Shadowfires

by Dean Koontz

  And he couldn’t bear knowing.

  Dimly he suspected that, having intentionally edited a small portion of his own genetic material, he had created an imbalance in unknown—perhaps unknowable—life chemistries and life forces. The imbalance had not been severe until, upon his death, his altered cells had begun to perform as they had never been meant to perform, healing at a rate and to an extent that was unnatural. That activity—the overwhelming flood of growth hormones and proteins it produced—in some manner released the bonds of genetic stability, threw off the biological governor that ensured a slow, slow, measured pace for evolution. Now he was evolving at an alarming rate. More accurately, perhaps, he was devolving, his body seeking to re-create ancient forms still stored within the tens of millions of years of racial experience in his genes. He knew that he was fluctuating mentally between the familiar modern intellect of Eric Leben and the alien consciousnesses of several primitive states of the human race, and he was afraid of devolving both mentally and physically to some bizarre form so remote from human experience that he would cease to exist as Eric Leben, his personality dissolved forever in a prehistoric simian or reptilian consciousness.

  She had done this to him—had killed him, thereby triggering the runaway response of his genetically altered cells. He wanted vengeance, wanted it so much he ached, wanted to rip the bitch open and slash her steaming guts, wanted to pull out her eyes and break open her head, wanted to claw off that pretty face, that smug and hateful face, chew off her tongue, then put his mouth down against her spurting arteries and drink, drink …

  He shuddered again, but this time it was a shudder of primal need, a quiver of inhuman pleasure and excitement.

  After the fuel tank was filled, Rachael returned to the highway, and Eric was lulled into his trancelike state once more. This time his thoughts were stranger, dreamier than those that had occupied him previously. He saw himself loping across a mist-shrouded landscape, barely half erect; distant mountains smoked on the horizon, and the sky was a purer and darker blue than he had ever seen it before, yet it was familiar, just as the glossy vegetation was different from anything he had ever encountered as Eric Leben but was nevertheless known to some other being buried deep within him. Then, in his half-dreams, he was no longer even partially erect, not the same creature at all, slithering now on his belly over warm wet earth, drawing himself up onto a spongy rotting log, clawing at it with long-toed feet, shredding the bark and mushy wood to reveal a huge nest of squirming maggots, into which he hungrily thrust his face …

  Transported by a dark savage thrill, he drummed his feet against the sidewall of the trunk, an action that briefly roused him from the tenebrous images and thoughts that filled his mind. He realized that his drumming feet would alert Rachael, and he stopped after—he hoped—only a few hard kicks.

  The car slowed, and he fumbled in the dark for the screwdriver in case he had to pop the latch and get out fast. But then the car accelerated again—Rachael had not understood what she had heard—and he fell back into the ooze of primordial memories and desires.

  Now, mentally drifting in some far place, he continued to change physically. The dark trunk was like a womb in which an unimaginable mutant child formed and reformed and re-formed again. It was both something old and something new in the world. Its time had passed—and yet its time was still coming.

  Ben figured they would expect him to remember the line of parked cars along the western shoulder of the state route and would be waiting for him to steal one. Furthermore, they would probably count on him making his way north on the road itself, using the ditch along the eastern berm for cover when he heard traffic coming. Or they might think he’d stay on the eastern slope, on the highland side of the road, cautiously following the blacktop north but using the trees and brush for cover. However, he did not think they would expect him to cross the road, enter the woods on the western side of it—the lake side—and then head north under the cover of those trees, eventually coming up on the parked cars from behind.

  He figured correctly. When he had gone north some distance with the highway on his right and the lake on his left, he cut up the slope to the state route, cautiously crawled up the final embankment, peered over the top, and looked south toward the parked cars. He saw two men slumped in the front seat of the dark green Chevy sedan. They were tucked behind a Dodge station wagon, so he would not have been able to see them if he’d approached from the south instead of circling behind. They were looking the other way, watching geometrically framed slices of the two-lane highway through the windows of the cars parked in front of theirs.

  Easing down from the top of the embankment, Ben lay on the slope for a minute, flat on his back. His mattress was composed of old pine needles, withered rye grass, and unfamiliar plants with variegated caladiumlike leaves that bruised under him and pressed their cool juice into the cloth of his shirt and jeans. He was so dirty and stained from the frantic descent of the mountainside below Eric’s cabin that he had no concern about what additional mess these plants might make of him.

  The Combat Magnum, tucked under his waistline, pressed painfully against the small of his back, so he shifted slightly onto one side to relieve that pressure. Uncomfortable though it was, the Magnum was also reassuring.

  As he considered the two men waiting for him on the road above, he was tempted to head farther north until he found untended cars elsewhere. He might be able to steal a vehicle from another place and leave the area before they decided he was gone.

  On the other hand, he might walk a mile or two or three without discovering other cars parked beyond the view of their owners.

  And it was unlikely that Sharp and his fellow agent would wait here very long. If Ben did not show up soon, they would wonder if they had misjudged him. They would start cruising, perhaps stopping now and then to get out and scan the woods on both sides of the road, and though he was better at these games than they were, he could not be sure that they would not surprise him somewhere along the way.

  Right now, he had the advantage of surprise, for he knew where they were, while they had no idea where he was. He decided to make good use of that advantage.

  First, he looked around for a smooth fist-sized rock, located one, and tested its weight in his hand. It felt right—substantial. He unbuttoned his shirt part of the way, slipped the rock inside against his belly, and rebuttoned.

  With the semiautomatic Remington twelve-gauge in his right hand, he stealthily traversed the embankment, moving south until he felt that he was just below the rear end of their Chevrolet. Edging up to the top of the slope again, he found that he had estimated the distance perfectly: The rear bumper of their sedan was inches from his face.

  Sharp’s window was open—standard government cars seldom boasted air-conditioning—and Ben knew he had to make the final approach in absolute silence. If Sharp heard anything suspicious and looked out his window, or if he even glanced at his side-view mirror, he would see Ben scurrying behind the Chevy.

  A convenient noise, just loud enough to provide cover, would be welcome, and Ben wished the wind would pick up a bit. A good strong gust, shaking the trees, would mask his—

  Better yet, the sound of a car engine rose, approaching from the north, from behind the sedan. Ben waited tensely, and a gray Pontiac Firebird appeared from that direction. As the Firebird drew nearer, the sound of rock music grew louder: a couple of kids on a pleasure ride, windows open, cassette player blaring, Bruce Springsteen singing enthusiastically about love and cars and foundry workers. Perfect.

  Just as the supercharged Firebird was passing the Chevy, when the noise of engine and Springsteen were loudest, and when Sharp’s attention was almost certainly turned in a direction exactly opposite that of his side-view mirror, Ben scrambled quickly over the top of the embankment and crept behind the sedan. He stayed low, under their back window, so he would not be seen in the rearview mirror if the other DSA agent checked the road behind.

  As the Fire
bird and Springsteen faded, Ben duck-walked to the left rear corner of the Chevy, took a deep breath, leaped to his feet, and pumped a round from the shotgun into the back tire on that side. The blast shattered the still mountain air with such power that it scared Ben even though he knew it was coming, and both men inside cried out in alarm. One of them shouted, “Stay down!” The car sagged toward the driver’s side. His hands stinging from the recoil of the first shot, Ben fired again, strictly to scare them this time, putting the load low over the top of the car, just low enough so some of the shot skipped across the roof, which to those inside must have sounded like pellets impacting in the interior. Both men were down on the front seat, trying to stay out of the line of fire, a position which also made it impossible for them either to see Ben or to shoot at him.

  He fired another round into the dirt shoulder as he ran, paused to blow out the front tire on the driver’s side, causing the car to sag further in that direction. He pumped one more load into the same tire solely for dramatic effect—the thunderous crash of the shotgun had unnerved even him, so it must have paralyzed Sharp and the other guy—then glanced at the windshield to be sure both of his adversaries were still below the line of fire. He saw no sign of them, and he put his sixth and final shot through the glass, confident that he would not seriously hurt either man but would scare them badly enough to ensure that they would continue to hug the car seat for another half minute or so.

  Even as the shotgun pellets were lodging in the back seat of the Chevy and the safety glass was still falling out into the front seat, Ben took three running steps, dropped flat to the ground, and pulled himself under the Dodge station wagon. When they got the courage to lift their heads, they would figure he had run into the woods on one side of the road or the other, where he was reloading and waiting to make another pass at them when they showed themselves. They would never expect to find him lying prostrate on the ground beneath the very next car in line.

  His lungs tried to draw breath in great noisy gulps, but he forced himself to breathe slowly, easily, rhythmically, quietly.

  He wanted to rub his hands and arms, which stung from firing the shotgun so rapidly and from such unusual positions. But he rubbed nothing, just endured, knowing the stinging and numbness would subside unattended.

  After a while, he heard them talking back there, and then he heard a door open.

  “Damn it, Peake, come on!” Sharp said.

  Footsteps.

  Ben turned his head to the right, looking out from beneath the station wagon. He saw Sharp’s black Freeman wing tips appear beside the car. Ben owned a pair just like them. These were scuffed, and several spiky burrs clung to the laces.

  On the left, no shoes appeared.

  “Now, Peake!” Sharp said in a hoarse whisper that was as good as a shout.

  Another door opened back there, followed by hesitant footsteps, and then shoes came into view at the left side of the station wagon as well. Peake’s cheaper black oxfords were in even worse shape than Anson Sharp’s shoes: mud was smeared over the tops of them and caked along the soles and heels, and there were twice as many burrs clinging to his laces.

  The two men stood on opposite sides of the station wagon, neither of them speaking, just listening and looking.

  Ben had the crazy idea that they would hear his pounding heart, for to him it sounded like a timpani.

  “Might be ahead, between two of these cars, waiting to sandbag us,” Peake whispered.

  “He’s gone back into the woods,” Sharp said in a voice as soft as Peake’s, but with scorn. “Probably watching us from cover right now, trying not to laugh.”

  The smooth, fist-sized rock that Ben had tucked inside his shirt was pressing into his belly, but he did not shift his position for fear the slightest sound would give him away.

  Finally Sharp and Peake moved together, paralleling each other, stepping out of sight. They were probably looking warily into all the cars and between them.

  But they were not likely to get down on their knees and look underneath, because it was insane of Ben to hide there, flat on his belly, nearly helpless, with no quick way out, where he could be shot as easily as the proverbial fish in the barrel. If his risk paid off, he would throw them off his trail, send them sniffing in the wrong direction, and have a chance to boost one of these cars. However, if they thought he was dumb enough—or clever enough—to hide under the station wagon, he was a dead man.

  Ben prayed that the owner of the wagon would not return at this inopportune moment and drive the heap away, leaving him exposed.

  Sharp and Peake reached the front of the line of vehicles and, having found no enemy, returned, still walking on opposite sides of the cars. They spoke a bit louder now.

  “You said he’d never shoot at us,” Peake remarked sourly.

  “He didn’t.”

  “He shot at me, sure enough,” Peake said, his voice rising.

  “He shot at the car.”

  “What’s the difference? We were in the car.”

  They stopped beside the station wagon once more.

  Ben looked left and right at their shoes, hoping he would not have to sneeze, cough, or fart.

  Sharp said, “He shot at the tires. You see? No point disabling our transportation if he was going to kill us.”

  “He shot out the windshield,” Peake said.

  “Yeah, but we were staying down, out of the way, and he knew he wouldn’t hit us. I tell you, he’s a damn pussy, a prissy moralist, sees himself as the guy in the white hat. He’d shoot at us only if he had no choice, and he’d never shoot at us first. We’ll have to start the action. Listen, Peake, if he’d wanted to kill us, he could have poked the barrel of that piece through either one of our side windows, could’ve taken us both out in two seconds flat. Think about it.”

  They were both silent.

  Peake was probably thinking about it.

  Ben wondered what Sharp was thinking. He hoped Sharp wasn’t thinking about Edgar Allan Poe’s The Purloined Letter. He did not suppose there was much danger of that because he did not think Sharp had ever in his life read anything other than skin magazines.

  “He’s down in those woods,” Sharp said at last, turning his back on the station wagon, showing Ben his heels. “Down toward the lake. He can see us now, I’ll bet.

  Letting us make the next move.”

  “We have to get another car,” Peake said.

  “First you’ve got to go down in these woods, have a look around, see if you can flush him out.”

  “Me?”

  “You,” Sharp said.

  “Sir, I’m not really dressed for that sort of thing. My shoes—”

  “There’s less underbrush here than there was up near Leben’s cabin,” Sharp said. “You’ll manage.”

  Peake hesitated but finally said, “What’ll you be doing while I’m poking around down there?”

  “From here,” Sharp said, “I can look almost straight down through the trees, into the brush. If you get near him down there on his own level, he might be able to move away from you under the cover of rocks and bushes, without you getting a glimpse of him. But see, from up above here, I’m almost sure to see him moving. And when I do, I’ll go straight for the bastard.”

  Ben heard a peculiar noise, like a lid being unscrewed from a mayonnaise jar. For a moment he could not imagine what it was, then realized Sharp was taking the silencer off his pistol.

  Sharp confirmed that suspicion. “Maybe the shotgun still gives him the advantage—”

  “Maybe?” Peake said with amazement.

  “—but there’s two of us, two guns, and without silencers we’ll get better range. Go on, Peake. Go down there and smoke him out for me.”

  Peake seemed on the point of rebellion, but he went.

  Ben waited.

  A couple of cars passed on the road.

  Ben remained very still, watching Anson Sharp’s shoes. After a while, Sharp moved one step away from the car, which was as
far as he could go in that direction, for one step put him at the very brink of the embankment that sloped down into the woods.

  When the next car rumbled along, Ben used the cover of its engine noise to slip out from under the Dodge wagon on the driver’s side, where he crouched against the front door, below window level. Now the station wagon was between him and Sharp.

  Holding the shotgun in one hand, he opened a few buttons on his shirt. He withdrew the rock that he had found in the forest.

  On the other side of the Dodge, Sharp moved.

  Ben froze, listened.

  Evidently Sharp had only been sidestepping along the edge of the embankment to keep Peake in sight below.

  Ben knew he had to act swiftly. If another car came by, he would present quite a spectacle to anyone in it: a guy in filthy clothes, holding a rock in one hand and a shotgun in the other, with a revolver tucked into his waistband. With one tap of the horn, any passing driver could warn Sharp of the wild man at his back.

  Rising up from a crouch, Ben looked across the station wagon, directly at the back of Sharp’s head. If Sharp turned around now, one of them would have to shoot the other.

  Ben waited tensely until he was certain that Sharp’s attention was directed down toward the northwest portion of the woods. Then he pitched the round fist-sized rock as hard as he could, across the top of the car, very high, very wide of Sharp’s head, so the wind of its passage would not draw the man’s attention. He hoped Sharp would not see the rock in flight, hoped it would not hit a tree too soon but would fall far into the forest before impacting.

  He was doing a lot of earnest hoping and praying lately.

  Without waiting to see what happened, he dropped down beside the car again and heard his missile shredding pine boughs or brush and finally impacting with a resonant thunk.

  “Peake!” Sharp called out. “Back of you, back of you. Over that way. Movement over there in those bushes, by the drainage cut.”

  Ben heard a scrape and clatter and rustle that might have been Anson Sharp bolting off the top of the embankment and down into the forest. Suspecting that it was too good to be true, he rose warily.