COVEN

EDWARd lee

Necro Publications

Orlando

2010

—

Smashwords Edition

Also available in a signed trade paperback edition.

ISBN: 978-1-889186-59-7

Coven © 1991 by Edward Lee

Cover art © 2005 by Erik Wilson

this digital edition March 2010 © Necro Publications

Copy Editors:

Bob Strauss, Amanda Baird, Jeff Funk, C. Dennis Moore

Cover, Book Design & Typesetting:

David G. Barnett

Fat Cat Graphic Design

http://www.fatcatgraphicdesign.com

Printing history:

Berkley/Diamond Edition: August, 1991

Limited Edition Hardcover © 2003 Necro Publications

First Edition Trade Paperback © 2005 Necro Publications

a Necro Publication

5139 Maxon Terrace • Sanford, FL 32771

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—

For Amy & Scott.

—

PROLOGUE

Murder, he thought. Blood.

That’s all the student could think about, all he could see in his mind—the blood. The afterimage burned behind his eyes like red neon: the still corpse in the closet, castrated, headless. And the blood. Had they actually painted the walls with the man’s blood?

Alone now, the student lay exhausted on the jail cot. The station’s murky light drained into the cell; he felt submerged in dark. He tried to sleep, to forget about the blood, but even worse images flushed in and out of his head. He was standing in the moonlit dell, eyes peeled back like skinned grapes. Around him, the woods dripped and shivered. Carcasses, dozens of them, lay swollen to bursting beneath the foot deep fog. The student wore the stench of rot. He breathed it, tasted it. From the trees, and from beneath the fogtop, faces of things peered at him and shrieked. Not animals. Not people…

Things.

Mother of God, the student thought.

—then jerked awake on the jail cot.

Trying to sleep was useless. He remembered too much, in too much detail: his mad sprint out of the fog sodden dell, the sound of pulpous horrors crunching underfoot, and the monstrous laughter, their chitinous witchlike liquid giggles…

Please let me be insane.

What a relief that would be, to dismiss it all to insanity. But the student knew he could not, he knew it was real. Images continued to march through his head, and a parade of morbid questions. What in God’s name were they doing back there? How many people had they murdered? He’d seen their little graveyard in the woods. How many bodies had they buried? And whose? How much more blood had been spilled?

But amid the questions, one certainty remained.

I’m next. They’re coming for me next.

In the half dark, the student leaned forward and touched the jail’s cement walls. Yep, that’s cement, all right. Need more than a French bread to bust through that. His fingers ran down the frame of bars, jerked the locked steel door hard against its mount. Yep, this is a jail. No doubt a fucking bout it.

Safe, he thought.

Yes, he was safe; this was a secure cell. For the time being at least, the student was safe from those women…those hideous women in black.

—

CHAPTER 1

Exham College was, in a sense, exclusive. It was the college of choice for those whose GPAs and SATs wouldn’t get them into reform school, much less Harvard or Yale. As for its exclusivity, you had to be rich. Anyone with money could get into Exham.

The school occupied 160 odd acres of the Deep South, at the very end of State Route 13. The nearest towns were Crick City above and Luntville below, and that was it. The college owned the nearby half town, also called Exham, which was run by a small police department and a white washed city council. After that, though, for thirty miles in any direction, there was just tract upon tract of open farmland. In other words, Exham was the Alcatraz of the college world.

Despite its primary devotion to the upper class brain dead, the school ran very well, which was no surprise considering the amounts of money being dumped into its tills. There were two regular semesters between September and May, and two summer sessions for students to retake the courses they’d failed during the regular school year. The average Exham student took six years to attain a four year degree. Actual matriculation was about sixty percent, and the ratio of dropped classes to classes registered for was the worst in the country.

In all, Exham proved the paramount education institution for the black sheep of America’s wealthiest families. Being a complete fuckup in this world scarcely mattered as long as you were a rich fuckup. This might suggest a colossal indictment that all men and women are clearly not created equal, and that unmoderated wealth leads to a breeding ground of all manner of abandon.

««—»»

The eighteen hour drive from New Canaan, Connecticut, to Exham usually took Wade St. John about fifteen hours. What he drove was a car called a Callaway Twin Turbo, a $55,000 limited edition Corvette. Maintaining 120 mph for vast stretches of 1 95 was a breeze with the Uniden radar detector. The Vette was Wade’s sanctuary from reality, his cocoon. He’d just sit back in the leather seat, crank up the Nak deck, and put the pedal to the metal. Time stood still in the Vette. He was ageless. He was invincible.

Yeah.

Exham College entailed a series of circumstances he’d just as soon forget. Summer was for fun, not college. But goddamn Dad had put a damper on that faster than greased shit through a city pigeon. Wade could’ve killed the mailman; the way he’d felt waiting for his report card was probably close to the way those guys at the Alamo had felt waiting for the Mexican Army.

Dad’s voice needed no exclamation points: “Goddamn it, Wade. Two C’s, two D’s, and you failed history. Again. God in goddamned heaven. How could you fail history twice?”

“Be real, Dad. Does the Battle of Hastings really have any bearing on my life? Will I be made a better person knowing that Peter the Great put a tax on beards? What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal, son, is your brain, and you’re wasting it. These grades are beyond goddamned belief.”

“But, Dad,” Wade asserted, “I’ve done my best.”

“You haven’t done dick since the day I enrolled you at Exham. A chimpanzee could make better grades than these. You’re twenty four goddamned years old and you don’t even have enough good credits for a two year degree. Your marks don’t get better, they get worse.”

“I’m working on it, Dad.”

“Working on it? My God, son. Your grade point average is 1.4. That’s absolutely fucking outrageous.”

Uh oh. Fucking. That was a bad sign. Dad would say goddamn a lot, and occasionally shit, dick, and bullshit. But when he started modifying those adjectives and nouns with fucking…that meant trouble.

««—»»

The trouble had come the next day, with such devastation that Wade felt like someone had just dropped a thousand pound safe on his head.

“It’s ultimatum time, son,” Dad had announced.

“Pardon me, Dad?”

“The bullshit ends here. I will not permit my only child to devolve into the biggest failure in the history of higher education. I’ll give you till next December to raise your GPA to 2.5.”

“Say again, Dad? That’s a mathematical impossibility. I couldn’t pull a 2.5 even if I got straight A’s in the fall semester.”

“I realize that, Wade. So to give you a fair shot, you’ll be attending both summer semesters.”

Wade had laughed. “You’re joking, right?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Dad never looked like he was joking. But…Wade smiled. “Tough luck, Dad. The registration deadline has passed.” Whew!

“I called the dean this morning,” Dad informed him. “An exception has been made. Classes begin in a week; your schedule is waiting for you. Dean Saltenstall took care of it all.”

Oooo, that motherfucking suckface gay bar loitering dean! “Come—on, Dad! That’s not fair!—Everybody knows you have the dean in your pocket!”

“You’re goddamn right, and I will take advantage of that fact every chance I get. You will attend the summer semesters.”

This was serious. “Look, Dad, I can’t go to summer school. It’s, like, against my principles. What would my friends think?”

“Your friends are shiftless idiots not fit to pick the pebbles out of my tires. I don’t care what they goddamn think.”

“But I have a reputation to maintain! I’d never live it down. Summer is for partying, the beach, girls, that sort of thing.”

“There is no excuse for you, son. You’ve been in college six years and you’re scarcely closer to getting a degree than the day you stumbled drunk out of high school. All you do is drink beer, drive fast, and carouse with women of questionable morality. You’re smearing the family name, my name, and I won’t have it.”

This wasn’t going well at all. If Wade had to go to summer school, he’d be the laughingstock. Time for a little of the old B.S., he concluded. “Okay, Dad. Let’s make a deal. You let me have the summer off and I’ll give you my word, as a true St. John, that I’ll hit the books like you’ve never seen. I’ll become a virtual dynamo of diligence, discipline, and scholastic vision. My GPA will be up in no time, and there’ll be no more D’s and F’s, you can bank on it. That’s my promise, Dad, and I mean it with all my heart.”

Dad’s poker face remained as unchanging as a bust of Genghis Khan. “Son, you’re so full of shit you need a toilet brush to clean your ears. The matter is settled. You will attend the summer sessions. Period. And to add further incentive, I’m canceling your credit cards and terminating your $500 per week allowance.”

Wade’s mouth locked open. He was going to be sick.

“It’s for your own good, son. No money from me till those grades come up. From here on, you’ll earn your money. You’ll work a part time campus job.”

Wade was mortified. “A job? Me?”

“Yes, Wade, a job. You. I realize you’ve never worked in your life, but it’s time you started. The dean has made all the arrangements, as a personal favor to me.”

Wade ground fist into palm. So help me God I’ll bury that motherfucking dean up to his neck and SHIT ON HIS HEAD! “What is this, Dad? A conspiracy? National Let’s Screw Wade Week?”

“It’s for your own good, son. One day you’ll see that.”

Wade closed his eyes, tried to simmer down. “Okay, okay. I can understand. So what’s the job? I know you’d never stick me with some shitty bottom of the barrel job, right?”

“You’ll be working several nights a week at the sciences center.”

Doesn’t sound too bad. But— “What will I be doing?”

“Nothing too taxing, just a few hours a day. It’s a fine job, son.”

“Yeah, Dad. A fine job. But how about answering the question? Like what…exactly…will I be doing?”

Dad hesitated and very nearly smiled. “Cleaning toilets.”

Wade was beside himself…with horror.

“Along with assorted other janitorial duties. It’s time you learned to do a little honest work. That’s what made America, son.”

“Cleaning college shithouses is not what made America!”

“It’s honest work for honest pay.”

“Yeah? Exactly how much honest pay are we talking about?”

“Why, minimum wage, of course.”

By now, Wade could barely stand. He knew his flaws, sure. He was a nut-chase, a loaf, and a bullshitter. He used his looks, his car and his father’s money to skate through life. He could even admit that punishment for his ways was in order. Punishment, yes. But this was too much.

And with that thought, something very dangerous happened. Wade St. John, for one split moment, cast his good judgment aside.

“I’m not going.”

“What did you say?”

“I’m not going. I’m not doing any of it. I’m not going to summer school, I’m not giving up my credit cards, and I’m not going to clean toilets for minimum wage. How do you like that, Dad?”

And Dad had smiled a great big warm fatherly smile as he grabbed Wade by the collar and raised him a full foot in the air. Like a fish eye lens nightmare larger than life, Dad’s lips were huge in Wade’s face. “You will go to summer school. You will complete your assignments, you will study every night, and you will clean as many toilets as they tell you to clean. And you will raise your GPA to 2.5 by next December. Because if you don’t, you’re on the street. You lose the stocks, you lose the trust fund, you lose the car. You’ll be out of this house, out of this family, and out of my will. Now, how do you like that, son?”

Wade made the sheepiest of grins. “Gosh, Dad. Can’t you take a joke? Classes start in a week. I guess I better start packing, huh?”

—

CHAPTER 2

Penelope wished she could be a horse. She knew, of course, that wanting to be a horse was not exactly normal—it circumscribed the growth of her socialization. The psychiatrists called it reclusionary concept  image fantasy, and they were always harping about “socialization,” whatever that was. “To actualize your individuality, you must develop a collective affirmation, Penelope. A sense of positive function in your interpersonal dynamics. That’s socialization.” And horses? They didn’t like horses. “Your fantasy to be a horse is merely an emotional reaction to your introversion.” Right. It was all poop to her. Daddy was paying $250 per hour for this, so she didn’t care. “Your fermented preoccupation with horses,” the shrinks said, “is actually the result of a malnourished, unidentified sexuality.” It astounded her how intensely Freud’s bullshit dominated modern psychology. It was all about sex.

Penelope was a virgin, and her virginity was something she could somehow never conceal from the psychiatrists. It was the “base” of the “indisposition,” they’d tell her. “It” was the cause of her “problem.”

“A problem of this nature, Penelope, is a commonplace emotional by product of a restrained sexualization.”

“What is?”

“The aberrational equestrian fantasy.”

“Huh?”

“Your wanting to be a horse. And no doubt a further derivational root to your overall amotivational symptoms, your unfocused state of esteem, and your failure in general to be socialized.”

The assholes. It all sounded like horseshit to her, Freudian pun not intended. Were they trying to tell her that she’d lose her interest in horses once she got laid?

Penelope felt comfortable with her virginity, and she couldn’t imagine what all the fuss was about anyway. How could anyone want to be penetrated by something that looked like an uncooked half smoke? The idea appalled her. Once she’d watched one of Daddy’s X rateds on the VCR. Little Oral Annie, it was called. Penelope could’ve screamed: one delving, spurting monster after the next, and Little Annie had earned her middle name with startling expertise. One man had put his penis—which was the size of a summer squash—all the way into Annie’s rectum, while another spurted gouts of viscid goo all over her breasts. What a gross out! If this was sex, Penelope was quite happy to want no part of it.

It all got back to what the psychiatrists called the “anomalic base,” or the “illusion of reference”—her “problem” of wanting to be a horse. But what was wrong with that? Horses were free of the injustices of the human world. To these grand beasts, there were no such things as subjugation of womanhood, unequal opportunity, couch casting, prostitution, pornography, and the like. Horses lived in beauty and in peace. They knew only simple desire and simple love.

What a wonderful way to exist.

Weren’t fantasies symbols of our selves? Penelope’s fantasies proved her purity and her innocence. And this was the most outrageous part of all, because it was always the harmless people who wound up as the world’s worst victims. So it was best she didn’t know.

Her fantasies would not wait for her. Nor would her innocence, nor her life. All that waited was an end via her worst fear.

««—»»

The truss bridge was half a century old, and it looked it. Stained cement supports held up pale green girders. Warped planks stretched fifty feet across the sluggish creek.

Jervis Phillips stood precisely over the middle span, leaning over the rail. He stared down into the thick creek, a black mirror to his black thoughts. The sickle moon and starlight reflected nothing.

He wasn’t going to jump; he hadn’t come here for that. Besides, this creek wasn’t deep enough. He’d only get wet and be further humiliated. The little ring in his hand was why he’d come.

He was drunk. He stood unstable as the cruel world twitched and jagged around him. He’d drunk eleven bottles of Japanese beer—Kirin—to numb the pain in his black heart, but the relief was bogus. The alcohol only made it hurt worse.

Graffiti crawled over the rust patched girders, spray paint hearts and coiled 4 evers—a testament of love. It made him sick. Howard loves Sonja, Lee loves Betsey, Mary loves Jaz. Even Cathy loves Lisa. There was so much, so much love.

Jervis’ heart was a knot of pain. He’s probably fucking her right now. The thought cut through his stupor, like dried corpseskin crinkling. The little ring was ice in his palm. Yeah, he’s fucking her brains out right now. How does it feel, Jervis?

Feel? He had no more feelings. Only the image of Sarah wriggling beneath someone else. It was some rich German guy, some foreign developer’s kid. That’s all Jervis knew, and all he needed to know. Tears trickled down his cheeks like hot insects.

Now he understood the tragic logic of suicide. He understood how people could jump off buildings or slit their wrists when love abandoned them. His spectral thoughts were right. Without Sarah, he had nothing.

His tears fell into the water and made little plips.

Love stalks like a killer, he recited the Byers poem. See how freely it wields the ax.

But why should he think of killers and axes?

He opened his fist and looked at the ring. It was to verify their engagement, a diamond on a little gold band, size 4. Sarah had dumped him before he had the chance to give it to her.

When he dropped the ring into the water, he imagined not the ring but his heart sinking slowly to the bottom of the enslimed, black creek.

««—»»

Old Exham Road unwound like a lay by through a corrupt dimension. Nighted swamps and forests soon gave way to open flat fields and a crystal sky. All the way back to campus, Jervis’ despair seemed to sit beside him like a hitchhiker. He chain-smoked Carltons and drank more beer. Soon he came in range of campus reception; WHPL sizzled in like rain, Brian Ferry crooning about the same old blues and brides stripped bare. Skeletal stalks of fields of corn stretched on forever. The crescent moon looked like a reaper’s scythe—soon it would swoop down and cut him in half. Lying underwater in a foot of black muck, lying in pieces next to the little ring.

At last the endless ride began to end. The lights of the campus glittered beyond. He sped up Campus Drive, passed the Circle, and turned at Frat Row. The giant Crawford T. Sciences Center stood completely black, like an intricate carved mesa. Distant music floated down the hill, pipe sounds like druid flutes.

He idled past Lillian Hall, the largest of the female dorms. In the long lot he saw only a red 300ZX, which belonged to that weird redhead who ran the horse stables out at the agro site. But then the massed shadow lapsed. Two more vehicles were parked in the lot: Sarah’s white Berlinetta and the customized white van.

He stopped to stare at the van. It belonged to the German guy, the guy who’d stolen Sarah from him. He fucks her in that, came the simple thought. She gives him head in it. But sight of both vehicles assured what he’d feared. She was back. She would be taking classes this summer too, and her dorm was right across from his. He’d probably see her every day, her averted eyes and tight squeezed smile, and he’d probably see a lot of the German guy too. Jervis would be reminded of his loss every single day.

He got out of his Dodge Colt and trudged drunk up toward his own dorm. The moon slice had turned sour yellow. In the center court, his own heartbreak made him look back once more at Lillian Hall.

The faintest orange light flickered in the end window, second floor—Sarah’s window. They were up there right now. They were together in bed, asleep in candlelight, asleep in love.

Jervis wanted to bay at the moon. The images dropped into his head like stones. How could he live knowing she loved someone else? A crimson flash sparked through his vertigo. Was it premonitory, these jerking, unbidden mental sights? Again, he pictured himself cut in half. He pictured holes in the ground, graves. He felt that the image might be symbolic: seeing himself cut in half. Could that symbolize a separation of mind and body? Or did it mean something entirely different? Symbols, he thought. The more he looked at the candlelit window, the more he saw himself butchered.

This sensory ghost seemed to linger as he approached the opposing male dorm. He felt dead as he shuffled up the court. Wait. Dead? Was that how he felt? Yes, a corpse walking, dead but walking. Three quarters to rot and no life left inside but walking still.

Then the image, or the symbol, magnified—

—perforated dead arms slick to the elbow with blood—

(Whose blood? My blood?)

—and gaps rotted through the hands which held the bouquet of long stemmed roses—

I still love you, Sarah, he thought, his tears running.

But in this ghastly and third inscrutable image, why was his shredded green gray face set in a grin?

“Symbols,” he muttered.

His hands felt wet.

—

CHAPTER 3

SOMETHING—a word.

Suuuuuuu—

Errant rhythms somehow like pictures showed black like onyx. He saw sounds and heard colors—red, pumping. Red running over faces, flesh. Tongues licking red.

Yes. A word. Supremate.

Madness was a sound, images—pressure in his head. The word was a name. Someone was trying to tell him something. I am like a promise in the wind. Give me service and I give you power. You will have power untold. Madness, the sound, floated up from the abyss. The sound was screams.

Orgies? Or meals? Both.

Underneath, deep in black, the great face smiled at him.

Red lips sighed and parted. Bare breasts glistened in steam. The lips stretched slowly back, showing mouths full of needle teeth.

««—»»

Power, Besser thought. Power untold.

He awoke in the dark of his office. Sweat drenched his clothes, grew chill on his face. He nearly screamed.

The red lips, the hungry hungry mouths full of teeth, left his mind. The trances always left the light raw in his eyes, and any other sense perception irritating, like nails across slate. The second hand sounded like someone hitting a garbage can with a hammer. Once he’d heard an ant walk across the floor. Anything but the faintest of light hurt his eyes for at least an hour.

The trances had started weeks ago. But were they really trances? That was the only way they’d agreed to describe them. At first he and Winnifred had feared their own sanity. “Debris stimulated scotopic maladaptation compounded by symptomal endophasic perceptual induction,” she’d first declared. “Inpro-portional catecholamic production causated by reactive deviations of cerebral synaptic response.”

Whatever would he do with her? She jumped to conclusions almost as quickly as she jumped into bed. But Besser knew by now that this “trance” phenomenon was not relative to any psychiatric disorder. It wasn’t lucid dreaming or unsystematized hypnagogia, and it couldn’t be scotopic because it wasn’t visual. In the trances, they saw without seeing. They were simply shown.

“Power,” he said aloud to the beautiful strange edged dark.

The trances left no detail unclear. Each night they came stronger into his head, and emphasized his importance.

(Yes! Importance.)

—and the power, the promised power.

He went to the window. The night outside looked unreal. Colors seemed crisper, blazing, but darker. Lights glazed. Beyond, the campus looked compressed to a scary, opalescent clarity, etched in brilliant darkness.

Darkness, Besser mused. Hadn’t the face—the submerged face in their dreams—implied that darkness was now their light?

Behind him, Winnifred stirred, murmuring like troubled sleep. If the dean only knew, Besser thought. Winnifred Saltenstall was beautiful by anyone’s standards; Besser—fourteen years older than her thirty five—weighed over three hundred pounds. What else but the trances could explain her sudden, constant lust for him? He’d seen her past lovers: well built, handsome young men, reminders of what Besser would never be. So the trances were a bond. Mental. Sexual.

Winnifred Saltenstall was married to Dean Saltenstall. The dean was powerful, important, and very rich. He was also very gay. He’d merely married Winnifred to verify respectability. They had a deal which worked out quite well: they would pursue their own sexual interests as they pleased, discreetly of course, and serve one another’s domestic needs as necessary. “It’s easy to be married to someone who buys you a new Maserati every year,” she’d once said, “and doesn’t care who you fuck on the side.”

“Gods,” Winnifred muttered now. “God and goddess.” Her eyes fluttered open. She breathed deep in her chair, rousing from the trance. Besser was staring at her breasts.

“Oh, Dudley,” she whispered. “It was so strong.”

“I know. The trances get stronger every night.”

Her pose relaxed. Her knees parted. “Are you sure we’re not crazy? Maybe it’s hallucinotic.”

Professor Besser promptly frowned. “Delusional behavior and hallucinations are not shared.”

“Folie à deux, Dudley. It can happen—it’s documented.”

“Yes, I know,” he scoffed. “Multiple hysterical viewpoints, di exocathesis, and such. These are psychopathic labels, Winnie. We clearly are not psychopathic. This is real.”

“I suppose it is,” she conceded. “But it scares me. The trances scare me to death.”

Besser wasn’t listening anymore; he was staring. Her breasts showed through her opened blouse, heavy in the lace bra.

“Ghosts,” she said.

“What?”

“The trances must be ghosts.”

For pity’s sake, he thought. This was not the first time she’d suggested the supernatural. “That’s ridiculous. Ghosts? Demons?”

“‘Paramental entities’ is the proper term.” She ran a finger across her bare stomach. “The face in the trances, the voices—it’s all evil.”

“For pity’s sake,” Besser said.

Her hand rested on her thigh. Moved up. Squeezed.

“Evil,” she repeated, and smiled.

Here was the sharpest aftereffect of the trances: raw, pathological lust. They both trembled with it. The trances accelerated their sex drives, forced them to fuck. How many times had they done it already today? Eight times? A dozen?

The great face in the trance called it his love.

Ghosts? Besser thought.

Winnifred slipped off her dampened panties and began to masturbate. She did this quite a bit now, anytime it suited her. “I’m so horny, Dudley. The trances make me so horny.”

Teasing bitch, he thought. She always liked to tease him first. She unsnapped her bra, releasing the large, beautiful breasts. She caressed them, plucked out the nipples. Her ass squirmed in the chair, and she licked her lips.

Besser had been teased all his life by people like her. But he was powerless in his lust now. He unbuckled his size 54 belt, lowered his trousers to relieve the throbbing. He hated her for this, but he remembered—what? Promises? Yes, and power.

Then he remembered the faces behind the face. Who were these forlorn creatures? He felt them watching this very moment, phantasmal voyeurs. Their lips were so red, their teeth like slivers of glass. Could they really be ghosts?

Winnifred spread her vulva with her fingers, showing it to him. “Isn’t it pretty, Dudley?”

“Yes,” Professor Besser said.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to fuck it?”

Besser groaned. His knees were buckling. Teasing, teasing bitch! It wasn’t fair that she should be able to control him only because he was fat. Her lust propped him up like a dummy, a clown.

“Come over here and fuck it.”

He didn’t like to think of himself as a clown animated by the beauty of women. Yet he obeyed her lewd command, helpless. He would have his revenge later, when better things had come…

Power, he thought, crawling to his nymph. Power untold.

—YES, promised the voice in his head.

“I love you, Dudley,” she sighed. She spread her legs, offering the slit of her sex like a prize. Its pinkened wet glimmer lured him, and seemed to say, Be a good clown.

He dragged her to the carpet and kissed the prize. Squirming, she grabbed his head, rubbed his face in it.

I love you too, he thought. Till death do us part.

—YES, the great face repeated. —OH, YES.

««—»»

Red pumping over orgies and food.

—We wish we could be you.

Chaos wed to perfection. The perfection was a labyrinth and madness was a sound. Were these memories? Taste: warm copper, salt, meat. Sight: swollen breasts bared, loins inflamed.

Sound: screams.

Lips parted over needle teeth. Something—a word. Supremate. Sleek, white throats gulped gouts of blood.

—

CHAPTER 4

Home for the summer stared him in the face like an empty smile. Wade stepped off the elevator onto the eighth floor of Clark Hall, Exham’s largest male dorm. Home, sweet home, he thought dryly. Some fun summer. Thanks, Dad.

Silence fogged the hall. There was no noise, no rock and roll, no ping pong ruckus. No nothing. At least Jervis would be on for the summer sessions. Jervis took classes even when he didn’t need to—just to be close to his girlfriend. The poor jerk was in love, but at least Wade wouldn’t have to spend the entire summer alone.

Wade had two best friends: Tom McGuire and Jervis Phillips. Jervis was clearly the more eccentric of the two. He was a philosophy nut, worshiping any manner of unintelligible schools of thought, existentialism in particular. On his door hung an eternal portrait of Sartre. Wade winced at it, as usual.

But the door was open a crack. Wade entered and announced, “Howdy, Jerv! I’m back!”

Jervis was sitting in the corner. He was unconscious.

Wade rushed to check Jervis’ pulse, then looked around and gasped. The room had been ransacked. Lamps were knocked over, furniture smashed. The Sony TV screen had a hole in it; in the hole was an empty beer bottle. Bookshelves had been hauled down. Jervis’ stereo system and record collection had been thrown onto the floor.

Then Jervis came to. “Wade. Am I...in Hell yet?”

Wade gaped. Jervis looked in worse repair than the room. Dark smudges like axle grease ringed his eyes. His hair, oily and unwashed, stuck up every which way, while his Lord & Taylor shirt was stained with beer and vomit. He looked skinny, starved. Empty Kirin bottles lay everywhere, all around him.

“You’re drunk,” Wade said.

Jervis burped. “I ain’t drunk. I’m just drinkin’.”

“Jerv, what happened here? Do you owe someone money?”

“Yes, my Existenz,” Jervis mumbled. “I have been forsaken.”

He opened a bottle of Kirin with his teeth. Wade winced.

The bottle cap pried off with ease, along with the side of an incisor.

“Jesus Christ! What happened! Did your entire family die? Did your father’s stocks crash? What?”

Jervis spat out bits of tooth. He emptied half the Kirin in one gulp. “The end—that’s what happened. The end of the world.”

When Jervis got drunk, Wade knew, he became indecipherable with all that existential crap. “Is Tom around?” Wade asked.

“I think he’s down at the shop working on his Camaro. I asked him to drive me to Hell when he gets it running.” Jervis finished the Kirin on the second pull. “Yes, I’d like that. I’d like to go to Hell.”

“Jerv, your whole room is wrecked. I gotta know what happened.”

“Sartre was wrong, you know,” Jervis drawled on. “Existence precedes betrayal, not essence. There is no essence. There’s…nothing” —and with that, Jervis passed out again.

Stepping over empty Kirin bottles, Wade dragged his friend to the bed. Then he took another glance at the damage. It was hopeless. This would take days to clean up.

But what had happened?

He’d have to find Tom. Maybe he knew what had turned Jervis into a drunken, rambling waste.

He stowed his bags in his own room two doors down. Its sameness somehow comforted him. Wade’s room came with every luxury. There was a small kitchen, a fridge, a separate bathroom and study, even a trash compactor. How could Dad expect him to do well in school without a trash compactor?

The red light blinked on the answering machine. But nobody even knows I’m back, he thought.

Beep: “Wade, I know you’re back,” said a voice on the machine. “This is Jessica. I…oh, shit, I miss you! Please call me!”

Old flames never die. Sure, babe, I’ll call you. Next century.

Beep: “Wade, I know you’re back,” claimed the next voice. “Word gets around when the best looking guy on campus returns unexpectedly. This is Sally, in case you’ve forgotten my voice. Maybe you’ve forgotten my body too, so why don’t you come over right now, and I’ll give you a little lesson in refamiliarization.”

No thanks. Body by Fisher. Brains by Mack truck.

Beep: “Wade! I can’t believe you haven’t called me yet—”

He reset the machine, ignoring the nine remaining messages. It was nice to be wanted, but Wade figured that was their tough luck. Only so much of this handsome devil to go around, girls. Be patient. Chuckling, he locked his room and went out to the Vette.

The campus roads were close to empty. Wade sped past the liberal arts buildings, watching for the famed Exham police, who all seemed to have an affinity for radar guns. Wade’s Corvette was definitely on their Ten Most Wanted List, and so was Wade. He probably had enough tickets from these chumps to paper his dorm room.

The campus glowed green with grass and sun, placated in lazy tranquility. Crosswalks stood vacant, hall entries deserted. This vast emptiness made him feel sentenced; it reminded him of all the fun he’d be missing out on. Summer school, he thought, in disgust and despair. The rest of the world will be partying, and I’ll be stuck here.

Next he passed WHPL, the campus radio station—progressive, not pop, he thanked God—and around the next bend the Crawford T. Sciences Center loomed. Wade felt dismal driving by. Here, he’d not only be retaking a biology course he’d flunked last year but also starting his new job in toilet maintenance. Wade valued his reputation very much—handsome rich kids in Corvettes had appearances to maintain—but if people found out he was cleaning johns for minimum wage, he could kiss the rep goodbye. He pondered this potential nightmare so intently he missed the next stop sign.

A horn blared. Wade slammed his brakes.

A burgundy Coupe De Ville blew by, missing Wade’s front slope by inches. Wade immediately recognized the car as Professor Dudley J. Besser’s, head of the biology department as well as the most miserable ballpopper on the Exham faculty.

You fat hot air bag! Watch where I’m driving!

As the De Ville turned, Wade noticed a woman sitting next to Besser, and sitting close. Did Besser have a girlfriend? Impossible. Only a prostitute or a vision impaired Weight Watchers reject would date that anal retentive walking lard barrel.

Then Wade did a double take, took a closer look.

No fucking way! he thought.

This woman appeared to be Mrs. Winnifred Saltenstall, who was not only beautiful but also the wife of the dean.

Wade eyeballed after the De Ville until it was long gone. It can’t be, he mused. Winnifred was centerfold material; Besser was a fat dolt. No known logic could explain an affair between the two of them.

The student shop sat at the far end of campus. It existed solely as an ill conceived courtesy; not many rich kids tuned their cars up themselves, but there were a few diehard hot rodders on campus, and Tom McGuire was one of them. He owned a flawless white 1968 Camaro in showroom condition. The “Eat Dust” vanity plates said it all—this was the fastest vehicle on campus.

“Well, shit my drawers,” Tom yelled, looking up from the custom rebuilt 350 smallblock. Some old Deep Purple song boomed through the bays. “Since when does Wade St. John go to school during the summer?”

“Since Wade St. John’s father lowered the boom.”

“Bummer.” Tom wiped sweat off his brow. He tossed Wade a bottle of Spaten Oktoberfest. Tom was beefy, broad shouldered, with forearms thick as softball bats. His hair was dark and short, as conservative as his political views. Straight leg jeans and a white T shirt gave him the appearance of a sixties motorhead. He had a fondness for old music, German lager, and bad jokes. “Classes start in a week,” he pointed out. “We’ve got some serious partying to do in the meantime.” Then he paused, a force of habit. “Hey, Wade. Here’s an old one. Did you hear Nixon, Hart, and Kennedy started their own law firm?”

Tom’s notorious jokes were indeed old. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Prickem, Dickem, and Dunkem.”

Tom roared laughter. Wade shook his head.

“But seriously,” Tom went on. “It’s good you stopped by. I need to tell you about—”

“Jervis,” Wade finished.

“Yeah. You been up to the dorm already?”

“I just came from there. Jerv wrecked his entire room.”

Tom gave a grim nod. “I heard him trashing the place this morning, and throwing up. I tried to calm him down but the lunatic started throwing bottles at me. I guess he just flipped when it happened.”

“What?” Wade asked. “When what happened?”

Stone faced, Tom said, “Sarah dumped him.”

Wade slumped in place at the revelation.

“She dumped him right after the spring semester.”

Now Jervis’ destitution made sense, Jervis was far more impressionable than most; he was nuts about Sarah Black, head over heels in love. His whole life revolved around her; she was his life. “But I thought they were getting married,” Wade said.

“She’s getting married, all right. But not to Jerv. It’s some German guy she dumped him for.”

“A German guy?”

“Some kraut developer’s son, richer than shit. That’s all Jerv knows. And you’re probably thinking the same thing I’ve been thinking.”

“Yeah,” Wade verified. “That he might go right over the deep end, try to kill himself or something. Could he be capable of that?”

Tom’s laugh was stout and hearty. “Capable? You know how much he loves that smug bitch. This is the absolute worst thing that could happen to him. Right now he’s probably capable of just about anything.”

“Yeah, but suicide?”

Tom shrugged. “He’s got a gun.”

“What!” Wade exclaimed.

“Sure. He keeps it under his bed, some big old British revolver his grandpop gave him. I took the bullets out of it this morning when he was throwing up, and I swiped the rest of the ammo box.”

“Yeah, but he can always buy more. What are we going to do?”

“We’re gonna have to pull him out of this ourselves.”

“You’re right,” Wade said. “He’s got no one else.”

“I’ll meet you back at the dorm later,” Tom said. “We’ll clean him up and drag his ass down to the inn, get some food in him. He’s probably been living on Kirins since this whole thing went down.”

“Kirins and Carltons,” Wade added. “See you tonight.”

Wade took off in the Vette, cranking up an old Manzanera song called “Mummy Was an Asteroid, Daddy Was a Small Nonstick Kitchen Utensil.” Thank God for alternative radio; where would he be trapped in a world of bad rap and Madonna? He checked the rearview, then pitched his empty Spaten bottle into the Circle. With the campus this empty, at least he didn’t have to worry about getting pulled over.

Halfway through the Circle, he got pulled over.

That’s just fucking grand, he thought. But where had the cop been? They must have cloaking devices on their cruisers. Get ready, he primed himself. Wade wasn’t much of a student, but when it came to sweet talking police, he made straight A’s. He put on his innocent-face as the cop walked up, boot heels clicking.

“Good afternoon, Mr. St. John. My name is Officer Prentiss. I’d like to see your registration and operator’s permit.”

Astonished, Wade looked up. The cop was a woman. Girlfuzz, he thought. A dickless Tracy. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I just told you. I’m Officer Prentiss and I’d like to see your—”

“I know, my registration and operator’s permit.” Lenient cops asked for your license; but only hard asses called it an operator’s permit. This might take some work. “How come you know my name before seeing my li—I mean my operator’s permit?”

“I know all about you, Mr. St. John,” the cop said. “Chief White has properly familiarized me with all of the campus troublemakers.”

Wade laughed a chumly laugh. “Good old Chief White, always joking around. If you want to know the truth, my—”

“Your police file is the most extensive in the history of this campus.”

Wade paused. It was probably true. “Sure, Officer, I’ve had a ticket or two, but I’m no troublemaker, I assure you. And my father happens to be a significant contributor to the Exham Office of Donations, and is a close personal friend of the dean’s.”

“Which is the only reason you haven’t been kicked out.”

Wade paused again. This girl must work part time on a rock pile, he considered, and she’s using my balls for the rocks. Disgusted, he gave her the cards. He examined her as she began filling out his tickets. She stood well postured and medium-tall, very storm trooperish in her black boots and tailored tan uniform. Bright, straight blond hair was tied in back in a short tail, like a whip, and her eyes were a cold mystery behind mirrored shades. Wade supposed she would be cute if not for the inhuman police traffic stop set of her mouth. Her prettiness and her cop aura were a marriage of opposites: she invited to be looked at, yet revealed nothing to anyone who looked.

But there was something. Just…something.

“I’m citing you for doing thirty four miles an hour in a fifteen zone,” she told him.

“What, the Circle?”

“Yes, the Circle. And you get another one for depositing hazardous material on campus common ground.”

“What hazardous material!”

“The beer bottle you just threw.”

“Oh, you mean that Coke bottle?”

“It was a beer bottle, Mr. St. John, but of course you’re welcome to testify in court under oath that it was not. And since possessing an opened alcoholic beverage container in a moving vehicle is also against the law, you get a third citation.”

Wade was getting bombed worse than Pearl Harbor. All these tickets would cost three bills in fines and three more points, which his insurance wouldn’t tolerate.

Okay. B.S. time, he thought. He put on his best poor boy look, which probably was not very convincing while seated in a car that cost $75,000. “Officer Prentiss, I’m ashamed of myself. There’s no excuse for the thoughtless immaturity that I’ve demonstrated in your presence, and I humbly apologize. But the truth is, Officer, these tickets might cause my car insurance to be dropped, and that would make for some major trouble between me and my father. So I’m at your mercy. I’m going to ask that, in your generosity, you overlook these infractions, and in return you have my word and my personal guarantee that I will never violate the law on this campus ever again. My word.”

“I’ve heard better bullshit from Sterno drinkers,” she replied. She bruskly passed him the ticket book. “Sign, Mr. St. John.”

Wade was getting ticked. It wouldn’t kill this broad to give him a break. “What if I refuse to sign?” he dared ask.

“Then I will arrest you for ignoring a state summons.”

Wade laughed. “You wouldn’t dare. Maybe you don’t fully realize who I am. I’m Wade St. John. My father—”

“Sign the tickets or get out of the car,” Officer Prentiss said, then withdrew a shiny set of Peerless handcuffs.

Wade, boiling, signed the tickets. The cop tore off his copies and rather roughly stuffed them in his shirt pocket. “And if I ever see you throwing anything out of that car again,” she said, and smiled, “I’ll toss your rich boy behind in my jail in less time than it takes to say collegiate expulsion. Oh, and have a nice day.”

Officer Prentiss then drove off in her cruiser, leaving Wade slack mouthed. Have a nice day? he thought. Baby, they don’t get any nicer than this.

—

CHAPTER 5

The women stirred, moaning out from endless dreams. Their lair was a labyrinth; they lay deep in it. The labyrinth was silent and black, like death.

They lay together naked, their big eyes suddenly, inexplicably open. Something had waked them. Something—a word.

—Who are we? they wondered in unison.

But then they remembered. The labyrinth’s buried blackness began to move. They remembered who they were. They remembered the word, the holy, loving word.

Supremate.

—WAKE!

—Hello! one said.

—Hello! cried several more.

—We love you! We remember now!

They giggled together in their box. In joy, they kissed.

Then, like love, the voice caressed them.

—MY DAUGHTERS, MY LOVE.

The labyrinth was coming alive. Their lair grew warm. The dark and holy light felt beautiful on their white skin.

Memory crept closer. All things to serve their god! But first came an impulse. Sustenance. Hunger. Filling themselves up. The women remembered. They were hungry.

—Eat!

Yes, to eat. To make their bellies swell. Warm meat. Blood.

—We want to eat, please!

The Supremate’s voice was like a promise in the wind. —SOON, DAUGHTERS. SOON YOU’LL EAT. YOU’LL FEAST ON THE NEW PIGS.

Their loins tingled. Their red mouths drooled.

—Blood!

—Meat!

—New pigs!

They fidgeted in their box, reveling in the promises, like kisses. New blood to bathe in, and meat. They giggled and grinned.

—PRECIOUS DAUGHTERS…ARISE.

««—»»

The Old Exham Inn was an antediluvian brick and mortar catacomb full of dully clashing decor. Upstairs was the pub, downstairs the stage. The inn served pretentious “light fare” only and imported beer. The town, after all, knew who it was catering to—spoiled, rich college kids—which was how they got away with astronomical prices. Only “diverse” bands were billed, to keep out the local riffraff.

They filed down the stone steps to one of the small dining coves far off from the stage.

“Feeling any better?” Tom asked.

Jervis nodded like a wooden puppet. They hadn’t let him shave—his current hand and mentality could not yet be trusted to hold a razor to his throat. But they’d gotten him cleaned up and walking.

“I’ll have a beer,” he eventually said.

“You’ll have coffee, you dumb schmuck,” Wade corrected.

“And food,” Tom said.

Jervis groaned.

Wade ordered from a waitress whose frilled bräuhaus dress exposed enough cleavage to dry dock a runabout. Tom and Wade glanced warily at each other, contemplating a strategy to open Jervis up. Tom recognized the fragility of the situation. Wade, however, preferred a slightly more direct approach.

“So she dumped you, huh?”

Jervis wailed. Tom shook his head.

“Look, Jerv,” Wade said, “you can’t hide from this thing forever. You’re gonna have to face it, grab it by the balls.”

“Life’s got its ups and downs,” Tom said. “This is one of the downs.”

Jerv’s forehead was on the table. “But I still love her!”

Some can of worms, Wade thought. “Take my word for it, buddy. You’ll get over it. You got your whole life to look forward to.”

“Not without her,” Jervis told the top of the table. “We were gonna get married. I even bought a ring. It was going to be perfect.”

“Jervis, no girl is worth getting this bent out of shape over,” Tom offered. “When things don’t work out, you find someone else.”

“But I don’t want someone else. I want Sarah. I want my Sarah back!”

Wade tried to reason. “She’s not your Sarah anymore. That may sound cold but it’s the truth. Women can be treacherous, cunning monsters. One minute they’re telling you they love you forever; the next minute they’re in the sack with someone else, balling like there’s no tomorrow.”

Jervis jerked upright, pop eyed. He began to make croaking noises. Then he jumped up from the table and staggered away.

“Good going, Wade,” Tom smirked. “You really have a way with words. Why not just buy him a bus ticket to Lover’s Leap?”

Perhaps the direct approach had been a bit harsh in this instance. Wade had blown it.

The waitress with the St. Pauli Girl cleavage brought their orders, a Spaten Oktoberfest for Tom, a Samuel Adams for Wade, and coffee and gumbo for Jervis. “I knew he was serious about her,” Wade said. “But I had no idea it was this bad.”

“Bad isn’t the word. Jerv’s a sensitive guy. He keeps a lot of things to himself.”

“Too many things,” Wade concluded. “I warned him not to go falling silly in love with that girl. I never liked her anyway.”

“You just never liked her ’cause she’s the only girl on campus who never made a play for you.”

Wade rolled his eyes. “Just because I’m the sharpest looking dude in the state doesn’t mean I’m conceited.”

Tom laughed out loud.

After some time, Jervis returned, holding two bottles of Kirin Dry, one of which was already close to empty.

“Jervis, I didn’t mean to shake you up,” Wade apologized.

“Don’t worry about it.” Jervis sat down. “You guys are right. I’ve got to put this whole thing behind me.”

“Now you’re talking,” Tom said.

Wade pointed to the bowl. “Eat your gumbo. It’s good for you.”

Jervis dumped the gumbo into a potted plant. Then he began: “She dumped me by letter, during the break. She told me about the German guy, about how they’d been friends for a while, about how caring and ‘sweet’ he was, and all of a sudden she didn’t love me anymore. She’d stopped loving me months ago, she said, but hadn’t realized it till then. That was it, that simple. She said she didn’t want to see me anymore. And the last line”—Jervis gulped—“the last line of the letter was ‘Have a nice life.’”

“Serious bummer,” Tom commented.

“Oh, man,” Wade said. “That really sucks.”

Jervis continued, as if speaking from the grave. “I made mistakes, sure. I’m not perfect. But true love is supposed to make up for man’s imperfections. Love, real love, is supposed to be enough.”

Ordinarily Wade wouldn’t have been too concerned; this was just more of Jervis’ rhetoric. But although the words were the same, the spirit in which they’d been spoken was entirely different. The spirit was finality—total loss. This was not just another girl dumps boy story. This was dissolution of self.

But Jervis slapped his hands down as if to prove he’d roused himself. “Anyway, enough of my moaning and groaning,” he asserted. “There’s nothing worse than a sad sack feeling sorry for himself. Things just got out of hand for a few weeks. But I’m okay now, really.”

“You sure about that?” Wade questioned.

“Positive. Time to get back to my life.”

“That’s the spirit!” Tom said.

But Wade felt sad; he could see through this. Jervis’ smile was as false as one carved in clay. Despite the smile, there was nothing left for him but his loss. Wade could see it in an instant: Jervis was never going to get over this, no matter how happy he tried to act.

««—»»

• A student named Nina McCulloch lay awake. Above the bed hung a crucifix. Nina believed fervently in God, and she believed that Jesus had died for her sins. In the next room, through the wall, she could hear her roommate, Elizabeth, who clearly didn’t believe in God. Elizabeth had invited friends over to do drugs. They did drugs most every night, and this bothered Nina. Drugs were a manifestation of Satan, and people who did them became incarnates of the devil. Nina found that she could not easily sleep when all that separated her from the Lord of Darkness was one mere dorm wall. All night long Elizabeth and her friends inhaled the satanic white powder while Nina tossed and turned and prayed in snatches for God to protect her from evil.

• A man named Czanek waited in the vacant parking lot. Eventually his client pulled up in a silver Rolls Royce. The headlights flashed. Hokey, Czanek thought. He got into the Rolls. “Good evening,” the client said. “Has the matter returned to normal?” “No,” Czanek said. “Same guy, same moves, and I keep picking up weird stuff on the bugs. They keep mentioning trances.” “Trances?” “Trances. I can’t figure it.” “Keep on it,” the client said. Czanek handed him the manila folder, which contained pictures. The client thumbed through them and remarked: “Amusing.” Why would a guy want to keep seeing pictures of his wife fucking another man? But, hey, it was his money. The client passed him an envelope full of ten hundred dollar bills. “Next week,” the client said. “Yes, sir,” Czanek replied, “and don’t worry, nothing will happen to you. If they try to make a move on you, I’ll know. I’ll protect you.” “Do you really think that’s what’s happening? The insurance, the inheritance?” “Could be,” Czanek said. Suddenly the client was hugging him, sobbing. “Protect me! I’m afraid!” This was embarrassing. Czanek tried to console the old man: “Don’t worry, if that fat scumbag tries to move on you, I’ll blow his shit away from a thousand yards.” “Would you really do that? For me?” Of course he would. What, kiss all this money goodbye? “I’ll protect you,” Czanek repeated, and patted the client’s shoulder. He went back to his own car. The Rolls drove off. The client’s name was Saltenstall.

• A cop named Porker sat at the booking desk, eating a box of cream filled doughnuts. Another cop named Peerce sat at the super’s desk, flipping the cylinder of his Ruger Blackhawk and musing over a glossy mag called Cum Shot Revue. Another cop named White sat in the back office. The door was locked. He was counting this month’s grease. Still another cop named Lydia Prentiss sat alone in her bed, wondering where her life had gone.

• A student named Lois Hartley sat on her boyfriend’s couch. The boy was named Zyro, and he was typing his latest manuscript, “Billy Bud 1991,” which he claimed was about “man’s inhumanity to man, a psychical allegory depicting the suppression of spiritual freedom through capitalistic coercion.” It was also about “the resulting self parasitism of corporate tyranny.” To the publishers, though, it was about bullshit. Lois watched Night of the Living Dead on cable. “It’s about zombies,” she said. “It’s not about zombies!” Zyro yelled back. “It’s about the hunted within the sanctuary of the hunter! It’s about the cyclic futility of the black race trapped in a white supremist world! It’s not about zombies!” Lois Hartley sighed. It’s about zombies, you asshole.

• Two more students named Stella and Liddy were playing Strip Twister with a third student named David Willet. They played lots of games together. Others were Grease the Cucumber, Eat it Off, and Human Sandwich. David Willet’s nickname was “Do Horse,” which he’d earned the first time he took his clothes off in the locker room.

• A handsome young man named Wilhelm exclaimed, “Gott! Was ist dies scheiss?” The TV picture had winked out. “Willy, what’s wrong?” his new American girlfriend, Sarah, asked. “Your Americana television ist piece of scheiss.” “It’s Japanese,” Sarah scolded. “Das right, you Americana do not even support your own economy.” Sarah’s cat, Frid, purred from atop the refrigerator. “Forget about the TV,” Sarah cooed. She dropped her robe and was nude beneath.

• A man named Sladder drove hurriedly toward the campus power station. “Dag power failures,” he muttered. “Blam it!” But suddenly a headache developed. It was so intense he had to pull over and stop.

• Nina McCulloch’s roommate and friends were still in the next room doing drugs and ministering to Satan, the Great Deceiver. Please forgive them, God, Nina prayed. “They’re coming to get you, Barbara,” she heard from the TV. They’re coming to get you Nina, she thought sleepily. She dreamed of something huge falling—Satan. But the closer it got, the smaller it became.

• A sleek shadow moved quietly down the main hall of the admin building. A flashlight played over muskets and powder horns, an exhibit of colonial relics. Keys jingled; the shadow unlocked the last display case. A large object was removed. The shadow moved away as the object cast its own shadow in the moonlight—that of an impossibly large ax.

««—»»

Penelope dried off and examined herself nude in the full length. She combed her hair out to dark red lines. Light freckles covered her like fine mist. Her breasts were large, pale nippled. Last Christmas her grandmother had called her a “breeder,” eyeing her breasts and wide hips. “You have a breeder bosom, dear. You’re going to make some wonderful babies someday.” Make. Babies. What a thing to say at Christmas! The image caused her to clench.

Her pubis was a slant of shiny russet fur; pink peeked out from its cleft. She bared the tender opening with her fingers and shivered. How could babies come from something so small?

There was nothing to do in the dorm, and no one around to talk to. Sarah and the Erbling sisters were the only other girls on the floor for the summer sessions, but they were all too busy with boys to bother with Penelope. Her horse posters stared at her. The lights reflected too brightly off the walls; she felt trapped by its blaze, spied on by imaginary peepholes. She dressed quickly, got into her ZX, and left.

She felt lonely even in crowds. Most of her friends were only cursory; they were friendly but they really didn’t consider her a friend. They kept their distance because they thought she was weird. Her only real friend, she guessed, was Mr. Sladder, and he was an old man. At least he was nice to her. At least he cared.

She drove off the campus proper, opened up the ZX. The engine purred softly, her red hair danced in the breeze. The horses! she decided. That’s what she’d do, she’d go see the horses.

The agriculture/agronomy department had six cows, some pigs, sheep, and chickens. They also had four horses—two jet black hackneys and two palominos, one brown, one white. They were special to her. Daddy had arranged with the dean for her to be the stable groom again. It was a good way to keep her from “moping another summer away,” she’d overheard him telling her mother. But that was fine with her; she wouldn’t have to see the psychiatrists, and she loved to care for the horses. She loved brushing them and riding them. They were beautiful, and her only peace.

The campus had the agro site because many of Exham’s students came from rich farm families. The site occupied several dozen acres along the stretches of farmland on Route 13. Thoughts of the horses made her smile. She couldn’t wait to see them. Mr. Sladder, the night watchman, always let her in, even this late. The other security guards were young and leering, but Mr. Sladder was always very nice to her, and never crude. He was skinny and old, and tended to ramble about his past, but Penelope didn’t mind. He was just a nice, friendly old man, and one of the few people who didn’t make her feel uncomfortable. Her psychiatrists, of course, told her it was all subconscious “phallic fear removal reinforcement” precipitated by her “pseudo mandala”: she accepted the impotent old man because he did not contribute to her fear of being penetrated.

Was her period coming? A cramp spasmed. Suddenly she felt so sick she had to pull over. The cramp darted up like a spike, or, perhaps, a penis. A headache flared. Yes, it must be her period. “The Red Tide,” some of the girls called it. Why should women have to bleed from their wombs once a month? It wasn’t fair. Men should have to bleed from their penises too, then. But next her nose began to bleed, and that had never happened before.

Dizzy, she wiped her nose with a napkin, then she felt fine again. Weird, she thought. When she got back on the road, she realized her period wasn’t due for another week.

The agro site was pitch dark.

She stopped in the gravel access. The office lights were out; dark blotted the pens and white stables to ghosts of themselves, and the front gates were chained shut. Mr. Sladder’s little security car wasn’t to be seen. She looked past the wooden post fences, past the stables. In the distance, fog rolled along the wood line.

Power failure, she thought. Maybe Mr. Sladder’s car was inside the gate. But when she approached the compound, she knew something else was wrong.

She got out of the car. Total silence yawned over the site. Of course it’s quiet, she tried to assure herself. It’s the middle of the night. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? The site was too quiet.

“Mr. Sladder, are you in there?” She reached in and honked her horn. The night sucked up the sound. “Mr. Sladder!”

Headlights roved across her back. Startled, she turned.

Mr. Sladder was creaking out of the little white security car. He put a piece of gum in his mouth. “Nellapee? Oh, you come to see the horses, did you? ’Fraid we gotta problem.”

“What happened to the lights?”

“Dag power went out. I just come from the power station down the road. Thought some dag kids mighta got in there, messed with the transformers or somethin’.”

“Did they?”

“Nope. Place was locked up tight. Come on, honey.”

He unlocked the front gate and took her to the office, leading with a big boxy flashlight. “Dag quiet out here, ain’t it?”

Penelope didn’t hear him. She was looking out past the fence again. The fog seemed closer, thicker. It was eerie.

“Be with ya in a minute, darlin’. Got to raise me some heck with them morons down campus.” He sat at the desk and dialed the phone. Was it the chair that creaked, or his joints?

Penelope stood timidly. The flashlight seemed to warp the room.

First Mr. Sladder called the campus physical plant department. He was told that no power failures had been reported on campus and that the station meters showed no fluctuations into the agro site. He called the state police and was told that no traffic accidents that might’ve brought down a power line had been reported. Lastly he called the power company, who could not account for their power loss. But a “crew” would be sent “first thing.” “First thing when?” Mr. Sladder shouted into the phone. “First thing next week? Next month? Lugheads!” He hung up, sputtering. “Dag dabbit. Like to kick ’em all in their bee hinds, I would. Ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of blammed shammers.” The draining light made him look shrunken in the stiff uniform. His hat with a big badge on it sat ludicrously atop his cropped head.

“Come on, Nellapee.” He gave her a flashlight. “Let’s go check the junction box. I musta overlooked somethin’.”

Outside smelled funny. Something vaguely bitter meshed with the usual ripe stable smells. They walked between the white buildings. Penelope saw a flask in Mr. Sladder’s back pocket.

The old man looked worried. Could he be as afraid of the dark as she? She glanced past the fences to see how far the fog had crept, then realized they were walking in it. It came up nearly to her knees.

“Dag ground fog creeps up on ya. A fella can’t see where he’s walkin’. Careful of holes, hon. Holes all over the dag place.”

Mr. Sladder slid into the utility shed as if swallowed, light and all. Penelope stood alone in the fog, which the moon had made opaque—a murky, graying half glow.

“Blam it! Look at this!”

Penelope entered the shed, which was full of coursing rings of light. She smirked at an odor like burned plastic.

“Power surge musta blowed through here. Fuse housing melted ’fore the breaker pole could trip.”

The black pop switch on the center box read “On.” The main class CTL fuse sat in the melted carrier like a nugget of coal.

“Has this happened before?” she asked.

“Well, sure, honey. The lugheads don’t regulate the power proper is what. Just ain’t never happened this bad.”

“But you can fix it, right?”

“Me? Naw, hon. Have to get a ’lectrician out here to replace these boxes.” Mr. Sladder scratched his ear. Was he disturbed? “Just ain’t too keen on sittin’ around in the dark.” In the flashlight beam, the lines in his old face resembled knife cuts in meat.

Then a series of very loud crisp sounds echoed outside—

chunk. Crack!

Penelope jumped.

Again: chunk. Crack!

“Jiminy peter and Creesus Jeist! Ja hear that!”

She snatched his arm, which was thin as a wood rail in the starched shirt. “What was that? What’s happening?”

“Monkey business is what, dear. Scuse me while I consult my old friend Mr. Johnnie Black.” He took a quick sip from the flask and smacked his lips. “There she goes, much better. Now come on.”

The skinny arm led her out of the shed. The fog was everywhere now, a shifting great lake. It parted murkily around their steps.

“Mr. Sladder—”

“Jus’ you stay behind me, sweetheart.”

“Is someone here?”

“Dag straight I’m afraid, hon. Probably some town lugheads, comin’ up here all the time in their pickups, drinkin’, carryin’ on. ’Swhat happens ta boys when they’se not brung up proper.”

The farthest stables were out of use. Here, a section of the post fence had been broken, the twin crossbeams cracked.

“Looks like someone had a job here,” Mr. Sladder remarked.

Penelope remembered the two robust chunks. They’d been awful, irrevocable sounds. “Was it…an ax that did this?”

“’Fraid so, hon, and a big one, to drop beams as big as these.”

So people were running around the site with axes? “I’m scared, Mr. Sladder!” she whispered. “We have to call the police.”

“We’ll do just that, sugar. But first I wanna check—”

The animals, she finished in thought. An alarm went off in her mind. The horses! The ax! But that was too horrible to even think of…

They glided through the murk to the henhouses. The silence now seemed threatening. She prayed to hear something, but there was no sound at all. Not a rustle. Not even a single, simple cluck.

They aimed their lights through the chicken wire. Mr. Sladder’s words rolled out of his mouth like some slow, dark liquid. “Holy creepin’ Moses. What kind of dag madman—”

Penelope’s throat shivered closed. All the chickens were dead. All of them, dozens, lay on the dirt floor like piles of fluff, little tongues extruding from opened, tiny beaks.

Trails of fog led them to the sheep stable and the cow pen. They didn’t speak, or were perhaps unable to. They seemed to know—

The sheep were all dead, the pigs were all dead, faces slack on the floor. Worse were the cows, sidled over as if dropped. Their legs jutted stiffly, some frozen in rigor.

Penelope was crying. She was running. Dread propelled her down the wood corridors. No, no, please! Not the—

All four horses lay similarly dead.

“Aw, Moses, honey. Don’t look at this.”

Penelope stood with her back to the stable wall. She had no breath. Moonlight poured in through the roof’s gapped joists, tinting the corridor. Mr. Sladder went into the stables as Penelope strained to blank her mind, swallowing sobs.

“Looks like some right sick sons a bitches done poisoned ’em,” Mr. Sladder said.

Tears struggled down Penelope’s cheeks. How could someone kill the horses? They were the only things that meant anything to her. They were her dreams and her joys, and now someone had butchered them for a prank.

But Mr. Sladder said they’d been poisoned. Hadn’t they heard—

“We heard an ax, didn’t we?”

“That we did, Nellapee. No mistakin’ a sound like that. But it wasn’t no ax used on the critters. No wounds, no blood.”

All she saw in her mind, though, was the ax. Mr. Sladder took her to the stablemaster’s office, and as he dialed the phone, Penelope pictured a revolving display of axes in her mind, all shapes and sizes, cutting edges all agleam. It’s out there somewhere, she thought. She could not evade the question: Where’s the person with the ax?

“This is Sladder out at agro. Get me the—”

chunk.

The wooden building shook from the unseen blow. Penelope screamed. “Dag psychos chopped the phone box!” Mr. Sladder whispered. “They’re outside right now. We gotta haul tail to the car.”

Penelope was incoherent, haunted by the image of the ax. It knew—the ax knew everything before they did. Mr. Sladder hustled her back the way they had come. “We slip out back,” he whispered. “We use the buildings for cover. We weave between the buildings to the gate and jump in the car.”

She vaguely understood what he was saying. How could he think so clearly, so soon after hearing the ax? The chunk filled her mind, it possessed her. chunk. It was all the terror in the world. chunk. It was the sound of death.

They scrambled to the end of the stalls. There was the door, their escape. Moonlight drew its shape in imprecise gaps. The door seemed to stumble toward them. Almost there, almost…

chunk.

Penelope squealed shrilly. They froze as the blade bit through the door and then retracted with a creak.

Mr. Sladder was reaching for something in his pocket, but there wasn’t time, as—

chunk. CRACK!

—the ax tore down the exit door.

A figure stood huge in the doorway, shadowed black. The moon made a blazing halo behind its head. A stout arm held the ax half raised, as if to display it for them.

The ax was so huge it didn’t even look like an ax. A giant blade like an upside down L was attached to a haft over a yard long. Its cutting edge was flat. It looked old, like a relic.

“Holy Moses,” Mr. Sladder croaked.

The ax raised slowly, slowly…

Penelope screamed like a train whistle. Mr. Sladder leapt right. A pitchfork leaned out from the half door of the last stall. He was reaching for it, touching it, grabbing it. Then—

chunk.

Mr. Sladder made an indescribable sound, not a scream but a compressed suck. The ax chopped his arm off against the half door.

Now the figure struggled to remove the blade from the wood. Mr. Sladder pushed Penelope down the hall, to the stablemaster’s office and locked the door.

Sladder held the light while instructing Penelope to tie off his stump with a shoelace. Blood glistened at his feet. The old man’s remaining hand dug into his pocket and withdrew a pistol.

But the gun looked puny, while the figure outside, she knew, was huge, and so was the ax. How could something this small stop something that big?

Mr. Sladder got up, gripping the tiny gun. “You just sit tight, sweetie. I’m gonna poke some holes in that tub o’ lard out there. Ain’t gonna let no sick sons a bitches get their grubby paws on you, that’s fer sure.”

“But he has that giant ax! He’ll kill you!”

“Tojo and his whole fudgin’ army couldn’t kill me, puddin’. Be dagged if some fat lughead’s gonna rub me out.”

Mr. Sladder’s resolve was noble and obvious. Though he’d just been divorced of three quarters of his right arm, he put his fear aside. He would let this intruder, this animal killer, have Penelope only over his dead body. It was that simple. If you want the girl, you go through me first. Becalmed, then, he opened the door and stepped into the aisle.

Penelope peeped around. The massive figure had stopped halfway down the corridor. He held the ax from shoulder to hip.

“Hey, you fat tub!” Mr. Sladder yelled. “Puttin’ in some overtime with the knife and fork, huh? Fellas don’t come no fatter, that’s for dag sure.”

The figure faltered. “I’m not fat,” it said. “A trifle overweight perhaps, but I wouldn’t say—”

Mr. Sladder laughed. “Trifle! Who you kiddin’ trifle? I seen sea cows in Disney World skinnier than you, ya big tub!”

“This is absurd,” the figure said. “I won’t stand for this.”

“I’m surprised you can stand at all, fat as you are.”

The ax raised. The figure, offended, took a step—

—and Mr. Sladder fired the pistol.

Penelope flinched. It wasn’t like TV—the tiny gun made a loud, irritating pop! Then came a ping! A bullet ricocheted off the giant, flat ax blade. Mr. Sladder fired again. The figure howled, fell down, and crawled out the exit.

“He shot me!” he bellowed outside. “He shot me in the ass!”

“Dag straight!” Mr. Sladder affirmed, waving his stump. “Come on back for another if ya like, fatso!”

Penelope squealed, this time in delight. The tiny gun had worked! But then Mr. Sladder said, very slowly:

“What in creepin’ Moses is this?”

Two more figures stepped in the doorway, sleek, slim. They were just standing there. They looked like…women.

—Hello, they said.

But what was that? What was going on?

—We want to eat, please!

They began to step forward.

“You just turn right around!” Mr. Sladder ordered.

The twin silhouettes continued.

“I ain’t kiddin’, sweethearts! Dag dabbit, I ain’t one fer shootin’ a couple of gals, so don’t ya come no closer!”

The figures weren’t stopping, and clearly weren’t going to.

“Daggit! I warned ya, so here it comes!”

Four even shots slapped in Penelope’s ears; she clenched her teeth. When she looked again, the two figures were still coming.

Mr. Sladder scurried back, dragged Penelope out. “Come on, honey. Dag Saturday night specials, can’t hit fudge with ’em. I musta missed all four times.”

“Shoot more!” Penelope screamed.

“I ain’t got no more bullets! Now come on!”

They scrambled down the main stable walk, pushing through swing doors, bam, bam, bam, one after another. Mr. Sladder burst through the last one before the exit and—

chunk.

But it wasn’t a chunk as much as a resonant, wet splap! Mr. Sladder was standing straight as a pole, head bent back. The ax blade was buried in the middle of his face, bisecting his eyes.

“Dag fat psychopath,” he gurgled, staggering back. “Run, Nellapee…” Then he collapsed like a bag of sticks.

Penelope’s blouse was torn open as she turned to run. Two big soft hands plopped on her breasts and pulled. Instantly she was aloft. She was being carried away.

She kicked and screamed. Hot breaths brushed her ear. It was the ax-wielder, the horse-killer. He must’ve come around the other side of the stable. His big hands roughly kneaded her breasts and crotch as he carried her on.

—Be careful with her! the odd slushy voice demanded.

Slats of moonlight passed Penelope’s face. The horse killer seemed to be sniffing her hair, and then he was licking her neck. The harder Penelope squirmed, the more securely she worked herself into his grasp.

Then she thought: Plums.

It was an errant thought, yet very clear in her mind. Plums. The average person certainly would find it peculiar for a young woman to think of plums while being abducted by a madman in the middle of the night. Nevertheless, the image glowed: squashing plums, bursting them. She thrust her hand into the figure’s trousers, into his briefs. His erection felt like a hot bone. Thinking of plums, she grabbed his testicles and squeezed them so hard her hand cramped.

The plums, disappointingly, did not burst. But the figure’s wavering deep yowl was reward enough. He dropped her at once and folded up in the impact of pain.

Penelope ran.

She trampled down the corridor, banging through swing doors. No footsteps could be heard pursuing her. Next she squealed in joy, for in a moment she bolted through the exit.

The open night air felt good on her exposed breasts. She used the moon’s ghostly light to guide her out the gate and to the dark outline that was her car. I made it! she thought. I escaped! God only knew where the horse-killer was taking her, and what he planned to do. Penelope careered around her Datsun ZX, jumped in behind the wheel, and slammed the door. She reached for the ignition, had her fingers on the key, was about to turn the engine over, and only then did she realize in slow, sinking horror that someone was sitting beside her in the passenger seat.

—

CHAPTER 6

“Good to see you, Wade! It’s good to have you back!”

“Wha—” Wade said. A waxlike, idiot grin opposed him as he stepped through the vestibule. The lobby was dismal with cluttered dark and geometric edges of tile shine. Standing thinly before him was Dean Saltenstall.

“It’s a pleasure to be back, sir,” Wade, said, you back stabbing two faced grinning fruitbar.

The dean offered his hand, which Wade shook with some reluctance.

“Affluence is no excuse for one to become separated from the real working world. Isn’t that what life’s all about? Honest work?”

What do you know about honest work, you blue blood hypocritical fuck? “I couldn’t agree more, sir.”

“Good, good! Then let’s go.” The dean’s grin never faltered. “We start at the bottom and we work our way up, right, Wade?”

Wade didn’t know what the old crank was talking about, but he suspected that the reference to starting at the bottom might have something to do with cleaning toilets for minimum wage. They moved briskly down dim halls which smelled of floor wax. Their heels clapped on shiny tile. Wade followed the dean’s back, wishing for a slingshot.

“I’m quite proud of our lab facilities.” The dean looked like a sapling in a pinstripe suit. Preposterously overstyled grayish hair made his tight tanned face appear fake, like bad cosmetic surgery. “And I’m equally proud of our maintenance staff.” He stopped at the door. The door read “Janitorial.”

And the dean was beginning to snicker.

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” the dean said.

Wade fumbled. “Why?”

“Why else? To teach you a lesson. You’re a rich, pompous hooligan who’s been breaking my ass for six years. But now, finally, I get to return the favor. Justice is so sweet.”

“So that’s the game,” Wade concluded.

“Indeed it is, so I’d walk softly from here on. Your father is at his final limit—your future is in my hands now. One more mistake, Wade, just one more, and your father will disown you.”

This Wade knew to be fact. He was in a minefield now.

The dean’s grin turned evil, his true colors. “I’m your lord and master from here on, Wade, and don’t you forget it. The rules are simple. You will work this job to the full satisfaction of the department, and you will carry out your duties as prescribed by your immediate supervisor without hesitation and without argument. Otherwise, you will be fired, and it will be my personal pleasure to see that your father is promptly notified.”

The dean had him now, and Wade knew it. If he got fired, he’d be cut off for good. But at least it couldn’t get any worse.

Or could it?

“Did you say something about a supervisor?”

“Indeed I did,” the dean replied. “And here he is now.”

A door clicked shut. A shadow crossed the room—huge, wide as a beer barrel. “Good to see you, Wade. Good to have you back.”

“No,” Wade muttered. “Not you. Anyone but—”

Professor Besser came forward. He seemed to be limping a bit. The plump, slyly smiling face and trimmed goatee made him look like the devil on his way to the fat farm. “I can’t tell you how enthused I am to be supervising you in your new…position.”

The dean handed Wade rubber gloves, a smock, and a toilet brush. “Tools of the trade, my boy.”

“It’s fun work, Wade.” Besser smiled. “As you’ll soon see.”

Wade took the “tools.” Then the dean turned to Besser and said, “I’m afraid there’s been a mishap on the second floor. It seems an entire bank of toilets became…clogged simultaneously, and they overflowed. Ghastly mess, and quite malodorous.”

“I’m sure Wade will be pleased to take care of it.”

“And remember,” the dean added, “honest work, Wade.” Then he threw his head back and laughed, disappearing down the hall.

“No time like the present, eh?” Besser said. “You will clean every toilet in this building, every day, and you will also mop every bathroom floor and scour every sink. And you know what they say, don’t you? A job not done right isn’t worth doing at all.”

“Oh, is that what they say?” Wade remarked. One day I’ll clean these toilets with your fat face. Now, that’s worth doing.

“I’ll be in my office should you need me. Have fun, Wade.”

Wade simmered. But as Besser turned to leave, Wade noticed something. Did Besser have a pendant around his neck? It looked like a black amulet on a black string. It looked like a cross.

But Besser was an atheist, like all college professors. Why wear a cross?

“Professor? Is that a cross you’re wearing?”

Besser didn’t answer. Instead he looked back with an unfocused gleam in his eye. Even more peculiar was what he said next. “Great things may await you, Wade. The most wondrous things.”

“Huh?”

Almost dreamily, Besser walked away. And that was odd too. He strode off in a quickened limp, like a man, perhaps, who’d been recently shot in the buttocks.

««—»»

The compound gate hung open, uncordoned. Some crime scene, Lydia Prentiss thought. Two more cruisers sat out front, both with keys in the ignitions. She grabbed her field kits and went in.

Field forensic experience was part of what she’d been hired for. Equal opportunity was the other part, which irked her because she knew she was the best cop in the department. The others seemed pressed from the same mold—redneck, bigoted, and barely anthropoid when it came to intelligence. Everyone spoke in thick southern drawls, and everyone was lazy—though she supposed this judgment, like all of them, was of her own prejudice. She took things too seriously, she’d been told for her whole life. Her college career counselor had told her she was a hypercritical Type-A personality. Her watch commander at D.C. had told her she was an insubordinate smart ass. These vain faults had always haunted her, had made college very lonely, had kept her from making friends, and had pushed her out of D.C. Not fired, really, just urged to “move on.” She’d even been in love once—just once—and had ruined that too. She’d ruined everything for herself.

Stop. Why think of these things now?

Chief White didn’t like her, but at least he respected her. The other officers were morons who only wanted to get into her pants. They all regarded her as a blond curio, not a cop.

She found Chief White and Sergeant Peerce in the compound office. “What the hell’s going on?” she asked. “The dispatcher calls me and says to get down here with my field gear but doesn’t say why.”

“That so?” White kicked back in the chair. “Guess that means my dispatch is incompetent, right? Like everyone else in this department, right? Except you…right?”

Off to a great start, Lydia thought. “Chief, I only meant—”

“You meant that we’re just a bunch of hick cops who don’t know nothin’ compared to slick city sharpies like you.”

Peerce laughed. Lydia frowned.

Chief White must’ve been about fifty, with short American Legion gray hair and a potbelly. Peerce was a big South Georgia stupe: redneck sneer, Elvis sideburns, and slicked back hair.

“We gotta missing security guard,” White told her, rubbing his temples. “Old rummy named Sladder. We also got evidence a female student was out here with him last night. And that’s just starters.”

“There was a power failure,” Peerce added. “Last anyone heard from Sladder was when he called it in to Physical Plant and the power company. Only sign of the old fucker is his wallet.”

“His wallet?”

“That’s right. Old fucker musta dropped it. We also found a purse,” White said, pointing to a slim purse on the desk. “Belongs to a student, Penelope somethin’, lives over in Lillian Hall. I got Porker out lookin’ for her. Peerce already been over the stables, but I want you to have a look too, judgin’ the seriousness of the situation.”

“Seriousness? A wallet and purse? What’s the big deal?”

White’s snide grin vanished. “Show her the big deal, Peerce.

Peerce took her out, not offering to help carry the field kits. Most of the stables were open faced. She noticed some animals in the field, dead. Their heads all seemed to point toward the woods. From the first stable she heard the buzzing. Then she saw.

Peerce led her from building to building, from bad to worse. Though the animals were token in number, they were all dead. Lydia had seen her share of 81s in D.C.; she was used to viewing dead men. But this was queerly different. Cows and pigs had always struck her as harmless, even comical. Here they were grotesque, swollen masses of meat. The buzzing, of course, came from blankets of flies, oblivious in their feast.

Poisoned, she concluded. But why? And what did they want her to do? Take latent hoof prints? She was an evidence tech, not a toxicologist.

“In here,” Peerce said. Was he amused by her uneasiness? He took her into the horse stable, where each stall housed a dead, gas bloated horse. Channels of white foam lay in their opened mouths, and their faces moved—masks of flies shifting grainily like an optical illusion. Lydia switched on her Streamlight. Clots of flies filled the horses’ eye sockets. Maggots shimmered.

“Serious enough for ya?” Peerce commented.

Asshole. She gulped. “How well did you look over these stables?”

“Like a fine tooth comb. Found nothin’.”

“Nothing? There’s blood on the floor, Peerce.”

“What blood? I don’t see no blood.”

“Bend over and look down, Sherlock.” She pointed to the darkened streaks along the run. “What do you call that? Cherry smash?”

Peerce lost his southern snideness. “Thought it was horsepiss.”

“Yeah, horsepiss. Look out, and watch where you walk!” She followed the blood line with her SL beam. It ended at some larger splashes by a utility stall. A spatter of “fall” dotted the wall in an arch; what she knew about bloodfall trajectory told her the victim must’ve been moving away, not forward. Drop-configuration like this was rare. The large bleed at her feet bothered her most of all. A bleed this big in conjunction with this fall pattern indicated an excruciating wound. At D.C. they’d once walked into a basement where two crack taxis had been murdered. They’d found the men in a pile of neatly stacked pieces. Axes had been used.

Her eyes followed another line up. The halfboard on the stall had a gouge in it, what a tech would call strike impactation. More blood stained the gouge. Shit, she thought. Had the victim been reaching for the pitchforks in the stall? Yes. It’s too perfect. She peered over and looked down. More blood.

The impactation looked good, a good strike. She’d need no toolmarks workup to tell her this was an ax, and a big one. A big blade with an unusually flat cutting edge. But there had to be more.

Follow back, she thought. “Look at the fall.”

“Huh?”

“The bloodfall. The drop points change direction here, a 180 degree shift. They don’t lead forward, they lead back.”

Peerce didn’t know what she was talking about. Lydia followed the line. “Jesus,” Peerce observed. “Fucker lost a lot of blood.”

“Don’t walk in it!” Lydia yelled. “Look, Peerce, this place is too small for both of us. Do me a favor and—”

Peerce didn’t need to be told. He sputtered and went back to the office, bitterly chewing a wad of tobacco.

Now we’re in business. She aimed the SL back on the blood. It went about fifteen feet to the stable charge’s office. The phone hung off the hook. A larger splash had coagulated on the floor. Lydia crouched down, thinking. She closed her eyes and tried to see the victim. Despite the wound, he’d made it back here.

Why? To use the phone.

What then? He hadn’t died here. Not enough blood.

So he left. He’d dressed his wound and he’d left.

Now where? Where would I go if I’d just been severely cut by an ax wielding maniac near the stable entrance?

The stable exit, dumb ass.

But what about the attacker, the axman? He’d still be in the aisle. Cut this bad, did the victim actually have the balls to go back out and fight?

Weapons.

Maybe he was strapped. If the victim was Sladder, maybe he had a gun. Some guards carried them, some didn’t. The security office would know; they had sign out sheets. The suspicion needled her.

She went back out, imagining herself in great pain. She fixed her SL beam, and there they were, like gold ingots at the baseboard. Bingo! she thought. There were six of them. .25s, maybe .32s. He popped six caps at the axman. Okay, okay. What then?

Escape.

She followed away from the empty cartridges. Where did he go now? She pictured a frantic, bleeding man stumbling along. Come on, come on. Show me.

The last swing door before the exit. Bingo! she thought again, but it was a pale thought. She’d been rooting for the bleeding man, for nothing. This was as far as he’d gotten.

Her SL beam frozen down, Lydia stared quietly. Jesus. The bloodstain lay wall to wall. Footprints led out of it like stick on dance steps. It was obvious. The victim had been butchered.

The blood was here, all over the place. So where was the body?

««—»»

“How could you miss bloodstains on the fucking floor?” White was bellowing at Peerce when Lydia came back in.

“It’s dark in there, Chief. Without no lights, it’s hard to—”

“Shit, Peerce! She’s makin’ us look like fools!”

“Well, sir, I—”

“Shut up! What else that stuck up priss find that you missed?”

“Plenty,” Lydia said at the door. Stuck up priss? “The weapon was probably an ax with an unusually long, flat blade. I got several impactations that look the same. The back fence was cut with it, and so was the entrance door and the phone lines. One thing I’m sure of, though. Someone died in there.”

“How do you know someone died?” White protested.

“I followed the bloodfall. No one could lose as much blood as I found at the exit and live. Only problem is there’s no body.”

White conjectured this and scoffed. “I don’t believe someone was murdered.”

“You just don’t want to believe that someone was murdered in your juris.”

White glared. “You got a lot of nerve, girl.”

“Just being honest, Chief. Question. Was Sladder packing?”

“No,” White said. “Only supervisors carry guns. Why?”

“I also found six spent casings. Remington .25s.”

“Shit!” White’s fist slammed the desk. “What the fuck’s my campus turned into?”

A slaughterhouse, Lydia thought, almost with a smile. But the smile drained when she remembered the blood. She wished for her daily Marlboro. “I can stand here and speculate all day, Chief. But it’d just be a waste of time.”

White’s voice lost its edge. An unsolved murder could make the papers, smear the school, get him fired. “I can’t stall this, Prentiss. This shit’s gotta be solved, and I mean by us, not some outside agency. We’ll be closed out once the state gets here.”

“State? The agro site’s part of the campus. It’s ours.”

“No, it ain’t, not really. All them animals are licensed through the state department of agriculture. Health inspectors will be wantin’ to know if some disease killed the animals. We’ll be up to our butts in state by late afternoon.”

Late afternoon? “That’s no time for me to do a workup,” Lydia complained. “I’ll have to get started right now. I need you to get the power back on, I need lights to sweep for prints. And I’ll need cold storage, I’ll need lab space, I’ll need—”

“I’ll get you everything you need,” White interrupted. “You say you can do this kind of shit, then get to it. I’m puttin’ my trust in you, Prentiss, but hear this. If you fuck up and make me look like a damn fool, I’ll make sure you’re checkin’ parking meters for the next twenty years. You got that?”

“I’m touched by your confidence,” Lydia said.

—

CHAPTER 7

Jervis knew he’d fooled no one last night at the inn. Pretending to have put Sarah behind him was an act he’d never pull off, like a corpse pretending not to be dead. Wade had seen right through him; Tom too, probably.

The bar was called Andre’s, a redneck hole in the wall ten miles off campus. A Deep South chant played softly from the juke, swamp guitar and a tale of broken promises and broken hearts. A mob of bikers stood around a pool table throwing back shots and making frequent use of scatological verbs.

Jervis waited in a darkened booth. The equal darkness of his mind sedated him. Like a corpse pretending not to be dead, he thought again. But what would summon such an image? He ordered three Heinekens from a chubby, lank haired blonde whose frayed cutoffs showed the bottoms of her cheeks. “You drinkin’ these all by yourself, cutie?” she asked.

“Just two of them. I’m expecting someone.”

Her belly button peeked from a fleshy gap. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” he lied. He tipped her a fin.

“Gee, thanks, cutie.”

“Don’t mention it.” Just leave me alone.

Eventually his guest arrived, a sleazy shadow sliding into the booth. Slim fingers gripped a clean manila envelope.

“Good evening, Mr. Czanek,” Jervis said.

“Good evening, Mr. Smith. Or is it Jones?”

Jervis slid him a beer. “It’s Tull. Jethro Tull.”

“Of course. My apologies.” Czanek grinned through a con man’s visage, a constant easy smile and long hair pushed greasily off his brow. It was the smile, Jervis realized, that told the genuineness of the man. Czanek was a happy go lucky denizen. He lived with the sleaze and despair that hid behind the world, yet smiled, somehow, in honest happiness.

“Got a lot of poop on your man,” he said. “It’s amazing what you can learn from a tag number.”

Jervis cringed to damp a sudden excitement. This was either fast work or sloppy. “At a hundred fifty a day I figured you’d milk me for a week at least. That’s what private dicks do, isn’t it?”

“Only on divorce jobs where the woman’s a looker,” Czanek said. “I don’t take clients for a ride. It’s bad for business.”

Some business. Jervis lit a Carlton. “Speaking of business…”

Czanek’s voice was soft yet rough, perhaps by design. “Your man’s full name is Wilhelm Karl von Heinrich. His father’s a developer from West Germany, very, very rich. The Germans are investing tons of cash in the south coast, like the Japanese in California.”

“Wilhelm Karl von Heinrich,” Jervis muttered.

“The kid’s twenty six years old. Got a degree from University of Bamberg, business. He’s an instant in for his pop.”

“You got a picture?”

Czanek lay out a stockholder’s brochure. Dozens of neat faces smiled up from a glossy sheet of corporate members. One face was circled in red marker, and read “Wilhelm Karl von Heinrich,” like letters on a gravestone. This man is my epitaph, Jervis thought.

He’d glimpsed Wilhelm only once, at a distance, getting out of his white custom van. Now, though, Wilhelm’s face smiled up in beyond belief handsomeness. Jervis felt very sick all of a sudden. The face looked like something on a GQ cover: square jaw, bright blue eyes, short blond, very Aryan hair, perfect teeth.

“Pretty boy, huh, Mr. Tull?”

“Don’t rub it in, Mr. Czanek.”

“Sorry. Here’s a Polaroid I snapped this morning when he left for the gym.”

This was worse. Lover boy in the parking lot. Blazing white shorts and sleeveless T shirt with the words “Deutschland über Alles.” His legs looked like shellacked oak pillars. Muscles gleamed in too perfect symmetry. Lots of muscles.

“He’s six-two, according to his license, a hundred eighty five pounds, and I don’t see any fat. In real life, he looks bigger.”

Jervis groaned.

“He’s renting a place just out of town, to be close to the girl.” Jervis appreciated Czanek’s courtesy. He never referred to Sarah by name. It was always “the girl.” Jervis supposed it was a trait of Czanek’s profession to depersonify a lost love. It made it less embarrassing.

“The address is here. It’s about fifteen minutes off campus, a fourth floor apartment, nice place. Lease expires September first.”

Jervis cleared his throat. “You got a schedule on the guy?”

“He works out regular at Brawley’s Gym, ten until three every day. I got a look at the sign in sheet.”

“What else? I need more.”

Czanek had more, plenty more. “He picks the girl up at six every night. They eat out, go shopping, like that. Then he brings her back to his place, or they go to hers.”

Jervis lit another Carlton, finished the first beer, and started the second. Czanek’s three day surveillance was exemplary—it drove Jervis’ despair to new heights. He’d asked for it, though. He’d asked for all of it.

“He’s been in the States two years, got his citizenship right away. Two vehicles in his name, a Porsche 911 and the white van. He buys a lot of stuff for the girl. There’re some Xeroxes of his credit card invoices. He’s a big spender, and…”

“What, Mr. Czanek?”

“There’s one more thing I don’t think you want to know.”

“What?” Jervis repeated. “I’m not paying you to be my shrink.”

Czanek removed some papers from his sports jacket. “These are some additional credit card invoices. Lots of jewelry purchases and restaurant tabs from the same places on the invoices there.”

Jervis looked at the invoices in the folder. They all had recent dates. “What’s the difference between these and the invoices in your hand?”

Czanek hesitated. “The invoices in my hand go back six months.”

Jervis stared.

“Six months, Mr. Tull. I’m sorry to have to tell you that.”

Jervis wanted to die. She’d been dating Wilhelm six months before she even broke up with Jervis. Behind his back for six months. Jervis felt minuscule in his seat, blackened by a shadow more vast than all the broken hearts in the world. He must seem pitiful.

He took out his wallet. “A hundred fifty per day, right?”

“That’s right, plus ex—”

Jervis gave him six hundred. “And keep the retainer for expenses.”

The money disappeared into Czanek’s jacket like magic. He left the folder and invoices on the table. “Thank you very much, Mr. Tull. You have my number in case there’s anything else I can do.”

Anything else. Jervis was staring. “What else do you do?”

Czanek leaned forward. “Let’s just say that my services are not exclusively limited to the parameters of the law.”

Jervis didn’t quite know what to say. What am I thinking?

“I don’t kill people,” Czanek said.

Had that been what Jervis was thinking?

“And I don’t break legs. I’m a P.I., not a thug. Besides, I’d have to be out of my mind to try anything against that meat-rack. However, there are some things I can do that you might be—”

“I want something…close,” Jervis said. “I want—”

Was Czanek smiling? “You want a bug in her place.”

A bug? Jervis wondered. “Keep talking, Mr. Czanek.”

“I got a great little wireless crystal, eight hundred foot range. Only problem is it runs on a battery and the battery only lasts ten days. The crystal costs a hundred bucks, I charge five hundred to put it in and three hundred for each battery change. I’ll only change batteries twice, then I’m out. Too risky.”

Ten days? That was plenty of time. That was his whole life.

“You can find guys who’ll do it cheaper, but not better.”

Jervis nodded. He wasn’t about to go hunting in the PennySaver. “I don’t have a key to her dorm anymore, but I got a funny feeling that you’re not particularly troubled by the inconvenience of locks.”

“Don’t worry about locks. Does she have a burglar alarm?”

“No,” Jervis said.

“Then anything she’s got on her door I go through in two seconds.”

“When’s the soonest you can have it in?”

“Tomorrow night, max.”

Jervis passed him six more hundred dollar bills. “Do it,” he said.

««—»»

Jervis drove half drunk back to campus. His arrangement with Czanek would only lead him to further despair, he realized, yet he looked forward to it, as a masochist looks forward to the whip. It didn’t make sense. Why was he pursuing this?

His driving began to falter. The yellow line looked like a smear to oblivion. His thoughts spoke to him like an alter ego, a secret sharer of despair.

I’m crazy, he thought.

Of course you are, his thoughts answered. You’re an English major; English majors are crazy to begin with. It’s all that existential shit they made you read, all that Sartre and Hegel—what a pile of crap. You took it seriously, Jervis, you thought it would save you. Jesus Christ, you’ve become obsessed with this girl. Private investigators? Bugs? It’s crazy. Your love has made you crazy.

“I know,” Jervis whispered to his id. “I’m crazy, and I still love her. What am I going to do?”

The black thoughts seemed to snicker. Kill them, they said.

“Kill them?”

Kill them. Then kill yourself.

««—»»

Wade’s first day as toilet cleaner proved as expected: shitty. His clothes reeked of mop water; it permeated him. Back in his dorm room, he turned on all the lights and the TV, let the room surround him in familiarity. He sat on the bed with a bottle of Samuel Adams lager, pushing the day and its myriad toilets from his mind. He needed mirth, he needed cheer. The TV picture formed, a cable flick called The Louisiana Swamp Murders. Raving toothless hillbillies chased topless blondes through the bayou with hatchets.

So much for mirth.

At least the day was over. He hit the Play button on his answering machine, hoping more girls had called, or friends, or anyone to make him feel better. Instead…

Beep: “Wade, this is your father. Call home at once.”

Oh, no, Wade thought.

Beep: “Wade, this is your goddamn father. I know you’re there; you’re probably sitting on the fucking bed with a beer right now. Call goddamn home at once or you’ll be goddamned sorry.”

Wade dialed the phone in slow, comatose dread.

“Hi, Dad. This is—”

“I know who it is, goddamn it. What the hell are you trying to pull down there? Three traffic tickets? On your first day back?”

Wade flubbed. “How did you find out about—”

“Dean Saltenstall told me all about it.”

Wade seethed. Why that blue blood no dick piece of garbage! So help me, I’ll— “Dad, I can explain.”

“No, you can’t. There’s no excuse for irresponsible shit like this. You’re supposed to be shaping up, not fucking up.”

“Really, Dad, I—”

“Heed my words, son. You’re at the end of your own rope. One more fuckup and you can start packing for the Army.”

Click.

Nice talking to you too, Wade thought.

There was a knock at the door. Tom entered, dressed for town and bearing a bottle of Spaten Oktoberfest. “Hey, Wade. Here’s an old one. Carter walks into the White House groundskeeping office. He’s holding a pile of dogshit in his hands, and he yells, ‘Goddamn it! See what I almost stepped in!’”

“That’s the worst joke I ever heard. Anyway, dogshit, bullshit, it’s all the same to Republicans. They’ve got plenty of both.”

Tom stopped midstep, sniffing. “What’s that smell?”

“I don’t smell anything,” Wade lied.

“Smells like that stuff janitors use to clean toilets.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Wade said. “We partying tonight?”

“Of course.” Tom looked at the TV and frowned. Inbred psychotic bumpkins were yanking the pants off a bug eyed blonde. “What’s this? A new campaign ad for the Democrats?”

“No, it’s the reruns of the last Republican Convention. Don’t you remember?”

“Hey, I’m laughing… See if you can drum up Jervis for tonight. I haven’t seen him all day. And… Jesus, that smell’s really strong. You been cleaning toilets?”

“I’ll tell you about it later,” Wade balked. “Much later.” If anybody—anybody—found out he was cleaning toilets for minimum wage, his reputation would be…flushed. “I need some time to get ready. Meet me at the inn in an hour.”

Tom nodded, sniffing, and left. Wade finished his Adams and dropped the bottle into the trash compactor. The sound of it being crushed made him picture himself being crushed by Dad, the dean and Besser. He quickly gathered his shower gear, but stopped. On the TV a girl with large breasts was being dismembered by an obese, drooling slob in overalls. Wade grimaced. Whatever happened to happy movies? He knew it was only the power of suggestion, but the grimy hillbilly madman on the TV screen bore a distressing resemblance to Professor Besser.

—

CHAPTER 8

Professor Besser! The name screamed in her head.

Had she been sleeping? Penelope wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, the image remained, crisp and bright as neon. The big face in the moonlight… It was the last thing she remembered before blacking out—being carried into the woods by…Professor Besser.

She pressed against her memory. What had happened?

The power failure. The stables and…my God, the ax! The horses!

She remembered escaping, but she hadn’t escaped, had she? She’d made it to the car, but before she could drive away—

There’d been someone in the car, hadn’t there?

Someone waiting.

The woman, Penelope remembered.

Something clicked, a snap like a tiny bone. Then the rest of the memories siphoned back into her head.

—Hello, Penelope, the woman said.

“How do you know my…” but Penelope’s words languished. Her hand never turned the ignition. The woman was looking at her now, and all Penelope could do was look back.

—You can help us.

The woman was dressed in black, a black cape with a hood. The hood made the woman’s face hard to see. Oddest of all, she wore sunglasses in spite of the night.

—Don’t be afraid. I want to be your friend.

Within the drooping hood, details of the woman’s face seemed to shift beneath a fine blur. Her skin was vibrant white, bloodless.

Penelope didn’t understand anything now. There was only this. “What do you want?” she peeped.

—We want you.

At once Penelope was drowning in her whole life. Tears came. All she ever wanted was to be cared about, to be…wanted.

The woman’s luminous smile eased close. —You’re very special, Penelope. I can show you how special you are.

It was something like credence, an awareness rather than a conclusion. It would be wonderful to be special, to be loved.

—Love.

The woman touched Penelope’s cheek. The warm hand seemed to seal the promise of trust.

—I’ll protect you, the woman in black promised. —I have something to give you, something you’ve never had before.

Penelope’s whole world now was the woman’s touch. The warm white hand began to probe her breasts. The sensation was delicious. But what had the woman said? Something to give her?

—Destiny.

“Wh what?”

—I can show you destiny, Penelope. I can show you love.

“Show me,” Penelope moaned.

The woman’s blurred face hovered close. The scarlet lips parted. The mouth opened wide, full of teeth like a dog’s.

««—»»

Tom poured the Spatens with the exactitude of a master. “We’ll give Jervis an hour. If he doesn’t show, we’ll split.”

Wade nodded. No one could remember seeing Jervis all day. Wade had a bad feeling.

“You’re worried about him,” Tom commented. “You don’t believe he’s over this Sarah thing even though he said he was.”

“Well…”

“You think he’s gonna lose it, shoot himself, or climb to the top of the WHPL tower and do a double gainer.”

Could he picture it? “It’s just not like him to disappear.”

Was he being unreasonable? He couldn’t cast off the gut feeling, the presage that Jervis’ emotions were too rampant for his selfhood. How close was he, really, to cracking up?

“Hey, Wade. Here’s an old one.”

“Please,” Wade pleaded. “I’m in no mood for conservative jokes.”

“What do Carter and the North Virginia Amtrak have in common?”

“I’d really rather not—”

“They both pull out of Rosalynn at five A.M. sharp.

Wade shook his head. Tom’s jokes were like a Kirby vacuum cleaner: they sucked.

The inn was packed. They sipped their Spatens like wine poseurs. Beer snobbery was an intricate art. No Bud for these two. Then Wade said, “Wouldn’t it be a riot if Jervis was here and Sarah walked in?”

Tom glanced behind him. “You psychic?” he asked when he saw who was side traipsing through.

Sarah Black emerged from the wall of backs and heads, her eyes thinned as if in some harsh assessment. She wore purple high heels, blue leather pants, and a clinging blouse the color of arterial blood. Very short platinum blond hair fit against her head like a flier’s cap.

“Hey, Sarah!” Wade called out. “How’s it going?”

“Don’t,” Tom warned. “Don’t start a scene.”

“How are things in the she devil business?” Wade asked. “Good?”

She gauged him without reaction.

“That was really classy the way you dumped Jervis.”

“This is a mistake,” Tom told him.

Sarah sniped back: “I didn’t dump him. Things just didn’t—”

“I know,” Wade completed. “Things just didn’t work out. That’s what girls always say when they dump a guy.”

“I didn’t dump him!”

“You dumped him cold for the first new pecker to cross the pike. Why not just admit?”

Sarah’s dark eyes reflected sheer rage. “What the hell do you know! I didn’t dump him! We broke up because Jervis was no longer compatible with the dynamics of our relationship!”

Wade chuckled. “That’s a good one. You were just taking him for a ride until someone with more money came along.”

“I was not!”

“Oh, and I like that outfit, by the way. I guess Warhol had a rummage sale, huh?”

Sarah’s cheeks seemed to be wafting heat.

“Don’t worry, Sarah. It’s not against the law to be an absolutely awful person. You should congratulate yourself on a job well done… Now, see if you can interpret the significance of the following gesture.” Wade pushed his nostrils up with his index fingers and began to make pig noises.

Sarah shrieked: “I’m getting my new boyfriend to kick your ass!”

“Hey, I’m shakin’,” Wade said. “I’m leaving town. See?”

Sarah tromped off, her lips pursed to a tight, red seam.

“When are you gonna learn to control yourself?” Tom complained.

Wade shrugged sheepishly. Many patrons were staring at him, brows raised. “I couldn’t resist. She had it coming.”

Tom ordered two more Spatens. “I don’t understand how Jerv could fall in love with that gold digger anyway.”

“Love’s a funny thing,” Wade speculated. “It clouds our sense of reason. The Eleventh Commandment: Love makes morons of men.”

Tom slapped the bar. “I knew you had religion in you somewhere.”

The Spatens caught up fast; you could only put so much in before you had to let some out. Wade excused himself to the men’s room, which was empty and damp. As he tended to business, the wall provided an engaging display of graffiti. “Eat, drink, and be Larry,” one scrawl read. “West Virginia men are men…and sheep are nervous.” And: “I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than have a frontal lobotomy.”

Sounds like you need both, Wade thought. But when he turned to leave, he found a frightfully large figure standing in the doorway.

“Pardon me, brother. You’re blocking the door.”

“Zat iss correct,” came a succinct, zinging German inflection.

Wade already knew who it was. This fucker’s huge, he thought, and that was all he thought for some time. Wilhelm Karl von Heinrich loomed, bringing his angular face and blue eyes into the light. He wore tailored gray slacks and a silk shirt that must’ve cost five hundred dollars.

“You get that shirt at Ward’s?” Wade asked.

Wilhelm’s face remained a stoic blank. “Herr St. John, you unt me, vee must come to an understahndink.”

“I understand that you’re possibly the biggest motherfucker on two legs, but that’s about it. I like the accent, though. French?”

“Unt comedian,” Wilhelm said. “You insult mein girlfriend, and vut it iss you must understant iss zat no vun insults mein girlfriend.”

Wade took a crack at the accent. What did he have to lose? “Vell zen, mein namen must be no vun because your girlfriend iss unt ahz hole, Herr Big German Mozzerfocker.” And then Wade slammed his fist into the soft of Wilhelm’s belly. Only…there was no soft. What his knuckles impacted felt like padded rock. The German didn’t flinch, or even react, to the blow.

“So much for the warm up,” Wade said. This guy must have the Berlin Wall under his shirt. Wade pointed to the ceiling. “Stukas! Look!” Wilhelm looked. Wade rammed his fist into Wilhelm’s jaw with a raw, wet smack.

Wilhelm chuckled. “Unt comedian,” he remarked again, smiling, and flung Wade effortlessly across the bathroom. He crashed into the stall and banged his head against—of all things—the toilet seat. Wilhelm then put a wristlock on him…and twisted.

“I tell you ziss only vunce, scheisskopf. You ever speak to mein girlfriend again” —Wilhelm’s free hand produced a shiny knife— “unt I will kill you.”

The knife flashed. Wade could read the words Blut und Ehre! on the blade. Wilhelm gave Wade’s arm another twist and emphasized: “I vill cut your guts out und stuff zem down your sroat.”

“I think I get the idea,” Wade wheezed, wondering when his wrist would snap.

“Vee have understalindink, zen, ja?”

“Ja!” Wade conceded. “Ja-ja-jaaa!”

A tad more twist on the wrist. The knife turned. “Ja?”

“Ja, goddamn it! Ja!”

Wilhelm put the knife away. “Gute, gute, we have undestahndink, but zere iss vun more sing. In zah fazzerland, vee have a special way of sealing unt agreement.”

Wade rolled his eyes. He knew what was coming.

“Vee drink to zat agreement, Herr St. John, and ziss drink iss on me.”

Wilhelm then thrust Wade’s face into the toilet and flushed. “Gute?” he asked. He pulled Wade up. “Unt anuzzer? Ja?”

“Nein, nein,” Wade groaned, dripping.

“Ja, I sink vun more for zah road,” and down Wade’s face went again. This time he was held much longer. Bubbles erupted from his lips. Somehow he managed to think: I am going to drown in a toilet. What a way to go.

When Wilhelm let go, Wade fell out of the bowl and onto his back, gasping. He coughed up toilet water as his conqueror towered flagrantly above him, hands on hips and smiling.

“Until vee meet again, Herr St. John—guten Nacht.”

Wilhelm turned and left. Dripping, Wade struggled to his feet and tried to clean himself up at the sink. Remind me to never insult Sarah Black again, he chastised himself. Wade’s defeat was optimized when he plucked a big pubic hair off his nose.

««—»»

And what happened after that—the vision of teeth—was a smudge in Penelope’s mind. All she could see was that widening, bright red mouth ringed with teeth. The teeth were pointed and long.

Then came a blur, a vibration. A sudden, nettling pain pricked Penelope’s throat. Then the woman in black got out of the car.

Penelope couldn’t move. She could see, hear, feel, think, but she couldn’t move. She slumped, paralyzed, at the wheel, her hands upturned in her lap like dead birds.

—Hurry.

Someone was coming. A shadow moved across the windshield.

She fell out on the ground when the door was opened. The horse-killer bent over—the axman—and that was when Penelope first recognized him: Professor Besser, her biology teacher!

He did not look pleased.

—Hurry!

He grunted, threw Penelope over his shoulder, and started walking.

He was taking her back to the stables. Where had the woman gone? Besser’s feet thudded the dirt floor. Penelope saw lines of stains, blood. Then Professor Besser stopped.

—Hurry up with her and come right back. There’s much to do.

Mr. Sladder’s flashlight was on the floor. It was still on. Penelope could see upside down past Besser’s legs. And what she saw…

The flashlight cast crisp, black shadows on the wall. One shadow was a prone figure—Mr. Sladder with the ax still in his head. Another shadow squatted over it.

“I’m very tired,” Professor Besser complained. “I need help.”

—You’ll have help soon, the woman’s slushlike voice replied. But where was she now? Was she the second shadow?

More shadows converged. Suddenly there was a wet plunging sound, like someone cleaning the insides out of a big pumpkin. Shadows of hands and arms were reaching into Mr. Sladder and pulling things out.

Professor Besser’s feet started up again. Penelope remained limp over his shoulder as he carried her out of the stables and into the foggy, moonlit fields.

She was slipping away. Her breasts bobbled upside-down. The fog came nearly up to Besser’s waist. They were passing the utility shed and the chopped down fence. All the while, the stinging throbbed at Penelope’s throat. What had the woman done to her?

Had the woman bitten her?

Soon they were past the grazing fields. Penelope’s arms hung down, consumed by fog; he was carrying her into dark woods. Her consciousness seemed to be dripping out of her head, but very faintly she thought: It would be so much better to be a horse.

Indeed, it would have been. Her carrier took her deep into the forest. Twigs crunched beneath his clumsy feet. Then they came to a clearing drenched in moonlight. A brief hillock stood out, and she thought she saw something there—

Something black.

“Here’s your new home, Penelope,” Besser said, trudging across.

She passed out when she saw what he was taking her to.

The thing on the hillock was a black oblong box.

It looked like a coffin.

—

CHAPTER 9

Wade and Tom had left a couple of Spatens later. Tom laughed when Wade recited his encounter with Wilhelm and the toilet dunk. “That’s what I call the house special,” he’d said. “Next time don’t start trouble you can’t handle.” Wade, still damp, agreed.

Downtown Exham was quiet tonight. Quaint, fake gas lamps lit the cobblestone streets. As they headed for the next bar, Wade found himself still preoccupied with Jervis.

“He’ll turn up,” Tom said without having to ask. “He’s probably sleeping off a Kirin shitface back at the dorm.”

Wade hoped so. He caught himself glancing into the gun shop on Huberty Lane. What would he do if he actually saw Jervis in there, buying bullets, buying guns? But that was an absurd idea—besides, the shop was closed.

“Hey,” Tom exclaimed as a car passed. “Was that Besser’s car?”

“What?” Wade was off guard. He turned and saw a big maroon sedan cross the town square and disappear. “Who cares?” he said. The last person Wade wanted to be reminded of was Besser, his janitorial supervisor. “He’s so fat he probably can’t even fit in a car, much less drive one.”

They finished the night at a corner saloon imaginatively named The Bar, which specialized in imported draft like Old Peculiar, EKU Edelbock, and Spaten and Adams, their mainstays. After a few pints, Wade stepped up to the taco bar despite Tom’s warning that tacos never failed to incite horrendous nightmares. As Wade doled on plenty of cheese and chili, he overheard several crim majors whispering about some mishap at Exham’s agro site. He could make no details save for bits of phrases: “deader than dogshit” and “.25 brass all over the fucking place.” Some of the crim students worked security for extra credits; Wade presumed some local rednecks had taken some shots at the agro animals or some such, but he hardly cared. He still felt sidetracked about Jervis, perhaps, but something else too. “Quit worrying about Jervis, will you?” Tom implored when Wade came back to the table.

“Can’t help it,” Wade admitted. “I can’t shake this gut feeling that something’s happened to him.”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll stop by the campus drunk tank on my way back to the dorm, just to be safe.”

“Good idea. Maybe he got trashed, busted.”

But that wasn’t it either. Something itched at Wade. And what he never noticed was that the same car had driven by the saloon a half dozen times. A big maroon sedan, like Besser’s.

««—»»

Penelope found she could move a little now. She could move her head up, she could move her fingers and toes. She looked down the side of her body. She was naked. She’d been laid out on her back in some strange, dim light. Was it a floor she lay on? A table? It was warm here, and humid like a steam room. She could see with great clarity, and there was another feeling, something internal. A sharp dazzle seemed to radiate along her boneline. Had someone given her drugs? It felt strange but not unpleasant.

None of this made sense, yet even that did not occur to her. She’d been assaulted tonight, abducted, and inexplicably paralyzed, but amazingly she felt no fear. She felt giddy, happy even. One of her arms she could move. She guided her hand to her neck, to the faint stinging. It felt like a bump with a hole in it, and right next to it was another hole, which didn’t sting at all. All she knew was that she had two holes in her throat and she didn’t care. She even giggled at the revelation.

Next she moved her hand across her chest; a pleasant tingle followed. The feeling spread in a wishbone from her breasts to her sex, glittering along the inside of her thighs and up her belly. Her breasts felt impossibly large. When she squeezed them, a painful yet prurient pressure gusted to her genitals. In her sedate confusion she finally realized what it was.

She was horny. Inexplicably and irrepressibly horny.

She kneaded her own breast, feeling the swollen nipple. Next her fingers walked down and rubbed the little button of her sex, then plucked it, twirled it, as though it too were a nipple. The sensation was delicious. Suddenly her mind filled with the most lewd imagery, a recollection from that video of her father’s, Little Oral Annie, but at once it shifted slightly, to Little Oral Penelope. In her mind she saw her mouth stuffed with erections, one after another, balls slapping her chin. She sucked and sucked, and one after another, each penis slid out of her mouth at the crisis-point, emptying lines of sperm into her face. She let the bitter sauce run warmly down her breasts, as her hand raced at her sex. An inexplicable feeling was mounting in her—more images assaulted her: massive, veined penises whacking in and out of her vagina like mindless pistons of meat, then tremoring, then filling her to overflowing with more delicious, wet heat...

Something clicked.

The images abandoned her, replacing the unbidden lust with an edgy curiosity. What had that sound been? And, more importantly…

Where am I? she thought. A house? A basement? Where exactly had Professor Besser taken her?

She seemed to be lying in a narrow, dark room whose confines were etched very dimly in orange and silver light. And what were those things above her? She turned her head, looking up. Shelves? she thought. They looked like butts of bottles in a wine rack, so maybe she was in someone’s basement. The things in the rack glinted like glass in the dim, orange light.

Voices suddenly rang in her head like bells.

—Penelope!

—Penelope! We promised you a great destiny.

—Oh, you’re so lucky! We wish we could be you!

—We love you, Penelope!

The voices were a madness in her ears. They blurred from side to side like stereo. They were the woman’s voice, the woman who’d been in her car, the woman in black.

—We have a great silver lord, and you’ve made him very happy!

—Yes!

—And now it’s time for us to fulfill our promise.

The slush voices blanked, replaced by a vast, amplified silence. Penelope could hear her heart, her eyes blinking, her blood as it pulsed through her veins. Her breasts and sex throbbed in the remnants of her sexual fantasizing.

Distantly a door opened. A bent block of light lolled across the floor. The orangish hue disappeared altogether, leaving only what she guessed must be moonlight. A figure came into the room, tiny in the distance and crisply black. It cast no shadow.

More and more Penelope felt pleasantly drugged. There was only lethargy and the intense, primitive horniness that made no sense. The figure stood at her feet now. Penelope recognized it at once as the woman in the black cape and hood, yet now she seemed younger and thin, like a girl in puberty. The white, smiling face gazed down through onyx black sunglasses.

—We wish we could be you.

But why should she wear sunglasses indoors? And, yes, she was very young, for her cape fell open and revealed small, predeveloped breasts and a hairless pubis.

Suddenly the girl seemed very sad.

Penelope was not herself and never would be. Images of sex remained stuffed into her head, stupefyingly precise. How could such thoughts, once terrifying, once her worst fears, now delight her to madness? Penelope, a virgin, cringed to be fucked.

—I have what you want right here. Our master’s gift.

“What?” Penelope was finally able to speak.

—YES, came the voice. But this voice was ragged and black. The single word concussed in her head.

It was a man’s voice.

Penelope moaned. She quivered in heat. The dim, silverish light seemed to smother her in lust.

The girl set something down and backed away. —We wish we could be you, she said sadly. Then she left.

Was someone breathing? Penelope heard a noise.

Grunting, she propped herself on her elbows. She looked past her bare feet at what the girl had left.

It was a bucket. It was just a bucket.

She fixed her eyes on it. The sound grew louder. It reminded her of gurgling, of respiration. Then—

Did something bulge over the bucket’s rim?

The gurgling quickly rose to an excited, wet sputtering. The bucket began to rock back and forth, over and over—

—until it tipped over.

A large puddle of dark slop poured out of the pail. It seemed brown, shining; it shifted slightly. Clumps of gurgling bubbles escaped its amorphous center. The mass floundered; it seemed to be straining upward…

Within the mass, a pair of lopsided white lumps emerged.

They were eyes.

It’s seeing me, Penelope slowly realized. Though merely blobs bereft of pupil and iris, these floating white lumps were seeing her.

The thing was staring at her. Did it desire her? Did her raw, sweating nakedness excite this…this thing? She thought so, for next it strained upward again, with much more force. Streams of bubbles spurtled out below the two white lumps.

Penelope giggled. She wished she could touch the atrocious mass. She wanted to put her feet in it and draw the bubbling slop between her legs, coddle the lumpy gelatin. The woman in black must be a witch, she thought, and giggled again, Witches. Devils. What else could explain the percolating thing before her? The woman in black must be a witch, and she’d conjured up this devil from Hell.

But why?

Now Penelope realized what the mass of glop was straining to do. It surged upward again. It held there, shaking. Then, something gave—

—and it stood up.

It stood before her like a man. In relief, it shivered. It had a lumplike head, stringy brown legs, and arms that sagged nearly to the floor.

—YES, she heard.

And the woman: —Yes!

The thing’s erection stood out like a knotted post.

Penelope sighed.

The thing chuckled.

In hitching, dripping slowness, it knelt sloppily between her legs and lay on her in a delicious, warm weight. Penelope cooed, already beginning to tremor in orgasm. Passions merged like intent plumes of flame; beauty and revulsion coalesced.

Then the face of held together muck lowered, dripping, and gave Penelope a big wet hot lumpy kiss…

—

CHAPTER 10

At the precise moment that a grossly maladjusted redhead named Penelope was, with much delight, losing her virginity to a man shaped cohesion of slop, an old joke prone conservative business major named Tom stepped into his dormitory room on the eighth floor of Clark Hall and witnessed what, within minutes, would describe the end of his life. What he saw, exactly, was an attractive woman sitting on his desk, wearing only a white blouse and high heeled shoes. That’s right—no skirt, no panties. And what this woman was doing, exactly, was masturbating. To say the least, this struck Tom as an oddity. When you walked into your dorm room well past 2 A.M., the very last thing you expected to see was an attractive woman sitting on your desk masturbating. No, you did not expect that at all. Especially when the woman was Winnifred Saltenstall, the wife of the dean of Exham College.

««—»»

Earlier Tom had stopped at the campus police station to see if his friend Jervis Phillips had involuntarily checked in for the night. The night cop, a rather bulbous young man known as Porker, was applying Giant brand peanut butter to a row of English muffins. He was using an ice cream scoop instead of a spoon.

“Excuse me, Officer Porker,” Tom said. “Anyone booked tonight?”

“No,” Officer Porker replied. He seemed addled by this intrusion. “You want to be the first?”

“Not really. Say, I saw in the Sears ad that they’re having a sale this week on backyard sheds.”

“So?”

“Thought you might want to know, in case you’re in the market for a new lunch box.”

Porker stopped clicking the scoop. “My patience is getting thin.”

“Yeah, but the rest of you sure isn’t.”

“You’ve got about a second to get out of here, McGuire.”

“A second? It’d take you that long just to get out of the chair.”

“That’s it.” Porker began to get up.

“All right, I’m leaving.” But Tom paused at the door. He could not resist. “Hey, Porker, here’s an old one. How do you get your mother into an industrial freight elevator?”

“How?” Porker asked.

“You grease the doorway and throw in a Twinkie!”

Tom roared laughter. Porker grabbed his nightstick, yelling, “McGuire, I’m gonna kick your motherfucking—”

Tom boogied, revved the Camaro, and split. What else am I going to do with all these jokes? he rationalized.

But cruising down Campus Drive, his levity waned. The night seemed creepily dry of life. Hollowness followed him back to the dorm like a tailgater, and soon odd thoughts probed his mind, thoughts that seemed like someone else’s, a mad person’s, perhaps. Rhythms of words whose meanings made no sense creaked back and forth in his brain. He heard colors and saw screams. Then he saw something else, much more clearly: a murky shape in spattered moonlight—a man. The man’s face was blacked out. He held a shovel in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other.

Tom’s stomach shimmied. He cringed at the image, almost veered off Pickman Way. One too many Spatens, he dismissed.

This, of course, all tracked spoor back to the last significant event of Tom’s evening. He rode the elevator up to 8. When he walked into his dorm room, what he heard was:

—He’s here.

What he saw was:

Winnifred Saltenstall masturbating on his desk.

And what he said, after an appreciable pause, was:

“What the hell are you doing!”

Mrs. Saltenstall’s face was flushed and lightly asweat. She’d been caught, not with her pants down, as the saying goes, but with them off. Her pose lost its tension, and she sat upright. “What’s it look like I’m doing?” she answered huffily. “I’m masturbating.”

Tom could only stare in disbelief. This situation required some consideration. When he finally spoke, the strain of forethought made the next sentence seem guillotined. “Why—is Dean Saltenstall’s wife—masturbating—uh—on my—desk?”

“I hate just sitting around, Tom.” She tossed her head, brushed back her hair. “I had to find something to do while we were waiting.”

“Waiting for what!”

“For you,” she said, and grinned.

Tom’s head seemed to tick. He stalled again. Waiting?

“We knew you’d get here eventually. So we waited.”

Waited. Get here. Waiting. “Then it was you in town. In Besser’s De Ville.”

“Uh huh,” she admitted. “We were driving around—scouting, you might say. We were looking for a suitable enlistee.”

“Why do you keep saying we? You mean you and Besser?”

“No, Dudley’s busy right now.” Winnifred’s grin spread as wide as her legs had been. “He’s helping our master.”

Madness, Tom thought.

“We,” she went on, “as in myself, and…her,” Winnifred Saltenstall pointed into the dark. “Your new sister, Tom.”

A shadow stood in the corner. Tom turned on the overhead. What stood there looking at him was a freakish hooded woman in a long black cloak and sunglasses. She grinned…hideously.

Fluid giggles floated up, like kindergarten kids laughing.

Madness, Tom thought again.

“We need you, Tom,” Winnifred said.

—You’ll be happy with us. Our master will be very happy.

Both women stepped forward. Winnifred continued, “We’re inviting you to take part in a miracle, Tom. We need you.”

The woman in black kept giggling in abrupt, wet bursts. On and off, on and off, the giggling went, like the sped up cackle of a band of witches. The sound made Tom want to puke.

Winnifred was giggling too. Her sparse trim of pubic hair showed unabashed, glistening from self excitation. A black pendant lay between her big, bloused breasts. It looked like an upside down cross. On her left hand was a square black ring. In her right hand she held—Tom’s eyes bulged—a hammer.

The woman in black was holding something too. It looked small, slender, sharp. It looked like a nail.

A nail? A hammer?

Her shaded gaze shifted in on him; she moved gently forward. Her lips were red. Her face was lustrous, perfect white.

Something glistened, and all at once Tom collapsed. Suddenly his neck hurt. He lay on the floor, paralyzed. Shadows stepped around him. Winnifred’s face smiled down like a godhead in the sky.

Did someone say “Destiny”?

The cloaked woman giggled some more. Tom felt numb. The black pendant swayed as Winnifred, girlishly uncoordinated, knelt very daintily and placed the nail in the center of Tom’s head.

««—»»

And at precisely the same time that Tom McGuire was being introduced to “destiny” in a most bizarre manner, Wade St. John was having a nightmare. In this nightmare, Professor Dudley Besser, as an inbred, cannibalistic creek person wearing size 54 overalls, was dragging screaming halter topped blondes onto a nighted swamp pier, stripping them and chopping them up neat as a butcher. Like a machine, the heavy cleaver chunked through flesh, bone, and wood. As he chopped, a pendant swung back and forth about his fat, dirt lined neck. Professor Besser’s eyes were dim silver, and when he opened his mouth, dim silver light came out, and a silver moon cast dim silver light onto the dead water. Professor Besser was chopping away like a regular one man slaughterhouse. Chunk, chunk, chunk, the cleaver went, all night long. Wade was sitting in a lawn chair at the end of the pier. He was reading a book and drinking a bottle of Samuel Adams lager. He knew this was a dream and was therefore unconcerned that his biology professor was dismembering naked blondes mere yards away. Wade supposed he would help the girls if this weren’t a dream, but it was, so he didn’t. A casual glance upward showed him that Besser had kicked his psychotic chicanery up a notch. The overalls had come down and now he was copulating with one of the torsoed blondes...or at least trying. His obesity prevented any effective intercourse and eventually he just said “Damn it!” and began masturbating with another girl’s severed hand.

Charming, Wade thought. Man, this is some fucked up dream.

The cold beer was great in the dank hanging midnight heat of the swamp, but the book he was reading was not so great. It had a girl on the cover, who was beautiful in a way that could not be described. Each page of the book was blood-red. There was writing on them but the writing was in some indecipherable language that was somehow mocking. Dream knowledge informed Wade that only women could read the weird glyphs; men could not. A great fear rose in him, and he threw the book into the swamp. The chunk, chunk, chunk of Besser’s chopping had ceased. Then a scream burst forth loud as a trumpet. Terror pricked up Wade’s back, plucked his skin. Murmurs drifted vaguely in front of him. What were they? When Wade gazed down the pier, he shrieked. Professor Besser lay belly down by a rotted piling. He was no longer dressed in creekman’s overalls but in the usual slacks, shirt, and tie. He lay very still. Oh, and one other thing: his head was gone. Wade wondered where it was. He thought: People don’t take heads. They take exams, they take vitamins, but they don’t take heads! This seemed a very workable social rule; you could generally count on it. But soon the whereabouts of Professor Besser’s head became immaterial. A far more pressing matter arose. The pieces of the girls Besser had chopped up began to reassemble. Pretty, severed legs hopped about, awaiting reclamation. Arms waited to be reconnected to proper shoulders, while torsos bellied through the pile of twitching limbs. One girl with high, pointed breasts twisted an arm off another girl’s shoulder. “That’s not your arm! It’s mine!” Another girl with a broad rump clumped footless through the pile. “Where’re my feet?” she asked. “Has anyone seen my feet?” Slowly but surely the group of butchered girls pulled themselves back together. Wade wasn’t too keen on confronting a bunch of reassembled—and probably very pissed off—women. But the only way off the pier was through them, unless…unless… Wade looked into the swamp water. It was black, mirror still, and it smelled nice, like perfume. I wonder if this bitch is deep, he asked himself. “Of course it’s deep,” chided the girl with the rump. But what was that rasping noise? Wade’s eyes nearly popped out of his head; the girl was sharpening her teeth with a crosscut file. Not good, Wade reasoned. The high breasted girl said, “It’s more than deep, Wade. It’s bottomless.” Wade opted not to jump in the water. He would just have to fight the girls, and was that so bad? It should be easy; women were the weaker sex, right? “Right,” one girl answered. She was petitely slender, ninety pounds if that, with little cupcake breasts. She picked up Professor Besser’s headless, three hundred pound body as if it were a bag of packing peanuts. “See how weak I am?” she said, smiling. She heaved the massive corpse past Wade, where it hit the water like a pallet full of mason blocks. The girls rejoiced in laughter. Wade pissed his pants. No more need be said of the weaker sex. The girls were all reassembled now—perfectly—with no signs of Besser’s methodical butchery. “Does my hair look all right?” one girl fussed. “Oooo, that fat guy broke one of my nails!” complained another. “Girls, girls,” reminded a third. “We have work to do.” “Woman’s work,” came the low chorus. Their eyes all focused on Wade, but were they eyes or dim silver gleams? Wade didn’t know. That was the problem with dreams—you never knew what was what. Was a cigar a phallic symbol, or just a goddamn cigar? The girls closed in on him now, stepping in time very slowly. The high breasted girl assumed the group’s speaking chores. “Wade St. John, it’s time for your sentence.” “Huh?” Wade intoned. “You are an affront to womankind,” she said. “You treat women as objects for your own pleasure.” “Not true!” Wade yelled back. “I have great respect for the female mind.” The girls on the pier laughed, and their laughter was a song of truth. Wade faltered. How many girls had he taken for granted, used, discarded? Dozens? he thought. The girls on the pier laughed. Probably more like a hundred. How many had he deceived for the mindless entity in his pants, lied to, cheated on, hurt? For the first time in his life—and in a dream, no less—he realized what a despicable sexist piece of shit he was. This was the sentence he’d been waiting since puberty to pay. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.” “Tell that to all the girls you treated like garbage, all the girls you used.” “I’ll repent!” he exclaimed. The girls on the pier laughed. But he would, by God, if only they’d give him the chance. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he muttered, then heard an absolutely bloodcurdling scream. A shadow moved away. Wade sat spread legged in the lawn chair, his jeans down. The women watched, their eyes full of dim silver light. But what were they watching, and who had screamed? Then Wade knew: his appeal had been revoked. The spokeswoman was saying, “…and your sentence shall hereby be executed at once.” It didn’t take Wade long to figure this one out. The girl who’d been filing her teeth stood before them all, chewing something with vigor. Wade finally recognized the scream—his own—and he looked down in horror to see that he no longer possessed a pair of testicles. Wade screamed again, long and hard, and the girls rejoiced at his horror. The girl with filed teeth grinned as her jaws worked enthusiastically on their new fruit. “They’re kind of crunchy!” she exclaimed. She rubbed her stomach and swallowed. Wade threw up. Then someone shouted, “The Mother’s coming!” “She’s coming back!” the leader rejoiced. “She’s accepting another sacrifice!” Wade was mortified; he gestured at his crotch. “Haven’t I sacrificed enough?” “Your balls go to us,” the leader said. “The rest of you goes to the Mother.” Wade was lifted up and held over the pier’s edge. Behind him something rose from the water, an entity vast, black and immense. Wade could no more describe it than describe the notion of how the universe was made. It was the Mother. That’s all he knew, and all he needed to know. Now he would learn exactly what had happened to Professor Besser’s head. Wade screamed as his own head was completely encased by a huge, wet, black mouth. The girls fell to their knees in worship. “The Mother,” they chanted. “The Mother.” Wade’s head was bitten off. It was swallowed whole down a silken esophagus and eventually landed in a cavern, atop a mountain of heads. There were thousands, or even millions, of heads here, deep in the Mother’s belly. Soon the heads began to be digested in the squirming black stomach. Wade whooped as his consciousness dissolved, feminine enzymes reverting his psyche to wet pulp, then granules, then ash. The ashes of Wade St. John mixed with the ashes of the other men, and over time the ashes were spewed from some tight, miles high orifice, sifting out in a trail over sunlit fields and sweet smelling landscapes of new plowed soil. Moist, pretty things grew from that soil, the loveliest things, through the ashes of Wade’s soul. In other words, Wade was fertilizer.

—

CHAPTER 11

Lydia Prentiss was staring at the single Marlboro 100. It beckoned her, like lust. Rather symbolically, it stood on end.

“Sladder’s not the perp,” she said. “I’ve told you ten times.”

Chief White had put her up in an empty lab at the sciences center. Yesterday she’d made a breakdown of the agro site as fast as she could. Department of agriculture officers had swarmed in just as she finished. They’d sealed the site “pending investigation.”

“You know what I think?” White said. “You’re grabbin’ for shit.”

All Lydia wanted was her cigarette and some sleep. She didn’t want to argue. “Chief, just look at the plain facts.”

“The plain facts are that Sladder was packin’ an illegal gun!”

“Illegally carried, but legally owned. Wake up, Chief. Security guards are notorious for carrying pocket pieces like this.”

“And I suppose you know exactly what kind of gun it was.”

“Sure, a Raven Arms Model P25. Costs about eighty bucks. Don’t they teach your men anything in the academy? All I had to do was call State Handgun Records and ask. Sladder bought the piece, legally, in 1981 from a local gun shop. The guy’s got no rap sheet at all. He’s never even had a traffic ticket.”

“Neither did the Boston Fuckin’ Strangler. He was still a nut.”

“Sladder had forty years of steady employment; his only black marks were a few reprimands for booze. He won medals in World War II.”

“I don’t give a shit. He was a rummy who carried an illegal handgun. That’s good enough for me.”

“Fine, Chief. Think what you want.”

White rolled a King Edward cigar in his mouth. “Just give me your technical conclusions, Prentiss, not lip service.”

The cigarette would be good now, real good. “My conclusions are as follows. Two or more perpetrators entered the agro site shortly after the power failure, about midnight. The girl, Penelope, was with him; several girls on the hall said she often visited the site at odd hours, to see the horses. In the horse stalls, she and Sladder stumbled onto one of the perps, the one with the ax. Here, Sladder sustained a serious injury to his right arm. I believe his arm was completely severed, judging by the trajectory of the bloodfall.”

White was shaking his head. Lydia continued, “At this point, Sladder and the girl retreated to the stablemaster’s office. They managed to dress Sladder’s wound. He tried to call for help but the phone box had already been destroyed. Shortly thereafter, the perpetrator’s attack continued. Sladder responded by firing six shots from the .25 pistol. I recovered five bullets from the stable floor. The sixth bullet hit one of the perps at the far exit. There’s bloodfall of a different type to verify this.”

White was rubbing his brow now, still shaking his head.

“At this point Sladder and the girl attempted to escape via the front exit. Less than ten feet from the door, Sladder was murdered. The amount of blood on the floor makes this obvious.”

White could brew no longer. He…blew up. “Arms cut off! Murder! That’s the fucked uppest bunch of shit I ever heard! We don’t even know that the blood is Sladder’s! We don’t even know he was the one who fired the gun!”

“The large bleeds are all A positive, Sladder’s type according to his health insurance forms. As for who fired the gun, Sladder’s partials are all over the dead brass. I ID’d his prints from his print card from the security office, and I got comparison prints of the girl by dusting common areas of her dorm room. They both left prints on the fence that was cut down, on the utility shed door, on the flashlights. I got their prints on baseboards, Chief, and the lower edge of the stable door. These people were on the floor—they were hiding from something.”

White tapped his cigar, trying to calm down. “Okay, Prentiss. If Sladder was murdered, where’s his body?”

“The perpetrators removed it.”

“And the girl? I suppose she was murdered too.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. There’s none of her blood on the site. My guess is she was abducted.”

“Abducted,” White repeated. “Umm hmm.”

“It’s a setup, Chief. There’s no sign of their bodies. Their vehicles were removed from the property. The girl’s purse and Sladder’s wallet were left behind—deliberately.”

“Why? Why go to all that trouble?”

“To keep us off track. They want to convince you that Sladder was the perp instead of the victim, and it looks like they’re doing a pretty good job. Fortunately, though, the real perps were careless. They took the gun but not the empty brass. They didn’t cover their footprints very well. They left ridge smears on the wallet and purse, proving that those objects were touched, wiped down, and replaced.”

White had inadvertently snapped his King Edward. “And you say Sladder’s arm was cut off? Where’d you come up with shit like that?”

“The fall patterns in the stable are literally textbook perfect.” She laid out snapshots of Sladder’s fall, then slid an opened book across the desk. The book was titled The Investigator’s Guide to Bloodfall: Drop Spread Pattern Analysis. The picture she opened to (labeled “Ambulatory dismemberment: right arm”) was almost identical to Lydia’s Polaroids. “See? Sladder’s fall is the same. His right prints are on the pitchfork in the tool stall; that’s what he was reaching for when the perp dropped the ax. He didn’t have time to get his piece out. You can even see the point angles exactly where he changed direction. And from this point on, Sladder stops leaving right hand prints.”

“I’m supposed to believe a sixty five year old rummy tied off his own stump without going into shock?”

“Guys slap tourniquets on themselves all the time. Humans do amazing things in life threatening situations. The girl probably helped him. Besides, Sladder was a marine infantry medic in the war.”

“So where’s the arm?” White asked.

“Probably buried in the woods, with the rest of him.”

“And where’s the car?”

“Probably buried under brush twenty miles away. The girl’s ZX, too.”

White let some time pass to cool off. He picked through her latent photos. “How the hell’d you get prints this clean? Most of the stables are whitewashed or bare wood.”

“Bare wood’s easy,” she said, unenthused. “I fumed the logical areas with iodine sulfate. The tougher ones I jobbed with mercuric oxide. Then I photographed everything with a Kodak 1x1. Each print is labeled and marked.” Actually this job had been easy. At D.C. she’d gotten admissible prints off of human breasts, crumpled paper bags, even chunks of crack. Once she’d sent a multiple rapo up for fifty years by getting his prints off a pair of a victim’s panties with a scanning electron microscope. The agro site had been cake. “This isn’t the stone age, you know,” she finally got around to saying,

White didn’t like that. He snorted smoke. “You show me a few pictures in some A hole textbook, some prints, and some blood types, and now you think you’ve got all the answers.”

“I don’t have anything close to all the answers, Chief. But I reconstructed the steps of the crime, which is what you told me to do. Could your men do better? Shit, Chief, those rednecks don’t know the difference between a fingerprint and a floral print. They think bloodfall is a town in Alabama.”

White didn’t like that either. His temper ticked. “You’re grabbin’ for shit, Prentiss. And if any of this winds up in the papers, you’re gonna be one sorry little girl.”

Lydia was drooping now at the lab table. “I’m not your enemy, Chief. I work for you, remember? Anyhow, I don’t know what you’re getting all whipped up about. The whole case revolves around the one thing we don’t have access to—the agro animals. Until the state finds out what happened to them, we have to tinker with every detail we can. That’s what a police investigation is.”

White toked a new cigar, smirking. “I don’t need you to tell me how to run a police investigation. Leave the concludin’ to me and we’ll get along fine. Go home now, get some sleep.”

It was a good idea; she’d been up twenty four hours now. White was going to believe what he wanted to believe. But there was still one thing… “I need your permission for something first. I want to try to get a line on the ax.”

White squinted. “The ax? You can’t run a make on an ax, girl. Everybody’s got axes.”

“I know, but this ax is different. The line of the blade is straight, and the left hone is planar. There was rust in the initial impactations.”

“Prentiss, what the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“A rust deposit left by an edged weapon can be analyzed. Different grades of steel are used in different tools and weapons. In other words, by analyzing the rust, you can sometimes determine the ductility and grade of the steel and possibly locate the manufacturer. But I’d need a good crime lab—”

“No,” Chief White said.

“Chief, this ax is so unique I might be able to match the steel grade to a manufacturer and locate the dealer who sold it.”

“No,” Chief White said. “You gotta be outta your mind. I’m not gonna authorize department time so you can run some silly test on a bunch of rust you found in a fence. It’s a dead end, Prentiss. It ain’t nothin’ but a fuckin’ ax.”

“Come on, Chief. I’ve got a hunch—”

“Go home,” White said. That was the final word. “Take tomorrow off. You been up so long you’re numb in the head.” White walked out, drawing a sheen of cigar smoke with him.

Lydia rubbed her eyes. Go home? she thought. What for? All that waited for her at home was her own loneliness.

The rust, she thought desperately. Yesterday she’d coped out the major impactations. Under the Braun microscope, the rust shimmered up at her, actually metallic at 75x. Maybe White was right; maybe the rust was a dead end.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t.

««—»»

“GODDAMN!” Wade shouted.

He stood frozen in his shorts. This morning’s Exham Sentinel shook in his hand. The headline read: “Wade Burned Again.”

The front page picture showed Wade shamefacedly signing tickets, while Officer Lydia Prentiss smiled aside.

Famed campus womanizer, scofflaw, and B.S. artist Wade St. John, above, learns the hard way that Exham police mean business with their new crackdown against drinking and speeding on campus roads. Chief H. C. White told reporters, “A college like Exham, kids tend to take things for granted. Responsible driving habits are part of being an adult, and if students ain’t gonna act like adults, then, by golly, they’re gonna pay. As for Wade St. John, we want to make an example of him whenever we can, since he represents the exact opposite of adult behavior.” Wade, now in his sixth year at Exham but with only a junior standing, averages ten traffic citations per semester, a campus record. It is rumored that Wade was forced by his father to take summer classes as punishment for low marks. A reliable yet undisclosed source stated that an additional punishment was initiated—that Wade has been forced to do something as yet unheard-of in his life: work a job.

“Goddamn!” Wade shouted again. This had to be illegal. Everyone on campus would read this!

Wade is reportedly working as part of the maintenance staff at Exham’s Crawford T. Sciences Center. Sentinel reporters set out to verify this rumor, at the office of Dean C. F. Saltenstall himself, where he was more than happy to address the question of the day. “Oh, it’s quite true. Wade is indeed working at the sciences center, cleaning toilets for minimum wage.”

Wade threw the paper out the window and cursed. The clock only compounded his humiliation; it was time for work.

He felt idiotic in his smock and rubber gloves. It took him two hours to clean the toilets on the first floor. His head ached, his throat was parched. Two hours was enough; he needed a break.

He staggered into the dark hall. There was a Coke machine around here somewhere. He tried to get his mind off the newspaper article but couldn’t. His reputation was ruined now, for good. But as he mused upon his anger, images of Officer Prentiss kept popping up. Don’t be a shithead, he thought. Why bother thinking of her? To her, he was a symbol of antithesis. Perhaps that explained his attraction to her; Wade liked a challenge. He’d had plenty of challenges in his life, and he’d melted a lot of feminine ice in his time. Yes, Wade the Conqueror.

Ooops. There he went again, violating the warning of last night’s dream. The pier girls would haunt him for a long time. Was it in his genes to view women as objects, as trophies for his social and sexual hunting board?

Behind him a door pulled open. Wade turned. A figure advanced from the doorway and nearly walked into him.

“Jesus!” they both said. The figure was Officer Prentiss.

“I was just thinking about you,” Wade enthused. “Just now.”

Lydia Prentiss winced. “You again,” she muttered. She slipped past him down the hall. Wade scampered to follow.

“What are you doing here?” he jabbered, keeping up.

“Police business, which means none of yours.”

Police business? In the sciences center? She walked on, ignoring him. Wade couldn’t fix a good look at her. She was about to drop money in the Coke machine, then she turned. “Please don’t stand so close, Mr. St. John. You smell like mop water.”

This pricked him. “You would, too, if you’d just cleaned as many toilets as I have. Oh, and thanks for spreading my personal business all over the front page of the paper.” His eyes scanned down her back. Long legs, trim waist. Her beautiful bright blond hair hung unbound to her neckline. But her face remained unseen.

I’ve…got to see her face, Wade reflected.

“I was just giving you the tickets you rightfully deserved,” she said. “It’s not my fault the Sentinel was around.” Then she took her Diet Coke from the machine’s mouth and went back down the hall.

Wade followed her, like a puppy. She was working in one of the 400 level bio labs, at a counter full of books, snapshots, and unidentifiable kits, containing brushes, and bottles. Something like a tensor lamp with a carrying handle arched up on its stem. An odd blue light bulb filled its head. What was all this stuff?

She turned and frowned. “You’re still here?”

And that’s when Wade got his look at her face. Officer Prentiss’ beauty glared at him like a bright light, and it was not in any way akin to the brainwashing, socio high fashion beauty that he, as well as the rest of the Western world, had been taught to glorify. This was far more complex than high cheekbones, eye makeup, and vulpine sneers. Too many elements poured into its enigma. Stark yet deeply fluid. Hard yet soft. Cool blue yet fringed with sweetness, which hid searing heat. She was a car crash of contradiction reassembled—like the women in the dream? Her eyes were fine etched, liquid gray.

She thumped down on a stool, paying him no mind. She seemed tired before the spread of notepads, diagrams, and clutter.

“Hey, what’s this?” Wade asked, and picked up a tiny bottle.

“It’s osmium tetroxide, and it’s poisonous. Don’t touch it.”

He picked up the thing that looked like a tensor lamp. “What’s this thing?”

“An ultraviolet spotter. Don’t touch it.”

He picked up a fat book. “This the new Clancy?”

“Not quite. Put it down. And please leave.”

Next he picked up some Polaroids. “What’re… Hey—”

She snatched them away.

“Those looked like pictures of bloodstains.”

“It’s called fall, Mr. St. John, and it’s not your concern.”

“Please, call me Wade.”

Lydia Prentiss slumped. “Mr. St. John, I have a lot of work to do here. I haven’t slept in a day, and what I need less than anything in the world right now is a con man rich kid punk standing over my shoulder—”

“I’m not a con man,” Wade informed her.

“—so I’ll try to say this as politely as possible. Go away! Get out! I’m busy!”

“All right already,” Wade said. “See you later.”

“Hopefully not.”

Is it my imagination, or does this girl hate my guts? Women simply did not treat him like this. He turned at the door, raised a finger. “How would you like me to do you a big favor?”

“I wouldn’t,” she said.

“I know this great little Italian place just out of town.”

The sheer incredulity of this premise caused Lydia Prentiss to glare. “You expect me to go out with you?”

“Yeah. What do you say?”

“I’d sooner drink my own urine,” she replied.

I guess that means no, Wade thought. But no was not an answer he was accustomed to taking. “I’m Wade St. John, the Wade St. John. I’m offering you a rare privilege. Girls stand in line to go out with me. I’m the best known person on this campus.”

“No force on earth could make me be seen in public with the likes of you,” Lydia Prentiss clarified.

Wade visibly winced. He’d met friendlier junkyard dogs. “Is there any reason in particular why you’re shitting all over me?”

And what he saw in her eyes just then—her cool, pretty, luminous gray eyes—was a wide open furnace of disdain. Disgust flattened her words to monotone when she said, “You’re nothing but a spoiled rotten rich brat full of family money and bullshit joyriding through life on a silver platter. You’re the bottom of the barrel, St. John. I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last living thing on this planet.”

Wade left. The toilets would be better company than this. You win some, you lose some, he thought, but this is ridiculous.

It was possibly the first time in his life that Wade St. John had actually had his feelings hurt.

—

CHAPTER 12

—WAKE, bid the voice.

Tom’s eyes opened.

IT’S TIME.

Tom sat up, then stood. He stretched and grinned.

“Master,” he whispered.

He knew everything at once—things no one else knew, wondrous, miraculous things. The knowledge was a gift, like his new destiny.

“Destiny,” he whispered.

He felt a surge of life reaching out from his brain. There was a big bump on his head, but it didn’t hurt. In the mirror he examined his reflection and saw the tiny bruise on his throat, like a bite mark.

“Thanks, Master,” Tom McGuire said aloud to his room. He threw his head back and laughed, blushing a great and overwhelming joy. And there was more.

There was a black dot on the wall.

It was beautiful somehow. It was like art. A pendant hung around his neck, he discovered. It, too, was black and equally beautiful. He touched its warm cruciform shape and shivered.

I can do anything, he thought.

He started with the small stuff. He crimped coins with his fingers. He bent a pair of scissors in half, crushed a metal file drawer like an accordion. Concentrating, he punched a hole into the center of his desk, then he picked up his History 202 text, History of a Free People, and tore it in half.

At once the Supremate’s voice was in his head, like a chord:

—OURS IS A SACRED MISSION, MANIFOLD IN DESIGN, HOLY IN PURPOSE. WE NEED YOU TO DO WHAT WE CANNOT.

“I am your servant forever,” Tom said to the air.

—I GIVE YOU STRENGTH, WISDOM, ETERNAL LIFE.

Tom couldn’t resist. “Your wish is my command.”

The Supremate’s voice steepened in silence. —JOIN US NOW IN A GREAT DESTINY. YOU WILL BE WORSHIPED SOMEDAY.

The word slipped around his head, fine as brandy in a snifter. Worshiped, he thought. Like a…god.

“I will do anything…”

—WORK STEADFAST AND ALONE IN THE DAY, AND WITH MY DAUGHTERS AT NIGHT. THEY WILL GUIDE YOU INTO THE REALM OF AN IDEAL THAT KNOWS NO FLAW.

Tom could only nod now, bliss choking out his words.

—TOGETHER, TOM, WE WILL MAKE HISTORY.

««—»»

Lydia Prentiss jerked out of sleep, not terrified but shaking from some monumental despair. She grimaced at the clock: 6 P.M.

Gradually stabs of her dreams re formed. She’d dreamed of dead, bloated animals. She’d dreamed of anthracene headaches, fingerprint tape, and blurred vision from too much UV light. She’d dreamed she found Sladder’s arm. It was withered and gray, the hand drawn into a claw. She’d been injecting glycerin under the fingertips to distend the ridge patterns when the arm twitched to life, its claw hand snatching for her throat…

The sweat on her skin felt chill when she got up. She always slept nude for it made her feel less lonely—often she’d wake with her arms wrapped about the pillow, a stuffed dummy for a lover.

She purged herself in the shower. The water felt wonderful. White had given her a couple days off; he wanted her out of the way until the people from the state left. He would downplay it all, to believe the safest scenario. White was a horse wearing blinders.

Forget it. Think about something else. She soaped herself, imagining someone else was doing it. Some strong beautiful man’s hand glided the sudsy bar around her breasts and stomach.

She gave in, closed her eyes. Then the fantasy showed Sladder’s hand on her flesh. She rushed out to dry herself, grimacing.

“You know what your problem is, Lydia?” she asked the mirror. “You treat everyone like garbage because it’s easier than facing the fact that you’re a rotten, detestable cunt. No wonder nobody likes you. No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

The mirror didn’t argue.

It was all true, she knew that. She pictured herself going from job to job, place to place, with no one. She would grow old and die alone—a wizened wretch.

She sat down naked on the bed, already bored. Television was useless, she hadn’t watched it in months. On the nightstand, next to her Colt Trooper Mark III, yesterday’s Marlboro stood on end. She’d been too tired to smoke it, so tonight she could have two, which mildly excited her. The cigarette thing was the only promise she hadn’t broken. The others lay in pieces about her life.

Absently she looked down at her feet, her legs, her clean pubic hair and belly button. She had a nice tan already. No one knew that lying on the apartment roof was the bulk of her social life. She always wore a minuscule string bikini. She jogged every day, worked out with dumbbells, and did lots of sit ups to keep her stomach flat. Why she worked so hard to remain physically attractive mystified her: she showed her body to no one, and hadn’t in years. She presumed she was attractive but was unimpressed by the presumption. She’d read in Cosmo that women who felt ugly on the inside compensated for that by making themselves beautiful on the outside. The idea distressed her.

She glanced secretively at the blinds. They were closed, not that anyone could peep in at her on the third floor. She felt silly. She parted her legs, then gently touched herself with her finger. Why should she be embarrassed? Everybody did it, didn’t they? She’d also read in Cosmo that even women with active sex lives masturbated regularly. Well, then…

She filled her head with pictures of muscular men. Broad hands roamed her breasts and thighs, hard penises rubbed against her. Mouths kissed her neck and sucked her nipples. In her mind, she was penetrated and humped by a gorgeous, curved cock. But…

Nothing. Perhaps so much conceit had turned her the other way. She thought of women making love to her but flinched at once. No, this was no good at all. Her finger slackened; the inlet of her supposed passion felt as cold and unresponsive as the rest of her.

She knew the reason. No one liked her because she didn’t like herself enough to let them. The one lover in her life she’d chased away with her sarcasm and ridicule. She was awful to everyone. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? Easier to just be awful.

She’d been awful to Wade St. John, and she’d delighted in it. What was wrong with her? How could I have said those things to him? He was just a harmless punk kid and she’d gone after him like a shark to blood, as if by natural response.

At once she was disgusted with herself.

Lydia Prentiss stood up. Isn’t this ridiculous? A college-educated twenty six year old nude female police officer making promises to a wall? Yes, it was ridiculous, but just the same, to the wall she made her vow: “I am not going to treat people like garbage anymore. I will not look down on others, and I will not be unkind. I am going to be a good person, and I’m going to start right now.”

She heard the world laughing.

««—»»

And as Lydia Prentiss made promises to a wall, a girl named Penelope blinked and breathed and fidgeted, jammed immobile and plumply swollen in a sheen of some hot, mucoid slime, her face stupidly collapsed against what was now her home.

Her big, squashed eyes stared out, aglow.

—

CHAPTER 13

“Hey, Jerv,” Wade greeted. “Am I interrupting something?”

Jervis turned guiltily. “Uh, no,” he said. There was another guy in Jervis’ room—greasy hair, gaunt face, tacky sports clothes. He looked like a bookie. He gave Wade a fast once over.

“If you have any problems,” the guy said to Jervis, “call me.”

Jervis nodded. The guy slipped past Wade and left.

“Who was that slimeball?”

“Just a friend,” Jervis said. “Have a Kirin.”

Wade got the message that Jervis didn’t want to talk. He opened a Kirin from Jervis’ fridge. The Japanese made beer of notable quality, like their torpedo bombers. “Missed you last night, man. Tom and I went out and had a few beers. We were a little worried.”

Jervis sipped his own Kirin from his desk, inspecting something that looked like a pocket radio. “I was studying at the library.”

Right. Studying. Never mind that classes don’t start till next week. “Well, we’ll be partying again tonight, so you can catch up.”

“Can’t make it tonight either,” Jervis said.

“Why the hell not? We got bad breath or something?”

Jervis went to the fridge for another Kirin. He was acting…funny. “I got some personal business, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Wade said. He wandered to the desk, picked up the radio. A sticker on the back read: “49MHz Simplex Receiver Unit. Not for commercial use, not for sale.”

“Jerv, what’s this ridiculous thing?”

“Just a transistor radio.”

“Oh, yeah? Forty nine megahertz? That’s not a very popular station—it’s off the dial.”

Jervis frowned. He pulled the end off a Carlton and lit up.

“Jerv, Jerv,” Wade said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“It’s still this Sarah thing, isn’t it? I don’t know what you’ve got cooking, I don’t know what this thing is, and I don’t know who that scuzzy looking guy was. All I know is my best friend is weirding out. You’ve got to let Sarah go.” Every time Wade said “Sarah,” Jervis winced. “You’re starting to scare the shit out of us, man. We think maybe you’re cracking a little.”

Jervis smiled like a ghost. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“All right, I get the message.” Wade got up, “You seen Tom?”

“I saw him leaving earlier, couple of hours ago, I guess.”

Great, Wade thought. I’ll be drinking alone tonight. “Later.”

“Hey, Wade…don’t worry about me, okay?”

Wade stopped and turned at the door.

“I’m not cracking up. It’s just that I’ve got something going right now. A quest, a cleansing. Like the Sartre novel.”

Not that Sartre shit again, Wade fretted. The fucker’s been dead ten years and he’s still fucking up people’s lives.

Jervis gulped smoke and continued. “Don’t worry about me. You and Tom are my best friends. Just trust me on this, okay?”

“Sure, Jerv. We’re always around if you want to talk.”

Wade went back to his own room. He didn’t like any of this. It was bad enough to lose a friend to outside forces, but inside forces were worse. They were the ones that tore you apart.

He felt depressed. The whole day had been depressing, cleaning toilets, mopping floors. Being shit on by Officer Prentiss hadn’t exactly livened him up either. He was getting himself a bottle of Adams when he heard footsteps in the hall.

He ducked out and saw Tom disappear into his room.

“Hey! Hey, Tom! Are we…”

Tom’s door closed. Had he been carrying something under his arm? It looked like a briefcase or something.

Wade strode down the hall, pushed open Tom’s door. “You must need a hearing aid. Are we going downtown tonight or what?”

Tom wasn’t in the room. Wade looked around slowly. He was sure he’d seen Tom enter, or at least he thought he was sure. He checked the bathroom, the closet. Tom wasn’t here.

Wade sputtered back to his room. The hall was dark; maybe Tom had gone to the exit stairs at the end of the hall, or maybe it had been someone else, a new student coming on. Or maybe—

Or maybe Lysol fumes are making me see things, he finished.

He had to find something to do tonight—there were only a few more days before classes started. Call up an old flame, he decided. Shit, he had enough old flames to start the Chicago fire. There were lots of girls who’d drop everything this minute to go out with him. He called Melissa over on the Hill, a gal who really knew her stuff. “Melissa, baby! This is Wade. Sorry I didn’t return your call the other day, but you know how it is.”

“No, Wade, I don’t. So tell me. How is it?”

“Well, you know, babe. I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, I heard. Sorry, I don’t go out with toilet cleaners.”

“I—I—”

Click.

Next number. Wendy. Yeah. Real hot stuff. “Wendy, baby! This is Wade. You want to go out tonight? Dinner, a few drinks, a little cruising around in the Vette?”

“Well,” she said. “How about…no?”

“What do you mean no? We went out a lot last semester.”

“You didn’t clean toilets last semester either. What gall!”

Wade hung up. Don’t get discouraged, he thought slowly.

Wade got discouraged. Quickly.

He tried six more girls and struck out six more times. Nobody wanted to go out with guys who cleaned toilets—they’d all read the paper. In one day he’d gone from status symbol to comedy symbol.

The phone rang, a further mocking shrill. “Toilet Cleaners, Inc.,” he answered. “You flub ’em, we scrub ’em.”

Silence like reluctance stretched across the line. Then a dryly sexy woman’s voice inquired, “Is this Wade St. John?”

“Yes, it is, or what’s left of him.”

A long pause. Then: “This is Lydia Prentiss.”

Now it was Wade’s turn to pause. Hang up! Hang up! his thoughts barked. Don’t talk to the bitch! Hang up!

But he couldn’t. Somehow, he simply…couldn’t.

“You’re lucky you caught me,” he said. “I was just about to go out for some ‘joyriding through life on a silver platter.’ You know, a ‘spoiled rotten rich brat’ like me tends to keep active. Must be all that ‘family money and bullshit’ keeps a guy slick. This is quite a surprise, though. I didn’t know the ‘bottom of the barrel’ had a listing in the phone book. What can I do for you?”

Her voice faltered in snatches. “Mr. St. John, I’m calling to…” She sighed, almost forlornly. “I feel terrible about the things I said to you this morning.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, I really do.” She actually sounded choked up. “I don’t know what got into me. I had a really bad day in the first place. I got in an argument with my boss, then you walked in and I took it all out on you. I’m really sorry.”

“In other words, you’re…apologizing?”

“Yes,” she said.

Hmm. This could be interesting. “Well, it just so happens that I’m a very forgiving kind of guy, and, yes, I accept your apology.”

“Thank you,” she uttered.

“But of course apologies are just rhetoric, just talk, and talk lacks meaning. Don’t you agree?”

“Well—”

“And the best way for you to prove the meaning of your apology is to go out with me. Tonight. So what time do I pick you up?”

Now her pause raced for an exit. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

“Oh, I see,” Wade said. “You’re just apologizing to clear your conscience.”

“It’s not that. It’s—”

“I know. You’d sooner drink your own urine than go out with me. Who writes your stuff, by the way? Rickles?”

“No, please. I…”

“That’s all right, I accept your apology anyway. Good night.”

Wade calmly hung up. He dropped his empty Adams bottle into the trash compactor and got himself another. When the phone rang again, he answered, “Joe’s Used Silver Platters. May I help you?”

“I’ll go out with you,” Lydia Prentiss said.

“Smart girl. Where do you live?”

“I’ll just meet you someplace.”

“All right. The Exham Inn? Nine o’clock?”

“That’s fine,” she said. “I’ll see you then.”

Confidence returned. He busied to get ready. Who knew? Perhaps the day wouldn’t be a complete catastrophe after all.

««—»»

The dark office tingled in the Supremate’s influence. Tom liked that. He liked the dark and its dim silver edge.

Hope this is the right stuff. Botching his first assignment was no way to begin an eternal relationship. Eternal. The word seemed to glow. I give you strength, the Supremate had promised. Wisdom. Eternal life.

Besser hadn’t been pleased with Tom’s methods. “Sloppy,” he complained. “We can’t afford that, not this early.” He grumbled further, flipping through the folders. “Be more careful in the future. At this stage, an influx of police would cause problems.”

Tom didn’t understand. “Who cares about the police? The Supremate has made us immortal.”

“You, yes. But not Winnie and me.”

Tom gave that one some thought. It didn’t add up.

“You’re one to talk, Dudley, about being careful.” Winnifred Saltenstall sat back in a chair. She looked bored. Her hand moved idly beneath her dress. Is that all she ever does? Tom wondered.

Besser’s hog jowls tensed. “What do you mean by that?”

Winnie laughed. “Look at the mess you left at the agro site. Talk about sloppy. You left footprints, bloodstains. You didn’t even pick up the empty bullets. I heard my husband talking to White about it. He’s got that new police officer working on it. She used to be an evidence technician.”

“White’s just pacifying the dean,” Besser argued. “He’s a brownnose; the police have nothing, and even if they did, White would bury it. He knows a campus murder would jeopardize his job.”

“You better hope so, Dudley—”

Tom smiled at their silly bickering.

“—and would you please send that thing away,” she was saying.

It took Tom a moment to catch on. She means me, doesn’t she? Send that thing away. Me.

“Don’t be unkind, Winnie. Tom’s part of the family now.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s unnerving,” she fussed. “Tell it to go.”

Tom didn’t like being called an it or a thing. He looked at her very blankly. He wondered. He just wondered.

Besser was pretending not to be on the spot, the fat, no balls wimp. Tom knew who wore the real pants in that relationship. Besser just said: “Winnie and I, and the sisters, of course, have to get Penelope ready. Things didn’t work out, the poor girl. It couldn’t be helped, so there’s no reason to feel bad about it.”

I could care less, Tom thought.

“Meet us back here in an hour,” Besser instructed.

“Yes, sir, an hour. No problem.”

“Oh, and Tom?”

“Yes, sir?”

Besser’s bald spot gleamed. “Bring a shovel.”

—

CHAPTER 14

She’s not going to show, Wade felt convinced. The Mitchell’s Brewery clock over the mantel showed 9:15. He should’ve known.

He sat sipping an Adams at the upstairs rail. Several girls sauntered in. They looked at him and immediately burst into laughter. “Hey, Wade!” one called out. “How’s the new job—”

“—cleaning toilets!” added a second.

“—for minimum wage!” finished a third.

“Laugh it up,” he muttered. He didn’t even care anymore; there was no more face left to save. His depression rose to new peaks.

When Lydia Prentiss walked in, Wade didn’t even notice her—that is, he noticed the full tilt blonde who stood scanning the bar, he just didn’t realize it was her. She stood skintight in stone washed black jeans and scarlet high heels, and a bright yellow tube top which her breasts filled to its physical limit. Then she spotted him and walked up.

“Hello, Mr. St. John.”

“Woe ah!” Wade said.

“Sorry I’m late. I don’t have a car so I took a cab.”

“Hemmina, hemmina, uh,” Wade said. “Let’s get a booth. It’s more private.”

“Okay.”

On the way to the rear booths, Wade stepped on his shoelace, tripped, and fell. Heads turned, some chuckles rose up. Suddenly Wade was the town fool.

“Are you drunk?” she asked.

“No, I swear. I draven’t hunk—I mean I haven’t drunk a thing all day.”

She just shook her head, faintly smiling. He felt much better in the booth. Stationary now, he thought. Back in control. Go get her, King of Charisma. “What would you like?”

She relaxed in the padded booth. “I think I’ll have a beer.”

But all Wade could see was her—her beautiful body, her beautiful face. She was radiant. “Kut bind of weer?” he asked.

“Huh?”

Idiot! “I mean, what kind of beer?”

She scanned the beer list with interest. As a rule, women always ordered either Michelob Light or Corona. Wade saw no point in the existence of light beers, and as for Corona, he refused to drink anything with the same name as the end of a penis.

“Surprise me,” she said.

He ordered an Adams for himself and an Old Nick for her, neglecting to mention that Old Nick had more alcohol than any beer in the house.

He was grinning at her, enraptured. He felt charged with nervous current. Her beauty was too much to perceive at once. Say something! a voice like an alarm ordered. Make conversation!

Brilliantly he inquired, “So, tell me about yourself.”

“I think I’d be more interested in hearing about you first.”

“Ask anything you want. My life’s an open book.”

“An open comic book, by the looks of you now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re grinning like Alfred E. Newman. You’ve asked me kut bind of weer I want, and sworn you draven’t hunk a thing all day. And to top it off, you tripped over your own two feet. Are you this smooth with all the girls?”

At that moment, the beers came. When Wade went to pour, he knocked his over. Half the bottle emptied into his lap.

Lydia Prentiss could suspend her laughter no more. The waitress was laughing too, and so were several patrons. Wade bounced to his feet, a sweating, grinning idiot. “Excuse me,” he said, and marched stiffly to the men’s room. Before the mirror, he shouted: “What the hell is wrong with you! You’re making a jackass out of yourself in front of quite possibly the most beautiful woman on earth!”

The mirror was warped; his head looked slanted. Two guys at the urinals were laughing it up real good.

It was the foreignness of the situation that was causing this debacle. Something—perhaps everything—about Lydia Prentiss had pulled the rug out from under his social feet. Wade had commanded virtually every encounter in his life that involved women. But now…now…

Now it was all gone. This female cop had reduced him to a gibbering nudnik in the space of five minutes.

Control, he thought. I must regain control.

He stared himself down. Then, as hard as he could, he slapped himself in the face.

There. Now. Ready.

He went back to the booth, mindful of his shoelaces. He sat down carefully. In his absence, she’d put a good dent in her Old Nick. “This stuff’s pretty good,” she admitted.

“I may not know trigonometry but I do know beer.” He ordered another round, and pointed to the cigarette she’d set up on end before her. “Aren’t you going to smoke that?”

“Not yet.” She seemed dreamy, relaxed. “I’m going to look at it awhile first. I allow myself only one per day.”

“Oh, yeah? My friend Jervis allows himself four per day. Four packs.” He sipped his Adams for moral support and began: “Sorry about making a spectacle of myself. I must have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed today.”

“Well, I’m sorry too,” she said, looking down. “About this morning, I mean. I’m not always like that.”

Wade rubbed his hands together. “Okay, now that we’ve got that settled, let’s start over again.”

And something quite unusual followed. A kind of bridge rose between them, a pleasant neutrality that lacked the pressure of appearances. For the next hour and a half they…talked. A day ago they’d been antagonists, but now they each provided buried commonalities. He told her things about himself in ways she found amusing. He told her far more than he planned. He told her about his school problems, his inabilities at decision making, the situation with Dad. She told him about her work problems, her inabilities in respecting others, the situation with Chief White and the other police. A wordless conclusion came at the end, that they both dealt with their problems from the wrong angles. Wade was fleeing from himself by being what others expected him to be, while Lydia made the same flight by being just the opposite. Wade seemed to be providing something she desperately needed without knowing it, and it occurred to him that he was probably seeing a part of her that no one else had for some time. In the course of an evening, they’d become each other’s confessors. A few shreds of their shadows had been freed.

Afterward they looked bewildered at each other. A shocking acknowledgment exchanged. Did I say all that? he thought. And did she say all that? To me? Lydia looked down and gulped. “Wow, I… I didn’t mean to drag you through my whole life.”

“I did some dragging of my own. Look” —he touched his Adams— “our beers got warm. It’s not just any woman who can divert me from my beer.”

“I’m honored. Order some more. I’ll be right back.”

She excused herself for the obvious. Wade felt pleasantly exhausted, and still bewildered. The place had become packed. Up front was standing room only. Abruptly, though, the crowd began to quiet and part. People were frowning. They were making way for someone, someone big. Then Porker lummoxed through.

“Well, well. Wade St. John, every toilet’s favorite guy.”

“Aw, Porker, tough luck. The all you can eat pasta bar is closed.”

“You’re a funny guy, St. John. And you were real funny on the front page of the paper today.”

“Thanks… Say, have you lost weight?”

Porker ignored the comment. His shadow engulfed the entire table. He and Besser would make a great tag team: the Blobsy Twins or something. “Who you here with?” Porker demanded. “Your deadbeat friends? Or one of your usual fast lane bimbo types?”

Wait’ll you see, big guy, Wade thought, ’cause here she comes.

Porker’s mastodonic physique turned. He gaped, balloon faced in lust. The sight of Lydia nearly caused him to fall backward, which surely would’ve collapsed the entire brass and wood bar. “H hi, Lydia,” he yammered. “You’re sure lookin’ good tonight.”

“Thank you,” she said. Very primly then, and to Porker’s complete outrage, she sat down across from Wade.

Porker’s hooded pig eyes flashed panic. “Y you’re with him?”

“That’s right,” she answered.

“D don’t you know who that is?”

“Yes, Porker, I do. I’m a big girl now.” She flashed him a seductive white smile. “But would you do me a favor?”

“Yuh yuh yeah.”

“Don’t tell anyone, okay? The chief might get the wrong idea.”

“Sh sh sure, Lydia.”

Her smile brightened. Her crossed arms drew closer, to articulate her breasts. “Promise?”

Porker gulped, staring. “Pruh pruh promise, sure.”

Wade was duly amused. This wasn’t body language, it was body hypnosis. Porker’s portable radio squawked, and as he answered it his eyes remained riveted to Lydia’s breasts. Then he snapped it off. “Shit! We gotta big nine out on the Route!”

“See ya,” Lydia said.

Porker hustled out. “What’s a nine?” Wade asked her.

“Traffic accident. White probably needs him for a roadblock.”

“I hope you’re not going to get in trouble being here with me. I don’t guess police are allowed to fraternize with students.”

“I can deal with it,” she said.

Before Wade could say anything more, Porker rushed back in. “Lydia! I just got another call after the nine. Vandalism out at North Admin. Chief White wants you to check it out.”

“I’m off duty,” Lydia objected. “Send someone else.”

“There is no one else—the whole shift’s on the Route. A gas truck jackknifed, spilled gas all over the place. Come on, take the call. It’ll only take you a few minutes.”

Lydia frowned. “All right.”

Porker was gone again, and Lydia was regretting, “Looks like I—” She slackened suddenly. “Shit, I forgot! I don’t have a car!”

Wade smiled. “Don’t worry. I have a car.”

««—»»

Wade floored the Vette out of the inn’s lot, dumping 400 plus horsepower onto the hardball. He did zero to sixty in four seconds. Lydia’s gorgeous bright blond hair was a flying mane. “Slow down!” she yelled.

Nonsense, Wade thought. The Vette sucked down onto the road as he slowed off the exit and blew through the campus gate. A minute later he side skidded to a halt at the front steps of North Admin.

“Jesus Christ!” she yelled. “That’s a highway, not the Indy 500!”

“Relax,” Wade said. “I got you here in” —he looked at his watch— “less than three minutes.”

“Come on,” she said.

North Administration was the main records hall. It stored all student personnel files and all the medical files for the campus health clinic. Lydia’s high heels clipped along the floor. Behind, Wade watched her figure traverse in the tight black jeans.

“Hey, you kids! What’cha doin’ there?”

A bent duffer with a red nose approached, holding a mop. Wade sympathized with him. Lydia flashed her badge and ID.

“Damn,” the janitor said. “I only called three minutes ago.”

Wade smiled proudly.

“I’m Officer Prentiss. You reported some vandalism?”

“That’s right. While I was buffin’ the north wing floors, I noticed the clinic door open, and I know I locked it earlier. First thing I see is the door frame split, like it was kicked in, and I notice file drawers open, folders layin’ about. Come on.”

He took them several doors down and turned on the light. The clinician’s desk sat adorned with Hummel curios, a Cross desk set, and a petty cash box. “Don’t touch anything,” Lydia said. The whole scene distracted her, and Wade, too, felt the wrongness of the room. Several file drawers hung open, and a lot of folders had been tossed around the room, but that was it.

“This sure is patsy vandalism,” Wade said. “They busted in just to throw a bunch of files?”

“This isn’t vandalism, it’s burglary,” Lydia said.

“Right. Blind burglars?” He gestured at the desk. “They left the desk set, the clock, the cash box?”

“That’s not what they were after.” She bent over the violated file cabinets. Someone had forced the drawers open.

“The files?” Wade asked.

Lydia nodded. “They knew exactly which ones to hit, too.”

“But who would want a bunch of files?”

Lydia didn’t answer. She breathed on the metal cabinets. “Will you take me back to the station for a minute? I need some things. I’ll also need you to help me, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. I’ve got nothing to do.”

She got the janitor’s name and sent him on his way. Before they left, she stopped to examine the door. The doorknob was gone. Knocked off, Wade guessed. “Hey, here it is,” he said, looking in.

“Don’t touch it!” Lydia exclaimed.

They both stooped over. It hadn’t been knocked off, it looked crushed. Wade glanced at the door frame itself. “Take a look,” he said.

It was hard to see at first. A palmprint had been embedded in the wood. Closer inspection revealed more. It wasn’t a print—it was an indentation. But this was a solid wood door!

Lydia exhaled on the impression, checking for a ridge pattern. When Wade stepped back to give her light, he stepped on something. He could feel it under his shoe.

He looked down and flinched.

It was a beer cap.

He picked it up quickly, careful to conceal it from her. He knew it was tampering with evidence, but the cap provided a disturbing giveaway; he knew it at a glance. It was gold with a trademark: a malt shovel and the red Gothic letters “München Spaten Oktoberfest.”

««—»»

Tom poured back the rest of his Spaten Oktoberfest. Damn, it was good! Malty but not harsh. Smooth, and a pleasant aftertaste. Prime stuff, that was for sure.

Rebirth, he thought. The night was his home now, his sanctuary and his power. What more could a natural man ask for? Good beer, a good car, and…immortality. He drove the Camaro through quiet campus roads, looking around, seeing, feeling. Everything was new, and everything old was behind him. Forever.

Who are they? he wondered. Or what?

Tom laughed out loud. His laughter trumpeted, and cracked echoes into the night. It sounded like cannon fire.

“Rebirth!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

It didn’t matter who they were, really, or what.

Did it?

“Destiny!” Tom shouted.

He swigged his beer and opened another.

The Camaro roared off back to the sciences center.

—

CHAPTER 15

Jervis sat in darkness before the open window. The yellow quarter moon barely cleared the flat roof of the opposing eight-story dorm, Lillian Hall. Jervis smoked, drank, and waited.

Waiting for the truth, he pondered. It’ll be arriving soon.

Czanek’s phantom brand receiver came with the price. Jervis extended its antenna. To his left stood the telescope, already focused on the black second story window. It was a Bushnell 400x refractor; he bought it that afternoon for $220 at Best Buy.

Czanek’s bug would let him hear, and the telescope would let him see. A full window-shot at this distance only required the 40x eyepiece. Seeing was important to him. He needed to see, not as a voyeur, but as a seeker. Why did he want to hurt himself by witnessing what he already knew? Why did people do that? To see, he thought. To see the truth with his own eyes and be caressed by its finality.

Then he heard something. A spark of static. Voices?

He heard: “He’ll be here soon. Be patient.” A man’s voice.

Jervis held the small speaker to his ear. More: —We mustn’t waste time! We only have a few more days!

That was a woman’s voice, but clearly not Sarah’s. It sounded silly with excitement like a little girl’s. Then: “I’ll be going over these while you’re gone.” A second woman’s voice.

Jervis looked into the telescope. Sarah’s window was still dark, and there was no sign of Wilhelm’s love van in the parking lot. The dorm, clearly, was empty.

Then where were these voices coming from?

“Goddamn!” Jervis sputtered. He realized then that his receiver was picking up someone else’s bug. Czanek must’ve inadvertently planted another bug for another client in range of Jervis’ receiver.

The voices crackled on from the box. So far Jervis accounted for two women and one man. Then the first woman said, even more excitedly: —I can’t wait to begin! It’ll be so much fun!

And the man again: “I just hope it works out this time.”

Jervis shook his head in the dark. Just wait till he got hold of Czanek. He hadn’t paid six bills to hear someone else’s goddamn bug! Yet something distant bothered him. Something…

The man’s voice sounded familiar.

It sounded older, more mature than a student. But then he heard another man, a second man. What was this?

“Sorry I’m late, boss. I’m all ready.”

First man: “Excellent!”

Second woman: “Damn it, Dudley! I told you not to bring that thing in here!”

The first woman seemed to giggle.

First man again: “Bring the box to the car. Use your key. We’ll meet you at the labyrinth.”

That finished it. Only static followed. Labyrinth? Jervis puzzled. Key? And the second woman had said Dudley. Dudley Besser? That must be where the other bug was, in Besser’s office.

This bothered Jervis. But one thing bothered him more—the second man’s voice. It had sounded just like Tom.

Lights blared outside. Everything Jervis had heard cleared from his mind. Wilhelm’s white van pulled into the lot.

The truth had arrived. Jervis’ heart skittered. He smoked down the rest of his Carlton and waited. A minute, or an oblivion, later, Sarah’s window came alight. Jervis pressed his eye to the telescope.

They walked in clear as day. Sarah picked up the cat, named Frid, and cuddled it. Wilhelm was dressed in brown Euromod yuppie shit. His cropped blond head was equally plain, his broad neck, his sturdy arms and legs. He took a beer out of the fridge, a Kirin from a six pack Jervis had forgotten to reclaim after the breakup.

“Scheiss!” Wilhelm exclaimed. “Das bier?

“Oh, it’s something Jervis left,” Sarah apologized. “I forgot it was in there.”

Wilhelm put the rest of the six pack in the trash.

Next they were kissing. Wilhelm grabbed Frid by some scruff and lobbed the animal aside. As they embraced, Sarah’s hand went unhesitantly up the crack of Wilhelm’s ass, while his hand, frightfully larger, plowed down her pants front.

Wilhelm was pulling her toward the couch. Sarah was tee-heeing, feigning reluctance. Wilhelm peeled off his jacket and shirt. Then he peeled off all her clothes as impassively as skinning a piece of fruit. Jervis quailed.

Wilhelm had an upper torso like a Mr. Olympia contestant. He wore black briefs which bulged, and the size of the bulge was terrifying to contemplate. Sarah was rubbing against him, moaning. Frid watched from atop the end table, eyes wide as opals. Jervis felt corpse still as he peered on.

What happened after that seemed devil inspired, a mocking one act sex play that somehow knew Jervis was in attendance. This was the girl he loved more than anything on earth, giving herself aplomb to this egotistical German muscle-rack.

In a trance of sadness, Jervis continued to watch as Sarah lay back on the couch. Wilhelm stood feet apart, legs like corded, sculpted wood. He hauled down the tight briefs. Sarah’s eyes widened as Wilhelm posed for her appraisal. “Oh, Willy, it’s huge!”

“No,” Jervis pleaded. “Please, God. Don’t let me see this.”

Sarah leaned forward, lust glowing off her face. All Jervis could see was Wilhelm’s ass and Sarah’s hands kneading the muscled glutes. He could hear the awful sound of what she was doing to him. Lewd, wet smacking. Muffled sounds of delight. Thanks, God, Jervis thought. Thanks a heap.

He began to cry.

Soon Sarah finished with the oral warm up. She lay back again, woozy with lust, shiny around the mouth. “Willy! It’s just so big!”

“Mein stander? Ja? Das gute.” He turned to let her look at it again, offering a full side shot, which unfortunately offered a full side shot for Jervis too.

“My God,” Jervis uttered. “My God.” Then tears slipped off his cheeks as he continued to stare. Wilhelm pushed open Sarah’s legs and mounted her.

He teased her navel with the gorged glans, slapped her stomach with it five or six times. Then he drew it down…

Jervis felt hairs standing out on his neck. This guy’s bigger than a rolling pin, he thought. Where’s he going to put all that?

Then he shuddered. Wilhelm proceeded as if on cue. He sunk it all into her at once, one quick stroke to the hilt. Bam! Sarah went momentarily rigid, then wrapped her legs around his herculean back, riding the sudden, relentless movement. Hot, delighted girl squeals shrilled from Jervis’ receiver; his eye pressed harder to the eyepiece.

Wilhelm went on for more than a half hour. Sarah maintained her excitement with equal vitality. Her orgasms were obvious: multiple vibrating shrieks, legs tensing each time she went.

Eventually Wilhelm withdrew. He grunted like a fearless knight having just shorn down an enemy, and ejaculated all over Sarah in dolphin spurts of seed. When he finished, her breasts, stomach, and thighs shined as if shellacked.

Jervis was falling apart, his eye welded to the telescope. Wilhelm got up and walked briefly out of view. Sarah lay worn and shining on the couch, blissfully spent. Her pink sex gaped. A moment later Wilhelm reappeared, holding a blue garment of some kind.

“Please, God,” Jervis quavered. “No, God. No.”

What hung from Wilhelm’s hand was a blue dress shirt, just your average Christian Dior, about thirty bucks at any men’s shop. But this shirt in particular was one of Jervis’, one he’d left in Sarah’s closet. He’d left it there on purpose, hoping it would remind her of him in the future. The shirt was allegorical, a psychic remnant. It was the last part of him in her living space and, hence, her life.

Wilhelm put the shirt to immediate use, guttering evil laughter. He very efficiently wiped his semen off her breasts, abdomen, and thighs. “I wish Jervis could see this!” Sarah bubbled. Then Wilhelm wiped his cock off as well and stuffed the shirt into the garbage.

Satisfied? he asked himself. Any English major would appreciate the obvious existential symbols here. It wasn’t just a shirt Wilhelm had wiped his cock off with, it was Jervis. The shirt was Jervis.

To end the scene, Frid hopped onto Sarah’s belly, purring. The blasted animal looked directly into the telescope…and smiled.

Jervis collapsed.

He lay there for quite a while. The telescopic scene remained in his mind like a lit ghost. Sometime later he crawled to the wastebasket and threw up. It was a violent, clenching emesis. He’d emptied himself as much from his heart as from his stomach.

He’d wanted the truth and he’d gotten it. Only one thing left, he thought. Dead love’s final flight.

The idea had a sweetness now, like a song, like a nocturne.

You don’t have the guts, his mind told him.

“Yes, I do,” Jervis answered the dark. “Watch me...”

He got up and lit what he presumed would be his last cigarette. He smoked deep. He let the room stay dark, for it should be that way for this. Yes, dark. Sweet, sweet dark.

He pulled the Webley out of the sock drawer. It was cold and heavy. It was big. His grandfather had given it to him on his deathbed. “A young man needs a good pistol,” he’d said, death already tinting his face. The Webley was a unique automatic revolver, British made. Jervis cocked it, inspired by its heavy, steel click. He was proud of his lack of reluctance.

I love you, Sarah, he thought. He put the big machined barrel to his head. I still love you. With all…my…heart.

Jervis squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell shut.

And nothing happened.

“Fuck me!” he shouted. He flipped open the Webley. The cylinder was empty. He rummaged through the sock drawer for his box of .455s, but it wasn’t there. Someone had taken it.

He heard mad laughter in his head, a noise like a flock of grackles. Poor Jervis just couldn’t win. Consciousness heaved up and out, and he collapsed to the carpet like an empty suit of clothes.

««—»»

Wade felt skittish driving her home. How could he sum up an evening like this? Their discussion at the tavern had been very weird, but the kookiest part of all was what had followed at North Administration, where, for two hours, Wade had played apprentice evidence tech. Helping a police officer fingerprint a crime scene was one thing he couldn’t ever recall doing on a date before.

He’d held lights for her as she Polaroided the entire clinic office, and the door, the door frame, and lock. She’d spent considerable time using extreme light angles to locate major latent areas. It amused Wade the way she softly talked to herself as she worked. She’d “dusted,” “taped,” “fumed,” or “snapped” anything of interest. Wade was particularly impressed by her ability to raise prints on the manila file folders and the squashed door knob.

He didn’t tell her about the beer cap.

Lydia lived in an apartment complex just out of town. She seemed played out, pleasantly bequieted as Wade drove on. The breeze through the open t top played with her hair.

This night of contradictions was still flourishing. Wade grew jittery as they approached the apartments. He wondered what she thought of him, really. She seemed to like him, she seemed comfortable around him, she seemed to… That was the problem. There was too much about her that seemed. She was indecipherable. He wondered if he’d even get a good night kiss.

That idea dizzied him. Just a kiss, just one…

“I’ll make it up to you,” she said. She sort of laughed. “Being dragged to a crime scene probably isn’t what you had in mind for a date.”

“Oh, it was…interesting,” he said.

“What I mean is I’d like to see you again.”

Wade almost lost the wheel. “You would? I mean, great.”

“I liked talking to you. I’m sorry I misjudged you. And I really liked the Old Nick.” She pointed. “Here’s my building.”

Wade parked. She was smiling when they got out. Crickets chirruped, and tall bushy pine trees stood by the entrance. She stopped and turned around.

Wade tried to sound casual. “Hey, I really had a good—”

She came right up to him and kissed him. One second he was standing there, trying to act in control, and the next second she had her arms around his waist and she was kissing him. It was a wondrous kiss, which seemed an absurd way to describe a kiss, but nothing else fit. It was soft, warm, delicate, wet, fervent, precise, and a hundred other things at once—a subtle mystery in moonlight. Her lips parted; the tips of their tongues touched. He could feel her bare shoulders in his hands, her breasts pressing. Her hair smelled lovely, clean; her skin felt hot. Pine needles brushed his back, their aromatic scent mixing with hers. Suddenly she was squeezing him so tightly it almost felt desperate.

When they stopped, they didn’t say anything. She was just looking at him, her eyes big and bright. She was beautiful. She was stepping slowly back. Back, back, his own eyes fixed, and she was smiling half happily, half sadly. And then she was in the door and gone.

««—»»

Tom poured Penelope out of the box.

It was very late, a quiet, warm moonlit night, and perfect for the work ahead. Tom had driven them in the Camaro to a suitable clearing back in the woods. Besser rode up front, and one of the sisters in back. Tom could see the idiot kiddie grin and sunglasses in the rearview. The sight pricked his nerves.

Penelope rode in the trunk, in a sturdy cardboard box.

Tom had dug the first hole in minutes, nearly breaking the shovel once or twice. He’d dug eight feet deep and six around. This was no easy feat but it was a milk run for Tom. Strength was one of the Supremate’s gifts. Tremendous, indefatigable strength.

He buried Mr. Sladder’s remains, then dug another hole. The low yellow moon glowed through tall trees, dappling the hidden grove. Besser stood in supervision with a Coleman lantern; he looked a bit pale. The sister stood right next to him, grinning. Tom dug the second hole with the lackadaise of a gardener hoeing a bed of petunias.

Penelope was blubbering something. She lay boneless beside the hole, a rubbery mass of flesh. She smelled good, though, like barbecued pork or something. He could see her collapsed face, her widely spread eyes, the formless mouth trying to talk. Her tongue lolled out and sputtered, slobbering.

Besser was paling at the sight.

Break time, Tom thought. He leaned against the shovel and chugged more Spaten—nothing like a cold beer after hard work, whether you were mowing the lawn, laying shingles, or burying girls alive.

“She’d been in some of my classes,” Besser lamented.

“Too bad she didn’t take,” Tom said.

“We’ve got it all worked out now.” Besser looked fearfully to the hooded sister. “No more mistakes.”

A froth of foam and bubbles drooled from Penelope’s mouth. What a grosser. The gelatinous loops of her arms and legs slopped uselessly, like tentacles on a speared octopus. Tom figured she was folded in half backward, her big wet breasts lolling at her armpits. At least she smelled like good barbecue.

The sister pointed to the hole.

“Bury her,” Besser said.

Tom pushed her into the grave with his boot sole. She didn’t fall in, she oozed in, like muck. Besser held up the lantern and groaned when he looked into the hole.

At last Penelope’s words blubbered up. “Plub plub please don’t bulup bulup bury me, Tom!”

“Don’t let the minor fact that she’s still alive dissuade your heart,” Besser regretted to Tom. “It must be done.”

“W where’s where’s my blay blay baby?”

Besser cleared his throat. “Regrettably, dear, your baby’s dead. Don’t blame yourself. You simply didn’t take.”

“I lyly rup want m m m my baby!”

Where was it? Tom looked around. Ah, there. The jellyish thing was crammed in the corner of the box. Tom picked it up by what he guessed were its feet and held it up to the lantern light. It hung limp as a rooster’s wattle.

Penelope blubbered a high pitched shriek.

—Give me it! the sister ordered. She held out her white hands.

Besser recoiled. “Oh, for God’s sake. Please.”

Tom shrugged. He gave it to the woman in black. Grinning, she let its bloated head swing back and forth like depended pizza dough, throwing a pendulous shadow. Tom watched with little interest. It wasn’t like it was a real baby, right? Not like the kind he’d been once, not like the kind mothers cuddled and loved. Not really anyway.

“Please,” Besser objected, nausea in his face. “Please don’t.”

—Shut up! the sister said like an irked grade-school girl. Her bleating wet giggles palpitated up. She turned the dead baby thing in her white hands and squeezed its head till its eyes popped out.

Penelope was flopping madly in her hole, shrieking, trying to get out. Motherly love, Tom supposed. He was amazed at her sudden ability to move. For a moment he feared she might actually churn herself out of the grave.

Besser winced. “Just throw it in the hole. Please don’t—”

Gnarled doglike teeth bared through the sister’s grin. She bit into the top of the dead baby’s head with a sound much like biting into a crisp apple. The sister sucked its brain till the boneless bag for a head collapsed. Then she giggled, munching. Someone should teach her some manners, Tom thought. Judith Martin would shit railroad ties if she could see this.

Wet smacking sounds followed, and slurping. The sister chewed her meal heartily; a big lump slid down her throat when she swallowed.

Revolted, Besser dropped the lantern. He stumbled away rubber kneed, fell between some trees, and vomited in grand style. Now, this was not something you got to see every day, a three hundred pound college professor throwing up like a sludge pump in the middle of the woods. Watching a black cloaked woman eat a dead baby’s brains wasn’t something you got to see every day either. Even Tom had to raise a brow at these shenanigans. The sister’s giggles splayed out into the grove, quite loudly. Tom still hadn’t gotten used to that awful sound—that giggling. Who could giggle while eating a baby’s brains? They were one wild crew, that was for sure. Yeah, real party animals.

She flung the head sucked baby into the hole. Splap. Penelope was still flopping in throes of absolute amorphous rage. Her high pitched blubbering shriek blurted out loud like a faulty train whistle.

—Bury her.

“Yes, ma’am,” Tom said. The shovel bit into the ground. He tossed in the first load. Ba bump! Penelope squealed again. Tom dropped the second load into her opened mouth. That should quiet her down some, the little dickens. She gagged and coughed up wet clumps of earth.

—This is so much fun, isn’t it, Tom?

“Yes, ma’am, it sure is. I haven’t had this much fun since the last Polanski Festival.”

He buried Penelope without reservation. He whistled that great old Guess Who song “Share the Land” as his shovel gradually filled the hole. Burying girls alive wasn’t exactly fun for the whole family, yet despite the grimness of the task, Tom supposed it was a fair trade.

Shit, he thought. For immortality, I’ll dig graves from here to Seattle.

—

CHAPTER 16

An alarm was blaring.

Lydia sat up naked in bed. She could still hear the alarm, but then she realized it was only the telephone. The clock read 5 A.M.

She snapped up the phone and yelled, “What!”

“You have a nice sleep?” a voice inquired.

This was outrageous; it was Chief White. “How come you’re calling me at five in the morning?” she complained. “You gave me the day off, remember?”

“I need ya to do me somethin’. I’d have the night boys do it ’cept they been out all night flaggin’ traffic. Some stoner done rolled fifteen thousand gallons of super unleaded all over the Route. My boys are plumb wore out and stinkin’ fierce of gas.”

“Okay, Chief. What do you want me to do?”

“Go out to agro. Them state guys are finally packing it up. Some geek named Latin is runnin’ the show. They’ll be trucking out by nine.”

Trucking out? “Chief, what—”

“They got a prelim for us. Go pick it up.”

“All right,” Lydia groaned.

“Good girl. Report to me when you’re done. Now, this Latin guy’s got a bug up his bum the size of my Buick. Be nice to him or else he won’t tell you squat. Nose around, try and see what they’ve been up to. Use your” —White gave a typical hick laugh— “your feminine powers of persuasion.”

Lydia rang off, sputtering. White didn’t want to go himself because he figured Lydia’s tits and ass would prompt a more cooperative response. She suited up quickly, enjoying the early morning silence. Dawn had not yet broken when she pulled into the agriculture/agronomy site. State cadets were loading signs into a van. “Quarantine Area, Do Not Enter,” they read. Three semi rigs were parked in a row behind the stables. A state sergeant directed her to a wheeled trailer. Gas powered generators pumped racket into the air, like jackhammers. But the electricity had been fixed. Why would they need generators?

A work booted nerd in khakis met her at the trailer door. He looked bony, had short hair and a long neck. “My name is Dr. Hatton,” he said. Hatton, Latin. This must be the guy with the bug up his bum the size of White’s Buick. His voice was uncharacteristically dark. “I’m senior field officer for the state department of agriculture. You may have seen my picture in the Enquirer last year. I delivered twin Berkshire hogs joined at the head.”

Lydia told him regrettably that she’d missed that issue.

He handed her a single piece of paper. “This the prelim?” she asked.

“There is no preliminary report. This is a state quarantine release form. It authorizes that your agro site can now be safely reoccupied.”

“Then what happened to the agro animals?”

“We’re not prepared to release any conclusions as of yet.”

“In other words,” Lydia observed, “you have no intention of cooperating with the local authorities.”

“I am the only authority here,” Dr. Hatton said.

White’s got this guy pegged pretty good. “Okay,” Lydia agreed, “but do you think you could take that Buick out of your ass long enough to give me something to tell my boss?”

“It’s none of your boss’s business… Buick?”

This might be fun. “You know what I think, Dr. Hatton? I think you’re not giving me answers because you don’t have any. You guys don’t know what you’re doing out here. You’re a bunch of pussies.”

Hatton was getting pissed. “Pussies?” he challenged.

“That’s right. Lightweights. You’ve been sitting out here for two days, blowing tax dollars and doing nothing.”

Hatton glowered.

“Did you at least autopsy some of the animals?”

His tension strained further. He was getting closer to the line she wanted him on. “Of course,” he said. “Dozens. There was an inconsistency in some aspects of the structural pathology.”

“Great answer, Doc. Show me.”

Hatton smiled. “You don’t have the stomach for it.”

Lydia laughed in his face. At D.C. she’d broken into hardhouses full of weeks old corpses of junkies. She’d hauled up maggot swollen floaters. She’d cut down drug stoolies who’d been hung upside down and gutted like deer. “I’ve seen things that would make your worst nightmare look like Ronald McDonaldland. You talk big, Hatton, but if you had any real guts, you’d show me what you’ve got in those rigs.”

Now Dr. Hatton’s true self was beginning to glimmer through. “It would be a pleasure,” he said.

He took her out to the closest semi rig. This would be his morgue on wheels; that’s what the generators were for, to run the coolers while the trucks were parked. Inside, buzzing tubes lit a tiny office. There was a water cooler, a coffeepot, and a little fridge for snacks. Cozy, she thought. A metal door stood opposite.

“So we’re all pussies, is that it?” He pulled on a yellow raincoat and hood, then a plastic face shield. He looked ridiculous in it. “Well, I’ll show you what this pussy has been doing for the last two days.” He heaved open the metal door and led her in.

Inside was very cold. High coolers gusted chill and noise through metal grilles. In back, pairs of animals lay strapped to steel shelving, probably a dozen pairs. Each had been split like a cleaned fish; body cavities were stuffed with bagged organs, and an eye had been removed from each beast, to check ocular potassium levels, she assumed. This great bulk of bagged meat whelmed her.

Dr. Hatton stood by a metal table. On the table lay a dead horse. “You wanted to see? Well, take a look at this.”

He tossed her a small plastic pouch which contained several ounces of some red marbled gray mush. A tag on the bottom gave an index number, time and date of dissection, and Hatton’s initials. The next line read: Palomino, white, 2 yrs. approx., testes.

“They’re balls!” Hatton yelled at her. “Horse balls!”

Confusion screwed up Lydia’s face. “It’s just mush,” she said.

“They’re balls!” Hatton reiterated. “You know, nuts, pecker jewels, doodads! Those are from the first horse I autopsied yesterday! It’s the same for every male animal on the site!”

Lydia had no idea what he meant. Hatton patted the horse on the table. “I was saving this baby to open for the people back at AHL, but what the hell! Who the fuck are you to come here and question my competence!”

“Doctor, I wasn’t—”

“Shut up!” Hatton barked. Then he laughed. “It’s show time!”

Lydia gasped. Hatton raised a sixteen inch Homelite chain saw. It started up on the first try. Hatton flipped down his visor and went to work. He delved the blade up into the animal’s top hind leg, through the joint. The sound was atrocious, a searing, hitching scream. Lydia almost couldn’t watch.

“This is what I’ve been doing the last two days, bitch!”

He’s crazy, she thought. He’s fried.

Hatton continued to saw. Clumped blood and shreds of muscle spat out of the meaty groove; his face-shield and coat were flecked with it. Then the horse’s leg flipped over on the floor. Hatton turned off the saw, then went right to work with a big autopsy scalpel, cutting a deep gash into the animal’s rear belly. He was a maniac. He grinned like a madman through the flecked visor.

“Lo!” he shouted. From the gash, bare handed, he yanked out a flap of yellowed tissue. “A little of the old mesovarium! See?” He threw it on the floor and ripped out more. “A little peritoneal tissue, a little stroma!” Flap, flap! It all went onto the floor. “Ho! A kidney! My mistake!” Flump!

What he withdrew next looked like a large strip of steak with a lump on the end. He slapped it down on the table. “See that?”

Lydia nodded rather morosely.

“It’s the infundibulum, ampula, left side. See that lump?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“That’s the ovary. Next to the brain, it’s the most complex organ in the body, and, like the male testes, it’s the hardest. Harder than the heart, the kidneys, etcetera. It’s dense, heavily celled, firm. Understand?”

“I think so.”

Hatton punctured the ovary’s germinus with the scalpel. Globs of reddish gray mush oozed from the puncture. “See, see?” he said. “It’s almost liquefied, just like the testes on the other horse. But they’re not supposed to be like this. They should still be firm.”

“They’re decomposed,” Lydia ventured.

“No, no, no!” Hatton snapped. “There wasn’t time. The things hadn’t been dead twelve hours before we got them cooled down; they were still in rigor. These organs could not possibly decompose to this consistency in twelve hours under any condition.”

“Maybe it’s a disease, cancer or something.”

“Cancer! In every single animal, at the same time? That’s not how it works.” He washed his hands at a metal sink then shook them dry against the wall, disgusted. “I’m supposed to be the expert here. Shit. My people are going to want an explanation and I can’t give them one. I don’t know anything more than I did the minute we pulled in.”

Now Lydia understood why he’d been stonewalling. He was a preposterous sight, a grown man sitting dejected in a gore-splattered raincoat, hood, and face-shield. “How can you determine that the agro site is safe to reoccupy if you don’t know what killed the animals?”

“State protocol,” he said, shrugging. “We simply followed the standard legal procedures. The bloodwork all came back negative, which satisfied the state quarantine criteria. We screened for everything and found nothing; I had lab couriers coming in and out of here day and night. We exhausted every standard detection test. There were no mold toxins in the feed, no poisons, no bacteria, and there was nothing wrong with the water. We even ran tests on the grass, the soil, the water table. Nothing.”

“So what about this?” She pointed to the punctured ovary.

“All I can say is we’ve got some thus far undetectable factor that has degenerated the reproductive organs of every animal on this site. Even the chickens, for God’s sake.” He shook his head in sheer disillusion. “Have you ever tried to autopsy a chicken?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Lydia said.

««—»»

“Chief White’s at the main office,” Sergeant Peerce informed her when she walked into the substation. He quickly stashed a glossy magazine, titled Pizza Slut, into a drawer. Porker sat at the booking desk, taking care of a box of SafeWay chocolate cream wheels. He kept his face down when Lydia entered.

Peerce was smiling, flipping the cylinder of his Ruger Blackhawk open and closed. Click, clack. Click, clack. Other officers in for shift-change were smiling too. She glanced again to Porker, but he still refused to look up.

“Better get that prelim to Chief White,” Peerce advised. Click, clack. Click, clack. Smiling. “He’s been waitin’ on it.”

Lydia left for Main Administration. Something was going on and she didn’t like not knowing what. White’s personal cruiser was parked next to the dean’s Rolls. Inside, she passed the dean’s office. The man looked up from his huge teak desk as she passed. “Officer Prentiss! Please come in!”

Lydia hedged in. “Good morning, sir.”

“And a very good morning to you. That was fine work you did at the agro site yesterday. Chief White told me all about it.”

Did Chief White also tell you he’s putting a lid on it? “Thank you, sir.”

“And I hope you appreciate the necessity to accentuate certain details of the incident for the time being.”

Sure, lie to the public for convenience sake. Lydia nodded.

“Good, good!” the dean said. He was trying to be cordial, but Lydia knew he’d only called her in to bust her chops a little. “Keep up the good work,” he added. “And have a nice day!”

“You too, sir.” Lydia went back into the hall. Long display cases adorned the main lobby, local relics and artifacts disinterred by Exham’s archaeology department. Several battles of the Revolution had taken place nearby. One case displayed an array of sabers and bayonets. Another held firearms: flintlocks, wheel locks, cap and ball pistols. Lydia should’ve looked harder at the last case, which was hung with common tools of the colonial period. Rusted froes, cradle scythes, hammers, and mattocks. One space was labeled “Beam hewer, St. Clement’s Island, circa 1635.” But the large space over the label was empty.

She killed some time scanning the cases. What could she tell White? Eventually she dawdled into her boss’s office. White was drinking from a coffee mug with a Confederate flag on it. “Ah, there’s my girl,” he said. “You get that prelim?”

“It’s a health order, not a prelim,” she said, and gave it to him.

White stuffed it in a drawer. “That guy Latin say what happened?”

“It’s Hatton, and no, he didn’t. He’s taking the animals for more tests. He said whatever killed them isn’t contagious.”

“Well, then, that’s good, ain’t it?”

“Not when the papers ask about it.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The papers don’t know about it, and they ain’t gonna. It’s all taken care of.” He gave her the eye. “You get what I’m sayin’?”

“Sure. You read my report on the burglary last night?”

“A’course I read it. What about it?”

“You want me to keep working on the prints?”

“Why? It wasn’t no burgle anyway, just some two bit vandalism.”

“Files were stolen, Chief. Someone specifically targeted them.”

“So what?” he said. “Some punk joker probably just grabbed a handful and throwed ’em all over the Route. Big deal.”

“So forget that too, huh? Like the agro site? Like the ax?”

White gave her a big shee it shake of the head. “You still thinkin’ on that goddamn ax? Shee it. You wanna take a couple days off regular duty and follow up on that shit, then go ahead. I’ll even pay ya. How’s that sound?”

“You’re serious?”

“Sure I’m serious. Go on an’ do your thing.”

This didn’t sound right. “Do I get a cruiser?”

“Hell, no. What I look like, fuckin’ Santa Claus?”

Take what you can get, Lydia. “Okay, Chief. Thanks.”

“You’re quite welcome, Prentiss, but remember. Anything you find out about any of this agro business, you report to me and to me only, ya hear?”

“Loud and clear, Chief.” Lydia turned to leave, but—

“Oh, and Prentiss?” The chief clapped once, rubbed his knees. “I almost forgot. I heard somethin’ a mite funny today, real funny.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lydia asked.

“Yeah, see, I heard you got a new boyfriend, and what’s funny about it is—and I mean real funny—”

“Real funny, I heard you,” she said, and now she knew why Peerce had been smiling and why Porker hadn’t looked her in the face.

“I heard this new boyfriend of yours is Wade St. John.” White stopped laughing. His face turned to brick.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said. “I had a drink with him, and since when does my private life have any bearing on work?”

White was rubbing his eyes. “Prentiss, Prentiss, I been dealin’ with that phony con man cock hounding rich punk for the last six years. He’s a user, Prentiss. He’ll chew you up and spit you out, just like all the others. That nut chase son of a bitch goes through women faster than I go through cigars.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Lydia walked out, bemused. For the first time this morning, she thought of Wade. Was he really as bad as White claimed? At least he’s a good kisser, she thought frivolously. No, a great kisser. And with that frivolity she finally acknowledged what she’d been repressing since last night. She liked Wade St. John.

She liked him a lot.

She wondered if that was a big mistake.

««—»»

Wade leapt from bed, swearing. The goddamn Baby Ben hadn’t gone off, and now it was past 9 A.M., and he was going to be late for that humiliating parody he now thought of as “work.” Besser would come down on him, literally, like a ton of bricks. Wade grabbed a towel, dashed for the shower, when someone knocked on the door. Must be Jervis or Tom, he reasoned, and, dressed only in sagging Fruit of the Looms, he yanked open the door. “Can’t talk now, I’m late for—”

It was Lydia Prentiss who stood in the doorway. She did not seem shocked by his appearance; it was Wade who was shocked. Instead of the usual tan cop suit, she wore flip flops, cutoffs, and an orange bikini top. Her hair in a ponytail, she appraised him through mirrored shades. Her faint smile betrayed her amusement.

“Nice briefs,” she said.

“Uh, um,” he said. “Excuse me.” He left her at the door and pulled on his robe, hoping that his trapdoor (a mysterious provision of all underwear manufacturers) had not disclosed what dangled within. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said.

Lydia propped her sunglasses up and walked in. To his dismay, she was toting a small suitcase. “This is some dorm room,” she said. “You’ve got your own shower, kitchen. Even a trash compactor.”

“Reckless luxury is what makes Exham College unique. Too bad the same can’t be said for academic performance… What’s with the suitcase?”

She glanced at it, then shot Wade the biggest, brightest, sexiest smile he’d ever seen. It was an angel’s smile—the kind of smile, in other words, that a girl flashes when she’s going to ask for something. Wade felt lost in it.

“Will you drive me to county police headquarters?”

“Sure,” Wade said.

Her smile faltered. “It’s only a hundred and fifty miles away.”

“Sure,” Wade said, still floating on the smile. But then it all came tumbling down. “Oh, no, I have to go to work. I have to clean toilets today, and I’m already late.”

“Well, not to sound presumptuous, before I came over, I took the liberty of asking the dean to give you the day off. He said yes. It’s all taken care of.”

Wade gaped. “You mean I’m off? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Wade rejoiced in silence. No toilets today, hot damn! He was showered and ready to roll in record time.

“I really appreciate this,” Lydia said when they got into the Vette. Wade took off the sunroof and put the suitcase in back.

“Think nothing of it,” he replied, starting up his 400 horses. “I’d drive you to Timbuktu if it’d get me off work.” Within minutes he was out on Route 13. He noticed the same change in her composure as he had last night driving her home. The Vette seemed to unwrap some of her wires. He supposed that being a cop—particularly a beautiful female cop in a department full of shucksy Java men—had taken a toll on her. He saw that stress run out of her now, her hard edges going soft. “So what’s in the suitcase?” he eventually asked.

She rested back. “A cope of impactation,” she answered.

“A what of what?”

“It’s a hunk of wood—evidence, in other words. The county crime lab agreed to take a took at it.”

“How important can a hunk of wood be?”

“Sometimes very important. Anytime you hit something with a metal object, it leaves a molecular trace of its surface oxidation—its rust. Analyzing the rust can sometimes identify the grade of metal used, and from that, if you’re lucky, you can ID the manufacturer of the metal object. Unfortunately you need special equipment and indexes, and that’s why they generally only do stuff like this for a major crime. White doesn’t think this is major, but he’s letting me do it anyway. He just wants me out of his hair for the time being; I’m a troublemaker in his book, so he doesn’t want me fanning any fires.”

So Lydia’s a troublemaker, Wade thought. This could be interesting. “What did he think of the break in at the clinic?”

“He’s burying it,” she said. “Says it’s not worth pursuing. He also says you go through women faster than he goes through cigars. Is that true?”

That depends on how much he smokes, Wade thought. “You don’t believe everything you hear, do you?”

“Of course I do. I’m a gullible woman. Oh, and here’s something you might find interesting. I talked to the physician this morning. He told me about the files that got ripped off.”

“What kind of files were they?”

“Just basic medical records, a rundown on each student’s medical history, major operations, illnesses, drug allergies, stuff like that. All big campuses keep those kinds of records on their in house students. But the missing files are only those of the students specifically registered for the first summer session.”

“I’m registered for the first summer session,” Wade exclaimed. “One of the files must’ve been mine.”

“That’s right.” Lydia began to diddle with an unlit Marlboro. “The question is, what good are medical files to a thief?”

It made no sense. Who would steal files? he wondered. But whatever this was, Wade’s own files were involved, and sitting right in the middle of it was a Spaten Oktoberfest beer cap. The average burglar didn’t drink expensive imports. He drank Bud. Only one store in town sold Spaten to go, and Wade knew only one person who drank it regularly.

Tom.

Tom’s Camaro hadn’t been in the parking lot last night, had it? Come to think of it, it hadn’t been there this morning either.

««—»»

Czanek walked into Andre’s, surprised to find it half full at this hour. In the back booth, a shadow waved at him.

Czanek, of course, knew “Mr. Tull’s” real identity: Jervis Phillips, an upstate resident herded to Exham by rich parents. The boy had left a message on Czanek’s answering machine. There’d been a problem.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Tull.” Czanek took a seat. A cold Heineken stood in wait for him. “Our little insect’s not working?”

“It works great,” said Jervis, “but I have a question. Did you plant one of those things for another client? On campus?”

What a question. As a matter of fact, Czanek had, but how could the boy know that? “I’m not obliged to say, Mr. Tull.”

“Like maybe at the sciences center, in Dudley Besser’s office?”

Czanek’s gaunt face drooped. Right on the money. “How did—”

“I heard it,” Jervis Phillips said. “My receiver picked it up; I recognized Besser’s voice.”

“That’s impossible,” Czanek declared. “It’s out of range.”

“If it’s out of range, how come I’m picking it up?”

“I…hmm. Good question.” Czanek felt inept, his pride excreted upon. “I would never have agreed to plant your bug if I thought there was a chance of this happening. And that’s just it—there isn’t. These things only transmit eight hundred feet or so.”

“Besser’s office is over a mile from my dorm,” Jervis replied. He absurdly pulled the filter off a cigarette.

Czanek stared perplexedly into his beer. He was a bad man—even he would not argue that—but he had ethics. The sins of others were Czanek’s treasure. He was a destroyer of reputations. He’d ruined marriages, families, careers. He’d promoted divorce, abortion, estrangement. Like an alchemist, he turned love into hate, but he was not ashamed. If he didn’t do it, someone else would. Czanek’s pride was his justification—to do an unspeakable task with grace. The kid had paid him to do a job, and Czanek had fucked it up. It was this simple fact he could not accept.

“Okay,” he told Jervis. “I’ll give you your money back.”

Jervis started his second beer. “I’m not asking for my money back, I just want to know what’s going on. I heard some strange shit last night. There were four people in that office. One guy was Besser, but there was another guy who’s a friend of mine. What the hell is a student doing in Besser’s office at two A.M.?”

“I don’t know,” Czanek admitted.

“And the dean’s wife? I made out her voice too.”

Czanek gulped hard. The kid had too many pieces. “You said there were four people. Who was the fourth?”

Jervis seemed to catch a chill. “That’s the strangest part. The fourth person’s voice sounded like running water or something. I can’t describe it. It was just…weird.”

Czanek’s embarrassment crested. “All right, between you and me, last month I bugged Besser’s office for another client. The client thinks Besser may be fooling around with his wife.”

“You mean Dean Saltenstall,” Jervis prodded. “Everybody knows that his wife cheats on him. Even the dean knows that. Why would he hire you to find out something he already knows?”

“Because he has a tremendous life insurance policy,” Czanek admitted. “If you were an old homosexual millionaire married to a thirty five year old bombshell, wouldn’t you want to know what your wife was up to, regardless of any mutual sexual agreements made within the marriage?”

“So that’s it,” Jervis said, smoking slowly.

“Here’s what I’ll do,” the detective offered. “I’ll go into Besser’s office tonight and replace that bug with one on a different frequency. Then it won’t butt in on your transmissions anymore, and the problem’ll be solved.”

Jervis lit still another cigarette.

This kid smokes more than a coal furnace.

“I’d appreciate that very much, Mr. Czanek.”

Czanek watched Jervis leave. The kid was cracked—Czanek could see that—just like most of Czanek’s clients. Paranoia, jealousy, and inferiority complexes were more nuggets in Czanek’s treasure. But that wasn’t what bothered him. It was what the kid had said. The fourth person, he thought. A voice like running water.

The kid, it seemed, knew more about Czanek’s case than Czanek did.

««—»»

County police headquarters loomed like a neoteric brick fortress. TV cameras probed the enclosed entry. Two uniformed cops ID’d Lydia at the door and searched her suitcase. She took out a tiny pistol in a wallet holster and gave it to them to lock up. Then they frisked Wade, a bit too thoroughly for his liking. The only gun I’m packing is the love gun, buddy. These boys didn’t fool around.

They passed doors with queer plastic signs: Toolmarks, SEM, Electroporesis, and finally Spectrometry.

A sergeant showed them in and left.

The room was long and narrow. Bulky machines hummed in ranks, regurgitating rolls of paper. One machine sported a face of dials and jumping meters, with a hatch for a belly. Lydia told Wade this was a BV Model 154 peptide analyzer. It identified trace foreign substances in the digestive system by measuring peptidal deviations. It cost $100,000.

A stoop shouldered bald man was reading a book at the desk. Wade caught the sensational title: U.S. Bureau of Standards, Japanese Automotive Paint Index, 1991 1992. A tag on his lab coat read “Glark, TSD.” “I hope you’re the cop from Exham,” he said.

“That’s me,” Lydia said. “Thanks for making a space for me.”

“What have you got?”

“Oxidized residuum, two eight inch counterabrasions.”

“Depth?”

“About .23 mils.”

Glark whistled. “Anything that thick should be easy. Let’s get to it.” He seemed not to notice Lydia’s cutoffs and top. Was he a county eunuch? Rust, evidently, was his turn on. Lydia withdrew from her case, of all things, a King Edward cigar box. Glark pulled up a stool behind the biggest microscope Wade had ever seen. It had the word “Zeiss” on its condenser. Glark removed a cutting of old grayed wood from the box. He placed the “cope” under the triple objectives and focused down through dual eyepieces. His mouth twisted up. “This is funny,” he said.

“I know,” Lydia commented. “That impactation was the first strike; I’m assuming the striking object hadn’t been used for a long time.”

“You assume right,” Glark said. “And I can tell you, if it’s stainless steel, it’s something way down in the low scales.”

“How could it be stainless steel?” Wade asked. “Stainless steel doesn’t rust.”

“Anything made of metal rusts,” Glark grumbled to him. “Lead rusts, titanium rusts, aluminum, lithium, mercury, anything. If it’s metal, its surface molecules rust. You just can’t see it without some form of magnification.”

“I knew that,” Wade said. “I was just testing you.”

Glark frowned. Lydia leaned over. Wade found her cleavage much more interesting than whatever they were inspecting. “The color’s what threw me,” she said. “It’s too…”

“Asperous,” Glark finished for her. He changed to a higher objective. “It’s old, whatever it is, and I don’t mean the residuum, I mean the source metal. Usually you can see the alloy constituents, but I don’t see any here. This stuff is crude, adulterated.”

“Do you think it’s indexed?”

“Unlikely,” Glark said. “But let’s run it anyway.”

Wade smirked. This was Dullsville. He followed them to a bank of low machines. Glark closed a circular lid and turned on a CRT. Actually four machines made up this apparatus. Lydia explained that the process was called A/N spectrophotometry spectrography. Wade didn’t know what the “N” stood for, but he thought he could make a pretty good guess when he noticed a label on the hatched machine: “Warning, this device contains radioactive isotopes.”

Great, Wade thought. A miniature Three Mile Island.

Lydia went on to explain. A trace substance was burned at a phenomenal temperature. The light from the combustion was then focused through a prism structure and photographed. The photograph was processed as a line of colors ranging from white to dark purple. This was called the source spectrum. The colors represented the trace substance’s constituents, which were then identified by comparison against indexed control samples. The total cost of the four machines was over a million dollars.

Wade noticed bright white light leaking from the hatch lid’s seam. Numbers and letters, the numerical equivalents of the combusted molecular factors, began to pop up on the CRT. Within seconds the machines clunked off. A slit in a fat Canon film processor ejected a slip of paper, the source spectrum. All this work for that? Wade thought. A million fucking dollars?

Lydia and Glark began to pore over thick ring bound books full of similar colored strips. Wade doubted that he’d ever been this bored in his life.

“I think I found it,” Glark announced almost an hour later. He removed a laminated sheet from the binder. Atop read the index listing: Antiquations.

Lydia looked at it and frowned. “Iron? How could it take us so long to find iron?”

“Because it’s not commercial,” Glark said. “We couldn’t find a manufacturer’s index because there is no manufacturer. This control sample isn’t exact but it’s close enough to give us our answer.”

“I don’t get it,” Lydia said.

“The tool that caused your impactation was hand forged,” Glark enlightened her. “According to this index, you’re looking for something that’s at least three hundred years old.”

—

CHAPTER 17

At the red light, the Camaro rumbled through Hooker headers and chambered pipes. Bright red tails, like liquid, reflected off the slope of the immaculate white hood. The car shimmered.

Tom stared. The sister was showing him things.

Beyond the dusk, Tom saw cities, or things like cities: a geometric demesne of impossible architecture which extended along a vanishing line of horrid black—a raging terra dementata. Concaved horizons crammed with stars, or things like stars, sparkled close against the cubist chasms. He saw buildings and streets, tunnels and tower blocks, strange flattened factories whose chimneys gushed oily smoke. It was a necropolis, systematized and endless, bereft of error in non Euclidean angles and lines. It was pandemonium. Gutters ran black with noxious ichor. Squat, stygian churches sang praise to mindless gods. Insanity was the monarch here, ataxia the only order, darkness the only light.

Ingenious, unspeakable, the monarch stared back.

Tom saw it all. He saw time tick backward, death rot to life, whole futures swallowed deep into the belly of history. And he saw people too. Or things like people.

Tom shook out of the terror’s glimpse. The light changed green and he pulled through. In the passenger seat, one of the sisters grinned. She was hideous. White faced, red lipped, and hungry—always hungry, for food or whatever. Thank God the sunglasses hid her eyes. Tom could feel the madness buried there, the sheer disorder.

—Tom, what’s that?

In the headlights, a matty white poodle sniffed at the shoulder. “It’s a dog,” Tom said.

The sister looked puzzled. —What’s a dog?

“You know, an animal, a pet.”

—What’s a pet?

Jesus, Tom thought. These bitches are stupid. He swerved and promptly ran the poodle over. Its little body was dribbled beneath the car, then crunched. The sister shrilled with delight, looking back. The crushed poodle twitched in the road.

—Tom! What’s that?

Up ahead, some big redneck looking guy had his thumb out. A cardboard sign about his neck read: “Bowie, Maryland, or Bust.”

“It’s a hitchhiker,” Tom said.

—What’s a hitchhiker?

Tom snickered. “A hitchhiker is a person who, on dark nights, gets run over by cars. That’s what a hitchhiker is.”

—Oh, replied the sister.

Tom shifted down the Hurst. The hitchhiker’s face beamed. This fucker thinks he’s gonna get a ride, Tom thought. He began to pull over, but at precisely the proper moment, he swerved and mowed the hitchhiker down. Jesus Christ, it was fun running things down! The sister shrieked over the muffled thump. Tom smiled. The hitcher’s head popped under the wheel, then his crumpled body was spat out behind them.

The sister was exhilarated, giddy and wriggling her white fingers. —I liked that! she exclaimed. —Let’s find more dogs and hitchhikers!

Tom wished he could, but he’d almost forgotten there was business at hand. He drove a ways, then pulled over. Sure, running people down was fun but it wasn’t a good idea when you had a college student in your trunk. She could bang her head or something, break some bones. Hell, she could die back there.

Tom got out and opened the trunk. She was all right, just a little jostled. “Sorry about that last bump, Lois,” he apologized. She was kind of cute. Nice rack too, he concluded when he pulled open her blouse. She would at least appreciate it all in the end. Fuck college. This was destiny.

He got back in the car and drove on. He paused to wonder. The sister had settled down, placated by her own nameless thoughts. Tom couldn’t imagine what went on in their malevolent little heads. Who were these bitches? Who were they really?

The girl in the trunk had been on Besser’s list. Lois Hartley, an art history major who lived on the Hill. Tom had seen her around. She was into the art scene—avant garde, formalism, and all that. She hung out with the campus dilettantes. They all pretended to be bored and disaffected, swank in resigned ennui. They wore dark clothes and freaky hairstyles, listened to the Communards, and smoked blue cigarettes while they discoursed over the decline of aesthetics: phony misplaced Dadaists who thought it stylish to have nothing to do.

Plucking her had been easy. They’d found her wandering the Pickman Gallery’s abstract expressionism exhibit, which always gave Tom a hoot. You could slop paint randomly onto a canvas, blindfolded, call it Mother with Child, and that would be abstract expressionism. Lois had been standing in front of a mural entitled The Fighting Temeraire Part II, which looked like someone had gotten drunk after a big Burger King meal and then vomited on the canvas. Lois Hartley barely turned when the sister put the zap on her. That was some trick. All Tom had to do was carry her out and toss her in the trunk. Mission accomplished.

But he wondered what it must be like for them, what they must feel and think during the process. What did destiny feel like?

Tom pulled up at the Town Pump. “Beer stop,” he said.

—What’s beer?

Tom didn’t bother answering. “Howdy, partner,” said the proprietor when Tom came in. “We gotta special on the Rock this week.”

“No thanks,” Tom said. “Get me two cases of Spaten Oktoberfest.”

“Comin’ right up,” the prop replied. He was chunky and old, with a gray crew cut. He wheeled up a handcart with the two cases, then rang the total. “Say, fella, you don’t look so good.”

“I know, but I feel great,” Tom said. Then he picked up the two cases and held them easily under one arm. “Thanks,” he said.

“Hold up a sec, son.” The prop tittered nervously. “You’re forgettin’ somethin’.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

Another titter. “You owe me $52.96. Tax included, of course.”

“Oh, but I’m not paying,” Tom said.

“Uh, ya mean you’re robbin’ me? Is that what you’re sayin’?”

“Well, I guess you could put it that way,” Tom agreed.

Now the prop’s voice gave way to cracks. “I don’t want no trouble, son, so do us both a favor. Just you set that beer down, turn around, and walk out that door.”

Tom grabbed the man by the throat and lifted him over the counter—the two cases of Spaten still under one arm. The man’s legs pumped like he was trying to run away in midair. “Listen, Pops,” Tom explained. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but I have to get back to the Supremate. I have destiny to tend to. You get the message yet? I’m not paying. I’ve got more important things to do right now than pay for beer.”

The prop made choking noises, trying to nod. His face was turning blue. Tom flung the man sideways into the sale display, a six foot high pyramid of six packs of Rolling Rock. The pyramid toppled, green bottles exploding. So much for that sale, Tom thought.

He felt more like himself with a cold Spaten in his hand and the cassette deck going; he felt more human. Back on the highway, he opened his smallblock up and hit it. The sister giggled wetly. They traveled the Route into darkness, trees and fields sweeping by, on their way to the old dirt utility road which would take them home—

To the labyrinth.

««—»»

All Lydia knew was that she liked him.

She thought of a mouse in a maze. She felt as though something was expected of her, but she didn’t know what.

The answer, she knew, was in her heart. In her heart she wanted to sleep with Wade St. John. She wanted to physically love him.

But…

Why was it you never knew when to trust a man? Too often, the good ones, the ones who seemed honest and sincere, were the ones who wound up writing your name and number on the bathroom wall, with a list of proficiencies. Then they’d brag to their friends about the latest horny bitch they’d knocked the bottom out of. Jesus, what a nightmare—damned if you did and damned if you didn’t, because if you didn’t, you were frigid or a lesbian. Reading men was like reading foreign magazines. All you saw were the pictures.

Lydia felt jittery. She knew what she wanted—of course! She wanted things to be perfect. Didn’t everybody?

She lit the Marlboro she’d been tapping for the last two days.

“I don’t believe it,” Wade exclaimed. “You finally lit it.”

Lydia smiled moronically. She rested back and caught that beautiful first drag wallop to the upper bronchi.

“You look like you just took a toke of Jamaican.”

“Shit on that garbage,” she said. “This is better.” She dragged again; she was stalling. The exit signs were coming up in their lights. What am I going to do? she pleaded to herself.

“It’s still early,” Wade said. “How about a nightcap?”

“Okay,” but then she looked down at her cutoffs and top. “But I don’t think they’ll let me into the Exham Inn dressed like this.”

“Forget the Exham Inn. We’re going to Wade’s Inn. The selection is limited but the service is outstanding.”

Lydia smoked and nodded. He’d made the decision for her, extending her reprieve. There was nothing like borrowed time.

Wade parked up close in the lot. Lydia got out with her suitcase, as though someone might steal it. She smoked her Marlboro right down to the butt and flicked it. Yes, a glamorous habit, she thought. Wade was scanning the lot and seemed confounded.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Friend’s car, it’s not here. I was just wondering where he is.” He walked around the Vette, toward the path. “Come on, I won’t bite. I had my teeth pulled weeks ago.”

Immediately, he put his arm about her waist. She felt comfortable like that, his hand touching her skin, his pinky stuck in her belt loop. They walked close, bumping hips.

The security guard at the dorm desk was reading Shotgun News. He gave them a quick eye, then reburied his face in the ads. She and Wade rode the elevator up to 8. She could not escape the absurd image of herself: standing in an elevator with a student’s arm around her, badge pinned to her cutoffs, and holding a suitcase full of spectroanalyzed impactation. The perfect “What’s wrong with this picture?” He led her down the silent hall to his room, turned on the light, and said, “There’s a surprise for you in the refrigerator.”

Beside the trash compactor—which she still thought of as the height of indulgence—was a small fridge devoted to extravagant beers. Right up front stood the devil’s face on a bottle of—

“Old Nick!” she exclaimed. “I’ll bet you got it just for me.”

“Actually I didn’t,” Wade confessed. “My friends and I are beer snobs. We keep our refrigerators stocked with a variety of the best brew. In a world of Bud, the true beer connoisseur must maintain vast reserves.”

Lydia took his word for it. He poured two Nicks into good pilsner glasses and proposed a toast. “To spectrophotometry.”

“Cheers,” she said.

But she thought: What now?

««—»»

It had to be a dream. It had to be.

Lois Hartley lay naked beneath smothering, moist heat and orange light, paralyzed. I’m paralyzed, she thought, and felt idiotically compelled to laugh. For she was horny too—very horny—and that’s why she wasn’t afraid. Paralysis plus nudity plus sexual excitation could only mean one thing: nightmare.

I’m having a nightmare, that’s all.

Blobs of voices oozed around her ears. Besmeared faces hovered, inquisitive before the sourceless orange field. They were dream voyeurs, another paradigmatic symptom. Yes, this was a classic nightmare. Sigmund Freud meets Krafft-Ebing in the House of Gustave Doré. The hot light and its confines, of course, symbolized the womb: birth trauma. Paralysis while naked and painfully aroused equaled hidden desires to be dominated, or what her psych prof called the Rape Fantastique. This was a sex nightmare. It was harmless, so she might as well lie back and enjoy it.

“There.”

—Good.

Lois could still not see the dream watchers’ faces. They hovered behind orange fog. But she could see the fat hand gripping her arm. Something was stuck in her flesh—more dream symbolism. It was a large hypodermic needle. As the fat hand worked it out of her arm, Lois felt no pain. Penetration/withdrawal. A big bead of blood welled at the puncture. Then a strange warm mouth sucked the blood off. Lois wished she could see. This was straight out of de Sade, the third work of Justine, where Prince Gernande drank blood from his wife’s veins to excite himself before intercourse. Those Libertines sure had class.

“Solubility tests will help us determine optimum doses.”

“She’ll be good and soft.”

—Oh, good!

The faces shrank back, their words merging. Lois couldn’t remember going to bed, and during some part of this dream, she recalled being tossed into a car trunk; she recalled a face peering down. And whatever happened to Zyro?

Zyro wasn’t exactly her boyfriend; he was too self disposed to share himself with anyone. He was the classic campus novelist—unpublished. He liked to walk around disgruntled, claiming that his “work” was “too aphoristic to be accepted by the capitalistic hierarchy. Nobody understands me.” He believed he would die young, and then his work would be heralded as the voice of his generation. He wrote “indictment of the times” fiction: deadbeat, fucked up in the head on drugs characters with no social utility or motivation, which was supposed to serve as an astute literary observation. Christ, these days all a person had to do was write a plotless book about homosexual cocaine addicted dropouts and it was an instant best seller. Anyway, Lois had arranged to meet Zyro at the Pickman Gallery. She remembered waiting for him, but that was all…

The voyeurs were gone. Lois’ eyes darted right. A thin black line pulsated on the wall. How did this play into the dream? The black line looked like an incision.

Then, from the incision, a figure emerged.

Was it Zyro? Lois’ paralysis only allowed her to raise her sight an inch. In a moment, though, a shadow wobbled into view.

It must be someone crippled, she thought. The shadow hobbled, like a limping man, and with it came an irregular ticking. A limping man? she wondered. What kind of dream was this?

A tingling spread like sparks, describing the intricacies of her ribs, her spine, even her skull. What’s more, her state of arousal crested to waves of hot, knifelike flashes through breast and loin. Her sex visibly thumped.

Before the dark light, the limping man bumbled forward. The sharp ticking drew close, and at last Lois was able to glimpse her new and mysterious suitor…

For shit’s sake! she thought.

One look and she’d had enough of this nightmare. The limping man was no man at all, but a preposterous parody. It appeared more insectoid than anything, a broad humped shell encircled by tiny clicking legs. It stood upright, however, on a pair of stout, jointed appendages with points. If it bore any semblance to humanity at all, that humanity was fanfare. This was no dream lover. It was a bug.

But it was a big bug, big as a man. Lois wondered what could be more disgusting than a man sized cockroach. It seemed to have a face, or facsimile thereof. Clusters of blinking ocelli gazed at her, above a beaked enclosure that could only be a mouth. Something akin to a tongue lolled within the aperture, to lick plated lips. The thing reminded Lois of the Kafka story, where a man named Gregor turned into a big beetle. Zyro had deftly described the piece as an “axiological allegory symbolizing the transmogrification of modern man within the continuum of corporate bureaucracies bent on the total alienation of individuality.” As far as Lois was concerned, it was nothing more than a story about a silly man named Gregor who turned into a bug. But who cared what the story meant? This was supposed to be a sex dream, not some Kafkaesque joke. Nevertheless, here was Gregor, hobbling to meet her.

And again the question came: What could be more disgusting than a man sized cockroach?

Answer: A man sized cockroach with a penis.

For shit’s sake! Lois thought again. I’m about to get fucked by a bug!

Gregor’s works bloomed, a steadily distending, meaty pink mound betwixt its walking joints. She could almost hear herself say: Hey, Gregor, is that twenty five pounds of hamburger in your pants or are you just happy to see me? Well, Gregor was happy indeed. The mound swelled forward, showing a puckered hole. Eventually something popped out and slapped to the floor—a slack pink tube with a fleshy nozzle. It drooped like loose hose.

Gregor crawled daintily over her, as if great care were utmost on its mind. But did this thing even have a mind? Vivificated breaths whistled through multiple spiracles along its shell, and she could see horny passion in its compound eyes. Dollops of green goo dropped from its irised mandibles onto her bare belly. Lois was revolted, yet her physical excitement, somehow, refused to wane. Gregor lay fully atop her now. The nozzled glans snuffled fanatically, and at last the pink cannula found her sex. Lois’ orgasms unwound in spastic quakes. The cannula throbbed, passing jets of warm bug-sperm into her cervical canal as Gregor muttered sweet insectoid nothings into her ear.

“For shit’s sake!” Lois was finally able to exclaim.

Gregor’s armored face inched up to hers. The mandibles opened to fullness, revealing soft lips and tongue, and more than a modest portion of the opaque green saliva, which dribbled liberally into Lois Hartley’s aghast mouth.

««—»»

In this business you were one of two things. You were either legit, or you were dirty. And if you were legit, you were also something else:

You were poor.

Czanek was dirty.

It wasn’t Czanek’s dirt; it was other people’s. He did not feel bad about uncovering the evil of others; he was just a cog in an inevitable machine. Bug planting was a good gig; he could pull in twenty large a year from bugs alone. Industrial espionage paid well too, and sabotage paid even better. Czanek had once taken ten grand for stealing a composite formula from a textile factory and fifteen more for burning the records room and production facilities. By the time they cleaned up the mess, the other company, Czanek’s client, had already patented the stolen formula and was in full production. These were examples of what the trade called “surreptitious entry” or “black bag.” It involved invading privacy, violating personal rights, and, of course, breaking the fuck out of the law. If you were good at black bag, you made lots of money. If you were bad, you lost your license and went to jail. Though Czanek was small time, he was good at black bag, perhaps very good. Its diversity challenged him, and it brought in the cash. Dean Saltenstall, for instance, paid five hundred dollars per hour for a job. Good work reaped good money.

Tonight, though, Czanek was working for free.

Saltenstall was his best client, period. But if the dean ever found out that one of his bugs was transmitting to someone else’s, Czanek would lose his professional credibility in less time than it took to wipe his ass. He may have been the best dirty P.I. in the state, but he wasn’t the only one. Other dicks would kill for a client like Saltenstall. Some literally.

He walked up to the third floor of the sciences center. He wore maintenance overalls and had a phony card identifying him as Peter Hertz, a campus a/c technician. The building was empty at this hour, and the security guard wouldn’t be making his rounds for another forty five minutes. Czanek used a 2mm tension wrench on Besser’s office lock, applying nominal downward pressure with his pinky. Each lock had its own feel; too much pressure seized up the pins, and too little wouldn’t hold them flush. Czanek stroked the pins twice with his #2 rake, and the cylinder opened. He was in the office and had the door locked behind him in four seconds.

He let his eyes adjust, then turned on a red filtered penlight. His gloved hands snooped a bit first, an unavoidable professional impulse. He memorized the exact position of everything on the desk and in the drawers. The bottom drawer, however, was locked.

It was an old Filex disc tumbler with an 18mm keyway. He used a wider tension wrench and a “doubleball.” The slide bar slipped open immediately.

What he saw first made little sense—a list of typed names: L. ERBLING, S. ERBLING, L. HARTLEY, I. PACKER, E. WHITECHAPEL. L. Hartley’s name had a line through it.

Beneath this lay a stack of folders stamped with the Exham seal. Medical files, Czanek noted. The top five matched the five names on the list. All the files belonged to female students. But next was another stack of files, males. A Qwik Note on the top folder read: Choose one holotype for Supremate. And the next line, in red: Wade St. John.

Holotype? Czanek thought. Supremate? And who’s Wade St. John?

At the back of the drawer was a gun.

Czanek was stumped. The piece was some offbeat .25 auto. It smelled of cordite. He wrote down the serial number and put it back.

He didn’t like any of this. Why would Besser have a gun? Czanek didn’t know what to make of the notes and lists, but the gun was something else—guns were of his world. Could Winnifred and Besser really be planning to kill the dean for his insurance?

At the back of the drawer he spotted another Qwik Note. Four notations in florid writing, like a woman’s:

1) Pick holotype. Wade seems best.

2) 2nd vassal in case Tom wears out. Jervis Phillips?

3) Have Tom bury Penelope and Sladder.

Czanek should’ve been alarmed, extremely alarmed. One note mentioned Jervis Phillips, Czanek’s own client. Another mentioned burying bodies. But none of that mattered to Czanek now. He could only stare unbelieving at the fourth and final notation:

4) Kill Czanek.

Czanek’s eyes jittered. They knew about him, but how? Had Jervis squealed? There was no reason, and there was no reason for the dean to turn on him either. Had Winnifred hired her own dick to watch her back? Had Czanek actually been made?

Then the thought toppled like rubble.

The bug.

Holy fucking shit! he thought. The bug!

His gloved hand ran under the inside lip of the desk front. The bug he’d come here to replace wasn’t there.

I am in some shit, he thought very slowly.

“Looking for this, Mr. Czanek?”

Czanek ducked, doused his light, and pulled the Charter snub from his ankle holster. The desk lamp flicked on. Some husky kid in a T shirt and jeans faced him from the desk. Between the kid’s fingers was Czanek’s tiny 49 MHz transmitter.

“I found the other ones too,” the kid said. His face was pale. He was smiling. “The ones in Besser’s house and Winnie’s office.”

“Don’t move,” Czanek said. “I gotta think.”

“What’s to think? You’re caught.”

Czanek cocked his piece. “Who the fuck are you?”

“The name’s Tom. I used to be a student, but now I’m a…guess you’d call me a myrmidon. Ever read Lovecraft?” Tom’s smile stretched to hideous thinness. “I’m a haunter of the dark.”

“You’re gonna be the haunter of the morgue if you don’t start talking. You’re a paid tail, like me. You work for the dean’s wife, don’t you?”

Tom laughed huskily. “That horny sleaze? No way. She doesn’t even like me—she calls me ‘the thing.’ I’ll bet she masturbates fifteen times a day. She’ll do it right in front of you, she doesn’t care. She can’t help herself. It’s the influence of the labyrinth.”

“Who do you work for!” Czanek demanded.

“I work for the Supremate.”

There was that word again. Supremate. Probably a gang leader. The kid must be burned out on dust; he was no P.I. “Who tipped you about the bugs I planted? Was it Jervis? The dean? Who?”

“It was the sisters,” Tom explained. “They work for the Supremate too. They’re his daughters, his children.”

The kid was flaked. What good would killing him do? These sisters, whoever they were, must know about Czanek too, along with Besser and Winnie. If I kill the kid, I gotta kill them all.

“You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, Mr. Czanek.”

Too much was going on at once; Czanek couldn’t think. Like how did the kid get into the office? It had been empty, Czanek was sure of that. And he was sure he’d locked the door behind him.

“All right,” Czanek said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You and me are going to walk out that door, nice and easy like, and then we’re going for a little ride.”

“Wrong,” Tom said. Suddenly he had something huge in his hands. It looked like a long, wide bladed ax. “You’re gonna stand there like a good little boy while I put this through your head. Nice and easy like. Then I’m going to bury you.”

Now even Czanek spared a laugh. “Where were you when the brains were handed out? I’ve got a gun. See?”

“I don’t mind loud noises,” Tom said. “You can go hard or easy. Your choice, man.”

It had to be drugs, PCP or something. There was all kinds of shit on the street that made you stone crazy and fearless as a sewer rat. But Czanek couldn’t stand here all night. He had to make his move now. “I’m not fooling around here. If you don’t drop that ax, I’m going to have to kill you.”

“Oh, it’s not an ax,” Tom obliged. “It’s called a beam hewer. Colonial guys used them to cut rafters and shit. And it’ll do a job on a human head too. You should’ve seen Sladder.”

Jesus, Czanek realized. I’m gonna have to pop this guy.

The blade’s edge glittered. The pitch of Tom’s voice rumbled down. “Sorry, Mr. Czanek. I’m afraid your time is up.”

Czanek shouted “Don’t!” as Tom, the Achillean myrmidon, the haunter of the dark, raised the hewer high above his head.

Czanek emptied the Charter in five evenly spaced taps. The impact of the slugs mowed the kid down like a hinged duck in a shooting gallery.

Czanek stood in grainy, hot silence. Gun smoke stung his eyes. Unaffected, he stared down at the dead boy.

Then the dead boy got up.

Tom’s smile never wavered. His clean white T shirt bore no evidence of blood, just gritty black powder marks. The grouped slugs had punched a smoking hole in the middle of his chest. It was a deep hole.

“Don’t worry,” Tom said. “I won’t charge you for the shirt.”

Again, Czanek thought: I am in some shit.

The empty piece fell out of his hand when the girl entered the room. There was a strange, resonant hum, and a shrinking line of light that was black.

But the girl was just a child. She stood caped in black, a white face in the room’s dark. Her gentle aura filled Czanek’s head.

—Hurry up, Tom! We want to eat, please!

“Coming right up,” Tom said.

The massive hewer’s blade blurred down. The sister smiled. Tom’s new gift of strength made Besser’s job on Sladder look like child’s play: Czanek was shorn completely in half, from head to crotch. Between his feet, the blade struck the floor with such force that the entire building tremored.

Czanek’s body parted and fell in two cleanly cut pieces.

—

CHAPTER 18

Lydia remembered feeling afraid. She felt naive, puerile, inexperienced. She was an adult, a sexually mature woman, yet she felt like a child. The very next thing she knew, she was in the shower with him. That was the only word: afraid. But it wasn’t Wade she was afraid of, nor sex, nor closeness. It was herself.

The cool water rained down on her face. Wade stood behind her, sudsing her into a suit of slick lather. He did so very slowly. Lydia’s excitement began to unravel the instant his hands touched her skin. She’d forgotten what that felt like, to simply be touched…

Neither had said a word since they’d come into the shower. Lydia liked it that way—no talk, just the detailed hiss of the water and the sensation of his hands sudsing her body, beguiling her. This was a shocking luxury—being washed in the dreamy torrent, being so slowly and attentively felt. The contrast of warm lather and cool water made her nipples stand right up, right away. She was happy to feel, against her rump, that something of his was standing up too. Now his hands smoothed suds over her breasts. The slow, radiating pleasure was almost infuriating. He pressed her breasts together, offered them to the water. The suds sluiced off and left her flesh squeaky in his hands.

She felt the trail of suds course down her legs. More and more, Lydia felt thinly wired, like a rosined bowstring fit to snap. Wade’s hands slid up her hips; then the bar of soap glided brazenly into the cleft of her rump. The shock brought her up on her tiptoes.

Wade seemed to know that she could bear no more of this. He hugged her as he turned off the water, then he took her straight out. The room opened to them in cool darkness. They kissed belly to belly, dripping. The beads of water on her skin turned warm with her heat. Her open mouth sucked over his; their tongues frolicked. In the window she could see the moon, which seemed to watch like a distant face, or part of her past self.

Wade’s hands coaxed her buttocks apart and squeezed. His member (which she thought of unhesitantly as his cock) stood erect between their pressing bellies. Its hot underside throbbed. She longed to see its details, to witness its mysterious proof.

Next he straddled her on the bed. His strategy was agonizing: He kissed and licked every square inch of her body, from her lips to the tips of her toes—he dressed her in kisses. He traced her tan lines with his tongue. He sucked her nipples till they filled with a delicious ache. His mouth drew a wet line to her belly button, which he kissed, licked, and sucked with undue fascination.

Lydia felt stretched on an inquisitor’s rack when he began to kiss around the entirety of her sex; the sensation churned upward. Was she losing her mind from this? And what of him? She strained to grasp his cock, but it remained out of reach. For now she could only vow a dutiful reciprocation. Yes, she would tend to his cock as voraciously as he now tended to her. She would suck it till he came in her mouth, and that would only be the beginning.

These thoughts confounded her. Dirty girl, she thought. She wrapped her legs around his back. Yes, she would show him, once his cock was in reach. I don’t love this guy, do I? she dared to ask herself, but she could only think through chinks in the teasing frenzy. Then the wave began to rise. Oh, no. Oh—

Flexing spasms gathered and burst. A finger slipped in. She began to come at once when his mouth found the exposed nub of her clitoris. (She often thought that clitoris had to be the most ridiculous name devisable for the seat of feminine sexual pleasure.) The tongue licked up, bearing down. Moaning wasn’t Lydia’s style, yet she moaned just the same, writhing against the synchronicity of his tongue and mouth, which coaxed pulses of orgasms from her. Each beautiful release reminded her how long it had been since anything like this had happened to her. All she could do was lie there and come, give in to him. Yes, it had been a very long time indeed.

««—»»

The Supremate hummed, as if to set a score to its intricate web of thoughts. Soulless behind the shocking countenance, it knew everything. It watched and listened. And hummed.

—WHO AM I? The Supremate thought.

In a manner, it did know everything, and enjoyed the luxury of being in many places at once. Some would define God by these criteria. —AM I GOD? it wondered. —I AM OMNISCIENT. I AM OMNIPRESENT. I AM WORSHIPED. MAYBE I’M GOD.

Deep in the labyrinth, the daughters were at work, happy in mindlessness. They were pawns, but the Supremate loved them.

—I LOVE.

More God. Wasn’t love, too, a necessary criteria?

—WORK HARD. MY PRECIOUS DAUGHTERS. FOR I LOVE YOU.

—We know! came their reply. —We love you too!

But the Supremate idled. Surely there must be more to God than this. There had to be. —GOD? it thought.

Their holy—yes, holy—burdens here would soon be ended. Then they would move on to new fertile gardens, new pastures from which to reap. But how many more times? And how much longer?

The Supremate didn’t know.

—I’M NOT GOD, it realized. —I’M JUST… ME.

The Supremate’s head roared with ancient laughter. It laughed and laughed. And hummed.

««—»»

Stella Erbling arched forward, painting her toenails. She was painting them black. Her sister, Liddy, lounged back on the couch with her feet up, bored as she scrutinized the TV guide.

“What’s on cable?” Stella asked, painting daintily.

“Just horror movies on cable,” Liddy replied, bored.

“What ones?”

Liddy was a year older but a year behind. Their father had arranged for them to room together, believing that a familial proximity might encourage academic motivation. This, in truth, effected the opposite. Stella was proud that her 1.2 grade point average was one tenth of a percent higher than Liddy’s.

“Let’s see,” Liddy said, scanning the TV cable guide. “I Eat Your Skin, Bloodsucking Freaks, Three on a Meat Hook, and Citizen Kane.”

Stella laughed. “Citizen Kane isn’t a horror movie, you mushhead. It’s porno.”

“Oh,” Liddy peeped. Stella knew everything, damn her.

Stella capped the polish bottle. “Forget TV. I got a better idea.”

Liddy’s face shined in glee, “Do Horse?”

“Do Horse,” Stella authorized. “Call that human pile-driver right now. We’ll raise his Kane, all right.”

The sheer delight of this conspiracy merged into their laughter. Liddy’s denim mini slipped up and showed her pantyless bottom as she bent for the phone. They couldn’t wait for Do Horse to come calling. So what if he had less charisma than a package of lunch meat? He was like the flag at the White House—always up.

And they would do well to have their fun quickly, for sometimes the night brings many callers, not all of whom are welcome.

««—»»

Such callers, in this case, would be Tom, in a clean T shirt, and one of the middle sisters. Several hours had passed since David “Do Horse” Willet had arrived at the Erblings’ for what would be his last so called roll in the hay. Tom and the sister took the fire stairs up, to avoid notice by the lobby guard. Up, up they went, for another small straw of destiny.

Lois Hartley had acclimated well and was now brewing nicely in the gestation catalyzer. The Supremate was pleased. Vaguely Tom wondered what manner of grossness would emerge from Lois’ radiophaseshifttriionized womb. Too vividly he remembered the stillborn sack of flesh that the stasisfield defected Penelope had birthed. Ugh, he thought. No cigars from that daddy.

The cloaked sister stood behind him, grinning stupidly. They advanced with discretion, and passed room 202, Sarah’s room. Tom wondered if Jervis was still ravaged by the destruction of the romance. He also wondered if he’d ever see his Kirin guzzling friend again, before the promised all expense paid trip to eternity. Despite what Tom had become, he missed his friends.

Next came room 206, Penelope’s room, or at least it had been until her address was changed to underground. The poor airhead was probably still blubbering away down there.

Next came room 208, the Erblings’.

—Remember, said the sister. —Don’t make a mess this time.

Tom twisted the doorknob and pushed. Metal crunched as the bolt ground out. The door opened to a brightly lit room: three astonished faces jerked up from a rather elaborate ménage à trois. Suddenly naked bodies blurred, dashing madly. Stella yelled, “Who—”

“—the fuck are they!” Liddy finished, gleaming breasts abob. But the dude, David “Do Horse” Willet, stepped forward, confident in spite of total nakedness, and totally unafraid.

“Who the fuck are you?” Do Horse asked.

“Ted Kennedy,” Tom said. “Wanna buy a Delta 88 cheap?”

Do Horse, who was at no loss for muscle, rammed his big, knuckly fist at Tom’s face. The guy must be a Democrat, Tom surmised. He held up a palm, into which Do Horse’s fist collided. Tom’s palm didn’t budge. The bones in Do Horse’s hand shattered.

—Get them! the sister ordered. —They’re getting away!

The Erblings, screaming, flew by on either side. Tom snatched each by the hair, and that was the end of the great escape. By fistfuls of scalp he held the two girls off their feet, as a fisherman might hold up two trout. The sister’s grinning face beamed within the recess of the black hood. Her sunglassed eyes drank up the sight of the girls’ nude bodies as they lurched screaming beneath Tom’s fists. Next the sister was touching them, feeling their breasts, cupping their pubes as if in awe.

Hurry up, Tom thought like a groan.

The sister’s fanged mouth stretched wide. The pink needled tether shot out too quickly to be seen and rammed its stinger into one throat, then the other. The Erblings fell limp.

Tom dropped them on the carpet. Meanwhile, Do Horse had sprung back up, bringing a Mitsubishi VCR down on Tom’s head with a heavy metallic bang.

Tom turned. “Don’t waste your time, pal.”

Do Horse grabbed a large wall mirror and broke that, too, over Tom’s head. Tom winced slightly as the mirror burst. Do Horse stared, incredulous that Tom was still standing.

“Here’s an old one,” Tom offered. “You know what a Chernobyl hooker’s specialty is? Glow jobs.”

“That’s terrible,” Do Horse couldn’t help but comment.

“Yeah, I know.”

Tom grabbed Do Horse’s throat and crushed it.

He calmly dragged the slowly strangling young man into the bathroom and dropped him in the tub. The body slapped like raw meat hitting slate. Tom ripped open the boy’s rib cage and abdominal wall, exposing the warm delicacies within.

“Soup’s on,” he said.

—Oh, good! The sister scurried in, knelt, and began to eat.

Tom rolled the two paralyzed girls up in the oval carpet, then carried them out to the car. The sister was still eating when he returned to the dorm room.

—It’s so good! she exclaimed. Tom saw with some distaste that the body part for which David Willet was nicknamed had already been eaten. The sister was now clunkily prying apart the boy’s skull and scooping out big squiggles of brains.

—Want some? she asked, offering a handful.

“No thanks,” Tom said. “I’m trying to cut down.” He cleaned up the broken mirror, faintly unnerved at the glimpses of his own graying face in the pieces. He set the VCR back, made the bed, and packed the strewn clothing into the hamper. Then he checked the fridge for beer but grimly discovered only cans of Bud. Forget it, he thought.

At last the sister emerged, her little mouth smudged red. —I’m done, Tom. I’ll wait in the car while you clean up the rest.

Tom glanced at the offal in the tub. “Thanks a lot,” he said.

««—»»

And just as the night has its share of callers, so, too, does it have its share of watchers. One such watcher was Jervis Phillips.

He’d set up an hour ago with the telescope and Czanek’s receiver, expecting Sarah and the German to repeat last night’s performance. But they’d never arrived. The only activity to be seen in Sarah’s window was Frid, the cat, which milled disinterested about the dorm room. Jervis could hear it purring over the receiver. Every so often its bottomless eyes seemed to gaze directly into the telescope, as if it knew Jervis was watching. God, I hate that cat, he thought.

But then he spotted motion in another window. It only took a moment for him to realize it was the Erblings’ room.

Jervis pulled his azimuth to the left and focused in.

Then he froze.

Jeeeeeeeesus Christ.

Insanity. That’s what smiled back at him through the telescope. This was not a voyeur’s cheap thrill. This was insanity.

The unwatchable things he watched consumed only minutes. The Erbling girls, naked, lay limp on the floor. A naked guy, who looked just like Do Horse Willet, was fighting another guy who looked just like Tom.

“It is Tom,” Jervis muttered, eye pressed to the barlow.

But why was Tom’s face gray and sunk eyed? Furthermore, what was that lunatic scene? Most bizarre of all was the woman who presided over this, a woman in a black cape and sunglasses.

Now Tom was dragging Do Horse to the bathtub. And the woman…

She’s eating him, Jervis realized.

Jervis took his eye away from the telescope, away from the crimson frenzy. Illusion, he thought. That’s all. He finished a Kirin and rationalized. Too much drinking, too little eating, and the mind plays tricks on you.

He calmed his terrors with reason, convinced himself that when he looked back in the telescope, he would see none of the rampant madness he thought he’d seen. He would see no murder, no cloaked woman, no blood. He would see normality.

He looked back into the telescope—

Jeeeeeeeesus Christ!

—and saw Tom stuffing handfuls of innards into a plastic garbage bag as the black cloaked woman pushed a final clump of human brains into her red smeared mouth.

—

CHAPTER 19

What time was it? The faintest dawn gathered in the window. Birds chirped. It must be five or five thirty.

Lydia slid carefully out of bed, slipped on her panties, and padded about the dark room. It occurred to her that she could put her clothes on and slip out right now, leave a tawdry note like “Thanks for the good time, see you around.” How would Wade react to that? It was too hard nowadays to judge the nature of emotions—a litmus test would be so much easier. Her cutoffs lay on the floor, her loaded derringer on the desk. Did she, a rather dedicated police officer, want to get involved with Wade, a rather undedicated student?

How could they be compatible? They were opposite in so many ways. The physical thing had been good; was she letting that fog her focus? This seemed different, though. The sex aside, her heart deciphered itself: she did want to be involved with him. Even better, maybe she already was.

She heard footsteps in the hall. They sounded stealthy.

Abruptly then, the doorknob jiggled.

But surely Wade had locked the door. Only idiots leave their doors unlocked, she thought.

Then the door opened.

Lydia grabbed her gun and hid behind the desk. A figure entered cautiously and took time to close the door without making noise. Lydia made no details of the shape. It crossed the room in silence and stopped at the foot of Wade’s bed.

Was the figure deliberating? It stood still a moment. Then, quickly, it began to reach for Wade.

Lydia snapped on the light and pointed the .22 at the 5x zone of the trespasser’s torso. “Don’t move,” she ordered.

A wearied face stared at her. Wade leaned up from bed, squinting.

“I don’t believe it,” the trespasser said. “I’m being held at gunpoint by a topless blonde.”

“A topless police officer,” Lydia corrected, but then she thought: Oh my God, it’s true! I’m practically nude!

Wade laughed. “Put away your heat, Annie Oakley. He’s a friend of mine.”

“Goddamn it!” she shouted. Embarrassment flooded her. “Get him out of here! And quit laughing!”

“In the hall,” Wade said to Jervis Phillips, who quickly scooted out. Lydia couldn’t remember ever being this pissed off. “Sorry,” Wade apologized, and put on his robe. “These things happen.”

“Shit!” she yelled at him.

Wade went out to the hall. Lydia quickly put on her cutoffs and top. The conversation was easy to overhear.

Jervis sounded hesitant. “I saw something. I know it sounds crazy, but I think I witnessed a murder. Over at the girls’ dorm.”

“You’re right, Jerv. It sounds crazy. You been drinking?”

“Of course. I guess I passed out at the end of it, because it happened around two A.M. He killed him.”

“Slow down. Start at the beginning.”

More hesitance. “I, uh, I was checking out the dorm with a telescope; I wanted to see what Sarah was doing with the German guy, but they never showed. Anyway, another window was lit up, the Erblings’ window, so I, you know, I—” Jervis spoke with caution, charting his words. “I saw a woman in black. She had a guy with her. The guy was Tom.”

“Tom?”

“Yeah. And then the Erbling girls popped up. That guy Dave Willet was with them, the guy everyone calls Do Horse—”

Wade chuckled.

“—and Tom killed him.”

Wade stopped chuckling.

“He killed him. Then he threw his body in the bathtub. Christ, there was blood everywhere. And then that woman came in, that woman in black. She…ate him.”

“The woman in black ate Do Horse?”

“That’s right. You should’ve seen it.”

“And I guess she ate the Erblings too, huh?”

“No, no, but she did something to them, knocked them out somehow. Something. Tom rolled them up in a rug and took them out.”

Wade was chuckling again.

“I know it sounds crazy. If you don’t believe me, let’s go over there and check it out. I know what I saw. It was Tom.”

Now Wade seemed to be hesitating. He didn’t believe this nonsense, did he? “Tom’s car hasn’t been in the lot for two days,” Wade mentioned. “And last time I saw him, he gave me the slip.”

“Wade, it’s true. I can prove it. Let’s go over there.”

Silence.

Then Wade came back in the room. “Did you—”

“Yeah, I heard it,” Lydia smirked. “Your friend’s a peeper, a drunk, and a nut. That’s three strikes.”

“I’ll admit he’s a little off track; his girlfriend just dumped him, he’s been drinking heavy. But he’s not the kind of guy to make something like this up. Plus, there’s something else…”

“What?”

“It’s better if I tell you later. Just trust me.”

What was he talking about? Was he nuts too?

“There’s no harm in looking into it, is there?” Wade persisted, and got dressed. Lydia said nothing, but she supposed he was right.

««—»»

She felt like a complete ass, knocking on a student’s door at five thirty in the morning, but only for a second. Her first rap on room 208 edged the door open an inch. The doorknob was squashed, just like at the clinic. The latch bolt was mangled, the strike plate half dug out—

“Just like the clinic,” Wade said.

Score one for Jervis the Drunk, Lydia thought.

The faintest ring of dust clung in a circle on the floor, as might be left by a hastily removed throw rug. Hmmm, she thought. The bed was sloppily made; guys made their beds like that, not girls. Hmmm, she thought again.

The hamper was stuffed full of clothes. Among the garments was a pair of men’s jeans. The jeans contained a wallet. The wallet contained a driver’s license: David Ubel Willet.

“Believe me now?” Jervis asked.

Lydia was stumped. “I believe you may have witnessed a break in,” she replied. “I don’t, however, believe you witnessed anything more than that.”

Jervis said three clipped words. “Bathtub. Blood. Everywhere.”

The three of them squeezed into the bathroom. They all looked down at the tub.

“Where’s the blood?” Wade asked.

“Tom must’ve cleaned it up,” Jervis was quick to answer. “There was so much, though. It must’ve taken him an hour.”

“Forget it, Jerv,” Wade said. “The tub’s clean.”

Too clean, Lydia thought. She’d had Jervis tote along her field kit. From it she removed a tiny amber bottle with an eyedropper cap. “This is a detection compound called Malachite Reagent V; it reacts with protein components in hemoglobin. Blood contains free protein electrons which bind to almost any surface. You can wash off the blood, but you can’t wash off the electrons.”

“So if someone got murdered in this tub,” Wade said, “the stuff in that bottle will prove it?”

“Yep. It turns turquoise on contact.” Lydia let a tiny drop fall from the eyedropper into the middle of the tub.

“Nothing,” Wade observed.

“Wait.”

In a second, the drop turned turquoise.

Lydia sprinkled more drops around, all over the inside of the tub, the ledge, the tiled back wall. They all turned turquoise.

Jervis looked unsurprised. Wade looked ill.

This guy’s not bullshitting, Lydia thought, and it was a ghastly thought indeed. There’d been blood all over this tub.

Blood. Everywhere.

««—»»

“I instructed you to be careful!” Professor Dudley Besser bellowed within the cove of pointaccessmain #1. “I told you!”

“I know, sir,” Tom mumbled.

“You left their wallets! Their keys! Everything!”

“It slipped my mind, sir. We had to get out of there. It took me a long time to clean up the mess the sister made. I mean, Christ, can’t they eat here?”

Besser recessed back into the strangely etched darkness. Inaudibly the labyrinth hummed, a vibration more than a sound. The sisters had told Tom that it was the Supremate thinking, but Tom had begun to doubt that, along with many other things. Sometimes he wondered if there even was a Supremate. The huge loving voice that sometimes filled his head seemed phony, an overdone charade.

Besser’s disapproval drew crevices into his bulging moonface. “This better not break before we leave. Who knows what the Supremate will do?”

The premise was not a pleasant one. Tom remembered the chasms he’d seen. He remembered the squat factories whose winding winze belts hauled slabs of black meat.

“I don’t want any problems with your next task,” Besser said. “The Supremate needs a holotype. Winnie and I have agreed; it shall be Wade St. John. This should please you.”

“It does, sir.” You ain’t kidding it does!

“We only have a few more days; I want Wade secured in the unit hold well beforehand. He works at the sciences center at nine A.M. Bring him in today.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And let me emphasize that the quality of your future within the family may depend on the success of your remaining procurements.”

“I understand that, sir. You can count on me.”

Besser dismissed him, the moonface disappearing into the egress. Tom followed the dimensionless servicepass to the acclimationprepchamber. He didn’t need directions; the labyrinth had its own sort of telepathic directory called mindsigns. Ahead, one such sign read EMWGUIDANCETRACKINGPOINT. Besser had explained it wasn’t really a power plant but just a simple stabilization mechanism, like a keel on a sailboat. The Supremate controlled it, along with everything else, by instinct.

The next mindsign glowed in nonexistence: GERMINATIONWARREN. Tom used the key around his neck and prolapsed through the egress. This was some security system they had here; no one without a key could escape the labyrinth’s solid walls, nor could entry be gained by any outsider. The labyrinth was, fully and ultimately, impenetrable.

Within the acclimationprepchamber, the Erblings lay stretched on the levitationslats. Before antirejectorybifertilization could be initiated, certain biological changes had to be made. Tom knew the Erblings were conscious despite complete paralysis. He grabbed two infusers containing optimized doses of calciumdecimationliquefactor. All fissionizationvessels needed proper softening before they could safely disbirth their interspecielmetis units. Tom had wandered around the biomaintenancegrowthaccelerationvaults once or twice, and some of the things he’d seen down there were as big as sunfish! The Erblings both jerked once when he activated the infusers against their throats. The injection attacked only fossilized CaCo compounds. Besser and Winnifred had taken blood samples from Lois Hartley and Penelope, to ascertain the most effective serum absorbability levels for humans. The Erblings would be pudding in an hour.

Liddy’s fingers and toes twitched, and Stella was blinking. The sister’s neurohemolyticpyrrolizicvenom was wearing off. Tom pushed the levslats through the next extromitter. Besser had told him that the slats had an unlimited load capacity. Theoretically you could push an aircraft carrier around on one of these things. You could push worlds.

But no worlds today. Just a pair of naked coeds. Tom could feel the warmth of the sensorpost behind him. They were everywhere in one way or another—hybridized into the sisters’ eyes, in the sensor rings that Besser and Winnie wore, even in Tom’s transceptionrod. Through such sensor circuits, the Supremate saw and heard everything. The sensorpost was merely a black rod above the keypass. It reminded Tom of the Orwell novel.

He flipped the Erblings off their slats onto the carbonized floorwall. “If you think Do Horse was hot stuff,” he joked, “wait’ll you see what’s waiting for you in the next room. You’ll be the only gals in town with boyfriends from another planet!” Tom laughed. “I’ll be right back, and in the meantime, you’ll be trying on some new genes, and I don’t mean Levi’s.”

He extromitted to the pointaccess of the xyholotypehold. The exposed unit read #1003WADEST.JOHN. The hold was empty, but not for long. In sisterspeak the hold was called a carbonmassrepulsiondiodedeflectiveenergybarriersecuritynodule. In Tomspeak, it was called a fuckin’ jail. It reminded him of the brig on Star Trek. Nothing could penetrate its repulsion screen. A TOW missile wouldn’t dent it. A sixteen inch naval shell would bounce off its transparent face like a tennis ball.

Tom touched the scrollmode on the revolutionactivator, thinking of the proper stockcodes #765NRLDYL and #6500: .::. . Instantly the first appeared, something reminiscent of a giant gray chicken gizzard, which rose joint by joint on segmented legs. “Come on, Valentino,” Tom said. “Time to make some bacon.” Nrldyl had haired antennae in place of eyes and ears, and at the end of its single arm was not a hand but a rubberish shovel like thing. Tom understood that this particular genus had intercourse by means of manual seminal congestion: It took its semen out of itself with the scoop and stuffed it into its mate. True passion, Tom thought.

#6500: .::. . appeared next. “Ah, Blob Man,” Tom commented, noticing the bucket. It was nice to know that earth was not the only sphere in the universe that used buckets. He carried it down the pass, as Nrldyl dumbly followed. Tom didn’t have to worry about the holotypes getting rowdy; the ganglionstaticreflexpulsemodificationdischargenodes implanted into their nervous systems would zap them a nutcracker at the faintest negative thought. That way they couldn’t rough up the female surrogates.

Tom decayed the radiophaseshifttriionizer, which paved the way for successful antirejectorybifertilization. He took the two holotypes into the warren. “Girls!” he announced. “I’m back! With your new dream dates!”

Stella began to visibly jerk. Liddy managed a muffled whine from deep in her chest.

“Go to it, fellas.” Tom set the bucket between Liddy’s feet and nudged Nrldyl toward Stella. “If you guys need a godfather, let me know. I could be available.”

Nrldyl was hopping up and down in pure alien excitement. Clumps of its semen were already visible within the slit of its spermonic duct. The grotesque thing then knelt between Stella’s legs and began to tenderly transfer the globs of its off-blue semen, via the scoop hand, into Stella’s vaginal vault. The scoop packed it in nice and tight, leaving poor Stella bloated like a blueberry turnover with too much filling. What a way to fuck, Tom thought. Nrldyl chortled. Stella vomited a yard into the air while at the same time convulsing in multiple orgasms.

Meanwhile the thing in the bucket had already dumped itself out. The brown blob spurtled, groaning, surging upward as if against tremendous gravity. After several strenuous attempts, it managed to stand upright, sporting a dripping, long erection that looked sort of like a giant chewed Tootsie Roll. Liddy screamed through her paralysis when the thing climbed between her legs.

Tom plugged his key into the extromitter. But before he left, he turned and offered a final commiseration. “Have no fear, girls. You’ll live forever. You’ll be cosmic mothers of miracles—forever.”

But where did that leave him? As he fed the thought “Student Shop” into the extromitter, he wondered. They said he would live forever too. But how could that be, when already shreds of his own flesh were beginning to peel off?

—

CHAPTER 20

“Museums? No,” Professor Fredrick said. “None within hundreds of miles, I’m afraid.”

Lydia had come to Fredrick at 9 A.M. sharp. Fredrick was Exham’s chairman of the archaeology department. She’d wanted to know where a three hundred year old cutting tool could be found near the campus. And he’d told her. Nowhere.

“May I see those photographs?” Professor Fredrick asked. The shots were microphotos she’d taken of the impactations at the stables.

Fredrick lit a pipe with a face on it. “There’s no scale here,” he remarked. “How long would you say this strike mark is?”

“A little over ten inches.”

“That’s a long blade for an ax. It’s perfectly flat too. But the angle width of the cutting bezel interests me more.”

“Sir?”

Fredrick pointed to the grainy shot with his pipe end. “I mean the angle at which this tool was honed” —he squinted— “you can see that the left side of the blade is a flat plane, while the right bears the honing surface.”

Lydia had already noted this.

“And your police scientist told you—”

“It was an estimation,” she clarified. “There were no exact classifications in the indexes. This ax is definitely iron, and definitely forged over three hundred years ago. That’s all we know.”

“This isn’t an ax,” Fredrick said.

“What?”

“It’s plain to see. It’s not an ax. It’s not a mattock, an adze, or a froe either.”

“Then what is it?”

Fredrick’s brow rose over his aging face. He tapped his pipe into a glazed Babylonian bloodtap turned ashtray. “The tool you’re looking for is a beam hewer. It’s the only tool within your estimated time period that had this kind of cutting edge.”

Lydia frowned. “What the hell is a beam hewer?”

“A tool used by colonists to turn round logs into square beams. There were many different types of hewers, mind you, but only the beam hewer possessed a planed left blade side, so the scores of the dogged log could be sliced off evenly.”

Scores of the dogged log, Lydia thought. “I’m not exactly an expert on beam hewers, Professor.”

Fredrick laughed, for the first time displaying a comprehension of humor. “Beam carpenters were the most vital tradesmen of the early colonial period. The procedure involved the following steps. One, a tree was cut down. Two, the felled tree was held to the ground by a dogging clamp. Three, the dogged tree was scored with axlike tools called adzes. Four, the scored tree was hewn—four flat planes were cut along the scores. The beam hewer had the appearance of an oddly shaped ax. The cutting edges were commonly a foot long, to clear each score.”

Lydia tried to picture an ax with a foot long cutting edge. “They were huge, you mean.”

“Yes, and heavy—twenty to thirty pounds. The left blade sides were perfectly level, or ‘basilled,’ so as to cut the scores off flat. A good beam carpenter could turn a thirty foot tree into an evenly sided beam in about an hour.”

Fredrick rose to take down some books. Lydia understood that he’d been on digs all over the world. Years of blazing sun had cragged his face, toughened his skin to leather. He slid aside a small statue of Chinnamasta, the Bengalian goddess of decapitation, and presented to Lydia an old book opened to a block of pictures.

“That,” he said, pointing to one, “is a typical beam hewer.”

Lydia nearly shit her police pants.

“And that,” he paused to add, “is me.”

The ghostly field photograph was dated March 19, 1938. “New Excavations at Kent Island,” it read, and the text: “Sophomore F. Fredrick displays one of dozens of newly disinterred artifacts found at Maryland University’s latest Kent Island dig, a beam hewer probably forged by William Claiborne’s blacksmiths in 1632. Note the hewer’s extraordinary size.”

In the picture, a young and dusty Professor Fredrick smiled as he held up the hewer for the camera. Its handle was nearly as long as Fredrick was tall, and its cutting edge easily cleared a foot. The bizarre blade was configured like an upside down, L. Lydia had never imagined a cutting tool so large.

“The hewer’s impractical size was necessary. Too small and they would not be able to cut each score in a single swipe. Needless to say, next to flintlocks, the beam hewer was the weapon of choice during Indian attacks.”

“I can see why,” Lydia commented. The look of the thing was terrifying enough, but worse was the rest. This was the same sort of instrument that had been used on Sladder.

Fredrick puffed smoke. “May I ask the nature of your inquiry?”

“Sure,” Lydia said. “The weapon that made these strike-marks murdered a man.”

“Oh, dear,” Fredrick said.

“But knowing what it is isn’t good enough, not with something this old. I need to know where a person could get one.”

“Well, I’ve told you, there aren’t any museums in the vicinity. Exham is a remote town; who needs museums here?”

No museums, Lydia thought. No beam hewers.

“Except, of course,” Fredrick continued, “the artifacts owned by the college.”

Lydia stared. “You mean there’s a museum here? On campus?”

“No, but there are exhibits. The archaeology department sponsors several digs per year. Several battles of the Revolution were fought nearby, and early colony settlements were scattered all over Exham. We’ve got more musket barrels, bent bayonets, and crushed powder horns than you can shake a stick at.”

“Fine,” Lydia said. “But do you have any beam hewers?”

“Why, of course,” Fredrick answered.

Lydia wanted to shout the next question into his face, but she managed to calm herself. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“You specifically asked me about independent museums, not college archaeological properties.”

Lydia’s heart quickened. “Professor Fredrick, are you telling me that there are beam hewers on this campus right now?”

“Yes,” he said. “Several, as a matter of fact.”

“Where?”

“The main administration lobby. My department maintains a fine display of local artifacts there. It’s an impressive exhibit; I’m sure you’ve seen it. There are three or four hewers on display.”

Lydia’s scalp seemed to be tingling. Tensely she stood up and said, “Professor Fredrick, thank you very, very much.”

««—»»

Wade scrubbed toilets and mopped floors, oblivious. He smiled, whistling, and thought of his night with Lydia Prentiss.

It had been wonderful, which sounded corny, but it was true. He’d driven her home at 7 A.M. He could tell by the way she kissed him that this was more than a one night stand. The look in her eyes had finished him. This girl loves me, he thought in a crash of incredulity. She hadn’t said it, of course. But Wade knew, and that shock of knowledge was all it took to show him how significantly his life had changed literally overnight. His past’s romantic demons had fled like blown leaves; Lydia had exorcized them. No more macho rich kid in a Corvette. No more beaver patrol. No more reducing the society of women to physical tidbits for his indulgence. The burden of his sins was gone. Wade the Conqueror had been conquered. By Lydia.

I’m in love, he thought giddily. How do you like that?

What a stark, blazing realization. He felt glittering in the rush of love. Nothing could spoil the moment of this beautiful truth.

Or at least almost nothing—

Plunk.

He looked down and saw that he’d stepped in the mop bucket. It tipped over when he lifted his foot out. Then he slipped.

Splap!

Now he lay belly down in the puddle. His temper struggled. When he tried to rise, he slipped again and fell on his back. He got up, swore, and kicked the bucket. The bucket bounced off the wall, hit him in the head, and knocked him in the water again.

Splat!

Laughter cracked down the hall. Wade, wet and red faced, looked up. Chief White was standing in the doorway.

“I seen a lotta dumb ass hobnobbin’ in my day, but I ain’t never seen a grown man get his ass whupped by a bucket.”

“What do you want!” Wade yelled.

“Get in the car, St. John. We’se goin’ for a ride.”

««—»»

Wade sat in back, behind the screen, as White drove his souped Buick cruiser. Am I in trouble? he wondered. The mop water stank in his clothes. But the situation stank worse.

White had developed a nervous tic. He chewed a cigar butt and steered wringing his hands. Earlier, Lydia had made Wade and Jervis promise not to speak of the business at the Erblings’ dorm. She wanted to follow up on it herself, assemble more pieces before informing White. She’d implied that White had been covering things up lately, before Lydia could investigate them properly. Wade knew White was a crank, but maybe it was something more than that.

White spat out the chewed butt and parked at the campus substation. He shuffled Wade in and slammed him down in a chair.

“Why the Gestapo treatment, Chief? Is kicking a campus owned mop bucket a felony? What am I looking at, five to ten?”

White sat at his desk. “You’re a two bit pain in my ass, St. John. You know that?”

Two bit? What an insult. “What’s this all about, Chief?”

“It’s about your pal Tom McGuire, that’s what!”

Wade tried to show no reaction. Had Lydia changed her mind about informing White of the break in at the Erblings’?

“The goddamn punk robbed the Town Pump last night,” White spat. “The owner made his vehicle and got his plates, then picked his face out of random student photos. Positive ID.”

“Tom’s got plenty of money,” Wade said. “He doesn’t rob liquor stores. That’s ridiculous.”

Or was it? Jervis claimed he saw Tom breaking into the Erblings’, which was ridiculous too. Then there was always the Spaten cap Wade had found at the campus clinic.

“He beat up on the owner and stole two cases of beer.”

“Oh, yeah?” Wade challenged. “What type of beer.”

White grimaced at the police report. “Spaten Oktoberfest.”

Not good, Wade thought. “All right, even if he did rob the Pump, which he didn’t, why drag me down here?”

“’Cos you and him are buddies. You must know somethin’ about it.”

“Look, Chief,” Wade lied, “I haven’t seen him for days.”

“Bullshit! You were at the inn with him two nights ago!”

“That was the last time I saw him,” Wade lied. “I haven’t seen him since then. I haven’t even seen his car in the lot.”

White grimaced further. “Well, he ain’t gonna be hard to find, not in that mint white Camaro of his, and vanity plates. Got an APB out on him now. He tries to cross the line in that car, the state boys’ll be on him like bugs on flypaper. And what about this other motorhead friend of yours? Jervis Phillips.”

“Jervis isn’t a motorhead, Chief. He drives a Dodge Colt. And what about him?”

“He’s friends with McGuire too. Might know somethin’. But we can’t find him either. You know where he is?”

“Sorry, Chief,” Wade lied again. “Haven’t seen him.”

“Right, and if I was the devil I could stir my coffee with my dick. Holdin’ back knowledge of a crime, or harborin’ a criminal, can make you an accessory. Keep that in mind.” White pointed the cigar like a gun. “And another thing, boy, and I ain’t foolin’ around. I hear you been datin’ one of my officers.”

Wade looked ashamed. “It’s true, Chief. Porker and I have been seeing each other for months now. The wedding’s in September.”

“Don’t get funny with me. You stay away from Prentiss, or else next time I’ll be the one moppin’ the floor—with you.”

“I’ll never speak to her again,” Wade lied. God, it’s fun lying to police! “I won’t even look at her.”

“And next time you see that candy ass drunk Jervis Phillips” —White banged his fist on the desk— “tell him to come down here.”

“I will, Chief.”

White lit a cigar, pinch browed. He waved Wade away with the smoke. “Go on now, get your rich kid face out of my office.”

Wade faltered at the door. “Say, Chief, it’s going on ninety outside, and it’s a mile back to the center. How about a ride?”

“I ain’t a fuckin’ limo. Use your LPCs.”

“LPCs?”

White unreeled a sudden belt of laughter. “Yeah, boy, LPCs. That’s leather personnel carriers.”

White’s Deep South donkey laughter followed Wade out into the sultry day. The heat was bad, the humidity was worse. He was stuck in his own sweat in minutes. A cold Adams right now would go just fine, but he still had work to do at the center, more toilets, more floors…

Half hour later, Wade was back at the center, drenched. He stopped midstep when he entered the supply room.

Tom McGuire was sitting on a lab counter, drinking a beer.

“Wade, my man! I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I…” Wade said. Tom looked sick. His face was…gray. “Jesus, Tom. You look like shit.”

“I know,” Tom agreed, “but I feel great. Come on, let’s get out of here and throw back a few cold ones.”

“I can’t. I have to finish up here.”

“Nonsense,” Tom scoffed. “You’re only young once, believe me. You want to waste the day scrubbing toilets?”

“Well, no, but—”

Tom’s smile turned sad. Suddenly he was pointing a pistol at Wade. “Just do what I say, Wade. I’ll explain along the way.”

Holy shit, Wade thought slowly. Tom led him out to the loading dock, the gun barrel at Wade’s back.

“How do you like the new paint job?”

Wade dumbly approached the Camaro. Tom’s beautiful white lacquered car had been haphazardly painted black. “This is no paint job!” Wade exclaimed. “The run’s ruined! I could do better work than this with a can of spray paint.”

“That’s what I used,” Tom said. “Spray paint.”

Using ordinary spray paint on this Chevy masterpiece was like touching up The Creation of Adam with El Markos. But the reason came quickly to Wade. Camouflage, he thought. Tom’s “Eat Dust” vanity plates were gone too, replaced by normal plates.

Stolen plates, Wade realized.

“I made it look like shit on purpose,” Tom said. He threw Wade the keys. “Get in, you drive.”

Wade shifted out of the back lot. “You painted your white car black,” Wade stated. “You put on stolen tags. You know the police are looking for you.”

“Yep. The cops know my rod on sight, but they won’t give this a second glance. Pretty slick thinking, huh?”

“Yeah, slick,” Wade said. “So you did rob the liquor store.”

“Dumb move, but what can I say? I was thirsty.”

“You also stole a bunch of medical files from the clinic, mine included. And last night you murdered Dave Willet.”

Tom seemed mildly impressed. “You’re a smart boy, Wade. How’d you know about Do Horse?”

“Jervis saw the whole thing through a telescope. He also said he saw someone…eating the guy.”

“It’s true, partner, but it wasn’t me. It was one of the sisters. That bitch ate half the meat off Willet’s bones. I can’t figure out where they put it all; they eat like pigs. She even ate the guy’s cock” —Tom chuckled— “and that was one big meal, let me tell you. They didn’t call him Do Horse for nothing.”

Wade turned off campus, steering stiffly. Little point remained in asking for reasons. Wade was no psychiatrist, but he felt fairly certain that confessing to murder and holding your best friend at gun point in a camouflaged car with stolen tags was a pretty clear sign of some psychological problems. Tom was crazy—

And Wade was scared.

“You’ll understand it all once you’ve become part of the family, Wade. But I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’ve gone nuts, that I’ve turned into some sort of psychotic criminal.” Tom pointed quickly to the exit. “Take Route 13 south.”

Wade did so, wondering. He assumed Tom planned to flee the state, but 13 south would take them away from the state line.

“I’m no criminal, Wade,” Tom went on. “And I’m no psycho.”

“What are you, then?”

Tom’s pallid grin reached its peak. “I’m a myrmidon—a holy gofer. I’m the shoeshine boy to the gods.”

No, you’re crazy, Wade thought.

“Let’s get off these grim topics,” Tom suggested. “We’re still friends, it’s just that the circumstances have changed a little.” He pulled a couple of beers from a cooler in back, a Spaten for himself and an Adams for Wade. He removed the non twist off caps with his fingers. “A toast,” he proposed, and raised his bottle. “To destiny!”

“Yeah, to destiny. Whatever you say, Tom.”

Their bottles clinked.

“Hey, Wade. You ready for an old one?”

“Sure, why not?”

“You know what they say about Liberace, don’t you? He was great on the piano, but he sucked on the organ.”

“Hilarious, Tom.”

“Aw, come on, buddy, cheer up,” Tom said, and chugged some of his Spaten. “You’ll feel different once you’re in.”

Wade drove on stoically. This whole thing was madness.

“Besser will be mighty pissed that the cops are onto me,” Tom said. “At first we had to be real careful, but I don’t think that matters now. We’ll be gone in a couple of days.”

Wade blinked. “What does Besser have to do with this?”

“He’s my supervisor. Winnie Saltenstall too. They’re called nativeemissarials. I’m just a productionvassal. And the sisters are like…project managers. We all work for the Supremate. It’s a family. And what’s best is you get to join the family too.”

Wade followed the wooded bends of the road. He still didn’t know where they were going, nor was he compelled to ask. Even if a cop passed, it wouldn’t matter. They were looking for a white Camaro, not a black one. The only vehicles to pass were periodic semi rigs, which dangerously used the Route as a shortcut to the interstate.

“Hogs of the road,” Tom remarked as one big rig blared past, blowing its horn. The truck roared by them. “Goddamn truckers think they own the Route. Be careful around these bends, man.”

“I have driven the Route before, Tom.”

“I know, just be careful. If I don’t get you to the labyrinth in good shape, my ass is grass.”

“The labyrinth? I’m not even going to ask.”

“Besser will tell you all about it. We’re going back behind the agro site, in case you’re wondering. That’s where the labyrinth is. I can show you our little graveyard back there.”

Off and on, Wade glanced over. Occasionally Tom rested back as if listening to something in his head. Probably instructions from God, Wade thought. Or Son of Sam’s dog. Tom’s hair seemed to be thinning—Wade could see a bump of some kind. Then there was always the upside down cross around his neck. Hadn’t Wade noticed Besser with an identical cross on his first day at work?

“What’s that thing around your neck?” he finally asked, and swerved through the next bend. “You in a satanic cult or something?”

Tom chuckled. “That’s a good one. Don’t worry about it.” He tossed his empty Spaten. “You ready for another?”

“Sure,” Wade said. Getting loaded seemed as good a way as any to deal with this. “Here’s an idea,” he offered. “Let’s turn around right now, check you into the hospital, and we can go to the labyrinth tomorrow. Sound good?”

“Sounds bad,” Tom said. “Just keep driving.”

Another semi roared by, horn blaring. Wade swerved.

“I’m serious, buddy,” Tom complained. “Be careful around these bends. If you got killed, I’d be neck deep in the Supremate’s shit.”

“I’m impressed by your concern for my well being.”

“Just be careful around these bends.”

Wade tried to concentrate on his driving. Once they got to the agro site, he presumed Tom, in his delusions, would kill him. He’d mentioned a graveyard, hadn’t he? Wade needed a plan, and fast. His only chance seemed to be wrecking the car—drive into a ravine or spin out, and hope to escape in the confusion.

But one second later, fate provided its own plan.

What seemed to transpire over minutes actually took place in a few heartbeats. Wade pulled through the next bend. Tom shouted: “Careful around these—look out!” An oncoming car was suddenly in their lane, a black Fiero with two obviously shit faced occupants. “We’re gonna wreck!” Tom shouted. Wade swerved, lost control as he jerked the wheel. The Camaro shuddered off the road and plowed into a good sized tree. Wade, on impact, shot forward and snapped back. He was wearing his seat belt. Tom, however, was not.

Tom’s head burst through the windshield; inertia pulled his body down, and Wade saw something bounce across the road.

Tom’s body fell back in the seat, headless.

Holy holy holy shit. Wade hauled himself out, jarred, dizzy. The Camaro was totaled, and so was Tom.

The Fiero had skidded to a halt, its driver looking back.

“You fuckhead drunk motherfucker!” Wade bellowed.

“Tough luck,” the driver muttered. The Fiero sped away.

Jesus Jesus Jesus, Wade thought, and blundered across the road. I just got Tom killed. Jesus Jesus Jesus.

He looked forlornly down at Tom’s head, which lay face-up in weeds. If Wade had been more careful, none of this would’ve happened. He might’ve talked Tom out of his madness, gotten him to a shrink, gotten him fixed up. Instead, he’d gotten him killed.

Jesus Jesus Jesus. Look what I’ve done.

Wade glanced up. He thought he’d heard a sound. A car door?

He peered across to the smashed Camaro. Tom’s body was getting out of the car—without the benefit of a head.

Wade stood limp, staring.

The headless corpse stood upright, even closed the door behind it. One of its hands still gripped a Spaten Oktoberfest. It faced Wade, or would be if it had a face. Wade’s bladder voided then, as the headless corpse of Tom McGuire began to confidently cross the road.

A horn shrieked, along with tremors and a roar like thunder. Instantly a log loaded eighteen wheeled Peterbilt barreled through the bend with no chance of stopping for the perplexed thing that stood in the middle of the road. The massive front grille mowed Tom’s body down with an ear splitting whap!, then fed the crumpled corpse into its axles. The body tumbled like a doll in a dryer and eventually became lodged by its legs in the truck’s spare tire rack, trapped. Wade noticed Vermont plates on the rig’s loaded trailer. Tom’s body was going for a long ride. As quickly as the truck had appeared, it was gone.

Wade remained limp at the shoulder, half in shock and easily doubting his own sanity.

He looked down again at Tom’s head.

Its eyes flew open, and its lips spoke: “Goddamn it, Wade! I told you to be careful around those bends!”

Wade screamed, kicked the head into the woods, and ran.

—

CHAPTER 21

White’s office was locked, which worked out for the best. Lydia was determined to tell him nothing until she’d acquired enough evidence on her own to make a case, and not just this business with the hewer, but the break in at the clinic and the Erblings’ dorm. Something was seriously wrong around here. Lydia didn’t trust White. She didn’t trust anyone.

She’d passed the exhibits many times, never taking any notice. Colonial relics weren’t exactly a turn on for her. But it was a large, impressive display, she saw now. She remembered glancing at it yesterday. Now she roved the glass cases. Of course, she hardly expected to find a hewer’s display space vacant. No one was that lucky. Musket barrels, bent bayonets, and squashed powder horns—here they all were, as Fredrick had promised. Tools and edged weapons occupied the latter cases. Lots of trade axes, froes, and scythes. There were bog scoops from Massachusetts Bay and glass pincers from Williamsburg. Big deal, Lydia thought. Lots of swords too, and an entire case of Conoy arrowheads and tomahawks. The last cast displayed some hewers, but none looked as large as the kind she sought.

One label read: “Hand hewer, Roanoke Island, circa 1587.” But it was puny, like a Cub Scout hatchet.

Next: “Pole hewer, Jamestown, circa 1610.” Much bigger, but the plane of the blade was concaved, not straight.

Here it is, she thought. “Beam  hewer, St. Clement’s Island, circa 1635.” But the hewer’s display space was… vacant.

Lydia’s expression drooped. No one was this lucky?

In seconds, she was in White’s office, dialing the phone. Her excitement rushed her words. “Professor Fredrick, this is Lydia Prentiss again. Who has access to the archaeology exhibits?”

“What?” Fredrick asked. “Access? You mean keys?”

“Yes, sir, I mean keys. Who has the keys?”

“Well, I do, of course. It’s my department.”

“Who else has keys to the display cases? Janitors? Security?”

“No,” Fredrick said. “I’m afraid the only other person on campus with keys is the college public relations executive.”

“Who’s that?”

“Winnifred Saltenstall.”

Lydia gripped the phone so hard her knuckles whitened. “What legitimate reason would she have for taking an artifact?”

“Well, I don’t know. If she’d donated it to a museum, she certainly would’ve notified me first. She may have loaned it to a historical society, or perhaps to an archaeology journal. Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

Good idea. “Thank you, Professor.”

Lydia hurried out to the cruiser. She blew down Campus Drive and screeched around the Circle. Besser’s Cadillac De Ville was parked in the lot at the sciences center, and so was Winnie’s Maserati 425. Lydia took the staircase up, thinking, She’s probably not here, but when she knocked, a voice invited her in.

Mrs. Saltenstall sat behind an expensive but jumbled desk, a double window at her back. No one else was with her. One hand came from her lap to the blotter, sporting a black ring, like onyx, while an unbecoming black amulet hung about her neck. The amulet reminded Lydia of an inverted crucifix.

“Pardon the interruption, ma’am. I’d like to ask you…”

Was the woman stoned? Her eyes looked funny. The ringed hand remained on the blotter, while the other she kept below the desk. “Oh,” Winnie said in a sleepy drone. Was she hiding her right hand deliberately? “You must be the new police officer.”

“Yes, ma’am. Lydia Prentiss.”

She smiled blearily. “How can I help you, Lydia Prentiss?”

See what twenty years of pot smoking will do to you? Lydia thought. Adult retardation. “I have evidence that a serious crime was committed with an implement on display in the college archaeology exhibit.”

“Implement?”

“Yes, a colonial tool called a beam hewer.”

“Beam hewer?”

“One appears to be missing from the exhibit. It’s clear that the hewer was removed by someone with a key.”

“Key?”

What is this? Fucking Benny Hill? “Professor Fredrick directed me to you. Other than him, you’re the only person on campus with a key.”

Winnifred weirdly touched her amulet. “Oh, a key to the exhibit?”

No, asshole, a key to the city. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”

Lydia did, hard pressed not to frown.

“You’re a very attractive woman,” Winnifred said inexplicably. She leaned back, parting her feet. “Are you married?”

“No. But back to the exhibit keys—”

“Are you bi? I mean, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Did she just say what I think she said? Lydia reflected. The arm of the woman’s hidden hand seemed to be moving lightly.

“Please don’t be offended, but I find you very desirable. It’s not healthy to suppress our natural urges. If you’re into it—”

This is too much! I came in here asking about a fucking beam hewer, and she wants to make out with me. “I’m not into it,” Lydia said. “I only want to know who took the—” But then she saw something under the desk: a pair of frilled panties.

It was now obvious what Winnifred was doing with her hidden hand. Lydia got up to leave, incredulous.

“Don’t go yet,” Winnie moaned. “I’ll tell you in a minute…”

She placed her feet on the desk edge and brought the ringed hand to her breast. The other hand remained buried beneath her dress.

Agape now, Lydia could only stand and stare.

“I’m coming now,” Winnifred breathed. Her body tensed in the big chair, and she released a long, whining moan, flush-faced.

I have seen everything now, Lydia concluded.

Winnifred’s body went lax. She smiled lazily and put her feet back down. “That was nice,” she said.

“I’m sure it was.”

“You want to know about the hewer.”

“Lady, after what I just saw, I don’t give a flying fuck about the hewer. You ought to see a psychiatrist.”

Winnifred licked her fingers. “I took the hewer,” she said.

“What?”

“You’re very efficient. Who would think something that old could be traced? How did you do it?”

Lydia stalled. “Are you about to confess to murder?”

“Oh, no. But I did take the hewer.”

“Winnie, you idiot!” a man’s voice interrupted. “Can’t you ever control yourself? The Supremate will be furious!”

Professor Dudley Besser was standing at the far wall. But how could he have entered without Lydia seeing? It was impossible.

“Look at the trouble you’ve caused,” he went on.

“She knew about the hewer, Dudley. She traced it to me.”

Besser turned to Lydia directly. “You’ve made quite a problem for yourself, I’m afraid. Why couldn’t you leave us alone?”

Lydia decided it was time to yell. “You’re both out of your minds! What are you talking about? This is crazy!”

“I can see how it would seem so,” Besser said. “It’s too complex for you to understand… Yes, Winnifred took the hewer, but she wasn’t the one who killed Mr. Sladder.”

Lydia’s eyes widened.

“It was me,” Besser said.

Winnifred smiled. Lydia blinked. Suddenly Besser had somehow produced the very weapon Lydia sought.

“The beam hewer,” she whispered.

He held it shoulder to hip. It was huge, a five foot plus handle, and a weirdly shaped blade. The straight twelve inch cutting edge gleamed like a sliver of sun.

Lydia had no time to draw her gun. Besser heaved forward—

She jerked and fell. The descending hewer demolished the chair. Lydia half crawled, half jumped into the hall.

“Great going, you fat ass!” Winnie’s voice complained.

“Everybody calls me fat! I’m not fat!”

“You’re a blimp, Dudley. A fat, cumbersome blimp!”

Now Lydia was ready. Down on one knee, she aimed her revolver at the open door. She breathed thinly, waiting for Besser to emerge with the hewer.

Come on, you fat bastard. Come to Lydia.

She waited like that for quite some time.

Only silence now from the office. Did they plan to wait in there forever? If they would not come to her, Lydia would go to them.

She three pointed through the doorway, gun in lead. Besser and Winnifred Saltenstall were gone. So was the hewer.

Impossible.

Where could they have gone? There was no exit.

Window, she thought. They took the ledge to the next office.

She approached the window but soon lowered her gun with a slow curse on her lips. The window was secured by brass latches: locked from the inside.

««—»»

Wade drove the Vette zombie eyed to the dorm, after walking all the way back to the sciences center. If he reported the wreck to White, what would he say? Tom’s head got cut off, and his body got out of the car? That probably wouldn’t wash. White would have him committed. And calling Dad would be worse.

But he had to tell someone.

He ran down the hall to his room. He would call Lydia, tell her everything. If he couldn’t tell her, who could he tell? But when he bulled into the room, Lydia jumped up. “Where have you been, goddamn it? You weren’t at work! I’ve been waiting hours!”

“I’ve had a bad day,” he said.

“You’ve had a bad day! Shit!” An ashtray clogged with butts sat on the bed, next to three pistols and a box of bullets.

Next, inexplicably, she was hugging him as tightly as she could. “Oh, Wade, something crazy happened to me today!”

He sat her down on the bed, got himself an Adams, and said, “You tell your crazy story first. Then I’ll tell mine.”

««—»»

Wade didn’t know what to make of her frantic recital. It was crazy, but he believed her. As for his own crazy story, the only thing he could do was show her. This time he drove around the bends more carefully, on the advice of a dead friend. Lydia’s lap was full of guns. “And I can’t tell White,” she was saying. “He’d never believe two high faculty members tried to kill me with a beam hewer. He’d have me committed.”

“I came to similar conclusions,” Wade said. “But tell me more about what Besser and Winnie said.”

Lydia lit another cigarette. “Weird stuff, crazy. He used some funky word—supremate, I think.”

Wade’s innards twitched. “Tom used the same word. Supremate. It’s someone he works for, and he said Besser and Winnie work for him too, along with sisters. He said one of these sisters ate Dave Willet. Same as what Jervis said. A woman in black.”

The bend was coming up. Wade slowed through the turn. There’s the tree. He stopped on the shoulder. “This is it,” he said.

Lydia scanned the bend. “I don’t see any wrecked Camaro.”

Wade jumped out and ran up and down the road. Lydia got out more slowly, watching his antics.

“The car’s gone!” he yelled. He jabbed his finger at the tree. “It was here, I swear! Right fucking here!”

“Well, it’s not right fucking here now.”

“Somebody cleaned it up,” he declared. “Somebody came out here, cleaned up the glass, and towed the car.”

Lydia’s mouth twisted into a smile.

“Thanks a lot, baby!” he shouted., “I believed your crazy ridiculous story! The least you could do is believe mine!”

“Here’s what must’ve happened, Wade. You drove the car into the tree. Tom got knocked out, but you thought he was dead. You left, he woke up, and he drove the car away.”

“What, Tom’s head drove the car away? His body got run down by a fucking semi rig! And the car was totaled!”

“Calm down. There’s a logical explanation.”

“No, there’s not!” Wade screamed. “Tom’s head got cut off, and his body got out of the car and walked around!”

But—wait a minute, he thought. The—

He dashed into the woods. “It’s got to be here somewhere!”

“What?” Lydia said.

“The head! I kicked it in the woods after it started talking!”

Lydia began to laugh slightly.

It figured. Women only stood behind their men when it suited them. He’d show her, by God. He’d hold Tom’s head right up to her face and shake it at her…

He crawled through brambles for fifteen minutes. No head.

Lydia was back in the Vette, smoking. When Wade got in, she asked, “Did you find the head?”

“Does it look like I found the fucking head?” he smirked.

“Forget the head, Wade. You said Tom held a gun on you?”

“Yeah. I suppose you don’t believe that either.”

Lydia held up a small .25 automatic.

“That’s it!” Wade exclaimed. “That’s the gun he had!”

“I found it on the shoulder. And look what else I found.” She raised a necklace with a black amulet on it.

“Tom was wearing that thing around his neck,” Wade said. “I asked him what it was but he wouldn’t say.”

Lydia looked at it. “Yeah? Well, Besser and Winnifred were wearing these things too.”

««—»»

—SOON WE WILL BE ON OUR WAY TO GLORY ETERNAL. TOGETHER, AS ONE. BUT MY BIDDINGS MUST NOT FAIL. I HAVE NEVER FAILED.

“I know, my lord.”

—MY POWERS ARE YOURS. DO WHAT YOU MUST AND SPARE NOTHING.

“It will be done, my lord. We have authorities here who are contrary to us. But through your grace we can avoid them.”

—OUR TIME PERIOD IS VITAL. IT MUST NOT BE VIOLATED.

“I swear on my life.”

—DO NOT COME BACK TO ME UNTIL YOU HAVE SUCCEEDED.

The Supremate’s face blended away. Besser and Winnifred retreated from the shrine and extromitted to the servicepass.

“He’s pissed,” Winnie said.

“Thanks to you, yes,” Besser acknowledged. “I can’t believe you masturbated in front of a police officer.”

“I couldn’t help it! You know what the psilight does to me. Anyway, I told you she was onto us. I was trying to distract her.”

You called me fat, was all Besser could think. “Don’t worry, White won’t believe her, and even if he does, the sisters can repulse any amount of adversity.”

“I hope you’re right, Dudley. I want to be a god too.”

Don’t count on it, Besser thought. There was only room for one god between them. He’d already discussed the matter with the Supremate, and it was settled. But not yet, he thought.

The gorgeous image of murdering her hardened his penis at once. Nevertheless, he lied: “We will be gods, my love. In some bright and future eon, we will rule this world together.”

Winnifred kissed his fat face, extruded her plump breasts from her dress, and rubbed them against his mammoth chest. “Oh, Dudley, I love you! I can’t wait to be a god!” Several sisters watched and giggled. “Not here, darling,” he whispered, though he was truly tempted in the furious psilight. It would be sweet, wouldn’t it, to just drag that dress off her skinny body and fuck her to death right there on the floorwall? So he was fat, was he? He would smother her with his fat. He would plug his cock into every orifice, and perhaps form some of his own. Yes, he would fuck her to death and crush every bone in her skinny body as he came. The sisters would love it.

“Not now,” he repeated in a whispered pant. “We need a new productionvassal, and we better get that tow truck back to the garage.”

—

CHAPTER 22

“I love you,” Wilhelm said. “Mein Liebchen.”

“Oh, Willy!” Sarah squealed. “I love you too! Forever!”

In the telescope’s eye, they embraced and kissed.

Jervis watched it all—again. He watched them do everything, like last time, right there on the couch. Their passion glowed in their eyes, on their skin, shimmered through every gesture in radiant waves.

Jervis could’ve puked.

He pushed away the telescope, dropped Czanek’s bug receiver. In the middle of the day, even. They must do it round the clock. He finished another Kirin, smoked more cigarettes, and stared at the wall.

Jervis cried in silence for a long time.

The rap on the door sounded like a dream. Lost now, and insane, he answered it. Professor Besser and Winnifred Saltenstall faced him in the doorway, smiling as brightly as messiahs.

“Jervis,” Besser’s dark voice fluttered.

“Jervis!” Winnifred greeted.

“We’ve come for you,” Besser whispered.

Jervis faltered back as they entered. “What do you want?”

Besser: “We want you, Jervis.”

Winnie: “We love you, Jervis!”

“Nobody loves me,” Jervis replied, thinking of Sarah.

“That’s not true,” Besser assured him. “There’s so much love waiting for you. But to have it, you must accept our gift.”

“What gift?”

Besser’s bulbous smile deepened. “Destiny,” he answered.

Jervis stepped back. Winnifred kissed him, licked the tears off his cheeks. “Trust us!” she whispered. “Come with us!”

“I want to be free!” Jervis cried.

“Then bow your head,” Besser said.

Jervis bowed his head.

Winnifred positioned the transceptionrod.

Besser raised the hammer.

««—»»

Nightfall.

“Tom said Besser wanted me for something,” Wade told her. They’d been driving for hours, off town through twisting backwoods roads. “He said something about bringing me in.”

“The agro site, you mean,” Lydia said.

“I guess so. Whatever’s going on, it seems to point there. Actually he said behind the agro site. In the woods.”

“The smart thing to do, then, is check it out.”

Wade nearly coughed up his Coke. “No, Lydia, that’s the dumb thing to do. The smart thing to do is tell the state cops.”

Lydia frowned. “You do the driving, Wade. I’ll do the thinking.”

“Fine. You want to get us both killed—fine.”

Lydia held up her polished Colt Trooper Mark III. “We won’t get killed as long as my good friend Colonel Colt is with us. He specializes in ass kicking.”

That’s all I need, Wade thought. Dirty Harry with boobs.

««—»»

The old road behind the agro site proceeded as a humped gully. Wade couldn’t believe he was driving a limited edition Corvette over this root routed excuse for a road. The deeper they traveled, the thicker the forest grew, but eventually a clearing appeared, choked with weeds and refuse. Garbage lay in piles, rusted car parts, and dozens of tires flaked with dry rot. “Looks like we found the local trash dump,” Wade commented.

“Somebody’s been dumping more than trash. Look.”

Near the tree line, several mounds showed in the Vette’s headlights. A shovel leaned against a tree.

Graveyard, Wade remembered. I can show you our little graveyard back there, Tom had said. “Probably just piles of dirt,” Wade tried to convince himself. Yellow moonlight streamed into the grove. Lydia got out with her fully charged state of the art SL 35 flashlight. Wade got out with his cheap piece of shit dying Peoples Drug Store flashlight.

“This place stinks!” Lydia whispered.

That it did. Wade gasped in the open, stagnant air. A stench hung, like raw meat in the sun. “What is it?” he asked.

“Death,” she said.

They approached the mounds, pointing their lights down. Fresh earth, newly turned. Empty Spaten bottles lay about the shovel.

They both scouted around. Wade was disgusted by the stench; it was everywhere. He kicked over a pile of tires and almost shouted: a fat hognose snake lay there with a dead field rat in its maw. But the snake was dead too. Had it died halfway into its meal? Under more tires, he found more dead snakes.

“Look at this,” Lydia said, waving him over with her SL.

Just past the mounds was a deep hole. Not a grave, though—it looked like a grease sump. At the bottom lay a thick puddle of some congealed whitish effluence.

Wade stuck a branch in it. “It’s wet,” he observed.

“Looks like plaster, or lard. I wonder what it is?”

“I don’t particularly care, Lydia. I can’t take too much more of this stink. Let’s get out of here.”

“In a minute. I want to look around a little more.” She handed him her spare gun, an old Colt O.P. “Go check out the other side of the clearing.”

“Where’s the safety on this thing?”

“It’s a revolver, stooge. Revolvers don’t have safeties.”

“Can I help it if I’m not Gun Digest? Jesus.”

“Just point it and squeeze the trigger. You’ve got six shots.”

She really pisses me off, he thought. Too bad I’m in love with her. But what a place to even think such a thing: a makeshift graveyard full of garbage and dead snakes. He moved off to the other side of the grove. The stench clung to him. Then his foot sank in something crunchy and soft. He nearly retched when he saw what he’d stepped in: a big dead maggot plump possum.

A footpath opened against the tree line. Wade took two steps in, walked on another dead possum, and stopped, aghast. Dead animals clogged the path, their heads all pointing in a straight line away from him. What the hell is all this? Possums, coons, skunks, foxes—multiple dozens—all lay dead in the flashlight beam. But what had killed them? It looked as though they’d been drawn into the trail. But drawn by what?

Follow the yellow brick road, he thought. He stepped between the carcasses, proceeding into the path. Frequently he misstepped and another carcass would collapse under foot. Each wet crunch sent a shiver through his guts.

The trail of carcasses led to another, higher clearing. The low moon afforded him every detail of what lay beyond.

Wade stood agape, as if rooted in place.

The grove was a nightmare chasm. He could not be seeing what he saw: a sliver of his world turned perverted, natural orders upheaved by compounded impossibilities, as though he’d stepped from his world into some obscene, mocking other. An eldritch knowledge had crept into this place and molested it. Wade was standing at the foot of the untenable.

Mother of God, he thought.

The moon swept grove stood like an alien lake. Greenish fog lay flat, motionless, and beneath its surface lay hundreds more swollen carcasses. Trees in the wood line had grown fat and twisted, limbs tipped heavy by weird brush. From the woods came an incessant dripping, unearthly foliage sweating mucoid moisture. Lobes of leaves exuded slowly depending cords of fluids; flower stamens glistened, pistils disgorging further lines on slime.

The grove had mutated, had changed into something it couldn’t be. Wade stepped forward. The pale fog, a foot deep, dissipated along his course. Things were growing from the carcasses. Buds sprouted, boring roots into putrifying meat. Things worse than maggots burrowed through dead animal flesh—white grublike things with ringed mouths, pulsing. Wade backstepped against a tree; its warm bark felt like an old person’s skin. Clinging bagworms showed faceless from hairy sheaths, some as large as loaves of bread. All this teeming life could not possibly be of Wade’s world. Scarlet slugs chewed bark from shuddering trunks. Gilled snakes coursed about beneath the fog. Even more unnerving were the shining snotlike threads webbed between low branches—spiderwebs. Some of the spiders were as big as apples, but covered with moist hair and squashed, twitching faces.

What have I walked into? he thought.

—Wade! You’re here with us!

Wade’s heart could’ve exploded in his chest. Betwixt a pair of oozing trees, a young girl stood. Her bright white face grinned from within a drooping hood. Her mouth looked wet. She wore sunglasses and was dressed completely in black.

Wade found he could make no sound at all.

—We want to eat, please! the young girl exclaimed.

««—»»

Where the hell did he go? Lydia thought. It was time to leave. She’d seen too many things which defied explanation. All these dead animals, their heads all pointing south. She remembered her first trip to the agro site. The animals’ heads all faced the same direction, even the few cows in the field.

But the mounds were what interested her most. Should she dig them up now? And what the hell was that sump?

But she had to find Wade. This expedition was over. When the keepers of this place returned, Lydia did not want to be around.

She marched back across the dell. If she stepped on one more dead animal, she would scream. He went this way, didn’t he? Toward that path. She passed the sump again, and the mounds. She knew Sladder was under there, and probably that Penelope chick too. She stopped midstride and stared. Was the second mound moving?

She aimed the SL, stooping. Suddenly an arm, or something like an arm, pushed out of the mounded dirt.

“Jesus Christ!” she shrieked.

In the hole, a misshapen face appeared. Its jawless mouth blubbered, the flaccid arm reaching out.

“H h helup helup help me!” the stretched face blabbered through spittle. Lopsided eyes like hard boiled eggs beseeched her from the sagging sack of flesh that was a face. The big rubbery mouth chewed on words: “They ate my baby! They took out my b b bones!”

—

CHAPTER 23

Jervis awoke in graven dark. He struggled to his feet, head tingling. In slabs of sound and image, he remembered:

Besser. Winnifred. And the hammer.

Jervis stood up straight. It all came back to him like a rushing tide. He’d been changed—for the Supremate.

—JERVIS. MY NEW SON. WELCOME.

At once, Jervis knew…everything. He knew what he was now, and what he was to do.

—WHAT YOU WANT MORE THAN ANYTHING YOU SHALL HAVE VERY SOON.

“Revenge!” He glanced frantically to the window, where he’d seen his love rubbed in his face like shit. Yes! Revenge!

He could sense his new master’s smile, the trust of the promise, and the truth. That’s all he’d ever wanted anyway. The truth.

And now he had it. The Supremate had made him a veritable reaper of truth. And, oh, how I will reap, he thought.

He rushed to the bathroom, flicked on the light. Despite the new gift of knowledge and power, there were still a few things he wasn’t clear on. His mirror image looked…well, pale. Dark bruises showed under his eyes. Around his neck hung his amulet, and his transceptionrod could be seen just past his hairline. What? he slowly thought. What am…

He touched his throat. It felt cold. He pressed a finger under his jaw. Nothing. Then his wrist…

Nothing, he thought. No heat. No pulse.

Jervis stared. What faced him in the mirror was a corpse.

“Holy shit,” he muttered. “I’m dead.”

««—»»

—But we’re not going to eat you, Wade. You’re special!

“Who are you?” Wade half gasped.

—I’m your new sister, and…look! She pointed into the perverted grove. A bare hillock rose from the fog, and upon it sat a black oblong box, like a coffin on end.

—Your new home, Wade! the girl in black said.

“My home’s Connecticut, kid, and that’s where I’m heading right now.”

Concern toned down the brightness of the girl’s face. —Oh, but you can’t leave. The Supremate needs you. We have to take you to him.

Now Wade saw what the little freak meant by we. Three more figures surrounded him. They all looked the same, in the same black capes and hoods, grinning identical grins from identical bright white faces. Their only difference was size. The young one stood less than five feet, the second five five, the third perhaps five eleven. The fourth one stood well over six feet tall.

From one of the snotlike webs, the little girl plucked an unruly, moist spider about the size of a golf ball.

“Aw, Jesus, kid,” Wade implored. “Don’t do that—”

The girl popped the spider into her mouth and ate it. It crunched like pretzels. Another was biting into a twitching gourd, sucking black mush and seeds from its case. The tallest woman fished one of the gilled snakes from the fog and swallowed it whole.

Wade threw up. Then he bolted.

The sisters bolted after him. They giggled like demented whores. Things whinnied and crunched as Wade dashed through the lake of fog. He sprinted into the perverted woods, slimy webs spreading across his face. Small monstrosities tittered at him from clustered nests amid the leaves. The giggling of the four cloaked women rose and fell, and followed him through the woods. What would happen when they caught him?

Wade tripped and fell. His hand landed in a big, swollen mushroom with a face, which spat at him. Moist beetles crawled up his shirt, leaving syrupy trails.

“Liiiiiiiideeeeaahhhhhhhhhh!” he screamed.

The six footer had outrun the others. Her grinning face loomed over him, big and bright as a headlamp. Her cloak had come apart, showing perfectly formed yet nippleless breasts. Blue chalklike veins traced faintly beneath her white abdomen.

—I caught you! she celebrated.

Wade fired Lydia’s O.P. six times at the freak woman’s face. She flinched, waving her hand. Nothing happened.

—I wish we could make love, she told him.

“I sure as shit don’t!” he answered, crawling back against a stout, sweating tree. The white pillars of her legs strode over him, and the hooded face leaned closer.

—I’m going to kiss you now, Wade.

Wade jerked aside. Something blurred past his ear, and a wailing whistled up. What had happened? He dragged himself away through forest muck and shined his flashlight back.

A long, pink positor stretched from the woman’s mouth. The needled bulb at its end was stuck in the bark of the flexing tree. She pulled, trying to disengage it, as the whistling wail continued. But it wasn’t the girl who wailed. It was the tree.

Out of here, Wade thought. He ran deeper into the woods.

—He’s getting away! a tiny voice protested behind him.

—There he is! shrieked another.

Wade realized they saw his light. He dropped it and continued through the smothering darkness. Only remnants of instinct propelled him back to the first clearing.

He ran straight into Lydia, toppling them both.

“We gotta get out of here!” he bellowed. He picked her up and dragged her toward the Vette. “They’re right behind me!”

“Who?” Lydia yelled.

He shoved her in the car, gunned the engine, and snapped on the headlights. “That’s who!” he bellowed, pointing.

The four figures stared at them from the edge of the woods. They were all grinning, their mouths full of crystalline fangs.

—Don’t leave, Wade! We can give you everything!

Wade floored the Vette and didn’t look back.

—

CHAPTER 24

The Erblings had drained well. Jervis tapped them as they hung from the lividityharnesses, punching an eductionlance into each of their feet. The bone sludge oozed out thickly as frozen custard. He milked each soft foot like a big teat.

This had been his first assignment in the labyrinth. He lit a Carlton and looked up at the now deboned fissionizationvessels. The Erblings had been two of the prettiest girls on campus. Now they were just quivering flesh sacks. Too bad, Jervis thought.

Transfection was positive; new life was already swelling in their radiophaseshifttriionized wombs. Jervis appraised Stella’s shiny bloated belly. Logarithmic-dissolvedoxygencarbonsourceoptimization effected full gestation in less than twenty four hours. That’s some serious baby making, Jervis considered, impressed.

He took them down and packed them neatly into their incubreedcatalyzationcapsules, then activated the final exponentialcellularfissionsequence on the functionplate. Easy as pi. Next he grabbed the sludge jugs and extromitted from the germinationwarren. He left through pointaccessmain#l.

The Dodge Colt was waiting. He drove away from the labyrinth through the green, settled fog. Unseen things crunched as he drove over them. Veined plants with bulbs large as human heads collapsed under the bumper, and filmy eyes viewed him from ripples in the fog. The entire grove teemed in low moonlight. When he pulled into the secreted graveyard, Roxy’s version of “In the Midnight Hour” came on the radio. What a great song to dig graves to!

Humming, he emptied the sludge jugs into the sump. Then he spied the second mound. Well, I’ll be! Penelope’s arms and flabby head had emerged. The rubber limbs flapped vainly against the dirt. Jervis jammed the shovel handle into her face and shoved her back down the hole. She mewled in protest. “Oh, don’t be such a baby,” he quipped Monty Python. He filled in the little tunnel she’d dug, then stomped on it. The woods shuddered. He could hear her howling underneath.

He dug two more graves, smiling to himself. Digging graves in the middle of the night had a certain charm. He dragged the two big garbage bags from the car. The first contained David “Do-Horse” Willet, or what was left of him. Mostly sinewy bones, an emptied skull, and intestines. Jervis buried the bag in the first grave.

The second bag contained—

“Mr. Czanek!” Jervis exclaimed. “I never forget a face, not even a split one! How’s business, buddy?”

Czanek lay in two clean pieces, bifurcated. Tom had done an impressive job with the hewer—right down the middle, perfect.

He buried Czanek in the second grave. Four mounds now stood in the silent clearing. He wondered how many more there would be when they left.

Jervis, who was more self aware than the average reanimated corpse, paused for reflection. My Existenz has found me, he pondered. I’m the right hand of destiny. Pure selfhood for a higher meaning. I am the ultimate existential man.

He wiped off his hands and got back in the Dodge. Now that the dirty work was done, the real fun could begin.

««—»»

The Supremate smiled over them all, his children.

He watched from dozens of different places at once, heard, saw and felt all that his children did. The one called Besser was drawing up the departure assignments, which were vital to the Supremate. The stasisfield grew low; soon the labyrinth would become vulnerable. According to the dataprobe that had been sent long ago, the ruling classes here might now have the technological capabilities to break the labyrinth during a weakened charge. Such calamities were rare, but they’d happened. One labyrinth, several thousand years ago, had never made it off its targetobjective. The natives had not been friendly: The duty supremate had been executed, its daughters slaughtered. Fissionizationvessels had been raped en masse, and holotypes had been burned as fuel or dissected for research.

—DISGRACE, the Supremate thought.

The one called Winnifred was with Besser, too. She sat masturbating in a chair. Sometimes a nativeemissarial would not remain serviceable after the exordipathicsignaltrances, exposure to the psilight, and the Supremate’s overall influence. But she had helped in minor ways and had shown great faith. Too bad she would have to die. And Besser, the rotund one, too.

The Supremate continued its overseeing. Two sisters were inspecting the Erbling subjects in the activeport. The Hartley subject had already birthed her first metisunit, which now squalled healthily in the biomaintenancecarbonsourcehypersaturationvault. Many more sisters worked throughout the labyrinth, happy and close to mindless in the discharge of their duties. The sisters were all integrated into the Supremate—prime, living examples of the master plan’s capabilities.

—SO WHAT IF I CAN’T BE GOD, the Supremate mused. —COULD GOD DO ALL OF THIS?

««—»»

Shauna Applegate stared into her ENG 291 text, bored shitless. Her roommate, Inez Packer, sat in the next room, doing much the same. They were both in academic hot water. They were reading about how F. Scott Fitzgerald had died in disgrace, wholly despised by the literary community of the times, even though he was a better writer than any of his contemporaries. But of course, Shauna and Inez couldn’t’ve shit cared less. They’d rather be partying.

Just as Shauna thought she’d die of boredom, someone knocked on the door. “Who is it?” she asked.

“Sushi Express.”

Sushi? Yuck! “Inez! Did you order any carry out sushi?”

“Yuck!” Inez responded. “No way!”

“You must have the wrong—” But when Shauna looked in the peephole, she gasped. A dead man’s face grinned back at her.

“Go away!” she shouted, checking the lock. “I’ll call the cops!”

“All right,” said the voice. “I’m going away.”

The hewer cut the door down in one strike. Shauna screamed as Jervis let himself in. A sister drifted in behind him.

“Are you Inez Packer?” he politely inquired.

“N no, she’s in the—”

Jervis brought the hewer down spectacularly—wooosh!—and sheared Shauna Applegate in half, from head to crotch. Shauna’s two halves twitched on the carpet. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about that goddamn English class anymore.

Inez had seen it all from her room (your roommate being cut in half by a dead man with a beam hewer was a hard thing to miss). She screamed steadily and threw books. The Great Gatsby hit Jervis in the head. The Beautiful and the Damned popped him in the groin. When she slammed her door closed, Jervis hewed it down. “Miss Packer?” he announced. “Your limo is waiting.” He lifted Inez up by the hair. The sister’s spicule darted out in a pink blur.

Inez turned limp, bewildered and paralyzed. Jervis carried her out to the Dodge as the sister knelt at Shauna’s halves, to eat.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing there?” a skinny security guard demanded on the exit stairs.

“I’m abducting a healthy female college student for bifertilization with alien holotypes,” Jervis answered, and palmed the guard hard enough in the face to drive bone shards into his brain. With his free hand then, Jervis dragged the guard out by the eye sockets, kind of like carrying a bowling ball, and loaded them both into the Dodge Colt. Thank heaven for hatchbacks!

Back upstairs, the kneeling sister seemed disappointed. This was the same sister who had eaten David “Do Horse” Willet’s penis the night before.

—Jervis? How come there’s no…

Didn’t these crossmultibredintegratedhybrid airheads know anything? “She’s a girl, pinhead,” Jervis apprised. “Girls don’t have dicks.”

—Oh, the sister said. —Poo!

««—»»

They sat opposed, staring into each other’s face. Wade had told Lydia what he’d seen at the grove. Lydia had told Wade what she’d seen at the second mound. Neither doubted the other.

“Can two people go nuts at the same time?” Wade asked. “Maybe campus utilities is pumping LSD into the water fountains.”

“We have to face it,” Lydia said. “What we saw was real.”

“We can’t just sit around. We’ve got to do something.”

“Sure, but what?”

Wade sneered. “You’re the one doing the thinking, remember?”

They both jumped when the phone rang.

Who could it be this late? “Uh, hello?” Wade answered.

“Wade! It’s me, Jervis! How’s it going?”

Wade instantly relaxed. “Fine, Jerv. Where’re you at?”

“I’m at the student car shop. Couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get started on a little body work.”

Body work? At night? “Listen, Jerv, a whole bunch of unbelievable shit has happened. You’ve got to get over here and help.”

“Sit tight. I’ll be right there.”

“Oh, and Jerv…” Wade’s voice thickened. “Tom’s dead.”

“Yeah, I know. I…” Jervis paused. “I mean I—”

But Wade was pausing too. The obvious conclusion beat into his head. There was only one way Jervis could know about Tom…

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Wade grimly asked.

“Hang up!” Lydia yelled.

Jervis dispensed with the act. “The Supremate wants you, Wade. It’s for something miraculous. Let me bring you in.”

Tom had said the same thing. Whatever they’d done to Tom, they’d now done to Jervis. Holy Jesus, Wade thought.

“There’s someone here who wants to talk to you. He can explain better than me.” Jervis’ voice was replaced by another, darker voice. Besser’s. “Wade, my boy! How are you?”

“You diabolical fat psychopath!” Wade returned the greeting. “You’re the one who’s responsible for all this, aren’t you?”

“No, no, I’m just a consultant. And Jervis is a laborer, like Tom before his unfortunate mishap… You want answers, rightly so. But it’s not something easily rendered into words—you’ll have to open your mind. It’s a master plan, my boy, wiser than the sum of all human knowledge. Call it a new societal mechanic.” Besser’s voice softened. “Call it destiny.”

“Shit on societal mechanics!” Wade yelled. “Bugger destiny! I want answers! Like who were those nutty looking girls in the black capes and sunglasses?”

“Sisters,” Besser answered. “They’re technicians, in a sense—engineers of the new beau monde. But they come from the dark; they wear cloaks and sunglasses because sunlight debilitates them.”

“This was nighttime!” Wade blurted. “The sun’s not out at night!”

“No, but the moon is. Moonlight is merely sunlight reflected off the moon. Without protection, even trace amounts cause cellular dissolution. It’s their environment, my boy. The dark.”

Like vampires, Wade thought.

Jervis was back on the line. “Is that better?”

“No,” Wade said.

“Just give it time, Wade, and give it up. One way or another, I’m gonna get’cha. So let’s make a little deal.”

“No deals,” Wade told him. “I’m hanging up.”

“Just listen a second,” Jervis insisted. “You give me a break and come in willingly, and I’ll guarantee that nothing happens to your new girlfriend. But if you try and give me the slip, I’ll hand her over to the sisters. You know what that means?”

“What?” Wade dared.

“They’ll eat her,” Jervis said. “And what they’ll do to her first is even worse. So be smart, Wade. Do we have a deal?”

Wade hung up. His head was spinning.

“He knows where we are, and you can bet he’ll be coming for us,” Lydia said. “Where was he calling from?”

“The student shop.”

“That’s a good mile away. We’ve still got time to get off campus. Come on.”

They rushed out of Wade’s room, but footsteps greeted them not two strides out the door. They both stopped. Stood. Stared.

Jervis was marching lackadaisically down the hall. He was smiling. He was holding the hewer.

“How the fuck!” Wade yelled. “You said you were at the student shop!

“I extromitted. Saves a lot of time.” Jervis stopped for a moment, cocked his head. He was looking at Lydia. “You know, Wade, that’s a mighty sweet looking girlfriend you got there. It’d be a shame to let the sisters have her. Before they eat her, they’ll let some holotypes fuck her for a couple of days, the ones with the biggest cocks. Then they’d core her ass like an apple. You ever see a human chick get gang-banged in the ass by holotypes?”

Wade’s mouth fell open to say something, but he could summon no words.

“It wouldn’t be pretty, I can tell you that. They’d Bukake the bitch, Wade. You want your girl to go through that? You want the love of your life to have to drink a gallon of holotype jizz while another gallon’s leaking out her asshole?”

A lot of Jervis’ terms weren’t jiving with Wade, but he got the picture. I can’t let anything happen to her, he thought. He knew he’d sacrifice himself in a heartbeat...

“So do we have a deal?” Jervis asked.

“Here’s a deal for you,” Lydia said. Wade shouted “No!” too late. The gunshots cracked down the hall. Lydia pumped two .357 semi wads square into Jervis’ sternum. Jervis went down.

Wade yelled, “What did you—”

“Shut up and come on!” Lydia yelled back.

They fled down eight flights of stairs. It stood to reason that if Jervis could get here that quickly, those girls in black probably could too. But Wade was still shouting through his shock— “You killed him!” —as they stumbled from the outside exit.

“What did you think he was going to do to us?” Lydia hotly reasoned. “Kiss us? Wake up!”

“But he was my friend! You didn’t have to kill him!”

The high, echoic voice boomed like thunder through a mountain valley.

“She didn’t, Wade.”

Halfway to the Vette, Wade and Lydia froze in their tracks. In dreadful slowness, their eyes roved up the front of the eight story dorm.

Leaning out Wade’s window was Jervis, his face agrin in moonlight.

“Judas J. Priest,” Lydia whispered. “I put two slugs in his chest…”

Jervis smiled down. “Like the old saying goes, Wade,” the dead man’s voice echoed. “You can run, but you can’t hide.”

—

CHAPTER 25

They checked into Gilman’s Motel. Lydia had made Wade park down the street in a used car lot, so as not to give their location away to anyone who might be hunting them. The motel stood quiet in darkness. Lydia turned out all the lights.

They said very little. What were words worth now? Lydia stripped and went to the shower, to wash away the stench of the grove. She must’ve smelled like death. But no sooner had she turned the spray to her face, Wade was with her. They washed each other in silence; it was like getting new skin. Afterward, they coupled brutally on the bed, not in passion this time, but in desperation. Lydia didn’t need to be made love to, she needed to be fucked, primitively and without endearments. They gave their bodies to the other for use—to release the steeped horrors of the last day. They did it repeatedly, fucking and coming, coming and forgetting, venting the mad energy of their fear. The complete inappropriateness of sex—after all they’d seen—made it completely appropriate. They used each other’s bodies to purge their minds.

Later, Wade lay panting into the crook of her neck. Lydia gingerly unwrapped her legs. Her sex was sore. She could feel his semen in her, still warm as it trickled. She liked it. She liked the idea of a small remnant left inside of her. An obscure gift.

He rolled off to her side, a hand on her breast. I’m going to tell him I love him, she thought immediately. But what would he say? And would any purpose be served in saying it?

No, she thought. She’d save it for another time, if fate saw fit to grant her one.

Lydia found her senses suddenly sharp. Perhaps the furious sex had given her reason back. “Those women at the graveyard… Besser said they couldn’t come out in the daytime?”

“He said sunlight does something to them. They can’t even come out in the moonlight without sunglasses and cloaks.”

Daytime, Lydia thought. Sunlight. “Maybe they’re—”

“Vampires, I know,” Wade picked up. “I was thinking that too.”

“They had fangs,” Lydia remembered.

“And in the second grove, the girl pointed to that thing on the hill—it looked kind of like a coffin on end.”

Vampires. Any other time she’d have laughed at the suggestion. But now after all she’d seen Lydia might not ever laugh at anything again. “Sunlight,” she said.

Wade had drifted to sleep. She got up and dressed. She wrote him a note, got his car keys, and quietly left the room.

««—»»

She drove Wade’s Vette straight to the station. But where were Porker and Peerce? A bag of Red Man and several Bavarian cream horns sat on the desk. Wherever they’d gone, they’d left in a rush. And hot coffee sat on White’s desk. Hmmm. She felt silly removing the portable spotter from her locker. Dr. Van Helsing gone high tech, she thought. Sure, this was a long shot, but so what? She also took a couple of cordon stakes and a hammer.

It seemed logical to return to the grove, where they’d last seen the women. But details bothered her. Why had Jervis told Wade he’d made his phone call from the shop?

Lydia drove to the shop.

“Damn it all!” she yelled. Her passkey didn’t fit the padlock on the garage. Someone had put a different lock on. No choice, she reckoned. She aimed her Colt Trooper and looked away. One round blew the lock off its hasp.

Inside, she turned on her SL and looked around. The little used shop existed only for the handful of students who liked to tune up their Jaguars themselves. No one was here now, but in the back she noticed three cars covered by tarps.

She was not surprised when she hauled the first tarp off. A red 300ZX, Penelope’s car. “And would this be Sladder’s security car?” she wondered aloud, hauling off the second tarp. A white Escort, campus security seals on the doors. And the third tarp slid away to reveal a spray painted black ‘68 Camaro with a bashed in grille.

She checked the trunks, knowing they would contain no bodies. The ZX and Camaro were clean. It was the trunk of the security car, however, that released death’s meaty stench into her face. Her stomach lurched. She held her breath, roving the flashlight through the trunk space. Christ! Maggot fat and lying in a puddle of coagulated blood was a severed human arm, chopped just above the elbow.

One pulse short of vomiting, Lydia slammed the trunk shut. Behind her stood a row of jugs, like those big metal milk cans with wide mouths and large handles. But these felt like plastic and scarcely had any weight at all. She shined the SL in one. A layer of some off whitish slime covered the bottom, and she remembered the gunk they’d seen in the sump hole at the gravesite. Like lard, she thought. Or wet plaster.

A sudden humming sounded in her ears. She felt it more than heard it, a vibrato in her head. Then the lights snapped on.

She jerked, turned.

Jervis stood before her, a lit Carlton in his mouth. He was grinning. “Welcome to my parlor,” he quipped.

Lydia drew her Trooper, aimed, and—

Jervis slapped it out of her hand.

She kicked him in the balls, cracked the SL over his head. Jervis laughed. Then the merry chase began.

She ran madly through the shop. Jervis madly followed. Lydia grabbed the largest, heaviest things she could lay hands on: piston rods, brake drums, torque converters. They all either bounced off her attacker’s head or were swatted away like gnats. Last, she heaved an intake manifold, which must’ve weighed fifty pounds, directly at Jervis’ face. He caught it one handed and tossed it aside as though it were Styrofoam.

“Let me save you some time,” he suggested, “and show you who you’re fucking with.” He picked up an entire dismounted engine, which weighed four or five hundred pounds. He held it under one palm, like a shot putter. “Understand now?” he asked. “You know many guys who can lift a Chevy 427 with one hand?”

“Can’t think of any right now,” Lydia droned.

He shot putted the engine across the shop. It bounced loudly, pounding cracks in the cement floor.

Jervis smiled, toking his Carlton. “Where’s Wade?”

“I don’t know,” Lydia said.

A flinching sadness touched his face. He spoke very quietly. “I made a promise to myself today. You know what I mean? Have you ever made a promise to yourself?”

“Yes, Jervis. Lots of times.”

Jervis made a thoughtful nod. “Well, I promised that I would never let a girl lie to me again. I was in love once, with a girl named Sarah. I let her lie to me because I was too afraid to confront the truth. Without truth, there’s nothing, right? When we let people lie to us, we become cowards at our essence. Her lies…hurt me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Jervis.”

“I’m not a coward anymore. No woman will ever lie to me again.” He looked at her, his eyes flat yet full of…hope? “You mustn’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying, Jervis,” she lied. “I don’t know where—”

“No, no, no!” he roared louder than any voice she’d ever heard. The words were cannon shots which shook the brick joists of the shop. “Lying mocks me! It takes me back to what I was!”

Lydia wished for a convenient corner to crawl into. She shivered before him—the impassioned maniac. She knew she was dead, so what good would lies do?

Jervis quieted, grimaced as if to push something back. “It’s a complicated thing,” he whispered, “the rebirth of my Existenz. Sartre said one must recognize existence before essence, and I have. To become the center of my universe, I must accede to my object of self. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“I gave Sarah all my love, and she gave me lies. Truth is relative, but so is falsehood. It’s transpositional. If you lie to me, you become Sarah, and if you become Sarah, you attack my spirit. I’d be forced to do something really awful to you. Something…hideous.”

The only thing worse than a homicidal psychotic was a philosophical homicidal psychotic. Lydia’s eyes remained riveted to him.

“I could take you apart like a doll, your arms, your legs, your head,” he cheerily informed her. He seemed to stand in an aura of darkness. “I could pull your insides out like yarn. So…I’ll ask you again. Where’s Wade?”

Truth? she thought. I must accede. Even if she told where Wade was, Jervis would kill her anyway. So what could she say?

“Blow yourself,” she said.

Her feet were off the floor in an instant. Jervis had her throat in his right hand and something else in his left. Gagging, her gaze flicked down to see what it was.

What he held was a Craftsman auto body sander. You used them to sand down putty on fenders, though Lydia seriously suspected that Jervis planned a slight variation of this utility. The disc was loaded with fifteen grit synthetic sandpaper.

An inch from her nose, he turned it on. Its motor shrieked. The grinding disc spun before her eyes at 4,000 rpm’s.

“Tell me where Wade is,” Jervis said, “or I’ll sand your face off.”

In the chokehold, Lydia barely managed to gasp, “Eat my poop.”

“So much for Mr. Nice Guy.” He would do her real slow, would stretch her death out like pizza cheese. The motor’s screams played foreshadow to her own. Just as the grinding disc would strike pay dirt—her face—the motor died.

“Jervis, Jervis,” Professor Besser’s voice came from behind. He’d pulled the sander’s cord out. “If you kill her, we may never find Wade.”

“She lied to me!” Jervis spat. “She affronted my Existenz!”

“Forgive her, my boy. Didn’t Sartre also say that one must forgive his universal counterparts for the sake of the ultimate existential ideal?”

Jervis’ flat eyes thinned in rumination. “No!” he shouted. “Sartre never said anything even close to that!”

“Bring her to the labyrinth,” Besser commanded. “We’ll put her in one of the holds.”

Seething, Jervis let her down and gave her a smack on the back of the head. The blow laid her out—she nearly lost consciousness. “You’re fucked, bitch,” Jervis promised her in a fierce whisper. “I’m gonna do a job on you that would make Charles Manson puke. Just you wait.”

He began dragging her along by the collar, but not toward the shop door, she dizzily realized.

He was dragging her toward the wall—

—then into the wall—

—then through it.

—

CHAPTER 26

Nina McCulloch prayed for forgiveness for her sins. She could hear the others in Elizabeth’s room, but her prayers blocked their voices out. Nina believed that Jesus had died on the cross for her, expurgating any sin she might ever commit. To pay Jesus back, she followed the Commandments, offered thanks and praise, and fully accepted him as her savior.

“Amen,” she whispered.

Now she lay in bed, restless. She could hear them in the next bedroom: Elizabeth, and Kara and Stacy, two girls from down the hall.

Nina knew what they were doing.

“What a rush!” Elizabeth could be heard through the wall.

“Class A shit, Liz,” Kara observed.

“Cut me another rail,” Stacy requested.

Nina, of course, never joined them. They always offered, claiming: “You only get addicted if you do it every day”; “It’s harmless in moderation”; and “Nina, all that antidrug stuff on TV is just propaganda. Come on, try some.”

But Nina’s reply was always the same: “No. It’s a sin.”

The body was a temple of the Lord; it said so in the Bible. If you put bad things into your body, you were defacing that temple. A tract she’d read once said that if you used drugs, alcohol, tobacco, or even ate junk food, that was the same as throwing garbage in a church. Nina believed this fervently. She also believed that even responsible drug users were actively participating in the denigration of society. The money that Liz and her friends so harmlessly spent on a little cocaine went to the same people who supplied crack to elementary school kids. Every penny helped fuel the giant drug machine which ruined people’s lives. It helped make the weak weaker, and the helpless more lost. Drugs were the soldiers of Satan’s army.

Nina got up and sneaked to the bathroom. She hoped they didn’t hear her. They might laugh at her and persecute her for her beliefs. Nina, of course, would forgive them, but that was beside the point.

Tinkling, she heard their uproar. They were talking about sex now, and how much better drugs made it. “His cock was hard all night!” Stacy exclaimed. “Shit, I musta come ten times!”

Babylon, Nina thought, perched upon the toilet. But she mustn’t judge them; only God could judge. She couldn’t escape the thought, however, as their reverie rose: The wages for sin are death.

««—»»

Jervis fumed as Besser handed him the parcel.

“Drop this off, then meet the sister at the sciences center.”

“Yes, sir,” Jervis tensely replied. “Anything you say.”

Besser stood at the servicepoint of the detentionwarren. “And there’s one other thing the Supremate would like you to do.”

“What?”

“Kill Dean Saltenstall.”

Jervis’ brow knit. The dean was harmless. “Why?” he asked.

“He runs the college. He’s an authority figure,” Besser explained, “and authority figures offend the Supremate’s superiority; they blemish his grace. To the Supremate, the dean is a graven image. So kill him.”

Graven image? What an ego. “Right. Kill the dean.”

Besser seemed to sense Jervis’ upset. He peered at Lydia beyond the repulsion screen. “Ah, you’re angry about her. You feel I’ve injured your existential self by denying you her death.”

“Something like that,” Jervis restrained himself.

“For now we need her intact, as a lure for Wade. But afterward, Jervis, I promise you’ll have her.”

“Thank you…sir.”

“Good. Go now. Serve well for our master.”

Jervis extromitted back to his room. They’d barriered Lydia Prentiss into one of the tempholds. He’d just have to have his revenge later, and it would be sweet. He would put some holotypes in there with her and see how she liked that. Some of those holotypes had been locked up in the deep holds for years, going mad with lust in the psilight. Some had knobbed tentacles for cocks, or things that looked like big plungers wide as coffee cans. There were even a few that had multiple penises…

He walked down the hall into Wade’s room. Be creative, he thought. Creativity is the key to existential awareness. It was only a matter of time before Wade returned to his room. Jervis left the parcel where Wade was sure to see it.

Minutes later he was driving down Randolph Carter Street, past the Circle. The sister’s grinning white face beamed in the headlights. He picked her up in front of the sciences center, as instructed. —Hi, Jervis! she greeted.

Jervis nodded, gulping. The sisters gave him the willies—their monstrous kiddie grins, perpetually shaded eyes, and the unearthly giggling. How could you trust someone who giggled like that?

—Ready?

“Yeah. Where to?”

She gave him Besser’s Qwik Note, which read: “Elizabeth Whitechapel, Duke of Clarence Hall, Room 688.”

—She’s the last one. Then all we need is the holotype and we can leave.

“Leave to where, if you don’t mind my asking?”

—New kingdoms, Jervis. New pigs.

“And I get to go with you, right? Immortal?”

—Of course! We’re all immortal in the glory of the Supremate!

Jervis drove on. Something was fishy about this whole business. Why hadn’t he seen any other productionvassals around, from past procurements? There was only him. Jervis knew shit when he smelled it. Just because he was dead didn’t mean he was stupid.

—The Erblings have just given birth to two beautiful baby mutants. And Inez Packer’s insemination couldn’t have gone better.

“Glad to hear it,” Jervis muttered. If they could make their own vassals, what would they need him for in an eternal future? Am I getting screwed? “We have to stop at the dean’s first. Besser told me to kill him.”

—Oh, Good! the sister rejoiced. —I’m so hungry!

“There’s plenty of eats in back.”

The sister looked at Inez Packer’s roommate and the dead security guard. She made a face. —But I want a FRESH pig, Jervis. I want a FRESH man thing.

Wonderful. I’m stuck with the pecker eater again. Except for their size, the sisters had no distinguishing features. They were clones. He wondered how many years it had taken to hybridize them. How many crossed genes from how many planets.

A long drive lined with hundred year old oaks led to the dean’s mansion. Acres of mown, open land gave the estate a rich Dixie plantation appearance. Jervis parked next to the dean’s Rolls. The moon hung low behind wisps of clouds.

They walked casually up the pillared front steps. Jervis hocked a lunger into the topiary. An old brass door knocker stared at them, an oval bereft of features save for two wide, empty eyes. Jervis raised his hand to knock, then paused. What am I doing? Murderers don’t knock.

He bumped the heavy door face with both palms. The door jumped out of its frame and thudded to the floor. They were halfway up the winding stairs when the hall light came on.

“Winnie? Is that you?”

Jervis chuckled. “Not quite.”

The dean froze two steps out of his bedroom. He wore a maroon robe and pink pajamas. Doubt of reality drew slits into the lined, tanned face. “What the—” he stammered. “Who the—”

—Hi, Dean! the sister announced. —I’m going to eat your man thing!

Jervis smiled.

The dean fled screaming back into the bedroom. Jervis promptly knocked down the door. The clean white room lay in total contradiction to what was taking place. The bed, the furniture, and the lambent white walls coalesced into a pattern of normalcy that Jervis and the sister violated merely by entering.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Jervis complimented. “Elegant.”

The sister began her wet, clicking giggles.

Whimpering, the dean backed into the walk in closet. Thousand dollar Italian suits surrounded him like a conspiracy of accusers. The jury was in. “Please,” Dean Saltenstall shivered and begged. “I’ve done nothing to deserve this.”

“I know,” Jervis acknowledged. “That’s why we’re doing it.”

Be creative, he reminded himself. He spun the dean’s head off in one graceful motion, a sharp twist and a jerk. The dean’s lips sputtered a nifty, musical sound, like a kazoo. “Thar she blows!” Jervis celebrated as the stump gushed rich red blood onto the walls, the suits, the ceiling. For a moment the dean seemed to dance headless. It was magnificent.

The spouting figure collapsed. “All yours,” Jervis said. The invitation made the sister giggle. At once she knelt betwixt the dead legs, tearing open the pajama bottoms.

—

CHAPTER 27

It all fit well with the course of the day: a dream that made no sense. Was it premonitory? Wade dreamed he was paralyzed, his jaw locked open by pegs. The women in black were stuffing slabs of putrid meat into his mouth. The meat was black and full of parasites. —This is what we eat at home, Wade. Isn’t it good? It was not good. Each helping crawled down his throat, warmly alive, and every time he thought the dream was over, another dainty white hand appeared to push still more of the squirming meat into his forced open mouth…

When he awoke, he felt empty headed. He sat up in bed and felt for Lydia, but she wasn’t there.

Wade,

I borrowed your car, hope you don’t mind. I got this idea about the sunlight stuff, and I have to check it out on my own.

Stay here till I get back.

Lydia

Wade crumpled up the note. He had two choices. He could sit here naked and do nothing, or he could act. He couldn’t imagine what her “idea about the sunlight stuff” could be, but where else could it lead but back to the groves?

He dressed, checked out, and left. It was just past 3 A.M. If he walked fast and cut across campus, he might make it to the groves in an hour.

The warm night seemed to welcome him in his solitude; the moon gave him light. Damn it, Lydia, he thought, and stepped up his pace. Where the hell are you?

««—»»

“You’re in the labyrinth,” Winnie said. “Our master’s palace.”

“The Supremate,” Lydia muttered.

“That’s correct.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s…God, I think.

Great. I knew I never should’ve stopped going to church. Lydia could see very little within the temphold, which seemed vaguely lit by some bizarre blackish light. This is a jail, she realized. A black rod in the ceiling gave the impression that she was being watched. She’d already tried, and given up on, simply walking out. The hold’s barrier, though invisible, couldn’t be passed. Beyond it she could see nothing.

Except Winnifred, who stood on the other side. She was nude, her flesh like mist in the labyrinth’s static blackness. “You can’t feel it in there,” the woman said, “but out here, the Supremate’s breath is on me. It’s the psilight, it’s his influence. The Supremate is a god of great passion, and he breathes his passion on all of us.” Her hand then ran over her pubis.

Lydia recalled the events that brought her here—the student shop, Jervis, and the solid cinder block wall. Instead of killing her, they’d…

“Why am I here? What do you want me for?”

“We don’t want you,” Winnifred said, stroking herself. “Wade’s the one we want. And when he finds out we have you, he’ll come.”

Would he? “What do you want Wade for?”

“It’s all part of the master plan.” Winnie lapsed back into her muse, touching deeper. She masturbated unabashed.

“What’s that thing around your neck?” Lydia asked.

Winnifred fingered the amulet between her breasts. “An extromission key. You just put it in and walk through. There are extromitters all over the labyrinth. We even installed some at the college and in the woods. Jervis brought you in through one.”

Doorways, Lydia realized. “You think Wade’s going to come here? He doesn’t even know where I am.”

“Jervis left a message for him,” Winnifred said, stroking, stroking, eyes slitted. “He’ll come. Love always follows its heart.”

Lydia wondered.

“And afterward, we have a surprise for you.”

“What?” Lydia asked.

“That.” Winnifred pointed, her face aglow, grinning.

It had been there the whole time in the next temphold, just not close enough to see. Lydia felt very sick very quickly.

It stood up as if on command, pressed the fingerless pads of its hand against the barrier. A stout, flexing holotype with spotted gray skin like a slug’s. It stood on four bent legs, between which hung testicles the size of grapefruits. It grinned from its prognathous face, drooling for her. The thing’s erection, with pulsing blue veins like hoses, was as long and thick as a leg of lamb. The bulbed glans, too, drooled with enthusiasm.

Oh, shit, Lydia thought.

««—»»

Nina McCulloch was just about to leave the bathroom when her world exploded. She heard the front door being broken down. She heard screams like sirens, and dark satanic laughs. When she gapped the bathroom door and peeked out, she saw…hell.

She saw a hooded girl in black and a dead man with an ax.

Elizabeth and her drug friends cowered, still screaming. Kara tried to run, but not fast enough for the huge luciferian ax. It blurred effortlessly like a great sail and sliced her into two pieces, from right shoulder to left hip. Her top slid off her bottom, and innards unfurled. Then Stacy tried to bolt, but she slipped and fell—screaming—on those same innards. The dead man placed his foot on Stacy’s head and crushed it.

Poor Elizabeth was next. Her corkscrew screams blazed away as the dead man dragged her out from behind the couch. He lifted her off her feet, by her ear. Nina was surprised that the ear did not come off. Then the girl in the black cloak approached, and from her mouth shot a long pink cord with a needle at the end. Elizabeth fell silent when the needle punched into her throat.

I’m sorry for my sins, Nina thought.

Now the dead man was yanking up the carpet—he was rolling them up in it! But then he paused, as if perturbed. “I’m gonna take a look around,” he remarked to his hooded companion. “Make sure no one else is here.”

—Hurry, Jervis! the evil abbess replied. She knelt down and began to lick blood off Kara’s legs, giggling.

Jervis, Nina pondered. She recognized him now. The dead man was Jervis Phillips, a boy who’d been in some of her classes. Her eye froze in the gap. Jervis searched Elizabeth’s room, then Nina’s. He stopped to light a cigarette, still perturbed. He was staring straight at the bathroom door.

Nina backed against the wall.

The door pushed open. Jervis stuck his head in, looked around.

Jesus save me, Nina prayed.

He would cut her up like Kara. He would crush her head like Stacy. He would let the abbess lick blood off her legs. Then he would take her body to Satan.

She bowed her head in the dark. Jesus…please…

“All clear.” Jervis was walking away. “I just had this funny feeling that someone else was here.”

The abbess rose, chin smeared red and grinning. She followed Jervis out, who impossibly had rolled the three girls up in the carpet and was carrying them away on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Jesus,” Nina whispered when they were long gone.

««—»»

Wade cut across campus quickly, weaving between unlit buildings and hulking trees. It was embarrassing having to walk when you owned one of the most expensive cars in America. He could call a Yellow, but what on earth would he say? Cabbie, drop me off at the clearing behind the agro site, you know, the mutated one?

But when he rounded Tillinghast Hall, he saw headlights.

A car had turned off Arkham to the Hill. Lydia! he thought at once, but then he noted the headlight configuration. It wasn’t the Vette. It was a Dodge Colt.

Wade dove behind trimmed hedges. The Colt passed under the streetlamp. Jervis’ face was plainly visible. He was smoking a Carlton. One of those girls sat beside him, grinning. The back of the car seemed weighed down.

Wade waited for the tailgate to disappear. They’d come off Arkham, away from Duke of Clarence Hall and the dean’s house. He trotted north, up the drive, to the dean’s estate.

The mansion faced him, quiet, normal. But when Wade rapped on the old brass knocker, the door fell in. It had been broken off its hinges and propped back up, to feign security.

Don’t go in, Wade warned himself, and went in. The hall lights were on; he took the stairs up, watching for shadows, listening. A door down the hall appeared to be open, but when he moved closer he saw that it, too, had been knocked down.

Wade was shit scared. He expected—something. So it almost shocked him when he turned on the lights and found himself standing in a perfectly normal bedroom.

Then he opened the door to the not-so normal closet.

One glimpse was all it took: the dean’s crumpled corpse acrawl with flies, the enormous wash of blood on the clean white walls. All that blood was too much to view at once. Wade didn’t even notice what exactly had been done to the dean. He didn’t need to. This was a butcher’s jubal, party-time for a maniac. Blood was a sacred substance, the Eucharist of life. Here, though, in the dim closet, it had been spilled for the sheer sport of it. For fun.

Wade ran. He pounded down the steps and tore out of the house, and he didn’t stop running until his legs could bear no more of it, his energy ejaculated as a spurt of the basest fears. The night swept him into its velvet black caress, and Wade, brain numb now and exhausted, was left to stumble with feet of lead back to the beginning…

—

CHAPTER 28

Murder, he thought. Blood.

Wade couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop seeing it in his mind. There’d been so much blood.

Through the dead, empty night, he drifted more than walked. The campus lay silent behind him, strangely still and very black. Insentient, he made his way along trails once familiar but now forgotten, past buildings and halls dark and blank as gravestones.

The sky seemed depthless, a slate void. Phantom reefs of clouds roved past a darkled moon. Far and away, the chapel bell tolled, signaling 4 A.M. The monotonous, dull peals incited him, chipped cracks into his shock. Then he saw the lighted sign: “Campus Police.”

Wade stepped in unnoticed. Leaving the hot night and its murder behind him was like stepping into paradise…

Porker was eating microwaved cheese dogs at the booking desk. He was eating them with his fingers, without rolls. Sergeant Peerce sat at his own desk, intent on a magazine called Babes with Big Boobs.

“The dean is dead,” Wade announced.

Porker’s immense face floated up. Babes with Big Boobs lowered to the desk, unveiling Peerce’s typical hillbilly smirk.

“You heard me,” Wade said. “The dean’s dead. Murdered.”

“Probably dumped his fancy car in a ditch,” Porker surmised, “and wants us to tow it out for him.”

“Just another daddy rich smart ass,” Peerce added.

Wade could not believe this response to his announcement. “Are you guys deaf? I just got done telling you the dean is dead!”

“You mean Dean Saltenstall?” Porker inquired.

Wade slumped. “No, Dean Dick. Is there any other dean on this campus, you fat jughead? He’s been murdered.”

Peerce and Porker stood up at the same time. They looked at each other. Then they looked at Wade.

“Just like that, huh?” Peerce asked. “The dean’s been murdered?”

“Yes! You understand English! Praise God!”

“And just how did he come to be murdered, boy?”

“Well, I don’t actually know,” Wade admitted. “But—”

“Ya hear that, Porker? He don’t really know.”

“What difference does it make, you brickhead? I saw him in the closet! and I saw the…I saw the…blood.”

Peerce and Porker chuckled. “St. John,” Peerce said. “This is just another one of your practical jokes.”

“You must think we’re pretty dumb,” Porker added.

Dumb? Wade thought. Naw.

“We been bustin’ our tails all night. We got one missing security guard and two dormitory break ins. We ain’t got time for your practical jokes.”

“Look,” Wade said. “All that stuff you just said—missing persons, break ins—it’s all part of this. A lot of crazy shit has gone on tonight, and it all starts in the dean’s closet.”

Chewing cheese dogs, Porker inquired, “What would the dean be doing in a closet at four in the morning?”

“Getting murdered,” Wade answered. “Don’t believe me? Go check.”

Peerce made a contemplating face. He got the dean’s number out of White’s directory. He paused. Then he dialed the number.

“You’re wasting your time,” Wade declared. “He won’t answer.”

Peerce listened and waited, tapping his foot. He waited some more and hung up. “He didn’t answer.”

“Of course he didn’t answer, you crawfish for brains Cajun moron! How can a dead man answer a fucking telephone?”

Then Porker said, “It can’t hurt to take a look, Sarge.”

“Shee-it,” Peerce agreed. “All right, punk. Lead the way.”

Wade felt a shimmy of panic. “Not me, fellas. You guys go, I’ll wait here. But before you go, you have to lock me up,” He pointed to the station’s jail cell. “In there.”

“Why?”

“For my protection.”

“Protection from what?”

Wade gulped. “From them.”

Peerce squinted. “Who’s them?”

“Look, Sarge, just pacify me, okay? Lock me up and go check.”

“We can’t lock you up,” Porker informed him. “There’s no probable cause to believe you’re in danger.”

“But I’m telling you I am!”

“We cain’t lock you up unless you commit a crime,” Peerce said. “And unfortunately, bein’ an asshole is not a crime.”

Wade was getting desperate. “In other words, you won’t lock me up in that cell unless I commit a crime?”

“That’s right, boy.”

Crime, Wade contemplated. Okay. With impressive reflexes, he kicked Porker square in the belly as hard as he could. Porker bent over, howling like a gelded walrus.

“There,” Wade said. “Is that crime enough?”

Peerce, snarling, jammed the butt of a nineteen ounce blackjack into Wade’s solar plexus. Wade folded up, bug eyed. He was then thrown into the cell. For good measure, Peerce rapped Wade another one—between the legs, this time—and locked the cell door.

“Thank you, Sarge. And my future children thank you too.”

Peerce’s eyes blazed through the bars. “This is the end for you, St. John. We’re gonna check out this harebrained story of yours, and then we’re gonna come back here and kick your ass so bad you’ll shit shoe polish for a week. Assaultin’ a police officer will get you kicked off this here campus forever.”

“I hear you, Sarge. Just go to the dean’s. Check it out.”

Peerce called White and told him to meet them at the dean’s mansion. Then he left, followed by Porker, who limped along cradling his elephantine belly.

In spite of his pain, Wade smiled.

Go ahead, super cops. Check it out.

««—»»

A half hour later keys rattled in the station door. Peerce, Porker, and Chief White tottered in, their faces drained.

Wade leapt up. “Well?”

“The dean is dead,” Peerce iterated.

“I told you so.”

Sweat glazed Porker’s pasty white face. “The closet,” he mumbled. “The dean—” Then he staggered to the john, to vomit. “Poor bastard never could stand the sight of blood,” Peerce said.

The memory blared back. Blood, Wade thought. So much blood.

Chief White’s beshocked eyes looked like big flat coins. “It was pulled off,” he said.

“What?” Wade asked.

“The dean’s head. It was pulled off.” White steadied himself, flinching. “Not cut off or chopped off. Not sawed or blowed off. I mean somebody grabbed onto that man’s head and pulled on it till it came off.”

“They’re a rough bunch, Chief.” But that was only the tip of the iceberg; there was much more to tell, but Wade dared not. These hayseeds would only swallow so much at a time.

Peerce stared cross eyed straight ahead. “Took his wagger off too.”

“His what?”

“His wagger. You know, his meat, his homeboy.”

Wade frowned. “You mean his dick?”

“Pulled it clean off, just like his head. Who the hell would wanna run off with a man’s head an’ homeboy?”

“Psychopaths, that’s who,” Wade said, to put it mildly. “Now that you’ve seen the goods, let’s get out of here.”

“Think again,” Chief White said. He sat down and looked at him. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere till we have some answers.”

Panic rose in Wade’s guts like bubbles. “We’ve got to get off this campus right now, Chief! They’re coming for me! They’ll come here and pull our homeboys off!”

Peerce popped a chaw of Red Man. “He knows plenty more than he’s tellin’, Chief. That’s for damn sure.”

I’m a had daddy, Wade realized. The safety of the cell now condemned him. Porker was still vomiting in the john, cutting loose deep, tubalike eeerps. Peerce edgily spat brown juice into a paper cup. Chief White just stared, arms crossed.

“What were you doin’ at the dean’s at this hour, boy?”

“I—” Shit, Wade thought. “I saw the murderer leaving the scene.”

“Oh, you saw the murderer? You mind enlightenin’ us?”

Wade swallowed, thinking of the blood. “It was Jervis Phillips.”

White and Peerce joined in low laughter. “Jervis Phillips ain’t nothin’ but an egg suck drunk. You spect us to believe he pulled the dean’s head off and painted the fuckin’ closet with his blood? Jervis Phillips?”

“I don’t care what you believe. I saw him driving out of that area,” Wade unconvincingly explained.

White was rubbing his hands together. He was losing control of his town, and he was desperate. He needed a candidate for scapegoat, and Wade could guess the nominee.

“I can’t tell you everything, Chief,” Wade admitted. “If I told you everything, you’d think I was crazy.”

“We already think you’re crazy.” Peerce said.

“A crazy murderer,” White added.

But if they saw the grove, the mutated woods, and the women… Wade could think of no other way to convince them. “Take me to the grove,” he said, “and I’ll show you the rest.”

“What grove?” Porker asked, finally emerging from the john. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Trust me. I’ll take you there right now.”

White was still glaring at him. “Bring him out.”

Now we’re getting somewhere, Wade thought, but only until Peerce released him from the cell and hand-cuffed him to White’s chair.

“This is what we call interrogation,” Chief White said.

“I’ve got a better name for it,” Wade told them. “Deprivation of constitutional rights.”

From a locker, White retrieved an eighteen inch Nova shock baton. It could deliver several one second 50,000 volt bursts, which disrupted the victim’s muscle impulses and caused temporary paralysis. It also caused great temporary pain. Shock batons were illegal now, but Wade could see that this judicial fact would do him little good. They were going to torture him.

“Would it be too much trouble to ask for a lawyer?”

White, Peerce, and Porker all laughed out loud.

The baton hummed when White turned it on. “Now, this thing will shock you right through your clothes. A couple of hits and you’ll think you stepped on the third rail of the subway. Are you gonna talk, or do I go to work on ya?”

“This is America!” Wade shouted. “You can’t torture people!”

White, Peerce, and Porker laughed out loud again, harder.

“I don’t want to hear no shit about Jervis Phillips, and I don’t want to hear about no groves. Tell me the truth, St. John. Why did you murder Dean Saltenstall?”

“I didn’t murder the fucking dean!” Wade bellowed. “It was Jervis Phillips and those women in black!”

White pushed the baton into the soft of Wade’s crotch. The discharge head fit nice and snug. White’s finger wavered over the button, then began to lower.

“Excuse me,” a frail voice rose behind them.

White, Peerce, and Porker jerked upright and turned. White hid the baton behind his back.

A sheepish, long haired girl in a nightgown stood wanly in the doorway. “My name is Nina McCulloch,” she said in a voice almost too soft to be heard.

“So what!” White snapped.

“I just saw my roommate and her friends get murdered.”

Silence unfurled. The three cops stared. Wade sighed.

“Murdered?” White blabbed.

“Yes,” Nina McCulloch whispered. “And I recognized the killer.”

“Who was it?”

“It was Jervis Phillips, and he was with a woman in black.”

—

CHAPTER 29

“It’s a cult of some kind, I think,” Wade speculated from the backseat of White’s cruiser. Porker sat heavily beside him. White drove, and Peerce rode shotgun. They sped down Route 13, toward the agro site.

“A cult?” White questioned.

“Yeah. It must be like one of those satanic gangs. Ritual murder, black mass, cannibalism, that sort of shit. All the members wear upside down crosses. And whoever their leader is, they call him the Supremate. I figure there’re seven of them, not including this Supremate guy. Four of them are girls, and I mean the freakiest looking girls you’ve ever seen. They wear black capes, and they all have” —Should I really say this?— “fangs.”

Peerce swore. White smacked the wheel and glared at Wade. “I suppose you’re gonna tell me they’re vampires, right?”

“You said it, I didn’t. But there’s this thing out at the grove that looks like a coffin on end. And Besser told me that these girls—sisters, he called them—can’t live in sunlight.”

Peerce had a frown baked into his face. “He’s pullin’ our dicks, Chief. There ain’t no grove or no cults. He’s lyin’.”

“Besser?” White backtracked. “Besser told you this?”

“That’s right. He’s part of it, and so are Jervis and Winnifred Saltenstall. They’re all members of the cult.”

“I don’t know what kind of drugs you been smokin’, St. John, but you gotta be crazy to think I’ll believe two respected faculty members belong to some satanic cult. I don’t believe in vampires, and I don’t believe in the fuckin’ devil, so just shut yer yap.”

“If you think I’m nuts, how come you’re going to the grove?”

“’Cause I got two eyewitnesses that link Jervis Phillips to several murders, and you say he might be at this goddamn grove of yours, so that’s where we’re goin’!”

Fine, Wade thought. In a few more minutes, they were there. White groaned as his loaded cruiser rolled through the logging track, branches scraping the paint. He parked in the junk heaped clearing. “Check your heat,” he ordered. White checked his fourteen shot Browning. Porker checked his AMT .45. Peerce checked his giant Ruger Blackhawk. Then they checked their backup pieces.

“Hey, fellas,” Wade asked. “Don’t I get a gun?”

“Don’t make me laugh,” White answered. “Peerce, bring the gasser too. If Phillips is hidin’ in these here woods, we’ll gas him out.”

Peerce loaded a 37mm CM 55 tear gas gun. Then Porker doled out flashlights and they all got out. “Christ!” Peerce complained. “Damn place smells worse than a Georgia hoghouse!”

You ought to know, Wade thought. “Take a look over here.”

“Graves,” Porker muttered.

Wade grazed his light over the mounds. “Someone’s been here in the last few hours. There were only two graves earlier.”

“Now there’s four.” Peerce demonstrated the ability to count.

“And look—” Wade shined his light over by the shovel. “Empty Kirin bottles. Jervis drinks Kirin.”

“Porker, you see that shovel?” White said.

“Yeah.”

“Get to work.”

Porker whitened. “Aw, Chief, come on. I don’t wanna—”

“Dig them up later,” Wade interrupted. “First we have to—”

“St. John” —now it was White’s turn to interrupt— “so far all I see is a couple of piles of dirt and some beer bottles. I don’t see no cult, and I don’t see no vampires.”

Peerce slapped the back of Wade’s head. “And what about the coffin, St. John? You said there’s a coffin out here.” Next he gave Wade’s ear a twist. Wade yelped.

Hands on hips, White asked, “Where’s Jervis Phillips?”

“Look, I only said he might be here,” Wade protested. “But I’m telling you, once you see the grove yourselves—”

“You mean this ain’t it?”

Wade smiled darkly. “I mean the other grove.”

White bit into a cigar. “All right. Lead the way.”

Wade led the way, with pleasure, past the tires and junk, to the trail. “Watch your step, boys. This isn’t exactly the red carpet treatment.”

Porker moaned.

Peerce yelled “Christ!” repeatedly, as they all began to crunch over the rot soft possums.

“They’re all over the place!” White complained.

“This is nothing, Chief. Wait’ll you see the rest.”

They grimly followed the trail of carcasses. Porker asked “If Phillips is out here, what do we do?”

“What’choo think we do?” Peerce contributed.

“We kill him,” White said. “He’s a killer so we kill him.”

“Killing Jervis isn’t going to be easy,” Wade pointed out.

“Why?”

Wade smiled. “Because he’s already dead.”

“Goddamn it, St. John!” White flared. “I knew this was a crock of shit! Now you’re tellin’ us Phillips is dead?”

“Well, yeah, sort of. Dead as in…the walking dead.”

Peerce slammed Wade against a tree, his ham fist hovering. “I’m beggin’ ya, Chief! Lemme pop him! He’s makin’ damn fools of all of us.”

Then Porker screamed.

He’d strayed to the end of the trail. White and Peerce rushed to see what he was screaming about. Wade, of course, already knew.

The grove’s perversions had thickened, even in the few hours since he and Lydia had been here. Agape, the three cops clung to each other as they stared into the impossible morass. The green fog was darker now, a milky stew. Dense, unearthly foliage glimmered in the low moonlight. Every branch, every swollen leaf, pod, and flower hung thickly with ropes of slime. Things like cattails sprouted tall from the lake of fog, bowed by the weight of strange fruit and pulsating seed sacks. In the middle of the clearing, atop the risen hillock, stood the bizarre oblong box.

“You hayseed motherfuckers believe me now?” Wade asked.

The slack jawed police made no response. Everything was shifting, growing in minute increments, joints of weeds and eldritch tree limbs lengthening in crunching movements as if in pain. Fist sized bugs crawled up sweating tree trunks, scoring the fleshlike bark. Clusters of faced mushrooms shuddered, breathing, and lumps of fungus glowed in the dark.

“P Porker,” White ordered.

“Yuh yuh yeah, Chief?”

“Get out there. Check it out.”

“Yuh yuh you gotta be crazy, Chief.”

“Get out there, you big creamcake!” White kicked Porker in his tremendous rump. “Check it out!”

“I wouldn’t send anyone out there,” Wade advised.

“Shut up! Peerce, get out there! This fat baby’s got no balls. Let’s see if you do!”

Peerce stood unsteadily, looking at the green fog, then back to White. He took a breath and stepped out.

“There’s things in that fog,” Wade warned.

“Things?” Peerce queried, looking back. He waded out. It was like a green swamp; the fog had risen to midthigh now. Black cane stalks swayed to and fro, acrawl with noxious bugs. From some of the plants hung fattened seedpods with drooling—and distressingly human—lips. “Things,” Peerce muttered again. Now he was ten yards out. “I think I can see ’em.”

Yes, they all could. The grove’s wildlife, no doubt, had taken note of them. Wade spotted ghost shapes of things roving beneath the surface—fog vermin. Scuttling parasites feasted on dead possum bellies, and waddling things like groundhogs, lacking heads, scampered about, raising trails of mist. But worst of all were the gilled snake things, which seemed to swim vigorously beneath the fogtop.

“Bring him back, you idiot,” Wade said. “Those things bite.”

White smirked, then yelped as one of the fat pinch faced spiders lowered itself on a line of snot. It tried to bite White on the nose. Wade batted it away, laughing.

Then Peerce began to howl.

He was jumping, struggling. One of the fog snakes had affixed its flat sucker mouth to Peerce’s crotch. He tore it off, along with his zipper, and then another snake latched onto his ass.

“Help me!” he pleaded.

“Porker! Get out there and help Peerce!”

“Fuh fuh fuck you, Chief,” Porker stammered.

“St. John! Get out there!”

“Eat my shorts, Chief. He’s your man, you get out there.”

Peerce tore off another eel, then tried to run back. Suddenly he tripped and sank completely beneath the fog, screaming.

Jesus Christ. Wade dashed out. Glimpses of things approached, and he kicked them as best he could, or stepped on them. One of the fog snakes swam near, a big one, but Wade stepped on its head just in time. Then something like a fanged toad, the size of a softball, hopped forward. Wade stomped down hard. The toad burst under his shoe like a Baggie full of pudding.

Wade saw the fog churning. A hand surfaced. He grabbed it, pulled, and hauled Peerce back to the trail.

Green mist blew from Peerce’s nostrils. “Chief, those things were tryin’ to eat me!” White gave him a look that said, Better you than me. They spent the next five minutes picking slugs and horned insects off of Peerce. His clothes hung in tatters.

“What is this place, St. John?” White asked grimly.

“I don’t know,” Wade said.

Porker pointed shakily. “And what’s that black box?”

Before Wade could hazard a guess, they heard a car.

“Turn your lights out!” Wade instructed. They huddled down. Across the dell, a car entered the morass. The submerged headlights projected luminous green plumes. It was a Dodge Colt.

“It’s Phillips,” White whispered. The cops drew their guns.

The car faltered through the grove, knocking down tall stalks of perverted plants. The fog came up to the Colt’s windows. Unseen monstrosities howled as Jervis drove over them.

Then the car rose out of the fog, parked on the hillock. Jervis got out and lit a cigarette. Then he hoisted something out of the trunk. Even at this distance they could see that it was a girl, unconscious or dead. Jervis, the body over his shoulder, stood before the black box and…disappeared.

He’d disappeared into it.

Then another, smaller figure emerged from the car, a black, hooded figure. It knelt daintily before the hideous, bulbed plant.

“That’s one of the sisters,” Wade whispered.

Now the sister was plucking things from the plant.

“What the fuck’s she doin’?’ White asked, squinting.

“Eating bugs. Those bitches eat anything.”

“We gotta find out what’s goin’ on here.”

“Chief,” Wade implored. “I can’t put it any more eloquently than this: We have to get our swingin’ dicks the fuck out of this gore hole before those walking meat grinders realize we’re here.”

“Not yet,” White said. “I want Phillips’ ass.”

Wade rolled his eyes. “Hey, cement head. I just got done telling you he’s already dead. You can’t kill him.”

“Shut up, St. John. Go get the binocs out of the cruiser.”

Wade crunched back to the first clearing. He found the binoculars in the console and smiled when he noticed the key in the ignition. Even I’m not big enough a prick to leave them here.

Or was he?

It didn’t matter. A burst of yelling blared from the grove, then gunshots.

Then: “St. John! Start the car! We’re comin’ out!”

The shit’s flying now. Wade turned the engine over and popped open the doors. He scoped down the trail with the binoculars.

Holy, holy shit, he thought.

At least a dozen sisters had converged on the police. Flashes popped, guns were firing right and left. It looked like Custer’s last stand—only Custer, in this case, was White, and he and his men were faring about as well. They emptied their guns as fast as they could fire them, reloaded and fired some more, all for nothing. Hooded sisters fell on them from all angles. Vicious, liquid giggles rose like surf within the grove.

—New pigs!

—Fat, juicy pigs!

Two sisters held Porker up, while another eviscerated him in place. Pale hands delved like cleavers into the tremendous stomach, parting slabs of fat to expose the succulent organs.

—He’s so big!

—Lots to eat!

It happened so fast that the poor jerk just stood there a moment, looking at his opened belly. Fat people were often taken advantage of, but never like this. Blood and fist sized wads of fat flew as the sisters helped themselves. Porker provided a veritable all you can eat feast. The sisters’ hands rummaged and plowed, until nothing remained of the choice merchandise of Porker’s abdominal vault. The sisters fed well. They slaked their appetites and rejoiced, flinging organ scraps in macabre celebration.

That’s what I call losing a hundred pounds the hard way, Wade mused.

Peerce was trying to aim, backing up, with White firing behind him. Peerce’s big .44 Blackhawk jumped in his hand, but each slug was either brushed away or plucked from its trajectory.

Wade did indeed consider leaving. I don’t owe these guys anything, do I? But just because they were assholes didn’t mean he should abandon them. Shit! he concluded. Damn it, shit!

Now Peerce was overrun, flailing amid the besieging sisters. White threw his empty guns at the girls, as Peerce screamed in perfect Deep South terror. —What’s this? one of the big ones asked, and held up the CM tear gas gun. Their giggles pitched as she shoved the barrel down Peerce’s throat and pulled the trigger. There was a damped bang!—the proximity fuse burned out—another bang!—and then Peerce began to expand, quite like a parade float, growing, growing, buttons popping, until he was huge. The sisters marveled at this spectacle. Eventually Peerce burst. Offal flew like spaghetti and sauce—then all was obscured by tear gas.

Wade grabbed the Sentry flaregun in White’s console. He got out and aimed. “Come on, Chief! Run your ass off!”

The brew of sisters didn’t like the CS agent. They staggered, gagging. Chief White clambered up the carcass ridden trail. Behind him, though, a sister emerged from the smoke.

“Duck!” Wade shouted.

White hit the dirt. Without much confidence, Wade discharged the flare gun and watched the projectile burn a line down the trail. Mystified, the sister caught it, looked at it as it hissed out its propellant. The canister exploded, splattering her with ignited magnesium. It stuck to her face, cloak, and sunglasses, bubbling intense neon red. The sister wailed.

Wade jumped back behind the wheel as White lunged in. The car whipped a reckless circle, Wade’s teeth clenched as he steered.

“Goddamn you, St. John, you goddamn bastard!” White blubbered. “You said there were only four of ’em!”

The car shuddered down the logging road. White threw up his hands and screamed. Wade screamed, too, when he saw what White was screaming about.

At least a dozen more sisters blocked the road.

Where the hell did they come from!

“RUN ‘EM DOWN!” White bellowed.

Wade proceeded to do just that. He gripped the wheel hard and trounced the gas. They stood like bowling pins. Wade plowed into them with such impact that the lead sisters exploded jets of black blood from their mouths, inundating the windshield. Wade turned on the wipers and kept plowing. He watched each rank collapse under the bumper, and saw now that they numbered more than a dozen, much more. They were using themselves as barricades—they didn’t care. They just stood there, grinning, as Wade mowed them down. The bodies thumped under the cruiser’s wheels; there were so many of them it was like driving over hay bales.

In the rearview, the sisters, though crushed, were getting back up to run after them. It figures, Wade thought. And in front, the grinning white faces loomed and fell, only to be replaced by more. Then the passenger window shattered.

I have had better days, Wade considered.

Several sisters hung onto the car, snatching at White. White screamed honorably, gouging at their hideous, giggling faces. It’s me they want, Wade realized, not White. But White was in the way, and that was his hard luck. The sisters struggled further to get to Wade, clawing through White. White just screamed and screamed.

At last the car had run over the last of the cloaked women. Wade whipped out onto the Route, but he still had two sisters hanging onto the passenger door. Wade expertly sideswiped a fat oak tree and skimmed them off.

He drove for miles before daring to stop. The grille was pounded in, the fenders crumpled, the hood aglaze in shiny black blood. But White, Wade noted, had come out of this worse than the car. The sisters had pulled his face and scalp off, pulled his arms off, pulled his throat out. What now rode as passenger bore no likeness whatsoever to good old shucking and jiving Chief White. He’d written his last traffic ticket, that was for sure.

Wade idled up to a ravine. “Rest in peace, Chief,” he muttered.

He rolled White’s remains out of the car and took off back toward campus.

—

CHAPTER 30

Jervis grinned. “How about some entertainment, Lydia?”

Lydia moaned.

On the germinationwarren’s floorwall, Elizabeth Whitechapel lay nude, twitching. Orangish, swirling light hovered within the warren as Jervis led in an exceptionally grotesque holotype. Four shoulders composed its arched back, housing four sets of arms. A fifth set of arms served as legs, joined by a muscled buttocks. The beast’s sinuous skin shined blood-red in sweat. Puffy vertical slits formed its eyes, nose, and mouth.

By now, Lydia was catching on. The word spaceship didn’t sit well with her, but what else could this be? She’d picked up bits of conversation: they kept talking about leaving, leaving tomorrow night. As in…taking off? They’d also mentioned recharge, which could refer to a power supply of some kind. Other words, weirder words, had reached her ears, too. Stasisfield. Psilight. Interspecielmetis. The word alien didn’t sit well with her either, but if the labyrinth’s tenants weren’t aliens, what were they? She’d noticed many of the cloaked women. Many pranced about naked, their sleek white bodies faintly veined, their breasts nippleless, their pubes bare. They were clones.

Invaders, Lydia thought.

Movement caught her eye. The holotype, whose genitals looked like a cluster of spoiled grapes, hobbled a circle around the naked girl. The girl seemed paralyzed. Nevertheless, there was wantonness in her eyes. Somehow they’d induced a positive sexual response when the girl should be screaming bloody murder. The girl wanted this multilimbed thing. She wanted it to mate with her.

Oh my God, Lydia thought. With all eight of its webbed hands, the holotype kneaded its clustered genitals, which soon swelled to a budded red pole. The pole was then inserted into the girl’s mouth. This oral foreplay did not last long, however, before the thing’s member grew too large for the confines of the girl’s mouth. It was withdrawn, pulsing. Lydia’s stomach churned.

Jervis appeared at the static barrier, “How do you like the entertainment so far? Beats Seinfeld any day, huh?”

Behind him, shrieks of pleasure erupted, unearthly grunts, and a vigorous slapping sound. Thank God Jervis blocked Lydia’s view. “Why?” she croaked.

“The master plan,” Jervis encrypted.

Elizabeth Whitechapel screamed in staccato bursts. The wet slapping speeded up to a blur.

“He’s one of the bigger ones,” Jervis noted, “and I don’t mean shoe size. But we soften the girls up first so they can take it.”

Lydia grew dizzy. Her head spun with the screams.

“And if you think that fucker’s big, take a look at Pretty Boy over there.” Jervis pointed to the adjoining hold. “You haven’t forgotten about him, have you?”

No, as a matter of fact she hadn’t. The holotype they’d reserved for Lydia was thumping the repulsion screen with its fingerless hands. Its raw meat face surged forward, red lust in its gelatin eyes.

“You’re gonna get every inch,” Jervis promised. “Right up the ass.”

It beat its massive erection against the screen and mewled.

Jervis laughed out loud. Lydia fainted.

««—»»

Wade awoke just past noon, glare on his face. Sunlight, he thought. Oh, bliss. He’d hidden the cruiser behind the town theater and had dozed off. He’d slept as if dead.

By now the cops would be going apeshit looking for White, Peerce, and Porker. And there was still the question of Lydia; she was the only one Wade trusted enough to tell, but where was she?

He left the cruiser, electing to return to campus on foot. He’d have a hard time explaining to the gate guard how he came to be driving Chief White’s cruiser without the company of Chief White. He crossed campus stealthily, mindful of police. Something deep in his gut told him not to return to the dorm, but this he dismissed as nerves. It was daytime now. He had nothing to fear in the daytime, did he?

He trotted down the bike path which paralleled the student shop. He stopped in his tracks and nearly shouted with joy.

His Corvette sat shining in the shop lot.

Wade ran. “Lydia! It’s me!”

No reply. But she must be close by—the keys were still in the Vette, and on the console lay Tom’s pendant that she found on the Route, and the little pistol. There was something else too, something that looked like a portable tensor lamp. Hadn’t he seen it before, at the sciences center?

“Lydia!”

Pieces of padlock lay on the pavement. The shop door stood ajar. Wade knew something was…fucked up. Inside, he peeped, “Lydia?” First he noted the untarped cars, then the jugs. Then he found Lydia’s Colt Trooper Mark III on the floor.

Then he heard voices.

The wall? he thought.

The voices were coming from the wall. Like walking in a dream, Wade moved closer. What is that? He noticed a black dot on the wall. But when he put a finger to it, he discovered it wasn’t a dot at all, but a hole.

Hole, he thought moronically. In the wall. Voices… Hole. Wade put his eye to the hole and looked in.

Jervis was hanging a naked girl on a harness. Behind him, a wall glowed orange around racks of big circles, like kegs. Steam rose amid distant machine sounds.

As if in supervision, Professor Dudley Besser looked on.

“You know, Prof, five girls doesn’t seem like much.”

“It’s exponential, Jervis,” Besser said. “The fissionizationvessels are needed only to provide basic metis prototypes. From there, after computer calculated transfections, the desired metis types are mass produced exponentially.”

“Oh,” Jervis remarked. “Like a production line.”

“In a sense, Jervis, yes.”

Wade’s eye seemed sewn open to the hole.

Jervis was kneeling now, punching some kind of nozzles into the bottom of the hanging girl’s feet.

“We still leaving tonight?”

“Yes, we have to. The stasisfield is draining.”

Jervis glanced up in a sudden concern. “What about Wade?”

“Leave Wade to me,” Besser said.

Was it Wade’s imagination, or was the nude girl in the harness…stretching?

Now Jervis was milking white sludge out of her feet. The sludge oozed from the nozzles into big jugs—identical to the jugs Wade had just seen in the shop. The gelatinous white glop reminded him of the stuff he’d seen in that sump at the clearing.

Wade, as usual of late, was doubting his sanity. This was a reasonable surmise when you were seeing and hearing people through a hole in a cinder block wall, the other side of which was a fucking parking lot, and even more reasonable when the people you were seeing and hearing through that hole were passively milking white sludge out of a naked girl in a harness. And Wade was right; the girl was indeed stretching. Her body now sagged fully to the floor. She looked boneless. Jervis took her down then and very calmly—Jesus, gag me! Wade thought—stuffed her into a big can. The girl’s head flapped like a rubber bag, her limbs as slack and pasty as baker’s dough. Jervis packed her in tight and lidded the container.

“I’ve still got some bodies to bury. Then can I—”

“Yes, Jervis, but be sure to tend to this first.” Besser handed Jervis something, a black cube of some kind, the size of one of those Rubik things. “It’s programmed to detonate at one minute after midnight. Make sure you’re back before recharge.”

“When’s that?”

“Eleven fifty five, exactly.”

A bomb, Wade concluded. They’re talking about a bomb.

Was Besser smiling? “And now I have a little business to tend to myself. I’ll trust you to see that there are no problems.”

“Right, Prof. Later.”

Then both figures left the glowing orange room or corridor or whatever it was. Wade took his eye from the hole, aghast.

He had no idea what he’d just seen or heard, nor did he try to explain it to himself. All he knew was this:

They had a bomb, and it was going to go off at one minute past midnight.

Tonight.

—

CHAPTER 31

Winnifred sauntered naked through the low warrens. Heaven down here, she mused. She was out of control in her ecstasy. The psilight bathed her flesh as stark as bone as she wandered amid the humming, tinged dark. She was probably insane by now.

Soon they’d be gone, to greater miracles ahead. The joy of being part of it stunned her. Me. Goddess Winnifred. Excited blood pumped through her breasts and sex, and there she went again, touching herself, plying herself with her fingers.

The psilight hummed. Orange mist glowed within the productionholds, relative influx of the catalyticexchangers, which ran constantly. These low warrens seemed to extend infinitely. Just how deep did they go?

A factory! she thought in rushing pulses. A factory of love!

The sisters paid her no mind. They were perfect in their duplicity. Most were naked, as Winnifred herself, unflawed bodies moist in the orange tint. She recessed into the emwguidancetrackingpoint, a simple processor which countered magnetic quadrupole activity, generating negative kinetic charge momentum. The chamber was just a black honeycombed wall laced with fine threads. She sat down. Here, in the labyrinth’s heart, she would finish her orgasm.

Murmuring, she closed her eyes. The psilight licked her nerves, sucked heat into her body. She filled her mind with the most base sexual images: she was a cave woman being gang-raped in the woods. One dirty Neanderthal after the next stuck a penis that had never been washed into her mouth. Some came right there, sending globs of sperm down her throat, or pulling out to spatter her enraptured face. Other used the oral act as a primer after which they rammed their excited cocks into her sex, humped her hard in the dirt—one after another—until she was filled with semen, overflowing...

Winnifred’s legs tensed as the images grew more vile. She was being choked, sodomized, spat on and pissed upon, yet each demonstration only inflamed her more. Then she lay sopped and filthy; above her the cavemen stood round, all chuckling, as they masturbated in unison for a final climax. By the time they were all done coming on her, Winnifred felt covered with a hot, pale rue, and then—

Her fingers worked furiously, and there it went, like a bomb burst in her loins.

Lovely, lovely...

When she opened her eyes, a shadow stood over her.

“Dudley?” She squinted; it was him. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” answered the dark voice.

What could he want? He was supposed to be bringing in the holotype. She got up, taming her disdain. What did they need him for anyway? He was fat and arrogant. He sickened her.

Immediately, his fat arms were about her; he was kissing her, caressing her. “I love you,” he whispered, and urged her back into the servicepass. Here the psilight shined more keenly, replenishing her desires. His fat fingers fiddled at her sex. She could feel the puny erection through his size 54 trousers.

Lips like a fish groveled to hers. His tongue went into her mouth, his hand squeezed her buttocks.

Winnifred giggled. “Oh, Dudley, you’re impossible.”

His trousers fell. He pushed her to her knees.

So that’s what he wants. She gave it her best, pushing up, but—

“I’m sorry, Dudley, but you’re so fat I can’t get to it!”

Besser looked down. “Maybe you can get to this, then.”

Winnifred screamed. Besser jammed infusers into her neck, one in each hand, then discharged a third into her navel. The overdose of calciumdecimationliquetactor flooded her bloodstream. Winnifred’s bones dissolved at once, and she flopped on the floor.

Besser stepped on her stomach. Winnifred spouted vomit.

“How fat am I now, bitch?”

He stepped on her head, which squashed.

“How’s this for fat, hmmm?”

Then, chuckling, he walked all over her, like someone trodding grapes to mash. She looked ridiculous now, an inchoate, squirming mass. He picked her up and slopped her down on a levslat. Winnifred could only blubber in defense. He was trying to rape her on the slat, his little bone prodding her spread flesh, seeking entrance.

Chubby hands kneaded her around like a wet towel, but soon the attempts faltered. Any orifice he sought to invade proved too slack for coital purchase. Instead, he panted, laughing, and masturbated. Winnifred could only slog upon the slat.

Besser squeezed her head again. Her eyeballs popped out, suspended by nerves. “Here’s some fat for you,” he announced. He ejaculated massively into her squashed face.

Winnifred’s dreams of godhood pulsed away as quickly. Besser dragged her down the pass, opened a hatch, and then was stuffing her into one of the dropchutes. Winnifred wailed in blubbering squeals. She flopped in resistance but to no use, oozing into the chutehatch like warm porridge.

“Goodbye, Winnie.” Besser smiled and pulled the releaserod. Immediately, she fell. Just minutes ago she’d wondered how deep the labyrinth was—now she was finding out. She tumbled sloppily straight down. For minutes? Hours? She didn’t know. Through the labyrinth’s bowels she descended, down and down…

The dropchute emptied into a slime walled hold. Winnifred dumped out onto the floorwall, landing in a pile of excrement. She churned. Ten stout holotypes surrounded her, flexing upward on corded limbs. Plump tongues fell out of slatted mouths, and their erections, long as human arms, were more proof than she’d ever need of their arousal. Here, finally, were the cavemen of her fantasies. She floundered in the midst of them—a relief package from the gods—as they hurried to line up for this obvious and ultimate outrage: an alien gang bang.

When they were finished, they ate her.

««—»»

From the basement utility room, Jervis sent the elevator to the sixth floor. Then he shorted the terminals and bypassed the control relay. Now the elevator was stranded.

I’m being creative, he thought. He walked up to the fourth floor, carrying under one arm five county manhole covers. They weighed eighty pounds apiece. On four, he forced open the elevator door and looked down. Then he smiled.

He was grateful Czanek had gotten the address. Here it is. He dropped the manhole covers all at once. The floor shuddered.

He rang the doorbell.

“Vas? Sarah?”

“Meter man,” Jervis said.

“Zählerableser?” The door opened a crack. “Zerr ist no meter.”

Jervis grinned. “Hi, Wilhelm.”

Wilhelm’s handsome face pinched. “Vas ist…? You!”

Jervis smacked the door open. Enraged, Wilhelm stepped back. He wore a black robe with a Das Reich emblem on the breast.

“Vut do you vahnt?”

“Revenge—no, cosmogenic justice,” Jervis corrected.

Wilhelm laughed. “You vahnt to fight me, Arschkipf?”

“You took what was mine. Let’s just say that compensation is in order.”

“Ich pisse dir gleich ans Bein.” Wilhelm produced a pistol. A Luger, Jervis noted. Why am I not surprised? Did the guy carry guns around in his robe? Wilhelm cocked the parabellum slide. “Get out or I vill blow you guts up all over zah valls. Out! Schnell!”

Was he bluffing? Perhaps a little provocation would tell. “Say, your father surrendered to the Russians, didn’t he?”

“Schwein! Mein fah zer vas unt war hero! He vun zah Knight’s Cross mitt oak leaf clusters at Sevastopol!”

“I don’t care if he won the Popsicle stick cross with cock rings at Fire Island. He was a Nazi coward. He sucked Himmler’s balls, and your mama fucked Russians for free.”

That was all it took. Some guys just couldn’t take a joke. Wilhelm fired a volley of shots. The 9mm bullets stitched a line across Jervis’ chest, punching smoking holes.

Jervis fell down and calmly got back up. “You’re going to have to do a lot better than that, pal.”

Seeing sheer terror congeal on the face of this Aryan pillar of muscle brought delight to Jervis’ heart. Wilhelm fled to the bedroom to a closet. Jervis followed him in.

In the closet hung SS banners, regimental standards, and a Nazi state flag. There was also a glass case full of iron crosses and NSDAP pins. Wilhelm unwrapped a ceremonial SS dagger.

“That’s what I call a closet Nazi,” Jervis quipped. He smiled at his opponent’s antics. “What are you doing?”

Wilhelm gripped the dagger, shouted, “Aufgeben? Nein!” and lunged. The blade sunk hilt deep into Jervis’ stomach.

“Take zat!”

Jervis tsked, standing tall. He withdrew the dagger and opened his shirt. Wilhelm stared at the bloodless slit and bullet holes.

“Gott int Himmel,” he muttered.

A fast backhand sent the German flying across the room. His robe had come apart, showing a limp Teutonic penis. Jervis noted with some despair that Wilhelm’s member was bigger soft than Jervis’ was hard. He seriously considered cutting it off with the dagger, but that seemed petty. Even an asshole like Wilhelm didn’t deserve to have his dick cut off.

Jervis shrugged. He cut it off anyway. Wilhelm’s deep shuddering scream sounded like a truck motor in high gear.

Jervis held it up for his foe to see.

“Arrrgh!” Wilhelm bellowed, convulsing. “Mein schlong!”

Jervis smiled brighter than a thousand suns. The act was a symbol; he’d evened the score for all the guys in the world who had lost their loves to a bigger penis. “See how many girlfriends you steal now, buddy boy.”

Wilhelm kicked away, his screams downshifting to wavering groans. He managed to get up, which Jervis found admirable. It took a man of some resilience to stand up so quickly after having his penis removed with an SS dagger.

“Run,” Jervis advised.

Hand to bloody crotch, Wilhelm staggered out. Jervis lit a Carlton and took a deep, satisfying drag. Smoke eddied up through the holes in his chest. He heard the German stumble out.

Then, as predicted, came the long descending “Woooooeeee!”

Thump!

Jervis meandered to the hall and looked down the elevator shaft. Sure enough, there lay Wilhelm at the bottom, broken, twisted, but—thankfully—still alive.

“Now we’re going to play a game,” Jervis called down. “And the name of the game is America Bombs the Fatherland.”

Wilhelm whined, pleading up the shaft for mercy. Jervis released the first manhole cover. It banged to the bottom but missed.

“Damn, I guess I better adjust my Norden bombsight, huh?” Jervis let the second manhole cover go. Its edge caught Wilhelm across the knees. Wilhelm roared.

“Good,” Jervis approved, “but not good enough.” The third cover floated down almost dreamily. Wilhelm’s bulged eyes watched it descend. “Nein, nein, nein,” he moaned.

The eighty pound manhole cover landed square across Wilhelm’s stomach. Wilhelm’s entire GI tract exploded out his mouth.

“Direct hit!” Jervis celebrated. For posterity, he dropped a fourth cover, which flattened Wilhelm’s head.

««—»»

Wade slunk into his dorm room, locked the door. Finding Lydia was his priority, but he couldn’t very well search for her on an eighth of a tank of gas. His wallet was empty, and his only remaining cash was at the dorm. But now…

What was it?

He set Lydia’s .357 on the bed. He scratched his head, looked absently out the window. Normal out there, everything’s normal. He got an Adams out of the fridge. It tasted good, it tasted normal But still…

Then he realized what it was. He had that proverbial feeling that he was being watched.

“You’re probably wondering why you feel like you’re being watched,” came the voice of Tom McGuire.

Wade dropped his beer.

Tom’s severed head had been placed atop Wade’s stereo. The gray face grinned. “What’s up, buddy?”

“Give me a fucking break!” Wade appreciably exclaimed. He asked the first logical question. “How did you get here? You obviously didn’t walk!”

“Jervis left me,” Tom’s head answered, “to pass on a message.”

Wade sat down on the bed. I’m having a conversation with a severed head, he realized. How much further could this go? “Why did you and Jervis go over to the Supremate?”

Tom mistakenly tried to shrug. “We didn’t have much of a choice, we were chosen. Besides, the Supremate offers immortality for service.” Tom’s head paused. “I guess that part’s out for me now. What’s he gonna do, make my head immortal?” Tom chuckled. “You’re not cooperating, Wade. The Supremate’s got a deal for you.”

“Tell the Supremate he can kiss my ass,” Wade said.

Tom’s eyes flicked to the fridge. “Pop me open a Spaten, will you? It’s not like I can get it myself.”

“I don’t pour beer for heads,” Wade told him.

Sudden anger tinted Tom’s expression. “I’m trying real hard to keep my cool. I lost my job because of you, ya know.”

Wade sulked. “Yeah, I guess you’re pretty pissed.”

“If your best friend wrecked your car and got your head cut off, wouldn’t you be pissed?”

“It was an accident, Tom. I’m sorry.”

“If you’re sorry, make it up to me. Join the Supremate.”

“Join this,” Wade replied, indicating his crotch.

Tom’s chuckle came off as a blend of amusement and sullenness. “I already told you, Jervis left me here to pass on a message—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Wade said. “I don’t give a fuck.”

“The message is this: We have Lydia.”

Silent turmoil landed on Wade like a dropped net.

“Jerv snatched her at the student shop. We’ve got her locked up at the labyrinth. Look, Wade, we don’t give a shit about her; she’s useless to us, and we’re not going to be around long enough for her to hurt us if we let her go. So that’s the deal. Join the Supremate, and we let her go. No bullshit.”

Wade’s thoughts echoed like drips in a cavern—

—and Tom’s head went on, “But if you refuse, the girl is shit out of luck. They’ll turn her into ground round, nice and slow, and they’ll let the holotypes have her first. You gonna sit back and let a bunch of aliens fuck your girlfriend? Don’t you love her, Wade? What are you gonna do?”

“What I’m going to do,” Wade answered, “is put you into the trash compactor. That’s what I’m going to do.”

“Super, Wade. Avoid the issue. Chicken out.”

“Shut up,” Wade said. “I’m no chicken.”

“Buk, buk, buk. You’re gonna let the girl you love die slow because you don’t have the balls to accept change.”

“Piss off.”

“I’m leveling with you, Wade. Not as a vassal, as a friend.”

“Hey,” Wade said. “Tom McGuire was my friend. But you’re not him anymore. You’re just an evil…head.”

“Thanks a lot, pal.”

But Tom—or Tom’s head—was right about one thing. Wade was putting off the inevitable choice. He could take the coward’s way out, or the man’s way. Do I really love her that much?

“It’s decision time,” Tom announced. “In a second that phone’s going to ring. It’ll be Besser, and he’ll want an answer.”

“Besser doesn’t even know I’m here,” Wade scoffed.

“Sure he does” —Tom’s dead lips drew up in pride— “I just told him through my transceptionrod.”

Wade didn’t even bother frowning when the phone rang. He simply picked it up and held it to his ear.

“Wade, my boy. I’m glad you got our little message.”

“Clever,” Wade said. “Next time leave a note on my refrigerator with a fruit magnet.”

“Time is short. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes,” Wade said.

“A wise decision. Your lovely paramour goes free, and you get to live forever…with us.”

“How are we going to do this?”

“Meet me at my office,” Besser instructed. “In twenty minutes. We’ll be waiting. And, Wade, no tricks, please. Or else—”

Wade hung up. I’m neck deep in it now, he thought. “Why me?” he asked of Tom’s head. “Why does the Supremate want me?”

“Because you’re the healthiest able bodied male on campus. We couldn’t take just anyone, not for something this important. That’s why Besser had me swipe the medical records from the clinic. He wanted to check the medical histories of as many students as possible within the time frame, and that’s what he and Winnie did. They selected the healthiest candidates of the bunch. The Supremate needs five girls and one guy. You’re the lucky guy.”

Wade got another beer. He sat glumly on the bed and drank.

“Don’t look so bummed,” Tom offered. “You get to live forever, man. We’re talking eternal fucking life.”

“Thanks for the input.” Wade checked his watch. Twenty minutes to eternity. Shit.

“Destiny is calling, Wade. It’s time for you to go.”

“It’s time for you to go too,” Wade said. “Into the trash compactor.”

Tom sighed a commendable resignation. “I understand.”

Wade honestly found it difficult to hold Tom’s head over the open Kenmore compactor. If only in part, this gray smiling severed head was still his friend.

“Good luck, dude,” Tom’s head bid.

“‘Bye, Tom.”

“Wait, wait! Before I go, here’s an old one.”

Wade rolled his eyes. “I’m about to drop you into a trash compactor and you want to tell jokes?”

“Just one more, for old times’ sake.”

“All right.”

“What did Lincoln say after his five day drunk?”

“What?” Wade groaned.

“‘I freed WHO?’”

Wade dropped the head in the compactor and hit the power button. Tom’s laughter could be heard over the machine’s descending hum. The motor whined. Tom’s skull folded up, crunching. Then the motor cut off.

What did you do today, son? he could almost hear his father asking. Well, Dad, I got chased by a dead man, I found Dean Saltenstall’s body in a closet, I watched three police officers get killed, I drove a Buick LeSabre over several dozen women, and last but not least, I put Tom McGuire’s head into a trash compactor. Pretty interesting day, don’t you think?

But not nearly interesting enough, not yet. He stuck Lydia’s .357 in his pants and rechecked his watch.

Indeed, destiny was calling. It was time to go.

—

CHAPTER 32

Tom’s black pendant, which Lydia had found on the Route, lay in the console. Wade didn’t know what it was, so he left it, and he left the thing that looked like a portable tensor lamp, not knowing what that was either. There was very little he did know just then, except that his life was either about to end or take a dramatic change. He drove the Vette in stoic grace.

His mind seemed to float, vacant as space, as he entered the sciences center and went up the steps. We’ll be waiting, Besser had told him, yet no one waited in the dim, lamplit office. Preparations had been made, though: Blackout curtains hung over the windows. The only sunlight came in through the open door behind him.

Then: “Close the door, please, Wade.”

Wade closed the door. When he turned, Professor Besser stood by the wall, fat as ever and all smiles.

“Our central extromitter is here, a marvelous invention. You wouldn’t believe the time they save.”

Wade saw the black dot on the wall, like the one at the shop. Not a dot, he reminded himself. A hole.

“Say hello to my birds of prey.”

A suboctave hum filled Wade’s head. The black dot ran down the wall, like a bead of ink, forming a line to the floor…

…and through that line, one by one, four sisters emerged. The line was a doorway, he realized, to the place he’d seen through the hole in the shop wall. A doorway to the labyrinth.

The sisters had squeezed through the line, like cutouts pushed through a slit. Yet an instant later they stood in the flesh, black cloaked, hooded. Fresh white faces grinned at him, eight lenses of four pairs of sunglasses reflecting the tiny dot that was Wade’s face.

The four sisters stood identically, grinning identical grins.

“We’re taking you home now, Wade,” Besser informed him.

“You’re not taking shit till you let Lydia go. That’s the deal.”

“Yes, but one that I’m not prepared to honor. The sisters would catch you before you reached the door.”

Wade drew the .357 from behind his back. He pointed it at the biggest sister.

Besser laughed. “You already know that’s futile.”

Wade fired one bullet. The sister batted it down with her palm.

“So you see, you can’t shoot them, Wade.”

Wade turned the gun on Besser. “But I can shoot your fat ass.”

“If you like.”

“I like,” Wade said, and fired another.

The sister beside Besser plucked the 900 feet per second slug out of the air, like catching a thrown pea. She looked at it curiously, then ate it.

“You can’t hurt them and they won’t let you hurt me.”

But Wade had one more trick. “You need me, right? For some reason, I’m important to you?”

“Yes, very,” Besser said.

The sisters advanced, reaching out with white hands. But then Besser, in a flash of panic, shouted, “Stop!”

Wade now held the gun to his head, hammer cocked. “Get Lydia out here, or I blow my own head off.”

Besser jittered, dread in his face. “Wade, please. You can’t—”

“Sure I can. I don’t give a shit.” It felt good to be the one with the power for a change: “I got a hunch that this Supremate dude wouldn’t be too happy if you brought me in dead.”

“No,” Besser croaked. “He wouldn’t.’

“Then bring Lydia out here right now, or you get to watch my brains take a one way flight across the room.”

Besser backed the women off. Their eager heads listed. “Be calm, Wade,” Besser said. Again, the black dot ran down the wall.

Lydia unfolded from the line.

“Wade! You came to rescue me! I don’t believe it!”

“Neither do I,” he said. “And don’t bother asking me why I’ve got a gun to my head. Are you all right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then get out of here.”

“But—”

“Just shut up and get out!” he shouted. There could be no dramatic goodbyes, no final professions of love, none of that corny shit. “The Vette’s outside. Fill it with gas and don’t stop driving till you get to Alaska.”

“But what about you?”

Wade’s mouth twisted. “I have to go with them.” He didn’t want to see her anymore; that just made it worse. “It’s the only way, so just…leave.”

This would be her goodbye: silent acknowledgment. She looked at him, blinked, then walked out of the office.

“There,” Besser said. “So what’s it going to be?”

Wade knew what he meant. There was still one ultimate decision to be made. He heard the Vette start up outside and drive away.

Somehow, Wade smiled. “I could screw you bad, couldn’t I?”

“Yes, but what a waste,” Besser said with emphasis. “Why not come and see what we have to offer?”

The sisters’ faces seemed radiant. They looked like angels.

Wade dropped the gun.

Besser opened the extromitter with his pendant. Two sisters took Wade by the hand and led him into the wall, into infinity.

««—»»

“Are you okay?” asked the 7 Eleven cashier.

Lydia realized how she must look. Uniform in tatters, hair in her face, no gun in her holster. She’d look a lot worse, though, if the holotype in the next hold had had its way with her. Wade had sacrificed himself, for her.

She bought cigarettes and a six pack of Coke. She sat in the Vette, thinking. During her stay in the labyrinth, she’d overheard enough to know what was going on. She knew what they were, yes, and what they were doing.

She also knew that they were leaving at midnight tonight, and they were taking Wade with them.

The UV spotter was still in the Vette, and thank God so was the black pendant she’d found where Wade had wrecked Tom’s car. Winnifred had called it a key, and the extromitters—the dots—were the doors they unlocked.

A piece of paper was stuck in the visor, a note in Wade’s yuppie scrawl.

Lydia,

White, Peerce, and Porker are dead. So is the dean. I still don’t know what any of this is about. Don’t go back to the grove—it’s getting worse by the minute. Leave town right away, Jervis is planting a bomb, but I don’t know where. Just leave town and forget about me. Doesn’t that sound corny?

Wade

P.S. —Take good care of the Vette!

The dolt could’ve at least signed off saying he loved her. Men could be such assholes. So what else was new?

She didn’t know what to make of this business with the bomb, or all the people Wade said were dead. But none of that mattered. For now she had to work on her plan, and she only had half a day to do it.

««—»»

—WE HAVE WADE NOW. WE HAVE EVERYTHING WE NEED.

“Great!” Jervis exclaimed, shovel in midstroke. “We did it!”

—YES, the Supremate said. —AND SOON YOU WILL JOIN ME IN ETERNAL GRACE. BUT TAKE CARE IN YOUR FINAL TASKS, JERVIS. SIGNS AND WONDERS, MY SON. YOU ARE MY SCRIBE.

Jervis fell to his knees in the dirt. Dead face turned to the sun, he raised his hands in obeisance to his invisible lord.

—THINK NOT OF THE LIVES OF CATTLE. THEY SERVE AS SACRIFICE TO MY HOLY WILL, A PORTENT TO THIS WORLD THAT I WILL ONE DAY RETURN AS DELIVERER. TODAY SHALL BE A GREAT AND HOLY REMEMBRANCE. I MUST BE REMEMBERED. LIKE A PROMISE IN THE WIND.

“Yes, my lord!” Jervis cried up.

—SIGNS AND WONDERS, JERVIS. THE GHOST OF FUTURE TIDINGS.

“You are my life! My redeemer!”

—LIKE A PROMISE IN THE WIND.

The Supremate left his head, and left Jervis shuddering in the graveyard. His lord’s commandment was clear; this old life was fading, racing toward a new wondrous eternal life. Jervis drank Kirins and smoked as he buried the remaining bodies. It was refreshing work, burying the dead. The corpses were part of the promise too, and Jervis the very arm of the ghost of future tidings. He was nearly done now, like an apostle nearing heaven.

“You lurp lurpfffeeeevii prick ick ick!”

Jervis looked down. Here was poor Penelope again, clambering out of her hole. She churned upward, flesh the color of spoiled milk, almost out of the grave to the waist. Blessed are the boneless? Jervis thought. He should write his own testament, for hadn’t he, too, returned from the dead? Yeah! Sermon on the Mounds!

“Gll ff gliv gliv give me back my bah bah bones!” Penelope blubbered. Her face looked curdled. “Glive me black my baby!”

“Your baby’s dead, funky,” Jervis said.

“Mlup mlup mlutherfucker ler ler!”

Jervis flicked ashes on her, impressed. It wasn’t easy being buried alive, and probably harder still to continuously unearth yourself to face your conquerors. Boneless or not, she had guts.

“Pluh pluh pleeze helup helup help me!”

“Sure,” Jervis said, and planted his foot in the middle of her amorphous face. He shoved her squealing back into the hole, flabby hands dragging at his pants cuffs. “Down you go,” he said.

“I’ll lyle lyle kah kah kah—”

“Shut up and have a drink.” Jervis unzipped and sent a stream of dark dead man’s beer piss into Penelope’s mouth. Soon all she could do was gargle in protest. “There. That should wet your whistle,” he remarked. He refilled the hole again, then packed the mound down flat and hard as a sod pounder with his foot.

The hot sun drew a haze of death up into the clearing. He glorified in its humid stench and walked back to the Dodge Colt. Everything is beautiful, he mused. Like a promise in the wind.

—YOU ARE MY SCRIBE, the Supremate fleeted back.

Jervis swam in the heavenly caress. Yes, he was an apostle nearing the pillars of heaven. An existential proselyte.

—TODAY SHALL BE A GREAT AND HOLY REMEMBRANCE.

The black cube grew warm in Jervis’ palm.

—

CHAPTER 33

Wade’s gaze drew ahead of him like an endless ribbon unreeling into a bottomless pit. “Holy shit,” he whispered.

“Welcome to the labyrinth.”

The sisters dispersed, leaving Wade alone with Besser in the recepetioncove of pointaccessmain#1. A single black corridor stretched before them. Its end could not be discerned.

“This place is the box in the grove?”

“Yes,” Besser replied. “Our master’s sanctuary.”

“But the box in the grove is no bigger than a coffin.”

“On the outside, yes. But inside, its verges are more vast than any building on earth. Its actual proximities are incalculable.”

“That’s impossible,” Wade scoffed.

“No, it’s physics. An applied system of the manipulation of physical dimension. All things are malleable, Wade.” Besser loped ahead. “Come along. I’ll show you what destiny looks like.”

Wade followed him through corridors, through blackness.

Besser inserted his pendant into one of the dots, above which a sign seemed to glow SUSTENANCEPROCESSING. Wade saw it, yet he didn’t.

“We call them mindsigns. A servopathic transponder identifies the designation to the reader. A Russian person, for instance, would see it in Russian.”

Besser opened the extromitter. Dark, pulsing green light extended through a channelwork of odd machinery, chutes and lifters, and something like a conveyor belt. Wade saw the backs of several naked sisters bent over in their tasks. Intermittently the silence was ruptured by a sudden screech which reminded Wade of tree branches being tossed into a wood pulper. Each screech sent a shiver up his spine. He peered deeper into the channel and saw that the conveyor was carrying white, naked bodies.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said.

Besser seemed dismayed. “It’s waste processing. The Supremate is merely recycling material that’s outlasted its usefulness.”

“Material!” Wade objected. “Those are people!”

“Well, they’re sisters, yes. But no longer serviceable.”

Wade squinted closer through the gaps. Twisted, crushed, squashed—these were the sisters Wade had run over in White’s cruiser. They lay alive on the conveyor, bespattered with black blood. The belt fed them one at a time into a gaping bin—then came the screech—and from a chute at the other end, out poured big spews of black meat, like hash. This was how they dealt with damaged goods. They ground them up for food.

“We eat well around here, Wade. And you will too.”

Mobile sisters shoveled the meat into hoppers that automatically rolled off. Wade felt himself grow faint.

Besser led on. Subinlets led to more servicepasses which led to more warrens. SUPPLYIMPLEMENT, ACCLIMATIONPOST, CHARGESTABILIZATIONMOMENTOR. Sisters moved about like grinning idiot slaves.

“The sisters are examples of the Supremate’s technologies.”

“This is no cult,” Wade realized. “It’s a fucking spaceship, and those women are…aliens.”

“They’re crossmultibredintegratedhybrids, but ‘aliens’ will suffice, as I suppose ‘spaceship’ will suffice for the labyrinth. Actually it’s a valencecorehypervelocityorbitalmagneficpulse- momentyrayquadrupoularcoulombMeVspontaneousbosomwavelengthdecay/accelerationendodiermicmassenergydefractingpi-mesicphotofissionalfieldeffeettransistingvan denhulmaxirnalentryreentrypointphasemobilekeneticmotionvessel.”

Wade stared at him. “Oh, is that all.”

Besser took him along and extromitted into a sloped, threadwalled warren whose mindsign read EMWGUIDANCETRACKINGPOINT.

“Do you know what electromagnetic energy is?” Besser asked.

“Light, sound, radiation—shit like that, right?”

“Yes, Wade, shit…like that, stretched over an infinite wavelength, and those wavelengths exist everywhere.” Besser took a moment’s silence, for effect. “They’re a power source.”

“You mean you don’t fill this thing up with gas?”

“Picture the entire universe as a lake, Wade. The surface of the lake is electromagnetic energy, and the labyrinth is, in a sense, a boat. The apparatus in this room countercycles electromagnetic waves, allowing the labyrinth to float, so to speak, on the lake, while conduction devices harness the active properties of the same EM waves, creating a kinetic energy pulse that propels the labyrinth at phenomenal speeds.”

“Then how does it sustain itself when it isn’t moving?”

Impressed, Besser turned. “Excellent question, Wade. When not in motion, the labyrinth of course cannot utilize active EM motility. So it creates its own static EM field by releasing stored molecular activity previously processed during propulsion transitions. We call it the stasisfield.”

“A battery,” Wade concluded. “And that’s why you have to leave soon. Because your batteries are draining.”

“Exactly. Your perceptiveness is noteworthy.” Besser took him into another service pass. “Before full depletion is experienced, we recharge the stasisfield in a single spontaneous pulse with the remaining stored potential electron activity. That will occur tonight at five minutes before midnight. Then—”

“Blast off,” Wade said.

“More like a magnetic repulsion, but, yes, the labyrinth will project itself back into the active EM flux of space.”

“To where?”

“The next acquisition assignment. We go from world to world, Wade. From galaxy to galaxy.”

Wade was boggled. “What the fuck for?” he shouted. “To bury coeds? To pull people’s heads off? Why?”

Besser chuckled deeply. “I’ll show you why. Follow me.”

Strange light hummed around Wade’s head. There were no light fixtures, yet somehow he could see through the solid blackness. A mindsign hovered by: SUBINLET#4. And the very next: SUBINLET#5; and next: SUBINLET#999. The labyrinth was an endless maze.

But the next sign glowed GERMINATIONWARREN.

Dark, orange light pulsed in a long, narrow chamber. Large canisters sat in racks along one wall. The other side was a half wall, which looked down.

Besser pointed. “A thousand kingdoms, whose end is perfection.”

Wade lost his breath peering over the edge. From layers of orange light, production stratas descended ever downward. It was like looking down the slope of a mountain miles high. Each level bore movement, white bodies busying back and forth in arcane passages, pushing things about in some nameless onus.

“What the fuck is this?” Wade whispered, more to himself.

“A womb for whole civilizations,” Besser symbolized. “A processing plant where genetic structures are isolated for their most useful features, bred into one another, regressive genes removed, vital genes amplified. We distill life, combine it, and re create it—all to the Supremate’s specifications.”

Wade’s eyes locked down into the glowing chasm.

“Nature is base, but we’re making it serve a higher purpose. The labyrinth is only one of many; from world to world they go, processing dominant life forms for what will one day effect a flawless realm. We take the best of everything and make it better.”

“For the Supremate?”

“For the master plan. Our world is damned by its own error. War, hate, crime, etcetera. And all the other worlds in this universe, I’m sorry to say, are the same. All except one. The Supremate’s.”

Wade couldn’t look anymore, not into this Grand Canyon of flesh. He backed up, reeling, sick.

“Productivity versus waste,” Besser glorified on. “Mankind is wasteful, here and everywhere else. But the master plan culls the good from the bad, from all worlds, to a single, objective end. What better definition can there be for perfection?”

Wade turned, spied the canisters in the racks.

“And this room is where it all begins. The activeports.”

At first Wade thought they must be fuel cells of some kind, but Besser had said the labyrinth needed no fuel. Wade rolled one of the transparent canisters out. There was a bubble, and he saw something that looked suspiciously similar to a belly button. Whatever mass filled the canister twitched once, quivered. Part of the mass was a human face. Wade put it back in the rack.

“Prototypes are made here. A computer calculates the most useful possibilities, then the best prototypes are removed for further genetic embellishment. We breed females from one world with males from other worlds. Females are fissionizationvessels; males are holotypes—”

That word rang a bell, and Wade didn’t like the sound of it.

“Each target sector is indexed into the Supremate’s intelligence: natural resources, industrial potential, and environmental characteristics. Also indexed are the anatomical characteristics of each species. Then the Supremate calculates which combinations of which species would effect a superior interspecies. Initial prototypes, which we call interspecielmetisunits, are produced very quickly. The entire process involves a complex system of biological acclimations and growth acceleration sciences.”

Wade was leaning against the warm wall, wiping his mouth. “The girl in that thing—she’s from the college, isn’t she?”

“It’s not a thing. It’s an incubreedcatalyzationcapsule, with an expansionbolus to allow for natal growth. And, yes, she’s one of the five surrogate procurements from this planet.”

“What the hell did you do to her?”

“We removed her bones, of course. Antirejectorybifertilization demands some rather drastic acclimations. You don’t just impregnate one life form with the reproductive genes of another and expect to produce an interspeciel. The two physiologies aren’t compatible. So we make them compatible. One thing we do is modify the reproductive systems of the surrogates, but in this forced compatibility they wouldn’t survive the physical stress of intercourse and birth.”

“Like trying to drive a bus through a rabbit hole.”

“Crude, but correct. We remove their bone structures.” Besser picked up a big syringe. “Calciumdecimationliquefactor agents dissolve all bone material in the body, which is then drained off in a suspended state and disposed of.”

Besser pointed to one of the jugs. It was full to the top. Wade remembered seeing Jervis milking white sludge out of the girl in the harness, and how she stretched like putty afterward.

“We can produce primary interspeciels in a matter of hours, and the surrogates can be used repeatedly for future bifertilizations. It’s marvelous.”

Wade was not inclined to agree.

In the next warren, rows of glowing compartments throbbed with feeble movement. The noise was relentless, a raucous rise of squalls and whines.

Wade looked hard. The plump, misshapen things he saw lying there sent him back in an impact of vision. Tiny pudenda wriggled. Chubby arms and legs rowed the moist air. Some seemed to grow even as he watched.

“This is the biomaintenancecarbonsourcehypersaturationvault,” Besser proudly stated.

“It’s a fucking baby ward!” Wade yelled.

“Newborn interspeciels under hyperincubation. In mere days they’ll have sufficiently matured, hosting successfully bifertilized reproductive genes, which will then be transfected again and again until the target species has been produced. Then the desired gene groups will be stored in the cryowarrens until colonization time.”

“When’s that?”

Besser shrugged casually. “Only the Supremate knows. A year from now, or a thousand years. The labyrinth stores interspeciel gene groups for every annexation target.”

“You mean every planet.”

“Yes, and there are thousands, Wade—multiple thousands. Each interspecies, regardless of classification, is genetically created with identical sensor and transception cells. Born in total allegiance to the Supremate’s objectives. Whole worlds, Wade, which will live to serve his will. When the time comes, the stored gene groups will be exogenically mass produced…and dispersed.”

Wade’s brain felt like it was broiling. “Why?” was all he could groan. “Why, why, why?”

“Mass recolonization.” Besser held a finger up. “One day, a new social system will reign over all worlds, myriad populations under one guiding light. No war, Wade, no crime, no aggression. Imagine a world like that, then imagine a thousand worlds just the same. The second phase is merely implementation, and function is the third phase. Perfectly adapted beings will join hands in a new order and live forever.”

“You want to turn the universe into an anthill.”

“No, Wade. We want to make the universe more efficient,” Besser said. “What’s wrong with that?”

A group of sisters came down the warren, their clone smiles sharp in unthinking bliss. Efficiency, Wade thought. They were carrying buckets of defected fetuses to the meat shredder.

“The sisters are just lower order interspeciels. The Supremate activated them for this annexation target because they were best suited for earth’s atmospheric specifications. The actual metisunits that we’ll use for recolonization exist in a multitude of varieties and are much more genetically advanced.”

Wade slumped, looking away. “What’s in it for you?”

“Immortality and governorship, the reward granted to any loyal nativeemissarial.”

“I don’t get it,” Wade said.

“All social orders, even perfect ones, need a chain of command.”

“So for betraying your entire planet, the Supremate’s going to let you and Winnie be his sergeants,” Wade concluded.

“Something like that. But not Winnie, I’m afraid. She’s out of the picture. After recolonization, the earth will need an overseer.” Besser’s eyes shined in glory. “Me.”

But Wade sensed a deeper picture. Didn’t power corrupt, even at the highest levels? “What about Winnie?”

“She outlived her serviceability, so I disposed of her. The Supremate didn’t need her anymore.”

“And when you’re finished with the first phase of your ‘master plan,’ you won’t need Jervis anymore either.”

“Of course not. Jervis will be disposed of too.”

“But you promised him immortality,” Wade reminded.

“We lied. Sometimes deception is necessary for a greater cause.”

“So it’s just you, huh, Prof? You get to rule the world.”

“Yes,” Besser said. “As a disciple of the Supremate, the world will be mine.”

Wade had trouble containing the urge to laugh. He knew a Brooklyn Bridge deal when he saw one. The Supremate had Besser, in his mad delusions, duped. Hook, line, and sinker.

They extromitted down. The transposition from one place to another felt like passing through a wall of sand. The bizarre light in these lower warrens seemed darker, yet more intense. In an unfitting contrast, Wade actually felt aroused.

“It’s the psilight,” Besser explained, “and it serves many purposes. One effect is the obvious excitation. The Supremate likes to maintain an ambience of fecundity. We’re not rapists, Wade. The progenitors of destiny should be willing. Another effect is simple communication.”

“How does simple communication explain my boner?”

“Think of the psilight as the Supremate’s influence. It’s actually a conduction flux, like static electricity.”

“And I guess you have some ridiculous thirty letter name for it.”

“Exordipathicsignaltrancination. The Supremate feels us with it.” He held up the sensor ring which girded his fat pinky. “It connects us to him telepathically. It’s like the labyrinth’s blood, consolidating all components, be they living, dead, or inanimate. It also transfers power from the stasisfield to the labyrinth’s processing systems. In fact, it was focused wavelengths of the psilight which originally allowed the Supremate to communicate with Winnie and me before the labyrinth arrived.”

So the psilight was like a power line. What would happen to it during the labyrinth’s recharge period?

“Psilight?” Wade said. “Stasisfield. What does this have to do with the agro site?”

“On landing,” Besser explained, “which we call termination of annexation transfer, the labyrinth must retard its reentry by means of electromagnetic counterpulses. Regrettably this activity generates a momentary wavelength aberration which causes irreversible physiological damage in any life form within a limited perimeter. The agro animals were too close to the pulse upon termination. This proximity resulted in instant degeneration of the complex organ systems. They died at once, as did any wildlife within the perimeter. It also caused our first transfection failure. Apparently Penelope was near the site during the labyrinth’s descent. The counterpulse damaged her reproductive faculties. Tom buried her just past the clearing.”

“I’ve seen the cozy little graveyard,” Wade confirmed.

“Then we decided on a more scientific approach. From the campus medical records, we identified the healthiest candidates available for transfection. Can you imagine the catastrophe of inducting a surrogate or holotype that wound up with some inherent biological defect or genetic disorder?”

“No,” Wade said. “I can’t imagine it.” But there was one more explanation he wanted. “The grove. What did you do to the grove?”

“The green fog isn’t really fog,” Besser told him. “It’s a waste by product of the psilight generators. We simply vent the conduction and element cores on occasion. The gasses happen to possess some amusing metamorphic effects on any plant and wildlife that’s exposed to it for a sustained period.”

Yeah, amusing, Wade thought. He remembered the faced mushrooms, the flesh covered trees, and the hideous gilled fog snakes.

Now they stood in a short black warren before a pair of blank door sized rectangles. A small plate hovered between them. Besser touched a button of some sort, and the left rectangle filled with dark kaleidoscopic light. This shifting effect, Wade realized, was something vast beyond the rectangle, something scrolling at incredible speed.

“This is the hold egress,” Besser said, “the access to the main holotype hold. As you can see, we’ve an abundant supply.”

“Access?” Access to what? Wade wondered.

“Meet your new brothers,” Besser bid.

The rectangle pulsed blurred images, like flitting a deck of cards. Wade saw things—living things—in the port, the physical likes of which beggared sane description. Besser slowed the scrollmode’s speed to afford Wade a more detailed inspection. One per second, the cramped, glowing holds switched by. Intent, otherworldly figures crouched close to the repulsion screens. All were different yet exclusively abominable, and most seemed to possess overly prominent genitals.

“Monsters,” Wade uttered, staring.

“Not monsters, Wade. Men. Just like you.”

“Pardon my prejudice, but I don’t have three balls and a forked dick, and I have two eyes in my head, not two dozen. Those things are not just like me.”

“They’re men,” Besser repeated. “They’re just different because they come from different places. I assure you, Wade, you’re as grotesque to them as they are to you.”

Besser halted the scroll to an empty hold. Its stockcode read, in almost epitaphic letters: #1003WADEST.JOHN.

“Beginning to get the picture yet?” Besser asked.

Wade was incapable of response.

“And now that you’ve met the men, it’s time to meet the women.” Besser activated the adjoining port. He flashed the female holds by much more slowly.

Wade looked but wished he hadn’t. The flashing grotesquorium locked his gaze. These were the female counterparts of what he’d just seen, only most had been decalcified. They sat slack in corners like limp sacks, eyes peering out from settled, skull less heads. Gorged breasts hung from collapsed shoulders, and boneless legs lay splayed (many had more than two), joined hiplessly by flaccid pink grooves that could only be vaginas.

Then the scroll stopped. Besser said, “Ah, here she is. Your first date, Wade. Take a good look.”

The hold’s occupant resembled a conical mound of gray, spotted blubber. It seemed collapsing in on itself around a pudgy yellow tongue that emerged to lick a wanton smile. Not one but several vaginas enclustered at its groin. It winked, and raised a sagging loop of an arm and waved.

“Really, Wade,” Besser resumed, “a ladies’ man such as yourself should be delighted by this unique opportunity.” Besser’s sarcastic chuckle sounded like footsteps in muck. “Now, Wade, you’re the ultimate ladies’ man.”

“You’re going to make me have sex with alien piles of blubber!” Wade gasped, spitting bile. “Bimbos from space!”

“Exactly. Didn’t we tell you what an honor this would be? Your sons and daughters will repopulate worlds.”

Besser shoved Wade into the empty hold, then keyed closed the repulsion screen. He tittered, grinning in. “I’ll be back shortly, Wade, with some sisters. We’ll be taking you for your final acclimation regimen. And after that…it’s passion for eternity.”

“You evil fat piece of shit!” Wade yelled into the screen.

“And I’d learn to be more respectful of your superiors. Please don’t call me fat. Remember, I’m your new lord now, forever. If you’re not nice to me, I might decide to have you reassigned to one of the communal holds. The holotypes there aren’t particularly given to gender when it comes to pastime activities, if you get my meaning.”

“Aw, Jesus,” Wade groaned low in his gut.

“So behave yourself. And until we meet again…welcome.”

—YES, WADE, another voice announced. —WELCOME TO MY FAMILY.

—

CHAPTER 34

Symbols, he thought.

Jervis reminded himself to be creative. More and more, he viewed his new life as a progression of symbols. He was not so much doing things as he was wielding the hand of destiny. Everything meant something else, something deeper. But what else could the warm, black cube symbolize but death?

Besser had called it an s classtacticlepyrotechnicserviceordnance—its yield was equivalent to about five hundred kilotons. Jervis understood the importance of the Supremate leaving it behind, but…

Was he actually having doubts, after all he had done, after all the people he’d murdered?

No, it wasn’t doubt. It was despair.

Paragons don’t despair, he thought.

It was Sarah.

Jervis forced the thought shut. It was one or the other. It was destiny or sucking up to the bitch who’d dumped him. Could love be so focused as to divert him from immortality?

“No!” he shouted aloud. “No!”

I will not despair.

The pyrotechnic would kill thousands. It would kill Sarah too.

“I will kill them all,” Jervis said. “But I’ll kill her first, and I’ll do it myself.”

««—»»

Lydia retrieved her Colt Trooper Mark III from Besser’s office, where Wade had dropped it. Even though she knew it was useless, she felt she had to bring it. It was the only good luck charm for a girl who didn’t believe in luck. The office was silent. There was no sign of the exchange that had taken place earlier in the day.

Next she drove back to her apartment. Absurdly she took a shower, brushed her teeth, and put on a new uniform.

Am I really going to do this? she thought. It was still not too late to get on the interstate and blow. Something was giving her a dozen last chances to balk.

She drove the Vette to the student shop. She had the UV spotter, but she didn’t even know if it would work. When she entered the shop, she felt more asinine than scared. “Goddamn you, Wade,” she said to herself. “You better be worth this.”

Tom’s pendant hung around her neck; the extromission key felt warm in her cleavage. Her eyes scanned the wall and found the dot. One last luxurious image lodged in her mind: the Vette cruising swiftly into the next state, the top off, and Lydia behind the wheel, her hair a blond tumult in the breeze. I’m walking to my death, she thought giddily. “Oh, what the fuck,” she said.

She inserted the key into the dot and entered the labyrinth.

—

CHAPTER 35

Wade sat drenched in sweat in the hold. A lot of sisters seemed to be filing by. He knew now, they were just bred to order slaves, like drones in a bee colony. That’s all the Supremate wanted. Unifying the galaxies under one peaceful order was bullshit—he wanted brainless, obedient laborers to harvest the resources off all the planets for the material benefit of his own race, whatever and wherever that was. The Supremate was as diabolical as anyone in a position of power.

Sisters kept peeping in as they filed by. Hundreds must’ve done so thus far—where were they all going to? This was the first opportunity he’d had to see them up close without their sunglasses. Their eyes were huge silver orbs—the size of cue balls—each with a black point for a pupil. The black, he guessed, was just an inbred variation of the same material in Besser’s sensor ring, and the rods in Tom’s and Jervis’ heads, a genetic conduction relay that linked all of their minds to the Supremate. Instant blind allegiance built right in. What more could tyranny ask for?

And what of him?

Yesterday I was a college student. Today I’m an intergalactic stud. What a deal.

“What are you looking at!” he yelled at the screen. Another sister was grinning in. “How about a little privacy, huh!”

—We wish we could be you.

“Yeah? Why?”

Black veins traced faintly beneath her white chiffon skin. Her large breasts were nippleless. —We want to make babies too.

“Make tracks instead. Leave me alone. Bubblehead.”

But why did she seem so sad? She was a clone. —We’re going now. The Supremate is done with us. She smiled a last time, showing rows of glassine teeth. —Goodbye, Wade.

“Good riddance. And see a dentist. Soon.”

Then she was gone. Her strange laments surprised him; perhaps they weren’t as mindless as he thought. It wasn’t Wade they envied—it was life itself. It was love, joy, passion, creativity, all the things that their warped existence had left them without. Wade almost felt sorry for her.

We’re going now, she’d said. But going where? The labyrinth wasn’t set to leave until midnight. When Wade looked up at the screen again, the melancholy procession of sisters had ended.

Then a shadow loomed. Besser. “It’s time, Wade.”

“Time for what? Tea?”

Behind the screen’s electrostatic fog, Besser’s goateed face looked like a cross between Henry VIII and Lucifer. Two sisters stood at his side. “It’s time for immortality,” Besser said. “The Supremate wants to give you his gift now.”

“Tell him to wait till my birthday. I hate to feel obliged.”

Besser dropped the screen. The sisters’ huge eyes blinked above their grins. They grabbed Wade and pulled him out. They followed Besser down the servicepass and extromitted several times. The sisters exchanged grins as their hands roamed Wade’s body. I’m being felt up by aliens! he thought, outraged. Their curiosity grew incessant; their fingers worked into his shirt. More envy: the sexless exploring the fertile, touching that which it wasn’t. “Hey, careful with the merchandise!” Wade complained when one of the hands slid over his crotch.

Wade sensed he was higher in the labyrinth now. The servicepasses were darker, the psilight had grown dull. Warrens he’d seen glowing earlier were black now; others blinked off before his eyes. It was obvious: They were conserving their stored energy, shutting down their production areas. Wade presumed that just about everything here sapped power in some way—power they no longer had. The psilight seemed to waver, soon in time with a familiar screech.

The hash room, Wade realized. That’s where the sisters had been filing to. He gazed into the channelwork and saw them.

There were hundreds.

“Power conservation,” Besser said. “Transception cells consume power, so we’re disposing of most of the sisters. Now that the initial bifertilizations are done, only a skeleton crew is required to maintain the replication systems.”

“You’re turning them into food? All of them?”

“Of course. It’s a perfect cycle, Wade. When things are no longer needed, we turn them into something else.”

Food, Wade thought. He watched the conveyor feed living sisters into the shredder one by one. Each shriek of the blades was followed by a soft splat. Gobs of black meat poured into hoppers, which then rolled to dropchutes and emptied.

“How many sisters will be left?”

“Just a few, to monitor the systems once we’ve departed. And when we need more” —Besser smiled— “we’ll make more.”

If this was perfection, perfection sucked. “You’ve got your holotype and surrogates now. What are you waiting for? Why doesn’t the labyrinth leave right now?”

“Wade, haven’t you learned anything in college? I’ve already explained, the labyrinth assimilates electromagnetic energy as a propulsion mode. The earth attracts EM waves to the contour of its physical shape. But the sun’s constant radioactivity, and its equally constant release of neutrons, exert force against any lateral EM plane. Thus, the field surrounding the planet is depressed on one side.”

“The side facing the sun,” Wade realized.

“Yes, and that’s why recharge must occur at night, when there’s more electromagnetic energy at our disposal.”

“The Supremate,” Wade remarked. “He’s one smart dude.”

“He’s part of the greatest intelligence that’s ever existed.”

“How about letting me meet him?”

Besser turned. “You want to meet the Supremate?”

Wade knew he was beaten. He wanted at least to see the face of the force that had beaten him. “It would be an honor to meet the guy responsible for unifying all collective life in the universe. It would be a trip.”

Besser pondered the request. “I’m glad you’re coming around.”

“Look, I’ve seen it all now and I know it’s all for the best,” Wade lied through his teeth. “So I might as well go with the flow.”

“A sound conclusion.” Besser’s face was a smiling nod. “Very well, Wade. You shall meet the Supremate.”

They extromitted through several subinlets. Again, Wade sensed they were rising. More signs floated by: SYSTEMSJUNCTURE#730, SYSTEMSJUNCTURE#525, SYSTEMSJUNCTURE#419. With each extromission they covered a great distance in no time.

“The extromitters are programmed by thought,” Besser mentioned. “Without that function, it would take weeks or even months to cross merely from one level to the next.”

“How long would it take to walk the entire labyrinth?”

“Years,” Besser said.

This impressive statistic deepened Wade’s despair. The further up they went, the more bizarre he felt, the more abandoned.

Was this how slaves felt before they met their lords?

Next sign: SYSTEMSJUNCTURE#1.

Wade felt light headed. Besser inserted his key and extromitted them into the Supremate’s shrine.

They stood tiny in vast, black space. Wade thought of an auditorium the size of a football field, with black walls, a black floor, and a black ceiling. Wade was about to meet the brains behind this entire business. What could something like that look like?

Set into the corner was a kind of inverted sconce. Wade could easily picture something grotesque sitting in it, an abominable, fleshy overlord with giant eyes and fish lips. Yet all that seemed to be resting in the sconce was a black box about the size of a VCR. The Supremate must be farther back in the nave, having not yet emerged.

The two sisters fell immediately to their knees.

“Okay,” Wade said. “I’m ready. Where is he?”

“Right there,” Besser said.

Wade squinted. All he saw was the black box in the empty sconce. “You mean the box?”

Besser nodded, his face uplit in a triumphant, twisted smile. “Say hello to your new master.”

Wade looked at the box and frowned deeply. “You’ve got to be shitting me. That box is the Supremate?”

“Yes.”

Wade was mortified. “That thing looks like my fucking CD player.” He glared disgusted at the meager black box. “I was expecting some big toad faced thing sitting on a throne.”

“It’s a logic circuit, Wade, an integrated processing terminal. It’s as conscious as you or I—only that consciousness is too complex for a physical body.”

The Supremate’s a machine, Wade thought. A bunch of transistors and solder. No, it was impossible. It must be a joke. “I cannot believe that the brains behind this entire operation is a ridiculous black box!”

—GREETINGS, WADE, the black box said.

Besser chuckled.

—HOW DOES IT FEEL TO MEET GOD?

««—»»

Her extromission seemed to turn her inside out and back again. Lydia stood in the mouth of a subinlet. The production warrens were in total darkness. The psilight was much dimmer now. And where were the sisters?

She spent a half hour extromitting from one random place to another. The mindsigns numbered in the hundreds, but each extromission progressed her only one number at a time. POINTACCESSMAIN#16, the next sign read. She examined the keyplate. It was just a black plate with a hole in it, nothing more. There weren’t even any buttons on it, just a keyhole. There had to be some trick to this, some way to program extromission to a specific location.

When she inserted the key, she was inadvertently remembering her brief stay in the temphold, and the absolutely disgusting thing that awaited her in the next cell. When she came out the next access, she expected to find herself at pointaccessmain#17. Instead, the mindsign glowed TEMPHOLDS.

Thought, she thought. Maybe that’s the trick. The idea had some definite possibilities, but before she could contemplate them, footsteps stopped behind her.

Lydia whirled.

—Lydia! You’re back!

One of the bigger sisters faced her, naked and grinning. Lydia gaped at the sight. The sister’s eyes were huge spheres. Her stretching grin showed a mouth crammed with teeth. And worse was what stood directly behind her: the same holotype that had been reserved for Lydia earlier. When it recognized her, it flexed up on its stout legs and howled.

Lydia was shaking, stepping back. The sister and her escort stepped forward. The holotype’s meaty face pinched up in lust.

—I can’t wait to watch, the sister said.

Lydia didn’t need to be told what she meant. The holotype’s preposterous genitals were already swelling in arousal.

They backed her into a dead end. The holotype fondled itself to full erection, chuckling deep from its slatted throat.

Now or never, Lydia thought. She raised the ultraviolet spotter, aimed its purple bulb at the sister’s face, and flicked the switch.

The sister giggled.

Nothing happened.

—

CHAPTER 36

The sisters hustled Wade out of the Supremate’s nave. Besser seemed amused by Wade’s colossal disappointment.

“In a sense, Wade, the Supremate is God. He’s omnipotent, omnipresent, and forethoughtful to a higher goal.”

“God, my ass,” Wade complained. “If that fucker’s God, my favorite beer is Bud. God is not a black box.”

Besser stopped a moment. His voice hung in the air like an incantation. “My god is here, Wade. Where’s yours?”

Good question, Wade concluded. He could not contemplate an answer. In a fraction of a second, Wade thought about his whole life, and how he’d blown every chance at being a decent person. God, whoever or whatever He was, had abandoned him. Even Wade could admit that it was fitting.

“Here we are,” Besser said. “Your last stop as a human being.”

Wade nearly wailed. The sign read IMPLANTATIONSURGERY.

The sisters dragged him into a small hold and slammed him down on a levslat, beside which hung a tray of instruments: pincers, retractors, and a good old Planet Earth type scalpel.

“Before you can join the Supremate’s family, you must first undergo a few changes.” Besser picked up a tiny black needle with wires coming out of it. “This is a ganglionicstaticreflexpulsemodificationdischargenode. It will integrate you with the labyrinth’s sensor systems, and it will teach you obedience very quickly. Any thought contrary to the Supremate will trigger an instantaneous release of static electrical current into your central nervous system and, of course, your gonads.”

“How charming,” Wade remarked.

“Additional acclimations will embellish your immune system so that, barring any physical accident, you’ll be impervious to all disease, and you won’t age.”

Wade indicated the black needle. “What exactly are you going to do with that?”

“Exactly? We’re going to implant it into your brain.”

Wade struggled against the two sisters, who giggled at his horror. “My health plan doesn’t cover this kind of procedure. You better find yourself another guy.”

One sister approached the instrument tray. The other held Wade down on the table. He jerked, and punched her in the eye with all his might, then howled. It felt like he’d just punched a steel ball.

“Be brave, Wade,” Besser consoled. “The sisters know exactly what to do. They’re trained brain surgeons.”

“Oh, that makes me feel a whole lot better!” Wade yelled.

The first sister vised his neck down with her hand like an iron brace. The second sister picked up the scalpel.

“The pain will be excruciating,” Besser added, grinning. “But don’t worry. It will go away in a couple of months.”

Wade wasn’t listening anymore. He was screaming.

««—»»

Nothing happened when Lydia turned on the ultraviolet spotter. Either the battery was dead or the bulb was burned out. If the battery was dead, so was she. If it was the bulb, she could replace it with the spare stored in the receptacle, if she had time—

—which, of course, she didn’t. The holotype was all over her at once, jamming her into the corner, while the orb eyed sister stood as spectator. One moist padded hand pawed Lydia’s breasts; the other hand squeezed her buttocks. Lydia knew the .357 wouldn’t work against the sisters, but what about the holotype?

Her gun hand, however, was pinned behind her back.

The beast’s sweat soaked into her clothes; its breath blasted, foul as gas from a corpse pile. Its left hand popped open her pants and dragged them halfway down. The sister giggled softly as the hot mitten of meat plied Lydia’s sex.

Next she was slammed to her knees. Oh, no, she had time to think. Men all wanted the same thing apparently—even men from other planets. The holotype’s hand positioned the huge glans before her lips. There could be no misinterpretation: Lydia had two choices—she could suck, or she could die.

—Stick it in! the sister urged, a cheerleader from space. —Stick it all the way down her throat!

Lydia’s entire face felt squeezed shut. The snoutlike foreskin was retracted; the glans nudged her sealed lips…

—Lydia! Open wide!

I am not going to give head to an alien, she informed herself. No way in hell, uh uh, forget it.

But wasn’t this her only chance?

Lydia Prentiss steeled herself then, as no woman in history had. The crotch stench alone stupefied her. Between the holotype’s backward jointed legs hung a creviced scrotum which encased two testicles the size of coconuts. With her left hand, Lydia took hold of the thing’s penis. She gave it a tender stroke. Then she opened her mouth, began to lean forward—

With her right hand she drew her Colt Trooper and fired one round into the holotype’s scrotum.

The tight, hot bang! concussed in her ears. One of the testes exploded. The howl of agony which burst from the holotype’s throat sounded like demolition in a deep canyon. It teetered back and fell over, pad hands agrope at the encased mash that was once half its malehood. Pale yellow blood spurtled out, like paint.

During its throes, Lydia changed the UV bulb in the portable spotter. The sister remained where she’d stood, her bright white face having lost some its perverted gleam.

—You shouldn’t have done that, she said.

“Your mom wears boxer shorts,” Lydia replied. How she knew beforehand that it would work was a mystery. The sister bared her teeth. —I’m going to eat you now, she promised.

“Eat this instead.” When Lydia turned on the spotter, the sister went rigid and shrieked. It was an annoying sound, like a coronet played by a drunk. A sizzling could be heard, like meat frying—the sister’s face turned black, then her arms, breasts, and abdomen. The spotter’s invisible light was literally cooking the sister’s flesh, drawing rents to expose bone. The spheric eyes ruptured; she staggered in a circle while Lydia followed, cooking her back and buttocks. Then the sister flopped to the floor, vomited up some milky organs, and died.

The smoking pile sizzled. That was the end of her, but there was still the holotype. It lay cringing, the once proudly erect penis now shriveled. Fingerless hands clutched vainly at the loss between its sinuous legs.

“Hey, buster,” Lydia said.

The face, like a plop of raw meat, glanced up. Blood-red eyes fixed wide on her, this arrogant woman victor.

She put four shots from the Trooper into its convoluted head. The skull cracked, blowing hanks of brains and pale yellow blood in a fan across the black carbonized wall.

Lydia reloaded and got back her breath. No sense in wasting time. Thought, she thought. She plugged her key into the extromitter and thought about Wade.

««—»»

The scalpel flashed, lowering. All Wade could see were the two sisters’ intent faces and point filled grins. He felt the scalpel tip touch his temple…

Then the first sister’s eyes…exploded.

Suddenly he was released. Shrieks spun like mad banners about his head. Besser was bummeling forward, shouting “Noooo!” His shout was answered by a very loud bang!

Wade sat up. At the rear of the warren, he saw the two sisters…cooking. Their petite bodies blackened. Their faces bubbling. Soon their shrieks sputtered out, as their crisped mouths erped up white slop. They congealed in the corner, a blackened, smoking mass.

“Are you gonna sit there all day?” Lydia inquired.

“Lydia!” Wade shouted, and jumped off the table. She smirked as he giddily planted kisses all over her face.

“Save it for later. We’ve got to get out of here.”

Besser, curled on the floor, wheezed out blubbers. Pain bloated his face like a balloon. Lydia had blown his kneecap off.

“What about him?” Wade asked.

“Fuck him,” Lydia answered. She cocked the Trooper and pointed it at Besser’s head.

“Yes!” Besser begged. “Please!”

Lydia looked baffled. “You want me to kill you?”

“For God’s sake, yes! Don’t leave me for the Supremate!”

Wade remembered the hash room, Besser’s inheritance, no doubt, for failure. “Leave the fat fucker,” he said.

“Noooooo!” Besser wailed. “Pleeeeeeease, nooooooo!”

Lydia reholstered the Trooper. She and Wade left the warren as Besser’s pleas faded behind them.

She led him toward the next extromitter, explaining how she’d killed the sisters with the ultraviolet spotter. It wasn’t sunlight that killed them, it was the UV rays of the sun’s spectrum. Wade was impressed by her ingenuity, and also her faith. She’d come into this horrid place for him.

Then suddenly, she stopped. “Wade, before we go on, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“What’s that. babe?”

“I love you.”

“Uh.” Wade hemmed. “Yeah.”

Lydia looked the way a girl always looks when she’s pissed. “Well?” she said, hands on hips.

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to say you love me too?”

Jesus, Wade thought. Sure, he loved her, but he couldn’t tell her that. It wasn’t his style, not this soon. When a guy said that, he’d lose the upper hand. Instead, he said, “Ditto.”

Now she really looked pissed. “I knew it. No balls.”

“Hey!”

“I almost got buggered by a monster for you. The least you—”

“I seem to recall doing a little rescuing today myself.”

“That’s not what we’re talking about—”

“And this is not the time or place for a romantic spat,” he added. “We’re in a fucking spaceship.”

“Just shut up and come on,” she said, disgusted.

Wade dredged up some nifty terms from his Sociology 202 class. “We can isolate and identify the spatial parameters of our relationship later.”

“Isolate and identify this,” she said, and gave him the finger. “Besides, there might not even be a later.”

“What are you talking about? We’re home free.”

Lydia laughed. “Don’t you know how the extromitters work?”

“Yeah, you stick the key in the hole and we’re out of here.”

“Not quite. They’re programmed by thought, level to level. But the only way we can leave is through the main point access.”

“So? Let’s go there and split.”

“Wade, every warren and hall, every extromitter, every everything in this place has a sensor in it. Eyes and ears. The Supremate knows where we are and what we’re trying to do.”

Wade’s enthusiasm plummeted.

“And you can bet your Corvette,” she went on, “right now the Supremate is ordering every sister in the place to the main point access, to keep us from leaving.”

“Besser said most of the sisters were terminated.”

“Most, or all?”

Wade gulped. “Most,” he remembered. This was getting too complicated, like the trig and literature courses he’d gotten untold D’s in. He didn’t want to be confused with facts—he wanted out. “So the sisters are waiting for us at the exit?”

“Yes,” Lydia clarified.

“Use the spotter.”

“The spotter’s battery powered, and it’s already getting low.”

Fanfuckingtastic, he thought as she plugged her key into the next extromission dot and pulled him through.

Wade didn’t care to have the molecular mass of his body turned inside out as a means of transportation. Elevators were more to his liking, or ladders, stairs, dumbwaiters—anything. They extromitted down several levels until they made it to what Wade presumed was the bottom of the labyrinth. At the end of the warren, the sign glowed like a mirage: POINTACCESSMAIN#1.

But the main was empty. No sisters stood in wait.

“This can’t be right,” Lydia murmured.

“Stick the key in the hole!” Wade shouted.

She did so, almost fatally. She couldn’t believe it was going to be this easy. Nevertheless, this final extromission left them standing dumbfounded by the wall of the student shop.

“You did it!” Wade celebrated.

They ran their asses off, to the door, to the parking lot, to the waiting Vette. The twin turbos roared. The Vette’s plushness embraced them, and in a moment they were smoking out of the lot, through the turn, away, away…

Wade’s mind, as he drove, fielded countless abstractions. He thought of birds flying lazily across the heavens. He thought of cathedral ceilings, long open pastures, endless seas. Never again would he take the becalmed night or the beauty of the world for granted. Indeed, the air smelled of freedom—

—and maybe even absolution.

—

CHAPTER 37

Jervis, as with everything now, took the radio to have a special meaning, symbols like shadows of his new, mysterious life. The campus station played “Head Cut,” by the Banshees, “The Cutter,” by Echo and the Bunnymen, and “Delicate Cutters,” by Throwing Muses. “Lots of cutters tonight, folks,” the D.J. said. Jervis agreed. Lots of cutters. He looked fondly at the wrapped bouquet of roses. For you, Sarah. With love, from the Cutter.

He dressed with care—to kill, you might say. He put on the same jeans he’d worn when they first met, the same shoes, the same belt. He plugged his bullet holes with tissue and put on the black shirt she’d given him their first Christmas together. This was symbology. This was the past coming to the future. For such an important event, he had to look just right. He had to look perfect.

The last song on the radio was by Bauhaus: “Exquisite Corpse.” Jervis combed his hair a final time. He slicked it back off his brow, not with Vitalis, but with Wilhelm’s blood.

He lit a Carlton, grabbed the bouquet, and left. He walked cheerily out into the night. Across the quadrangle, Sarah’s window was lit. No doubt she was waiting for Wilhelm, and that thought made Jervis smile. Wilhelm won’t be coming over tonight, Sarah. He’s a little bogged down right now. The bouquet felt heavy, its wrapping moist. When he knocked on room 202, the door opened at once. Sarah squealed, “Willy! You’re so late! I was worried!”

“You better be worried,” Jervis said.

A gasp froze in Sarah’s chest. She stared. She wore canary-yellow pants, canary yellow shoes, and a Ram’s Head Tavern T shirt.

Uninvited, Jervis stepped in. He closed the door.

“Jervis, I…” she started. Then her eyes narrowed. “You look…terrible.”

“But I feel great,” he said. “How are you, Sarah?”

She was shivering already, on the verge of making those canary yellow pants a bit more yellow. After a long, gauging pause, she answered, “I I’m fine.”

“That’s good. Aren’t you going to ask me how I am?”

This query seemed to puzzle her. She did not blink at all. “All right Jervis. How are you?”

“How am I!” he exploded. “I’ll tell you how I am! I’m fuckin’ dead!”

He marched a mad circle about her, while she didn’t move at all. His footfalls made the entire room vibrate, probably the entire building too. Frid, the cat, fled to the top of the refrigerator, while Sarah remained stock still. When Jervis pulled the Webley revolver out of his belt, a wet spot did indeed appear on the front of Sarah’s canary yellow pants. It was a big spot.

“Oh, I’m not going to shoot you,” he apologized. He set the gun down. “I came here…to give you this.”

He gave her the bouquet. She took it, surprisingly, with no reluctance. “They’re lovely, Jervis. Thank you,” she said. She was faking it, of course, because she was scared. She sniffed the roses, paused. She looked into the bouquet.

Then she screamed.

Jervis laughed like a Titan. The bouquet hit the floor and spilled open. Amid the beautiful fresh cut roses, there it lay, once grand, but now shriveled, parodic.

“What did—!” she hitched. “What did—what did—”

“Guess,” Jervis offered, “and I’ll even give you a hint. It ain’t a ballpark frank in there.”

“What did you do?” she shrieked.

“I cut off his dick,” Jervis said.

She screamed very unbecomingly and without abatement. Now she was stepping back, and Jervis was stepping forward.

“But that’s nothing compared to what I’m going to do to you.”

Frid watched placidly from its high perch. Like all cats, it seemed to care only for itself. Sarah continued to scream, throwing things as she backtracked in a circle. People are always throwing things at me, Jervis observed.

A Brother typewriter bounced off his head. A stereo receiver hit him in the face. Jervis shrugged it all off, maintaining a measured smile. Life had bestowed only weakness on him. Death, though, gave him power, physical and spiritual. He was the Seer, the Knower, the Destroyer.

“Enough,” he said. “You’re the last loose end of my old life. It’s time for me to tie it up.”

He threw her to the floor and straddled her. How should he do it? Break her neck? Crush her throat? No, he thought. Be creative. He must execute this last symbol with diversity, with style. His brain seemed to tick as he deliberated.

She squirmed under him, her tiny fists beating his chest.

“Why wasn’t I good enough?” he asked.

She gave no reply, only continued to squirm.

“You dumped me like garbage. Why? Tell me.”

She raked his arm with her nails, drawing bloodless fissures.

Was he actually starting to choke up? Myrmidons don’t cry, he commanded. What was wrong with him? This was his moment of true existential triumph. Nevertheless, his grip slackened. A tear came to his dead eye. “How could you do that to me?”

She tried to claw his face, punch out his eyes.

I know.

“You took my heart,” he said. “Now I’m going to take yours.”

It was perfect. He would tear her heart out, just as she had done to him. Tear it out and eat it, feast upon it…

He pulled the Ram’s Head shirt up, cast off the pink lace bra. Her breasts were much more beautiful than he remembered. When he touched them, the warm contact rifled back images of love. Soon, his hands were shaking…

Do it! Take the bitch’s heart out! Eat her guts and puke them back up into her face! Just DO IT!

His fingers stiffened, lowering…

“No!” she whined. “You can’t!”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because you love me!”

He expected any reply but this. It silenced his thoughts like wind blowing out candles. Beneath him, her squirmings ceased; her heat flowed up into his dead groin. What could urge her to say such a thing? Suddenly her voice was quiet, soft as silk.

“You still love me,” she whispered.

Jervis jittered now. It was truth—the real truth—that summoned these words to her lips. At once, he was as helpless as he’d ever been. There was one thing that wielded even more power than him. She was right. He still loved her.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered. He hauled her up, put her car keys in her hand, and shoved her out the door. “Get in your car and drive!” he yelled. “Drive far away, because at midnight, I’ll be gone, and everyone on this campus will be dead!”

Sarah didn’t question this inexplicable revelation. She scampered away, into the elevator, and down.

Jervis watched from the window. He saw her frantic form jump into her car and drive away.

A marshmallow even in death, he thought. Some myrmidon I turned out to be. Yeah, some killing machine. “But, goddamn,” he griped aloud, “I’ve got to kill something.”

He realized the sacrifice even before he turned. From atop the refrigerator, Frid hissed at him, showing little feline teeth. Jervis’ smile almost cracked his head. He raised the Webley to Frid’s whiskered cat face and squeezed off one round. The report blew the wicked animal clear across the kitchen, where it splattered grandly against the wall.

««—»»

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know,” Wade said. “What time is it?”

Wade paid the attendant at DeHenzel’s Texaco, grateful for the full serve option. He wasn’t up to pumping it himself, not so soon after nearly receiving non-anesthetic brain surgery. Small favors were rare these days. But Lydia had made a pertinent inquiry. Where would they go now?

“That note you left me,” Lydia recalled. “Didn’t you mention something about a bomb?”

The bomb! he thought. He floored it out of the station, burning rubber. “Jervis has a bomb, and it’s supposed to go off at one minute after midnight.”

“What do they want to blow up?”

“I don’t know,” Wade said, but he did know one thing…

He pulled onto the Route and pushed the gas to the floor.

“What are you doing?” Lydia complained, her hair a flurry.

“Just be quiet.”

“Don’t tell me to be quiet!”

“All right, then. Shut up.”

The speedometer rose from 60 to 120 rather quickly. Then 130, 140. “Where are we going?” Lydia screamed over the wind drag.

“As far away as possible,” Wade said. “Who knows how powerful that bomb is? When it goes, I want to be as far away from the campus as possible.”

“You’re chickening out? We have to do something! Call the state bomb disposal unit, call the National Guard—”

“Right, and tell them what? That aliens are here?”

Wade shut out her complaints. In twenty minutes he covered about fifty miles of Route 13, which was easy when he owned a twin turbo 455. Then he pulled over onto the shoulder and stopped.

Lydia was wearing her pissed off look again.

“Get out of the car,” Wade said.

“What the—”

“Just get out of the car. There’s something I’ve gotta do.”

“What?”

“Find the bomb, disarm it. Jervis is the only one who knows where it is, so I’m going to track him down.”

Lydia laughed. “If you go anywhere near him, he’ll drag your dumb ass straight back to the labyrinth.”

“No, he won’t. I’ll be crafty.”

“Crafty! He’s a homicidal walking corpse!”

“Would you please just get out of the car,” Wade implored.

“No,” Lydia said.

“Get out of the car!” he yelled.

“Make me.”

Wade punched her in the face. It was a hard thing to do, but he had no choice. The blow knocked her silly. He dragged her half conscious from the Vette and set her down on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Lydia.”

“Fucker,” she mumbled.

“Just head north. There’s nothing you can do. Even if you hitchhiked back to Exham, no one would believe you.”

Wade got back in the Vette. He pulled a perfect smoke raising 180 in the road. Lydia was up to her hands and knees, but that was about it.

“One more thing,” Wade called to her.

“What!”

“I love you.”

Lydia’s eye was already growing a shiner. She smirked in perfect female rage, “You better love me, you asshole!”

Wade laughed. What a woman, he thought. He floored the accelerator, burning rubber and heading south.

—

CHAPTER 38

Time to go home, Jervis thought. He drank Kirins and smoked, steering the Dodge Colt downtown. His last night on this world was a spacious and beautiful one. What would nights look like on other worlds?

—JERVIS.

His dead heart surged at his master’s beckoning. “I’m coming, lord. I’m coming home now.”

—NOT YET, MY SON. A CALAMITY HAS BEFALLEN US.

Jervis stopped in the middle of the road, closed his eyes to see his master more clearly. All he saw was fog.

—YOU ARE ALL I HAVE LEFT.

“What happened?”

—WADE HAS ESCAPED.

But how could that be? Wade had been locked up in the hold; escape from the labyrinth was impossible.

—TIME IS ALMOST GONE. YOU MUST FIND HIM, BRING HIM BACK.

Was it Jervis’ deterioration, or had the Supremate’s voice grown weak? The once glorious trumpet in his head was now little more than a wisp of static.

—WE MUST HAVE HIM BACK BY RECHARGE.

“We will, I promise. But—” The dash clock read 10:21 P.M. “I need help! There’s no time!”

—IN MY GRACE, JERVIS, I SHALL ASSIST YOU. I GIVE YOU MY BLOOD. USE IT WISELY AND WITH HASTE—TO FIND HIM.

“I will, my lord!”

The Supremate’s voice had all but faded out. The master was indeed bleeding, but Jervis made out his lord’s last ordination:

—MY SON. YOU ARE THE FINAL PRAYER OF DESTINY.

««—»»

Jervis was back on campus in minutes. It was the labyrinth, he knew, and its recharge preliminaries. At midnight, the labyrinth would leave, and that was one bus Jervis didn’t want to miss.

Blood, he thought. Yes, he could feel it, taste it, even hear it. The black pommel of his transceptionrod was turning warm with the Supremate’s blood.

Wade and the girl were probably hightailing it out of town. But that didn’t matter now, for didn’t they have some of the Supremate’s blood too? Blood leads to blood, like lovers in the dark.

His lord’s blood would lead him straight to them.

««—»»

Wade gunned the Vette back to campus. Lydia had left the UV spotter and Tom’s extromission key on the seat. The spotter would be useless against Jervis—any weapon would be. So even if he did find him, what would he do? And Wade knew nothing of the nature of the bomb. Lydia was right in her objections. Trying to ascertain the whereabouts of an alien bomb from a walking dead man was, at the least, pushing fate. At the most, it was fucking suicide.

But he needed something, for God’s sake, some means of defense before he could seriously expect to confront Jervis again. Guns were out—obviously. It had already been proven that shooting Jervis with bullets was as effective as shooting him with rubber bands. Knives and blunt objects were equally useless. But what about corrosives, sulfuric acid or something? Yeah, Wade thought. They had all kinds of stuff like that at the sciences center…

He drove quickly. Several passersby headed for a mixer on the Hill. Wade envied their obliviousness. You haven’t seen a dead guy walking around, have you? he felt tempted to ask. He parked at the sciences center. The building stood dark, and, to no surprise, locked. Wade’s lack of reluctance would’ve impressed any criminal. He shattered the front glass doors with his tire iron and stepped in.

The chemistry wing was just around the corner. Slats of moonlight spread across the shiny labtops. With his flashlight, he found the door to the storage closet. It was unlocked and… “Shit!” he shouted…empty.

Then a car door slammed outside.

Wade stood stunned, like a figure in a freeze frame. Footsteps tracked across the parking lot. They sounded frightfully casual. Wade peeked out the blinds and saw Jervis’ Dodge Colt parked right beside the Vette.

Shit shit shit! he thought. He leapt for the door but the footsteps could already be heard in the hall. He glanced around, frantic and quite stupid. Then he slipped into the storage closet and bolted the lock from inside.

He held his breath. Jervis walked right into the lab and turned on the lights. He was whistling as he searched the room. Grimly Wade recognized the tune as Eno’s “Here He Comes.”

“I can smell you, Wade,” announced the voice beyond the door. “I can smell your fear.”

Wade swallowed his breath, wide eyed in the closet’s murk.

“The closet? No, Wade, I’m sure you’re not stupid enough to hide in the most obvious place.”

Yes I am, Wade thought.

In a split, exploding instant, the closet door was shorn down the middle. Its halves blew out, and in their place stood Jervis, lowering the massive beam hewer.

Wade cracked Jervis in the head with the tire iron. It made an awful sound, yet Jervis barely flinched. He took the tire iron and snapped it in half. “You know, Wade, I’m really getting tired of people hitting me in the head with things.”

“Sorry,” Wade apologized. “How did you find me?”

Jervis leaned the hewer against the wall and lit a Carlton. “Tom’s extromission key is on your front seat,” he explained. “The Supremate put a direction finder on it. It led me right to you.”

Wade wilted. At least he didn’t have to worry about finding Jervis anymore. “I want to know about the bomb,” he demanded.

“What do you care? By the time the bomb goes off, you’ll be halfway across the Milky Way.”

“I’m not gonna be your goddamned holotype,” Wade informed him. “I’ll kill myself first.”

“With what? Your flashlight?” Jervis grinned smoke. “You’re going back, and this time there’ll be no last minute escapes. I’ll be locking you into the hold personally.”

Wade remembered the extromitter installed at Besser’s office, which was right here in this building. Jervis would have him in the labyrinth in minutes. I just can’t win, Wade considered.

Jervis grabbed Wade by a handful of shirt and calmly dragged him out of the closet. Wade, the antithesis of calm, fought back for all he was worth—not much in this particular scenario. His heart felt huge with adrenaline, his limbs kicking like recoiling cannons, yet his most savage efforts amounted to squat when compared to the physical power of Jervis the Myrmidon, the true haunter of the dark.

Wade churned wildly, and uselessly.

Then he thought: The hewer.

Jervis had left the hewer leaning against the wall. If Wade could get his hands on it…

His arms surged forward, fingers stretching. His hands, not that he could believe it, touched the hewer’s handle. Get it! he thought. Get it! Venting all his strength at once, he surged again. His fingers closed around the handle. Then the hewer was coming away from the wall with him as Jervis dragged on.

“You never give up, do you?” Now Jervis was glancing over his shoulder. A mesh of disapproval and amusement shone on his gray face. He gave Wade’s body a quick jerk—

The hewer fell from his fingers to the floor.

Wade twisted, still reaching out in vain. The hewer got smaller and smaller as he was dragged farther and farther out of the room, down the hall, toward Besser’s office and the inevitable extromitter, which would return him, once and for all, to the labyrinth.

««—»»

At least the jerk had said he loved her. But what good was that if she never saw him again? He’d either be killed by the bomb or reclaimed by Jervis. Nor did her black eye or aching head help her to feel more obligatory. Son of a bitch, she thought.

Lydia was walking north on Route 13. She was fifty miles from Exham, and no cars in sight. She thought about Wade and about the times they’d had sex. But getting off did not equate to love, especially in this day and age. No, orgasms did not equal love.

But she knew she loved him anyway.

The question was, did he really love her? He’d said so, but guys said shit like that all the time, didn’t they?

She didn’t want to die. She’d already taken enough chances with her life in the last few days. She wanted to live.

She kept walking north, away from the campus.

What am I supposed to do?

A mile ahead in darkness, headlights appeared. A car was coming.

It was heading south.

—

CHAPTER 39

Jervis pushed open Besser’s office door, heaved Wade into the corner. So close to recharge, the extromitter dot was actually glowing. Black, but glowing.

Wade’s head wobbled. “Jerv, we’ve been friends for years!”

“Years are split seconds where we’re going. Quit bellyaching and accept your destiny.”

“Like you’ve accepted yours?”

“Yeah,” Jervis said, and lit another Carlton.

“Let me tell you something about your destiny. I know a lot more about it than you do.”

“You don’t know shit, Wade.” Jervis grabbed Wade’s arm, and with his other hand, took the key about his neck. He approached he extromitter. “Say goodbye to the world, Wade.”

But as Jervis inserted the key, Wade said, “The Supremate’s going to dump you.”

Jervis halted. Had the comment kindled a repressed suspicion? His hand wavered. His dead eyes blinked.

“Supremate’s going to make me immortal,” he asserted.

“No, he’s not. He’s going to make you meat loaf. When he doesn’t need something anymore, he gets rid of it.”

“The sisters are just toys,” Jervis justified. “They’re soulless. The Supremate can make them anytime he wants.”

“That’s true. So why does he need you?”

Another dead ember seemed to rekindle.

“You’re treating this Supremate asshole like a god,” Wade went on. “He’s not a god!”

“What is he, then?”

“Just another power hungry shithead, no different from the people here. He’s like anyone in a position of power—politician, corporate lawyer, industry mogul—”

“Meaning?” Jervis inquired.

“He’s a fucking liar!”

Jervis stared and blinked.

Wade continued: “He’s a user, Jervis. Any idiot can see that. He promised you immortality in exchange for service only because he needed you to do his shit work. When the shit work’s over, he won’t need you anymore. What can you do in the labyrinth that the sisters can’t do better?”

“I can think,” Jervis answered.

Wade laughed. “Thinking is the last thing this fucker wants. How does any monarch maintain power? By suppressing individuality—by suppressing thinking.”

Was Jervis stupid, or were Wade’s suggestions going somewhere?

“There’s no room in the Supremate’s system for individuals,” Wade kept talking. “As far as the master plan is concerned, you’re just a jury rig in the big machine. The Supremate lied to all of you to get what he wanted. Besser told me they were going to dump you after recharge. He said you were expendable.”

Jervis sunk further into self rumination. Wade realized that two forces were at work here: the Supremate versus Wade—not exactly a match. If Wade was going to make a move, now was the time.

“Think about it. Does the Supremate really need you?”

Jervis’ thinning hair easily revealed the knob of his transceptionrod. It was a terminal of some sort, Wade guessed, an uplink to The Boss. Whatever it was, it must be pretty important, considering that Jervis was dead but still walking and talking. Wade had no choice but to give it a shot.

He lurched forward. “What are you—” Jervis yelled, and Wade grabbed the black knob and pulled up with all his might.

The transceptionrod didn’t come out, but it slid up an inch. Jervis shuddered like a man who’d just stuck a screwdriver into a fuse box. “Nooooooo!” his voice thundered, shattering the office windows and shaking the room. He let go of Wade’s wrist bringing both hands to the rod, feeling at it ineptly as if examining a sudden, deep wound.

While Jervis convulsed, Wade ran.

««—»»

God it hurt, oh God oh God. Pain blazed like white hot light. He thought of being skinned alive and dumped in salt, of bamboo shoots driven up the fingernails, a blowtorch flame to the testicles, an enema with lye. That’s the kind of pain that assailed him. Indeed, the whole of his brain felt like a molar’s soft pulp invaded by a dentist’s drill.

He shuddered in place, eyes and face turned up. Footsteps tramped away and out. Wade. Goddamn Wade did this. He’d nearly jerked the transceptionrod completely out of his head.

Jervis clod-hopped around in his lake of pain. He couldn’t see anything but white. His feet felt like cement loafers. He felt around Besser’s desk until his hands fell upon a stone paperweight of J. S. Bach. He grabbed it, raised it, and—

CLACK!

—banged the transceptionrod fully back into his head.

The white hot pain blew away, his vision snapped back. He could feel his nerves reconnect. Jervis was whole again. He knew what would happen if the rod had been completely removed.

The interruption had consumed only moments, but in those moments, Wade had escaped.

Jervis ran so hard his feet cracked the tile floor. When he trampled down the stairs, the stairs collapsed behind him. Down the hall, the front doors beckoned. He sprinted for them.

He assumed Wade had fled for the Vette. But then there was always that old saying about assumption. Something didn’t feel right. Halfway to the doors, Jervis stopped.

He sniffed the air.

Fear.

Again, he could smell its tang, its giveaway fragrance.

He turned and headed back to the lab.

Why would Wade return there? Jervis noticed the cut down door to the storage closet but ignored it. Wade would have to be brainless to go back in there. What he didn’t notice, however, was that the beam hewer was no longer on the floor.

“Say your prayers,” Jervis advised.

Wade leapt from the closet. Jervis turned. There was a silver flash, a swoosh—

Thump!

Suddenly Jervis lay flat on his back. Fuddled, he looked up. Standing in front of him was Wade, holding the hewer.

And standing beside Wade was…a pair of pants.

Wait a minute, Jervis realized. Those are MY pants.

Indeed, they were. And they were Jervis’ legs that filled them.

“How do you like those cookies?” Wade spat.

Then it came to him. Jervis had been cut in half at the waist. His lower body stood before him. His upper body lay on the floor.

Wade threw his head back and laughed in triumph.

Jervis frowned. Talk about minor inconveniences. “You still don’t understand, do you?”

“I understand that you’re in two pieces,” Wade replied.

Jervis hopped up on his hands. His legs remained standing. “All you’ve done,” he said, “is make two of me.”

Wade shrieked. Jervis’ legs began to chase him around the lab. “You’ve gotta be shitting me!” Wade yelled.

Jervis’ living torso lit yet another Carlton. He walked around the lab tables—walked, that is, on his hands, an ambulatory trunk. This wasn’t so bad; it gave him a different perspective, at least. Now he knew how it felt to be short.

Wade was running mad circles around the tables. He’d been chased by pissed off girlfriends, irate fathers, and police—but never by…legs. This was not an easy situation to assess. He grappled at the window. Jervis’ legs kicked him in the ass. Jervis laughed, hobbling up before a trail of innards.

“Two against one. I know it’s not fair, but that’s life.”

“You prick!” Wade shouted, kicking at the legs. “I cut you in half and you’re still fucking with me!”

“Sucks, doesn’t it?”

Wade was opposed by both sides. Jervis’ legs kicked at him from the front, while Jervis’ upper body grappled with him from behind, tried to drag him down. The hewer lay yards away.

Wade did what any man would do when being mauled by two halves of a resurrected corpse: He attacked the weaker twin. He tackled the legs. The legs kicked up. He crawled forward as Jervis’ torso held onto his belt, one hand slithering for his balls.

Wade grabbed the hewer and rolled. Suddenly Jervis was wrapped up in his own legs. This confusion gave Wade time to rise.

Jervis fumbled to untie himself. Finally his legs came untangled and stood back up.

The hewer blazed down. The first strike cut the legs in half. Without the foundation of unity, the legs now hopped about independent of each other, useless.

Jervis, the walking torso, looked up in horror. The hewer’s second strike took off Jervis’ right arm, the third his left.

“Now I’ve made five of you,” Wade pointed out. “What are you gonna do now? Roll after me?”

“Aw, shit, Wade. You’ve ruined everything,” Jervis complained, dismembered.

“Let’s get down to business.” Wade dropped to one knee. “Where’s the bomb?”

“Can’t tell you, man. That’s against the rules. At one minute after midnight, that bomb goes off, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“But the labyrinth leaves at midnight. One minute after?”

“In that one minute, Wade, the labyrinth will be a million miles away.” Jervis turned his head toward the wall clock. He smiled. “Twenty five minutes.”

“Tell me where it is!”

“No can do, buddy. It’s a doozie, though—the same yield as a Pershing II warhead. Everything—the campus, the town, and every single person in it—will be vaporized. We’re talking about a ten mile radius of scorched earth.”

Wade looked numb with despair.

“The Supremate likes to leave his mark,” Jervis continued. “Just a little memento, like a promise in the wind.”

“But thousands of people will die!” Wade shouted.

“Yeah, but someday the Supremate will return, for the repopulation phase. When that happens, he’ll kill everybody.”

Now Wade was on both knees, a beggar. “Jervis, please!”

“We’ll just have to make do without a holotype. I’m sure they’ll be able to find something suitable in the holds, it’s no big deal. So face it, Wade. You’re screwed.”

—

CHAPTER 40

In a bimagneticfieldeffectelectrostatic snap, the Supremate blinked. It blinked as might a tired old man. The blood of its hypervelotic heart and line hash veins ran cool and slow. So much power was flooding the reserves that there was little left for anything but the discreet switch systems. The Supremate needed nothing else at this point, however. It could sleep and dream as the labyrinth prepared itself for recharge and exitpulse.

It felt good to be sleepy, a welcome lull in an endless fury of high speed computer transactions. All life in the labyrinth lay in hibernation now, save for a few sisters in the emergencysensorcove. The Supremate, in other words, was quite alone. In this strange magnetic solitude, it felt peace.

Jervis was so far away, his transception signals could no longer be read—there was no power left, no blood. The Supremate guessed that Jervis had failed in securing the earth holotype. That was unfortunate, but it mattered little. The Supremate grew weary of this frivolous world. It looked forward to returning in some future eon and destroying it.

The one called Besser had been trying to escape when the sensorposts winked out. This, too, was of no significance. If the Supremate’s pets in the grove didn’t get him, the bomb most certainly would.

—THINGS COULD BE WORSE, the Supremate considered.

It smiled then—in a sense, at any rate.

Then it went back to sleep.

««—»»

“I’m going to report you,” the girl complained. She was driving a silver Saab, obviously an Exham student on her way to the summer sessions. Lydia had flagged her car down on the Route. The girl did not take kindly to being commandeered by police.

“Do whatever you want,” Lydia said.

“This is outrageous,” the girl replied. She wore a shirt that read “If pro is the opposite of con, what’s the opposite of progress?” A frosted, purple Mohawk ridged her head.

They’d been on the road a half hour now; a half hour more and they’d be there. Sid and Nancy stood awry on a sticker adhered to the dash. “I want your name and badge number,” the girl said.

Lydia gave them to her. “You want my shoe size too?”

“And you can bet my father won’t like this. He’ll sue you.”

“Clam up and drive,” Lydia said. “Jesus.”

The girl simmered. Her Mohawk looked like a scrub brush.

When they finally arrived back on campus, the girl stopped just past the gates. “You wanted a ride to the campus,” she said, “and here’s the campus. I refuse to drive you another inch. This is where you get out.”

“Wrong, brushhead. This is where you get out.”

“I—hey!”

Lydia shoved her out of the car. She landed on her rump.

“You can’t steal my car!” she wailed.

“Sure I can.” Lydia slid behind the wheel and slammed the door.

“Hey!”

“Shut up,” Lydia said. God, she hated girls who whined. “And fix your hair.” She jammed the gas and sped for Campus Drive.

««—»»

Professor Besser was a sight. Blubbering like a baby, he hopped down the servicepass. The .357 slug had exploded in his knee. Each time he fell down, he bellowed. But he had to get out. Any death was preferable to dying in the labyrinth. He would either be fed into the sustenanceprocessor or consigned to the communal holds where his rectum would prove a most welcome entertainment to the holotypes.

Mother! he thought.

Even the slightest weight on his bad leg sent bolts of pain up his spine. The shattered joint crunched like broken glass. He should have been wearing diapers, for all the crying and pants wetting. Oops. Here came a big number two now, to add to the disgrace. In truth, that’s all Besser was and ever would be: a three hundred pound pants pissing and  shitting baby. Terror had a way of bringing out the best in a man.

“Mother!” he rejoiced. He could smell his own shit. But this was too good to be true!

The mindsign, though very weakly now, glowed its promise: POINTACCESSMAIN#1.

Besser crawled forward, blubbering. He took a deep breath, raised his key, and plugged it into the extromitter.

When he was out of the labyrinth, he found himself not in the safety of his office, nor the student shop, but in the grove. His eyes bulged.

—

CHAPTER 41

Wade sat up on the table, looking down at the dismembered torso of his friend. Jervis inclined his head up and smiled.

Wade assessed the agenda as thus:

1) It was now 11:35 P.M.

2) At 11:55 P.M., recharge would occur, whatever that was.

3) At midnight, the labyrinth would take off.

4) At one minute after midnight, the bomb would detonate and wipe out the entire campus and town.

5) Wade didn’t know where the bomb was.

6) Jervis wasn’t going to tell him.

Beautiful, Wade thought.

Next he assessed the obvious yet elusive elements of evil involved. (1) The labyrinth was a spaceship/genetic engineering factory that would someday return to earth and repopulate it with mindless integrated slaves optimally hybridized from various life forms. (2) The Supremate ran the show. (3) The Supremate enlisted certain natives—i.e., Tom, Jervis, Winnie, Besser—to assist in specimen procurements. (4) The Supremate was evil.

But evil was relative, wasn’t it? Certain people gave their allegiance to evil for certain reasons. Some of these reasons were voluntary. Besser and Winnifred, for instance, had sided with evil through their own greed. But Tom and Jervis had gone over involuntarily, which meant that their loyalties must be maintained by control.

Evil, Wade thought. Control.

He glanced at Jervis. “You’re not evil. Neither was Tom.”

“There’s no such thing as evil,” replied the head affixed to Jervis’ limbless torso. “There’s only idealism and reality. What joins the two together isn’t evil, Wade. It’s perfection.”

Hadn’t countless presidential candidates made the same assertion, as well as countless monarchs?

“All I know,” Wade speculated, “is that a couple of days ago, you were a good person. Now you’re evil. I want to know why.”

Jervis gushed laughter. It had—yes—an evil ring to it.

Wade hopped off the table. “It’s that thing, isn’t it? That thing they put in your head.”

Jervis stopped laughing.

“What would happen,” Wade wondered, “if I pulled it out?”

“Get away from me!” Jervis shouted. His torso was suddenly shrugging, rocking, inching back. “Stay the fuck away!”

“That’s it, right? If I take it out, you won’t be evil anymore.”

“I’ll die!”

“You know what I think, Jerv? I think you want to tell me where the bomb is. You want to tell me how to defuse it. Except that thing in your head won’t let you.”

“Don’t, Wade! Please don’t!” the torso yelled.

Wade grabbed the small black knob in Jervis’s head. It was about the size of a marble, and it was warm.

As he pulled, Jervis screamed.

The torso went stiff. The head arched back, mouth locked open in an unbroken howl of pain. The transceptionrod didn’t come easy; it creaked out a little at a time, like twisting a nail out of old wood. Two inches, then three, four, five. Finally, at the sixth inch, the rod came out.

Jervis’ head and torso fell still.

Wade threw the wet transceptionrod into the hall.

The reaper worked quick, giving Jervis an instantaneous refund on the time he’d borrowed from death. The torso and face began to rot in short order, going from gray to brown to…mush.

“Damn it,” Wade muttered. It had been worth a try, at least. But instead of removing Jervis’ evil, he’d only succeeded in removing life. In seconds, it seemed, the torso began to bloat.

Then the sagging brown face said, “Time.”

“Jerv! You’re still with me!”

The order of nature reduced Jervis’ voice to a sluggish, phlegmy rattle. “How much…time?”

Wade glanced at the clock. “It’s twenty till midnight.”

Jervis made a facial gesture of approval. Putrefactive slime oozed from his stumps, his shit dark face melting. He spoke in a liquid wisp. “The bomb is in my car, right outside.”

“Great! Tell me how to disarm it! How do I turn it off?”

“Can’t,” Jervis bubbled. “Preprogrammed. Can’t disarm it.”

Wade was outraged. “What do I do with it, then? It’s got a ten mile kill zone! I can’t just throw it into the woods and stick my fingers in my fucking ears! Tell me what to do!”

Jervis smiled, if in fact his percolating lips were still capable of it. “Put it…” he wheezed, hacking up slop. “Put it in the labyrinth.”

“If I go back in the labyrinth, the Supremate will know. He’ll send the sisters to tear me up.”

“Supremate won’t know.” A sputter. Jervis was going fast. “How do you think you got out so easy earlier? This close to recharge…no power. Sensorposts are dead. Supremate has no way of knowing you’re there.”

Wade stared down. Jervis was losing his race against autolysis. His lips split. His eyes had liquefied and pooled in their sockets. “Use my key. Pointaccess to first subinlet. Look for sign…”

“What sign?”

“Guidance…tracking…pah pah point.”

“Okay, what then?”

“Put bomb there and…get…out.

Wade touched the corpse. It was hot with rot.

Yet Jervis’ mush face still smiled in final freedom. The gas fat torso began to smoke. “Stick it up the Supremate’s ass.” A titter, like a giggle. Then: “I—I…”

“Aw, no, Jerv!”

“I’m gone.”

And he was.

««—»»

The bomb was black, a six inch cube, but it seemed like magic to shift minutely in size. It felt warm as a hearth brick.

He’d found it on the front floor of Jerv’s Dodge Colt, which had been turned, over the last day or so, into a hatchback gorewagon. The Supremate had transformed his friend into a murderer. It was time for payback.

Better get a move on, Wade thought. He jogged back into the building, back to the lab. What remained of Jervis was just a clothed rib cage around which had settled a large puddle of dark slime. The only remnant of the real Jervis Phillips was a pack of Carlton 100s stuck in the shirt pocket.

Wade snapped the extromission key off the corpse’s neck, then ran up to Besser’s office.

The extromitter dot stared like a glazed eye. Wade’s watch read 11:42—eighteen minutes would be plenty of time to get in and out. He felt surprisingly fearless as he inserted the key and began to extromit. What did he have to worry about? Even if there were any sisters left, the Supremate wouldn’t be aware of his entrance. There would be no way that the Supremate could alert them. These were comforting thoughts.

They were also stupid ones.

—

CHAPTER 42

Lydia slammed the brakes and skidded. In front of the sciences center, she saw Wade’s Corvette and another car behind it. Lydia backed up and wheeled in.

The other car was a gold Dodge Colt, Jervis’ car.

The spotter and Tom’s key remained where she’d left them in the Vette. Lydia grabbed them and rushed into the building.

It wasn’t hard to find where the confrontation had taken place, nor was it hard to discern the victor. Somehow, Wade had done the job on Jervis—the dismembered, smoking carnage was proof. But the cadaver’s neck lacked the extromission key.

Oh, no, she thought. He didn’t—he couldn’t have—

She picked the hewer off the floor and ran upstairs.

The extromitter glowed weirdly in Besser’s dark office. When Lydia put two and two together, she didn’t come up with four, she came up with DUMB ASS. More than likely, and for some unknown reason, Wade had gone back into the labyrinth.

Besser’s desk clock read 11:44. She knew that the labyrinth was leaving at midnight. She also knew that five minutes before midnight, recharge would occur, and she had no idea what that entailed. One more thing she knew: Wade wouldn’t last a second in the labyrinth on his own. Goddamn imbecile, she thought. She saw no other choice but to go in after him. But as she reached for Tom’s extromission key, she heard…what?

What were they? Grunts?

She turned quickly, hefting the weight of the hewer. She thought it might be Wade, but when the shadow—and the sloppy, wet sound it brought—crossed the office door, she knew far too well who it was.

“Huh hi, Lydia. You’re sure lookin’ mighty pretty tonight.”

When she saw the state of the thing which stepped into the block of moonlight, all Lydia could say was, “Oh, fuck!”

“I always kind of had a crush on ya. Course, I never said nothin’, figured you’d laugh at me, you know?”

But Lydia was definitely not laughing. She was as revolted as she was terrified. The thing facing her was Porker.

Wade said he’d been killed in the grove by the sisters—disemboweled. But she needed no explanation when she saw the knob end of the transceptionrod in his head.

Porker was naked, huge, pale as turned cream. His completely eviscerated abdominal cavity hung open in plain view. No organs there, just empty space. The sisters had eaten his innards and brought him back for service, getting double their money’s worth of the poor obese slob.

“Where’s Wade?” Porker asked.

“How should I know?”

“Did he go back into the labyrinth?”

“He’d have to be crazy to do that.”

Porker’s boyish, chubby face turned up in a grin. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“All right, how about this: I don’t know where Wade is.”

“I think you do,” the young, insecure voice replied. Muddy bare feet trudged forward, thudding. “And you’re going to tell me.”

Porker had been gross enough in real life; dead, naked, and gutted, he was grosser still. Lydia swung the hewer, hoping the creature’s huge limbs would be too sluggish to respond. Instead the fat hands blurred, caught the hewer below the blade, and tossed it aside. The big boyish pumpkin grin blazed in the moonlight.

The clock read 11:45. Lydia shucked her Trooper, without much confidence. She remembered how effective bullets were against the dead. Nevertheless, she fired two Magnums into Porker’s plump face. His head jerked back, the face cracked. One more double tap from the Trooper widened the crack to a grinning fissure, but like a monster sleepwalker, Porker continued to lope for her. Flaps of white flab hung ragged around the opened belly, through which the obvious erection peeked. Porker grinned in spite of his divided face, and said, “You haven’t had it till you’ve had it from a dead man.”

Despair touched her frown. Lydia was sick to death of being a sex object to monsters and dead men. She shrieked, disgusted, as Porker’s body collided into her. Before she could even get off her last two shots, he dragged her down, straddled her, and began to open her pants.

««—»»

The labyrinth was cold now, like a meat locker. Wade’s breath condensed before his face. The psilight was so low he could see neither walls nor floor. Only the extromitter dot of each access guided him from place to place. Tracking guidance point, he forced steadily into memory, searching.

He shivered, yet the bomb in his hand seemed to be gaining temperature. Soon it would be too hot to hold. He glanced, almost casually, from the next subinlet. The sign hovered:

EMWGUIDANCETRACKINGPOINT.

“Eureka!” he whooped. He extromitted into the canted chamber of glowing red and yellow threads. The crisscrossing, intense light brightened even as he watched. Wade didn’t know this place from a hole in the ground, but there was one thing he felt sure of: something big was in the works, and it was going to happen soon.

Sweating, he dropped the bomb on the floor and extromitted back out.

Dead sensorposts extruded from the ceiling. Thank God they were inactive now. Getting in had been easy, and he saw no reason why getting out shouldn’t be just as easy. “Home, James,” he muttered. He plugged in his key, thinking down down down! and disappeared into the glowing black slit.

««—»»

Porker was drooling on her, fumbling with her pants. Lydia couldn’t even squirm against the tremendous, dead weight. The broken face and toothy grin twitched in lust.

Gagging, she poked the Trooper. The blue steel barrel entered the spreading crack and she squeezed off round number five. Gun smoke and bits of pulp gusted back into her own face. She heard something clink, and Porker stiffened.

She fired the last round, keeping the barrel deep in his face. Like a lid, the top of his skull blew off—the transceptionrod flew across the room. Porker made a deep, lowing sound, like an impaled cow, then sidled over, dead.

“Thank you, Colonel Colt,” she whispered, and glanced at the clock: 11:47. What bothered her most, as she grabbed the hewer and began to extromit, was this: If they’d seen fit to bring Porker back from the dead, what had they done with…

««—»»

Sergeant J. T. Peerce stepped out of the final subinlet before the main point access. “St. John! Over here!”

Wade froze. A reflex nearly caused him to use his jeans for a bathroom. Peerce waved from the servicepass, wearing a clean police uniform and the same redneck sneer he’d been born with. In other words, Peerce looked normal.

“I saw you die,” Wade stammered. “Last night, in the grove.”

“Do I look like I’m dead, you daddy rich nitwit?”

But how could this be? “I saw the sisters kill you!”

“You musta been seein’ things, then, ’cos I’m standin’ here, ain’t I? I got away from them bitches after you and Chief White split. Come on, will ya!”

Wade considered this. He’d been scared shitless last night, and come to think of it, he wasn’t really sure what he’d seen. Sometimes the trauma of horror played games with the mind.

“What are you doing here?” Wade asked, still unsure.

“Lookin’ for you, ya moe ron. Prentiss got half the force out searchin’ for ya. She said ya might’ve come back here when we found that punk Jervis’ body with no key ’round his neck.”

Wade took several cautious steps forward. The power of suggestion plus seeing Peerce alive and well left him no choice but to be convinced.

“Come on, goddamn it! We gotta hightail it outta here. Prentiss told me this place takes off in ten minutes. Move it!”

But seeing was believing, wasn’t it? Or at least seeing what you wanted to believe. Right now all Wade wanted to see was someone on his side.

He shed his reservations and approached Peerce.

“By the way,” Peerce inquired. “Why’d you come back in here anyway? It don’t make no sense.”

“Before Jervis died, he told me to plant the b—” A quick shock hacked off the last word. Wade’s knees locked up.

A whorl of intestines had popped out of Peerce’s shirt.

“Aw, shee it,” Peerce griped, looking down. Then he looked at Wade with a dead grin. “Almost had ya goin’ for it, huh?”

Wade turned and ran, and Peerce ran after him. Peerce was faster, despite the inconvenience of dragging intestines. The iron hand snatched Wade by the neck and raised him off his feet.

“I wanna know what ya were doin’ in here, St. John.”

Wade, choking, noticed that Peerce was chewing tobacco. He also noticed the transceptionrod sunk deep in his head.

“I was looking for some cuff links I lost,” Wade wheezed.

Peerce spat brown juice. He opened a switchblade. “Punk rich boy piece a shit. Start talking by the time I count three. If ya don’t” —Peerce grinned— “then I start carving.”

The blade flashed in front of Wade’s left eye.

“One.”

Did I come all this way just to get snuffed by a dead redneck cop? Wade asked himself against a hail of incredulity.

“Two.”

His heels kicked high on the wall. He could feel his face turning blue.

“Maybe you’ll feel like talkin’ once I pop one of them rich boy eyeballs out,” Peerce said. Then he said, “Three.”

««—»»

As she’d guessed, Peerce had caught Wade. She swung the hewer low right to high left. The unimaginably heavy blade was suddenly aerodynamic; it glided through the air with the greatest of proverbial ease—swoooooooosh—and took Peerce’s head off in a perfect line.

Lydia laughed in spite of herself. The head bounced off one wall, then another, then rolled down the servicepass. But—

“Lydia!” Wade yelled.

Peerce’s headless body remained standing. The switchblade remained in his hand—

“Pull the rod out of his head!”

What? she thought. She dropped the hewer and turned. It was too dark to see where the head had rolled, but then she stumbled on something and fell on it, like a fumble drill. She felt the top of the head, found the transception knob, then grabbed it with her fingers and pulled.

“Hurry!” Wade yelled, still held aloft.

She pulled and pulled. The rod wouldn’t come out. It was like trying to unseat a masonry nail from cement.

Wade was screaming.

Peerce’s severed head expectorated tobacco juice into her face. Thanks a lot, she thought. She raised the head to her mouth, grasped the rod flange with her teeth, and yanked.

Amid an awful, dry grinding sound, the rod began to come loose. Now it was Peerce’s head that was screaming. The rod jerked out of the skull in half inch stops. Peerce’s standing, headless corpse was shuddering in place.

When the transceptionrod came out all the way, the knife-wielding cadaver collapsed.

Lydia threw the head as hard as she could against the passwall. It cracked like heavy porcelain. Wade staggered as if drunk down the pass. “You like to keep a guy in suspense, don’t you?”

“Are you all right?”

“I think so. At least I don’t have to go to the bathroom anymore. What time is it?”

Lydia consulted her watch. “Eleven fifty four.”

“We’ve got six minutes.”

They ran like slapstick idiots down the pass. Wade held onto her as they extromitted down to the next level. “What did you bring that for?” he asked, noticing the UV spotter on her belt.

“In case the sisters are around.”

“They’re all either dead or hibernating,” he informed her. “At least that’s one thing we don’t have to worry about.”

They weren’t two steps into the next servicepass when, at once, their surroundings went from dark to light. Suddenly they were standing in brilliant radiance; the labyrinth’s ice cold changed to stunning heat. Myriad sensorposts glowed in shimmering black, and all around them the labyrinth hummed like high tension power lines.

Lydia checked her watch. “Eleven fifty five,” she said.

“Recharge,” Wade realized.

“Does that mean—”

“It means the Supremate knows we’re here.”

««—»»

Nina McCulloch woke up alone in a hospital bed. What was she doing here? The room’s only light came from the window.

She’d had a terrible dream.

Elizabeth and her two friends. The hooded girl in the black cloak. And Jervis Phillips, dead but walking.

It wasn’t a dream, she realized. It was the devil.

But God had saved her from that, hadn’t He?

Some police had brought her to the hospital. Nina prayed thanks to God. She wondered, though, if the devil had been vanquished. Show me a sign, Lord, she prayed.

The room filled with light.

It came from the window. Nina got up to look. At first she thought it must be a fire of some kind, it was miles distant. Forest fire? she thought. Plane crash?

She saw a gaseous yellow aura rising in the sky. It seemed to be coming from past the campus, the forest near the agro site. It wasn’t a fire, though. It was an emanation.

No, Nina thought. A sign!

««—»»

The Supremate’s pre recharge sleep was over. Fleeing the labyrinth’s hot and glowing bowels made Wade think of Jonah and the whale. He and Lydia came out on the last level. The fully energized sign beamed at the end of the pass: POINTACCESSMAIN#1.

They stopped in their tracks. A hum vibrated in their heads. When they turned around, they saw six sisters emerge from the extromitter behind them.

“Pardon me while I shit my pants,” Wade muttered. These sisters were the biggest he’d seen. They were beautiful in their immense, alien hybridized perfection. The last one to emerge stood over eight feet tall.

“I’m going to burn these bitches down,” Lydia said. She pushed Wade toward the last extromitter. Cloaked, the sisters advanced, showing fang crammed grins. They moved slowly at first, then began to run so fast they seemed aflight. Lydia set the UV spotter on the floor.

“Turn it on!” Wade shouted.

But Lydia was waiting for them to get close. When the first two were only yards away, she flicked the spotter on. Shrieks whistled. The sisters leading the pack began to smolder, then their white faces exploded. Wade and Lydia were splattered.

“Run!” Lydia yelled. They tore for the extromitter. Lydia was plugging in her key. Wade glanced back. Fangs glittered from flashes of wailing faces. Smoke poured out of frantic black cloaks as the phalanx of sisters hulled into the field of ultraviolet light. Flesh sizzled amid the onslaught of shrieks. Spheric eyes ruptured, torrents of fresh, black blood fell like rain as crisped hands reached out from the billow of oily smoke. Then the rank of corpses fell atop the spotter and died. But the spotter was under them, its deadly invisible light buried by their sizzling bodies.

“Oh, shit,” Wade muttered.

The last and largest sister remained. Spots of flesh cooked on her face, yet she had survived. Her fangs protracted, and she lunged over the corpses.

Lydia grabbed Wade’s hand and pulled him through the humming slit.

On the other side, Wade again caught only glimpses of things, unstable fragments: the rocking backdrop of Besser’s office, paneled walls, furniture, the carpeted floor, and Lydia tugging on him trying to drag him through. The desk clock read 11:59. Wade had oozed through the extromitter by everything but his right ankle. Lydia pulled and pulled but he wasn’t moving—

The sister’s hand had his ankle, pulling him back. Lydia yanked from one side while the sister yanked from the other. This was a tug of war, and Wade was the rope. He was being pulled between the threshold of two worlds.

Lydia gave a final heave, and Wade’s ankle came through the wall, along with the sister’s arm.

The desk clock’s lighted digits read 12:00.

A sound like an air raid siren whistled into the room, and a terrifying, vibrating drone. The extromission egress turned bright red, then snapped closed. Wade’s release came as suddenly as a knife to a climber’s rope. He was thrown into the middle of the office, tumbling into Lydia’s lap.

The sister’s arm had detached at the elbow and lay severed on the carpeted floor.

Wade and Lydia looked up at the wall.

The extromitter dot was gone, which could only mean that the labyrinth was gone too.

—

CHAPTER 43

Nobody ever knew what happened, except, of course, for Lydia and Wade. The newspapers did their best to speculate as to Exham College’s spate of disappearances and murder. One paper blamed a clandestine drug ring. Another blamed the Dixie Mafia, while still another blamed, of all things, a satanic cult. Wade was tempted to write an article himself, about aliens abducting humans for genetic hybridization experiments, but he doubted that even the lowest of tabloids would go for anything so farfetched.

As after any great calamity, things eventually returned to normal. Dean Saltenstall’s murder had been blamed on a burglar. Peerce, Porker, and Chief White had fallen in the line of duty to drug merchants. Within days, the campus had appointed a new dean, and the town counsel had elected a new chief of police.

««—»»

“Hi, Dad. This is Wade!”

“I would never have guessed,” came Dad’s stolid reply over the phone line. “What did you do this week, son?”

Wade contemplated the full weight of the answer. I saved the world, he wished he could say. “Oh, the usual,” he said instead. “Worked, studied, that sort of thing. Just another week in the life of a diligent student.”

“Sounds like the usual bullshit to me,” Dad commented.

Wade lay back in bed, eyeing Lydia. She stood at the bathroom mirror brushing her teeth. Wade nearly swooned: All she wore was a pair of devil red frilled panties.

“Wade, Wade? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, Dad, I’m still here… Look, there’s something I have to tell you—”

“Goddamn it! Not another traffic ticket!”

“No, Dad. This is good news. I’m…engaged.”

“You’re what?”

“Engaged. You know, as in getting married.”

“I know what engaged means, Wade. Engaged to who?”

Wade smiled. “The chief of police.”

“You’re telling me that you’re engaged to Chief White?”

“No, Dad. The new chief of police. Her name’s Lydia. She’s a little bitchy sometimes, but boy has she got a great ass.”

A wet washrag flew from the bathroom and slapped Wade in the face. “You’re gonna love her, Dad. Guaranteed.”

“You never cease to amaze me, son.”

“Sure, but isn’t that how it’s, supposed to be?”

Wade left his father with the expected doubts. The old ballbuster would come around in time, like just about anyone’s dad. Wade saw it as the first smart decision of his life. And with any luck it would be the first of many.

“So I’ve got a great ass, huh?” Now Lydia was brushing her beautiful white blond hair. “That’s the son to father consensus?”

“Great legs too. And hooters…” Wade whistled.

“You’re a sexist pig, but I guess I can live with it.”

Wade lounged back in the pillows. Happy ever after? he wondered. Who knew? Who ever knew? But he just had a funny feeling that this was going to work.

“Sweetheart?”

Lydia glared. “Don’t call me sweetheart. It’s so domestic.”

“Okay…honeybunch. Something just occurred to me, just now when I was on the phone with Dad.”

“What?”

“We saved the world.”

Lydia’s expression widened in the mirror. The black bomb would’ve destroyed the vital tracking systems. Right now, the labyrinth was space junk floating lost across the galaxy. It would never return to where it had come from.

“And I just thought of something else,” Wade continued his muse. “I wonder what happened to Besser?”

««—»»

On that particular night, Besser had crawled brokenly across the grove. He’d escaped the labyrinth only to find himself trapped in this thing laden morass. He choked on green fog. Horned insects drilled into his flesh; hot gourds and carcasses plump with moist rot crumpled beneath his paddling hands and knees. His leg was numb now; it dragged along behind him like a ball and chain. Things like eyeless rats the size of groundhogs bit chunks out of it as he crawled farther into the grove. The leech mouthed fog snakes swam about him en masse, biting out a piece of flesh here, a collop of fat there. Even the vegetation attacked him as he crawled on. Bulbs dipped from sagging branches, spreading jaws full of crystal teeth. Grime caked vines threatened to entangle him. Some large shivering pod burst at its tip and vomited a gush of seeds and stinking black slop into his face. Oh, Mother, he thought beneath his sobs.

One of the fog snakes tore out the seat of his pants, then more—many more—converged to take bites out of his huge buttocks. Professor Besser screamed louder than the horn on his De Ville when something unseen sunk teeth like sewing needles into one of his testicles. The entire grove was conspiring to consume him bit by bit. Just as he concluded that he could go no farther, his face rose out of the fogtop. He trundled forward, at once delirious with excitement. Who said there were no miracles? Besser had managed to crawl clear across the horrid grove, and he’d survived!

Praise heaven! he thought.

He looked at his watch: 11:55. Recharge.

The entire forest moaned. The fog churned like a lake in heavy rain. Through the trees, Besser could see the unearthly oblong box that was the labyrinth. From its corners, spears of yellow light lanced into the sky, and then billows of luminous yellow gas began to rise. The labyrinth was recharging its electromagnetic launch systems. Besser had to shield his eyes—light as intense as the sun flooded the grove. The fog was boiling like a cauldron of green stew. Besser crawled for cover. Five minutes later came a brilliant yellow flash, then darkness.

And silence.

He peered out. The labyrinth had pulsed off, on its way to its next world. At once the grove and its unholy inhabitants began to blacken and die.

Besser limped into the outer clearing, using a sturdy branch as a crutch. He had time now to put his life back together, but the first thing he had to do was get to a hospital.

The second thing was to find Wade St. John and kill him.

He crutched clumsily toward the logging road which led to Route 13. That’s when he noticed the hole. When he bent over to take a closer look, two flabby hands reached up and grabbed onto his head.

««—»»

Penelope couldn’t have been more pleased. What a nice surprise to have a visitor! She pulled Besser down, down, down into her hole. She’d actually gotten to like it down here. So many days and nights of hard work—throwing out dirt and packing the walls smooth and tight—had enabled her to prepare quite an impressive little underground home. There was plenty of room for her to move around. She could lounge back, stretch, flop about—all at her leisure. What more could a boneless girl ask for? It was cozy and snug, and she was proud of it.

The appearance of her old biology professor couldn’t have been better timed. Slobbering, she shrieked her enthusiasm, wrapping boneless arms around his neck. She had a hard time squeezing him through—he was so fat—but her new and inspired strength eventually jerked him all the way into the earthen cavern.

Besser screamed and screamed and screamed while Penelope made blubbering giggles. Much like pulling tomatoes off a vine, she twisted his testicles off and crushed them to pulp in her hands. She reasoned that Besser was to blame for the death of her first baby—he’d allowed that awful sister to eat it—so she equally reasoned that it was his obligation to give her a new baby. She cooed as she scraped the sperm laden pulp off her hands into her amorphous sex.

Besser was still screaming, for reasons most would deem legitimate. Penelope used a broken Kirin bottle to open him up, parting shanks of flab as easily as new churned butter, and she cut very deep indeed. Deeper, deeper, and down, the sharp glass sliced into squirming fat to unveil the succulent organs of his great tremoring gut.

True, the sisters had removed her bones, but Penelope still had her teeth, thank God, and after all her labors down here, she had worked up a considerable appetite.

THE END

a—

Edward Lee (seen here with his new electronic cigarette) has had more than 40 books published in the horror and suspense field, including CITY INFERNAL, THE GOLEM, and BLACK TRAIN. His movie, HEADER was released on DVD by Synapse Films, in June, 2009. Recent releases include the stories, “You Are My Everything” and “The Cyesologniac,” the Lovecraftian novella “Trolley No. 1852,” and the hardcore novel HAUNTER OF THE THRESHOLD. Currently, Lee is working on HEADER 3. Lee lives on Florida’s St. Pete Beach. Visit him online at:

http://www.edwardleeonline.com

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