Shadowfires

pot in
which to heat it, but was shaking too badly to wait any longer, so he
just drank the cold soup out of the can, threw the can aside, wiping
absentmindedly at the broth that dripped off his chin. He kept no
fresh food in the cabin, only a few frozen things, mostly canned
goods, so he opened a family-size Dinty Moore beef stew, and he ate
that cold, too, all of it, so fast he kept choking on it.
    He chewed the beef with something akin to manic glee, taking a
strangely intense pleasure from the tearing and rending of the meat
between his teeth. It was a pleasure unlike any he had experienced
before-primal, savage-and it both delighted and frightened him.
    Although the stew was fully cooked, requiring only reheating, and
although it was laden with spices and preservatives, Eric could smell
the traces of blood remaining in the beef. Though the blood content
was minuscule and thoroughly cooked, Eric perceived it not merely as
a vague scent but as a strong, nearly overpowering odor, a thrilling
and thoroughly delicious organic incense, which caused him to
shudder with excitement. He breathed deeply and was dizzied by the
blood fragrance, and on his tongue it was ambrosian.
    When he finished the cold beef stew, which took only a couple of
minutes, he opened a can of chili and ate that even more quickly,
then another can of soup, chicken noodle this time, and finally he
began to take the sharp edge off his hunger. He unscrewed the lid
from a jar of peanut butter, scooped some out with his fingers, and
ate it. He did not like it as well as he liked the meat, but he knew
it was good for him, rich in the nutrients that his racing metabolism
required. He consumed more, cleaned out most of the jar, then threw
it aside and stood for a moment, gasping for breath, exhausted from
eating.
    The queer, painless fire continued to burn in him, but the hunger
had substantially abated.
    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his uncle Barry Hampstead
sitting in a chair at the small kitchen table, grinning at him. This
time, instead of ignoring the phantom, Eric turned toward it, took a
couple of steps closer, and said, “What do you want here, you son of
a bitch?” His voice was gravelly, not at all like it had once been.
“What're you grinning at, you goddamn pervert? You get the hell out of here.”
    Uncle Barry actually began to fade away, although that was not
surprising: He was only an illusion born of degenerated brain
cells.
    Unreal flames, feeding on shadows, danced in the darkness beyond
the cellar door, which Eric had evidently left open when he had come
back upstairs with the Wildcard file. He watched the shadowfires. As
before, he felt some mystery beckoning, and he was afraid. However,
emboldened by his success in chasing away Barry Hampstead's shade, he started toward the flickering red and silver flames, figuring either to dispel them or to see, at last, what lay within them.
    Then he remembered the armchair in the living room, the window,
the lookout he had been keeping. He had been distracted from that
important task by a chain of events: the unusually brutal headache,
the changes he had felt in his face, the macabre reflection in the
mirror, the Wildcard file, his sudden crippling hunger, Uncle Barry's apparition, and now the false fires beyond the cellar door. He could not concentrate on one thing for any length of time, and he cried out in frustration at this latest evidence of mental dysfunction.
    He moved back across the kitchen, kicking aside an empty Dinty
Moore beef stew can and a couple of soup cans, heading for the living
room and his abandoned guardpost.
Reeeeee, reeeeee, reeeeee… The one-
note songs of the cicadas, monotonous to the human ear but most
likely rich in meaning to other insects, echoed shrilly yet hollowly
through the high forest.
    Standing beside the rental car, keeping a wary eye on the woods
around them, Ben distributed four extra shotgun shells and eight
extra rounds for the Combat Magnum in the pockets of his jeans.
    Rachael emptied out her purse and filled it with three boxes of
ammunition, one for each of their guns. That was surely an excessive
supply-but Ben did not suggest that she take any less.
    He carried the shotgun under one arm. Given the slightest
provocation, he could swing it up and fire in a fraction of a
second.
    Rachael carried the thirty-two pistol and the Combat Magnum, one
in each hand. She wanted Ben to carry both the