great dark mysteries underlying life and hopes to understand what he
sees if he is ever given that glimpse. This was more than a glimpse.
This was a long, slow look into the enigma of human growth and
development, as long a look as he cared to make it, its duration
determined only by the extent of his courage.
The thought of suicide flickered only briefly through his mind and then
was gone, for the opportunity presented to him was even more important
than the certain physical, mental, and emotional anguish that he would
endure henceforth. His future would be a strange landscape, shadowed by
fear, lit by the lightning of pain, yet he was compelled to journey
through it toward an unseen horizon. He had to find out what he would
become.
Besides, his fear of death had by no means diminished due to these
incredible developments. If anything, because he now seemed nearer the
grave than at any time in his life, his necrophobia had an even tighter
grip on him. No matter what form and quality of life lay ahead of him,
he must go on, though his metamorphosis was deeply depressing and
bloodcurdling, the alternative to life held even greater terror for him.
As he stared into the mirror, his headache returned.
He thought he saw something new in his eyes.
He leaned closer to the mirror.
Something about his eyes was definitely odd, different, but he could not
quite identify the change.
The headache became rapidly more severe. The fluorescent lights
bothered him, so he squinted to close out some of the white glare.
He looked away from his own eyes and let his gaze travel over the rest
of his reflection. Suddenly he thought he perceived changes occurring
along his right temple as well as in the zygomatic bone and zygomatic
arch around and under his right eye.
Fear surged through him, purer than any fear he had known thus far, and
his heart raced.
His headache now blazed throughout his skull and even down into a
substantial portion of his face.
Abruptly he turned away from the mirror. It was difficult though
possible to look upon the monstrous changes after they had occurred.
But watching the flesh and bone transform itself before his eyes was a
far more demanding task, and he possessed neither the fortitude nor the
stomach for it.
Crazily he thought of Lon Chaney, Jr in that old movie, The Wolfman,
Chaney so appalled by the sight of his lupine metamorphosis that he was
overcome by terror of-and pity for-himself. Eric looked at his own
large hands, half expecting to see hair sprouting on them. That
expectation made him laugh, though as before, his laugh was a harsh and
cold and broken sound, utterly humorless, and it quickly turned into a
series of wrenching sobs.
His entire head and face were filled with pain noweven his lips
stung-and as he lurched out of the bathroom, bumping first into the
sink, then colliding with the doorjamb, he made a thin high-pitched
keening sound that was, in one note, a symphony of fear and suffering.
The San Bernardino County sheriff’s deputy wore dark sunglasses that
concealed his eyes and, therefore, his intentions. However, as the
policeman got out of the patrol car, Ben saw no telltale tension in his
body, no indications that he recognized them as the infamous betrayers
of Truth, Justice, and the American Way, of whom the radio newsman had
recently spoken.
Ben took Rachael’s arm, and they kept moving.
Within the past few hours, their descriptions and photographs had been
wired to all police agencies in California and the Southwest, but that
did not mean they were every lawman’s first priority.
The deputy seemed to be staring at them.
But not all cops were sufficiently conscientious to study the latest
bulletins before hitting the road, and those who had gone on duty early
this morning, as this man might have done, would have left before Ben’s
and Rachael’s photographs had been posted.
“Excuse me,” the deputy said.
Ben stopped. Through the hand he had on Rachael’s arm, he felt her
stiffen. He tried to stay loose, smile.
“Yes, sir?”