Hosts rj-5

by F. Paul Wilson

  And from there it's a simple matter of geometrical progression. Jack's nightmare will become reality… starting tonight.

  She had to tell Jack! Had to stop them!

  Kate picked up the phone from where she'd dropped it, then realized she had no idea of how to reach him. And even if she did, what could she tell him? All she knew was that the Unity would gather at "Joyce's rental property"… but where was that?

  She did know the Unity wanted to bring her there.

  And she also knew now that she could not outrun it. Distance meant nothing. It wasn't like an FM signal where once you passed over the horizon you lost reception. Once it got its hooks into you it always knew where you were and what you were doing and thinking. Because you were part of it. Just like putting your hand behind your back: it's out of sight but you still know where it is and what it's doing.

  Only microwaves interfered with the connection, and only temporarily. What would happen if she stayed by the microwave oven tonight? Would her virus mutate anyway? She sensed it would not. But if not now, then surely later.

  And then she'd be like the rest, traveling around, spreading the virus… going back home to infect Kevin and Elizabeth…

  No! She would not be part of that.

  She'd kill herself first.

  But would that change anything in the long run? She was surprised how willing she was to die rather than spread this virus. But all she'd accomplish was the death of the only person not integrated into the Unity who knew what was going to happen tonight. The Unity would go on, the virus would mutate without her, and Kevin, Lizzie, the whole world would be sucked into her hell.

  She couldn't allow that, had to stop them, was ready to die trying, but had no idea what to do.

  With cold terror weighing upon her, she slid back to the floor and sat hugging her knees to her chest.

  Please call back, Jack. You'll know what to do, I know you will.

  10

  Sandy peered around the corner of one of the plywood-box bungalows that were stacked up and down these sandy lanes like Monopoly houses. Luckily they were mostly empty; probably occupied during the summer and that was it. With barely a few yards of gravel and sand separating the houses, hiding places were scarce.

  He'd parked near the end of a parallel street where he could hear the surf rumbling on the far side of the dunes. He'd moved between the bungalows until he found Holdstock's car parked in front of a bright yellow box, distinguishable from its neighbors only by its color. He'd been about to move closer when Terry emerged with a heavyset brunette built like a Rottweiler and the two had driven off in her car. Sandy had run back to his car to follow, but by the time he'd reached the highway they were out of sight. Since Terry had left his own car behind, Sandy had decided to wait.

  Good thing, too. A few minutes ago the pair had returned with grocery bags.

  Do I risk it? Sandy wondered as he eyed a lighted window on the east side of the tiny house, the only lighted window in sight. With the neighborhood so deserted, who'd know? Besides, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  He wished he'd brought a jacket, though. The salty breeze flowing over the dunes blew cool and damp. Faint flashes from the storm they'd left behind in the city flickered to the north. He hoped it stayed up there. He was chilled; he didn't need to be wet too.

  Sandy decided on a circuitous route around to the house, removing his shoes for the final approach to minimize any noise on the gravel. The cold stones jabbed him through his socks but he gritted his teeth and kept moving. Finally he reached the window and peeked inside.

  Eight chairs had been arranged in a circle in the front room. A small round table in the center was laden with cheese, crackers, chips, and dips. More than two people could put away. Obviously they were expecting company.

  A party? Sandy thought. Is that why I followed Terry here—to snoop on a party? But then he supposed cult members had to eat like anyone else.

  Hey, maybe they were planning an orgy. That would be cool. Then again, maybe not if Terry and the Rottweiler woman were any indication of the looks of the participants.

  Sandy looked around for liquor but saw only bottled water. Okay, so it was an alcohol-free cult. But was it talk-free too?

  The silence was deafening. No radio, no stereo, no TV. Terry and the woman sat in two of the chairs, staring into space, not speaking a word, seemingly unaware of each other's existence.

  It gave him the creeps.

  Lights flashed on the street—Sandy ducked into a crouch behind a nearby propane tank as tires crunched on the gravel. He heard car doors open and slam, shoes scuffing on the stones, the front door opening. He looked back inside and saw two men and two women enter. Neither Terry nor the first woman greeted them, or even acknowledged their presence. The newcomers said nothing as they helped themselves to the food and took their seats, leaving two empty. One of the new-comers placed a black-framed photo on one of the empty seats but it was angled so that Sandy couldn't the face.

  Fascinated, he kept watching. This was the most bizarre scene he'd ever witnessed.

  11

  "Nu?" Abe said. "In such weather you're out? You're dripping on my floor. Even rats are smart enough to stay inside on a night like this."

  Jack looked around. They had the store to themselves. The storm was keeping people indoors, and Abe did not encourage repeat business in his off-the-street sporting goods customers anyway.

  "Got a bit of an emergency," Jack said.

  "Before you go on…" Abe reached under the counter and came up with a paper-wrapped parcel. "See what you think of this."

  Jack unwrapped it and found a tiny automatic pistol. He turned it over in his hands. He liked the feel of it. It ran maybe five inches from its muzzle to its concealed hammer, and couldn't have weighed much more than a pound.

  "Looks like a .380."

  "Correct," Abe said. "An AMT. Smallest U.S.-manufactured .380 ACP."

  "So it's not a .45."

  "Right. It's a backup. A .45 for backup you don't need, especially using those frangibles you like. And it's got a five-shot clip. Carry it with a round chambered—as you should—and you've got six shots. For you I've pre-loaded it. The first three rounds are your beloved MagSafe Defenders in .380. The last three are hardballs. Whatever you need you've got, and you can use the same ankle holster as the Semmerling. Like a glove it will fit."

  Jack thought of his little Semmerling and felt a burst of irrational sentiment. They'd been through a lot together. He felt as if he were deserting an old friend.

  "I don't know, Abe…"

  "Don't be a shnook. The AMT gives you more rounds and is a true blowback autoloader. No more of this jerking the slide back and forth for every shot. And most important, I can get you parts—replacement barrels and firing pins I've stocked already. Can't say the same for the Semmerling."

  Everything Abe said made sense. The Semmerling had to go. Reckless even to keep it around, let alone carry it.

  "All right," he said. "You've sold me."

  "The light he sees—at last! Give me the Semmerling and I'll dispose of it for you."

  "Can't. It's back home."

  For a disturbing instant he couldn't remember where it was, then it came back to him. In the top drawer of the secretary. He'd dumped it there the other day before he'd collapsed into bed with the fever.

  "So bring it when you remember. Nu. What's this emergency then?"

  "Remember that knockout gas you sold me last December?"

  "The T-72?"

  "That's it. Tell me you've got some more, or something just like it."

  "Lucky for you I had to buy three canisters to supply you with that one." He stepped out from behind the counter and began to waddle toward the door to the cellar. "You're putting someone to sleep?"

  "Seven someones, I hope."

  "Seven? I should get you both cans. How are you going to do this?"

  "Not sure yet. Lock them all in a closed room or a basement and break the vi
als."

  "That'll work. As long as someone doesn't break a window. If someone should do that, what do you do?"

  Jack sighed. Good question. But he was getting tired of this problem. Tired of worrying about Kate. Tired of pussyfooting around the obvious solution.

  "Better throw in a box of nine-millimeter MagSafes while you're at it."

  One way or another, he thought, this ends tonight.

  12

  Kate knew now what had to be done. The hard part had been deciding how to do it. But after solving that—in a stroke of inspiration—the decision as to who would do it was easy. Only one person in the world fit the job description: Kate Iverson.

  The first thing she had to do was get to Jack's old oak secretary.

  She rose to her feet. She didn't know the effective radius of the oven's microwaves. It couldn't be far. But just how far could she go without letting the Unity back in? She needed to know.

  But first she had to blank her mind about what she was planning. She couldn't allow even a faint residue to remain for the Unity to pick up on.

  That done, she took one small step away from the oven. Okay. No change.

  Another… did the air seem a little warmer? The kitchen a little brighter?

  A little further, half a step this time…

  Kate? The voice was faint, as if heard through a wall. Kate, are you there?

  Quickly she stepped back to the oven. Four or five feet, that was it. Beyond that the Unity waited. And the secretary was a good fifteen feet away. Still, she had to reach it.

  She considered running to it, grabbing what she needed, then dashing back, but immediately discarded the idea. As soon as the Unity took hold she'd forget why she was out there.

  The only solution was to move the microwave closer to the secretary. But how?

  She checked the power cord. It was barely four feet long, not nearly enough.

  She went through the kitchen, searching cabinets, yanking out every drawer until she found what she was looking for in the very rear of a catch-all cabinet next to the refrigerator: a pair of dusty, worn extension cords.

  She stretched them out on the floor. The brown one ran a measly three feet, but the white was twice that. Nine feet of cord. Another three would be perfect, but it looked like she'd have to make do with these.

  She connected them end to end, then plugged the combined cord into an open receptacle in an outlet by the microwave.

  Now the scary part. She'd be taking a big risk, but not taking it would be a threat to everyone she cared about.

  With the female end of the extension cord in her left hand, she grasped the microwave cord with her right. Taking a deep breath Kate unplugged the oven. As the whine of the transmitter wound down she jammed the microwave plug into the extension receptacle, missing on the first try because her hands were trembling so. Once they were together she darted to the front of the microwave and punched in 9-9-9-9. She hit START and—

  Nothing. The oven's display wTas dark.

  No! The kitchen was starting to warm, to glow…

  What was wrong? Bad receptacle? Bad cord?

  She switched the extension plug to the receptacle the oven had been using before and checked the display.

  The LED was lit now, blinking 12:00, and the humming warmth was enveloping her in its golden glow.

  She felt as if she were moving underwater as she punched the numbers again, hit the START button…

  And was dumped from the warm Unity amnion back into cold reality.

  Kate leaned against the counter, waiting for her heart to slow. No time to dwell on what had happened. As soon as she caught her breath she wrapped her arms around the microwave oven and lifted it off the counter. Slowly, carefully—didn't want to pull out that plug—she shuffled her way across the kitchen. When she neared the combined length of the cords she knelt and gently placed the oven on the floor.

  The secretary still seemed a dishearteningly long way off. She looked around. No other extension cord anywhere. She'd have to risk it.

  Blanking her mind again, she took a step toward the secretary, then another. Now she was near the limit of the safe zone. She reached out toward the secretary's top drawer. No good. Her fingers were still a good twelve to fifteen inches away.

  Kate edged her feet another half step away from the oven, then leaned toward the secretary. The hum began as her fingertips brushed the brass pull. She tugged on it, sliding the drawer from its slot. Two thirds of the way out it stopped, stuck. She pulled harder but it wouldn't budge.

  Darn.

  She leaned closer to get a look inside the jammed drawer—

  The hum grew. Kate? Kate?

  She jerked back. She'd have to move into the no man's land between the microwave and the Unity. But what if the Unity realized what she was reaching for? Her plan would be ruined. She'd have to fill her mind with something else.

  A song. For some reason the inane lyrics of an old nursery song, "The Muffin Man" popped into her head: Do you know the Muffin Man, the Muffin Man, the Muffin Man … She'd sung it to Kevin and Lizzie—Lord, she'd even sung it to Jack when he was a baby.

  Kate closed her eyes a moment, gathered her courage, then leaned again into the hum, stretching her hand, arm, and fingers to the limit while mentally chanting the tune.

  Kate? Are you there, Kate?

  Just get-ting a plas-tic box, a plas-tic box, a plas-tic box, just getting a plas-tic box—

  Her fingers found a plastic object with corners and she snatched the little portable alarm clock back into the free zone.

  Got it! And she'd kept the Unity from knowing what she'd done. At least she prayed she had.

  Kate placed the clock and its dangling wires atop the microwave oven, then approached the secretary again. She chanted the same tune, changing a few words.

  Just get-ting some bat-ter-ies, some bat-ter-ies, some bat-ter-ies, just get-ting some bat-ter-ies—

  Her hands scrabbled through the drawer, grabbing everything they touched, and retrieved into the free zone the two little cylinders Jack had called detonators. And something else: the tiny pistol she'd seen the other day. She placed that and the rest on the microwave.

  Now… the last thing, the most important item: the block of explosive. What could she call it—or rather, think it? It would have to be good because the explosive sat at the far edge of the drawer. It had weight and was wrapped in paper. And then she knew.

  She stepped toward the secretary again, inches closer this time, into the hum, into a blush of warmth, into the voice…

  Kate? Why do you keep fading in and out, Kate? We need you…

  Just get-ting an ad-dress book, an ad-dress book, an ad-dress book, just get-ting an ad-dress book—

  Her fingers closed around the long edge of something, an inch or so thick, waxy paper against her fingertips.

  Kate? What are you doing?

  Doing? Yes, what was she doing? Getting something from this drawer, obviously. But what?

  Kate?

  She leaned back, not to escape the voice, certainly not to escape that nice pool of warmth, merely to straighten her spine because it was uncomfortable and so awkward leaning over like that—

  And she was freed.

  And in her hand, the block of clay-like explosive.

  Kate knelt beside the microwave and sobbed. Not with joy, not with relief, but with an aching terror in her bones. She didn't want to do this.

  Kate allowed herself some self-pity for a moment, then began sliding the microwave back across the floor toward the cabinets. She had work to do.

  She used a steak knife from the utensil drawer to strip the ends of the wires leading from the clock and the detonators. She twisted them back together and wrapped the splices with scotch tape.

  Almost there. One more thing to do, the hardest of all, and then she'd be ready.

  13

  Jack cruised right past Holdstock's house on the first pass. He'd only been here once before, and he missed it in
the dark. The pelting rain didn't help. Doubled back and found it, and realized why he'd missed it: not a light, not a sign of life.

  Alarm bells clamored in his brain as he left the car and ran up the walk. Quick look though the front windows—not even a glimmer; around back—same story. A tomb had more activity.

  Returned to his car and sat dripping in the front seat, staring at the dark house.

  Suckered.

  If you want us, you know where to find us.

  Jeanette—or rather the Unity speaking through her—had misdirected him. Why? Just to waste his time? Or—

  Oh, hell. Kate.

  Grabbed his cell phone and dialed. Kept it for emergencies only and was always careful about what he said. This was an emergency.

  Busy signal. Good sign. The Unity didn't seem to need phones to communicate and Kate had said she had calls to make.

  Question was: did the Unity know where he lived? He had to assume that it had acquired most of Kate's knowledge, and Kate did know his address. Somebody from the Unity could be heading for his place now. He or she wouldn't be able to get in, but Jack would feel better being at Kate's side.

  He gunned the car back toward the Bronx River Parkway.

  14

  Ron answered the phone. She could hear irritation battling with relief in his tone as the words poured through the receiver in a rush. "Jesus Christ, Kate, where have you been? Are you all right?"

  "I'm okay," she said.

  His voiced faded as she heard him say, "It's Mom. She's okay." Relieved murmurs from Kevin and Lizzie in the background, then his voice louder again. "We've been worried sick about you. Why didn't you call? It was like you dropped off the face of the earth. When you didn't show up this afternoon I started calling your friend's phone, your cell phone—no answer anywhere. We've been frantic. I was just about to call the New York police!"

  "It's been terrible here, Ron," Kate said. "Jeanette's in a coma. I don't think she's coming out of it."

  She wanted to tell as few lies as possible, but since no one would believe the truth, she'd have to stretch it. Jeanette—the real Jeanette—was in a coma of sorts.