Seize The Night. By: Dean R. Koontz

An immediate drop in the ferocity of the wind seemed to support the

theory that even the minimal energy input from the beams of our

flashlights had triggered all this bizarre activity.

The stench of steaming tar and rotting vegetation was also fading.

Rising to my feet again, I glanced at the door. It was still there.

uge and shiny. Too real.

I wanted to get out, but I didn’t head for the exit. I was afraid it

would actually be there when I reached it, whereupon this waking dream

might become a waking nightmare.

In every surface, the pyrotechnics continued undiminished.

Previously, when we’d doused the flashlights, this extraordinary

spectacle had been self-perpetuating for a short while, and it would

probably power itself even longer this time.

I regarded the walls, the floor, and the ceiling with suspicion.

I expected another figure to coalesce out of the bright, ceaselessly

changing cyclorama, something more threatening than the man in the

bio-secure gear.

Bobby was approaching Hodgson. Apparently, the disorienting effect of

the light show did not affect his equilibrium as it did mine.

“Bro, ” I warned.

“Cool.”

“Not.” He had the shotgun. He believed it was protection.

I, on the other hand, figured that the weapon was potentially as

dangerous as the flashlights. Any lead pellets not stopped by the target

would most likely ricochet from wall to ceiling to floor to wall with

deadly velocity. And every time a bit of lead shot struck any surface in

the chamber, the kinetic energy of the impact might be absorbed by that

glassy material, further powering these weird phenomena.

The wind subsided to a breeze.

Carnivals and catastrophes still glittered and blazed through every

curving surface of the room, Ferris wheels of rotating blue lights and

orange-red spouts like volcanic eruptions.

The vault door appeared dauntingly solid.

No ghost had ever looked as real as the body in the spacesuit.

Not Jacob Marley rattling his chains at Scrooge, not the Ghost of

Christmas Future, not the White Lady of Avenel, not Hamlet’s dad,

certainly not Casper.

I was surprised to find my balance restored. Maybe the brief disruption

of equilibrium hadn’t been a reaction to the spinning lights and

shadows, but had been merely another transient effect similar to the

pressure that, earlier, had muffled our voices and made breathing

difficult.

The hot breeze and the stink it carried disappeared. The air was cool and

calm once more. The sound of the winds began to fade, as well.

Next, perhaps, the space suited man on the floor would dissolve into a

twist of icy vapor that would rise and vanish like a wraith returning to

the spirit world where it belonged. Soon. Before we had to take a close

look at it. Please.

Certain that Bobby couldn’t be persuaded to retreat, I followed him

toward Hodgson’s body. He was deep into the same stoked, gonzo mind set

with which he surfed twenty-foot, fully macking behemoths, a maximum

kamikaze commitment as total as his more characteristic slacker

indifference. When he was on this board, he would ride it all the way to

the end of the barreland one day straight out of this life.

Because the lights in the walls were contained within the surface layer

of glassy material and shed only a small fraction of their illuminating

power into the egg room itself, Hodgson wasn’t well revealed.

“Flashlight, ” Bobby said.

“Not smart.”

“That’s me.” Reluctantly, steeling myself to take a close look at the

back side of the aforementioned lion’s teeth, I stepped cautiously to

the right of the body as Bobby moved less cautiously to the left. I

switched on one flashlight and played it over the far too solid ghost.

Initially the beam jiggled because my hand was shaking, but I quickly

steadied it.

The Plexiglas in the helmet was tinted. The single flashlight was not

powerful enough to let us see either Hodgson’s face or his condition.

Heor possibly she was as still and silent as a headstone, and whether a

ghost or not, he seemed indisputably dead.

On the breast of his pressure suit was an American-flag patch, and

immediately below the flag was a second patch, featuring a speeding

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