Dean R. Koontz - Nightmare Journey

Dean Koontz – Nightmare Journey

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NIGHTMARE JOURNEY

Nightmare

Journey

Dean R.Koontz

A BERKLEY MEDALLION BOOK

published by

BERKLEY PUBLISHING CORPORATION

Published by arrangement with the author's agent.

to reproduce this book or portions thereof in

any form whatsoever. For information address

Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

580 Fifth Avenue

New York, New York 10036

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 74-79653

SBN 425-02923-9

BERKLEY MEDALLION BOOKS are published by

Berkley Publishing Corporation

200 Madison Avenue

New York, N. Y. 10016

BERKLEY MEDALLION BOOK » TM 757,375

Printed in the United States of America

Berkley Medallion Edition, AUGUST, 1975

The First Journey:

THE BLACK GLASS

1

IN the crisp morning, before the worst of the fog had lifted, the Pure humans came into the village,

descending the narrow winding road from their fortress, which perched on the edge of the alabaster cliff.

In the lead was their General, dressed in milky robes and seated on one of the soundless floating sledges

that only the Pures possessed. Two guards sat before him, two behind, all of them well armed.

Yet, from a distance, it was not the General who commanded attention, but the ranks behind him.

Fifty Pures walked after the craft, not of the station to warrant the expenditure of a sledge's irreplaceable

power plant for their own ease. Their cloaks were not radiantly white like their General's clothes, but a

chalky, color that hinted of blue. Their capes flapped about them in the perpetual wind that scoured the

cliff wall, and their boots crunched on cinders and gravel. The size of this contingent was what fascinated

the people of the village, for no more than a dozen Pures had ever congregated in public before. They

numbered so few these days that they could not risk massing in too confined an area beyond the

unbreachable fortress walls.

The procession reached the bottom of the descending trail and struck across the half-mile of open

land separating it from the village, which nestled in a hollow between two arms of dense forest. It moved

past the monstrous formation of bacteria jew-els, whose light guided travelers by night, and each of the

marchers was stained fantastically by the glittering fingers of violet and emerald that reached two hundred

yards in all directions from the landmark. The Pures seemed, in the instant, like mechanically gay puppets,

chameleon dancers with a cer-tain military grace.

More than 25,000 years earlier a nation whose name was now as unknown as the name Ozamandius

had engineered a lethal bacteriophage related to the botulinus family but flourishing in a crystalline form.

In such a state it could not infect men. Howev-er, a second bacterium, utterly harmless in itself, was

en-gineered to break down the crystal and release the killing botulinus in a second state that was deadly

to mankind. They seeded their enemy's land with crystals, allowed them to grow, then infiltrated the

catalyst to bring destruction. Because the lethal bacterium had not been given reproductive capabilities in

its noncrystalline form, and because the catalyst was a short-lived, sterile organism, biological warfare

could be conducted as cleanly as if a gun had been used. Plague death could be applied in doses,

destroying just so many of the enemy as necessary to bring them to their knees—leaving most of them to

be ruled after the occupation.

The faces of the marching Pures were shattered glass images, a thousand shades of green and blue.

Their cloaks exploded with rich luminescence.

Jask watched them from the second-floor room he had taken in the village inn, his face concealed by

the shadows of the thrusting eaves on the many-gabled structure, further obscured by heavy umber

drapes, which he had pushed open only far enough to have a view. He monitored the progression of the

Pures both with a sense of wonder at the stately picture they made and with a growing terror at the

understanding that they had descended from their fortress to find him and destroy him.

His respect for his own kind was such that he knew they could not fail to find him. In hours he would

be captured. Certain of this but still unable to abandon all hope, he drew further back from the window

and continued to watch.

From a distance it had been the ranks behind the sledge that had been arresting, but as the party

moved closer, the General was the focus that drew the eye. He was larger than most Pures, a full six feet

and weighing perhaps two hundred pounds. His shoulders were broad, supporting a head at once

imperial and barbaric. His eyes were set under a shelf of bone that was actually slight but nonetheless

primitive in effect. His face was wide, deeply creased and tough, though his nose, delicately boned, was

an anachronism that softened the brutal force of that countenance. His mouth was tight, thin-lipped; when

he spoke, Jask knew, his voice was harsh and deep. The man carried an air of authority with him like

expensive baggage; inside those bags was the lingering odor of death.

The procession halted outside the inn itself, almost directly below Jask's window. To choose the inn

for their first stop was only common sense, for an inn was the center of the town and the source of

information. Still, Jask could not shake the convic-tion that the General was an unnatural precog who had

sensed his game.

The General and soldiers made no sound to announce their arrival. The visual spectacle alone was

sufficient to draw forth a representative of the village.

The innkeeper, a creature named Belmondo, came outside, wiping his hands on his apron and

watching the General with a mixture of contempt and fear. His eyes, as large around as Jask's palm,

rolled independently of each other in a long, lupine skull. Belmondo's appearance was the result of

previous gen-eration gene damage caused by radiation rather than the product of the genetic engineers,

for he did not follow any of the patterns most favored by patrons of the Artificial Wombs. Children of

Wombs were always beautiful, despite their tainted heritage; Belmondo was simply ugly. His thin, bony

hands—with three fingers and two thumbs each—pulled greasy, yellow hair away from his forehead. He

licked his lips with a raspy, black tongue and said, “Yes?” His tone suggested a dislike of Pures, which

was natural but dangerous in this situation.

“We are looking for a man,'' the General said. “His name is Jask. Have you heard of him?”

“No,” Belmondo lied.

“Have you seen him?”

The General was aware of what tricks could be played with words.

Belmondo considered for a moment, then said, “Perhaps it would be better if you could tell me what

manner of man you seek. Is he furred or scaled? There have been a few fishy cousins in town of late. Is

he one of the cyclopses? They find themselves in disfavor with everyone sooner or later—as if having one

eye narrows their mental vision as well. Perhaps he is a feline man? If you could be a bit more specific,

you see, I could more likely tell you of him. I know all the business of the town.”

Belmondo, Jask thought, was either foolish or brave—or possessed of a bravery generated by

foolishness. He knew as well as anyone that when a Pure used the word “man"' he meant another Pure,

not a creature with altered genes. A Pure refused to acknowledge that the quasi-men of

mutation—whether ac-cidental or made by design—were men at all. If Pure theology were to remain

intact, such mutated specimens could be con-sidered nothing but animals.

Though Jask, raised in the teachings of the Pure church, would normally have despised Belmondo for

his impudence, he welcomed it now that the quasi-man was protecting him. The saucer-eyed Belmondo

knew only that Jask had fallen into disfavor with the other Pures of his enclave; that was all the mutant

needed to know to justify lying for the sake of a man who might in any other circumstances be

considered an enemy.

“I'll tell you one thing,” the General said. “You may feel quite smug and superior in your cunning

now—but if this Jask should go his way unhampered, we will all eventually suffer, Pure and mutated

alike.”

Belmondo looked skeptical, but his curiosity had been aroused by the sudden confidential tone in the

General's voice.

Upstairs, at the open window, Jask felt ill, chilled by a premonition of disaster. He had not believed

that the General would divulge the reason for his flight and for their pursuit of him. The Pures were too

closely knit, too snobbish ever to share their inner secrets and shames with those they thought of as a

lower species. If they broke the rule of silence now, if they told Belmondo, it was only a measure of how

desperately the Gener-al wanted to get his hands on Jask.

“The man we seek . . . is an esper,” the General said.

In the quiet, fog-shrouded morning, the words fled the length of the street like a knife drawn across

the wet cobblestones, echoing, echoing, hard and urgent.

Standing by the window, Jask received the distant echoes of fear in the minds of the Pure soldiers

and in the minds, as well, of the mutated villagers who listened from doorways and win-dows in other

buildings. He could not block the receival of such agonizingly sharpened emotions.

“You're certain?” Belmondo asked.

Already, as he stood there, his eyes began to stray betrayingly toward Jask's open window.

A ripped open brain . . . cracked like a nut . . . with long, pale fingers stirring through the meat

and picking out the choicest morsels . . .

Jask received the terrified visions radiating from Belmondo and knew the mutant feared espers too

much to protect one of them. Turning, stumbling clumsily over an ottoman, he fell, taking the floor square

against his chin. He almost passed out as a hard twist of pain ground through him, and he tasted blood as

his lower lip split open.

He stood, holding to the bedpost, tried to regain his usual calm. This charging off like a damaged

power sledge was no good at all. He was a Pure, one of the Chosen, and he must always remember to

act with dignity that his heritage de-manded, even if he had been rejected by his own kind.

He opened the door of his room and looked both ways down the musty hall of the inn's sleeping

quarters. When the search party had arrived, Belmondo had been downstairs preparing the dough for

breakfast pastries. If he had accomplished no more than that in readying to feed his boarders, the

average guest would not yet have arisen—unless stirred by the General out-side. The corridor was

empty.

He stepped out of the room, closed the door quietly. Reaching out with his esp power, he touched

the minds of the Pures and of the General, found that they had not yet entered the inn but that they would

do so in a few moments. He walked swiftly to the stairs. Holding to the rail, prepared to retreat if

necessary, he went down each squeaking riser as if there were a poisonous snake coiled upon it:

cautiously.

The steps ended in the public room. No lanterns had been lighted here, and the candles were cold as

well. Most of the large, brick-floored chamber was in a soft, purple darkness. The grimy, stained-glass

windows filtered the poor morning light even further; amber light spilled through one pane, crimson

through another, green through a third. But it was all cathedral decoration, not genuine illumination. The

heavy wooden tables, gleaming now and then with a reflection of foggy, early light in their waxed

surfaces, the chairs racked atop them, seemed like a strange array of alien sentinels waiting to be

entertained by the chase and the kill.

Abruptly, as Jask was trying to decide which of the doors behind the bar might lead to the kitchen

and the rear entrance to the inn, his mind was innundated with a fury of emotions, images of blood and

death. Belmondo had told them: The flush of emotion he registered with his psionic brain was evidence

that the General and the soldiers knew he was trapped. He had killed three men already, had given them

special reason to be care-ful—since those first three had died without a mark on them. No Pure could

say what ethereal weapon Jask had brought to bear, though all were aware that it was part of his

telepathic talents.

He walked toward the counterman's gate in the long ma-hogany bar, wondering if he could sneak out

the kitchen door.

Outside, someone barked short, harsh commands; others ran to obey, the sound of their footsteps

hollow and cold.

Without time to round the bar now, Jask placed his hands flat on top of it, muscled up and crashed

over it ungracefully. His thin, weakly bred Pure body ached with the effort and gave him an ugly

premonition of just how long he could expect to survive if the chase grew hot. He lay with the smell of

sawdust and the taste of blood, quite aware of how lucky he had been not to break any bones. Then he

pushed up and staggered weakly through the nearest door behind the bar.

The kitchen lay immediately behind the public room, a blaz-ing fire chattering in its stone hearth.

Sheets filled with pastries were lined on heavy, crude tables, cooking instruments scat-tered about. The

odor of flour, sugar and cooked apples permeated the air. Jask did not pause to enjoy it, but crossed to

the rear door and looked onto the dirt alleyway behind the inn. To either side Pures ran to cut off this

avenue of escape.

His deadly esp ability, with which he had killed three men in the fortress during the night, could not

help him here. It worked slowly, very slowly. At least two of these soldiers would bear him down before

he could take care of all of them. Besides, he was weary of murder, sickened by the transgression of

molest-ing Pure lives.

Turning away from the door, he looked around the kitchen, willing to make do with whatever he

could find. If there were knives here, he might be able to fight his way free without wreaking any

permanent damage. He hefted a weighty, wicked-ly curved butcher knife, then dropped it, angry with

himself for his slow-wittedness. He could no more fight Pures and their guns with a knife than he could

fight the Wildland beasts with bare fists. And, unlike himself, the soldiers would feel no reluctance when

the time came to destroy him; he was, after all, nothing but an animal, tainted now, unfit.

On his right, near the fireplace, an open door revealed de-scending stairs. He hurried to them, looked

into the gloom of the hotel's cellar. He hesitated, certain that this could not lead him anywhere. At most

he would find a tiny, street-level window that looked onto an alleyway that the Pures already controlled.

Then he heard the soldiers in the public room. The Pures in the back alley had reached the locked

kitchen door and were rattling it experimentally.

Without pausing to consider his fate any longer, he stepped through the door, shut it behind, and went

quickly down the wooden steps.

2

THE cellar was nearly lightless. A single window faced an alleyway, perhaps large enough to leave by

though effectively barred by thick iron pipes. What little light there was found its way through the dirty

glass beyond the bars, casting impen-etrable shadows in the subterranean chamber. In this chia-roscuro

chaos, it was impossible to find a way out in time. Even if there were a way out. Which was doubtful.

He was about to turn and leave, to take his chances in the occupied upper floors, when he felt light,

teasing mental fingers working along the surface of his own mind, the fingers of an esper. They were

weightless fingers, yet sharp and insistent, like the spidery cracks in crimson pottery glaze.

He turned and examined the shadows, frightened and yet curious. He knew that his only chance of

survival lay in the unexpected, and he had certainly never expected to meet anoth-er esper here, now.

On your left, the voiceless voice said, the crisp metallic whisper of telepathic conversation.

Jask turned, squinted into darkness.

Someone waited there, though he could not discern the nature of the man.

Come closer.

He went closer, and his eyes adjusted to the intense black-ness. But the moment he saw the creature,

he stepped rapidly backward, his throat constricted and his heart thumping in terror.

You have nowhere to run. Help me instead.

“Can you speak?” Jask inquired.

“You do have it bad, don't you? You're as prejudiced and snottily superior as those upstairs hunting

for you!” The voice was deeper, harsher than even the General's voice, and it made Jask sound like a

woman by comparison.

“What are you?” Jask asked.

“Don't you mean—who am I?”

Jask did not reply. So many years of theology and custom did not fall away so easily. If he used the

word, “who,” it implied that he considered the beast a man, that he had rejected all he knew to be holy

and certain.

The mutant snorted. “I'm a man.”

More silence.

Jask saw that it was his place to speak, though he could not find the right words. His eyes roamed

the creature. Flickering impressions in the dim light: huge, seven feet tall . . . thick of body, with arms like

branches, legs like trunks of oak . . . chest as big around as a barrel . . . a dark and almost snoutlike nose

. . . broad face . . . deep-set eyes . . . a well-matted, rich cover of fur all over a body otherwise naked . .

.“Like a bear,” the creature said.

“Yes.”

“I'm a man, nevertheless.”

Jask said, “The Artificial—”

“—Wombs.”

Jask nodded. The beauty was there, even in the dim light, the pleasant line and functional structure

that random mutation lacked. Still, this was not a man, could never be a man.

“Damn it!” the bruin growled in frustration. He spat on the floor with a great, wet hawking noise,

shook his head in disgust at Jask's hesitation. “Can't you hear them up there?” He spoke in an

inordinately vicious whisper.

“What do you want?” Jask inquired.

He had momentarily forgotten the threat of the hunters above, far more concerned with the hulking

being that stood in the shadows so close at hand.

“Set me loose, and I'll get us both free from this pre-dicament,” the bruin promised.

It was the sort of guarantee made in a moment of desperation with no possibility of fulfillment. Yet he

sounded sincere enough.

Someone overhead shouted. A door burst open, and automatic weaponry chattered loudly. The

soldiers had entered Jask's room. When they found him gone, they would sweep through the hotel in

short order, shooting ahead of themselves, frantic men with frantic solutions. To them, he was an esper, a

man who could never be permitted to live in peace. He was no longer a sacred vessel of Pure genes, but

tainted, unfit, touched by mutation.

“How can you get us free?” Jask wan ted to know. “They're everywhere in the hotel.”

The bear laughed. “Release me, and I'll show you.”

“Tell me your plan first.”

“And have you use it and leave me here?”

Jask was shocked by the suggestion. “I am a Pure. I have my scruples, my dignity.”

“Sure. Right.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

The bruin said no more.

It was Jask's turn to be angry. “Are you honestly suggesting that a Pure cannot be trusted?”

The bruin was quiet.

“Pures,” Jask informed him hotly, “are the ultimate of human evolution, untainted by impure genes, the

sacred vessels of the primary creation, Nature's most excellent design. It is therefore clear that a Pure

would not attempt to deceive you—''

“Bullshit,” the bruin said. His gravelly voice was perfect for invectives.

For a time they were stalemated. Spiders crawled in the dark corners of the stone room, and mice

scampered along the floor searching for chinks in the mortar. Overhead, the Pure soldiers cried out to

one another as they searched the inn.

“You would kill me and leave by yourself,” Jask protested.

The creature's simmering anger metamorphosed into some-thing else altogether; bitterness and

distaste. “I'm no killer. Leastwise not by preference. If you want to die here because you are too

goddamned good and pure to help me, that's your affair.”

Jask heard footsteps on the stairs from the second floor, more shrill commands, the General's

imperial voice thundering like a call to judgment. A table in the common room crashed out of the way of

the soldiers, eliciting a cry of anguish from Belmondo.

“What can I do?” Jask asked.

Perhaps even death was worse than putting himself in the hands of a quasi-man. If the General and

the soldiers were correct. Jask had already been denied salvation and everlasting life-after-death. A little

bit of consorting with the beasts could hardly make his situation any more dire than it already was. Having

lost immortality, his mortal life had far more value than before, was worth the breaking of a few taboos.

“I'm chained,” the bruin said. “The key to these manacles is on the shelf behind you, near those jars

of pears.”

Jask found it: a big metal skeleton key corroded and pitted with age. He returned to the bruin, his

spine cold, his hands trembling. Even with Belmondo, a comparably mild mutant, he had kept his

distance, the distance prescribed by holy writ. In the kitchen, last night, he had prepared his own meal,

preferring not to have the innkeeper place fingers to his food. Now, with the musky odor of the

animal-man all about him, his mind teetered on the brink of total revulsion.

He wanted to run.

Only: he had nowhere to go.

A man left without a course of action is a man who will discard his dearest morals to find or create a

new path.

In a moment he freed the manacled right wrist. At the same spot on the left wrist, however, he

encountered only a slickness without the restraining band. The slickness was blood.

“I broke that manacle,” the bruin said. “But I couldn't manage the rest of it.”

“Who chained you here?” Jask asked.

“Later,” the bear-man said.

Jask wiped his bloodied hands on his slacks, knelt and freed one of the chained feet. He found the

Dean R. Koontz - Nightmare Journey

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