Shadowfires. By: Dean R. Koontz

broken out of a bad dream into the real world.

Ben grabbed the bucket-which was more than half full-and headed toward

the kitchen door, trying to move fast without spilling any of the

precious gasoline.

The creature saw him and let loose a shriek of such intense hatred and

rage that the sound seemed to penetrate deep into Ben’s bones and

vibrate there. It kicked aside an outdoor vacuum cleaner and clambered

over the piles of trash-including a fallen set of metal shelves-with

arachnoid grace, as if it were an immense spider.

Entering the kitchen, Ben heard the thing close behind him. He dared

not look back.

Half the cupboard doors and drawers were open, and just as Ben entered,

Rachael pulled out another drawer. She cried-“There !”-and snatched up

a box of matches.

“Run!” Ben said. “Outside!”

They absolutely had to put more distance between themselves and the

beast, gain time and room to pull the trick they had in mind.

He followed her out of the kitchen into the living room, and some of the

gasoline slopped over the edge of the pail, spattering the carpet and

his shoes.

Behind them, the mutant crashed through the kitchen, slamming shut

cupboard doors, heaving aside the small kitchen table and chairs even

though that furniture wasn’t Peake had pulled to the side of Tropicana

Boulevard and had switched off the headlights when Hagerstrom and Verdad

had coasted to a stop along the shoulder about a quarter of a mile

ahead.

Leaning forward, squinting through the smeary windshield past the

monotonously thumping wipers, Sharp twice rubbed a stubborn patch of

condensation from the glass and at last said, “Looks like.. . they’ve

found someone lying in front of that place. What is that place?”

“Seems like it’s out of business, a deserted motel,” Peake said.

“Can’t quite read that old sign from here.

Golden… something.”

“What’re they doing here?” Sharp wondered.

What am I doing here? Peake wondered silent The one named Julio hurried

ahead, splashing through puddles of dirty water, and opened the back

door of their car.

Reese maneuvered Whitney gently onto the seat, then turned to Julio.

“I don’t like this.”

“Just go,” Julio said.

“I swore I’d never cut and run on you, that I’d always be there when you

needed me, any way you needed me, no matter what.”

“Right now,” Julio said sharply, “I need you to take this man to a

hospital.” He slammed the rear door.

A moment later, Reese opened the front door and got in behind the wheel.

To Julio, he said, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Lying on the rear seat, Whitney said, “Chaos…

chaos… chaos. .. chaos.” He was trying to say a lot of other things,

convey a more specific warning, but only that one word would come out.

Then the car began to move.

in its way, snarling and shrieking, apparently in the grip of a

destructive frenzy.

Ben felt as if he were moving in slow motion, fighting his way through

air as thick as syrup. The living room seemed as long as a football

field. Then, finally nearing the end of the room, he was suddenly

afraid that the door to the motel office was going to be locked, that

they were going to be halted here, with no time or room to set fire to

the beast, at least not without serious risk of immolating themselves in

the process. Then Rachael threw open the door, and Ben almost shouted

with relief. They rushed into the motel office, through the swinging

gate in one end of the check-in counter, across the small public area,

through the outer glass door, into the night beneath the breezeway-and

nearly collided with Detective Verdad, whom they had last seen on Monday

evening, at the morgue in Santa Ana.

“What in the name of God?” Verdad said as the beast shrieked in the

motel office behind them.

Ben saw that the rain-soaked policeman had a revolver in his hand. He

said, “Back off and shoot it when it comes through the door. You can’t

kill it, but maybe you can slow it down.”

It wanted the female prey, it wanted blood, it was full of a cold rage,

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