The Bad Place by Dean R. Koontz
The Bad Place by Dean R. Koontz
Every eye sees its own special vision; every ear hears a most different
song. In each man’s troubled heart, an incision would reveal a unique,
shameful wrong.
Stranger friends hide here in human guise than reside in the valleys of
Hell. But goodness, kindness and love arise in the heart of the poor
beast, as well.
-The Book of Counted Sorrows
THE NIGHT was becalmed and curiously silent. A faint scent of smoke
hung on the motionless air though no smoke was visible.
Sprawled face down on the cold pavement, Frank Pollard did not move when
he regained consciousness; he waited in the hope that his confusion
would dissipate. He blinked, trying to focus. Veils seemed to flutter
within his eyes. He sucked deep breaths of the cool air, tasting the
invisible smoke, grimacing at the acrid tang of it.
Shadows loomed like a convocation of robed figures, crowding around him.
Gradually his vision cleared, but in the yellowish light that came from
far behind him, little was revealed. A large trash dumpster, six or
eight feet from him, so dimly outlined that for a moment it seemed
strange, as though it were an artifact of an alien civilization. Frank
stared at it for a while before he realized what it was. He did not
know where he was or how he had gotten there. He could not have been
unconscious longer than a few seconds for his heart was pounding as if
he had been running for his life only moments ago.
Fireflies in a windstorm….
That phrase took flight through his mind, but he had no idea what it
meant. When he tried to concentrate on it and make sense of it, a dull
headache developed above his right eye.
Fireflies in a windstorm….
He groaned softly.
Between him and the dumpster, a shadow among shadows moved, quick and
sinuous. Small but radiant green eyes regarded him with icy interest.
Frightened, Frank pushed up onto his knees. A thin, involuntary cry
issued from him, almost less like a human sound than like the muted wail
of a reed instrument.
The green-eyed observer scampered away. A cat. Just an ordinary black
cat.
Frank got to his feet, swayed dizzily, and nearly fell over an object
that had been on the blacktop beside him. Gingerly he bent down and
picked it up: a flight bag made of supple leather, packed full,
surprisingly heavy. He supposed it was his. He could not remember.
Carrying the bag, he tottered to the dumpster and leaned against its
rusted flank.
Looking back, he saw that he was between rows of what seemed to be
two-story stucco apartment buildings. All of the windows were black. On
both sides, the tenants’ cars were pulled nose-first into covered
parking stalls. The queer yellow glow, sour and sulfurous, almost more
like the product of a gas flame than the luminescence of an incandescent
electric bulb, came from a street lamp at the end of the block, too far
away to reveal the details of the alleyway in which he stood.
As his rapid breathing slowed and as his heartbeat decelerated, he
abruptly realized that he did not know who he was. He knew his
name-Frank Pollard-but that was all. He did not know how old he was,
what he did for a living, where he had come from, where he was going, or
why. He was so startled by his predicament that for a moment his breath
caught in his throat; then his heartbeat soared again, and he let his
breath out in a rush.
Fireflies in a windstorm…
What the hell did that mean?
The headache above his right eye corkscrewed across his forehead.
He looked frantically left and right, searching for an object or an
aspect of the scene that he might recognize, anything, an anchor in a
world that was suddenly too strange. When the night offered nothing to
reassure him, he turned his quest inward, desperately seeking something
familiar in himself, but his own memory was even darker than the
passageway around him.
Gradually he became aware that the scent of smoke had faded, replaced by