Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
THURSDAY
One
Two
Three
Four
FRIDAY
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
SATURDAY
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
SUNDAY
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
MONDAY
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
TUESDAY . . . AND BEYOND
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
PRAISE FOR BENTLEY LITTLE . . . “A MASTER OF THE MACABRE.”
—Stephen King
The Policy
“A chilling tale.”
—Publishers Weekly
The Return
“Bentley Little is a master of horror on par with Koontz and King. . . . The Return is so powerful that readers will keep the lights on day and night.”
—Midwest Book Review
The Collection
“Memorable . . . bizarre . . . disturbing . . . fascinating . . . a must-have for the author’s fans.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Little’s often macabre, always sharp tales are snippets of everyday life given a creepy twist.”
—Booklist
The Association
“With this haunting tale, Little proves he hasn’t lost his terrifying touch. . . . Graphic and fantastic . . . will stick with readers for a long time. Little’s deftly drawn characters inhabit a suspicious world laced with just enough sex, violence, and Big Brother rhetoric to make this an incredibly credible tale.”
—Publishers Weekly
The Walking
“Wonderful, fast-paced, rock-’em, jolt-’em, shock-’em contemporary terror fiction with believable characters and an unusually clever plot. Highly entertaining.”
—Dean Koontz
“Bentley Little’s The Walking is the horror event of the year. If you like spooky stories you must read this book.”
—Stephen King
“IF THERE’S A BETTER HORROR NOVELIST WORKING TODAY, I DON’T KNOW WHO IT IS.”
—Los Angeles Times
“The Walking is a waking nightmare. A spellbinding tale of witchcraft and vengeance. Scary and intense.”
—Michael Prescott, author of In Dark Places
“The overwhelming sense of doom with which Bentley Little imbues his . . . novel is so palpable it seems to rise from the book like mist. Flowing seamlessly between time and place, the Bram Stoker Award-winning author’s ability to transfix his audience . . . is superb . . . terrifying. [The Walking] has the potential to be a major sleeper.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
The Ignored
“This is Bentley Little’s best book yet. Frightening, thought-provoking, and impossible to put down.”
—Stephen King
“With his artfully plain prose and Quixote-like narrative, Little dissects the deep and disturbing fear of anonymity all Americans feel.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A singular achievement by a writer who makes the leap from the ranks of the merely talented to true distinction with this book. This one may become a classic.”
—DarkEcho
“Inventive. Chilling.”
—Chronicle
“A spooky novel with an original premise.”
—SF Site
“Little is so wonderful that he can make the act of ordering a Coke at McDonald’s take on a sinister dimension. This philosophical soul-searcher is provocative.”
—Fangoria
“The Ignored is not average at all.”
—Locus
“WHAT LITTLE HAS CREATED IS NOTHING LESS THAN A NIGHTMARISHLY BRILLIANT TOUR DE FORCE OF MODERN LIFE IN AMERICA.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
The Revelation
Winner of the Bram Stoker Award
“Grabs the reader and yanks him along through an ever-worsening landscape of horrors. . . . It’s a terrifying ride with a shattering conclusion.”
—Gary Brandner
“The Revelation isn’t just a thriller, it’s a shocker . . . packed with frights and good, gory fun. . . . A must for those who like horror with a bite.”
—Richard Laymon
“I guarantee, once you start reading this book, you’ll be up until dawn with your eyes glued to the pages. A nail-biting, throat-squeezing, nonstop plunge into darkness and evil.”
—Rick Hautala
The Store
“Frightening.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Must reading for Koontz fans. Bentley Little draws the reader into a ride filled with fear, danger, and horror.”
—Painted Rock Reviews
The Mailman
“A thinking person’s horror novel. The Mailman delivers.”
—Los Angeles Times
University
“By the time I finished, my nerves were pretty well fried, and I have a pretty high shock level. University is unlike anything else in popular fiction.”
—Stephen King
ALSO BY BENTLEY LITTLE
The Policy
The Return
The Collection
The Association
The Walking
The Town
The House
The Store
The Ignored
The Revelation
University
Dominion
The Mailman
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,
London WC2R 0RL, England
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Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, September 2004
Copyright © Bentley Little, 2004
All rights reserved
eISBN : 978-1-101-09808-0
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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For David Hernandez,
cocreator of
“Death Is Not an Option”
THURSDAY
One
“Where is this place?” Lowell wondered aloud, but Rachel, tiredly fanning herself with the AAA map as she sat next to him, did not respond, and the kids in the back were too busy fighting to even listen.
They’d left the Biosphere after lunch and had been driving ever since. The sun was bright overhead, neither sunglasses nor the windshield visor able to keep out its potent rays, and Lowell had long since shut off the air conditioner to keep the car from overheating. There’d been no signs for the resort at all, nothing in over thirty miles, and he was starting to worry. These single lane roads that crisscrossed the desert all looked the same and were all poorly marked, and it was more than possible that they had taken a wrong turn somewhere and were quickly on their way to some ill-tempered cattle baron’s ranch or some crazy survivalists’ compound.
But at least they were away from California.
It was the weekend of his twentieth high school reunion, and that was one of the reasons they were out here. They’d been planning this vacation anyway, but when he learned that the reunion was going to be taking place at the same time, he made sure that they were going to be out of state.
It was not that he was ashamed of his job or anything, it was just that . . . well, he was ashamed of his job. He liked it, the pay was good, and truth be told there was nothing he’d rather be doing, but whenever someone from his youth wandered into the supermarket and saw him behind the register with his name tag that touted his fifteen years of service, he cringed inwardly, praying that he would not be recognized.
That didn’t happen too often these days. He’d remained in his hometown of Fountain Valley after graduating from college and getting married, but five years later Ralphs transferred him to a new store in Brea, twenty miles away. While a few of his former classmates had moved to or worked in the northern part of Orange County, they seldom if ever dropped by the store or the shopping center it anchored. Of course, there were a few friends from both high school and college whom he still saw on a regular basis and they knew exactly what he did for a living, but that was different. They understood him, and with them he didn’t feel like the abject underachiever he did when meeting people he’d known only peripherally.
Divorced from his past, taken on its own terms, his work was both enjoyable and surprisingly fulfilling. No, he wasn’t finding a cure for cancer or writing the great American novel, but neither was he sitting in a cubicle looking at a computer screen all day, juggling meaningless numbers as were so many of his fellow business majors. By his own reckoning, he performed a practical and valuable service as assistant manager of Orange County’s highest grossing Ralphs supermarket, making sure that the people of Brea and surrounding communities had fresh meat and produce, guaranteeing that customers wanting ethnic foods or health-conscious products would find the goods they desired on the store’s well-stocked shelves. He was friendly with his clientele, knew many of his customers by name, and he took pains to ensure that the supermarket’s checkers, boxboys and stock clerks had a pleasant environment in which to work.
Still, he didn’t relish the thought of meeting ex-friends and ex-girlfriends and old acquaintances and comparing lifetime achievements.
If he was embarrassed about his job, though, he was proud of his family. Rachel and the kids were far and away the best things that had ever happened to him—much better than he deserved, truth be told—and there was no way he could be anything but happy, content and eternally grateful when it came to his personal life.
Ahead, the road wound around a small hill of white limestone that was dotted with innumerable ocotillos, nearly all of them blooming, their long octopus branches green with leaves and tipped with red flowers.
“Dad?” Ryan whined from the backseat, echoing a phrase he’d heard on a commercial. “Are we there yet?”
Lowell smiled. “Very funny.”
Although they were far too old for it, the twins took up the chant. “Dad? Are we there yet? Dad? Are we there yet? Dad?”
“We’re there,” Lowell said. “We’re in our hotel room and you’re asleep. You’re just dreaming that you’re still in the car.”
That threw them.
“Are you just joking?” Ryan asked tentatively.
“Of course he’s just joking,” Rachel said, giving Lowell a poke in the side.
The twins ran with it. “Don’t listen to Mom,” Curtis said. “She’s part of the dream. You can’t believe a word she says.”
“We’re all part of the dream,” Owen elaborated. “Our whole family. You don’t really have a family at all. You’re not even a boy. You’re just a stray pup at the pound who’s dreaming that you’re a human.”
“Mom!” Ryan cried.
“Knock it off you two,” Rachel ordered. “If I catch you torturing your brother on this trip . . .”
Lowell smiled.
Hot air blew in from the window as he drove, causing his hair to whip around wildly, and he found himself wondering why cars didn’t have wings anymore. When he was a kid and they’d go on family vacations, the station wagon had had no air conditioning, and his dad used to open the wings, two small triangular windows in front of and adjacent to the driver’s and passenger windows, to direct the outside air where he wanted and to create a flow through the car.
Ahead, Lowell could see that the road passed between two hills, and he vowed to himself that if he didn’t see the resort or a sign for it, he would turn around on the other side of those hills and backtrack until he found a street that actually had a name and could be identified on a published map.
They’d learned about The Reata from Rachel’s sister Pam, whose family had spent a week last summer at Tucson’s Westward Look resort. Ordinarily, a hotel in the middle of the desert would not have been their first choice for a summer vacation destination, but Pam had learned that many of Arizona’s best resorts, which in the winter catered to wealthy Easterners looking to escape the snow, dropped their rates considerably during the summer months, when very few Easterners dared brave the heat, in order to attract locals and others who could not usually afford to stay at such luxury accommodations. Westward Look had been wonderful, Pam said, but she’d heard from a fellow guest about another, even more exclusive resort with rates during the summer a full seventy-five percent cheaper than those at peak season. The only drawback was that it was way out in the desert, all by itself, and far away from Tucson’s nightlife and shopping. To Lowell and Rachel, that made it seem even more attractive, and Rachel had immediately gotten online and looked up the Web site for The Reata.
They were sold instantly. Photos of The Reata showed a gigantic lagoon-shaped pool ringed with tall palm trees, around which bathing-suited guests reclined on lounge chairs under shady umbrellas, their drinks set on adjacent small tables. At one end of the pool was a snack bar cabana. At the other was a small, patently fake Disneyish cliff from which a waterfall fell into the pool. Next to the waterfall, built into the fake cliff, was a long winding slide. Photos of the rooms showed expensive Santa Fe décor and spectacular desert views through floor-to-ceiling windows. The restaurants looked luxurious, the displayed Sunday brunch was a smorgasbord, an
d the elegant high-ceilinged lobby resembled nothing so much as the great hall of a southwest San Simeon.
All for little more than the price of a Motel 6.
They made reservations online, and a few days later an acknowledgement arrived in the mail in the form of a confirmation letter and two full-color brochures.
The brochures were where they’d gotten their directions to the resort—which was what had led them way out here, miles from nowhere.
Lowell sped down the road, between the two hills, fully prepared to turn around at the next wide spot in the road.
The Resort Page 1