Shadowfires

different from the apparent random, tumor-
like excrescences of bone and tissue that had formed across his
forehead. These hands were not just the result of an excess of growth
hormones and 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, despairing 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
    private 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
double safeties on her pistol.
Eric used the electric opener to take the lid
off a large can of Progresso minestrone, realized he needed a