Dean R. Koontz - Dark Of The Woods

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Dean Koontz – Dark of the Woods

[Released as “Ace double” with Dean Koontz – Soft Come the Dragon]

[Scanned by BuddyDk – May 21 2003]

[Original typos hasn’t been corrected]

Blessed shalt thou be in the city, and blessed shalt thou be in the field.

Thou shalt be blessed above a// . . .

Our holy empire of the Alliance of mankind has fulfilled our destiny. Remember the many

heroic humans who have' died in conquering the stars for you. Therefore, do not let

misguided sympathy to-ward inferior and conquered animals deter you from your inherent

title of divine rulers of the universe. Do not lose this birthright by succumbing to the

“attractions” of any alien creature. Remember the penalties imposed by the Supremacy of

Man party for this transgression.

Our blessings be with you as you follow in the paths of your brothers and sisters. We have

faith in mankind and we have faith in you. But, how-ever, should you falter from the paths of

righteous-ness, we have many willing hands eager to show you the error of your ways. . . .

Turn this book over for

second complete novel

DEAN R. KOONTZ

DARK Of THE WOODS

ACE BOOKS

A Division of Charter Communications Inc.

1120 Avenue of the Americas

New York, N. Y. 10036

DARK OF THE WOODS

Cover art by Jeff Jones.

DEDICATION:

To Dad, and to the memory of my mother.

SOFT COME THE DRAGONS

Printed in U.S.A.

the first bit of trouble came even as they were leaving the starship on Demos's port field; it was a

harbinger of worse times ahead.

Stauffer Davis walked down the corrugated ramp with his protection robot, Proteus, at his side. After

a tedious flight out from the Alliance central worlds, he was so on edge that the gurgling of plasti-plasma

with the robot's spherical, force-capped body ground hard on his nerves and made him somewhat

nauseous. Proteus was ignorant of his master's irritation, for every ounce of his being, every drop of his

quasi-liquid circuitry was concentrated on main-taining an optimum efficiency watch to detect even the

slightest minim of hostile life before it could do damage to his human charge. As he floated on his grav

plates, his tiny sensor nodes gleamed in the bright sun—some of them alive with color that radiated from

within: amber, crimson, and a soft, pulsing blue. His two chief sight receptors were cataracted white

screens—but as watchful as eyes could ever be.

When they were halfway to the minibus that would carry them to the main port terminal, a spiderbat

swept low from the east, wings fluffed, claws extended to rip open Davis's scalp . . .

Inside Proteus, the card taped index of this planet held the information that the spiderbat was a

particularly vicious little predator that had been known to go for a three-horned buffalo when it only

wanted a snack, leaving better than 99% of the corpse for the eaters-of-dead-meat. Its wingspread was

but eleven inches of leathery membrane; its weight sel-dom more than two pounds. The only things it had

going for it—aside from its maniacal determination and total lack of fear—were its teeth and its long

brittle claws which it honed constantly on the limestone outcroppings of its native foothills. The claws

could gut a man in moments.

Proteus snapped alert, the force-cap over his main manipu-lation barrel dissolving as he turned to

take aim. A tentacle of plasti-plasma shot out of the casing, wrapped around the spiderbat and throttled it

in a shapeless hand of warm goo. Proteus dropped the body on the concrete where it wriggled a moment

and was, finally, utterly still and dead.

Later, Davis could not remember whether he heard the wings of the second beast or whether it had

called in sym-pathy to the last spasm of its dying mate. But something registered as ominous . . . He

moved swiftly, fell to his knees and rolled sideways, his hands flung over his head to ward off the second

spiderbat. It was always wise to remember that the gods who had made other worlds were the same

gods who had made Earth and that one of their prime rules was that all things traveled in pairs . . .

Fortunately, Proteus had not forgotten.

The dead bat's mate aborted its dive and skidded across the hard port floor. It came for Davis, wings

flapping, claws rattling against concrete, eyes bright with rabid madness. It got within six feet of him

before Proteus snapped it up and mangled it. He dropped the thing beside the body of its mate.

They boarded the bus.

At the terminal building, the minibus drew to a halt be-fore a small cluster of people who were

holding up a banner which declared: WELCOME, STAUFFER DAVIS. He sighed, looked to Proteus

and wished that the robot could understand, could listen and discuss and do more than pro-tect. He

would have liked to tell Proteus, something then: that fans of historical novels made him want to retch.

They were the last off the bus, the robot floating ahead, his microminiaturized brain weeding the bad

from the good and destroying the former. If the world were as black and white for men, Davis thought,

things would be a damn sight easier. The insects the machine killed seemed harmless enough, and he

decided he might not have properly taped the card indices of Demos's flora and fauna into the thing's

memory banks. Proteus's retention cells had experienced hundreds of recordings, erasures, and

rerecordings and needed an entire new set of spools. That could be taken care of when they returned to

the central worlds; for the present, Davis knew he would have to take the first opportunity to rerelate his

mechanical compatriot to the planet and hope that would be sufficient.

“Mr. Davis!” a curly haired, cowish woman gasped, shuf-fling out of the knot of bookworms. She

offered him her white-gloved hand.

He wondered how long it would be necessary to endure their little tribute. Damn, he was tired! “This

is flattering,” he managed to say with a smile, though he thought it amaz-ing they could not seem to tell

that his teeth were gritted.

Proteus finally decided that the white-gloved woman's live beetle brooch could prove a danger. He

flashed a pseudopod out and crushed it against her pink lapel.

“He's apparently not correctly carded to Demos,” Davis said, barely able to suppress his laughter at

the dripping mess.

She reached to wipe the bloody splotch from her suit and merely succeeded in smearing her glove as

well. “A harmless beetle,” she said. “There's very little that is harmful on Demos, Mr. Davis. Demos is the

next thing to Paradise.”

Wasn't the next thing to Paradise—Purgatory? Yes, per-haps this had been a paradise before the

Alliance arrived, coating the plains with concrete to berth their giant ships. And it wouldn't have been so

bad if only the landscape had been destroyed—but they had obliterated Demos's peo-ple as well. Such a

small population, the winged people, yet the Alliance had killed rather than make concessions. The

Demosians, after all, had been so insolent as to offer resist-ance to the Alliance's annexation of their

world. So the Al-liance had shut them up. Permanently . . . The motto of every ruthless government:

Never go around, go over. And, of course, these winged people had been aliens—which word could be

translated as “animals” as far as Alliance govern-ment was concerned. Forget that the Demosians were

intel-ligent with a culture and heritage that was rich and ancient. To the Alliance, that was irrelevent. The

provincial policy-making board of the Earth-centered government considered all alien lifeforms inferior to

mankind. Therefore, if an alien was less than a human, he did not require humane treat-ment. The logic of

megalomaniacs; but such were the types in power. The Supremacy of Man coalition still ruled the

Alliance as the major party, and they understood only the voice of the gun. Did this dumpy,

self-important woman not understand that his next novel would have to be about the slaughter that took

place here, about a hundred and seventy million winged men and women who had been mur-dered in the

Alliance's colonization of Demos, with condemn-ing details on the sterilizing effects of the mutant mustard

gas that had eventually spelled GENOCIDE in dark let-ters across the face of an entire race? Paradise .

. . She interrupted his reverie to request that he address their book club before leaving Demos. That he

sign a handful, just a few, not many mind you—will take only a moment—of his first editions which they

had brought with them . . .

There's really little need for one of those here,” the Al-liance representative said, motioning toward

the bobbling form of Proteus as Davis slouched into a seat before the heavy metal desk.

“He killed a spiderbat just after we got off the ship.”

“Oh, most of those have been exterminated. They're rare anymore.”

“It only takes one.”

The rep frowned.

“I believe you'll be pleased to know you'll be living right in one of the aviaries. It was used by a

research team, sociologists, a few years back and is all decked out for human habitation. Working right in

there, you'll be better able to get an idea of how they lived.” The last three words were said with an

undertone of disgust, as if the winged people had been unimaginably barbaric.

“The Sanctuary is only a mile and a half from where you'll be staying,” the rep continued, pulling at

the comers of his mustache with his thin, nervous hands, as if he thought the ordering of that patch of

brush would bring a correspond-ing order to his thoughts. “They'll supply you with food and provisions.”

“Sanctuary?” Davis asked.

“Where they keep the last of the winged people.”

“Keep them?”

“Yes. Until they—well, die.” The rep looked uncomfortable and did not meet Davis's gaze. “We

have a car waiting to take you up there right now. If you'll just follow me . . . your luggage has been

collected and loaded already.”

They left the office by a rear door, walked a long, bleak corridor, through a metal firedoor and into

the pleasant breeze of the early autumn afternoon. The fresh air was a welcome relief from the sterile,

chilly air-conditioned tomb of the Alliance headquarters. A sleek, black grav car rested on its rubber

cushion before them, its doors open like gaping mouths.

“By the way,” the rep said, fidgeting a bit, “the wife wondered if you might— Well, I have a first

edition of this book here, Lilian Girl and . . .”

Davis autographed the book, climbed inside the car, waited for Proteus to enter through the other

side, then cycled the doors shut with the proper toggle on the console. All the while, the Alliance man

stood by, uncertain if they were parting on friendly or antagonistic terms. Since Davis was supposed to

be writing a pro-Alliance novel, he wanted to be as gracious as possible. Pro-Alliance novelists were

rare in the creative community. When the book appeared, Davis thought, the little bureaucrat would hate

himself for being so gracious now. They'd send Davis a bill, surely, for all the cooperation they were

offering freely now. But it was essential to delude them into believing his book was going to take a

favorable view of genocide in order to get into the preserves of the winged people and do first-hand

research on their architecture and probable lifestyle. He punched to put the car on its own recognizance,

leaned back, and re-laxed as the car lifted off the ground and purred away from the port city, away from

the rep and the square, gray build-ing of Alliance headquarters.

The big robo-car eventually left the concrete nothingness of the port and pulled onto a badly paved

road which re-quired the grav plate distance compensators to work over-time. They twisted through

rolling hills and green-blue grass. Once, a carnivorous bird, much less menacing than the spiderbats, dove

at the windscreen. Proteus flung out a psuedopod, slapped it against the glass before he realized Davis

was already shielded. He retracted the plasti-plasma and brooded quietly the rest of the way.

Davis sincerely hoped he would not have to listen to yet another Alliance employee tell him that

Demos was safe and heavenly. Was their reassurance about this “paradise” simply a psychological tool

to help them justify the extermination of the native Demosians?

The car broke through into sparsely treed foothills and confronted the first of the Demosian houses.

The dark stones seemed fitted together without, benefit of mortar, jutting to form a ninety foot tower, fifty

feet in diameter. There were several round “doors” on the ground and at seemingly ran-dom intervals up

the sides. Winged people would be enter-ing, after all, while in flight. Davis turned to stare after the

marvelous structure as their car fled onward.

At the thirty-sixth tower, the car pulled onto a dirt track and stopped, flung its doors open as the grav

plates shut down and the body settled onto its rubber rim. Proteus was the first out, nervously patrolling

the immediate area.

But there was nothing for him to kill.

Davis carried the first of the bags inside, Proteus still in the lead. The exterior of the place had been

interesting—but the interior was stunning. The core of the building, which they had reached through a

wide passage leading from the entrance, shot directly to the open-beam ceiling ninety feet above. Leading

from this small core were portholes to rooms around the “rim” of the tube-within-a-tube structure. The

architecture was one of bold sweeps and graceful curves, denying the ancient facade: the lines of men

unbound by gravity, spoiled only by a set of rickety homemade stairs. He decided these must have been

added by the sociological research team the rep had informed him of. What possible reason would

winged men have had for stairs . . . ?

When he had all of his luggage unloaded, he investigated the alien chambers. There were recreation

rooms with game-boards pegged to the walls. He took down a few of these, well aware that he would

have to decipher their rules in order to include them in his book. Other chambers were Demosian

equivalents of kitchens, baths, lounges, and li-braries. The bedrooms were hung with lavish tapestries and

handwoven grass nets whose fibers formed pictures in the manner of embroidery; the beds were too low

and wide, the mattresses thick and a bit too soft by human standards.

When he had explored only half of the forty rooms, he recorded his first impressions on his tapewriter

in order not to forget the initial awe that possessed him at the start of this project. He also felt a heavy,

restful air of peace, as if no harm could ever come to him in a place built by those long-dead people.

Later, he tried all the kitchen devices, found them in working order as the rep had promised. There was

apparently a grav plate stress generator some-where in the building, tucked away where the sight of it

would not destroy the naturalness of the house. The only thing missing was food.

Until she came . . .

He had flopped on the bed to ponder the scene, his mind ablaze with images of alien art and

structure. Her voice came on the hollow echo of the still, late afternoon air. At first, he thought it was a

dream voice, for he hung on the edge of sleep. Then he realized it was calling his name. He pushed off the

bed and went to the inner portal, stared down the well of the central core.

She was about to call him again, then saw him out of the corner of her eye and looked up . . .

He realized, as if he had stepped outside of his body and looked back at himself, that his mouth was

hanging open rather stupidly. Yet he could not summon the willpower to close it.

Her ebony mane of hair spread about her cherubic face, which was further highlighted by the pitch of

her eyes, the cunningly crafted sweep of her graceful neck. The hair curled down her light toga garment

and encircled her small breasts.

“I brought food,” she said, holding up a paper bag and a thermos. “From the Keepers at the

Sanctuary; Shall I bring it up?”

“Yes,” he said, finally able to move his mouth and speak.

She took three small steps on her toes as if beginning a ballet twirl, and she was airborne, rising

toward him on soft blue wings. Amber light filtered through the membrane, softened into violet, and made

each panel of the thin flesh into a flower petal glued between the fine struts of carti-lage. There was a

heavy flapping noise as the membranes folded, spread, folded—and she stood before him on the

platform. She offered the food and thermos.

Proteus hummed beside him, gurgling frantically as he searched his flora and fauna banks to be

certain she was not of a deadly species. Davis was glad he had taken time to rerelate the robot to Demos

on the drive up from the port. Otherwise, the machine might already have disposed of her in a most

unpleasant manner.

“That's just for tonight,” she said. “Matron Salsbury will send me in a grav car with provisions for a

week. Tomorrow morning, if that suits you.”

“Yes, fine.” He stared a moment, unable to avert his eyes from her, then said, “Will you join me?”

“No thank you. I've eaten, Mr. Davis.” She smiled, amused by his confusion.

“Stauffer.”

She frowned. “I don't know that name, though I had thought I had mastered your language quite

well.”

“You have. It's not a real first name, but a family name. A sadistic mother who was sorry she ever

married my father. She managed to saddle me with her bitterness by labeling me with her maiden name.”

“Your people don't sound happy.”

“They're dead anyway,” he said. “And don't look sorry about that!”

They stood, eyes dark to dark in the amber light, her wings drawn back and folded like velvet cloth

so that they almost ceased to exist. “Well,” she said, “I have to go.”

Impulsively, he said, “I'm unfamiliar with Demos. Would you ask Matron Salsbury if you might be my

guide for a few days—until I become acquainted?”

She hesitated. “Ill ask. But now I have to go, or she'll be angry.” She turned, stepped into the air,

fluffed her wings and drifted down. Moments later, she was gone from the core, even the distant sound of

her wings faded altogether.

Removed from her bewitching presence, his common sense returned like a tidal wave crashing across

the beach of his mind, and he cursed himself for his stupidity. Certainly she attracted him, for she was

undeniably beautiful. But he should never have made his interest so evident. To imagine her as his lover

(as he had been doing) was sheer madness —sheer, deadly, stupid madness. The Supremacy of Man

coalition had designed and enforced the strictest imaginable miscegenation laws; Earthmen who loved

those of other races were made impotent, and the minimum prison sentence was twelve years. Once in

prison, there would be little chance of eventual freedom, even if he were given the minimum sentence.

The Supremacy-hired, Supremacy-sympathizing guards would see to that with a joyous, savage

brutality . . .

He could not allow himself such dangerous dreams. It was a silly thing for any man to think of, let

alone a, man with so much to lose as he.

He must consider her only a friend. How could affection have arisen so swiftly anyway? He surely

wasn't going to try to argue love-at-first-sight, was he? It could only be lust he felt. And lust could be

conquered. He would think of her only as a friend, and he would not allow himself to love her.

He hoped . . .

Later that night, there were dreams:

“Love in its essence is spiritual fire": Swendenborg . . .

Stauffer Davis tossed through flames. They licked at him but did not consume him. Instead,

they exhilarated, shot his flesh through with a contained burning that flowered in him with

glowing ash and phoenixed his ancient soul . . .

“The only victory over love is flight": Napoleon . . .

But he didn't mean— Oh, well, a Freudian quote. Davis FLEW in his illicit dreams. Still, there

were flames all about, all-deep, all-high, all-wide and full. And he flew through them, dancing on

the hot air, flying beside her . . .

“Oh my luve's like a dark-haired rose": Burns and Stauffer Davis . . .

He flew through the flames beside her, tangling their wings, singing love songs in the crackling

air . . .

But everything abruptly mutated into nightmare. The flames suddenly stung. His wings caught

fire, flashed white. He saw hers catch too . . .

He saw her falling . . .

And he was falling beside her—down to where thousands of winged men and women waited

accusingly. They knew he was not one of them. And standing on the horizon were Supremacy

guards with scalpels of steel and diagrams for impotency. . .

He woke screaming.

Proteus hit the lights, plasti-plasma slopping about in his silvered husk, and restlessly searched the

room.

There was nothing, only the ghosts of a thousand winged men and women etched in the ether from

another day long gone.

Davis sat on the edge of the bed, head cradled in his hands, thinking of the stupidity of allowing this

silly in-fatuation to grow into something more serious. Impotency un-der Supremacy surgeons' hands . . .

imprisonment . . . al-most certain death . . .

But none of these ugly possibilities seemed able to drive out the picture of her ebony hair or the

perfect geometrical design of her wings which had been imprinted on the soft gray flesh of his brain. God

damn it, he thought. I'm not making the artist's error of falling in love with the symbol of my

sympathies, am I?

Infatuation. Nothing more. Please.

Proteus roamed the far corners of the room, searching . . .

during the following two days, Davis's position became even more difficult, for he found that the girl,

Leah, was more than a beautiful form and a finely sculptured face. She also possessed a sharp wit and a

deep well of inquisitive intelligence that was a delight to feed with more and more knowledge. She had

educated herself in the ways and cul-ture of her conquerors, and she could debate cleverly and at length

on almost any topic Davis chose. He began to strengthen the emotional interest he held in her instead of

whittling at the strands that drew him to her. That first mo-ment he had seen her, he had been spellbound.

Now he was enchanted.

At night, lying on the bed that was too large and too soft and too low, he would force himself to

remember the punish-ment for miscegenation. They could insure that he felt no sexual interest in anyone

ever again, let alone an alien wom-an. They could imprison and torture him. They could kill him . . .

But every morning, when Leah returned, he seemed to forget the vows of the previous night. He

could not dismiss her, for he was too fascinated by her. He purposefully acted lost in many cases, only to

insure that she would not feel it was time for him to find his own way about.

On the third day of her work as a guide, the bond was struck—at first in his mind alone, later

between them and in the open. On the third day, he became a criminal by Alliance law. It started with the

rat and culminated in the temple.

The rat . . .

He asked her, that morning, if there were shelters which the winged people had constructed as proof

against the heavy clouds of mustard gas that had been flushed through their cities by the Alliance troops.

He knew the stuff rotted rubber and that gas masks would have proven relatively use-less after more than

two uses.

“There's one half a mile up the lane,” she said. “We can get there in a couple of minutes, except it's

mostly de-molished.”

“Is there one intact nearby?”

“There aren't any intact anywhere,” she said. “The con-querors found them, one at a time, and

destroyed them.”

He had stopped wincing at references to the brutality of the war. She did not make them to

embarrass him, but as mere statements of fact. Indeed, he thought she did not even consciously connect

the Earthmen civilians who had settled here after the war with the armor-suited power soldiers of the

great conflict. “Well, then I guess that has to do.”

He slung his tapewriter over his shoulder, and they walked to enjoy the warmth and the crispness of

the morning. On both sides of them, there was an occasional scurry as a woodland animal rushed for a

tree or burrow. He remem-bered having read descriptions of the Demosian city sites immediately after

the Alliance troops had landed. They had described the vast numbers of dead birds, and animals that had

succumbed to the mustard gas, tens of thousands of them, lying so thickly that they concealed the earth

itself for long stretches.

“There's the shelter,” she said. “What is left of it, at least.”

He followed the direction of her slim, tan hand and saw great slabs of concrete thrusting out of the

earth, lengths of rusted and twisted steel that punched at the sky as if to rip it open and bring it down.

The earth around the debris was charred black and in a few places fused into darkly gleam-ing glass by

the heat of the explosion that had ripped through the underground structure. As they drew closer, he

could see pieces of furniture, metal benches, and leather couches all broken, shattered, melted, mashed in

among the cross-work of beams and concrete. In the crook of a steel beam, wedged in the tight angle,

was a Demosian skull: fragile, tending toward a slight lengthiness, with the oval eye sockets that would

accommodate the lovely orbs of a girl like Leah. In a pocket of rubble only a few feet away, as if giving

balance to the scene, was a field mouse's nest. The thing hunched in the mass of weeds and grass and

string, its two babies in its belly pouch, looking at them with more curiosity than fear. Death and life, side

by side.

“You couldn't have had traitors,” he said. “I know that much about the Demosians. They never gave

information-even under torture. How did the Alliance know where to drop bombs?”

“They didn't,” she said. “The explosion, you see, came from within the shelter, blasting outward,

rather than down and in. The conquerors had a thing we think they called the 'mole.' They dropped them

by the hundreds, maybe thousands.”

“Yes,” he said. “I remember now. The things were only as large as a man's arm, packed full of

superexplosives. They hit the ground, bored down thirty feet, then leveled out and acted like

subterranean submarines, seeking out heat with very sensitive receptors. Drop enough in one area, and

sooner or later, one of them is going to hit paydirt. Then it bores through the wall of the shelter and

detonates itself,”

The field mouse made a chittering noise at them, but didn't bother running.

Davis clambered into the rubble, stopping here and there to look down the spaces between the fused

debris. There was a soft light welling up from somewhere very far be-low, and it illuminated a ragged but

possible sloping cor-ridor. “It looks,” he said, as Leah came to his shoulder and looked downward with

him, “as if the generators have never run out.”

“It hasn't been too many years,” she said.

“The rubble looks fused the whole way down. There shouldn't be any slides. I'm going to try to pry

my way in there.”

“It's packed too tightly,” she said, looking over the ex-panse of mangled construction materials. “You

won't find a way.”

“I'll make a way,” he said, grinning. “Proteus!”

The robot floated quickly to his side, main manipulator barrel unstopped, sensors flashing excitedly.

“Gun left.”

Proteus slid a barrel from his smooth, seamless belly, turned left.

“Ground level,” Davis ordered.

The angle of the barrel dropped until it was pointing at the melted beams and concrete hillocks.

“Fire one!”

Proteus shot a small, explosive rocket, large enough to blast a hole through any animal as large as a

horse. It struck the ruins five yards away as Davis and Leah stopped be-hind a slab of concrete. There

was an almost instantaneous explosion that shook the entire crust of ruin, and a section of the floor they

stood on gave way and crashed down in-to the open spaces beneath. For a long moment, the sound of

things rebounding from the walls and outcroppings of the regions below echoed up to them, a mournful

noise. When the quiet returned, Davis ventured forth and care-fully inspected the entrance Proteus had

made, found that the crust immediately around the hole was still solid and trustworthy.

“I'll try not to be long,” he said.

“I'm going with you,” she protested, pouting her face.

“I've got Proteus. That's one of the burdens as well as blessings of having a robot guardian. He goes

with you whether you want him to or not.”

“I'm going with you,” she repeated.

He saw the determination in her face, the tightening of the muscles along her jawline, and he knew

there was no sense arguing. “The way's going to be a little tough, and there isn't room to spread your

wings and fly if you should fall. But if you're still all that set on going—”

“I am.”

The way was not as rugged as he had thought. His per-spective, peering through the jumbled rubble

earlier, had made the slanted corridor below look longer than it was. In ten minutes, they were in what

had been the bottom floor of the shelter, a three-level affair. Here, the Demosians in hiding from the

Alliance gases had not been killed by the force of the explosion itself, but by the firestorm which it had

engendered. The bodies of about two hundred winged men and women and children laid about the room,

mostly against the walls where they had been caught and suf-focated so swiftly that they had not had a

chance to move. The suction of the explosion and the intense heat must have snatched the air from their

lungs in one instant and re-placed it with flames the next. At least, he thought, it had been a swift end.

There was nothing now but bones, a few skeletal masts of cartilage that had once been the bearers of

membranous wings. And four hundred eye sockets, oval eye sockets, staring accusingly . . .

Proteus soared the length of the chamber, certain that there must be an adversary in such an

uncommon place. When he reached the far corners of the room, forty yards away, the rat overhead

screeched its battle cry, spraying spittle down onto Davis's head . . .

He looked up, saw red eyes as large as quarters.

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DeanKoontz–DarkoftheWoods[Releasedas“Acedouble”withDeanKoontz–SoftCometheDragon][ScannedbyBuddyDk–May212003][Originaltyposhasn’tbeencorrected]Blessedshaltthoubeinthecity,andblessedshaltthoubeinthefield.Thoushaltbeblessedabovea//...OurholyempireoftheAllianceofmankindhasfulfilledourdestiny.Rememberthe...

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Dean R. Koontz - Dark Of The Woods

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