They are among us, and they've been here for a long time - waiting. They can make you love. They can make you die.
One ordinary man in San Francisco, Arthur Banks, begins to find them out, and immediately his life and his family are in danger. It's a paranoid's worst nightmare. But that's just where it starts. Banks may well be fighting for the survival of the entire human race.
Release date:
April 1, 1999
Publisher:
Tom Doherty Associates
Print pages:
304
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CHAPTER 1
It was Artie's favorite dream.
He was lying on a grassy plain, naked, staring at the billowy white clouds slowly vaulting past in the blue sky overhead. It was warm, and a breeze stroked his chest and fingered the tangled hair that fell over his shoulders. He lifted his head slightly to stare at the mountains in the distance, their outlines fuzzed by a slight haze, then let it fall back. Without turning to look, he knew there were several caves a stone's throw behind him and that the plain in front ran forever.
It was so pleasant that he didn't want to move; he just wanted to lie there feeling the rough blades of grass against his back and buttocks and stare up at the sky, his mind a blank. He sensed others there as well, but he didn't bother looking around to see who they were. Most of all, he was aware of the overpowering scent of flowers. Thousands of them. Out of the corner of his eye he could see them spotted in the grass, little clumps of purples and reds and yellows and pinks.
A gorgeous summer day and he was very young and the warmth of the sun was arousing but he didn't care. It was a lucid dream, the kind where in the dream you know that you're dreaming. Some of his friends who were into meditation said they had a lot of dreams likethat but this was the only one that Artie Banks had ever had. The dream probably meant something but he was afraid that if he ever found out, he'd never dream it again. In the dream, he had no idea where he was, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was the warmth and the sky and the smell of the flowers and his own unashamed arousal.
There were birds wheeling overhead, which was something new, and they were calling to one another, making noises that sounded like distant chimes. Then the scene wavered and grew faint around the edges and a voice was saying " ... an accident on the Bay Bridge just west of the incline has blocked two lanes and traffic is backed up ..."
The dream vanished and Artie yawned and fumbled for the clock radio on the bedstand. Why did he always dream it around morning? Why not earlier, so he could spend some time in it, find out who the others were and where he was? He shrugged. What the hell, it was a kid's dream. He was getting too old for early morning erections.
He swung his feet over the side of the bed and yawned again. He ran his fingers through his hair and his tongue around the inside of his mouth, then glanced over to where Susan was usually huddled deep within the covers. She wasn't there. He stared at the rumpled blankets, his mind still fogged with sleep. Then he remembered that today was the day she was leaving for Willow. Her mother had called late last night with the news that her father wasn't doing well. Susan had wanted to take Mark with her but he had begged off--he still had a few days of school before Christmas break. Artie had offered to drive up later if things got worse, and that's where they'd left it. Susan had looked unhappy, but Artie felt relieved. He had never gotten along with her parents; her father was openly hostile and even small talk was a chore.
He fell back into bed and rolled over so he couldfeel Susan's lingering warmth, smell her familiar scent, and rub his body across the still warm sheets. Why did she have to be leaving on the morning of his dream? The dream was an aphrodisiac, and afterward, as in the dream itself, he was without shame.
Susan, of course, was always without shame. After fifteen years of marriage he considered that pretty remarkable, but he wasn't about to complain. Susan sometimes seemed a little remote to him, more than a little puzzling and sometimes difficult to understand.
But not in bed. Never in bed.
He stretched and got up, suddenly aware of the smells of coffee and toast and the chirping of the microwave indicating the bacon was done. Time for a quick shower and breakfast before Susan vanished for three days.
He shuffled down the hall toward the bathroom, pausing outside Mark's room with his hand on the doorknob. A week ago when he'd entered without warning, Mark had stopped what he was doing to frown slightly and say, "I'm way past puberty, Artie--you ought to knock." What had bothered Artie more than anything else was Mark's total lack of embarrassment. But then, Artie had been embarrassed enough for both of them.
He rapped on the door, then smiled wryly and rattled the doorknob. "Your mother's about to leave, Mark, but you can still catch her for breakfast."
A muffled voice. "Be right there, Artie. Give me a minute."
Call me Ishmael, Artie thought sarcastically. What the hell was wrong with "Dad"? Or maybe it was just a phase kids went through, a way of leveling the playing field between their parents and themselves. He listened for a moment to the creaking of the bed and pictured Mark muscling himself over the side and into his wheelchair.
As usual, the image hurt. The accident had been ...how long ago? Five years? When Mark was twelve? Susan had been driving and she and Mark had been sideswiped by a drunk. Thankfully, Susan hadn't been hurt, but Mark had been partially paralyzed from the waist down. Susan had found a specialist and some feeling had been restored--the morning he'd walked in on Mark had been proof of that--but Mark had used a wheelchair ever since.
Artie had always felt guilty about it. He'd married Susan when Mark was two, but he and the boy had had difficulty bonding and he'd always felt that every bad thing that happened to Mark was partly his fault.
He pushed into the john, shivering when his bare feet touched the cold tile, and turned on the hot water. What was happening to him? Half the time he was grateful for his family, the other half he was depressed by it. More accurately, maybe it was a growing sense of inadequacy, a feeling that he wasn't living up to their expectations--hell, to his expectations.
He angrily turned the shower knob to Cold, jumping at the sudden spray of chilly water. It was strictly the shits to wake up from his dream and then slip into his usual morning depression. More than likely it was the weather, not Mark or Susan--the seemingly constant overcast and drizzle that was winter in San Francisco was enough to depress anybody.
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