Dean Koontz - (1989)

by Midnight(Lit)

of what had happened before, since the Change, when they had made love.

  No. Not love. They didn't make love any more. They had sex. There

  was no feeling beyond physical sensation, no tenderness or affection.

  They thrust hard and fast at each other, pushed and pulled, flexed and

  writhed against each other, striving to maximize the excitation of nerve

  endings. Neither of them cared for or about the other, only about

  himself, his own satisfaction. Now that their emotional life was no

  longer rich, they tried to compensate for that loss with pleasures of

  the senses, primarily food and sex. However, without the emotional

  factor, every experience was . . . hollow, and they tried to fill

  that emptiness by overindulgence A simple meal became a feast;

  indulgence in gluttony. And sex a feast became an unrestrained ind

  degenerated into a frenzied, bestial coupling.

  Grace pulled him onto the bed.

  He did not want to go. He could not refuse. Literally could not

  refuse.

  Breathing hard, shuddering with excitement, she tore at his clothes and

  mounted him. She was making strange wordless sounds.

  Loman's excitement matched hers and swelled, and he thrust at her, into

  her, into, losing all sense of time and place, existing only to stoke

  the fire in his loins, stoke it relentlessly until it was an unbearable

  heat, heat, friction and heat, wet and hot, heat, stoking the heat to a

  flashpoint at which his entire body would be consumed in the flames. He

  shifted positions, pinning her down, hammering himself into her, into

  her, into, into, pulling her against him so roughly that he must be

  bruising her, but he didn't care. She reached back and clawed at him,

  her fingernails digging into his arm, drawing blood, and he tore at her,

  too, because the blood was exciting, the smell of the blood, the sweet

  smell, so exciting, blood, and it didn't matter that they wounded each

  other, for these were superficial wounds and would heal within seconds,

  because they were New People; their bodies were efficient; blood flowed

  briefly, and then the wounds closed, and they clawed again, again. What

  he really wanted-what they both wanted-was to let go, indulge the wild

  spirit within, cast off all the inhibitions of civilization, including

  the inhibition of higher human form, go wild, go savage, regress,

  surrender, because then sex would have an even greater thrill, a purer

  thrill; surrender, and the emptiness would be filled; they would be

  fulfilled, and when the sex was done the could hunt y together, hunt and

  kill, swift and silent, sleek and swift, bite and tear, bite deep and

  hard, hunt and kill, sperm and then blood, sweet fragrant blood. . . .

  For a while Loman was disoriented.

  When a sense of time and place returned to him, he first glanced at the

  door, realizing that it was ajar. Denny could have seen them if he'd

  come down the hall-surely had heard them but Loman couldn't make himself

  care whether they had been seen or heard. Shame and modesty were two

  more casualties of the Change.

  As he became fully oriented to the world around him, fear slipped into

  his heart, and he quickly touched himself-his face, arms, chest, legs-to

  be sure that he was in no way less than he ought to be. In the midst of

  sex, the wildness in him grew, and sometimes he thought that approaching

  orgasm he did change, - 185 regress, if only slightly. But upon

  regaining awareness, he never found evidence of backsliding.

  He was, however, sticky with blood.

  He switched on the bedside lamp.

  "Turn it off," Grace said at once.

  But he was not satisfied with even his enhanced night vision. He wanted

  to look at her closely to determine if she was in any way . . .

  different.

  She had not regressed. Or, if she had regressed, she had already

  returned to the higher form. Her body was smeared with blood, and a few

  welts showed on her flesh, where he had gouged her and where she had not

  finished healing.

  He turned the light off and sat on the edge of the bed.

  Because the recuperative powers of their bodies had been vastly improved

  by the Change, superficial cuts and scrapes healed in only minutes; you

  could actually watch your flesh knit its wounds. They were impervious

  to disease now, their immune systems too aggressive for the most

  infectious virus or bacterium to survive long enough to replicate.

  Shaddack believed that their life spans would prove to be of great

  duration, as well, perhaps hundreds of years.

  They could be killed, of course, but only by a wound that tore and

  stopped the heart or shattered the brain or destroyed their lungs and

  prevented a flow of oxygen to the blood. If a vein or artery was

  severed, the blood supply was drastically reduced to that vessel for the

  few minutes required to heal it. If a vital organ other than the heart

  or lungs or brain was damaged, the body could limp along for hours while

  accelerated repairs were under way. They were not yet as fully reliable

  as machines, for machines could not die; with the right spare parts, a

  machine could be rebuilt even from rubble and could work again; but they

  were closer to that degree of corporeal endurance than anyone outside

  Moonlight Cove would have believed.

  To live for hundreds of years . . .

  Sometimes Loman brooded about that.

  To live for hundreds of years, knowing only fear and physical sensation

  . . .

  He rose from the bed, went into the adjacent bathroom, and took a quick

  shower to sluice off the blood.

  He could not meet his eyes in the bathroom mirror.

  In the bedroom again, without turning on a light, he pulled on a fresh

  uniform that he took from his closet.

  Grace was still lying on the bed.

  She said, "I wish I could sleep."

  He sensed that she was still crying silently.

  When he left the room, he closed the door behind him.

  They gathered in the kitchen, which Tessa liked because some of her

  happiest memories of childhood and adolescence involved family

  conferences and impromptu chats in the kitchen of their house in San

  Diego. The kitchen was the heart of a home and in a way the heart of a

  family. Somehow the worst problems became insignificant when you

  discussed them in a warm kitchen redolent of coffee and hot cocoa,

  nibbling on home-baked cake or pastry. In a kitchen she felt secure.

  Harry Talbot's kitchen was large, for it had been remodeled to suit a

  man in a wheelchair, with lots of clearance around the central cooking

  island, which was built low-as were the counters along the walls-to be

  accessible from a sitting position. Otherwise it was a kitchen like

  many others cabinets painted a pleasant creamy shade; pale yellow

  ceramic tile; a quietly purring refrigerator. The Levolor blinds at the

  windows were electrically operated by a button on one of the counters,

  and Harry put them down.

  After trying the phone and discovering that the line was dead, that not

  just the pay phones but the town's entire phone system had been

  interdicted, Sam and Tessa sat at a
round table in one corner, at

  Harry's insistence, while he made a pot of good Colombian in a Mr.

  Coffee machine.

  "You look cold," he said. "This'll do you good."

  Chilled and tired, in need of the caffeine, Tessa did not - 187 decline

  the offer. Indeed, she was fascinated that Harry, with such severe

  disabilities, could function well enough to play the gracious host to

  unexpected visitors.

  With his one good hand and some tricky moves, he got a package of

  apple-cinnamon muffins from the bread box, part of a chocolate cake from

  the refrigerator, plates and forks, and paper napkins. When Sam and

  Tessa offered to help, he gently declined their assistance with a smile.

  She sensed that he was not trying to prove anything either to them or to

  himself. He was simply enjoying having company, even at this hour and

  under these bizarre circumstances. Perhaps it was a rare pleasure.

  "No cream," he said.

  "Just a carton of milk."

  "That's fine," Sam said.

  "And no elegant porcelain cream pitcher, I'm afraid," said Harry,

  putting the milk carton on the table.

  Tessa began to consider shooting a documentary about Harry, about the

  courage required to remain independent in his circumstances She was

  drawn by the siren call of her art in spite of what had transpired in

  the past few hours. Long ago, however, she had learned that an artist's

  creativity could not be turned off; the eye of a filmmaker could not be

  capped as easily as the lens of her camera. In the midst of grief over

  her sister's death, ideas for projects had continued to come to her,

  narrative concepts, interesting shots, angles. Even in the terror of

  war, running with Afghan rebels as Soviet planes strafed the ground at

  their heels, she'd been excited by what she was getting on film and by

  what she would be able to make of it when she got into an editing

  room-and her three-man crew had reacted much the same. So she no longer

  felt awkward or guilty about being an artist on the make, even in times

  of tragedy; for her, that was just natural, a part of being creative and

  alive.

  Customized to his needs, Harry's wheelchair included a hydraulic lift

  that raised the seat a few inches, bringing him nearly to normal chair

  height, so he could sit at an ordinary table or writing desk. He took a

  place beside Tessa and across from Sam.

  Moose was lying in the corner, watching, occasionally raising his head

  as if interested in their conversation-though more likely drawn by the

  smell of chocolate cake. The Labrador did not come sniffing and pawing

  around, whining for handouts, and Tessa was impressed by his discipline.

  As they passed the coffee pot and carved up the cake and muffins, Harry

  said, "You've told me what brings you here, Sam-not just my letter but

  all these so-called accidents.

  " He looked at Tessa, and because she was on his right side, the

  permanent cock of his head to the left made it seem as if he were

  leaning back from her, regarding her with suspicion or at least

  skepticism, though his true attitude was belied by his warm smile.

  "But just where do you fit in, Miss Lockland? Call me Tessa, please.

  Well . . . my sister was Janice Capshaw-Richard Capshaw's wife, the

  Lutheran minister's wife?" he said, surprised.

  "That's right.

  "Why, they used to come to visit me. I wasn't a member of their

  congregation, but that's how they were. We became friends. And after

  he died, she still stopped by now and then. Your sister was a dear and

  wonderful person, Tessa.

  " He put down his coffee cup and reached out to her with his good hand.

  "She was my friend."

  Tessa held his hand. It was leathery and calloused from use, and very

  strong, as if all the frustrated power of his paralyzed body found

  expression through that single extremity.

  "I watched them take her into the crematorium at Callan's Funeral Home,"

  Harry said.

  "Through my telescope. I'm a watcher. That's what I do with my life,

  for the most part. I watch." He blushed slightly. He held Tessa's hand

  a bit tighter.

  "It's not just snooping. In fact it isn't snooping at all. It's . . .

  participating. Oh, I like to read, too, and I've got a lot of books,

  and I do a heavy load of thinking, for sure, but it's watching, mainly,

  that gets me through. We'll go upstairs later. I'll show you the

  telescope, the whole setup. I think maybe you'll understand. I hope

  you will. Anyway, I saw them take Janice into Callan's that night . .

  . though I didn't know who it was until two days later, when the story

  of her death was in the county paper. I couldn't believe she died the

  way they said she did. Still don't believe it."

  "Neither do I," Tessa said.

  "And that's why I'm here."

  Reluctantly, with a final squeeze, Harry let go of Tessa's hand.

  T - 189 "So many bodies lately, most of them hauled into Callan's at

  night, and more than a few times with cops hanging around, overseeing

  things-it's strange as hell for a quiet little town like this.

  " From across the table, Sam said, "Twelve accidental deaths or suicides

  in less than two months."

  "Twelve?" Harry said.

  "Didn't you realize it was that many?" Sam asked.

  "Oh, it's more than that."

  Sam blinked.

  Harry said, "T, Twenty, by my count."

  After Watkins left, Shaddack returned to the computer terminal in his

  study, reopened his link to Sun, the supercomputer at New Wave, and set

  to work again on a problematic aspect of the current project. Though it

  was two-thirty in the morning, he would put in a few more hours, for the

  earliest he went to bed was dawn.

  He had been at the terminal a few minutes when his most private phone

  line rang.

  Until Booker was apprehended, the telephone company computer was

  allowing service only among those who had been converted, from one of

  their numbers to one of their numbers. Other lines were cut off, and

  calls to the outside world were interrupted before being completed.

  Incoming calls to Moonlight Cove were answered by a recording that

  pleaded equipment failure, promised a return to full service within

  twenty-four hours, and expressed regret at the inconvenience.

  Therefore, Shaddack knew the caller must be among the converted and,

  because it was his most private line, must also be one of his closest

  associates at New Wave. A LED readout on the base of the phone

  displayed the number from which the call was being placed, which he

  recognized as that of Mike Peyser. He picked up the receiver and said,

  " Shaddack here."

  The caller breathed heavily, raggedly into the phone but said nothing.

  Frowning, Shaddack said, "Hello?"

  Just the breathing.

  Shaddack said, "Mike, is that you?"

  The voice that finally responded to him was hoarse, guttural, but with a

  shrill edge, whispery yet forceful, Peyser's voice yet not his, strange

  ". . . something wrong, wrong, something Shaddack was reluctant to

  admit that he recognized Mike Peys
er's voice in those queer inflections

  and eerie cadences. He said, "Who is this?"

  ". . . need, need . . . need, want, I need.

  "Who is this?" Shaddack demanded angrily, but in his mind was another

  question What is this?

  The caller issued a sound that was a groan of pain, a mewl of deepest

  anguish, a thin cry of frustration, and a snarl, all twisted into one

  rolling bleat. The receiver dropped from his hand with a hard clatter.

  Shaddack put his own phone down, turned back to the VDT, tapped into the

  police data system, and sent an urgent message to Loman Watkins.

  wrong, can't change, can't . . . wrong . . . wrong . . . the

  night of August twenty-eighth," Harry said.

  "TWenty min 51 Sitting on the stool in the dark third-floor bedroom,

  bent to the eyepiece, Sam Booker studied the rear of Callan's Funeral

  Home. All but scattered scrims of fog had blown away on the wind, which

  still blustered at the window and shook the trees all along the

  hillsides on which most of Moonlight Cove was built. The 191 serviceway

  lamps were extinguished now, and the rear of Callan's lay in darkness

  but for the thin light radiating from the blind-covered windows of the

  crematorium wing. No doubt they were busily feeding the flames with the

  bodies of the couple who had been murdered at Cove Lodge.

  Tessa sat on the edge of the bed behind Sam, petting Moose, who was