Homing (49 page)

The ants swarmed over him, their mandibles sinking into his skin, each of them injecting a tiny droplet of poison into him, until, within a few seconds, his skin felt as if it were on fire.

Screaming in fear and agony, he staggered toward the door, but the sound of his pounding fists was lost in the ever-rising howl of the insects that now filled the cellar beyond the door.

And then, miraculously, the lock was opened and Carl Henderson felt the door open in front of him.

For an instant-a moment so brief he barely had time to savor it all Henderson felt the thrill of escape.

Then the swarm attacked, wasps and hornets sinking their stingers deep into his flesh as the mosquitoes settled on him to feast on his blood.

Drawing in his breath to scream, Henderson choked on a cloud of gnats, and, coughing, fell to the floor.

He scrabbled across it in a desperate attempt to escape his attackers, only to feel, a second later, a new presence.

Reaching out, his fingers closed on what he was certain was a human ankle.

But even before he had a chance to plead for mercy, Julie's swollen fingers reached down and her long, stingerlike nails sank into his flesh.

At that moment, the roach-stripped wiring short-circuited, igniting the tinder- wood with which the house was constructed. As he died, the last thing Carl Henderson saw, hellishly illuminated in the flames, was a face bloated, pale, inhumanly distended but nevertheless recognizable as a young girl's face. A face framed by long dark hair.

Julie Spellman's face . . . his sister's face.

Carl Henderson's house, invisible in a dense cloud of insects only a moment earlier, burst into flames, the fire erupting as if from nowhere, the flames fanned by the millions of beating insect wings.

Within seconds the whole structure was a blazing inferno, the flames shooting a hundred feet into the air, even the insects around the house feeding the conflagration.

Less than five minutes after the fire burst forth, the entire structure collapsed, what was left of the already half devoured siding and timbers dropping into the pit of the basement, sending a shower of sparks and embers in every direction.

Then, as the flames died away, leaving nothing where the house had stood but a mass of smoldering coals, the cloud of insects began to disperse.

Other cars had gathered, their occupants drawn to the site of the burning house by the black smoke rising into the sky. Now, the shaken residents of Pleasant Valley began to emerge from their cars, staring at each other, dazed, barely able to believe what they had just witnessed. Smoking rubble was all that remained of Carl Henderson's house.

As Karen and Russell, holding Molly, stood next to Marge Larkin, whose arms were wrapped protectively around Ben, Ellen Filmore emerged from the onlookers and came to stand beside them.

"It's over," Ellen said. "It was Carl who turned it loose on us, and in the end, it was Carl it came home to. But it's over now."

Karen Owen looked uncertainly at the doctor. "But our children," she whispered. "Julie and Kevin. And Jeff . @ ' "

Ellen shook her head, thinking of the rat she and Roberto had dissected only a little while earlier. There was no point, she decided, in telling these people what their children must have suffered. "They would have died quickly," she said. "They probably never even knew what happened."

For a long time Karen Owen stared at the rubble. Finally, the doctor's words echoing in her mind, she turned away.

Let it be true, she thought. Let it be over, and let them not have suffered any more than they could bear.

EPILOGUE

The coyote stopped short, his hackles rising as the unfamiliar scent filled his nostrils. His body stiffening, one forepaw lifted off the ground, he sniffed at the breeze.

Then, in the growing heat of the morning, he set off in search of the prey whose smell he had detected on the wind.

He stopped again, for now the scent was strong. His ears pricking, he listened for any sound, motionless so as not to alert the prey to his presence.

Then he heard it.

A barely audible sound, but familiar.

Something injured.

In pain.

Dying.

Nothing he would have to hunt, or even fear.

His tail rising above his hindquarters like a plume, he started forward, his body quivering with eagerness, his jowls already dripping with saliva in anticipation of his meal.

Now he saw it.

He recognized the form instantly, for he'd seen human beings often.

He hesitated again, for he'd also learned to be wary of them.

This one, though, smelled different from the others.

It looked different, too.

It lay on the ground, in a position of submission, its belly exposed.

Wary, the coyote moved closer.

The form on the ground moved slightly, its skin rippling as if something were beneath it.

Again the coyote heard the moan that told him the creature was dying. Emboldened by the sound and the weakness of the form's movements, the animal moved closer, sniffing once again at the scent emanating from the fallen human.

The smell of death was already starting to drift from its skin.

The coyote moved closer still, reaching out with one paw to prod at the creature.

Again it stiffed, and again he heard it moan.

The coyote moved toward the head and the exposed throat, its instincts urging it to sink its teeth into the naked flesh, to rip the windpipe open, then stand back until the creature died and it would be safe to begin its feast.

Creeping closer, it paused one more time, hovering above the prey, its jaws agape.

And suddenly its victim's mouth opened and a black cloud erupted from its throat, engulfing the coyote's head in a stinging black mass, swarming into his open mouth, disappearing into his tongue and gums, burrowing into his skin and down his throat.

At that moment Sara McLaughlin, abandoned by the colony that had consumed her, finally died.

And the coyote, bearing its pain in unnatural silence, staggered as a wave of nausea swept over it. Then, regaining its footing, it turned and loped away.