proteins.
This growth had purpose, directiOn. In fact, he suddenly noticed that
on both hands, between thumb and forefinger, below the first knuckle of
each digit, translucent webs had begun to fill in the empty space.
Reptilian. Like the cold rage that he knew would (if he let it) erupt
in a frenzy of destruction. Reptilian.
He lowered his hands, afraid to look at them anymore.
He no longer had the courage to explore the contours of his face, not
even by touch. The mere prospect of looking into a mirror filled him
with dread.
His heart was hammering, and with each thunderous beat, it seemed to
pound spikes of fear and loneliness into him.
For a moment he was utterly lost, confused, directionless. He turned
left, then right, took a step in one direction, then in another, the
Wildcard papers crunching like dead leaves under his feet. Not sure
what to do or where to go, he stopped and stood with shoulders slumped,
head hung low under a weight of despair -until suddenly the weird
burning in his flesh and the eerie tingle along his spine were
supplemented with a new sensation, hunger. His stomach growled, and his
knees grew weak, and he started to shake with hunger.
He began to work his mouth and to swallow continuously, involuntarily,
hard swallows that almost hurt, as if his body were demanding to be fed.
He headed toward the kitchen, his shakes getting worse with every step,
his knees growing weaker. The sweat of need poured from him in streams,
in rivers. A hunger unlike anything he had ever known before.
Rabid hunger. Painful. Tearing at him. His vision clouded, and his
thoughts funneled down toward one subject, food. The macabre changes
taking place in him would require a great deal more fuel than usual,
energy for tearing down old tissues, building blocks with which to
construct new tissues-yes, of course-his metabolism was running wild,
like a great furnace out of control, a raging fire, it had broken down
and assimilated the Farmer John sausage-and-biscuit sandwiches that he
had eaten earlier, and it needed more, much more, so by the time he
opened the cupboard doors and began pulling cans of soup and stew from
the shelves, he was wheezing and gasping, muttering wordlessly, grunting
like a savage or a wild beast, sickened and repelled by his loss of
control but too hungry to worry about it, frightened but hungry,
dspairing but so hungry, hungry, hungry..
Following the directions Sarah Kiel had given Rachael, Ben turned off
the state route onto a narrow, poorly maintained macadam lane that
climbed a steep slope.
The lane led deeper into the forest, where the deciduous trees gave way
entirely to evergreens, many of which were ancient and huge. They drove
half a mile, passing widely separated driveways that served houses and
summer cottages. A couple of structures were fully visible, though most
could barely be seen between the trees or were entirely hidden by
foliage and forest shadows.
The farther they went, the less the sun intruded upon the forest floor,
and Rachael’s mood darkened at the same rate as the landscape. She held
the thirty-two pistol in her lap and peered anxiously ahead.
The pavement ended, but the road continued with a gravel surface for
more than another quarter of a mile.
They passed just two more driveways, plus two Dodge Chargers and a small
motor home parked in a lay-by near one driveway, before coming to a
closed gate.
Made of steel pipe, painted sky blue, and padlocked, the gate was
unattached to any fence and served only to limit vehicular access to the
road beyond, which further declined in quality from gravel to dirt.
Wired securely to the center of the barrier, a black and-red sign
warned, NO TRESPASSING PRIVATh PROPERTY “Just like Sarah told you,” Ben
said.
Beyond the gate lay Eric Leben’s property, his secret retreat. The
cabin was not visible, for it was another quarter of a mile up the
mountainside, entirely screened by trees from this angle.
“It’s still not too late to turn back,” Rachael said.
“Yes, it is,” Ben said.
She bit her lip and nodded grimly. She carefully switched off the