Shadowfires. By: Dean R. Koontz

Handicaps-that’s what they were. Earlier, he had jokingly called his

amputations “peculiarities” and had told Rachael that he refused to use

the word “handicaps.” In the current situation, however, there was no

room for self-delusion, the painful truth had to be faced.

Handicaps.

He was furious with himself for his limitations, furious with the

long-ago war and the Vietcong and life in general, and for a moment he

was almost overcome by tears.

But being angry did no good, and Whit Gavis did not waste time and

energy on either fruitless activities or self-pity. “Put a lid on it,

Whit,” he said aloud. He turned away from the garage and began to haul

himself laboriously along the muddy ground toward the paved alley,

intending to crawl all the way out to Tropicana and into the middle of

that boulevard, where the sight of him would surely stop even the most

unsympathetic motorist.

He had gone only six or eight yards when his face, which had been numbed

by a blow from the beast’s club-hard hand, suddenly began to burn and

sting. He flopped on his back, face turned up into the cold rain,

raised his good hand, and felt his disfigured cheek. He found deep

lacerations cutting through the scar tissue that was part of his Vietnam

legacy.

He was sure that Leben had not clawed him, that the blow that knocked

him down was delivered with the back of the immense, bony hand. But he

was undeniably cut in four or five places, and he was bleeding freely,

especially from one laceration that extended up into his left temple.

Did that damn fugitive from a Halloween party have spurs on its knuckles

or something? His probing fingers set off little detonations of pain in

his face, and he immediately dropped his hand.

Rolling onto his belly again, he continued dragging himself toward the

street.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “That side of your face is never going to

win you any beauty contests, anyway.

Ben’s soggy Adidas running shoes were so thoroughly saturated that they

began to slip on his feet. He felt the mild irritation of an incipient

blister on his left heel.

When at last he came within sight of the Golden Sand Inn, where lights

shone in the office windows, he slowed down long enough to shove one

hand under his rain-soaked shirt and pull the Combat Magnum out of the

waistband at the hollow of his back.

He wished he had the Remington shotgun that he had left behind in the

disabled Merkur.

As he reached the motel’s entrance drive, he saw a man crawling away

from the place, toward Tropicana.

An instant later he realized it was Whit Gavis without the artificial

leg and, apparently, injured.

He had become something that loved the dark. He did not know what he

was, did not clearly remember whator whhe had once been, did not know

where he was ultimately bound or for what purpose he existed, but he

knew that his rightful place was now in darkness, where he not only

thrived but ruled.

Ahead, the prey made her way cautiously through the blackness,

effectively blinded and moving too slowly to stay out of his reach much

longer. Unlike her, he was not hampered by the lack of light. He could

see her clearly, and he could see most details of the place through

which they crept.

He was, however, slightly confused as to his whereabouts. He knew that

he had climbed up into this long tunnel, and from the smell of it he

also knew its walls were made of wood, yet he felt as if he should be

deep under the earth. The place was similar to moist dark burrows which

he vaguely remembered from another age and which he found appealing for

reasons he did not entirely comprehend.

Around him, shadowfires sprang to life, flourished for a moment, then

faded away. He knew that he had once been afraid of them, but he could

not recall the reason for his fear. Now the phantom flames seemed of no

consequence to him, harmless as long as he ignored them.

The prey’s female scent was pungent, and it inflamed him. Lust made him