Midnight by Dean R. Koontz

She shook her head.

“He said to me, ‘People aren’t important. People don’t count. Only things are important. Money is important, liquor is important, my stereo is important, anything that makes me feel good is important, but I’m not important. He tells me that nuclear bombs are important because they’ll blow up all those nice things some day, not because they’ll blow up people—after all, people are nothing, just polluting animals that spoil the world. That’s what he says. That’s what he tells me he believes. He says he can prove it’s all true. He says that next time you see a bunch of people standing around a Porsche, admiring the car, look real hard at their faces and you’ll see that they care more about that car than about each other. They’re not admiring the workmanship, either, not in the sense that they’re thinking about the people who made the car. It’s as if the Porsche was organic, as if it grew or somehow made itself. They admire it for itself, not for what it represents of human engineering skills and craftsmanship. The car is more alive than they are. They draw energy from the car, from the sleek lines of it, from the thrill of imagining its power under their hands, so the car becomes more real and and far more important than any of the people admiring it.”

“That’s bullshit,” Tessa said with conviction.

“But that’s what he tells me, and I know it’s crap, and I try to reason with him, but he’s got all the answers—or thinks he has. And sometimes I wonder … if I wasn’t so soured on life myself, so sick of so many people, would I be able to argue with them more persuasively? If I wasn’t who I am, would I be more able to save my son?”

He stopped.

He realized he was trembling.

They were both silent for a moment.

Then he said, “That’s why I say life is hard and mean.”

“I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Not your fault.”

“Not yours either.”

He sealed the Cheddar in a piece of Saran Wrap and returned it to the refrigerator while she returned to the pancake mix she was making.

“But you had Karen,” she said. “There’s been love and beauty in your life.”

“Sure.”

“Well, then—”

“But it doesn’t last.”

“Nothing lasts forever.”

“Exactly my point,” he said.

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a blessing while we have it. If you’re always looking ahead, wondering when this moment of joy is going to end, you can never know any real pleasure in life.”

“Exactly my point,” he repeated.

She left the wooden mixing spoon in the big metal bowl and turned to face him. “But that’s wrong. I mean, life is filled with moments of wonder, pleasure, joy … and if we don’t seize the moment, if we don’t sometimes turn off thoughts of the future and relish the moment, then we’ll have no memory of joy to carry us through the bad times—and no hope.”

He stared at her, admiring her beauty and vitality. But then he began to think about how she would age, grow infirm, and die just as everything died, and he could no longer bear to look at her. Instead he turned his gaze to the rain-washed window above the sink. “Well, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, but you’ll have to admit you asked for it. You insisted on knowing how I could be such a Gloomy Gus.”

“Oh, you’re no Gloomy Gus,” she said. “You go way beyond that. You’re a regular Dr. Doom.”

He shrugged.

They returned to their culinary labors.

11

After escaping through the gate at the rear of the rectory yard, Chrissie stayed on the move for more than an hour while she tried to decide what to do next. She had planned to go to school and tell her story to Mrs. Tokawa if Father Castelli proved unhelpful. But now she was no longer willing to trust even Mrs. Tokawa. After her experience with the priests, she realized the aliens would probably have taken possession of all the authority figures in Moonlight Cove as a first step toward conquest. She already knew the priests were possessed. She was certain that the police had been taken over as well, so it was logical to assume that teachers also had been among the early victims.