For a moment he was exhilarated, certain that his experiment had proved a far greater success than he had hoped. Then he realized that his thoughts were still confused, that his memory was still tattered, even though his brain tissue must have healed as thoroughly as his skull had done. Did that mean that his intellect and clarity of mind would never be fully restored, even if his tissues were repaired? That prospect frightened him, especially as he again saw his uncle Barry Hampstead, long dead, standing over in the corner, beside a crackling pillar of shadowfire.
Perhaps, though he had come back from the land of the dead, he would always remain, in part, a dead man, regardless of his miraculous new genetic structure.
No. He did not want to believe that, for it would mean that all his labors, plans, and risks were for nothing.
In the corner, Uncle Barry grinned and said, “Come kiss me, Eric. Come show me that you love me.”
Perhaps death was more than the cessation of physical and mental activity. Perhaps some other quality was lost . . . a quality of spirit that could not be reanimated as successfully as flesh and blood and brain activity.
Almost of its own volition, his questing hand moved tremblingly from the side of his head to his brow, where the recent explosion of pain had been centered. He felt something odd. Something
wrong.
His forehead was no longer a smooth plate of bone. It was lumpy, knotted. Strange excrescences had arisen in an apparently random pattern.
He heard a mewling sound of pure terror, and at first he did not realize that he had made the noise himself.
The bone over each eye was far thicker than it should have been.
And a smooth knot of bone, almost an inch high, had appeared at his right temple.
How? My God, how?
As he explored the upper portion of his face in the manner of a blind man seeking an impression of a stranger’s appearance, crystals of icy dread formed in him.
A narrow gnarled ridge of bone had appeared down the center of his forehead, extending to the bridge of his nose.
He felt thick, pulsing arteries along his hairline, where there should have been no such vessels.
He could not stop mewling, and hot tears sprang to his eyes.
Even in his clouded mind, the terrifying truth of the situation was evident. Technically, his genetically modified body had been killed by his brutal encounter with the garbage truck, but life of a kind had been maintained on a cellular level, and his edited genes, functioning on a mere trickle of life force, had sent urgent signals through his cooling tissues to command the amazingly rapid production of all substances needed for regeneration and rejuvenation. And now that repairs had been made, his altered genes were not switching off the frantic growth. Something was wrong. The genetic switches were staying open. His body was frenetically adding bone and flesh and blood, and though the new tissues were probably perfectly healthy, the process had become something like a cancer, though the rate of growth far outstripped that of even the most virulent cancer cells.
His body was re-forming itself.
But into what?
His heart was hammering, and he had broken into a cold sweat.
He pushed up from the armchair. He had to get to a mirror. He had to see his face.
He did not want to see it, was repelled by the thought of what he would find, was scared of discovering a grotesquely alien reflection in the mirror, but at the same time he urgently had to know what he was becoming.
In the sporting-goods store by the lake, Ben chose a Remington semi-automatic 12-gauge shotgun with a five-round magazine. Properly handled, it could be a devastating weapon—and he knew how to handle it. He picked up two boxes of shells for the shotgun, plus one box of ammunition for the Smith & Wesson .357 Combat Magnum that he had taken off Baresco, and another box for Rachael’s .32-caliber pistol.
They looked as if they were preparing for war.
Although no permit or waiting period was required when purchasing a shotgun—as was the case with a handgun—Ben had to fill out a form, divulging his name, address, and Social Security number, then provide the clerk with proof of identity, preferably a California driver’s license with a laminated photograph. While Ben stood at the yellow Formica counter with Rachael, completing the form, the clerk—“Call me Sam,” he’d said, when he had shown them the shop’s gun selection—excused himself and went to the north end of the room to assist a group of fishermen who had questions about several fly rods.
The second clerk was with another customer at the south end of the long room, carefully explaining the differences among types of sleeping bags.
Behind the counter, on a wall shelf, beside a large display of cellophane-wrapped packages of beef jerky, stood a radio tuned to a Los Angeles AM station. While Ben and Rachael had selected a shotgun and ammunition, only pop music and commercials had issued from the radio. But now the twelve-thirty news report was under way, and suddenly Ben heard his own name, and Rachael’s, coming over the airwaves.
“ . . . Shadway and Rachael Leben on a federal warrant. Mrs. Leben is the wife of the wealthy entrepreneur Eric Leben, who was killed in a traffic accident yesterday. According to a Justice Department spokesman, Shadway and Mrs. Leben are wanted in connection with the theft of highly sensitive, top-secret research files from several Geneplan Corporation projects funded by the Department of Defense, as well as for suspicion of murder in the case of two Palm Springs police officers killed last night in a brutal machine-gun attack.”
Rachael heard it too. “That’s crazy!”
Putting one hand on her arm to quiet her, Ben glanced nervously at the two clerks, who were still busy elsewhere in the store, talking to other customers. The last thing Ben wanted was to draw their attention to the news report. The clerk named Sam had already seen Ben’s driver’s license before pulling a firearms information form from the file. He knew Ben’s name, and if he heard it on the radio, he was almost certain to react to it.
Protestations of innocence would be of no use. Sam would call the cops. He might even have a gun behind the counter, under the cash register, and might try to use it to keep Ben and Rachael there until the police arrived, and Ben did not want to have to take a gun away from him and maybe hurt him in the process.
“Jarrod McClain, director of the Defense Security Agency, who is coordinating the investigation and the
manhunt for Shadway and Mrs. Leben, issued a statement to the press in Washington within the past hour, calling the case ‘a matter of grave concern that can reasonably be described as a national security crisis.’ ”
Sam, over in the fishing-gear department, laughed at something a customer said—and started back toward the cash register. One of the fishermen was coming with him. They were talking animatedly, so if the news report was registering with them, it was getting through, at best, on only a subconscious level. But if they stopped talking before the report concluded . . .
“Though asserting that Shadway and Mrs. Leben have seriously damaged their country’s security, neither McClain nor the Justice Department spokesman would specify the nature of the research being done by Geneplan for the Pentagon.”
The two approaching men were twenty feet away, still discussing the merits of various brands of fly rods and spinning reels.
Rachael was staring at them apprehensively, and Ben bumped lightly against her to distract her, lest her expression alert them to the significance of the news on the radio.
“ . . . recombinant DNA as Geneplan’s sole business . . .”
Sam rounded the end of the sales counter. The customer’s course paralleled that of the clerk, and they continued talking across the yellow Formica as they approached Rachael and Ben.
“Photographs and descriptions of Benjamin Shadway and Rachael Leben have gone out to all police agencies in California and most of the Southwest, along with a federal advisory that the fugitives are armed and dangerous.”
Sam and the fisherman reached the cash register, where Ben turned his attention back to the government form.
The newscaster had moved on to another story.
Ben was startled and delighted to hear Rachael launch smoothly into a line of bubbly patter, engaging the fisherman’s attention. The guy was tall, burly, in his fifties, wearing a black T-shirt that exposed his beefy arms, both of which featured elaborate blue-and-red tattoos. Rachael professed to be simply fascinated by tattoos, and the angler, like most men, was flattered and pleased by the gushy attention of a beautiful young woman. Anyone listening to Rachael’s charming and slightly witless chatter—for she assumed the attitude of a California beach girl airhead—would never have suspected that she had just listened to a radio reporter describe her as a fugitive wanted for murder.
The same slightly pompous-sounding reporter was currently talking about a terrorist bombing in the Mideast, and Sam, the clerk, clicked a knob on the radio, cutting him off in midsentence. “I’m plain sick of hearing about those damn A-rabs,” he said to Ben.
“Who isn’t?” Ben said, completing the last line of the form.
“Far as I’m concerned,” Sam said, “if they give us any more grief, we should just nuke ’em and be done with it.”
“Nuke ’em,” Ben agreed. “Back to the Stone Age.”
The radio was part of the tape deck, and Sam switched that on, popped in a cassette. “Have to be farther back than the Stone Age. They’re
already
living in the damn Stone Age.”
“Nuke ’em back to the Age of Dinosaurs,” Ben said as a song by the Oak Ridge Boys issued from the cassette player.
Rachael was making astonished and squeamish sounds as the fisherman told her how the tattoo needles embedded the ink way down beneath all three layers of skin.
“Age of the Dinosaurs,” Sam agreed. “Let ’em try their terrorist crap on a tyrannosaurus, huh?”
Ben laughed and handed over the completed form.
The purchases had already been charged to Ben’s Visa card, so all Sam had to do was staple the charge slip and the cash-register tape to one copy of the firearms information form and put the paperwork in the bag that held the four boxes of ammunition. “Come see us again.”
“I’ll sure do that,” Ben said.
Rachael said good-bye to the tattooed fisherman, and Ben said hello
and
good-bye to him, and they both said good-bye to Sam. Ben carried the box containing the shotgun, and Rachael carried the plastic sack that contained the boxes of ammunition, and they moved nonchalantly across the room toward the front door, past stacks of aluminum bait buckets with perforated Styrofoam liners, past furled minnow-seining nets and small landing nets that looked like tennis rackets with badly stretched strings, past ice chests and thermos bottles and colorful fishing hats.
Behind them, in a voice that he believed to be softer than it actually was, the tattooed fisherman said to Sam: “Quite a woman.”
You don’t know the half of it, Ben thought as he pushed open the door for Rachael and followed her outside.
Less than ten feet away, a San Bernardino County sheriff’s deputy was getting out of a patrol car.
Fluorescent light bounced off the green and white ceramic tile, bright enough to reveal every hideous detail, too bright.
The bathroom mirror, framed in brass, was unmarred by spots or yellow streaks of age, and the reflections it presented were crisp and sharp and clear in every detail, too clear.
Eric Leben was not surprised by what he saw, for while sitting in the living-room armchair, he had already hesitantly used his hands to explore the startling changes in the upper portions of his face. But visual confirmation of what his disbelieving hands had told him was shocking, frightening, depressing—and more fascinating than anything else he’d seen in his entire life.
A year ago, he had subjected himself to the imperfect Wildcard program of genetic editing and augmentation. Since then, he had caught no colds, no flu, had been plagued by no mouth ulcers or headaches, not even acid indigestion. Week by week, he had gathered evidence supporting the contention that the treatment had wrought a desirable change in him without negative side effects.
Side effects.
He almost laughed. Almost.
Staring in horror at the mirror, as if it were a window onto hell, he raised one trembling hand to his forehead and touched, again, the narrow rippled ridge of bone that had risen from the bridge of his nose to his hairline.
The catastrophic injuries he had suffered yesterday had triggered his new healing abilities in a way and to a degree that invasive cold and flu viruses had not. Thrown into overdrive, his cells had begun to produce interferon, a wide spectrum of infection-fighting antibodies, and especially growth hormones and proteins, at an astonishing rate. For some reason, those substances were continuing to flood his system after the healing was complete, after the need for them was past. His body was no longer merely replacing damaged tissue but was adding new tissue at an alarming rate, tissue without apparent function.
“No,” he said softly, “no,” trying to deny what he saw before him. But it was true, and he felt its truth under his fingertips as he explored farther along the top of his head. The strange bony ridge was most prominent on his forehead, but it was on top of his head, as well, beneath his hair, and he even thought he could feel it growing as he traced its course toward the back of his skull.
His body was transforming itself either at random or to some purpose that he could not grasp, and there was no way of knowing when it would finally stop. It might never stop. He might go on growing, changing, reconstituting himself in myriad new images, endlessly. He was metamorphosing into a freak . . . or just possibly, ultimately, into something so utterly alien that it could no longer be called human.