Spawn of Hell (26 page)

Suddenly Harry sprang out of the chair and wrapped his hands around David’s neck, as if David were to blame for everything. Anna screamed and tried to push him away. David’s hands tugged at his assailant’s, but the man was too strong in his fury to be defeated so easily. His grip was like a death hug. Paula pulled at his shoulders from behind, crying for him to stop. Anna raised her fists and beat at the man, hitting him everywhere: the head, the arms, the neck. The fierce look in her eyes indicated that had she a knife in her possession she would have used it without hesitation.

Finally, as suddenly full of fatigue as he had been of energy, Harry released David’s throat, wheezed, and dropped back into the chair. “I’m sorry,” he said, still in a fog over the whole incident. He looked up. “God help me. I didn’t mean—” He dropped his head into his hands and openly wept. “I’m sorry.”

David went over to the sofa, rubbing his throat, which was reddened with the marks of the man’s nails and fingers. He could deal with the pain, the quiet shock that comes after a close brush with eternity, the throbbing soreness on his throat. But he could not deal with the horrible accusation in the man’s tormented eyes. He would not forget that glare—it accused him of betrayal, of cowardice. It was as if Harry knew that he would not have come even if he had told him where he was. Was that true? Had he committed an unpardonable sin—in this man’s eyes, at least? Perhaps in his own, too? He had tried, he told himself, to find out where Harry was. Should he have pulled on his clothes last night, gone to the store, to Harry’s home, looked everywhere he could, walked all over the town? David suddenly felt low and weak and pathetic. Why, he couldn’t even stand the thought of getting behind the’ wheel of an automobile. He had never felt so helpless and vulnerable before, so wretched.

“Are you all right?” Anna asked, sitting down beside him. He could sense her genuine concern and wondered if he were worthy of it.

“Yes. Yes, I’m okay. Gave me a scare, didn’t he?”

Anna looked over at Paula, who was leaning over Harry, holding him tenderly in her arms. “Have you called a doctor?” Anna asked. “I think he needs a doctor.”

Paula seemed to start for a moment, as if she had really only awakened just that second. “Oh, of course. I had better do that.” She pulled away from Harry, and put one hand to her forehead, her expression still perplexed. It was as if she were having trouble accepting that there was something really wrong with Harry. He had been her strength these last few days, her rock. Someone to lean on, to talk to. She was clearly not prepared for the situation to reverse itself so soon, so suddenly. All at once came this great responsibility, and even the thought of it was probably enough to throw her into a panic. She went to the phone in the kitchen. The could hear her dialing, talking to someone.

David sat on the couch, still wrapped up in his own thoughts. Anna touched him, her fingers rubbing the hair at the nape of his neck, silently communicating her concern.

Harry London sat in his easy chair, staring out into space, images of the night before locked inside his eyes, caught for all times, never-ending. The wound in his leg, hidden by his trousers, was infected and festering, its poison spreading through his system, setting fire to his mind, burning out his brain. Again and again he relived the evening’s horror, one part of his mind wanting to tell them about it, the other refusing to accept that it had ever happened, refusing to acknowledge any of the memories which came uninvited. Torn this way, his mind simply sank into a semi-comatose state, where no sound or smell, voice or touch, could ever reach him.

David and Anna left Milbourne, Connecticut the following day. They would have been surprised to know what was to happen to the town in the weeks to come.

Bill Spooner’s family, and the families of the other men who’d died with him that night, and the families of the youngsters who’d disappeared, and of the men who’d vanished on the mountain top while searching for them, would live in mortal fear of late-night phone calls, wondering who would be the next of their kin to walk out at night and never come back. Over the following months, they would tell themselves a hundred different stories to explain the disappearances, but none would ever really satisfy them or ease the chill in their hearts.

Everyone would suspect that Harry London was the key to all the mysteries, that Harry knew the answers, and could tell the town where everyone had gone. But Harry would be silent, entombed by his own fragile mind, unable to tell a soul what had happened. Two weeks after that horrible night, he would walk out of the hospital and disappear from Milbourne without a trace, a note, or a backward glance. Months later, a body would wash up on the beach at a small lake in upstate New York, and dental records would confirm the dead man’s identity. The identity of the virulent chemical or biological agent that had raged through his system, however, would never be determined.

Paula Widdoes would not be able to stand the loss of two friends, two loved ones, coming so soon together.

She would stay home from work one day, and while the telephone rang incessantly in her ears, and the TV played at top volume, she would take the gun her father had left her for protection out of the night table drawer and blow her brains right out of her head.

The Coroner of Milbourne, Connecticut finally released the body of Jeffrey Braddon two days after his sister went back to Manhattan, his final report full of insubstantial gobbledygook and double talk. The verdict: death by misadventure. Cause: unknown. The Coroner, finding himself with extra, unreported income, would decide to take his wife and family on a trip to Europe. Unfortunately, they would be killed in a mysterious “accident” on the way to the airport.

The Forester Building would eventually be torn down, and a large chain supermarket put up in its place to compete with the grocery on the other side of town. The sub-basement would be completely filled in, and before long the residents would forget all about what had happened under the market’s shiny tile floors.

Representatives of the State Police, who took over the law enforcement of Milbourne during the interim between the disappearance of the entire police force and the appointment of new law officers, would instigate an exhaustive search for the missing parties, particularly the Chief and his patrolmen. They, too, would go through the hole in the floor of the Forester Building, would go through the tunnels and discover the cavern, with its burned human bodies, and the lake full of charred black things, unrecognizable to the eyes of those who found them. There would be much speculation as to the nature of the beasts, and the circumstances that led to their demise, as well as the deaths of the men—not to mention the origin of the many bones lying about the cavern, including the skeletal pieces of the former Chief of Police.

But further speculation, inquiry and investigation would be abruptly curtailed by a visit from the mayor and several other town and county officials, who in turn had been visited (not only this time but several times in the past) by representatives of the Barrows Corporation, a huge conglomerate that owned whole towns and thousands of officials, as well as prominent senators and influential lawyers. Money would change hands. Voices would speak in hushed tones. Pressure would be exerted in sensitive areas. And before long, even those who had seen the pool and lived to tell the story, would be suitably convinced that it was not worth the trouble to tell anyone else. An “official” story explaining the disappearances would circulate. The missing parties had been caught in a freak fire in the woods, their bodies completely destroyed. People would remember the smoke they had smelled that fateful night. But they would notice:
None of the trees were charred.
And they would shake their heads and wonder.

But in another town, several hundred miles away, events were already in motion that even the mighty and all-powerful Barrows Corporation might have trouble controlling . . .

Or would they?

True, the
first
test had been a dismal failure.

But the
second?

That was another story.

Part Three

Outbreak

Chapter Ten

Hillsboro, Vermont—Summer, 1983

David Hammond woke up at three in the afternoon, quickly responding to the alarm clock buzzing on the dresser two feet from his bed. He got up, stepped across the space between bed and bureau, and pushed in the notch on the clock, shutting off the sound. He sat back down on the bed, and rubbed his eyes. Bright sunlight came in through the window on the opposite wall from the dresser. A clear, sunny, mild Vermont morning.

He was glad that yesterday’s hot weather had abated for the present, although it was by no means chilly. He looked around the room. His clothes were lying in a little pile on the floor, and his suitcase sat on the lap of the hardbacked wooden chair over in the corner, still unpacked for the most part. The dresser top was piled up with paperbacks and library books he’d brought up to read in the quiet hours. Only he doubted he’d have time to read any of them. Today was the day Anna was arriving.

The thought of it made him feel fantastic. In just two short hours her bus would be here, pulling up to the parking lot of the Hillsboro diner. The lonely weekend would finally be over. Today was Sunday, the day she had promised she would join him.

He’d come up here on Friday afternoon to get the house ready before her arrival. At that time, Anna hadn’t known for sure when she might be able to get enough time off to come up and spend a week or two with him. But then Saturday morning he got the call. She had made arrangements, juggled an appointment or two, used all her connections, and now had two full weeks of free time—and she was coming up by bus on Sunday!

All during the rest of the weekend he had waited anxiously, afraid that the phone would ring and Anna would be calling, canceling her trip due to unexpected business. But that had never happened. Now here it was, Sunday, and Anna was already on her way.

He had called his father the week before, asking permission—though he knew he would not need it—to use the house for most of the summer. He could work up here in peace, out of the city heat and smog, able to swim and sunbathe whenever the mood struck him. He could mail the free-lance assignments he did directly to the Belmont Company back in Manhattan. (They’d already bought a couple of things, so he had a little money, and in September, he had learned, a full-time position on their art staff was waiting.) It had been easy to persuade Anna to come up and join him at the earliest opportunity.

Two whole weeks! It was wonderful! And it was only the beginning. If luck was with him, perhaps Anna might get even more time off later on.

Upon returning to Manhattan from Milbourne, Anna and David had continued to spend a great deal of time together, while Anna’s problems mounted and David’s life got better. He was finally on the verge of a new career, new prestige, away from the humiliating combination of unemployment and poverty. Anna, on the other hand, faced the debilitating prospects of a divorce, in addition to the emotional upset she had already been dealt by the death of her brother. They had left Milbourne with more questions than they’d had when they’d arrived. Jeffrey’s body had finally been released, and there had been a funeral—which David attended, although Derek did not—and a proper burial. In a sense, David thought, the impending breakup of her marriage was the best thing for Anna at that time. It had so filled her days and nights, kept her wondering about her future, that she had had less time than she would have had to wonder what on earth had happened in Milbourne. It had become clear that Jeffrey’s death had not been a random incident; the disappearance of those backpackers, the policemen, Chief Walters and others indicated that something very strange and horrible had happened. But if the authorities could not find out what it was, she pointed out to David, what chance would she have? Although there had been a few minor news stories about the incidents, after a week or two it was all but forgotten.

Anna had gone to Milbourne determined to learn the truth. She had come back tired and drained, knowing that whether or not she knew the truth, it would make no difference to Jeffrey. When his body had been lowered into the ground one rainy Sunday morning, she had done her best to shut out all thoughts of him—except for the pleasant memories from her youth. He was dead. That was that. It was final. David hoped Anna would continue to cope with it so well.

So here they were. Starting out on a new life together. They’d had time to get to know each other better in the days since Milbourne. Anna had turned to David. David had turned to Anna. Nothing else seemed to matter very much.

David went into the small kitchen in the back of the house and made himself a pot of fresh coffee. The aroma was energizing. He drank two cups, with cream, no sugar, and planned the evening’s itinerary. No, Anna would probably be tired from the bus trip—why did sitting in a moving vehicle doing nothing for hours make people tired? —and would not be in the mood for much activity. He’d make her supper then, and she could rest. Later on, drinks in front of the fireplace—it was a shame it was summer, a fireplace without fire seemed rather unromantic—then they’d make love. And then the next day, he would show her the sights of Hillsboro, his home town.

He had called his father Saturday afternoon, but the nurse had said that he was sleeping soundly, so David had left a message saying he had arrived and would drop by for a visit on Monday, leaving Sunday free for Anna. He could spend an hour or two with Dad, and still have plenty of time left over to drive Anna around in his father’s Chrysler. He had also called George Bartley’s parents, but when that same voice came on the phone, the voice of the French woman he’d spoken to weeks before, he had hung up without saying a word. When things were a bit more settled he’d find out where the Bartleys were living now and go see them in person.