliber that Copperfield can provide, and they don’t have state-of-the-art diagnostic equipment as mobile as Copperfield’s. I want to call the general; I am going to call him, in fact, but I’d prefer to have your agreement and your guarantee that state bureaucrats won’t be tramping around here, interfering.”
After a brief hesitation, Jack Retlock said, “Doody, what kind of world have we let it become when things like Copperfield’s department are even necessary?”
“You’ll hold off Health?”
“Yes. What else do you need?”
Bryce glanced down at the list in front of him. “You could approach the telephone company about pulling the Snowfield circuits off automatic switching. When the world finds out what’s happened up here, every phone in town will be ringing off the hook, and we won’t be able to maintain essential communications. If they could route all calls to and from Snowfield through a few special operators and weed out the crank stuff and—”
“I’ll handle it,” Jack said.
“Of course, we could lose the phones at any time. Even cell phones. Dr. Paige had trouble getting a call out when she first tried, so I’ll need a shortwave set. The one here at the substation seems to’ve been sabotaged.”
“I can get you a mobile shortwave unit, a van that has its own gasoline generator. The Office of Earthquake Preparedness has a couple. Anything else?”
“Speaking of generators, it’d be nice if we didn’t have to depend on the public power supply. Evidently, our enemy here can tamper with it at will. Could you get two big generators for us?”
“Can do. Anything else?”
“If I think of anything, I won’t hesitate to ask.”
“Let me tell you, Bryce, as a friend, I hate like hell to see you in the middle of this one. But as a governor, I’m damned glad it fell in your jurisdiction, whatever the hell it is. There are some prize assholes out there who’d already have screwed it up if it’d fallen in their laps. By now, if it was a disease, they’d have spread it to half the state. We sure can use you up there.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
They were both silent for a moment.
Then Retlock said, “Doody?”
“Yeah, Jack?”
“Watch out for yourself.”
“I will, Jack,” Bryce said. “Well, I’ve got to get on to Copperfield. I’ll call you later.”
The governor said, “Please do that, Bryce. Call me later. Don’t you vanish, old buddy.”
Bryce put down the phone and looked around the substation. Stu Wargle and Frank were removing the front access plate from the radio. Tal and Dr. Paige were loading guns. Gordy Brogan and young Lisa Paige, the biggest and the smallest of the group, were making coffee and putting food on one of the worktables.
Even in the midst of disaster, Bryce thought, even here in the Twilight Zone, we have to have our coffee and supper. Life goes on.
He picked up the receiver to call Copperfield’s number out at Dugway, Utah.
There was no dial tone. He jiggled the disconnect button.
“Hello,” he said.
Nothing.
Bryce sensed someone or something listening. He could feel the presence, just as Dr. Paige had described it.
“Who is this?” he asked.
He didn’t really expect an answer, but he got one. It wasn’t a voice. It was a peculiar yet familiar sound: the cry of birds, perhaps gulls; yes, sea gulls shrieking high above a windswept shoreline.
It changed. It became a clattering sound. A rattle. Like beans in a hollow gourd. The warning sound of a rattlesnake. Yes, no doubt about it. The very distinct sound of a rattlesnake.
And then it changed again. Electronic buzzing. No, not electronic. Bees. Bees buzzing, swarming.
And now the cry of gulls once more.
And the call of another bird, a trilling musical voice.
And panting. Like a tired dog.
And snarling. Not a dog. Something larger.
And the hissing and spitting of fighting cats.
Although there was nothing especially menacing about the sounds themselves—except, perhaps, for the rattlesnake and the snarling—Bryce was chilled by them.
The animal noises ceased.
Bryce waited, listened, said, “Who is this?”
No answer.
“What do you want?”
Another sound came over the wire, and it pierced Bryce as if it were a dagger of ice. Screams. Men and women and children. More than a few of them. Dozens, scores. Not stage screams; not make-believe terror. They were the stark, shocking cries of the damned: screams of agony, fear and soul-searing despair.
Bryce felt sick.
His heart raced.
It seemed to him that he had an open line to the bowels of Hell.
Were these the cries of Snowfield’s dead, captured on a tape recording? By whom? Why? Is it live or is it Memorex?
One final scream. A child. A little girl. She cried out in terror, then in pain, then in unimaginable suffering, as if she were being torn apart. Her voice rose, spiraled up and up—
Silence.
The silence was even worse than the screaming because the unnameable presence was still on the line, and Bryce could feel it more. strongly now. He was stricken by an awareness of pure, unrelenting evil.
It was there.
He quickly put down the phone.
He was shaking. He had not been in any danger—yet he was shaking.
He looked around the bull pen. The others were still busy with the tasks he had assigned to them. Apparently, no one had noticed that his most recent session on the phone had been far different from those that had gone before it.
Sweat trickled down the back of his neck.
Eventually, he would have to tell the others what had happened. But not right now. Because right now he couldn’t trust his voice. They would surely hear the nervous flutter, and they would know that this strange experience had badly shaken him.
Until reinforcements arrived, until their foothold in Snowfield was more firmly established, until they all felt less afraid, it wasn’t wise to let the others see him shaking with dread. They looked to him for leadership, after all; he didn’t intend to disappoint them.
He took a deep, cleansing breath.
He picked up the receiver and immediately got a dial tone. Immensely relieved, he called the CBW Civilian Defense Unit in Dugway, Utah.
Lisa liked Gordy Brogan.
At first he had seemed menacing and sullen. He was such a big man, and his hands were so enormous they made you think of the Frankenstein monster. His face was rather handsome, actually, but when he frowned, even if he wasn’t angry, even if he was just worrying about something or thinking especially hard, his brows knitted together in a fierce way, and his black-black eyes grew even blacker than usual, and he looked like doom itself.
A smile transformed him. It was the most astonishing thing. When Gordy smiled, you knew right away that you were seeing the real Gordy Brogan. You knew that the other Gordy—the one you thought you saw when he frowned or when his face was in repose—was purely a figment of your imagination. His warm, wide smile drew your attention to the kindness shining in his eyes, the gentleness in his broad brow.
When you got to know him, he was like a big puppy, eager to be liked. He was one of those rare adults who coul
d talk to a kid without being self-conscious or condescending or patronizing. He was even better in that regard than Jenny. And even under the current circumstances, he could laugh.
As they put the food on the table—lunch meat, bread, cheese, fresh fruit, doughnuts—and brewed coffee, Lisa said, “You just don’t seem like a cop to me.”
“Oh?” Gordy said. “What’s a cop supposed to seem like?”
“Whoops. Did I say the wrong thing? Is ‘cop’ an offensive word?”
“In some quarters, it is. Like in prisons, for instance.”
She was amazed that she still could laugh after everything that had happened this evening. She said, “Seriously. What do officers of the law prefer to be called? Policemen?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m a deputy, policeman, cop—whatever you like. Except you think I don’t really look the part.”
“Oh, you look the part all right,” Lisa said. “Especially when you scowl. But you don’t seem like a cop.”
“What do I seem like to you?”
“Let me think.” She took an immediate interest in this game, for it diverted her mind from the nightmare around her. “Maybe you seem like ... a young minister.”
“Me?”
“Well, in the pulpit, you’d be just fantastic delivering a fire-and-brimstone sermon. And I can see you sitting in a parsonage, an encouraging smile on your face, listening to people’s problems.”
“Me, a minister,” he said, clearly astonished. “With that imagination of yours, you should be a writer when you grow up.”
“I think I should be a doctor like Jenny. A doctor can do so much good.” She paused. “You know why you don’t seem like a cop? It’s because I can’t picture you using that.” She pointed at his revolver. “I can’t picture you shooting someone. Not even if he deserved it.”
She was startled by the expression that came over Gordy Brogan’s face. He was visibly shocked.
Before she could ask what was wrong, the lights flickered.
She looked up.
The lights flickered again. And again.
She glanced at the front windows. Outside, the streetlights were blinking, too.
No, she thought. No, please, God, not again. Don’t throw us into darkness again; please, please!
The lights went out.
15
The Thing at the Window
Bryce Hammond had spoken to the night-duty officer manning the emergency line at the CBW Civilian Defense Unit at Dugway, Utah. He hadn’t needed to give many details before he’d been patched through to General Galen Copperfield’s home number. Copperfield had listened, but he hadn’t said much. Bryce wanted to know whether it seemed at all likely that a chemical or biological agent had caused Snowfield’s agony and obliteration. Copperfield said, “Yes.” But that was all he would say. He warned Bryce that they were speaking on an unsecured telephone line, and he made vague but stem references to classified information and security clearances. When he’d heard all of the essentials but only a few details, he cut Bryce off rather curtly and suggested they discuss the rest of it when they met face to face. “I’ve heard enough to be convinced that my organization should be involved.” He promised to send a field lab and a team of investigators into Snowfield by dawn or shortly thereafter.
Bryce was putting down the receiver when the lights flickered, dimmed, flickered, wavered—and went out.
He fumbled for the flashlight on the desk in front of him, found it, and switched it on.
Upon returning to the substation a while ago, they had located two additional, long-handled police flashlights. Gordy had taken one; Dr. Paige had taken the other. Now, both of those lights flicked on simultaneously, carving long bright wounds in the darkness.
They had discussed a plan of action, a routine to follow if the lights went off again. Now, as planned, everyone moved to the center of the room, away from the doors and windows, and clustered together in a circle, facing outward, their backs turned to one another, reducing their vulnerability.
No one said much of anything. They were all listening intently.
Lisa Paige stood to the left of Bryce, her slender shoulders hunched, her head tucked down.
Tal Whitman stood at Bryce’s right. His teeth were bared in a silent snarl as he studied the darkness beyond the sweeping scythe of the flashlight beam.
Tal and Bryce were holding revolvers.
The three of them faced the rear half of the room, while the other four—Dr. Paige, Gordy, Frank, and Stu—faced the front.
Bryce played the beam of his flashlight over everything, for even the shadowy outlines of the most mundane objects suddenly seemed threatening. But nothing hid or moved among the familiar pieces of furniture and equipment.
Silence.
Set in the back wall, toward the right-hand corner of the room, were two doors. One led to the corridor that served the three holding cells. They had searched that part of the building earlier; the cells, the interrogation room, and the two bathrooms that occupied that half of the ground floor were all deserted. The other door led to stairs that went up to the deputy’s apartment ; those rooms, too, were unoccupied. Nevertheless, Bryce repeatedly brought the beam of light back to the half-open doors; he was uneasy about them.
In the darkness, something thumped softly.
“What was that?” Wargle asked.
“It came from over this way,” Gordy said.
“No, from over this way,” Lisa Paige said.
“Quiet!” Bryce said sharply.
Thump... thump-thump.
It was the sound of a padded blow. Like a dropped pillow striking the floor.
Bryce swept his light rapidly back and forth.
Tal tracked the beam with his revolver.
Bryce thought: What do we do if the lights are out for the rest of the night? What do we do when the flashlight batteries finally go dead? What happens then?
He had not been afraid of darkness since he’d been a small child. Now he remembered what it was like.
Thump-thump... thump... thump-thump.
Louder. But not closer.
Thump!
“The windows!” Frank said.
Bryce swung around, probing with his flashlight.
Three bright beams found the front windows at the same time, transforming the mullioned squares of glass into mirrors that hid whatever lay beyond them.
“Turn your lights toward the floor or ceiling,” Bryce said. One beam swung up, two down.
The backsplash of light revealed the windows, but it didn’t turn them into reflective silver surfaces.
Thump!
Something struck a window, rattled a loose pane, and rebounded into the night. Bryce had an impression of wings.
“What was it?”
“—bird—”
“—not a bird of any kind I ever—”
“—something—”
“—awfut—”
It returned, battering itself against the glass with greater determination than before: Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump!
Lisa screamed.
Frank Autry gasped, and Stu Wargle said, “Holy shit!”
Gordy made a strangled, wordless sound.
Staring at the window, Bryce felt as if he had lurched through the curtain of reality, into a place of nightmare and illusion.
With the streetlamps extinguished, Skyline Road was dark except for the luminous moonfall; however, the thing at the window was vaguely illuminated.
Even vague illumination of that fluttering monstrosity was too much. What Bryce saw on the other side of the glass—what he thought he saw in the kaleidoscopic multiplicity of light, shadow, and shimmering moonlight—was something out of a fever dream. It had a three- or four-foot wingspan. An insectile head. Short, quivering antennae. Small, pointed, and ceaselessly working mandibles. A segmented body. The body was suspended between the pale gray wings and was approximately the size and shape of two footballs placed end to end; it, too, was gray, the sam
e shade as the wings—a moldy, sickly gray—and fuzzy and moist-looking. Bryce glimpsed eyes, as well: huge, ink-black, multifaceted, protuberant lenses that caught the light, refracting and reflecting it, gleaming darkly and hungrily.
If he was seeing what he thought he was seeing, the thing at the window was a moth as large as an eagle. Which was madness.
It bashed itself against the windows with new fury, in a frenzy now, its pale wings beating so fast that it became a blur. It moved along the dark panes, repeatedly rebounding into the night, then returning, trying feverishly to crash through the window. Thumpthumpthumpthump. But it didn’t have the strength to smash its way inside. Furthermore, it didn’t have a carapace; its body was entirely soft, and in spite of its incredible size and formidable appearance, it was incapable of cracking the glass.
Thumpthumpthump.
Then it was gone.
The lights came on.
It’s like a damned stage play, Bryce thought.
When they realized that the thing at the window wasn’t going to return, they all moved, by unspoken consent, to the front of the room. They went through the gate in the railing, into the public area, to the windows, gazing out in stunned silence.
Skyline Road was unchanged.
The night was empty.
Nothing moved.
Bryce sat down in the creaking chair at Paul Henderson’s desk. The others gathered around.
“So,” Bryce said.
“So,” Tal said.
They looked at one another. They fidgeted.
“Any ideas?” Bryce asked.
No one said anything.
“Any theories about what it might have been?”