Fear Nothing By Dean R. Koontz

have been if we hadn’t violated the terms of the lease and been evicted

from Eden.

Like all who are born of man and woman, I live by the whims of fate:

Because of my XP, I’m just more acutely aware of the machinations of

fate than most people are, and this awareness is liberating.

Yet, as I walked my bicycle eastward along the peninsula, I persevered

in my search for meaning in all that I’d seen and heard since sunset.

Before the troop had arrived to torment Orson and me, I’d been trying

to pin down exactly what was different about these monkeys; now I

returned to that riddle. Unlike ordinary rhesuses, these were bold

rather than shy, brooding rather than lighthearted.

The most obvious difference was that these monkeys were hot tempered,

vicious. Their potential for violence was not, however, the primary

quality that separated them from other rhesuses; it was only a

consequence of another, more profound difference that I recognized but

that I was inexplicably reluctant to consider.

The curdled fog was as thick as ever, but gradually it began to

brighten. Smears of blurry light appeared in the murk: buildings and

streetlamps along the shore.

Orson whined with delight-or just relief-at these signs of

civilization, but we weren’t any safer in town than out of it.

When we left the southern horn entirely and entered Embar cadero Way, I

paused to take my cap from the jacket pocket in which I had tucked

it.

I put it on and gave the visor a tug. The Elephant Man adjusts his

costume.

Orson peered up at me, cocked his head consideringly, and then chuffed

as though in approval. He was the Elephant Man’s dog, after all, and

as such, a measure of his own self-image was dependent upon the style

and grace with which I comported myself.

Because of the streetlamps, visibility had increased to perhaps a

hundred feet. Like the ghost tides of an ancient and long-dead sea,

fog surged off the bay and into the streets; each fine drop of mist

refracted the golden sodium-vapor light and translated it to the next

drop.

if members of the troop still accompanied us, they would be forced to

lurk at a greater distance here than they had on the barren peninsula,

to avoid being seen. Like players in a recasting of Poe’s “The Murders

in the Rue Morgue,” they would have to confine their skulking to parks,

unilluminated alleyways, balconies, high ledges, parapets, and

rooftops.

At this late hour, no pedestrians or motorists were in sight. The town

appeared to have been abandoned.

I was overcome by the disturbing notion that these silent and empty

streets foreshadowed a real, frightening desolation that would befall

Moonlight Bay in the not-too-distant future. Our little burg was

preparing to be a ghost town.

I climbed onto my bike and headed north on Embarcadero Way. The man

who had contacted me through Sasha, at the radio station, was waiting

on his boat at the marina.

As I pedaled along the deserted avenue, my mind returned to the

millennium monkeys. I was sure that I had identified the most

fundamental difference between ordinary rhesuses and this extraordinary

troop that secretly roamed the night, but I was reluctant to accept my

own conclusion, inevitable though it seemed: These monkeys were smarter

than ordinary monkeys.

Way smarter, radically smarter.

They had understood the purpose of Bobby’s camera, and they had stolen

it. They filched his new camera, too.

They recognized my face among the faces of the thirty dolls in Angela’s

workroom, and they used that one to taunt me. Later, they set a fire

to conceal Angela’s murder.

The big brows at Fort Wyvern might have been engaged in secret

bacteriological-warfare research, but that didn’t explain why their

laboratory monkeys were markedly smarter than any monkeys that had

previously walked the earth.

just how smart was “markedly smarter”? Maybe not smart enough to win a

bundle on Jeopardy! Maybe not smart enough to teach poetry at the

university level or to successfully manage a radio station or to track

the patterns of surf worldwide, maybe not even smart enough to write a

New York Times best-seller-but perhaps smart enough to be the most

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *