by Dean Koontz
“It’s not the end of the world. It’s a national crisis, that’s all. If we pull together, if we defend the station and get the word out about what’s happening here, we can turn this around in no time. I’ve always been an optimist, you know, and my optimism has always proved to be justified.”
“You’re not just an optimist. You’re insane.”
“I’m not insane,” Sammy said. “I’m an American. Hey, you’re an American, too. Where’s your can-do spirit? Listen, I have plans to expand the format of your show, make it emotionally deeper, really let you spread your wings. I want to advertise it more widely, too. With your talent and my dogged determination, we can take this show to regional syndication, then national, not just five other stations but hundreds. You could be the male Dr. Laura. You could be a more human Dr. Phil.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“You are if I say you are. That’s how radio works.”
A few flakes of snow spiraled through the broken-out window and danced on the frosty plumes of their breath.
Sammy was cold. And the thinly padded ceiling was hard under his bony knees. The weird angle made him feel like he was in one of those topsy-turvy dreams in the movie Inception. But he smiled and patted Mason on the arm, in a most friendly way, as if to say I’m here for you.
Tipping his head forward, rolling his eyes down and sideways to get a better look at his program director, Mason said, “Because I’m tall and built like a football star, people think I’m tough. I’m not tough, Sammy. I don’t think I’m tough enough to stand the pressures of national syndication.”
“I’m tough enough for both of us,” Sammy assured him. “And did you just listen to your voice? The timbre, the natural reverb, the exquisite diction—it’s a gift, Mason. You can’t throw away a gift like that.”
“I don’t know,” Mason said doubtfully. “Sometimes I kinda sound squeaky to myself.”
“Trust me, big guy. Listen, if you were doing one of those shows about flying saucers and parallel worlds and secret civilizations under the sea—well, then you’d be all wrong for what we’ve got to do tonight. Everyone would think it was just the usual shtick. But your show is intimate, people let you into their lives, all the way in, they trust you, they take your advice, they admire you. They love you, Mason. You’re a friend to your listeners. They think of you as family. If you tell your listeners that monsters made in some laboratory, capable of passing for human, are taking over Rainbow Falls, they’ll believe you. They wouldn’t believe my voice. I sound like a skinny kid.”
The talk-show host closed his eyes and hung—or clung—upside down in silence for a long moment, like a big frightened bat. Then he said, “They love me?”
“They adore you.”
“I try to do my best. I really try to help them.”
“That’s why they adore you.”
“It’s a terrible responsibility, giving advice.”
“It is. I know. I think it would be exhausting. But you’re a very giving man.”
“I’m always afraid one of them will take something I say the wrong way.”
“They won’t, Mason. You express yourself with great clarity.”
“I’m afraid some wife will like, you know, misunderstand my advice and go shoot her husband.”
“That only almost happened once,” Sammy counseled. “And almost happened. It didn’t really happen.”
Eyes still closed, Mason chewed on his lower lip. Finally he said, “Orson Welles sold that crazy Jules Verne thing, back in the 1930s. He had half the country believing it was true when it was just a stupid sci-fi story.”
“The War of the Worlds,” Sammy said, and didn’t correct Jules Verne to H. G. Wells.
“He got famous from that. It was just a silly sci-fi thing, but he got famous. This is real.”
Sammy smiled and nodded even though Mason’s eyes were closed. “By the time this is over, you’ll be huge. An international star. Not just a star, Mason. Not just a star—a hero.”
Mason shook his head. “I’m not hero material. I’m not a hero just because you say I am, like you can make me a doctor.”
Sammy was freezing, so cold that his voice trembled in time to his shivering. He wanted to grab the talk-show host by the ears and shake a sense of urgency into him, but he remained calm.
“Yes, you are a hero, Mason. It’s even easier to make you a hero than to make you a doctor. Some people might want to see a college degree to prove you’re a doctor, and we’d have to go to the trouble of buying you a PhD from some online university. But if we say you not only saved the world but at the same time you fought off a horde of violent clones trying to seize KBOW—remember, we already have the bodies of four—who’s to say you’re not what we claim you are.”
“Burt and Ralph. They’d know.”
“Burt and Ralph become part of the Mason Morrell team. Their careers soar with yours. They’ll play along.”
“I don’t think they will.”
“They will.”
“I don’t think so.”
“THEY WILL!” Sammy shouted, and immediately added, “Sorry. I just get frustrated that you keep underestimating yourself. You’re always so confident on the air.”
“That’s on the air. This is life.” At last he opened his eyes. “But I guess I’ll do it, what you want.”
“You won’t try to run away again?”
“No. I can’t run away from this. There’s nowhere to run. I see that now.”
Sammy said, “My hero.”
“I think this door might be buckled. If you back out, I’ll crawl over the console and come through the passenger door.”
Grinning, Sammy said, “Let’s do radio.”
“Yeah. Let’s do great radio.”
“Immortal radio!” Sammy declared.
Mason hanging upside down, Sammy kneeling on the ceiling, they tried to high-five each other, but the weird perspective defeated them. Mason boxed Sammy’s left ear, and Sammy blew the Sequoia’s horn.
chapter 19
Pistols ready, flanking the partially open door to the master bathroom, Frost and Dagget listened to the voices whispering in the darkness beyond the threshold. They sounded conspiratorial and eager and sinister, but if anything being said had a scintilla of meaning, the conspirators were speaking in a foreign tongue. Frost couldn’t understand a word.
This sounded like a language entirely of sibilants, hissing and sissing and snuffling and fizzing, which seemed highly unlikely. Then, after a moment, the whispering no longer struck him as being conspiratorial, but instead restless and agitated. When he began to think of it that way, he realized he wasn’t listening to whispering voices, after all, but to friction of some kind. One thing sliding against another. Or a horde of small things swarming over one another, all their carapaces and quivering antennas and brittle legs rubbing together.
The door was hinged on the left, and Frost stood to the right. He reached around the jamb with his left hand, found the switch in there, and flipped light into the bathroom. Dagget moved even as the doorway brightened, crossed the threshold, said a word that Frost had never heard him—or any other Mormon—say before, and backed into the bedroom so fast that Frost hadn’t yet moved in behind him.
The large bathroom featured white ceramic tile with blue tile accents, a pair of sinks in a long counter, a shower stall directly ahead, and to the left a soaking tub spacious enough to accommodate husband and wife at the same time. Over the bathtub, depending partway into it, hanging from the ceiling on a thick and lumpy organic rope that looked like the umbilical cord of the Antichrist, was a greasy-looking sack larger than a man, glistening in a variety of shades of silver and gray.
The teardrop shape suggested pregnancy. The slithering noise that arose from the sack—the whispering he’d heard through the open doorway—perhaps indicated a restless fetus of an unthinkable nature. And the overall impression was of a cocoon. The movement within that ominous incubator did not distort it; th
e surface neither bulged nor rippled.
Farther from the doorway, beyond the tub, in the shower stall, behind a glass door hung another cocoon. It virtually filled that space.
Foreboding had gripped Frost upon the discovery of the eye in the severed tongue. Now that feeling ripened fully into dread. He tried to reassure himself that these things were preternatural, beyond the ordinary course of nature, strange and inexplicable, yes, but only because this was an expression of nature never seen before. An extraterrestrial life form. Natural to the universe, just not to this world. Or the consequence of some mutation of an earthly animal. Intuitive knowledge, however, trumped what he had been taught to know. He could not reason himself out of the recognition that behind this scene, at the bottom of this situation, a supernatural force was at work.
Adjusting to the shock of his first sight of the cocoons, Dagget entered the bathroom again. Frost stepped onto the threshold behind his partner. They had never before fled from any threat, not because they were fearless but because once they took the coward’s way out, they would take it again, and again, until they would be forever incapable of fulfilling their duties.
With evident uneasiness, Dagget approached the cocoon that hung over the bathtub, and Frost cautioned him, and Dagget said, “There’s something strange about the surface of this thing.”
“Not just the surface,” Frost said.
The continuous slithering noise didn’t grow louder, but Frost found it increasingly sinister. He thought of snakes, but he knew that it wouldn’t be snakes, wouldn’t be anything he had ever seen before.
Dagget’s face was hardly twelve inches from the sack when he said, “It looks greasy or wet, but I don’t think it is. It glistens because the surface is in constant motion, crawling with something silvery, like tiny specks of metal, but they can’t be metal because they seem … alive. Like fleas, only smaller than fleas, so small I can’t see what they are, thousands of them, maybe millions, all sort of shivering, ceaselessly dancing across the surface.”
Where the umbilical met the ceiling, the gray tissue appeared to have eaten through the plaster in order to anchor the cocoon to a joist.
“This is beyond our pay grade,” Frost said.
“Light-years beyond.”
“And we need backup.”
“Yeah,” Dagget said, “like maybe the National Guard.”
“Or a Vatican SWAT team.”
“Be ready to shoot the sonofabitch if it does anything,” Dagget said as he holstered his pistol in the rig under his ski jacket.
Although he knew his partner to be prudent, Frost’s dread was now sharpened with alarm. “What’re you doing?”
Snaring a hand towel from a wall rack and folding it into a thick pad, Dagget said, “When we call Moomaw about this, we better have all the details we can gather.” Maurice Moomaw, their boss, had the glower of a carved-stone god. “I’m not saying Moomaw is scarier than this thing. But when we’re three sentences into a report, if we aren’t convincing, he’s going to punch the speaker-phone button and start filling out a psychiatric-evaluation order for both of us.”
Frost took a two-hand grip on his pistol as Dagget wiped the folded towel down the side of the glistening sack.
Holding up the towel so Frost could see it, Dagget said, “It’s clean. All those tiny little things crawling over the surface—why didn’t some of them wipe off on the towel?”
He stroked the cocoon again, and as before, the cloth remained clean.
“I just realized,” Frost said. “Bacteria. Extraterrestrial viruses. We could be contaminated, infected.”
“Microbes are the last thing I’m worried about.”
“What’s the first thing you’re worried about?”
“Is the thing that spun this cocoon now curled up inside it?” Dagget wondered. “Or did it plant something in this, like inside a spider’s egg case, and then crawl away? And if maybe it crawled away, where is it?”
“Not in the house. We searched the house.”
“We didn’t search the attic.”
Frost glanced at the ceiling. He imagined some immense insect queen in the raftered space above them, attracted by their voices and homing in on them. He focused on the cocoon again, and it didn’t seem as ominous as it had a moment ago, considering other possible threats.
Dagget shook out the folded hand towel. With only one thickness of the cloth between his hand and the sack, he pressed his palm against the glistening surface.
Frost watched the front sight of his pistol jittering on the target. He took a slow deep breath, exhaled even more slowly than he had inhaled, imagined his hands perfectly still—and his tremors faded.
“Interesting,” Dagget said, towel-protected hand flat against the sack.
“What?” Frost asked.
“It’s very warm, even hot. The heat comes right through the towel, and yet I don’t feel any heat escaping from it into the air, none at all.”
Ever more disturbed by the slithering noise, Frost said, “Can you feel movement in it?”
Dagget shook his head. “Nothing moving. But do you smell that?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Very faint.…”
“What?” Frost asked.
“Sort of like burning insulation on a shorting electrical cord.”
“I don’t smell anything.”
Leaning closer to the sack and sniffing, Dagget said, “Yes, like burning insulation.”
“Maybe it’s the hand towel scorching.”
“No.” Dagget’s face was six inches from the glistening cocoon. “Not the hand towel. It’s hot but not that hot. Oh …”
“Oh, what?”
“The smell just changed. It’s like roses now.”
“From burning electrical cord to roses?”
“And I think …”
“What?” Frost asked.
“I’m not sure, but I think I just felt something moving in there.”
With a sound that was like two lengths of Velcro detaching from each other but also like the bloated belly of a cadaver parting wetly under the scalpel of an autopsist, the sack split.
chapter 20
After pausing in the mud room to take off their snow-caked boots, the male parishioners of Riders in the Sky Church came to the kitchen in groups of four or five to listen to Carson and Michael sell them the alternative to the space-alien explanation. They knew their wives had already been persuaded, and they put a lot of store in their opinions. The Riderettes, as they were sometimes called, were women that the world could never confuse or make weary; they firmly held the reins of their lives and kept their feet in the stirrups.
Neither Carson nor Michael mentioned the name Frankenstein. Dolly and Hank Samples and their friends were remarkably open-minded. They had proved they could cope with developments that in an instant turned their world upside down. But Carson and Michael were outsiders in this community, and even the most welcoming and trusting and swayable of the Riders would at some point hit a wall of disbelief.
Nanotechnology, people-eating machine-animals, replicants, a scheme to kill all of humanity: The current situation was already over-the-top fantastical. Adding to it the revelation that at the root of this chaos was a 240-year-old scientist much farther off his nut than Colin Clive had played him in the movie and a 200-year-old monster who had made himself into a good man, even a hero … This was sensible rural Montana; this was not a place where people were conditioned to believe anything they were told.
Carson claimed she and Michael had been working on an industrial-espionage case that led them to the discovery of the replicants—and now the people-eating nanomachine-animals—and to the belief that these things were being produced in a federal facility buried deep along the End Times Highway. A thousand movies and books prepared the Riders to believe in evil extraterrestrials, but their daily lives prepared them to embrace the idea that their own government might want to replace them with obedient engineered citizens.
> As Carson expected, fifteen-year-old Farley Samples proved to be a great help convincing the Riders that their enemies didn’t have to be from another planet, that nanotechnology was a real and rapidly advancing field on this world. His enthusiasm for science and for science fiction proved contagious, his deferential nature allowed adults to learn from him without feeling belittled, and he had absorbed a thing or two about effective storytelling from those novels of Robert Heinlein that he loved so much.
More than Carson’s and Michael’s private-investigator licenses, more than their expired photo IDs from the homicide division of the New Orleans Police Department, what gave them street cred were their weapons. The Riders revered guns nearly as much as they loved Jesus. They were impressed with Carson’s and Michael’s SIG Sauer P226 X-Sixes with 19-round magazines but especially with the Urban Sniper slug-firing shotguns.
Even though Carson proved, at the kitchen table, that she could hold her own in arm wrestling with men half again her weight, some were dubious that she could fire that hard-core shotgun without being knocked flat by the recoil. None of the doubters among the Riders were women.
When Carson stood up from the table after an intense battle-to-a-draw with a man named Glenn Botine, a full-time car mechanic and part-time quarter-horse breeder, he said, “Thank you, ma’am, for a lesson in humility. Now as ex-police, what do you and your husband think we should be doing here that we’re not doing?”
“Instead of just preparing to defend this place, we need to go door-to-door in the neighborhood,” Michael said, “alert as many people as possible. You’ve got the cell-phone videos. You’re locals. They’ll believe you. Make the entire square block a garrison and defend it, falling back to individual houses only if the larger perimeter can’t be held.”
Carson thought of her brother, Arnie, and little Scout in San Francisco, safe for now if perhaps not for long, and she asked, “How many children do you have here?”
The women conferred and quickly agreed that there were seven teenagers and twelve younger children among the forty-four Riders at the Samples house. Eighty-some other Riders had either gone to their individual homes from the roadhouse or, like these folks, were gathered at one or two other more defendable locations elsewhere in Rainbow Falls.