Shadowfires

he received, until the burrow
filled with the exciting stink of blood and feces and urine…
    Regaining human consciousness, Eric realized that the car was no
longer moving. He had no idea how long it had been stopped-maybe only
a minute or two, maybe hours. Struggling against the hypnotic pull of
the dreamworld that he'd just left, wanting to retreat back into that thrillingly violent and reassuringly simple place of primal needs and pleasures, he bit down on his lower lip to clear his head and was startled-but, on consideration, not surprised-to find that his teeth seemed sharper than they had been previously. He listened for a moment, but he heard no voices or other noises outside. He wondered if they had gone all the way to Vegas and if the car was now parked in the motel garage where Shadway had told Rachael to put it.
    The cold, inhuman rage that he had felt in his dream was in him
still, although redirected now from an amber-eyed, burrow-dwelling
little mammal to Rachael. His hatred of her was overwhelming, and his
need to get his hands on her-tear out her throat, rip open her guts-
was building toward a frenzy.
    He fumbled in the pitch-black trunk for the screwdriver. Though
there was no more light than before, he did not seem quite as blind
as he had been. If he was not actually seeing the vague
dimensions of his Stygian cell, then he was evidently apprehending
them with some newfound sixth sense, for he possessed at least a
threshold awareness of the position and features of each metal wall.
He also perceived the screwdriver lying against the wall near his
knees, and when he reached down to test the validity of that
perception, he put his hand on the ribbed Lucite handle of the
tool.
    He popped the trunk lid.
    Light speared in. For a moment his eyes stung, then adjusted.
    He pushed the lid up.
    He was surprised to see the desert.
    He climbed out of the trunk.
Rachael washed her hands at the sink-there
was hot water but no soap-and dried them in the blast of the hot-air
blower that was provided in lieu of paper towels.
    Outside, as the heavy door closed behind her, she saw that no
rattlesnakes had taken up residence on the walkway. She went only
three steps before she also saw that the trunk of the Mercedes was
open wide.
    She stopped, frowning. Even if the trunk had not been locked, the
lid could not have slipped its catch spontaneously.
    Suddenly she knew: Eric.
    Even as his name flashed through her mind, he appeared at the
corner of the building, fifteen feet away from her. He stopped and
stared as if the sight of her riveted him as much as she was frozen
by the sight of him.
    It was Eric, yet it was not Eric.
    She stared at him, horrified and disbelieving, not immediately
able to comprehend his bizarre metamorphosis, yet sensing that the
manipulation of his genetic structure had somehow resulted in these
monstrous changes. His body appeared deformed; however, because of
his clothing, it was hard to tell precisely what had happened to him.
Something was different about his knee joints and his hips. And he
was hunchbacked: his red plaid shirt was straining at the seams to
contain the mound that had risen from shoulder to shoulder. His arms
had grown two or three inches, which would have been obvious even if
his knobby and strangely jointed wrists had not thrust out beyond his
shirt cuffs. His hands looked fearfully powerful, deformed by human
standards, yet with a suggestion of suppleness and dexterity; they
were mottled yellow-brown-gray; the hugely knuckled and elongated
fingers terminated in claws; in places, his skin seemed to have been
supplanted by pebbly scales.
    His strangely altered face was the worst thing about him. Every
aspect of his once-handsome countenance was changed, yet just enough
of his familiar features remained to leave him recognizable. Bones
had re-formed, becoming broader and flatter in some places, narrower
and more rounded in others, heavier over and under his now-sunken
eyes and through his jawline, which was prognathous. A hideous
serrated bony ridge had formed up the center of his lumpish brow and-
diminishing-trailed across the top of his scalp.
    “Rachael,” he said.
    His voice was low, vibratory, and hoarse. She thought there was a
mournful, even melancholy, note in it.
    On his thickened forehead were twin conical protrusions that
appeared to be half formed, although they seemed destined to be horns
the size of
Rachael's