Midnight by Dean R. Koontz

Joining him, Amberlay said, “You telling me they’ve regressed, all of them, everyone on the force, except you and me?”

“Just listen,” Loman repeated as he leaned the 20-gauge against the bumper.

“But that’s crazy!” Amberlay insisted. “Jesus, God, you mean this whole thing is coming down on us, the whole damn thing?”

Loman grabbed a box of shells that was in the right wheel-well of the trunk, tore off the lid. “Don’t you feel the yearning, Paul?”

“No!” Amberlay said too quickly. “No, I don’t feel it, I don’t feel anything.”

“I feel it,” Loman said, putting five rounds in the 20-gauge—one in the chamber, four in the magazine. “Oh, Paul, I sure as hell feel it. I want to tear off my clothes and change, change, and just run, be free, go with them, hunt and kill and run with them.”

“Not me, no, never,” Amberlay said.

“Liar,” Loman said. He brought up the loaded gun and fired at Amberlay point-blank, blowing his head off.

He couldn’t have trusted the young officer, couldn’t have turned his back on him, not with the urge to regress so strong in him, and those voices in the night singing their siren songs.

As he stuffed more shells into his pockets, he heard a shotgun blast from inside the school.

He wondered if that gun was in the hands of Booker or Shaddack. Struggling to control his raging terror, fighting off the hideous and powerful urge to shed his human form, Loman went inside to find out.

21

Tommy Shaddack heard another shotgun, but he didn’t think much about that because, after all, they were in a war now. You could hear what a war it was by just stepping out in the night and listening to the shrieks of the combatants echoing down through the hills to the sea. He was more focused on getting Booker, the woman, and the girl he’d seen in the hall, because he knew the woman must be the Lockland bitch and the girl must be Chrissie Foster, though he couldn’t figure how they had joined up.

War. So he handled it the way soldiers did in the good movies, kicking the door open, firing a round into the room before entering. No one screamed. He guessed he hadn’t hit anyone, so he fired again, and still no one screamed, so he figured they were already gone from there. He crossed the threshold, fumbled for the light switch, found it, and discovered he was in the deserted band room.

Evidently they had left by one of the two other doors, and when he saw that, he was angry, really angry. The only time in his life that he had fired a gun was in Phoenix, when he had shot the Indian with his father’s revolver, and that had been close-up, where he could not miss. But still he had expected that he would be good with a gun. After all, Jeez, he had watched a lot of war movies, cowboy movies, cop shows on television, and it didn’t look hard, not hard at all, you just pointed the muzzle and pulled the trigger. But it hadn’t been that easy, after all, and Tommy was angry, furious, because they shouldn’t make it look so easy in the movies and on the boob tube when, in fact, the gun jumped in your hands as if it was alive.

He knew better now, and he was going to brace himself when he fired, spread his legs and brace himself, so his shots wouldn’t be blowing holes in the ceiling or bouncing off the floor any more. He would nail them cold the next time he got a whack at them, and they’d be sorry for making him chase them, for not just lying down and being dead when he wanted them to be dead.

22

The door out of the band room had led into a hall that served ten soundproofed practice rooms, where student musicians could mutilate fine music for hours at a time without disturbing anyone. At the end of that narrow corridor, Tessa pushed through another door and coaxed just enough out of the flashlight to see that they were in a chamber as large as the band room. It also featured tiered platforms rising to the back. A student-drawn sign on one wall, complete with winged angels singing, proclaimed this the home of The World’s Best Chorus.