Shadowfires

Farmer John sausage-and-
biscuit sandwiches from the freezer compartment and heated them on a
tray in the oven, concentrating intently on the task to avoid burning
himself. Fumblingly, patiently, he brewed a pot of Maxwell House.
Sitting at the table, shoulders hunched, head held low, he washed the
food down with cup after cup of the hot black coffee.
    He had an insatiable appetite for a while, and the very act of
eating made him feel more truly alive than anything
he'd done since he'd been reborn. Biting, chewing, tasting,
swallowing-by those simple actions, he was brought further back among
the living than at any point since he'd stepped in the way of the garbage truck on Main Street. For a while, his spirits began to rise.
    Then he slowly became aware that the taste of the sausage was
neither as strong nor as pleasing as when he had been fully alive and
able to appreciate it; and though he put his nose close to the hot,
greasy meat and drew deep breaths, he was unable to smell its spicy
aroma. He stared at his cool, ash-gray, clammy hands, which held the
biscuit-wrapped sausage, and the wad of steaming pork looked more
alive than his own flesh.
    Suddenly the situation seemed uproariously funny to Eric: a dead
man sitting at breakfast, chomping stolidly on Farmer John sausages,
pouring hot Maxwell House down his cold gullet, desperately
pretending to be one of the living, as if death could be reversed by
pretense, as if life could be regained merely by the performance of
enough mundane activities-showering, brushing his teeth, eating,
drinking, crapping-and by the consumption of enough homely products.
He must be alive, because they
wouldn't have Farmer John sausages and Maxwell House in either heaven or hell. Would they? He must be alive, because he had used his Mr. Coffee machine and his General Electric oven, and over in the corner his Westinghouse refrigerator was humming softly, and although those manufacturers'
wares were widely distributed, surely none of them would be found on
the far shores of the river Styx, so he must be alive.
    Black humor certainly, very black indeed, but he laughed out loud,
laughed and laughed-until he heard his laughter. It sounded hard,
coarse, cold, not really laughter but a poor imitation, rough and
harsh, as if he were choking, or as if he had swallowed stones that
now rattled and clattered against one another in his throat. Dismayed
by the sound, he shuddered and began to weep. He dropped the sausage-
stuffed biscuit, swept the food and dishes to the floor, and
collapsed forward, folding his arms upon the table and resting his
head in his arms. Great gasping sobs of grief escaped him, and for a
while he was immersed in a deep pool of self-pity.
    The mice, the mice, remember the mice bashing
against the walls of their cages…
    He still did not know the meaning of that thought, could not
recall any mice, though he felt that he was closer to understanding
than ever before. A memory of mice, white mice, hovered tantalizingly
just beyond his grasp.
    His gray mood darkened.
    His dulled senses grew even duller.
    After a while, he realized he was sinking into another coma, one
of those periods of suspended animation during which his heart slowed
dramatically and his respiration fell to a fraction of the normal
rate, giving his body an opportunity to continue with repairs and
accumulate new reserves of energy. He slipped from his chair to the
kitchen floor and curled fetally beside the refrigerator.
Benny turned off Interstate 10 at Redlands
and followed State Route 30 to 330. Lake Arrowhead lay only twenty-
eight miles away.
    The two-lane blacktop cut a twisty trail into the San Bernardino
Mountains. The pavement was hoved and rough in some spots, slightly
potholed in others, and frequently the shoulder was only a few inches
wide, with a steep drop beyond the flimsy guardrails, leaving little
leeway for mistakes. They were forced to slow considerably, though
Benny piloted the Ford much faster than Rachael could have done.
    Last night Rachael had spilled her secrets to Benny-the details of
Wildcard and of Eric's obsessions-and she had expected him to divulge his in return, but he had said nothing that would explain the way he had dealt with Vincent Baresco, the uncanny way he could handle a car, or his knowledge of guns. Though her curiosity was great, she did not press him. She sensed that his secrets were of a far more personal nature