Shadowfires

the most malignant cancer cells in their most furious stages of
unchecked reproduction could match that pace!
    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