1: THE BOOKSTORE INCIDENT

Gravity pulled giant raindrops from the dark sky, slamming them onto the roof and windows of the Safehaven Bookstore. It was a loud, dense rain that kept many of the residents of the small town of Boulderdale nestled safely in their homes, cozy beneath the tall redwood trees of the Santa Cruz mountains. But despite the weather, the little bookstore had a fair amount of customers happily browsing through books and magazines--enjoying the warm ambience the bookstore offered.

The customers of the Safehaven Bookstore were a loyal lot, and word-of-mouth was the old-fashioned method of advertisement that Sarah and Dave Dugeon, the bookstore's owners, depended on most. Customers came not only from Boulderdale and the surrounding small mountain towns, but from as far west as the beach town of Santa Cruz, and as far east as San Jose. Besides the regular stock of bestsellers, they kept a large supply of rare books from smaller, more esoteric publishers. Many people wanted what the big chain bookstores refused to carry, so Safehaven supplied them.

"Do you have Sidney Sheldon's latest paperback?" a tiny grayhaired lady asked, as she looked into the pale and beautiful face of Sarah. Sarah was standing behind the counter, lighting a long stick of incense that sprouted from a small, round, intricately painted, clay holder. The incense was a vital part of the store's atmosphere, along with the classical music that softly played from speakers hidden behind white grills in the walls. A jar of instant coffee and a box of Celestial Seasonings tea bags sat next to the stainless steel hot water dispenser at the far end of the counter. The hot beverages were free, and the customers used the ecologically correct, paper coffee cups the store provided.

"Yes, we do," Sarah pointed to the best seller rack by the store's front window. "On the very first aisle. All the current best sellers are there. Sheldon would be a nice read on this rainy day." Sarah smiled down on the tiny lady. Sarah's smiles were always genuine.

People were precious to her--all people. It was part of her deep seated spiritual belief that she had had ever since childhood. People responded warmly to Sarah's easy, natural goodness. Dave would always remind her how lucky she was to have married him. He claimed his healthy skepticism of people balanced out her naturally trusting nature. But Sarah was no dummy. She could tell a phony when she met one. She just wanted to give people the benefit of the doubt.

The elderly lady walked to the first aisle and quickly spotted her Sheldon paperback. As she reached for it, the dark gray weather outside suddenly lit up with a blinding white light; the forest and the scattering of small, quaint stores were electrically outlined with supernatural brilliance. The thunder from the huge flash of lightning arrived a few seconds later, violently shaking the walls and windows of the bookstore, scaring all the customers. Sarah even let out a small scream. A man holding a coffee cup in one hand, a Time Magazine in the other--jumped-- spilling his coffee all over the magazine. The elderly lady--reaching for the Sidney Sheldon paperback--fell over backwards, and...WHUMP!--landed heavily on the carpeted floor.

Sarah ran from behind the counter and rushed to the side of the elderly lady. She tenderly stroked the woman's gray hair and asked, "Are you all right? Do you need an ambulance?"

"Hell no...I'm okay young lady," the tiny woman said, as she attempted to get to her feet. Sarah gave her a hand and helped her up, again asking if she was hurt.

"I'm fine, really. But that thunder just about scared the piss out of me. I thought the bookstore got hit!"

Sarah realized that despite the little woman's frail looks, she was tough and healthy--a real firebrand. It made Sarah chuckle a bit under her breath. She admired older people with spunk. "Okay, I believe your fine. Don't want any of my customers getting hurt though." Sarah put an arm around the lady's waste and asked, "Why don't you have some coffee or tea? I'll even make it for you."

"Don't bother young lady...really. I'll just buy this book, get home and have me a shot of bourbon," she smiled at Sarah and winked. "Sometimes weather like this makes me antsy...'Specially when we get lightning that comes on like a damn A-bomb!"

This time Sarah laughed loudly. She definitely liked this old lady. It made her feel secure inside knowing that as some people aged and saw death coming closer each day, their sense of humor didn't disappear--death's specter failing to cause them depression.

Maybe some elderly people caught a glimpse of life beyond the grave--seeing death as a doorway--a portal to better worlds. Perhaps life on earth was a cosmic kindergarten and at death we graduate to the next level.

Sarah caught herself staring into the old lady's eyes for a socially unacceptable length of time.

They both walked over to the counter and the elderly woman paid for the book with a ten dollar bill. The ancient cash register clanked beneath Sarah's fingers as the money drawer popped open. She counted out the change, beaming a warm smile into the little lady's face. Sarah placed the book in a paper bag and handed it to her.

The elderly woman smiled back and adjusted a plastic scarf to protect her gray hair from the rain. She liked the bookstore lady even if she did seem somewhat vacant at times--seeing that faraway look in her eyes. It made her wonder if the young lady had used drugs...or still did. Maybe she was one of the hippy remnant--hell, there were enough of them around here. Oh well, its none of my business anyway, she thought.

The elderly lady reached for the door, but it swung open before her wrinkled hand could touch the knob. A little bell above the door tinkled. A man in a black raincoat stood outside and held the door open for her, waiting for her to pass. She could feel the man's powerful eyes drilling into her back even as she drove away in her ancient green buick. He gave her a strong case of the heebee-jeebees. Oh well...it's good she left when she did...wouldn't want to be in the same room too long with that guy...

He watched her drive away.

The bookstore was warm. The friendly glow of its golden light was like a beacon to all who passed in the wet darkness outside. That was good. That was why he came in here. The beacon drew him in...a message from the Receiver. Perhaps it would draw others in who were in need of the truth he was about to share. He pulled a xeroxed copy of a handwritten flyer from the protection of his rubber raincoat. He wiped his feet on the mat before stepping on the store's beige carpet.

Sarah was by the magazine section, explaining to the man who had spilled coffee on the magazine not to worry about it. If he didn't want the magazine, he didn't have to buy it. These things happen. She felt somebody tap her on the shoulder--whispering, "Miss--"

An intense whisper. Cold.

His black raincoat dripped water on the carpet. There was just no way to prevent that from happening. The young woman turned to see who wanted her attention and when she faced him, he was startled by the lady's beauty. Her long, blond hair hypnotized him. It was full, floating, outlining her face like a halo. She looked so intelligent, surely she could understand the importance of his flyer, the need to post it in the window of her store...he could feel it in her: her understanding.

"May I help you with something?" she asked. Her voice fell on him like a gentle rain, unlike the torrent outside that threatened to cave in the roof.

The man pulled the black hood of the raincoat from his head, revealing a shiny bald scalp. He handed the flyer to Sarah, looking hopefully into her deep green eyes. "My name is Paul. I wondered if you could put this flyer in your front window...It's a very important flyer."

The man's eyes drilled into Sarah's with such intensity, she could bearly meet their gaze. They frightened her. A hint of madness or mission lurked in his wide open orbs.

She took the flyer and gave it a quick glance, not really looking it. "I have to ask my husband about this first. He needs to approve of anything that goes on the window," she paused for a moment, feeling she may have been rude. Sarah then asked less abruptly, "Would it be okay with you if I keep this and show it to him later on...when he isn't busy?" She knew Dave was working with his computer back in their bedroom. The store was attached to their house; after they'd found out the zoning was approved for business, they'd bought the house and built on the bookstore. Safehaven was their dream come true.

Dave had a way of making dreams come true.

"Yes, that's fine." The bald man could not hide his disappointment. "But I don't see what could offend anyone in this flyer. It's about joy and happiness, the attainment of power..."

Sarah was staring at the man's face, trying to get past his intense dark eyes, seeking for some sign of the joy and happiness he had just spoken of. It just wasn't there. But there was something there, something she couldn't identify: and it had nothing to do with joy or happiness. Perhaps it was unbridled fanaticism...or even fear.

Sarah did not feel comfortable around this man, and that was a rare occurrence for her. She usually felt at ease with most anyone she met--a major reason why the little bookstore was such a success. "Well, like I said, I'll show it to my husband later on."

A rolling peal of thunder vibrated the store. Instead of diminishing in intensity, it grew--threatening to burst the storefront window. The customers, browsing among the aisles of books, all stopped what they were doing and straightened their backs, nervously looking outside and wondering if the sound would ever end.

"Okay," Paul said, and as he spoke, the thunder ended abruptly, as if the angels had turned off some huge, cosmic stereo. In answer to the thunder's sudden silence, the rain increased in ferocity. The unspoken fear that momentarily gripped everyone in the store was the horror of the biblical tale of Noah. The story had become an archetype within human thought and flowed within their minds. They were all going to drown--swept away by a huge tidal wave--men, women, children...

The fear entered into all their minds--except for Paul's. He smiled at the sudden increase in downpour. It soothed him, eased his fears, filled him with something sickly akin to joy.

Sarah silently laughed at herself for letting the foolish tendrils of fear grow within her brain. Drown in a flood? In Boulderdale? A town accustomed to torrential downpours? She mentally shook off her mood--silly of her to entertain such thoughts. It rains like this all the time in the winter. It's good for the redwoods. It's good for the ferns. It makes the forest beautiful...

"Excuse me. I have a customer...," Sarah gave a final smile to Paul and walked behind the counter. She set the flyer by the cash register. A diminutive man wearing glasses, holding a Dean Koontz horror novel in one hand and an umbrella in the other, placed the book next to the cash register and dug out his wallet.

"Some rain we're having this year," the man said. Sarah could hear the nervousness in his voice. She knew him. He was a local. In a town of only three hundred people, you eventually meet most of them.

"Yes, it's a real downpour all right, Mr. Tully."

"I don't ever remember it raining this hard before, and I've lived hear for over five years."

"Think of how rich and green everything will smell afterwards," she smiled so warmly at him that he blushed a bright pink. Mr Tully set down his umbrella and counted out the exact change, handing it to Sarah.

The rain flowed down in cold waves--ebbed from an unbearable torrential downpour, to a mere torrential downpour. This was perfect weather for a good horror novel, thought Sarah, as she watched Mr. Tully leave. He unfurled his umbrella as he left the store and walked in the rain to his car. His shoes were very muddy by the time he reached his vehicle. You live in Boulderdale, you get used to the mud. That's a fact of life in this wet, moldy, but beautiful little town.

Paul studied the small hand painted signs that identified what classification of books resided in each aisle. He quickly found the subject he was looking for. Metaphysics. The section was well stocked and Paul marveled at the completeness of the collection, many titles he had never seen before. But what could these authors really know about anything? The new truths were coming to the world now--at this very moment--truths too new to have been published yet.

The events were ongoing, and he was privileged to be one of the chosen few, one who knew of the revelations. It made him feel special...above others of his species. But it also scared him. He must work on allowing his fears to flow freely through his mind--to be unconcerned about them. It was his fault that he was not yet spiritual enough to handle his fears. The great event is happening now, and he must be a good servant...one who can live with fear. Indeed, handling fear was the key to power.

Sarah watched Paul as he thumbed through the metaphysical books. It didn't surprise her that he ended up in that section. He looked the type. She had read most of those books herself and it was her responsibility to order them. Sarah referred to them as God books, and though her upbringing was in the Methodist church and she considered herself a Christian, she was still fascinated by the unorthodox viewpoints of metaphysical writers--even believed in what some of them had to say. Truth was where you found it--that was her motto concerning such matters.

Dave would scoff at some of her ideas, although scoff was probably too strong a word. The rebukes came in the form of gentle reminders that she might be too gullible; too easily swayed on certain subjects. Sarah, instead of being offended by her husbands light cynicism, welcomed it. He made her think. And she thanked him for it.

The remaining customers bought their books and left, except for Paul, who continued to peruse through the titles, occasionally picking one and browsing through it.

The sky was so heavy with clouds and rain it was impossible to see the sun setting over the mountains. Daytime in Boulderdale was always cut short anyway, the dense population of redwood trees casting dark shadows across the few open spaces. It was Sunday and Sarah always closed the store at five on Sundays. She hoped the bald man would leave soon...maybe close up a little early, get a head start on Monday, spend some time with Dave.

Mondays and Tuesdays the store was closed and those days were precious to Sarah. Dave had long since agreed that he would not be absorbed by his computer programming on those days, that he would spend time on the important things: like trying to make a baby. The biological clock was ticking for Sarah; she had denied herself the joy of a child for far too long. She was more than ready to have a baby...only now it seemed so difficult to become pregnant. For years she'd faithfully downed thousands of birth control pills, thinking she'd wait until the time was right, when things in her life were stable. Now was the time. Past time, really.

The words crawled across the page like an army of black ants. They stung his eyes. It was a book of lies. All lies. Like all the other books he had looked at on this shelf. Like all the other books he had ever read throughout his life. Not one word of truth in any of them. Why had he not seen this before? Were his eyes free now-- now that he knew the Receiver--to see the shining truth like he never had before?

His brain lit up with glistening strands of energy. Cold energy. His blood like ice--ripping, shredding through his veins. His bald head barely able to contain his bellowing thoughts, thoughts that sang and sang and sang. Songs of coldness--songs of darkness. They convulsed and throbbed and sparkled. He could feel them bursting, icy energy running from his head to his toes. So much power. So much truth. Pure and clean and raw. The Gift glittered within the folds of his brain.

Sarah looked out the front window from behind the counter as she made herself a cup of tea. The street was empty of cars. Even the small market across the street had an empty parking lot. The little town of Boulderdale was shutting down for the day. With the last of the dim gray light everyone retired to their homes to sit in front of warm fires and drink hot coffee or coco--get cozy with their spouse and kids. These imagined scenes warmed Sarah.

So when would the bald man leave? She knew Dave would be waiting for her in the back. They would work on making the baby...all night long. A fun job if there ever was one. She could hardly wait.

Truth hurts. Yes, it hurts, and it cuts you with a knife made of fear, but that's good. Very good. The revelations were coming--crushing the lies of the past with a mighty power that sweeps through your body and freezes your heart and pounds into your soul with its everlasting voice...the guiding voice.

Highly charged thoughts flowed in Paul's mind as he closed the meaningless book. The typeface melted from the pages and dripped to the floor, a black spot that spread outward on the rug. Would the liquified ink crawl all through the carpet and ruin the fibers? It wasn't his fault if it did. It was the fault of the words in the book. Empty words. Hollow words. The cold voice inside him battered his brain with glaciers of chaos. They floated to the borders of his cranium--great sweeping tides of force, crashing into the flimsy membranes of self that remained. Good. Self needed to be destroyed. The great FEAR would destroy it. The great, vibrating FEAR...so cold...so good.

Sarah saw the bald man put back the book he had been reading. Great. Maybe he was getting ready to leave. She noticed him trembling slightly, as if he were cold. Sarah felt nice and warm; the store was always kept cozy in these winter months. And she wasn't even wearing a coat. Didn't need one. Why was the man shivering? Was he sick? She certainly didn't want to catch whatever it was he had; that's all she needed: some new flu.

And what was that aura, that glimmering, that now seemed to be emanating from his body like a heat wave? It radiated an inch from his clothes, surrounding them like an undulating cocoon. Sarah rubbed her eyes, thinking her vision was at fault, that her eyes were blurring because it was the end of the day and the end of her work week--a bit of tiredness creeping into her thirty-nine year old frame. After rubbing her eyes, blinking rapidly a few times, she squinted at Paul, searching for his strange aura, but found that it was gone--she had imagined it after all. Nothing supernatural going on here. And the man was no longer shivering. Had her imagination fooled her on that matter also?

The high voltages of truth flowed in cold glowing rivers from his mind to his soul. He felt the icy neon radiation penetrate the very core of his being. It was a sign from the Great Receiver, no doubt about it--this could only mean he was reaching a higher level--right here in this little bookstore! Oh how privileged he was! So special among those who inhabited the earth! So unique among his peers! Free from death, free from lies...free to recruit others with enhanced drawing power. Just like the Receiver had promised him. He was now much more than a common disciple. He had power. Fear was becoming his friend.

Sarah sipped her tea, then set her cup down and walked from behind the counter to the front window. She flipped the sign in the window to read "Sorry...we're closed," hoping her last customer would get the hint. She also locked the door to prevent any new customers from entering, though she truly doubted anyone would be coming this late--but if they did she would let them in anyway, after all, this was a friendly family store. The locked door was only to discourage the timid.

She glanced over at the bald man to see if he had taken the hint.

He was still looking at the book titles, his face distorted by a muted maniacal grin. It gave Sarah the chills the way his expressions crawled around his face like hungry beasts. She had never seen anything like that before. It was real creepy. Maybe it was time to ring her husband, have him come out on the floor until the strange man decided to leave.

She walked behind the counter and was about to push the red button by the cash register that rang a buzzer inside their house. This was a handy way to alert Dave that she needed help in the store, but before her finger could reach the button, the bald man approached her--his dark eyes fixing her in their glare like a laser beam. Confused, she forgot what she was about to do.

"I must speak to you," Paul said. His soul was glistening inside him, sparkling with cold, raw power. The Receiver coiled frosty tendrils of fear around Paul's soul and squeezed, forcing energy into it. The Receiver worked freely in a spirit that was open to him...open for his guidance. The voice oozing through Paul's soul was distant at first, faint, but he concentrated, and now the voice filled his head, speaking with authority. "Try out the power...recruit this woman into our ranks...she is one of us...I can use her mind..."

Sarah felt a bit dizzy. What was wrong with her? She came over here for something...to do something...until this odd man interrupted her train of thought. Why was he staring at her like that? Is he dangerous? A robber?

"I mean you no harm, Sarah."

How did he know her name? She didn't remember telling him. Did a customer mention it in his presence?

This was not a normal man. He was different. Maybe even special. She knew about psychics...everyone did. But she had never put much faith in that sort of thing, never having met anyone or seen on TV any person that impressed her that much. They seemed either phony or in need of psychological help. As gullible as her husband believed her to be, and as trusting as she was of people--she just didn't hand her entire belief system over to a stranger because they claimed to have "psychic powers." But this mysterious bald man hadn't made any psychic claims...he merely spoke her name.

"How did you know my name? Did I mention it to you?"

"I just know."

"How is that? How do you `just know'?"

"The same way that I know you desire to have a child."

The darkness outside the window flashed away in a blinding light, and a few seconds later a roar of thunder shook the walls of the store. The rain fell even harder-- as if the heavily saturated atmosphere were angry at the earth, wanting to drown all the people, wash away all the trees. The constant roar of rain was conducive to madness.

"But..." was all Sarah could say at the moment. This man was scaring her. She took hold of her fear and tried to think of something to say. "What did you say your name was? Paul, wasn't it?" she finally asked.

The bald man held up his open palms in a gesture of passivity and harmlessness. "Yes, and like I said, I mean you no harm. I only desire that you read the flyer I brought in and post it in your window." He smiled a chilling smile and turned, walking briskly towards the door. "Could you unlock this door for me?"

Sarah did as he asked. She was relieved to see him go.

Dave sat with Sarah at the kitchen table, reading the flyer the bald man had given them. "This guy really rattled your cage, didn't he?" Dave said in a cheerful voice, attempting to lighten his wife's mood.

Sarah had really been shaken by the bald man. His insights into her life were direct and to the point. For him to find out her name was one thing, but to know of her desire for a child was something else again. How did he know that? "What's the explanation, Dave? How could he possibly know we want a baby?"

"It was a lucky guess. And as for knowing your name--he must have heard a customer mention it."

Sarah got up from the table and checked on the chicken she was roasting. "Do you want some coffee?"

"Sure."

She poured a cup for Dave and herself and brought them over to the table. Tendrils of aromatic steam rose from the cups. She sat back down and said, "Let me see that flyer again, Spud." Her affectionate nickname for Dave was based on his somewhat portly stature. He could not be called fat, and he was certainly not obese...husky would be a good word. Besides, he wore his weight well.

Dave handed the paper to Sarah and she thanked him. She placed the flyer on the table and glared at it intensely, scrunching her eyebrows together in concentration.

It advertised a meeting where you could listen to a channeler known as the Receiver. The source of the channeled messages was an entity called the Transmitter, which seemed appropriate to Sarah...almost too appropriate. It made her chuckle. It looked like many other such hand drawn flyers she had seen in the past, advertising the very same things, the same promises. In central California, in and around Santa Cruz, gurus and psychics abounded, and people were more than willing to be led by them. Sarah had never been interested in any of that silly business. Until now.

The look on Sarah's face began to worry Dave. "Hun, you're not thinking of going to that meeting, are you? Do you really want to see one of those creepy, egotistical channelers put on their phony act? They're nothing but charlatans, and if they're not charlatans, then they're crazy." He consciously paused for dramatic emphasis, then added, "Their sick. Mentally sick."

"Well, the meetings are right here in Boulderdale. It says, `The Receiver will appear so all may hear the newly channeled messages of power.' Sounds weird enough, right?"

"Right. And this bozo is in Boulderdale? Jeez...I wonder if it's someone we know, someone who flipped out? Who lives on this hill?" Dave pointed to the spot marked on the flyer's map indicating the location. "I can't think of ever having seen any homes in that area--must be back in the forest a ways."

"Well, there is a cabin up there, near where Spring Road dead ends. I've hiked back in the forest and seen it. A young woman, neo-hippy type, was playing with her baby daughter on the front porch. I said hello, but didn't stop to talk with her. I got the impression she lived alone-- didn't have a husband or boyfriend."

"How would you know that if you didn't talk with her?"

"I could be wrong. She just impressed me as a recluse, a druggy living on welfare, into old hippy sorts of things. She was wearing faded jeans, walking around topless, and had some items that clued me in on her thinking."

"Topless?" Dave raised his eyebrows.

"Bare boobed and bouncing."

"And what were these items she had?"

"Smudges. Smudges hanging to dry from strings attached to her porch roof."

"Smudges? What the hell are smudges?"

"A smudge is a bundle of sage tied with string to form a cigar shaped object. You light them and let them smolder. It's a Native American spiritual thing. People breathe the smoke. They like the smell. It's supposed to be good for meditation purposes."

"In other words, it's some pseudo spiritual, dated, hippy crap."

"Well, I wouldn't be that cynical, but yeah, it is."

The big question was still hanging in the air. Was Sarah, having been impressed by the bald man, Paul, going to attend one of those channeling sessions? Dave asked her again.

Sarah didn't respond immediately. She thought about it, mulled it around in her mind. The bookstore incident had made her very curious and the channeler lived close by. What was the harm? What could possibly happen? Just go for one night, satisfy her curiosity and forget about it. No big deal.

Sarah listened to the roar of the rain, sipped from her steaming coffee cup and at last said, "Spud...I think I'll go. It's no biggy. Just one night, and you can come with me if you want. Make sure I don't get carried away."

"Sarah, Sarah...Okay, go ahead. But I'll pass on the invitation. I trust your intelligence on this matter. But if you show up with your head shaved and muttering chants- -I'll call up a deprogrammer!"

Hearty laughter burst forth from Sarah. She bowed her head, and shook it in a gesture of disbelief. "Please, I promise to exercise good common sense. You've absolutely no need to worry."

Sarah suddenly looked glassy eyed. She stared straight ahead--her face expressionless.

"What's wrong?" Dave said. His wife's sudden blank look sent a chill down his spine.

"I'm receiving a psychic message."

"Oh?"

"Yeah...the chicken's done."

After dinner they tried making a baby.

2: LOST GIRL

Lisa Turner didn't like depending on her ample breasts to get rides, but it was her ticket to just about anywhere she wanted to go. Her body was slim, with boyish hips and thin legs, making her large, long breasts all the more out-of-place--the focus of every male's attention. And a runaway with no money definitely needed a cheap way to get around. But she didn't like the creeps that stopped to pick her up, the ones her breasts attracted--horny, mostly married old men that came on to her as soon as she sat her butt down in their car.

She was wearing an old army jacket over her black tanktop, along with her favorite faded jeans that, despite being tight, were comfortable. The rest of her belongings were in the battered suitcase she used for a chair-- sitting on it with her thumb out, on the side of Highway Nine, waiting for a ride. The redwood tree that toward over her head provided some protection from the rain, but not much.

It seemed that most of her time was spent hitch-hiking ever since she ran away from home at age fifteen, one year ago today. She watched the few cars, driven by people who were brave enough to face the dark, damp day, drive past her, not caring one way or the other if it was her birthday. It made her sad and nostalgic for her early childhood, the pleasant days before puberty hit her body with such force--like an evil chemical potion invented by a mad scientist, it turned her flesh into a magnet, drawing out the bad forces inside men.

Even her father's.

Hormones had hit her like an avalanche. When her periods came, and her chest began to grow and grow, the attention her breasts brought her made her feel proud and uncomfortable at the same time. Her girlfriends envied her, the way boys would almost trip over their feet to get close to her, to ask her out. Lisa had to admit she liked the undeserved popularity. She didn't act differently or dress differently than before. Her red hair was always long and healthy, but that had never been enough, by itself, to attract the boys. She had a nice face--except for her weak chin--weak enough to push her looks into the unusual category. It used to discourage some of the boys. But now, they didn't seem to mind the defect at all--not anymore. Not since The Breasts came. It was her breasts that paved the way to popularity. She began to regard them as foreign growths, benign tumors, not really a part of her.

Too bad her body betrayed her. Ruined her life.

She reminisced about her final days of high school and her last days at home. She wasn't a brilliant student in most subjects, math being the worst, but she did have a talent for drawing. She took an art class and her teacher, Mrs. Borger, would always praise her and encourage her to get further involved with art. "You have a natural gift, Lisa, and if you stick with it, you will find much happiness," Mrs. Borger used to tell her.

Lisa believed her, and did get further involved, always on the lookout for local art contests or places to show her work. She even won a few third place and honorable mention awards--never first place though. But one of her third place ribbons came with a cash prize: fifty dollars! It was the first money she had ever made from her art, and it felt good, somehow giving her work a greater validity. She dreamed that maybe she could really be an artist when she graduated, go on to art school and learn even more. Who knows, maybe she would even be famous someday!

Famous for something besides her breasts.

Lisa was feeling good about herself. The fast boys that lusted after her soon found out they weren't going to score, but the nicer guys hung on and continued to ask her out. She never lacked for dates. Her new identity as an artist gave her a solid feeling, a measure of self-esteem that kept her from being swept away in a flood of boiling hormones.

One day Lisa brought home a watercolor she was really proud of. It was first place material and she wanted to have it framed professionally. The class was given an assignment to paint a still life from an arrangement of fruit set up on a table in the middle of the classroom. She had taken longer than everyone else to finish, but it was worth it. The painting was her first real masterpiece; the other students--even the artistic ones--were in awe of her talent.

She went to her bedroom and carefully taped the picture on her dresser mirror. The lighting displayed the picture to its best advantage. She could hardly wait to show it to her parents. Her mom would be home at half past four, and her dad was still asleep. He worked nights and usually woke up a little after her mom got home. Lisa knew they would be surprised by this painting. It was really, really good.

Lisa was fairly close to her parents, considering the distance that some of her friends kept from theirs. She supposed it was because she didn't have any guilty secrets to keep from them. She didn't use drugs or screw around. Everyone at school knew about AIDS, but even if there'd been no such thing as that terrible disease, she still wouldn't have sex. She wasn't ready. Too many of her girlfriends got into too much trouble; they'd get so confused she wondered if they'd ever make it out of high school.

It wasn't easy being a drug free virgin, especially when you had big breasts--all that pressure from her friends. But she felt good about herself. Somehow, others saw that in her and liked her for it. In fact, they were drawn to it. She was a real individual...with a certain kind of strength.

Lisa put on her EraserHead t-shirt--being a David Lynch fan ever since Twin Peaks. After that TV series, she had discovered his other bizarre movies and became convinced EraserHead was the best movie ever made! What a genius David Lynch is, she thought, as she finished pulling on her white shorts. She heard her mother opening the front door.

She ran down the stairs of their Southern California suburban home and warmly greated her mom.

"What's got you so excited Lisa?" her mom said, as she set her purse down on the kitchen table. Her mom worked in the city of Irvine at a medical supply company that manufactured heart valves. She was an inspector, and often came home with a headache caused from eye strain. Examining the tiny parts for defects was precision work; a mistake might cause some heart patient great suffering-- she certainly didn't want that on her conscience; she took her job very seriously.

"It's a new painting I just finished, the best one I ever made. Come see it."

Lisa's mom followed her up the stairs, and when they reached the bedroom, Lisa held her arm out towards the painting, palm up, in a grand gesture of pride.

"Wow. That's good honey. It's really beautiful," Mrs. Turner said. She meant every word. From what side of the family had her daughter inherited all that talent, she wondered. She couldn't think of any relative who could draw worth a damn. She gave Lisa a big hug and said, "Keep it up kiddo and you'll be famous one day."

"You really think so?"

"I really think so. The fruit in that painting not only looks real, but it even makes me hungry. I wish I could reach in there and grab one of those apples or oranges right now."

"I've got to show it to Dad. Should I wake him up?"

"Well...sure. Why not? He should be getting up now anyway."

Lisa ran off to her parents bedroom. Her father was turning over in his sleep. She shook his shoulder.

"Huh...what's wrong hun?" He said, the dope of sleep swirling down the drain of his brain.

"Dad, get up and come see my painting." Lisa knew her dad worked hard. He spent nights in a noisy steel mill in Los Angeles. She pictured him among the flames and noise, the liquid metal glowing red. It must be like hell in that place. Maybe it wasn't really nice to wake him now, depriving him of his last few dreams.

"Yeah, okay hun. Give me a minute." He opened his eyes and looked at his daughter. His gaze lingered on her t- shirt. "Eraserhead huh? What's that? A band?"

"No, it's a movie," she said, and noticed that her dad didn't remove his eyes from her chest. Her breasts were burning, as if they were independently capable of embarrassment. No need for embarrassment guys--it's only Daddy.

Lisa walked back to her room so her dad could get dressed. Her mom was still studying the painting, truly fascinated by her daughter's talent. Lisa could not help but feel pride.

Her chest swelled.

"Is your dad coming to see this?"

"Yeah, he's getting dressed."

A few minutes later her dad walked into the bedroom. He kissed his wife while Lisa pointed to her painting, anxious for her dad to see it.

"I'm going to go phone for a pizza. This new painting of yours deserves to be celebrated," Lisa's mom said. Smiling, she turned to walk downstairs to the phone.

Lisa looked at her dad's expression as he studied her painting. "This is excellent," he said. "I just can't get over how grown-up and talented you're becoming. You surprise me more and more everyday."

Lisa hugged her father. Her breasts smashed against his arm. She was smiling, a real Daddy's-girl. She felt him squirm slightly. A strange warmth seemed to radiate from beneath his clothes. It made her suddenly uncomfortable, and as that feeling grew, she pulled away from him. She had never pulled away from him before.

"Yeah," he said, a huskiness, like thick dirty oil, coated his words. "I'm more and more surprised." He turned to look down at his daughter, his eyes again fixing on her t-shirt. "A movie huh?"

"What Dad?" Lisa said, trying to control some nervousness creeping around inside her mind.

Why should she feel nervous?

"Eraserhead," he said, touching her t-shirt, touching her right breast, touching her nipple.

Lisa went pale. Was she being oversensitive now that her breasts were so big and so noticeable--her main feature--flesh thrusting aginst the thin cotton of her t- shirt, making her feel naked...exposed. It was just her father, for heaven's sake, not some pimply boy at school who was trying to cop a cheap feel.

When her mother called upstairs for her father to go pick up the pizza, a rush of relief spread through Lisa's body. Her damned body.

That uneasiness was the first hint of the New Ritual that was to be initiated in their home. An early morning ritual that began when her father came home from work and her mother slept. The ritual went on and on, everyday, until Lisa ran away.

This was the beginning, the first of The Rituals:

Lisa liked wearing big, baggy t-shirts to sleep in. T- shirts roomy enough to comfortably handle the immense expanse of her chest, plenty of room, no constriction. Breasts free to move about. The t-shirt would be long enough to cover her boyish butt, making trips down the hall to the bathroom commensurate with her modesty.

She was walking to her room from the bathroom after showering, wearing her baggy t-shirt, when she spotted her father looking up at her from his position downstairs on the couch, in front of the TV. She wanted to smile, or nod her head in recognition of his looking at her, but the strange leer on his lips and the heat from his eyes scared her.

Her own father scared her. Could the man who took time to play dolls with her when she was little be the same man who had just given her that evil look? Lisa knew about sex, and what boys did to girls. Boys had hormones that warped their brains into a single thought. But fathers didn't have hormones, at least not like that, and not hormones that made them want sex with their own daughters- -their own flesh and blood.

Lisa went to her room and closed the door. She turned off her big overhead light and pulled back the blankets on her bed and crawled in. Her breasts swung heavily when she leaned her thin body over. She was always so aware of them. She turned on the lamp on the nightstand beside her bed, and picked up the young adult romance novel she had started last night. She had to clear her mind of thoughts about her father before she could go to sleep. The thoughts would lead to nightmares--she didn't want to have nightmares. She fell asleep with the novel on her pillow, and the lamp left on.

Big hands rubbed her chest, massaged her. The hands were not attached to a body--they came from the bottom of a fuzzy blue cloud that floated above her, as she floated on an undulating ocean of warm milk. Nice warm milk. Nice warm hands. Why were the hands massaging her? She should not let that happen. Bad boys always wanted to do that. But it felt so good, massaging her breasts with such tender care--care not to wake her--not to reveal their source. But she felt the light of awareness creep into a corner of her mind, and it grew until it flushed out the soft, sleepy dream. Her eyes fluttered open.

Why was Daddy leaning over her, his hands under her t- shirt? Why was he hot and sweating? Such a look of torture on his face. Was someone making him do this? Was someone trying to punish him? He looked possessed.

A real horror show.

This was the beginning, the forging of the knife that cut the innocence from Lisa's heart with such bloody precision.

A huge blast of thunder blew out the ugly daydream from Lisa's mind. Today was all that mattered. Sitting on the suitcase that contained all her worldly possessions... waiting for some creep to stop and give her a ride.

She had heard about some dude in Boulderdale who could get her a really good phony ID. With an authentic looking ID, she had a chance at a job. Panhandling was not her favorite pastime; she'd much rather work. She had dreams, hopes, that life on the street couldn't erase--no matter how rough it got. And besides, she wanted to be in the forest of the Santa Cruz mountains. Even if she couldn't find the dude today, she could probably find some shelter up there. Maybe an empty summer cabin she could break into...there were lots of them up there in the winter time.

She didn't consider herself a religious person, though she did think about God, more so since she'd run away, wondering if He was somehow guiding her. It was the confusion in her mind--her pain--that interfered with her talking to God. She felt so ashamed, so guilty when she asked God for help. She hoped He would send a car to pick her up soon: not a car sent by the devil. It always seemed like the devil got there first--with his band of creeps-- his sexed-up demons with their sticky fingers and blood red eyes. What was a girl to do?

An old VW van, a relic from the hippy days, the first vehicle in nearly a half hour to pass this way, pulled over to the side of the road just ten feet in front of her. The van was painted with army camouflage colors, as if the driver expected to engage in jungle warfare, except a huge peace sign was painted on the back, just below the rear window.

Lisa couldn't see the driver from where she stood. Was this one more creep that wanted to grab her body the minute she got in? She didn't think so. Usually middle aged hippies--as indicated by the vehicle's paint job-- left her alone. They had some sort of ethics, or sixties style manners, that made them act differently. Almost as if they had had enough free love back in the old days, and didn't care about that stuff anymore. But she could be wrong. Demons were everywhere. She walked over to the van and got in.

The driver had long blond hair, but instead of the skinny body she expected, it looked like he worked out with barbells--everyday. His muscles were huge; she could see them even though he was wearing a long sleeve flannel shirt. His neck was as thick as her waist.

"Name's Rick. What's yours?" He asked, his voice was warm and kind.

Lisa shut the door of the van and felt the warm air blowing from the van's heater. It felt great. Comforting. "My name's Lisa."

"Where are you headed Lisa?" He said, pulling away from the road's edge, back to the highway.

"Oh, just up the road a ways."

"Boulderdale? Rock Creek?"

"Yeah, Boulderdale." He smiled at her when she spoke. The smile didn't seem phony. She could always spot phonies.

"Well, that's where I'm headed. You have friends up there?"

Lisa stared down at her lap. For a runaway, she never could adjust very well to the first law of the street, the first law of survival, which was to Lie. Lie and con. Never tell the truth when a lie always worked better. She just couldn't get used to doing it, even with all the pain that life had pushed into her young soul. "No...Yeah. Well, sort of. I just like the trees. I like the forest."

"So how are you going to stay dry? It's raining like cats and dogs...as if you hadn't noticed."

"I'll stay dry. I can find a place." She figured she would ask around, find the ID dude. No sense spilling her plans to this stranger. He might decide to become rightous--turn her over to the cops.

"You just did. You can stay at my cabin. I sense that you're no rip-off artist. You're not going to steal my stereo or anything... Are you?"

"Hey, it's okay. I can find someplace."

"Don't take offense. I meant nothing bad by my remark. I'm just offering you a place to crash for the night. I might even be able to help you out a little."

Could she trust this guy? He's being too nice. Her breasts felt hot and obvious. They seemed to grow even as she sat there in the comfortable warmth of the van. He was offering her some dry shelter. Or was he? What were his motives?

It was hard to turn down...her being drenched to the bone and all. "What do you want in return?" Lisa asked sarcastically. He's probably just another flesh fiend who can't wait to get her in bed. Strip her. Boy, would she surprise him. He'd get nothing but a great big NO.

"Oh...that's what you think. Well, you've got me all wrong, kid. I'm not that way"

"You don't know what I think."

Rick smiled broadly. It was supposed to be non- threatening, but it still sent a little chill down her spine. She shook off the feeling. The real question was, did he just want an easy lay? He was cute--didn't look like some hard-up creep--certainly didn't need to come on to a teenage runaway. Maybe her breasts made her too paranoid, too fearful of others. All men weren't like... like her dad. Rick even seemed like he might be an interesting guy. Most guys his age, with his lifestyle--if his van was any indicator of lifestyle--weren't into heavy duty body building like he obviously was.

The rain came down so thick the windshield wipers were almost useless. They weren't fast enough to sling off all the water before the outside view became obscured again.

Lisa struggled to pass judgment on her new benefactor, not wanting to make any rash decisions--when Rick suddenly slammed on the brakes so hard the van spun sideways, tilting on two wheel, threatening to tip over.

Lisa's heart jumped into her throat and she screamed.

Rick backed the van out of the oncoming traffic lane-- although no other cars were on the road--and drove forward slowly, parking the van in the mud beneath the redwood trees. He seemed a little shaken, taking a moment before he released his white-knuckle grip from the steering wheel. Without explanation, he opened the van door and jumped outside.

What in the hell was he doing, thought Lisa. She could barely make out his muscular figure through the wet, rippling windshield. He appeared to be looking for something--looking this way and that--finally walking into the redwoods, disappearing from view.

What just happened? She was still shaking from the spin-out. He'd nearly tipped the van over; they both could've been seriously hurt! This is the kind of crap you run into when you're hitching rides with strangers. You never know how good the driver is; he might even be drunk or on drugs. Though Lisa might look the part of a druggy: she wasn't. It didn't impress her at all when a driver was so spaced he barely knew where the road was.

Close to five minutes passed and still no sign of Rick. If he didn't show up soon, she'd try and hitch another ride. No sense sitting here...although it was warm, and he did offer her a place to stay. But what kind of guy would do what he just did? A good explanation was in order.

A dark, wet figure suddenly stood looking in at her from the open van door. Lisa sucked in her breath with shock and surprise.

"Hey, it's me. Don't look so scared," Rick said, as he climbed back into the van and shut the door, his ponytail stringy from the rain. He checked for traffic and pulled the van back onto the highway. "We didn't hit it...at least I'm pretty sure we didn't."

An angry scowl crossed Lisa's face. "What in hell are you talking about?"

"You didn't see it?"

"See what?" Lisa realized she was missing a key point, a factor that was going to turn Rick back into a rational man. That was fine with her; she didn't want to believe he was some sort of suicidal maniac. Despite everything life had thrown at her, despite the bad people who seemed bent on victimizing her, she really did--in her heart of hearts--want to believe the best about people.

"The deer."

"A deer?"

"You didn't see it? It jumped out of the forest: ran right in front of the van. When I slammed on the brakes, I couldn't tell whether I'd hit it or not. I looked around and couldn't find it, so it's probably okay... Damn deers anyway."

The explanation eased Lisa's mind. Rick reacted like anyone else with a heart would react. So he wasn't a maniac trying to flip his van. But her suspicious mind wasn't without justification--there were reasons for it-- considering some of the characters she'd run across.

Her loving father, for one.

Lisa continued to consider her options, analyzing all the pros and cons of where to spend the night. Suddenly the sky burst forth with a blinding white radiance, followed shortly by a bomb-blast of thunder, causing her to jerk in her seat.

"We're here," Rick said, making a sharp right turn up Spring Road. He drove a short distance and made another right turn into his muddy driveway. Mud coated the tires as the van sloshed noisily through it. He pulled up as close as he could to the wooden porch.

"You've got a cute place." It was a small cabin with shingled walls, surrounded by huge, thick, redwood trees. Smoke was pouring from the red brick chimney. It looked very cozy. "Is someone there? Your wife?"

"No. No wife. I'm divorced. Sometimes my thirteen year old son, Joshua, stays with me. He's here now, with orders to keep the fireplace going."

This guy's all right, thought Lisa. He's got a kid. He's got responsibilities. But then, so did her dad. The thought sent chills up and down her spine.

Rick grabbed a bag of groceries from behind the driver's seat and motioned for Lisa to follow him. They quickly jumped out of the van, Lisa hanging on to her battered suitcase. They ran towards the cabin, careful not to slip on the muddy ground. Joshua opened the door for them.

"You want a cup of coffee?" Rick asked.

"Sure," Lisa said, sitting on the couch, staring out the front window at the wet trees, the rain splattering against the window. Lisa had removed her old army jacket, draping it over a stool near the fireplace to dry. The glowing warmth from the hearth passed through her clothes, to her goose-pimpled skin, and finally entered her bones, filling her body with a cozy heat. It felt great.

The cabin was small. The only other rooms were a bedroom and a bathroom. The kitchen occupied a corner of the main room. Where did Rick sleep when his son was visiting? Were Rick and her going to sleep in the same room together? No chance of that happening. No way.

"So, is that your room, Joshua?" Lisa asked the thirteen year old, who was a miniature version of his dad, minus the muscles.

"Sort of, its my dad's, but we share it...its got a space heater, so it stays warm in there. I got my own cot."

A thought suddenly struck her: Joshua was only three years younger than her. But she felt so old, so removed in age from the boy. She had almost forgotten that today was her birthday.

The fire blazed in the fireplace, the rich smell of smoldering sap filled the warm air of the cabin like an exotic perfume. The glow from the dancing flames flickered across Lisa's face. This was nice. Joshua was a lucky boy.

"Here's your coffee," Rick said, handing her a steaming brown mug. He sat down in a chair by the front window and sipped from his own coffee mug. "Mmm...good," he said. Then a silence fell over them as Joshua went to the bedroom to play video games.

"They closed the school today. The weather is just too rough. My ex brought him over," Rick said, breaking the silence, anticipating her question. Did he have a touch of ESP or was she just being paranoid? Rick's eyes seemed to stare inside her head--sensing her tension and trying to ease it. There was an aura about Rick, something different that she just couldn't put her finger on. Was it good...or was it bad? She hoped it wasn't bad. She liked this place. She liked the warm fire. She even began to like Rick.

"Lisa, I know you must have problems with your family...you are a runaway...Right?"

That wasn't ESP. It didn't take a genius or a telepath to figure out that a teenage girl, hitch-hiking with a suitcase, must be in some sort of trouble. Now the question was, was he going to turn her in? Bug her for her parent's phone number? If he did, then out the door she'd go, looking for the ID dude or an empty cabin to camp in for the night. She wished with all her might that Rick would be cool--just leave her be.

He looked at her with eyes suddenly cold. Cold and intense. The man who had braked for a helpless deer was gone, and in his place was an exact physical duplicate-- only the mind and the soul were different.

"You were molested by your father," Rick said.

Happy birthday, Lisa.

3: PAUL'S PLACE

Paul stood in the small, white tiled bathroom--naked-- facing the medicine cabinet mirror. He studied the lines in his face, his aging face, his shiny bald head. He pulled off a long length of toilet tissue from the blue roll sitting on the sink counter.

He blew his nose into the tissue with tremendous effort, his whole head glowing red, forcing blood into reluctant skin cells. He blew and blew, filling the paper with gray slimy mucus. He tossed it into the toilet and ripped off another piece. The skin of his nose was inflamed from tissue paper rubbing against it.

He blew harder, but blood, not mucus, spurted from his nostrils this time in great crimson streams, coagulating into dark brown clumps in the blue tissue paper. He blew again with even greater force, until tears filled his eyes, spilling down his cheeks in saline rivers. His ears popped.

It hurt to blow his nose this hard, but the pain was worth it--if only the Gift would emerge from his unworthy flesh, a prize for the Transmitter.

He examined the last tissue closely, fingering through the thickening blood. It would be in here, if he had successfully dislodged it from his brain. It would be nestled in the dark, bloody clumps, hiding like a holy icon, a humble offering to the Magnificent Transmitter. The Receiver--being the only person able to approach such a powerful entity--would take the Gift from Paul and offer it to the Transmitter. But so far, Paul was not able to produce the gift, though he felt it growing bigger everyday.

Paul looked into the mirror at his blood stained face, tears making paths through the dark crimson. He felt like a failure; he was so sure he could do it this time. He sensed the gift growing in his brain like a pearl in an oyster (a brain pearl, that's how he liked to think of it)--if he could only dislodge it, get it to emerge. What a spiritual success that would be! A triumph!

But, possibly, the gift was not ready to come out. Perhaps it needed to mature some more, come to greater fullness. For that to happen he would need to increase his fear-tolerance by becoming more spiritual, thus able to shed the last remnants of his human identity.

He tossed the bloody tissue into the toilet.

A loud rap against the door shook Paul from his meditations. "Are you through in there yet? Other people need to use the bathroom too, you know."

Paul flushed the toilet. "Please, just a few seconds more and you can have it." He washed the blood from his face and toweled off. All the tenants had their personal towels stored in their little rooms. Paul tugged on an old pair of jeans and opened the bathroom door, his towel folded across his right arm, and faced an angry neighbor. It was old man Jones, his deeply wrinkled face scrunched up in disgust.

"What the hell are you doin' in there, anyway? Jackin' off?"

The crude remark from the old man sickened Paul; his holy mission being compared to masturbation came close to blasphemy, but then, how could the old man possibly understand the significance of what it was he was doing? "I forgive you your ignorance," Paul said, smiling down on the old man.

"Gee whiz, thanks Mr. Holy man. I'm so blessed. Now will you get your ass out of my way?

Paul removed himself from the doorway and walked down the hall to his little room. He could still hear the old man grumbling even after he'd shut the door.

Paul's abode was simple. His furniture consisted of a single bed with a TV tray beside it, and a scratched-up dresser. On top of the dresser was a hot-plate, a few cans of pork and beans and a small cooking pot. On the floor he kept a tin bucket full of water for washing his cooking pot. His entertainment center consisted of a clock radio that sat on top of the TV tray. A very simple room for a very simple existence. Worldly things held little interest for him. It was the spiritual life--the gaining of spiritual power--that his mind obsessed over.

Paul worked as a dishwasher in Feltonville at a small family restaurant. He'd been there for about a month, hitch-hiking to work early in the morning, working until four PM, then hitch-hiking back to his old tenement house in Boulderdale. The house was old but kept reasonably clean and in good repair, plus: the rent was cheap. But best of all, it was close to the Receiver's meetings. How great could life get?

It was time to meditate. Meditation was the key to maturing the Gift.

His nostrils soft inner membranes hurt, ripped open from blowing his nose so hard. But it was a good pain, the results of a sacred task that must be performed at various intervals--whenever he felt the possibility that the Gift might emerge. He could feel the Gift growing, quivering in the gray matter of his brain's frontal lobes. It was a living thing, this gift. It could move on its own, like a baby straining to burst forth from the womb. The Great Receiver told him to give it every assistance in its journey from the brain to the outside world. The birthing would not be easy.

The Gift must grow, mature. Paul sat on the edge of his bed and closed his eyes. He tried to relax his muscles, imagining the tension swirling away like water down a drain. His kept his hands palms down on his knees and inhaled deeply through his damaged nose, exhaling through his mouth. He did this over and over, until the tingle of hyperventilation spread from his lungs, down his limbs, into his hands and feet.

The Gift began to pulsate within his brain, a painful ebb and flow of coldness, sharp needles piercing delicate fleshy tissues. Paul ignored the pain, even though the frozen pinpricks hurt more and more--he wanted to scream his lungs out--but he didn't.

Be calm, be still, let the icy razors slice, the steely cold blades whirl. Don't scream...relax...relax...relax.

Paul's thoughts wandered wherever the Gift, the brain pearl, led them. It played an inner movie made of emotions that swirled like a dark tornado inside his head. He thought of childhood, of school...He was never very good at school, always at the bottom of his class. The other children laughed at him. It wasn't his fault he was dumb: but he wasn't dumb...not really...it was his mother...he always had to think about his mother...she drank all day and night...made his father leave...so drunk all the time. Her big fat face, her garish make-up smeared across her sick, pale skin...her fat flesh, all lumpy and decayed...it hung from her bones as if it were melting...melting onto the floor.

"Look at you. Your disgusting," his mother said to him as he dressed for school. "Your little thingy, it's like a little white worm," she held a bottle of cheap wine in her swollen hand. She drank from it, the red wine spilling down her chin, dripping down her undefined, blubbery bosom. Paul was trying to pull on his underwear, trying to hide his penis from his mother. She gave him her famous sneer, the sneer that made him feel so worthless, so inhuman. "You like to play with your little worm? I bet you do...every chance you get. I ought to burn it off. Burn it off." She smiled at him with her sucking leech mouth.

Paul grimaced. The brain pearl was taking him down some dark, dark roads...roads that stung him, chopped him up. It was good for him though--making him stronger. He opened his eyes, looked around the room.

His mother was there. Now.

She held a flamethrower. "Take off your jeans," she said.

Fear is a real thing. It has weight. It has mass. It is cold.

Very cold.

Paul's meditation locked onto his mind. He couldn't stop the process now even if he wanted to. The brain pearl clamped its freezing claws around his mind and squeezed...squeezed... tighter and tighter. His mind burst apart like a sun going supernova, thoughts blasting across the universe.

Mother smiled at him. Her eyes changed: turned black as the abyss, shiny and moist, insectlike. They grew in her head, forcing back the oily skin like folds of hot wax. He fell into her eyes. "Take off your jeans."

He took them off, hands trembling so violently he bearly managed to unbutton them. He kicked the jeans across the room.

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ," his mother said. Her insect eyes controlled his brain. The buzz of mosquitoes filled the room. Louder and louder. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ," she repeated. It cut his brain open like a knife through pudding. Gray pudding. He could feel blood dripping from his ears. Lifeless blood.

She placed the lit nozzle of the flamethrower over his penis. The organ shrank into his body. "Little white worm. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Burn it off.

Burn it off."

The light from the naked bulb, the single bulb that lit Paul's room, gleamed off the shiny metal of the flamethrower. His mother pulled the chrome trigger...in slow motion.

The buzz of insects drilled through his ears, through his brain. Deep inside his head the buzzing from both ears met. A single brilliant point of light. Sharp, growing, multiplying, turning into a pinwheel made of razor blades that spun faster and faster. Slicing--dicing.

The brain pearl grew, sucking in psychic energy. The burst from the flamethrower froze his penis as if it had been dipped in liquid nitrogen. It fell from his body and shattered on the bare wooden floor.

Shattered like a glass wiener.

The shards of penis were sharp and dangerous. He must be careful not to step on them, might cut his foot.

His mother shrank, deflating like a leaky balloon, her lumpy, shapeless body now the size of a rat. Her clothes dissolved and her naked body turned black. Six thin spiky legs grew from her torso. Her skin hardened into a skeletal covering. She became a giant ant--an ant the size of a rat.

His ant-mother scuttled over to the tin bucket that held his dish water. What was she going to do? What more could she want? She'd destroyed his penis, shattered it into tiny pieces, scattered it all over the floor. She hated him, hated his penis. Would his drunken mother like him better if he had been born a girl? Maybe.

Maybe.

She stood erect, up on four legs, using the fifth and sixth legs like arms. She stretched until she could grab the lip of the pail. Was she going to spill the water all over his floor? "Be careful mother, your going to--"

It was too late. The pail tipped over. Instead of water pouring out, an army of rat sized ants spilled from the bucket's lip. They scuttled about in confusion for a time...then, as if controlled by one mind, they abruptly stopped. For a few minutes they remained still.

Suddenly, fluidly, they each rose up on their four hind legs--all at once--with humanlike grace. Then they danced about the floor in a dreamlike ballet. It was frightening to watch, but at the same time beautiful and hypnotic. Paul stared, fascinated, a cold, oily sweat forming on his skin.

"Oh yes, it's beautiful...so beautiful," Paul muttered in excited tones. Madness convulsed through his mind, tickled his thoughts. The huge insects continued to dance as if all their movements had been choreographed. Dreamy and smooth...Such a precious moment...So exquisite. Could it last forever? Could the opiumlike quality of this vision be eternal? Every movement of the spiky, black legs sent chills up and down his spine. It was ecstasy.

Suddenly, there were miniature tables and chairs scattered across his floor--a tiny nightclub. The humanlike ants stopped dancing and sat at the tables. They began drinking, gesticulating, making conversation in piercingly high pitched voices. Most of them puffed vigorously on little cigars, the smoke forming a low lying cloud ten inches above the floor. Paul winced at the high pitched squeals that he figured to be the ants' version of laughter. The first ant, his mother, was indistinguishable from all the rest, lost in the crowd.

The room's single light bulb blew out, obscuring walls and ceiling; only the ant-man nightclub remained softly illuminated by light coming from long, stained glass lamps that hovered a few feet above the tables. Paul felt like a spy, peering into the lives of this insect community, observing their intriguing culture.

A waitress ant, skillfully balancing a tray full of foaming beer mugs, made her way through the closely packed tables. Some of the male ants made moves to pinch her backside. She managed somehow to bend her black beak into a good natured smile.

The overly aggressive customers squealed with their strange laughter, slapping each other on their black, chitinous backs. One of them spilled his beer all over the table, the amber liquid dripping to the floor. This brought on more gales of squeaky laughter from his companions. The waitress, after delivering beer to her other thirsty customers, pulled a white towel from the tray and wiped up the mess. The ant-men leered at her ant- ass, making obscene gestures for their own mutual entertainment.

Paul was delighted by all these antics. He could feel the pearl pulsing, waves of energy feeding his hungry brain cells; his emotions and aesthetic sensibilities soared skyward. He could not rip his eyes from the scene before him, a silent, objective observer into a secret dimension. The rest of humankind knew nothing of these matters, he was privy to special truths about the universe the average person would never understand. He was special- -more than human.

He just wished he could understand what the ant-men were saying. He strained his ears to detect recognizable words, recognizable phrases. Suddenly, a loud crack split open his eardrums; it was a gift from the Receiver. the Receiver knew all his thoughts, all his thinking...

The giant ants' language became understandable, but there were too many conversations going on at once; he could only detect snatches of meaningful phrases. Paul tried concentrating exclusively on five ants sitting around the table nearest him. They drank heartily, hoisting large foaming mugs of brew to their beaks, wiping foam from their faces with thin spiky arms. Paul scrunched his face in intense concentration.

"The waitress has a nice ass...I wouldn't mind getting a little piece of it," ant-one said.

"Yeah, its sweet. Real sweet," ant-two said.

"Sure, how would you know?" ant-three said.

"I just know," ant-two said."

Even the mundane, macho, sexist talk of the ants fascinated Paul. The conversation took on some sort of profound depth that would be lacking if he heard the same thing in a local human bar.

"You know, I get the strange feeling we're being watched. Do you guys get that feeling?" ant-four asked.

"Now that you mention it...I do," ant-five said, leaning back in his creaky wooden chair, taking a long swig from his mug.

The five ants looked around the bar, their shiny black eyes scanning carefully every inch of the room. Paul was safe from detection, hidden in the shadows.

"I don't see anyone looking at us," ant-one said.

"Yeah, well, guess we're paranoid. Let's drink up boys!" ant-three said, then, twisted his head around for another look at the bar. For a moment, Paul thought that he had been spotted. "What happened to the entertainment? That female piano player was a real looker."

A spotlight switched on, swirls of smoke filled the cone of light, illuminating a miniature white piano. From the darkness emerged a woman-ant; Paul could tell the ant's sex from the feminine gait. She sat down behind the piano and began playing soothing jazz melodies with remarkable skill and ease.

The ants at the table that Paul watched looked pleased, really enjoying the cool, calming music, as did the bar's other patrons. They sat silently, sipping beer from their mugs, lazily basking in the effects of alcohol and music.

Paul smiled down at the scene before him. The vision brought him great peace; he wanted it to go on forever-- this miniature elegance, this tiny rapture...

Paul's skin began to shine. A phosphorescent glow seeped upwards from beneath his epidermis, flowing from his pores, covering his entire body. This peculiar radiance expanded, grew until its glow reached the ant's smoky nightclub, illuminating the first row of tables. Paul felt a hint of panic twinge through his gut. The ant- men would see him, he didn't want that to happen...

The piano player's thorny claws stopped, frozen in flight from one ivory key to the other. Silence cut through the room, chopping off all conversations, paralyzing every skeletal limb.

The piano player was the first to break the spell as she pointed her claw at Paul. "Look!" She screamed.

All the shiny black eyes in the room turned to face in the direction she pointed.

And their was Paul. Exposed. Glowing.

Fear, like an imploding sun, burst inward and collapsed Paul's stomach. He groaned, all the lovely peaceful feelings fled his body.

Time stretched like a slab of rubber, pulled tighter and tighter, tension increasing to the breaking point. Paul's eyes widened into ping-pong balls, threatening to pop from their sockets. "Oh, no...no..." he whimpered.

Ant-one pointed at Paul, and said, "Well, well. Will you look at that. An intruder. A spy. A human spy...the very worst kind." Ant-one stood up from his chair, knocking it over. He gazed out across the throng of ant- men. "What do we do with spies? Especially human spies?"

The crowd laughed their high pitched laugh. It sent chills racing over Paul's goose pimpled nakedness. He started to feel dizzy--his head lolled from side to side, nausea clenched his stomach, twisting it unmercifully. He lifted his legs onto the bed and stretched out on his back. He didn't want his feet on the same floor with the ant-men; he had no idea what the monsters might do.

His nausea and dizziness grew so overwhelming they overshadowed his fear. The room swam around him, the slightest movement of his head sent the room spinning faster and faster. He slammed his eyes shut, but to no avail; the room was in a wild tailspin...falling, sinking, whirling down the vortex of infinity until he passed out.

Paul slowly opened his eyes.

How much time had gone by? Had unconsciousness claimed him for hours or only a few minutes? A gray light coming through his second floor window was the only illumination, filtered through sheets of rippling rain. Everything bathed in a dead, cold glow.

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ"

The buzzing sound shocked and frightened Paul because his meditation was over now. No matter how pleasant and real most of the insectile visionary experience had been, his rational mind knew it was only that: A vision. A detailed hallucination. When it was over: it was over. Usually.

So what was that buzzing? Could it be interdimensional fallout?

Please. No. Not fallout.

Maybe he was still just hallucinating...

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ," the mosquito flew like a tiny helicopter around his right ear. Paul laughed when he recognized the sound for what it really was. How foolish he had been to let fear wash over him, grip him like that, especially now that he was rested and clear headed. The great Gift, the brain pearl, was controlled by the Receiver, and the Receiver wasn't without mercy. Nothing could ever happen that surpassed his coping abilities; what would be the point? He must have faith in the Great Receiver.

Paul tried to raise his right arm to swat the mosquito, but he couldn't move it. "What's this?" he said, turning his head to look at his arm. A thick rope bound his wrist. The rope passed under the bed.

"What!" he yelled, swiftly turning his head to the left. His other wrist was bound in the same way. He struggled against the ropes. His legs were bound also, solidly fixing him to the bed.

Panic gripped him in cold steely claws. What's going on? Someone must have broken in and tied him down. That was the only explanation. But for what purpose? He didn't own any material things worth stealing; his dishwashing job certainly hadn't made him rich. He owned nothing that would tempt a burglar. Why would anyone want to do this to him?

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ"

The buzzing did not come from his ear. Paul closed his eyes, breaking out in a clammy sweat. Greasy moisture covered his naked body. He shivered uncontrollably, violently, the ropes cutting into his flesh, making him bleed.

A brilliant spotlight flashed down on his bed, popping his eyelids open, illuminating his pale body like a man on an operating table. His curly black body hairs stood out in stark contrast to his paper white skin...sickly skin. How frail he seemed now. How human. He'd forgotten how human he really was, so supercharged with thoughts of power, of glory, that the Receiver had so recently bestowed upon him.

Now blood from his wrists and ankles dribbled onto the thin wool blanket, spreading outward in ugly crimson stains, absorbed into the blanket's fibers.

He tried to scream for help, but his throat locked up like a high revving engine devoid of lubrication. He could only whimper pathetically, weakly, like some battered puppy.

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ"

The noise was louder now.

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ"

Much louder. So loud, he dared not look down at the foot of his bed, dared not, because beyond a doubt that was where the sound originated. Whatever horror it might be, it was on the bed with him.

And he was helpless. Bound hand and foot.

But he had to look. Had to confront his enemy. Balls of greasy sweat flowed from his forehead, running in rivers down the lines of his face. He lifted his eyes slowly and looked to the end of his bed.

Like a miniature army, the ant-men stood in rows just beyond his bound and bleeding feet, their glistening, hatefilled eyes bored into his soul like electric drills. The ant-mens' war cry of buzzing noises rose higher and higher as they charged themselves up for the great campaign.

The troops split down the middle and backed off to either side, forming a path in their midst. A lone, giant ant marched up the path. Paul stared in terror and let out a long, low groan--an endless groan that stretched from one end of the universe to the other.

The lone ant had a small human face. It was his mother's face. Her fat, disgusting face. With its red bulbous nose--tiny broken veins that ran across the skin like some demented roadmap. She marched forward and stood between the V of his spread legs.

"You think you're so smart, but you're nothin' but a little shit," his ant-mother said, each word stung him like a snapping whip.

Paul's mind shredded away with her every word. A pain so large he couldn't contain the feeling; it ripped his mind open like an electric egg beater spinning at full speed inside his skull, scrambling his brain--his thoughts.

"Me and the boys are goin' to teach you a lesson, make sure you know just how weak and pathetic you really are. Right boys?" She spun around to face her troops.

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ," they all said in one swelling voice-- a chorus from hell.

"Yeah, son, you were always the holier-than-thou type, always lookin' down your nose at me, just 'cause I liked a little drinky-poo now and then...you self-righteous little pig.

Paul flinched at her words, a growing fear rose up from his belly, shook him. What did the ant-men plan to do to him? He struggled against the ropes, squirming, wriggling, only succeeding in rubbing the rough rope fibers through more layers of skin, causing more blood to flow. Soon, his tendons and muscles would be exposed if he continued to struggle this intensely. But what else could he do? He was driven by fear: pure, glittering fear.

"Okay guys," his ant-mother said, facing the troops, "you know what to do."

Would the Great Receiver rescue him at the last moment? Would he show mercy and release him from this torture before it went any further? Deep inside, Paul knew that that wouldn't happen. It was a test, all part of a bigger plan, another rung on the cosmic ladder to greater power. He must have faith. Faith in the Receiver's plan.

One ant-man was stationed at each of his feet. He could feel their tiny, cold breaths against his bare soles. Each of those breaths made him flinch with terror. What were they going to do to him?

"Dig in, boys!" His ant-mother said.

At first it tickled. He almost broke out in a string of giggles, if it weren't for the sharp screws of fear that drilled through him. He felt the ant-mens' hard beaks nibbling lightly against the calloused skin of his soles. Paul wiggled his feet in a fruitless attempt to get the ant-men to stop, but as soon as he shoved them away, they would come back, attacking with even greater vigor. Paul quickly learned that resisting brought more pain...so he must remain very still.

"Dig deep boys! I want holes you can crawl into!" Yelled the blubbery face of his mother as she sparkled with pride at the progress the two ants were making. Already the end of the bed was covered in blood.

To prevent Paul from dying from massive blood loss, a few ant-men connected a clear tube into his arm. It quickly filled with crimson blood. These ant-men jumped from the bed and walked to the end of the tube, which was connected to a huge black tank, shaped like a beetle. The tank was the size of a large couch. One of the ant-men flipped a red switch near where the tube connected. Immediately a low hum filled the room as fresh blood pumped through Paul's body. They didn't want Paul to die.

Pain that was no longer earthly pain, but cosmic in proportions, stretched from Paul's body to the furthest stars in the galaxy. He wanted to pass out, but some drug, a stimulant, was an ingredient in the new blood they pumped into his veins and it kept him energized, kept him sharp and alert, adding even a greater edge to the torture he already felt.

The ant-men who were burrowing into his feet had created a space large enough for them to insert themselves into. They wriggled into the tight open wounds, inadvertently stopping some of the blood flow.

"Looks real good, boys," Paul's ant-mother said. "I think we can go to stage-two now. Mr. Holier-Than-Thou seems to be holding up just fine...a little worse for wear, but he's still kickin'."

Paul's face was frozen in a permanent grimace, unable to scream--only able to observe the tortures being done to him. The careful, methodical tortures.

"Have at it, boys!" Paul's ant-mother yelled. The ant- men charged, climbing all over Paul's white, weak body. They divided his body into individual territories, each monster finding a portion of Paul's wracked flesh to cling to and begin burrowing. Ripping up flesh, blood spraying everywhere. Deeper, deeper they dug, finding their nice, warm homes of living tissue.

The gift, the brain pearl, grew and sang in Paul's tortured cranium.

It had been a very good meditation.

4: THE HIKE

Byte was smiling, wagging his tail and pushing his food dish around the floor with his nose. Sarah--beyond any doubt--knew that dogs could smile, and Byte, her large collie, had a nice one. Sarah chuckled as she filled Byte's dish from a bag of dry dog food. A collie with a sense of humor; something rare in that breed. She'd always pictured collies as very serious...that is, until Byte came along.

Byte happily chomped away at his food, while Sarah finished making a huge, mexican style omelet for Dave and herself.

Dave was at the kitchen table, studying the newspaper. Sarah cut the omelet in two and slid the pieces onto each of their plates. "Catchup or hot sauce?" Sarah asked.

"Catchup."

Pouring Dave and herself big glasses of orange juice, Sarah attempted to stare through the newspaper into her husband's face, as if she had x-ray vision.

"Your food will get cold if you don't put that thing down and eat."

"Oh...sorry," Dave said, folding up the paper and setting it aside.

Byte finished gulping down his food, then, wagging his tail all the way, walked to the back door, stood on his hind legs, and used his front paws to turn the door handle, letting himself outside into the gray, cloudy morning.

"That dog is scary sometimes," Dave said.

"He's smart, that's all. Now, I just wish he'd learn to close the door after himself and he'd be perfect."

Halfway through their omelets, Sara said, "Since the rain has let up for a bit, you want to take a walk with me?"

"Where?"

"Just up Spring Road, to that cabin I told you about. I want to ask that woman if she knows anything about the meetings, or where they might be."

"You really want to do this thing, huh? That guy impressed you that much?"

"I'll go one time, just to see what it's about."

"Hummm."

"Hey, Spud, don't worry so much. I can handle it. Cut me some slack."

The air was crystalline pure and very cold. Dave and Sarah walked hand in hand up the hill, bundled in their warmest clothes, knit wool scarfs wrapped around their necks for warmth. Sarah carried a small, folded umbrella because the sky was still dark with threatening clouds. Byte followed jauntily behind, stopping every three minutes or so to sniff at something, becoming totally absorbed by whatever odor drew him in.

"I love the air up here," Dave said, inhaling deeply. "It makes you tingle it's so clean."

"Yeah, it's like mountain spring water for your lungs. Love it." Sarah felt relieved to be outside, happy the weather had broken from the constant downpour. Although the rain didn't bother her like some people, she did miss taking walks--the dense, heavy rain putting a stop to that little pleasure. This excursion was a treat, and she enjoyed every minute of it.

Dave was enjoying it also. As obsessed as he was by computer programming, his body would scream after a few hours of desk work to get up, to do something physical. He needed this hike. Gazing at the beautiful redwood trees relaxed his eyes, cleared them of fatigue accumulated from hours of staring at his monitor screen.

He thought about how fortunate he was: married to Sarah, living in a scenic, uncrowded area, enjoying some success with (what started as a hobby) his computer programming. If he only had a child, that would make his life as close to perfection as it could get, at least on this world.

Byte began barking, his eyes fixed on some tiny object that Dave and Sarah couldn't see when they stopped to look at what all the commotion was about.

"What's the matter, boy?" Sarah asked, as though Byte could answer her.

Byte stared at something on the side of the road, circling it, barking at it, stopping at times to look up at Dave and Sarah and wag his tail.

"What the hell is he so excited about?" Dave asked, walking over to look at whatever was provoking such a response from Byte. He scowled, "Jeez, Byte, it's only a snail." He bent over to pick it up.

"A snail? He never got so excited about a snail before."

Dave inspected the snail. The little animal was hiding in its shell. There was nothing peculiar about it--just one of thousands that slimed their way across the forest floor after a rain. "Byte, you're weird...or you're playing a little joke on us. Dumb d--" the body of the snail poked out of its shell.

Sarah saw her husband's puzzeled expression and asked, "What's wrong?"

Byte looked at Dave expectantly...whining. The collie panted and let his tongue loll out of his mouth, then, unable to contain himself any longer, jumped up, placing his front paws on Dave's chest, while sniffing at the snail.

"This is weird. Look at this hon," Dave said, holding out the snail for Sarah to see. Byte dropped to the ground and walked over to Sarah.

"Jeez...its got two heads! A mutant snail!" Sarah said in a tone of surprise. "Never saw anything like that." She took the snail from Dave and examined it closely. Why would this snail bother Byte so much? How would a dog know the difference between it and a normal one--unless its odor was different from other snails. She began to wonder what could cause such genetic damage. "Is there something around here that's radioactive?"

"Radioactive? I doubt it...though you never know what some jerk might decide to dump out here in the forest-- trying to avoid some EPA hassles or something."

The four slimy eye-stalks of the snail wiggled about as the two mucus drenched heads stretched and retracted--over and over again--attempting to grasp a clearer evaluation of their situation, so high above the ground.

Sarah suddenly grew very apprehensive of the little animal, a disgust that turned to fear. She flung the creature into the forest, yelling "Yuck!" Byte started to run after it, until the invisible leash of Sarah's voice demanded him to stay. He was an obedient dog. And very loyal.

Sarah noticed Dave giving her a puzzled look. "I couldn't stand the thought of touching that thing any longer. I don't know how to explain it...it just seemed so...so...unnatural, I had to throw it away."

"Unnatural is a good word for it, but you could've handed it back to me. I'd've liked one more look at it." Dave was smiling as he spoke and Sarah couldn't tell if he was serious or not. Probably just teasing her.

"Well, too bad. It scared me."

They continued hiking up Spring Road, which changed from pavement to dirt, and eventually dead ended, the forest taking over. "Now, if I can remember where I hiked that day," Sarah said, more to herself than to Dave. "I think I hiked up the hill a ways, started walking to the left..."

"You sure you know where your going?" Dave couldn't see a cabin anywhere, at least from where he stood. Why would anyone post a flyer for a meeting that no one could find? He suspected that whoever would do such a thing must be a fuzzy thinker, or else they were a little fanatical-- somehow hoping people would be divinely led to the correct spot. Whatever...at least he was getting some exercise and breathing clean air.

They hiked further into the woods. Sarah pointed to her right. "There's the cabin!" She sounded relieved, as if the cabin might have somehow disappeared. "Let's see if the lady's home and if she knows anything about the meeting."

Dave and Byte followed Sarah onto the cabin porch and stood behind her as she knocked. Dave tapped Sarah on the shoulder and asked, "Are those the smudges?" He pointed to some green, cigar shaped objects hanging from the porch roof.

Before Sarah could answer him, the front door opened. Dave peered over Sarah's shoulder, wanting to see if the young woman was topless. He was only human--a male human, he thought, in a weak attempt to assuage his guilt.

"Yes?" The young woman said in a voice that sounded dreamy, as if she'd taken some kind of drug. She obviously didn't recognize Sarah, but after all, it had only been a brief hello.

Dave was a little disappointed that the lady wasn't topless. He pinched his wife's butt. Clown, Sarah thought, brushing his hand away from her bottom.

"My name's Sarah Dugeon, and this is my husband, Dave." Dave grinned like a jack-o-lantern. Clown.

"What's your dog's name?" The young lady said, pulling her bathrobe closed a little more, covering some of her cleavage--not to hide it, but in order to keep warm. Sarah was somewhat surprised, expecting the woman to ask why they were here, or what did they want--certainly not the dog's name.

Byte smiled and wagged his tail for the lady.

"His name's Byte," Sarah said.

"Bite? You mean 'cause he bites people?"

"No. No. Nothing like that. His name's Byte, B-Y-T-E, like eight bits to a byte." Sarah noticed the blank look on the lady's face. "You know...computer type bytes?" This was hopeless. "Anyway--he doesn't bite. Don't worry."

"Okay. He looks like a nice dog. He doesn't look like a biter," she smiled dreamily, her eyelids at half-mast. "Come inside; it's warm in here," she looked at Byte and added, "And bring in your doggy too."

The cabin was bachelor style, all one room, except for the bathroom. A crib was in the corner. The young woman had decorated the walls of the baby's corner with bright patterned cloth. Paisley cloth. She had crystals and beads dangling in strings from her ceiling, she even had a lava lamp sitting on an old coffee table. The table was made of thick wood--burned, sanded and heavily shellacked, a relic from the early seventies. Incense pervaded the cabin's air, like atmosphere from another world, and under that was the sick-sweet smell of marijuana.

As Dave and Sarah sat down on an old wood framed couch, Sarah asked, "What's your name?"

"My name's Karen. My baby's name is Sue."

Karen? Sue? This really surprised Sarah. She expected names like Morningstar, Crystal or Sunshine. Not ordinary names like Karen and Sue.

A silence fell over them. Karen casually walked over to an old dresser, opened the top drawer, and took out a hand rolled marijuana cigarette. "Do you want some?" Karen asked, lighting the marijuana with a brass Zippo lighter she took from her robe.

Is that what this woman automatically assumed? That we came here to smoke dope? This was like going back in time, Sarah thought. Karen even had black light posters hanging on the walls. Where in the world did she ever find them? "No, no. We don't want any."

Karen looked puzzled as she inhaled the smoke. She held her breath for a few seconds, then broke out in a fit of coughing so loud and raspy that it frightened Sarah; was she going to spit out chunks of her lungs? Jeez, the things people do to themselves...

"What do you want?" Karen asked, after she recovered from her fit.

"Do you know anything about some meetings held by a man called the Receiver, a spirit channeler? They're supposed to be held around here somewhere."

Karen took another drag of marijuana, went into another coughing spasm, and with glazed eyes, stared blankly at Sarah. It was spooky.

"Well, do you know anything about them?" Sarah asked again, suspecting Karen had drifted off to some very private world--far out in space. Dave felt disgusted and uncomfortable and started fidgeting. He wanted out of here. Now. Karen's lifestyle was so opposed to his, he felt as if he were visiting a martian.

"I know him."

"You know the Receiver?" Sarah asked, happily. She was aware of her husband's discomfort and wanted to cut this visit short.

"Yeah...he uses my cabin."

"He uses your cabin for the meetings?"

"Yeah."

Great. Dave relaxed, and stood up. He patted Byte's head and took hold of Sarah's hand, pulling gently. Now maybe they could finally leave.

Karen let her marijuana cigarette go out. She placed it in a big brass ashtray on top of her dresser. Through red, torpid eyes she gazed curiously at Sarah, as if judging her in some way, her worthiness.

"I would like to attend one of those meetings. When's the best time?"

"Every night, around eight, the Receiver comes here. Sometimes only a few people show up. Paul always comes though. You know Paul?"

"Paul gave me a flyer advertising the meetings," Sarah said, as Dave tugged lightly on her hand, signalling he wanted to leave--Now. Sarah wanted to ask lots more questions, but she also didn't want her husband to suffer. Still, she couldn't resist asking just one more. "So...Karen, you're really into this thing then? Really into this spirit message business?" she asked, walking with Dave towards the front door.

"Nah, I don't get off on it. I could care less about their weird shit. I think that's one of the reasons they come here. I'm what they call a neutral. And besides, the receiver doesn't want anyone to know where he lives."

Dave grinned at one of Karen's words: Think. She can think? It wasn't really funny though, it was sad. Karen was a welfare mother who sat around on her ass all day, watching soap operas and smoking pot--at least that was his first impression of her and he didn't believe himself to be wrong. He really felt sorry for her kid, having to grow up in this environment. But what could he do about it? The welfare system was a mess. Karen and all her ilk were a burden to society, using the system so they could avoid legitimate employment. California drew them in like a magnet.

Sarah was relieved to hear Karen's words. If Karen was a product of the Receiver's gospel, she would've lost all desire to attend a meeting. Karen was the worst advertisement for the efficacy of the Receiver's teachings.

Sarah opened the cabin door and slipped outside--Dave and Byte close behind her. Karen stepped outside too, looking up at the threatening sky. The clouds were nearly black they were so pregnant with rain.

"Yeah, Paul showed up here with his friend, the Receiver, about a month ago," Karen said, as if Sarah had asked her another question. "They told me they'd give me some money each week if they could use my place for their meetings. I said sure."

Sarah could smell the rain getting ready to fall. It was going to be another downpour. Byte was pacing nervously.

"They never tried to get me interested in their spiritual thing. I guess I wasn't their type. The Receiver, he's a strange dude, really weird. I never know what he's talking about--and he doesn't even get high. Spacy guy."

Thin strings of lightning traced patterns against the dark clouds. A few seconds later the roll of thunder reached their ears. Byte looked up at Dave and Sarah expectantly, as if wondering why they weren't hiking down the hill.

Karen continued, oblivious to her company's concerns about the weather. "There are only two special followers, people that really interest The Receiver. They show up more or less regularly. The others...people who read the flyers and come out of curiousity, people that don't click with the Receiver--they drop out. Usually the first night. If they don't, he tells them to leave."

"Hey, hun, we need to get started," Dave said to Sarah. He felt a raindrop fall on his nose. Why did Karen decide to get so talkative, just when they really needed to leave? Was she doing this on purpose? Idiot.

"Yeah, let's go before we really get soaked." Sarah adjusted her thick wool scarf.

"So...when are you coming to the meeting?" Karen asked, her heavy eyelids in stark contrast to the interested tone in her voice.

"Soon," Sarah said, walking back to the main road, Dave holding her hand and Byte following behind, happily wagging his tail.

Karen heard her daughter starting to cry. "Bye," she called out to Dave and Sarah. Without turning around, Dave raised his arm and flicked his hand in a farewell gesture.

Karen went back into the cabin, shut the door against the rain, and walked over to the crib. Her little girl was hungry. She didn't smell like she'd messed her diapers. Good. Karen picked up Sue from the crib and gave her a hug. "How's my little baby," she said, rubbing her nose against the baby's nose, making the baby giggle.

The baby was happy. Karen opened her bathrobe and brought Sue to her breast. She sucked on Karen's dark nipple contentedly. Karen went over to the couch and sat down. She liked to nurse her baby. It was such a motherly type trip. It felt so natural and earthy when she did this--like she was kin to all female mammals on the planet. Ms. Natural. Yeah.

Karen blinked her eyes as she watched her baby nurse. Something was wrong. She blinked again, thinking it must be some sort of hallucination. Her nipple was too long. Way too long. Had the marijuana effected her more than it usually did? It was good stuff...but not that good.

Sue's little mouth had moved more than two inches from her breast, yet the nipple was still in her mouth. It stretched out like a long, thick tube. What was going on here? Karen opened her robe to expose her other breast. It was large and milky white, a few blue veins visible beneath the taut skin. With her thumb and forefinger she grabbed the breast's dark nipple and pulled on it. To her surprise, it stretched over three inches from her breast, as easily as a rubber band. Milk spurted from the end. Instead of fear taking hold of her mind at the bizarre changes to her body, she was fascinated.

Karen positioned Sue so that she could stick the other nipple in her mouth too, just for the hell of it. It was easy--the erectile tissue stretching to accommodate her wishes. "What a trip," Karen said to her baby, who now sucked on the two nipples at once.

She was amazed. She was some sort of super mother. No one else she knew could do this. And it was kind of sexy too. Just wait until guys see these, she thought. Her nipples would blow'em away. She could hardly wait to show someone. When the rain quit, she would go down to the stream where everyone swam naked, and show off her little nipple trick.

Karen's habitual state of drug intoxication, along with her naturally slow mind, buffered her consciousness against fear inducing events--the Receiver had no use for such people.

Sarah unfurled her small umbrella against the downpour. It offered them little protection, but it was better than nothing. She thought it was sort of exciting to be walking in the rain anyway--so what if they got a bit wet? A little water never hurt anyone. From the smile on Dave's face, he appeared not to mind either. Even poor, soggy Byte was still wagging his tail.

"I was so glad to get out of that house," Dave said, giving Sarah's hand a gentle squeeze.

"You didn't like it when she started getting high. I could feel your tension."

"All I could think of was her poor baby, having to be brought up by a mother with a drug problem--probably has other problems too." His imagination conjured up some ugly scenes. He shuddered.

"Well, when we have our baby, we'll do such a great job of parenting, we'll put a little goodness back in the world--make up for other's mistakes."

"That's a positive way to see things."

"Besides, when I go to the meeting, maybe I can talk to Karen and wake her up, get her to see she's making some big mistakes."

"I doubt if it'll do any good, but it can't hurt to try." Dave was silent for a few moments, his eyebrows scrunched together in worry. "You know, I wish you'd just forget about this thing. Something about all this seems so...I don't know...sleezy."

A thick, white streak of lightning flashed from one end of the sky to the other. Dave and Sarah braced themselves for the thunderclap. When it came, the ground shook. Byte let out a yelp and tried to squeeze between them, almost tripping them both. "Oh...poor Byte. He's scared," Sarah said. "Don't worry boy, we'll be home soon and you can cuddle up next to the fireplace."

The chill in the air was like a living entity, making every effort to penetrate clothing, slip under flesh, and cut through bone, satisfied with nothing short of the bone marrow itself. It was starting to succeed. They hugged together and speeded up their walk. Home seemed more and more like Paradise, a shining goal of warmth and beauty. When would they ever get there?

Beneath the white noise of raindrops falling through the icy air, Sarah heard a growling. At first she thought it was Byte, but he was innocent, his ears standing up, listening along with her. Where did it come from? "Dave, did you hear that sound, something growling?"

"Yeah, I did." He didn't complete his entire thought-- not wanting to worry his wife--but he couldn't help but think of the wild dog packs that sometimes roamed this area. People were always dumping unwanted dogs in the Santa Cruz mountains, thinking it more humane than bringing them to the dog pound. It wasn't. It was downright dangerous to the residents of the mountain community.

Not so long ago, a five year old boy, someone they knew, went missing for three days. Sarah and Dave were part of a volunteer group that went out searching for the boy. The child's parents, the Coopers, were hysterical-- their lives centered on their little boy, such great love they had for him. They'd been on a picnic in the woods. One moment the boy was playing happily among the trees; the next moment he was gone. They had barely taken their eyes from him--

On the third day, a deputy sheriff found the boy's body, or rather, what was left of it, heaped at the foot of a redwood tree. The ground beneath the body was rust red from blood. It took two more weeks to find and destroy the wild dogs.

The Coopers would blame themselves the rest of their lives for what had happened.

Children would follow the dogs, thinking them as friendly as their family pets. That's what happened to the Cooper boy--just an innocent little kid playing with the doggies. Dave thought dog dumpers were criminals. They ought to be jailed. How could people be so stupid as to...

The growling grew louder.

Byte's ears perked up again. He stopped and sniffed the air. "Come on boy," Dave called to him. They must get home. Back to Safehaven.

What an appropriate name it now seemed.

Dave kept up a brisk pace. "Just keep walking, hun. Don't run. Don't turn around. Try not to be afraid. Dogs can smell fear." He hugged Sarah's waist.

There was movement behind a thick growth of ferns a little ways from the road's edge. Byte froze again. "Damn it Byte," Dave yelled, "come on!" Byte, usually so obedient, decided now was the time to become obstinate. Sarah, worried, looked at Dave and whispered, "Just keep walking, he'll follow us."

He didn't. Byte ran behind the clump of ferns, barking and growling without fear at the unseen intruder.

"Damn that dog!" Dave let go of his wife and chased after Byte, but before he followed the collie behind the ferns, he grabbed a stick that was lying on the muddy ground. It was big and heavy enough to provide good protection--just keep a cool head and everything will turn out all right.

Beyond Byte's growling, another, more vicious growling threatened the Dugeon's family pet.

Dave raised his makeshift club over his head, into the damp cold air, following byte's trail behind the ferns.

"Dave, what're you doing? Be careful!" No matter how much she loved Byte, she certainly didn't want her husband walking into some confrontation with a wild dog.

"Don't worry, hun, I've got this stick..."

Dave found Byte, teeth bared, staring into the face of a--

"What the hell!" Dave yelled, stunned into paralysis, rain water drenching his body, his hair washed down over his eyes.

"What's going on?" Sarah asked, walking over to the edge of the road, towards the clump of ferns.

Almost to shocked to speak, Dave managed to warn his wife to stay put. She didn't need to see what he was about to do. Not now. Not ever.

With a burst of willpower, he began waving the big stick around in a threatening manner, yelling, "Go away! Get the hell out of here!"

Byte let out a series of rapid barks, his teeth clacking together loudly each time he snapped shut his mouth. Sarah had never heard Byte so furious before. What was going on? Was he being bitten? Hidden as Dave was by the ferns, she couldn't see him when he finally brought the big stick down with a whump, solidly smacking wet flesh. An angry, hissing noise--like a hundred vicious snakes--rose eerily from behind the ferns. Had Dave killed the wild dog...or whatever the hell it was?

Dave brought the stick down again. More hissing. More barking from Byte. "Sarah, please, call Byte over to you."

Sarah whistled and called out for her pet. Nothing. Byte continued barking. That dog needs some retraining, she thought, as she called for him again. This whole scene began to feel surrealistic, dreamlike: Byte barking insanely. Dave, like a mad man, pounding away on some animal. All of them getting soaked to the bone in this downpour. And that unearthly hissing. SSSSSSS...

It started to really scare her.

Byte let out a piercing yelp, and ran whining from the clump of ferns. He limped over to Sarah, tail between his legs, a sad, pained look on his doggy face. Dogs could frown as well a smile, thought Sarah, as she held out her arms for her hairy pet. Blood leaked from one of his rear legs. Poor thing. A thought came unbidden to Sarah's mind- -what if the animal that bit Byte had rabies? Dave better be careful. She started to cry. "Please, Dave...let's get out of here."

"Can't leave," he panted, "got to finish this thing off now..." He held the big stick with two hands, and brought it down with all the force he could muster. There was a loud crunching sound that made Sarah wince, then a long, low groan--a groan infused with pain, the final death rattle.

It was over.

Dave stood still, almost peaceful, staring down at the corpse. He threw the bloody stick into the woods. It had been snapped in two.

"Dave?"

"Yeah," he said, dazed and soaked.

"Are you okay?"

Dave shook his head and wiped his wet, blond hair from his eyes, as if trying to wake from a dream. His wife's voice had a sobering effect on him and he phased back into the moment. "We're going to have to take this animal back with us, get it checked for rabies."

"And get Byte looked at. His leg is hurt pretty bad." She hugged Byte and gave him a deeply sympathetic look, "poor baby..."

Dave bent down, and with a disgusted look and reluctant hand, grabbed the creature by the rear legs. Careful not to get any blood on himself, he drug the carcass from the clump of ferns.

"What in the name of God..." were the only words that Sarah managed to mutter once she saw the creature.

Dave finished dragging the body onto the wet pavement; blood on its head became diluted from the rain and disappeared as it ran down the street. "I don't know if God had any thing to do with this," he gave a concerned glance at his wife, adding, "Be careful. Don't let any blood get on you."

Byte shied away from the creature, walking around Sarah so she stood between him and it.

Sarah, both fascinated and frightened, examined the creature. Its body was like that of a pit bull: short, thick legs and a large, barrel chest. That part she could except, that first, brief impression--but the shock of discovering that it was hairless, that the black, shiny covering was naked skin and not hair, made her reel backwards with faintness. Its skin was like an eel's skin, slimy and slick, belonging more to the depths of the sea than dry land. And there were no flaws in the skin, no roughness, no uneven coloration--it was all uniform, giving the animal a manmade, artificial quality.

When Sarah's gaze finally rested on the animals dead eyes, she was in for a further shock. The glassy orbs were a pale violet: like nothing she had ever seen in nature. And again, the eyes were monochrome, all one color and much too even and perfect.

"Come on hun, let's go."

They walked quickly, nearing Highway Nine from Spring Road. The queasiness that rolled through Sarah's stomach made her forget how wet and chilled she was. She fought back a growing nausea that crawled up her throat. "What kind of dog is that? Or is it even a dog?" She asked.

"I've never seen anything like it. As far as I'm concerned, its something straight from the Twilight Zone."

"There's no such thing as the Twilight Zone," pleaded Sarah as she patted Byte's head.

Dave thought of himself as a realist, a logical man, so he surprised himself when he said, "Apparently there is now."

They turned right on Highway Nine. Safehaven bookstore, their home--warm and cozy and safe--was only a little ways up the road.

5: PARTING THE VEIL

Lisa stood by the fireplace, the palms of her hands turned towards the heat. Rick had left Lisa to her thoughts after his powerful display of extrasensory perception. She thought of walking out the door, leaving this weirdness, but the comforting warmth of the fire made her think twice. And besides, Rick's ESP, or whatever it was, did fascinate her after the initial shock had passed.

Rick was in the kitchen, removing items from the grocery bag. He quietly went about preparing a hearty stew. After about thirty minutes, the wonderful smell of vegetables and meat drifted from the boiling pot to Lisa's nose, removing any lingering thoughts about running off. She was just too hungry. Her stomach growled and churned in anticipation of a home cooked meal.

Lisa was homesick for real food, since her diet consisted mainly of greasy fries and hamburgers--food she bought from the money she panhandled. Once she had her fake ID and a job, the greasy fast-food days would be gone. She was fed up with begging and leeching off people; it did nothing for her self-esteem. After all, she knew what it felt like to feel good about herself. She was an artist.

Standing before the crackling fire, she let her mind drift to dreams. She pictured herself with her own place, not a big place, but big enough to set up an easel--a place to paint--a place to make her art. Maybe she'd even get into a gallery, show the world her talent...

The ringing of Rick's telephone startled her. It sat on the kitchen counter, a bar that marked the boundaries of the kitchen from the rest of the cabin's interior.

"Hello. Oh...hi."

Must be his ex-wife, Lisa thought. She heard something shut down in Rick's voice, a constriction of his vocal cords.

"Tonight? But I thought Josh was going to...Okay. Okay. We'll be here. I'm fixing something now. Yeah...Bye."

Lisa figured out the conversation. Rick's ex was coming by to pick up Josh. That meant she would be all alone tonight with Rick. Oh well...she could handle it, and besides, it was pretty clear by now that Rick wasn't some sex maniac.

But then...you could never really tell.

Stretching out on the overstuffed couch, Lisa drifted off to sleep. Just a little nap before dinner...

A large table, piled high with all kinds of good food, was provided by the gallery for the art show opening. Cheese and carrot- strips and olives. Paper thin slices of roast beef and ham. A huge, sparkling, crystal bowl contained a bright red punch.

Hundreds of people walked before her paintings, drinks in hand, studying every paint stroke, every subtle change in color.

Lisa walked among them. Some would excitedly approach her, others shyly: all of them awed by her genius. They questioned her about her technique, her mentors, her philosophy. How could she have reached such hights of emotional expression at such a young age? Her paintings would surely turn the art world upside down, redefine the very meaning of the word, art.

She saw a pair of identical twin sisters approach her. They were young, no older than ten. They wore frilly pink dresses. Each limped on a crutch. Each wore a pink cast on their legs. They hobbled over to her in perfect synchrony with one another. They had pale, perfect faces. They smiled at her, their wide grins chilling Lisa to the marrow of her bones.

She wanted to turn and run, but this was her reception, her grand entry into the world of high art. Panic raced through her veins, charging her with a supernatural fear. Her soul turned to ice when the twins finally stood before her. They didn't seem quite human, more like living symbols. Some kind of archetypes. Did the crutches have meaning? The children seemed without innocence.

Everyone turned to stare at her. Don't look at me, thought Lisa, look at the art! Look at the art! This gallery opening was not going according to plan. The twins were ruining it. She wanted them to leave, to limp away on their crutches and go back to whatever bizarre world gave them birth.

"When will you sleep, Lisa? You need your rest," the twin on the right said.

"Young girls need to dream," the other said.

"But I am dreaming!" Lisa said.

The twin to the left looked puzzled. Suddenly she perked up, illuminated by an idea. "Let me give you a pinch and see if you're dreaming!" Lisa was suddenly naked. The twin reached out with her frail, tiny hand towards Lisa's left breast. She grabbed Lisa's nipple. Lisa flushed. How embarrassing, but what could she do? Hide? The little girl pinched her as hard as she could.

It felt good.

"Ouch!" Lisa screamed, rubbing her nipple through her black evening gown. She wasn't naked after all.

"That didn't hurt. Your faking!" the twin to the right said. "I would have felt it."

The twins stared at one another in deep telepathic communion. The nodded their heads in agreement.

"We're going to hypnotize you. You need your sleep."

"I don't want to be hypnotized!" Lisa screamed. She wanted to be awake, alert, able to deal with situations-- situations like this.

"Relax...count backwards from ten..."

"No! I don't want to!"

"Count! Now!"

"Ten...Nine...Eight...Seven..." Lisa shut her eyes, the gallery walls were spinning, whirling, sweeping away her thoughts, her will...

A man held a pink pill to her mouth. Where was the gallery? Where were her admirers? She was in a grocery store. Long rows of food on either side of her. Boxes of every size and color. Her grocery cart was empty. The man with the pill stood in front of her cart. He wouldn't let her go until she swallowed the pill. Shoppers passed by, ignoring her, busy looking for bargains.

"I'll scream if you don't get that thing out of my face," Lisa said, becoming angrier by the second.

"Hey, I'm doin' you a favor. Is that how you treat people who try to do you favors?" Slobber dripped from his gray stubbled chin. It looked as if he hadn't shaved in days. His clothes were dirty and torn. She realized now that he was a bum. He was homeless, and yet he offered her what little he had. She had to accept his gift--it just wouldn't be polite to do otherwise...

"What kind of pill was that?" Lisa asked, after she had taken it from his greasy hand and dry-swallowed it.

"A sleeping pill. Very strong."

"I don't need to sleep," Lisa said, feeling the clean crisp sheets of her hospital bed through her thin gown.

"We all need our sleep. Especially little girls," the doctor said. Lisa noticed he needed a shave. Gray stubble grew stiffly from his chin. Plastic bags of blood hung above her body, crimson fluid traveling down shiny tubes that ended in her arms.

"Why am I here?" It was hard for lisa to form words, her tongue so thick and swollen she could barely close her mouth. And her tongue was dry. Cracked.

"I'm sorry, but we had to amputate." The doctor's flesh was like Silly Putty, artificial and glistening. His gray stubble was gone, no hair follicles--no pores. All his flesh one even color. His words were razor blades, slicing her, stinging her.

The endless rain battered against the hospital windows, driven by a fierce wind. The doctor looked more and more like her father, his plastic skin rippling into new configurations, sucked inwards against a newly formed skull. "I'm sorry, but we had to amputate. No choice really."

A series of lightning flashes exploded in photon rage, light particles filling all available space--followed by the blast--it shook Lisa's bed, rattled it against the floor. "No choice at all. I hated having to do it." The bags of blood swayed back and forth, back and forth.

Lisa, too scared to move. Too afraid that movement might reveal what body parts were missing. What had they taken? What had they stolen? If she tried to stand, or reach, or grab, or...

Mrs. Borger, her high school art teacher, came to visit her. Such a nice pretty face Mrs. Borger has. She leaned close to Lisa, stroking Lisa's hair, comforting her. "Poor girl, you were always so talented--a true artist. What a tragic thing to have happened...and at your tender age."

"The surgical team is waiting outside your room, Lisa," the doctor said. "They want to speak to you. You'll enjoy them--no finer group of men or women anywhere. All of them, brilliant. Simply brilliant. Didn't leave one little scar."

"I don't want to see them," Lisa said, her tongue so big and dry. It felt like a dying, furry rat, unconnected to her body--foreign, with a will of its own. Lisa knew the surgeons would scare her, talk about her operation. She would rather die than know what they'd done. She just wanted to lie here on the bed, feel the nice clean sheets, the comforting, crinkling sound they made with her every movement. Better not move too much though...

"Oh, Lisa," Mrs. Borger leaned into Lisa's face, a huge hot sun, filling the sky. "You must be brave. I have had it done to me, and I'm all right." Such a sweet smile graced the teacher's face. So truthful. So kind.

Lisa wondered which of Mrs. Borger's limbs were mechanical. Artificial contrivances to emulate living, vital flesh. Bionic plastic, born from the sludge of ancient vegetation--long ago extinct--now a part of her body.

"Here they come," the doctor said.

Five surgeons, dressed in green smocks and still wearing their surgical masks and rubber gloves, walked into the room and stood by Lisa's bed. She looked into their faces but could not detect any emotions in their eyes. One of them pushed a stainless steel cart. On the cart was a bloody towel covering some large lump. Blood pooled around the towel, like blood around a slice of meat in a butchers shop.

They all removed their surgical masks at the same time. Lisa gasped. Froze. No flesh, no skin covering their jaws. The bottom half of their faces raw exposed skull. Grinning heads of death. Gleaming, glistening bone--so white and brittle.

But the surgeons all had tongues. They all could speak. She could almost see the pink organs hiding behind their teeth. Please don't say anything...don't say what happened...

The doctor patted one of the surgeons on the back like an old buddy. "This guy here has hands like a surgeon," the doctor said with a deadpan expression. They all looked at one another. Time paused, like freeze frame on a VCR. Suddenly they burst out in laughter; it rolled out like an avalanche...uncontrollably...

"Show her," the doctor said when he regained his composure. One of the surgeons whisked away the towel from the stainless steel cart to reveal the bloody lumps beneath.

It was Lisa's breasts, served up like two firm melons.

"I'm thinking of having them stuffed and mounted," the doctor said.

Little Josh came into the room and walked shyly up to Lisa's hospital bed.

Lisa was crying. Giant sobs of grief. But underneath the crying, a hint of relief, as if now her problems were forcibly solved.

Fearfully solved.

"Its time to eat, Lisa," Josh said, from somewhere far away...even though he stood right next to her...

"Yes, eat up," a surgeon said, poking at one of the bloody breasts.

Lisa shot up from the cushiony couch gasping, greasy sweat rolling off her forehead. Josh--startled--jumped back from her, eyes wide.

"Its dinner time, Lisa. Come eat with us," he said, timidly. Lisa saw that she'd scared him. Poor little guy. For some reason she felt like checking her boobs. What was that nightmare about she'd just had? Or would you call it a daymare, since the sun was still out, although hidden behind dark clouds.

Lisa composed herself. Embarrassed, she wiped her hand across her forehead and rubbed her eyes. "Sorry. I fell asleep and had a bad dream."

"Its okay. I have bad dreams too," Josh said, his little voice expressing great sympathy.

"Come on guys, over to the counter," Rick called out, ladling the aromatic stew into bowls. Josh and Lisa took their places on bar stools at the counter. Rick sat on the kitchen side, across from them, since he was serving.

Lisa rubbed her eyes like a small child, wiping away the sleep--and the dream. Despite the fact that life on the street had made her wise beyond her years, she still had much about her that was childlike.

The stew contained large chunks of meat. Lisa thought Rick would've been a vegetarian, with his long hair and all. But then there was the fact of his muscles, the evidence of nineties style workouts at the local gym. He confused her. And frightened her. He'd read into her life, knew she'd been molested by her father; how could he know so much about her?

Sometimes Rick seemed like a regular dad, caring for his son, doing fatherly things. It gave her a degree of confidence in him, but at the same time made her wonder if he would turn her over to the cops, or to a some shelter for runaways, like a normal adult would. Then, suddenly, he would transform into some sort of psychic, invading banned areas of her mind--and that's not normal.

Contradictions.

Mysteries.

Lisa dipped her spoon into the bowl of stew. She brought it to her mouth. Before it reached her lips she screamed: a nipple floated in her spoon. It was a familiar nipple. It was her's. The spoon clattered to the floor.

Rick and Josh both stared at Lisa, startled.

Rick was less startled than his son.

"What the hell's going on here!" She jumped off her stool and stooped to examine the spilled contents of her spoon. The nipple was gone; a chunk of beef, tiny pieces of potato and one carrot slice lie in brown juice on the dark red rug. She felt stupid. The nipple vision must have been a side effect of her nightmare. How embarrassing. She sheepishly stood up and asked for a towel.

"Are you okay?" Rick asked, handing her a dish cloth.

"Yeah, I'm okay. I guess I'm not completely awake yet. I thought...my nightmare--"

"Never mind. Eat up."

After dinner, Rick cleaned up the dishes while Josh took Lisa into the bedroom to show her his video games. He had an Amiga computer, running a video game and connected to a small color TV. The machine was used mainly for games because the small television screen made letters appear smudged--hard to read. "You ever use this computer for school?" Lisa asked. She was beginning to feel at ease with Josh, after all, not many years separated them in age.

"My dad bought it a long time ago to help me with school." He pointed to a plastic box that held all his disks. Lisa thumbed through some of the titles; quite a few were for younger children. Barney Bear Goes To School wasn't for thirteen year old kids. Josh noticed the disk she was looking at. "That one used to be my favorite," he explained, "I still like it...a little."

Josh let Lisa sit at the desk to play some of his arcade games. They heard someone knocking on the front door above the sound of lasers and explosions from the computer. "It's my mom. I've got to go now. You can keep playing with my computer if you want."

"Thanks. It was nice meeting you, Josh."

"You too. I..." Josh wanted to tell her something. He burned with information, but his mind fumbled for a proper way to say it...or if he should say it at all.

Lisa saw the urgency in his eyes and it aroused her curiosity. It also scared her. "Did you have something else you wanted to tell me?"

"Just..."

"Just what?" Lisa asked when Josh's voice faded to a whisper.

"My dad...about a month ago he started--"

"Come on, Josh," Rick yelled from the other room. Lisa got up from the desk. She wanted to see Rick's ex-wife.

A businesslike woman, conservativly dressed, as if she had just come from the office, was hugging Josh. He hugged her back with true affection. Lisa could not imagine this woman with Rick. How could they've ever gotten married? Josh's mom heard Lisa walk into the room. She looked at Lisa curiously, unable to figure out what was going on.

"Mary, this is Lisa. I'm helping her out tonight." Rick gave Mary a stern look. It warned her not to butt in.

The only thing his ex-wife seemed to be able to focus on were Lisa's breasts. It was true of women as well as men--both sexes thought well endowed girls must be wild and loose, hopping from one bed to the next. Neither gender was free from this prejudice. Lisa soon learned this fact when her chest swelled to proportions beyond the norm. It was as if people thought she had willed them to grow this large, purposely overriding all genetic control.

"Taking in strays? Better watch yourself, Rick," Mary said sarcastically, finally tearing her eyes from Lisa's chest.

"Yeah...See you later." It was a cold, cold reply to his ex, but he gave his son a warm kiss on the forehead. "Bye son."

"Bye dad. Bye Lisa," Josh gave a worried glance at Lisa as they exited through the front door into the rain and darkness of approaching nightfall.

Rick and Lisa were alone.

She walked back to the bedroom to play with the computer, sort through her fears, make her plans. The flashing lights and electronic noises of the video games provided a background for thought. Video games were the modern equivalent of an East Indian mantra. An electronic distraction that provided a balm for jangled nerves. She was still a bit shaken from her dream, and Josh's words and final glance did little to ease her mind.

She needed to understand Rick.

He seemed okay. Nothing wrong with being telepathic. But what were those subtle mood shifts she noticed? Those indescribable changes that darkened his otherwise friendly eyes. The eyes really are the gateway to the soul--Lisa believed that--so what was the hidden agenda his eyes sometimes flashed?

Lisa had just destroyed another alien monster, sending the video creature to its doom with an explosion of red and orange flames, when Rick called to her from the other room. Lisa found the on-off switch and shut down the computer, the screen image disappearing into a tiny phosphorescent dot.

He was waiting for her on the couch. She felt nervous-- not being able to discern Rick's motives. The one security blanket she had was the front door. She could always run to the cold, wet outdoors if things got too complicated.

"Come on over and sit down. I'd like to discuss something with you." His powerful muscles strained against the fabric of his shirt. He would seem very intimidating if it weren't for his long, friendly hair. Lisa sat down on the far end of the couch. She savored the warmth from the fire, the crackling logs, not having a clue why he wanted to talk with her. Hopefully it wouldn't be about her being a runaway. His gentle smile and demeanor seemed inviting. Some of Lisa's tension drained from her body...flowing into the pine scented air, dissipating into the cozy heat.

"I'm not a bad man, Lisa. I'm interested in helping you. I know a person who can solve many of the problems you face."

Lisa almost entertained the thought he was a Christian about to ask her to attend his church for counseling, but she hadn't seen any Bibles in the house, no religious books on his bookshelf, no inspirational verses hanging on the wall.

"You wonder how it is that I knew you were molested by your father, don't you?"

"What makes you say that? You can't know about my private life. Anyway, you're wrong, it isn't true." Lisa was a bad liar, the truth eclipsed her face. No one must find out her secret...the incident was so shameful...so degrading--it must remain hidden...forever.

"Lies will lead you nowhere," Rick said as he pointed his forefinger at a burning log. Lisa looked at the log. She felt something worm its way down her spine. She didn't want to look at the log, tried to turn her head, but her eyes locked on the log's ever changing flame, the quick, graceful, dance of fire. The flames suddenly--and with great force--whooshed upwards from the blackening wood and spiraled in a thick smoky column up the chimney. The brilliant burst of flame lasted only a few seconds, long enough to scare and intrigue, Lisa.

Rick had some sort of power. What was it? Where did it come from?"

"I want to help you, Lisa," he said, without looking at her, still pointing his finger at the burning log. A thin blue light, like a laser, sprang from his finger. It hit the log and cracked the wood in half with a noise like the computer makes when blowing up space aliens. The whole incident was dreamlike. Maybe she was still asleep, maybe she never woke up, never had dinner with Rick and his son...never even ran away from home. Maybe her father was kind and caring and never did any bad things to her. Yes, he was clean and pure...not some pervert...

"Don't space out on me, Lisa. I have much to tell you, because you are a very special person."

Such nice words. Yes, she was special, at least she used to be as a child...before the horror-hormones transformed her body, turned her artistic dreams into trash, changed her daddy into a slobbering, lusting beast. Yes, she had been special, long ago, when others saw only her innocence, her accomplishments--not her out-of-control boobs. It wasn't her fault that she couldn't form her flesh like clay, or alter her image like a painted figure on canvas.

"You are one of the few, the chosen. I know, because I understand the dream you had when you fell asleep on this couch."

He can't know my dreams--this must be a dream. I must still be asleep, thought Lisa.

"You take in fear with such easy grace. Few can master that art, few adults, and you're still so young, almost a child." Rick placed the laser shooting hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze. "To take in fear, and use it for power, is the lesson you'll learn from the Great Receiver. The Receiver will lead you to the thrown of the Transmitter, your final, glorious destination."

If it weren't for her confusion and awe, the hallucinogenic quality of the events she had just witnessed, she would have run out the door. Adios Amigo and have a nice day. But Rick's display of magic, or occult power, or whatever it was, wove a fabric of acceptance, an openness, into the threads of her thoughts. She had no idea what he was talking about--it sounded like so much mumbo-jumbo, but it might be nice to learn, to grasp his secrets. His power interested her more than the fear she felt...the fear that clutched her spine.

"You will no longer be a helpless victim of nature," Rick spoke softly, a sincere look permeating his eyes. He paused, giving a chance for his words to sink in, then he continued, "A few months ago I was confused, depressed. A divorced father who had lost all. I had no self worth. My wife left me after her career began to eat up most of her time. She said I couldn't provide her with what she needed. She was right.

It took awhile for Lisa to realize Rick was really opening up to her, confessing. He was spilling his heart out: with no reticence. The ESP and the telekinetic abilities had fogged over the fact that he was a man with a personal life. He was real. He wanted to help her, save her from powerlessness. Give her power like he had found.

"I met a man named Paul who had the power to see into my heart, and after Paul introduced me to the Receiver, I acquired that power also, along with the ability to exercise more control over my environment. I want you to have that ability also."

Lisa tried to speak. She fumbled for words. Too much was happening. Too much to think about. Everything was coming too fast. "You really want to help me?" She managed to say, her voice trembling.

"Yes. I want you to meet the Receiver. He can guide you through this difficult time. He helped me and I know he can help you."

Too fast. Too quick. She had other plans...her ID, a job, her own place...start painting...make art again.

"The Receiver will give you a gift that will help make all your dreams come true. I'm telling you the truth."

There he goes again, dipping into my mind. She was scared but strangely exhilarated. This was more than she'd been looking for. Maybe this was all part of a big plan for her life, to show her she really is special.

Rick suddenly stood up and walked in front of the fireplace, his body outlined by the glow of the dancing flames. He spread out his arms, a gesture of openness. It was dark outside, but sporadic flashes of lightning lit up the redwoods, thunder rolled through the mountains, the forests, the secret places...The outline of his body began to shimmer, a ribbon of blue light traced itself around his dark silhouette. "Sometimes I am a vessel of the Receiver, the times when my powers stretch beyond that of common men. He is in me and the Transmitter is in him. He asks you to accept his guidance, to trust him. All things will be made clear to you."

Lisa did not see the fear that flashed through Rick's eyes.

He turned his palms up, and brought them together before him, as if offering a gift. The blue light swept from the outline of his body into the palms of his hands, turning into a ball of light. Beautiful light. It dimmed, coalesced into something Lisa could not see. Rick turned and placed it on the mantle of the fireplace. Then, saying nothing more, he walked away, into his bedroom.

After a few moments, when Lisa recovered from the awesome vision, her curiosity overcame her. She walked to the fireplace, looked on the mantle, and saw a small card. She picked it up. It was a California driver license. Her picture was on it. She looked at the birth date.

According to this, she was eighteen years old.

She sat back down on the couch, surrounded by darkness but for the glow of the fire. Something wonderful was happening here, to her.

Rick entered the room again. "I'll sleep on the couch. You take the bedroom."

He had spoken softly, exhausted. A hint of worry tainted his voice.

6: INTERDIMESIONAL FALLOUT

Dr. Crumb carried Byte to the small waiting room and set him on the floor. Byte wagged his tail and panted, his tongue poking in and out of his mouth, making smacking noises--doggy kisses. Sarah stooped down to rub her beloved pet's head and cooed, "That's a good boy...yeah." She scratched him behind his ears; Byte licked her face.

"I have good news for you," Dr. Crumb gave Byte a hearty pat on his side, "Byte doesn't have rabies." He looked at the couple and smiled. "Luckily, we have an in- house lab and were able to test the dead animal you brought in right away, and the test came out negative. Without our in-house lab, we would have had to start Byte on rather painful treatments. Rabies is a disease you cannot fool with."

Byte continued to wag his tail, looked up with pleading eyes at his masters, begging for more affection. Dave and Sarah were more than happy to give it, smothering him with pats and rubs and lots of kind words. The collie had to limp on his bandaged rear leg; he was so pathetic looking that only a heartless monster could withhold sympathy from him. He had been bitten very deep, all the way to the bone.

The veterinarian handed Dave a bottle of white pills. "Just smash up two of these and mix them with his dog food everyday for a week. Its an antibiotic to prevent him from getting an infection. Also, change his bandages every day."

"What's wrong with that black dog I brought in? Why does it look so strange?" Dave asked. The creature was afflicted with a deformity like nothing he had ever seen before. Not in books. Not on television. Not in life.

"My theory is that the animal's parents might have been exposed to a toxic substance which resulted in deformed offspring. Maybe someone have dumped a dangerous chemical in the woods. Not a nice thing to do."

"I thought the same thing," Dave said.

"Back in the early sixties, I belonged to a civil defense team here in Santa Cruz. I still have an old geiger counter from those days. Remember when we thought we could survive an atomic war by ducking under a desk? Anyway, I brought the old geiger counter out, threw in some new batteries, and checked out your deformed animal. No radiation. Of course, that doesn't mean its parents weren't exposed, but it would be almost impossible for the offspring not to be exposed too."

"You suspect chemicals then?" Sarah asked as she scratched Byte behind the ears. Byte groaned with pleasure. Sarah suddenly remembered the two headed snail. She had forgotten the snail in all the excitement that followed.

"That's the most likely scenario. I'm going to call the EPA and see if they can come and check the area out."

"Could you call me after you talk to them? I'd like to know what they say," Dave said.

"Certainly, no problem at all."

Dave thanked Dr. Crumb for all his help and shook his hand. The doctor then directed them to the reception desk and returned to the lab. Sarah opened her purse and stepped up to the desk to pay the bill. The secretary, Suzy, said, "You folks do have an adorable little dog." Suzy loved animals. That was one of the major reasons she took this job, and a major reason Dr. Crumb hired her. The other applicants did not have Suzy's instinct with animals. She was a natural.

Dave and Sarah walked Byte through the waiting room door to face the pouring rain. Outside, parked close to the entrance, an elderly lady was tenderly holding her cat while she used her hip to bump her car door closed. Sarah stopped and held the waiting room door open for her. "Thank you, young lady," the elderly woman said and went inside.

"Mrs. Williams, have a seat. Dr. Crumb will be with you in a moment," Suzy said as she shuffled some papers on her desk. The elderly Mrs. Williams was a regular, bringing in her cat, Tabby, to see Dr. Crumb whether the animal needed it or not.

Dr. Crumb was in the lab, studying the strange animal that lie on the antiseptic lab table. Its smooth, black skin looked wet, as if it were oozing some sort of oily substance. Dr. Crumb's lab assistant was poking around at the animal with his rubber gloved hands.

The animal was softer now, as if all the bones had turned to mush. Even its limbs were flattening out, spreading, losing their muscular definition.

"Let's get this thing bagged and put in the specimen refrigerator. I want the EPA to see this thing and analyze it for chemical contamination. Be careful with it."

The lab assistant, Bill, went over to the cabinet and took out a black plastic bag. He returned with it to the lab table and spread the bag behind the animal. Dr. Crumb snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and held the bag open while Bill tried pushing the creature inside. Bill's hands sank into the slippery flesh and the skin split open, releasing a clear, jellylike substance that reeked of rotten fish. "Oh jeez, that smell!" yelled bill.

They backed away from the creature and watched as the black, shiny mass deflated like a balloon. The clear, viscous substance that had filled the creature started to spill off the lab table, plopping onto the lab floor like clumps of runny gelatin.

"Where the hell did this animal come from? Mars?" Bill asked, not as a question, but as an exclamation. He was frightened by the strangeness of the situation.

"Go get a mop and bucket and we'll clean this mess up." The odor was thickening in the air. Bill felt a ball of sickness rise up his throat as he ran from the room, heading for the janitorial closet to get the mop. One more second in that lab and he would have lost his lunch.

The jellied organs began to steam. A thick vapor rose in swirling tendrils into the dense, stinking air. The organs shrank, losing their substance as they evaporated before the doctor's very eyes.

Dr. Crumb ran down the hall to the waiting room. The rotten fish odor permeated everything. When he opened the waiting room door, he saw the room was empty except for Suzy. She looked pale. "Mrs. Williams left. She couldn't take that smell, and to tell you the truth, doctor, I can't either. What in the world is it?"

"It's coming from that dead animal the Dugeon's brought in." The smell in the waiting room was almost as bad as the lab. "Please, Suzy, go ahead and take off. It's almost closing time and Mrs. Williams was our last client anyway. Worry about your paperwork tomorrow."

"Thanks doctor," Suzy said as she grabbed her purse and her umbrella. She quickly made her way outside, where the air was washed by the rain. Clean and fragrant, rich with negative ions.

Dr. Crumb closed the door after her and returned to the lab. His assistant had not returned with the mop and he could hardly blame him. It was like a fog in here; the creature had almost totally evaporated. Dr. Crumb tried breathing through his mouth but it didn't help. He could taste it. Rotten, maggoty fish. It was all he could do to keep from vomiting. He gagged and ran down the hall towards the janitorial supply closet.

Bill was as white as a sheet. He was too sick to even move, slumped in the corner, leaning his head over the mop bucket. He had vomited.

"Are you all right?" Dr. Crumb asked.

"I will be," replied Bill, weakly.

Suddenly, the odor changed. Both of them noticed it at the same time. Color flooded back into Bill's face and he stood up, shakily. "The smell, it's different now," was all Bill could say as he followed Dr. Crumb back to the lab.

When the doctor opened the lab door they were greeted by the strong smell of roses. The stench had transformed into perfume.

And the lab table was empty, except for the plastic bag.

Rain pummeled the windows of Rick's cabin. He was trying to fall asleep on the couch, his half closed eyes watching the dying red embers in the hearth. The remaining resin would occasionally sizzle and pop. He pulled the scratchy wool blanket up to his neck. His display of power had drained him, and the brain pearl in his cranium felt swollen. It gave him a slight headache.

Lisa was asleep in the bedroom. He had impressed her-- or rather the Receiver had impressed her through him-- administering a little test to determine the genetic acceptability of a new recruit. Could the subject handle fear? Could they accept the bizarre reality shifts? Lisa could. And it concerned him. She was his first recruit and he felt odd about it. He knew what sort of fate awaited her. But then, he understood the positive side, that she would gain much personal power. It was a trade off, like so many other things in life. You give a little here, and take a little there.

But he still had doubts about leading her onto this path. She was only a little older than his son. If his son were the correct genetic type, would he expose him to the Receiver's difficult path to power? He didn't really know.

He wanted to shut off his thoughts, chase away his doubts. After all, Paul had recruited him and he was thankful--not regretful--for all the Receiver had shown him. Now he possessed power of mind over matter. It was a thrill.

A real thrill.

Rick's eyelids slid closed and sleep drifted like soft clouds into his mind, easing his uncertainties. Sleep. Beautiful sleep.

A scratching noise awakened him. Did he have mice in the walls? He didn't think so. It was a loud, scratching noise, loud enough to hear above the rain and disturb his sleep. He couldn't determine where the noise was coming from. He got up from the couch--feeling itchy from his thermal underwear--and flipped on the lights. The sound disappeared.

He went to the kitchen area and searched behind the refrigerator. He looked in the counter drawers and the cupboards. Nothing. He walked all around the living room area, searching behind the television, the couch, the coffee table. Nothing. He didn't really know what it was he was looking for. Rick didn't bother searching the bathroom or the bedroom because the sound definitely had come from the living room--but where? Within the walls?

He gave up and switched off the lights. Now he would have to try and quiet his mind all over again. He crawled back beneath the blanket and closed his eyes, concentrating on the hypnotic sound of the rain.

Again, just as sleep was about to carry him off, the scratching came back, louder than before. This time, instead of turning on the lights and perhaps scaring off whatever was making the noise, he tip-toed to the cupboard above the refrigerator and grabbed his flashlight. A beam of light cut a path through the darkness, the only other light came from the few remaining embers in the fireplace.

He could hear the noise emanating from somewhere near the hearth. Yes, next to the wall, to the right of the old brick fireplace.

The flashlight beam fell open a horde of driver license cards. They were crawling around, bending and stretching, making their way about like worms or maggots. They crawled over one another, some even attempting to climb the wall, but they all stayed close to the group, no individual license traveled far from the pack.

Rick began stomping on them. They fluttered about, unhurt by his bare foot. An idea suddenly came to him. He went back to the kitchen and opened a cupboard beneath the sink. He grabbed a big thirty gallon trash bag and returned to the cards, spread it out beside them, held the bag open with one hand and herded the cards inside with the other. The squirming cards tickled his hand. After a few made it inside the bag, the rest followed. They were so stupid. Like lemmings.

Rick knotted the end of the bag, trapping them inside. He set the bag down and picked up his shoes by the couch and slid them on over his bare feet, then grabbed the bag and ran outside to the plastic trashcan. It sat at the far end of his wet porch. And even in the little time it took him to take off the lid, throw the bag in, and replace the lid, he became drenched to the bone. He ran back inside the cabin, shivering.

He threw a log onto the glowing embers in the fireplace; the wood caught fire instantly. Rick stripped out of his scratchy thermal underware and draped them over the fireplace screen to dry. He ran to the bathroom and dried off, and with goose pimples rising up all over his bare skin, quickly made it back to the warmth of the fire. He held his hands up, rubbed them together, then turned his palms toward the red hot flames. "Burr...," his whole body convulsing from the cold, slowly accepted the heat.

"Nice butt." Lisa's voice shocked him. He thought she was sound asleep. He didn't turn to face her, but rather took the steaming underware from the fireplace screen and wrapped them around his waist. Rick was modest, despite the easy display of nudity by some groups in Boulderdale. He wasn't into the sun worshipper scene.

"Take off the underware and turn around. Let's see if your front is as good as your back."

Why was the teenager being so bold? He had done nothing to lead her on. He turned in the direction of her voice.

A giant driver license sat on his couch. If it stood, the thing would be over five feet tall. Lisa's photograph was on the card, but unlike a photograph, the face moved. He saw it blink. The eyes stared at him, lewdly.

"We need to talk," the face on the giant card said. "I don't like the doubts your having about recruiting Lisa."

Paul plugged the hot plate into the wall and watched its black metal coil turn a glowing red. He opened his top dresser drawer and took out a can opener and opened a can of pork and beans. He poured the beans into his little sauce pan. Why do they call them pork and beans? Of the thousands of cans of pork and beans he had eaten, there was never more than one little piece of pork fat per can. No more, no less. Did the canners of pork and beans hire a person to make sure that one, and only one, piece of fat got into each can?

It was one of life's mysteries.

Paul brought the beans to a slow boil and opened his top drawer again to find a spoon. He unplugged his hot plate and ate the beans directly from the pan. No sense using a bowl. He washed dishes all day at work and didn't care to wash any more when he got home. After eating, he set the pan in the water bucket on the floor.

He had to pee. He opened his door and walked down the hall to the only bathroom in the old tenement building. The people on the first floor used it too--many times there was a line in front of it, but this evening Paul was lucky. No line.

He could feel the brain pearl in his head. It was swollen due to the dose of fear he had received during his meditation. How fortunate he was the Receiver saw fit to bless him with guidance this wonderful day. Soon the Gift would ripen and be ready to emerge from his head. Then he could offer it to the Receiver for a special blessing, to prepare it for presentation to the Great Transmitter.

On that day, when the Gift emerged, his spiritual growth would be complete. He would be at one with the Transmitter. What would that be like? Certainly it would be more glorious, more divine, than anything he could ever imagine.

He stepped into the bathroom and shut the door. When he started to unzip his pants he noticed something floating in the toilet bowl. He stooped down to get a better look. It was one of the ant-men, floating on the surface of the water. Dead. He could not pee on it, so he scooped it out of the bowl.

Touching the toilet water made him cringe. All those germs. What kinds of diseases did some of the tenants carry? Bad ones, no doubt.

Paul set the ant-man on the edge of the stained sink. Most of the porcelain in this bathroom was stained. What made the stains? He decided to wash the ant-man off in the sink and he washed his own hands vigorously before he touched himself to pee. Were the stains made by bacteria that crawled out of human waste, bacteria that thrived in the microscopic pits of old porcelain? Just another of life's mysteries.

Paul, after peeing, gently picked up the ant-man and opened the door of the bathroom. In the few minutes he had been in the bathroom, a line of three people had formed. "'Bout time," said the grizzly old man at the head of the line. It was old man Jones. He puffed on a huge cigar that was quickly filling the hallway with a carcinogenic cloud. The younger people in line behind him were annoyed, waving their hands in front of their faces, trying to clear away the smoke.

Paul smiled at Jones and continued on his way.

"Hey, dip shit, what you got in yer hand? A vibrator?" Jones let out a raspy cackle that turned into a cough--a cough so deep and dry he almost fell over.

Paul held up the ant-man and waved it in the smoky air. "No, it's an ant." Everyone in the line turned to look at Paul's ant. For some reason, they were unamazed by it; no one gasped in surprise...maybe they thought it was a rubber toy.

"Yeah, well, stick it up yer ass," Jones said, as he entered the tiny bathroom and shut the door.

Paul entered his room and closed the door on the mundane world. He was passing into a higher stage of existence, shedding what remained of his human attributes like a snake sheds its skin. He felt so alien, so removed from others. He was not a man anymore, and for that he was grateful.

How could anyone take pride in being human? For every good thing humanity did, it committed a thousand atrocities. The Receiver taught that on the Glorious Day of the Transmitter, those who have given birth to the Gift and had it blessed by the Receiver, would be rewarded. Paul would be in that blessed group.

He cried as he set the ant-man on his dresser next to the hot plate. He relished the pressure he felt in his cranium. Soon, blowing his nose would release the brain pearl; it would emerge, covered in its cocoon of mucus and blood. Glorious.

Paul stared at the ant-man. He understood that the testing-episodes generated by the Receiver often produced these artifacts. They were fallout from a higher dimension. His first such artifact had been a spike covered snake.

He remembered lying in bed, reading a mystery novel. The yellow light from his table lamp dimly illuminated the pages. Suddenly, waves of fear sent his body into a spasm and he threw the book to the floor. Within seconds his sheets were drenched with salty sweat, pouring like rivers from his nude body.

A black snake, the length and diameter of his leg, crawled up from the foot of his bed. Its black slimy skin glistened in the light from the table lamp. Sharp metallic spikes, over a half inch long, covered its body. It stared at Paul with pure white eyes. It froze him to his bed.

Paul, unable to move, was helpless to stop the snake from forcing its way into his mouth, shredding his organs to a bloody pulp, and then emerging from his anus--covered with blood and feces, spikes trailing streamers of moist tissue.

The next morning, no evidence remained of the night of terror; his body was intact. But when he opened his dresser to get a pair of jeans, he found the snake inside, curled up like a thick hose. He took the snake out and set it on the floor. It could barely move--overcome by an overpowering lethargy. For days, it would do nothing more than open and close its mouth, which was filled with thousands of sharp, tiny teeth.

Paul had been thankful that the snake was so lazy.

By the end of the week, the snake had started to shrink and flatten, its mass leaking back into the dimension from whence it came, until it finally disappeared.

Paul had many such memories. He cherished each one.

Dave sat staring at his monitor screen, busily typing away on the keyboard, absorbed in his work. Sarah stood beside his desk, her hand resting on top of the monitor's plastic case. She understood her husband's mood. He was escaping from the bizarre events of the day--especially the killing of the mutated dog. He wasn't exactly the physical type and abhorred participating in violence. He has always been cerebral, intellectual; from the day she first met him in college he preferred time with a book or a computer than to working up a sweat in the gym. Good 'ol Spud.

"Thanks for saving Byte's life, Spud," Sarah said as she walked behind her husband, placed her hands on his shoulders and started massaging away his tensions.

"Your welcome, hun. Hell, what would we ever do without Byte?"

"I'd sure miss the little guy." Sarah bent down and gave Dave a kiss on his cheek. "I ordered a pizza for your reward. Your favorite kind...from Paisan's."

Dave stopped typing. He switched off his computer and swiveled his chair to face Sarah. He stood up and placed his arms around her, gave her a hug. "When's the pizza getting here?"

"In about a half hour."

Dave smiled and led Sarah by the hand to their bed. They had a few minutes before the pizza-man arrived.

The large, hot, vegetarian pizza with extra cheese filled the warm kitchen with wonderful odors. Dave and Sarah sat at the table, each holding onto a big, cheese dripping slice. Byte stared at them, eyes wide and hopeful. He whined a bit.

"Oh, let's give him a piece, Spud," Sarah said.

"Yeah, I can't stand him looking at me like that." Dave tore off a piece and held it up to Byte's salivating mouth. The collie greedily chomped down and took it over to his food bowl. Good doggy.

Sarah's expression grew heavy. "Do you think Dr. Crumb could be right about toxic chemicals being in the area? What if there's something in the water supply? Something that could harm a...baby?"

Dave took a drink of his coke and considered how to answer Sarah's question. He'd been thinking about toxic chemicals since they'd left the veterinarian's office, and reached what he felt was a logical conclusion. "I don't think anything's wrong with the water. I'm sure the DWP would notify the community if there was. Could you imagine the lawsuits against the county if people started getting sick from the water supply?"

Dave knew Sarah's mind was still not at ease. Her brow was knit together in worry. He couldn't stand to see her upset; it made him upset. "I'm going to call the DWP now. No sense waiting for Dr. Crumb to report."

Dave set down his pizza slice. Byte ran to sit beneath the wall phone, eyes wide, waiting for a casual scratch behind his ears or another slice of pizza. Dave took the telephone directory from the top of the refrigerater, thumbed through it, found the number and dialed. "Hello? DWP?"

Sarah couldn't decipher all the words of the conversation. On Dave's end there were lots of yeses and uh-huhs, nothing she could make sense of. Besides, the constant roar of rain muffled and blurred every sound in the house.

"Thank you. Good-bye." Dave hung the phone up and sat back down at the table, grabbing his pizza slice.

"Good news?" Sarah asked, then took a sip from her glass of coke. From the look on her husbands face, the answer was fairly obvious.

"The man at the DWP seemed almost offended that I would question the purity of the water supply. He said they check it constantly, every hour on the hour. Nothing wrong with it." Dave smiled when he saw the shadow of worry dissapear from his wife's face.

The news of good water even made her pizza taste better. Sarah wanted a baby more than anything else in the world, and she wanted the baby to be perfect--shining with health. She thought for a second of that monsterous dog with its shiny eel skin, its hellish violet eyes. Then she thought of her future baby. A chill ran up her spine.

They finished the pizza, watched some television, and went to bed. They snuggled close to each other and enjoyed the music of the rain on the roof.

"Hon, are you still going to that meeting tomorrow?"

Sarah hadn't thought about it since Dave's battle with the mutant dog. She hugged him close to her breasts and said, "Yeah, curiosity has gotten the best of me."

"Don't try walking there in the rain. Take the car. I want some metal around you if there are any more of those dogs around."

"Of course. Don't give it a second thought. If I see one of those animals, I'm back here in a flash! I won't even get out of the car if there aren't other people around. After all, I'm not that curious."

"Good. 'Night hon."

"'Night Spud."

7: THE MEETING 

It was Tuesday night. Sarah kissed Dave and said, "See you later, Spud."

"Bye. Just don't come back with your head shaved, trying to sell me a hand full of incense!"

Sarah pulled the hood of her raincoat over her head as she walked out back to their red, eighty-three Thunderbird. The rain, which hadn't let up for more than an hour or two in over a week, had washed the car to a glistening shine, sparkling like a diamond in the powerful backyard floodlight.

The Dugeon's had no garage. Their backyard was almost part of the forest, not even a fence to delineate their property, only the thinning of redwood trees and a cemented area for parking their car--the only markers that set off their land from the forest beyond.

"Bye. And please don't worry!" yelled Sarah, closing the car door. She drove around the side of the house on the cement driveway and turned left on Highway Nine.

She'll be all right, thought Dave. She's only curious about that man, Paul, because she thinks he'd read her mind that day in the bookstore. When she finds out it was only a lucky guess or some sort of trick, that there aren't any real psychics--she'll loose interest. Tonight will be her first and last meeting. Sarah is no dummy and would never get sucked into some weird cult. But then, she does have a certain openness... Dave flipped on his computer, leaned back in his chair, interlocked his hands behind his head and waited for the computer to boot. "Nah, never happen," he said to himself.

He sat straight up when the graphic interface appeared on the monitor screen and stared at it with intense interest. He began to type. Within seconds, his minor worries about Sarah disappeared.

Sarah parked as close as she could to the cabin, next to a couple of other cars. Apparently, the meetings weren't very popular. She could see the cabin's lighted porch and windows from her car. In the daytime the place was nearly invisible, hidden by trees.

A van pulled up next to her. She'd seen it around town before. The driver and a young woman stepped out. She recognized the van's driver, a handsome, muscular man who wore his hair in a pony, but she didn't recognize his young companion. He looked over at Sarah.

"Hello," he said. "Come walk with us." He held a powerful flashlight in his hand that illuminated a bright path through the rain soaked forest. Sarah joined them and they quickly made their way to the shelter of the porch. Paul opened the door--a warm, yellow slice of light fell across their faces--and he waved them inside.

Paul looked happy that new people had shown up. They nervously introduced themselves to one another. There were two young men, Tom and Steve, and the young woman Sarah had walked to the cabin with, Lisa, that were all new to the group. So only Paul and the muscle man, Rick, were regulars. Sarah didn't see Karen or the baby; they must leave when the meetings start.

Rick walked over to a closet and pulled out some fold- up chairs and set them up so they faced the couch. Sarah kept looking about the room, wondering were the person they called the Receiver was. She asked Paul. He told her that the Receiver would arrive a bit later.

The young woman, Lisa, seemed a bit distant. She kept physically close to Rick, as if held on a leash. Sarah thought she looked too young to be his wife or girlfriend- -maybe she was his daughter...but you can never be certain about these things...

Sometimes Lisa would look at Rick in awe, as if he were some kind of god. Rick did have the body of a Greek god, Sarah thought, but so what. Dave's pudgy body was beautiful to her--as warm and comfortable as heaven itself.

"Please, everyone, make yourselves comfortable," Paul said, gesturing to the couch and chairs. Sarah and the two young men sat next to each other on the fold-out chairs. Paul, Lisa and Rick sat on the couch.

One of the young men, Steve, leaned towards Sarah. He wore a big, bushy mustache. He smiled nervously at Sarah and asked, "Don't you work at the Safehaven Bookstore?"

"I own it," answered Sarah. She didn't exactly remember his face, though it seemed vaguely familiar.

"It's a great bookstore. Whenever I'm in Boulderdale, I go there."

"Thank you. My husband and I try to keep a well stocked and friendly store."

"You certainly do just that," he said. There was a long silence that followed. It didn't bother Sarah, but she saw that it made Steve nervous.

"Well, I wonder what will happen at this meeting tonight?" Sarah said, trying to ease the tension.

Paul heard Sarah's question and used the opportunity to address the group. "In a few minutes, the Receiver will be here. He is a great channeler, a highly evolved person who is the earthly representative of the Transmitter. The Transmitter is an entity renowned throughout the cosmic hierarchy. Through the Receiver, the Transmitter will guide you--at least some of you--to great personal power."

"Some of us? What do you mean?" Sarah asked.

Paul looked at the group with his dark eyes. Sarah felt a chill when they locked on to her's. "Some of you will be dismissed from the group. I am sorry for that, but many are not ready for these advanced teachings. Please do not feel offended by this--it is for your own good."

Oh, an elitists group, thought Sarah. She remembered Karen mentioning something about that. Elitism was never a good thing.

"It is not elitisim that drives us," Paul said, reading Sarah's mind verbatim. She was shocked. An energy charge seemed to rise up from the floor; the air almost crackled with it. "If you are one who is ready for the teachings, it will be made clear to you why some should stay, and others must leave."

Something was going on here. Sarah was again impressed by Paul's psychic abilities. Despite what she perceived as an elitist attitude, she hoped she was one of the chosen, not because of some spiritual need, but because of her curiosity. How did Paul do it? What was the force that empowered him? The phrase, curiosity killed the cat, popped into her head.

Sarah noticed that Rick had a pained expression on his face, almost as if a war were raging inside him. His little girlfriend, or whatever she was, seemed almost hypnotized--but despite that, she had an intelligent face. Was this meeting right for her? She's so young. Vulnerable.

The young men next to Sarah were discussing something in excited whispers. They seemed to become more and more agitated and Sarah had to admit that she was getting a case of nerves also. It wasn't everyday that your mind was read like an open book. Did Paul know all her thoughts, all the time? Was he reading her mind now? Even as the energy level of the room grew and started to grate her nerves raw, her curiosity kept her glued to her seat. She just had to meet this Receiver guy. Who the hell was he? What did he look like?

The psychic energy was thick enough to slice with a knife. Sarah started to feel a bit dizzy and rubbed the back of her head. The teenager, Lisa, began to squirm and whispered something to Rick. He patted her on the knee. "It will be all right, Lisa. You are special, a very special girl," he said this to her in a low, comforting voice. Why did his eyes betray some deep seated concern? Didn't he believe his own words?

"The Receiver is almost here," Paul said to the group, "so please prepare yourselves by trying to relax--flow with the forces that now surround you."

This was getting a little spooky, thought Sarah. How can a person relax when it feels like your nervous system is plugged into a wall socket? The young men beside her were not making it any easier. They fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing their legs, scratching the backs of their hands, darting their eyes from side to side as if hunting out the source of their discomfort.

"Relax," whispered Paul, "relax and let the energy flow through you and cleanse your soul."

Sarah almost sprang from her chair when the night outside the window lit up like daytime and a blast of thunder shook the cabin. Now the young men next to her reeked of adrenaline, their fight or flight instincts on maximum alert. Both their faces were sheathed in sweat.

"Relax, all is well...the forces flow over you to increase your receptivity...to help you," Paul spoke with his eyes closed, his face devoid of expression.

The cabin door opened. Everyone in the room straightened their spines and turned to see who had entered. Sarah felt a charge of excitement race through her blood.

"Oh, hi group. I forgot my pot," Karen said as she walked over to the dresser by her bed. She was wearing a bright yellow raincoat that dripped water all over the floor. She opened the top drawer and pulled out a sandwich bag filled with marijuana. She tucked it into a side pocket of her raincoat and walked back out into the dense, pouring rain.

As soon as the door closed, the young men beside Sarah burst into loud, high pitched laughter. Rick had a disgusted look on his face. Lisa just looked disappointed. Paul turned his head from the door and closed his eyes again. Sarah felt as if a valve had been opened, letting out a stream of psychic steam. A minute longer and the cabin may have exploded from pent nervous energy.

This scene was getting tough for Sarah to handle. Even though she was an open and loving person, she began to feel a strong dislike for everyone in this room. The atmosphere felt extremely cultish, and everyone seemed so withdrawn, with the exception of Steve's one feeble attempt at conversation. No one could truly relax in this atmosphere. Paul, though fascinating for his mind reading abilities, was almost devoid of humanity. There was no place in his personality to grab onto and get to know him.

Sarah's head began to throb with pain. She felt cold and uncomfortable. Maybe it was time to leave. Dave didn't really want her to be here anyway. She should have paid more attention to his feelings. It was insensitive of her to ignore his thoughts and cause him worry. She didn't belong here with these people. They weren't like her. They weren't her peers. They paid Karen, a druggy welfare mom, to use her cabin...Why? So she could buy more drugs? And they were secretive and exclusive and talked psycho babble...

She could not stop the flood of negative feelings. With a great amount of willpower, Sarah decided to try and get these people to open up. Maybe if she could get them to talk to one another it would help clear the atmosphere. After making that decision, her headache lessened. "So, Rick, what first attracted you to this Receiver guy?"

Rick made an attempt to smile at her. Sarah didn't think it was a phony smile, but rather a sincere try at shifting moods. "I was introduced to the Receiver by Paul. It was at a time in my life when I was feeling very low. I had just gone through a divorce. I knew I needed help because I was feeling so powerless; life was beginning to overwhelm me."

Rick's openness took some of the edge off Sarah. She wasn't expecting such an honest, detailed reply. Maybe she was wrong about these people. "Do you have any kids?" Sarah asked. Maybe Lisa was his daughter, although she didn't bear any family resemblance to him.

"Yes, I have a son. Joshua is his name."

"I love that name," Sarah said. She brightened up considerably. "If I have a son someday, I'd like to name him Joshua...it sounds so strong...so manly." Sarah suddenly felt awkward. She had just described Rick. Her face involuntarily blushed. He didn't seem to notice. Good.

"Anyway, after meeting the Receiver my life began to change." Rick was speaking slowly, as if examining each word, making sure they were correct. "If you really want more personal power, if you are interested in increasing your psychic abilities, then the Receiver, by his channeled messages from the Transmitter, will help you."

Why did Rick suddenly sound a bit phony near the end of his statement. Wasn't he sure himself that these teachings were true? Sarah hid her puzzlement.

"The teachings are true," he said, in response to her unvoiced question. So he was telepathic too, just like Paul. Again her thoughts seemed like an open book. She felt naked, transparent; her curiosity about ESP had drawn her here--and it was the very thing that continued to unnerve her.

"I must ask this question," Sarah stalled, built up her courage for a moment, then asked, "How much of what I'm thinking do you know? Do you read my every thought? Because if you do, I would feel very uncomfortable with that."

Rick looked at her in a friendly way that made her relax. "No, I can't read your every thought, nor would I want to. The Receiver has given me a Gift that allows me to know only those thoughts that are pertinent to the Transmitter's purposes."

But his words, instead of calming her, frightened her, though she didn't understand why. Was it because being a part of some unknown entity's plan rob her of the power to control her fate? "Who is this Transmitter guy, or what is he?"

Everyone became very still after she spoke those words. Did she break some taboo? Did even the new people sense something inappropriate, an ignoring of etiquette that her words expressed? Again her head began to throb slightly and the psychic charge in the air began to build again. The tension swelled like a balloon, larger and larger, ready to burst.

Dense and heavy, the silence went on and on. Sarah knew she would have to say something or get up and leave, since nobody was taking the initiative to end this tension. "So, Paul, how long have you been into this--"

The cabin door swung open. The sound of roaring rain filled the room. All eyes fixed on the wet, unassuming figure that stood in the doorway. Paul and Rick rose, and the rest of the group followed their example.

"Group, let me introduce you to the Receiver," Paul's voice trembled slightly as he spoke and pointed with an open, upturned palm towards the figure. Sarah thought that Paul's gesture resembled that of a game show host.

The Receiver stepped inside and shut the door, immediately lessening the sound of pounding rain. He wore a red raincoat that he took off and laid on the floor next to the wall. Karen needed a coat rack.

Sarah was surprised by the Receiver's size. He was short, shorter than her. He wore cheap black slacks, a white shirt, and--it almost made Sarah laugh out loud--a black bow-tie. His eyes looked huge behind his thick glasses, housed in their thick black frames. If his appearance could be described in a single word--he looked like a nerd. A classic nerd. Whatever Sarah had expected the Receiver to look like, it certainly wasn't this. He seemed so utterly harmless, so unintimidating. So completely uncharismatic.

He walked over to the group and stood beside Tom's chair, a big smile on his thin face, his black hair in wild disarray. Sarah noticed he had a few streaks of gray. "Hello group!" He said in a high pitched nasal voice that perfectly matched his looks. "Glad you could all make it, but..." He eyed everyone in the group, especially the newcomers. He gazed long and hard at Lisa, then gave her a big wink. He did the same to Sarah, who could not help but think what a cheesy guy this was. When he came to Tom and Steve, his eyes darted between them, and he finally said, "You two will have to leave."

The two young men looked hurt. Strangely, they didn't become angry, but merely put on their coats and left the cabin, heads hung low. Sarah couldn't believe the rudeness of the man. Judging him from his looks, no one would have guessed he harbored such arrogance. She felt like slapping him in the face, and the feeling surprised her. Rarely in her life has anyone provoked such feelings in her. She was generally so accepting and understanding of most everyone she met.

"Well, well. Yes, so glad you're here. As you know, I'm the one called the Receiver, as Paul here has told you." Sarah could hardly stand his whiney nasal voice, but the unexpectedly bizarre nature of it intrigued her enough to override her repulsion.

"I'm what people nowadays call a channeler. I'm a servant of the Transmitter--the entity that is the source of the messages I receive. He's a great entity. Really great. Just ask Paul or Rick...they'll tell you."

"Jeez," Sarah whispered under her breath. The Receiver heard her near silent exclamation, and paused momentarily, though he didn't seem upset. She couldn't believe this little man! He was a joke. Rick and Paul had ten times the charisma of this guy. What could anyone possibly see in him? He's short, rude, and talks through his nose.

"So, like I was saying," the Receiver grinned from ear to ear, "The Transmitter is a really wonderful entity. He speaks through my mouth, uses me like a puppet. I don't mind at all. I like it. I can't tell you a whole lot about him, because he likes to do that part--he likes talking about himself. So," the Receiver sat down next to Sarah in Steve's old chair, "without further ado, let's do it!"

The group fixed their eyes on the strange little man. Sarah retained enough curiosity to hang out a while longer and watch the meeting's outcome, but her higher judgment told her to leave--this scene was just not her style.

The Receiver began to vibrate. Not shake or tremble like a person with a fever, but vibrate--small, intense, rapid oscillations, like a precision machine. His thick glasses began to travel down his nose and finally fell to the floor. They didn't break. Rick picked them up and stuck them in his shirt pocket for safe keeping.

The vibrating Receiver made Sarah's head throb. Looking at him made her dizzy, and yet she could not tear her eyes away. He shouldn't be able to move like that. It wasn't right. The longer she stared at him, the more it felt like his body was inside her head. Vibrating in her brain. Sarah felt like fainting, but still she stared, fascinated.

The Receiver's bow-tie came untied. The top three buttons of his shirt came undone. His vibrating increased in intensity. And now he really was in the center of Sarah's head, just as he was in the center of all the other's. This isn't natural--this shouldn't be happening. This is not within the range of normal human experience...

The Receiver was now a blur, a human tuning fork. The air hummed: a deep, deep hum that reached into the gut and spread outward in thick, viscous waves. Sarah no longer knew if her eyes were open or closed, but some part of her still saw him.

He was all she saw. The world melted and left only the Receiver.

The Receiver. Turning to a glowing blur. Glittering, flashing. A brilliant blue light, like the blast of photons from an arc-welder. And Sarah was paralyzed, frozen. It was a cold light. Icy light. She could feel her brain solidifing, turning to a chunk of ice.

The freezing, blinding light pulsed and expanded until the Receiver was no longer. He ceased to exist, replaced by the Transmitter. The Transmitter represented itself to all the group as a ball of blinding light.

Panic exploded in Sarah. A fear so intense it threatened to turn to madness. She could feel her will erode away, shrink down to a tiny molecule, unable to resist the onslaught of the Transmitter. This was not what she wanted, this was not what she expected. It was as if someone had given her a powerful drug...she wanted to be home...be with Dave...watch TV...eat pizza...

The blue light expanded until it filled all her cranium, all she could see. A vast landscape of light, pushing aside her personality, her very being.

Suddenly it was dark. An infinite blackness filled with stars, unblinking--splattered across the abyss. She was in deep space, where the purple and crimson fog--streamers of gas from nebula--glowed from the light of surrounding suns. She floated alone in the vastness, cold and alone. Would she ever see Dave again? Would they ever have a child? Would Byte ever again lick her face with his cold, wet tongue? Sarah's mind traveled back in time...

She thought of a young Dave, the man she had met in the collage library. Even back then he was a little plump, just like he had been as a little kid. Of course she didn't know about his childhood then. She only knew it was cute the way he studied his electronics book, with his eyes riveted to the page. She had seen him around campus before and had always wanted to meet him. She held an art book in her hands, and sat down directly across from Dave at the library table. Would he look up and notice her? Would he think her attractive?

She was in college--not high school--for heavens sake! Such silly thoughts! Why did his face bring out the young teenager in her? She pretended to study the pictures in her book, but every now and then she would lift her eyes and shyly peek at him. Some intuitive voice within her said that they were destined to meet, that he was important in her life.

What could she say to him to break the ice? Something like: hello, fate has brought us together and we should go out. NO! Don't be silly...How's this: I hear there's going to be a love-in at the park. Want to come with me? Yuck, too counterculture. She was a serious student, not a hippy dropout.

Sarah was scheming on how to begin a conversation with him when he looked up from his book and said, "Hello, my name's Dave. What's your name?"

She was so surprised...for a moment she was speechless. She hadn't planned on him breaking the ice! This was great! Finally, she answered him. "Sarah," she said, shyly.

"Beautiful name," Dave said, grinning broadly.

"Thank you."

"What's that book you're reading, it looks interesting."

"It's an art history book about the abstract expressionist...Are you interested in art?"

"No. I'm interested in power. The same as you."

He was not supposed to say that. That's not what happened.

His body became outlined with an electric blue light, sparkling, crackling with static. Sarah was a young college student. She wasn't supposed to see this kind of thing. No one was. It wasn't right. It was evil.

She didn't care about power.

Did she?

"Everyone wants more power. Power over everything in life. Power over everything in death. Complete control of your destiny."

Sarah was afraid of Dave. He shouldn't be saying those things, glowing like that. "I must leave now," she said.

"I don't think so. I think you want to hear me out, to learn what no other person can teach you." Miniature lightning flashed between his teeth. "I know that you are special, different from others of your kind. Locked within your genes are the potential to rise far above mundane humanity.

I can unlock that potential.

I can make it real."

Dave had seemed like such a nice young man. Now he was strange and dangerous. She had to get back. Get back to her classes. She shouldn't even be in the library now. It wasn't her time, it was only an excuse to try and meet Dave. She was a serious student, not just another college girl looking for a husband. Despite what the emerging womens' movement proclaimed about the raising of female consciousness, plenty of young girls attended college to find a husband, but she wasn't one of them--a husband hunter, that is.

She put the art book back on the shelf and walked across the silent library, her footsteps the only sound, echoing throughout the vast, elegant old building.

She emerged into the sunlight like a butterfly from its cocoon. Everything was clean and good outside. She started walking down the cool, shaded hall. She passed busy students, arms full of books, hurriedly making their way to classes.

A hand fell on her shoulder. She stopped. Turned. It was Dave. He smiled at her. He was cute and kind again, no longer glowing and threatening. "Please, Sarah, walk with me over to the oak tree. Let's talk for awhile."

"Well...Okay." She had a little time.

Under the huge oak tree, sitting on the grass in the cool shade, Dave looked so charming. So open. They spoke of school and teachers, then they attempted to delve deeper into each others character, asking more intimate questions. He held her hand. Both of them were becoming very found of each other. It did seem as if fate had something in store for them--their personalities were meshing so perfectly.

"I want to give you something, Sarah. Something to remind you of this day."

"Oh?" Sarah said, surprised. This young man created such an aura of romance that it made her heart glow.

Dave reached into his shirt pocket and took out a small object. He held it in his closed palm.

"Close your eyes and hold out your hand," he said.

Sarah did as he asked. She felt something cool on her upturned palm. "Can I open my eyes now?"

"Yes."

Sarah opened her eyes and looked at the tiny round object. It was beautiful. A glistening pearl.

"Thank you," she said, and wondered if Dave carried around a pocket full of pearls and handed them out to all the girls, but he didn't seem like that sort of person. A phony. A women chaser. She had touched his thoughts and they were for her, and her only.

"I have carried that pearl for a long time. I promised myself to give it only to a women who was very special."

His flattery worked on her. She blushed a bright pink and grasped the pearl tightly. She felt pretty. A warmth flooded her whole being--in contrast to the coolness of the pearl.

It grew from cool to cold.

Freezing.

It stung her hand.

Dave stood, his plump body towering over her. "You are special Sarah. You have a very unique gene. Your brain structure is not like that of most people's. The deep, primitive level, the reptilian remnant that influences so many human responses to fear, is radically altered."

Sarah felt a dark, archetypical emotion grip her mind. It smothered her thoughts, choked them right out of her head. Powerless to resist the alien control, she stuffed the freezing pearl into her right nostril.

"Stick your fingers into both nostrils and breathe in deeply," Dave said, placing his hands on Sarah's head. She had to obey. Like an automaton--in complete disregard of her pain or concerns--she inhaled.

Almost of its own accord, the pearl borrowed deep into her flesh, following the olfactory nerves into the soft, wet tissue of her brain.

"Whew!" the Receiver exclaimed. He retied his bow tie and straightened his shirt, tucking it back into his pants. The Receiver's thick glasses were handed back to him by Rick. "Thank you Rick."

What in heaven's name just happened, thought Sarah. She was confused and dizzy. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, then shook her head, attempting to regain some clarity of thought. It was difficult to focus her eyes. When some degree of normalcy returned, she stood and stretched. Suddenly a rush of euphoria swept through her body. She felt invigorated, refreshed. Sarah noticed that Lisa was standing and stretching also. Lisa was positively glowing with health--her cheeks flushed a beautiful pink.

But what had happened? Sarah saw by the wall clock that it was nearly eleven PM, almost three hours had passed since arriving at the cabin. That was a large chunk of time missing from her life, and it would have scared her, except that she felt so good...so clean...so energized.

"Thanks for being here tonight. Come back real soon!" The Receiver walked over to his raincoat, picked it up and clumsily put it on. He opened the door, turned to look at the group, and said, "Bye!" He waved cordially, then stepped outside into the pouring rain.

"Is that it? It's over?" Sarah asked.

"I guess so," Lisa said. She smiled at Sarah and Sarah smiled back.

"I better be getting home. I didn't expect to be here this long," Sarah shook Paul's and Rick's hands and gave Lisa a hug. Why did she feel so close to these people? These virtual strangers. But the energy that boiled inside her made her want to open up, express how she felt...it was as if some profound, life altering experience had just happened to her, and yet she was at a total loss to explain it. Sarah made small talk for a few minutes longer, exchanging addresses and phone numbers, everything propelled by the icy energy.

"When you're ready, visit us again. I'm sure you will have questions that need answering and we'll be here to help when you do," Paul said.

"Thanks Paul," Sarah said, shaking his hand again, then turned to leave; but the others remained to talk...late into the night.

On the short drive back home, Sarah ran over a four headed snail...and never knew it.

8: PORTENTS

On Wednesday, the sun remained hidden; dark clouds twisted and rolled from horizon to horizon, dropping dense sheets of rain--the inhabitants of the small mountain towns began to wonder if they would ever see daylight again. The roar of rain was constant. The pounding musical accompaniment to everyday life within the shadowy forest.

But everyday life was metamorphising into a nightmare.

Sarah flipped the sign in the front window to "OPEN" and unlocked the door. No customers waited outside in the rain. She wondered if it would be busy today. Probably not. The heavy rain was discouraging people from leaving their homes. Then again, some people got an irresistible urge to buy a book because of the rain, a nice involving book to be read by a crackling fire, safe at home from the raging elements outside...

Sarah walked behind the counter and took out Paul's flyer from the top drawer. Was there any point to posting it in the window? Did Paul bring this flyer in just as an excuse for her to see it? That was certainly in the realm of possibility.

She took the flyer, along with a roll of tape, to the window. She had doubts as she taped it to the glass. Was she doing the right thing? The meeting had been so bizarre--had changed something in her. At the meeting she'd felt almost euphoric; but afterwards she was left with some sort of hangover; that was the only word she could think of to describe her discomfort. Exposing others to the Receiver might not be such a positive thing--then again, certain people might get something out of it. Paul and Rick did.

Sarah rubbed her forehead. A pressure, almost like a sinus headache, had been building in her since yesterday, the day after the meeting, when Dave had taken her to a movie in San Jose...

As she munched on popcorn flavored with something halfway between butter and urine, she suddenly felt as if her head were going to explode. A sharp pain flashed through her, almost causing her to pass out. She hoped she wasn't coming down with the flu.

"Are you okay?" Dave stroked her hair, looking very concerned.

"Yes, I'm fine," she lied to Dave. She hated to lie to anyone, but Dave was enjoying the science fiction movie and she couldn't bring herself to tell him she felt like curling into a fetal position and passing out.

After the movie, the flashing pains receded, but the pressure in her head remained to annoy her. At home, she raided the medicine cabinet, looking for some sinus tablets. Good, she still had some. She swallowed two of them and a half hour later most of the pain was gone.

This morning she had taken some more. But now, as she straightened out the books, making them neat and presentable for the customers, the medicine seemed ineffective. If her pain got much worse, or refused to go away, she would need to see her doctor.

The little bell above the door tinkled, announcing her first customer.

"Hello, Sarah"

Sarah turned to face Lisa. "Well, hello Lisa. How are you? Would you like a cup of tea?" Sarah was a little surprised at seeing her. Lisa didn't look well, black circles traced her sunken eyes.

"Yes, that sounds good."

Because the two of them had experienced the Receiver together, they felt a bond between them--even though they hardly knew each other. It was a strange bond, unlike anything either of them had ever felt before; neither of them knew what to do with it or what to think of it.

Sarah made a hot cup of soothing herbal tea and handed it to the bedraggled Lisa.

"Thank you very much," Lisa said, taking the cup, sipping the golden liquid.

Sarah made herself a cup. The tea did make her feel a little better. "Let me take your wet jacket and hang it up."

Lisa had so much to say, so much to ask Sarah. Maybe Sarah could be her friend, her confidante. Rick was no good for that purpose; he was too inconsistent, trying at times to open up with her, then suddenly becoming distant and obscure. She just couldn't confide in him. Besides, at times she wondered how human he really was. How did he make the license appear? Normal people can't do things like that. It was magic, and magic wasn't real.

And her head throbbed relentlessly. Ever since that meeting. Even now she could feel the pressure in her cranium building. She sipped the tea. It offered a tiny bit of relief.

"So, how are you Lisa? Did you enjoy the meeting?"

Lisa stared into her tea cup as if the answer might be floating there. She tried to organize her thoughts, because she feared her words would tumble out in a nonsensical torrent if she didn't. "I...I don't feel well. Ever since that meeting my head's been hurting, and I've seen weird things..."

Sarah could feel links forming in her mind, as if the pieces of a puzzle were beginning to fall into place. She couldn't understand what it all meant, but the bizarre incidents of the last few days were somehow related. She needed to trust her intuition, since life was beginning to take some odd turns, leading to places she didn't understand. It scared her. The little town of Boulderdale seemed to have been teleported to another planet.

"You've been having headaches?" Sarah asked. "Tell me, does it feel like a pressure, as if someone's blowing up a balloon...right here?" Sarah pointed to the center of her own forehead.

"Yes, exactly."

"Well," Sarah took a quick sip of tea, then continued, "maybe we've both caught the same illness, something we picked up at that meeting--but for the life of me--I don't know what it could be. I feel pretty good, otherwise. No fever or anything."

Lisa pulled out her phony driver license and handed it to Sarah. Sarah took it and studied it, finally saying, "What am I supposed to see? It's just a California driver license."

A frightened look fell over Lisa's face. "No, it's not. I'm not even eighteen, I'm only sixteen. It's phony. Rick made it. I mean...he turned all weird...sort of glowed, and then made it appear...out of thin air."

This puzzled Sarah, but the way things were headed, she didn't immediately reject the idea. She took a sip of tea, then said, "It must have been a trick Lisa. He had it made somewhere and fooled you."

"That's impossible because I'd only just met him that day. He picked me up hitch-hiking only a few hours before."

Sarah studied the license some more. It looked and felt real, as real as anything she had ever seen. And what had Lisa said about Rick glowing? Sarah thought back to when she had first met Paul...An aura or something had formed around him. Later, she convinced herself it was only her imagination. Jeez! What's going on around here?

The fact that something unusual happened at that meeting with the nerdish character called the Receiver-- something she couldn't remember clearly because she'd been hypnotized (at least that was the only explanation she could come up with), along with eel skinned dogs, two headed snails, and gurus that possessed ESP, caused her to suspect something a bit strange was going on in her neighborhood--to say the least.

Boulderdale was definitely not the same old place anymore. And now this story of Lisa's. These things must be connected, but how? She could only guess...

Lisa felt close to Sarah. Sarah seemed to be an understanding person, open and kind. Since no new customers entered the bookstore and her emotions were reaching the boiling point, Lisa began to spill her life story to Sarah, finally breaking down in tears.

She told her everything. Even Daddy's ritual: her most forbidden subject. Sarah put her arms around Lisa and hugged her.

The poor little girl, thought Sarah. It tore her heart apart to hear such tragedy. Sarah understood the sad position of the teenager, the impossibility of returning home to her perverted father. What a bastard the man was! How could anyone do such a thing to their daughter? And Lisa seems so intelligent, so willing to work and better herself, unlike many of the runaways who were hell-bent on self-destruction.

This situation was so morally difficult. How to help Lisa? What was the right thing to do? If she reported Lisa to the authorities, would they send her back home, return her to that hell-hole?

Sarah gazed into Lisa's teary eyes and reached a decision. "Lisa, I'm going to talk to my husband about letting you stay with us for awhile. We've got an extra room and I need some help with the bookstore. I think you'd be perfect for the job. Does this sound good to you?"

Good? This was a dream come true! Even Lisa's headache disappeared, color rushing back into her face. She hugged Sarah and thanked her. A job! A real place to stay! Maybe she could even earn enough money to start painting. It was almost too much for her to take in.

"Now remember, I still have to discuss this with my husband, so nothing is certain yet, but after I explain your situation, I think he'll go for it." Sarah could hardly believe the transformation that took place in the teenager. Her sunken, tired eyes suddenly sparkled with life. This poor creature had been starved for nurturing for far too long. Whatever society or its laws might rule as to the proper course of action for Sarah to take, she only had to look into Lisa's thankful face to know she had made the right decision.

Business was slow. Sarah rang for Dave, forcing him away from his computer so that she could introduce him to Lisa. As conservative as Dave was at times, and as much as he often insisted on following proper procedures, his heart won out over his head when he heard Lisa's story. He could sense the basic goodness in Lisa and welcomed her into his home.

As Sarah waited on a few soggy customers, Dave led Lisa to the back and showed her around the house. Lisa's room was right next to the master bedroom. It was the room reserved for the baby, but in the meantime it would serve as a slice of heaven for the runaway girl.

"This is great! I don't know how to thank you guys."

"It's not much, but we can make it livable for you," Dave said, staring at the bare room. "I've got an old army surplus sleeping cot I can set up. And there's a chest of drawers in the basement that's just gathering dust." He stood, examining the room like a farmer might admire his field of corn. "Yeah, nothing fancy, but it'll be comfortable."

Privacy! That's the word that rang through Lisa's mind. For the first time in her life as a runaway, she would have her own permanent room. No groping hands trying to fondle her in the night, no glaring eyes watching her dress, no uncertainty where she would be spending the night...and the night after that. Rick tried to help, but this was entirely different. She felt comfortable around Sarah and Dave. They were...normal. And nice.

She helped Dave with the chest of drawers and the cot. They also found a table and a lamp to put next to her bed. With a reading lamp, and the bookstore only a few feet away, she would never lack for reading material. She had even seen some art magazines that Dave said she could barrow. Lisa loved to look at the photos of famous paintings. She could study them for hours. Life could be wonderful when people cared.

In an hour Dave and Lisa had turned the empty room into a cozy, personalized sanctuary. Whatever the future may hold for Lisa--right now--things were great. Perhaps with life's pressures lifted from her shoulders for awhile, she could think clearly enough to get her life in order.

"Thanks, come again," Sarah said to a man who had just purchased a Thomas Brothers map book. Her mind was not focused on business; Lisa was uppermost in her thoughts. Sarah wondered if she had done the right thing regarding Lisa. Was it really best for the teenager to live here? This was a time when her intuition must be trusted to guide her through these difficult decisions.

Rain pounded the earth continuously and thick clouds made for an early night. The last half hour before closing time the store was devoid of customers. The unusually heavy rains where not conducive to business--anyone's business--as indicated by the grocery market's empty parking lot across the street.

Sarah rang for Lisa. In a few minutes she entered the store. "Lisa, let me show you the routine for closing up." She showed Lisa how to set the alarm, punching in the code on the control box mounted on the wall behind the counter. They had about a minute to leave the store before the alarm would trip and start ringing. "Let's hurry," Sarah said and they quickly made their way to the back door.

Sarah closed and locked the door after entering her home. "In the morning I punch in the same code on this box," she pointed to another control box mounted right next to the door, "which disables the alarm."

As they walked down the hall, Sarah asked, "Have you ever done any retail sales, Lisa?" They entered the kitchen and Lisa sat down at the table while Sarah started making dinner. Pot roast.

"When I was in school I worked nights at a hamburger stand. You have to be in school making good grades to get those jobs. If you drop out, no job."

"Then you've worked a cash register, right?" Lisa nodded in the affirmitiuve. "Great. I think you'll catch on quickly."

After dinner, Sarah drove Lisa over to Rick's to pick up her suitcase. Just before they got out of the car, Sarah asked, "How's your headache? Has it gone away? Mine has."

"I've been too excited to notice--but yes--it's gone!"

Sarah unfolded her umbrella and snuggled under it with Lisa as they sloshed through the mud to Rick's door. Sarah rang the doorbell and within a few seconds Rick answered.

He looked haggard and worried. He scrunched his eyes as if attempting to hold back pain. Sarah thought he looked much worse than Lisa had when she first came to the bookstore earlier today.

"Hello Rick. I've come for my suitcase. Sarah's going to let me stay at her house and work at her bookstore! Isn't that great?"

He tried to smile, but the effort of working his facial muscles was too hard. "That's wonderful Lisa. I hope things work out..." He winced as pain flashed like lightning from one side of his cranium to the other.

Sarah could see that something was dreadfully wrong with the man. "Are you all right, Rick?"

He tried to put on a good front, but the pressure in his head leaked out through his facial features. "I'm fine...just fine. Let me go get the suitcase."

Within moments Rick returned, handing the suitcase to Lisa.

"I want to thank you for all your help, Rick. You've been kind," Lisa said, then shook his hand.

They finished their goodbyes and ran back to the car. In a few minutes they were home, sitting in the living room, watching television.

Byte licked Lisa's hand. She scratched behind his ears and sent the dog into ecstasy. It was his favorite spot. He panted happily, smacking his tongue.

Dave sat on his big brown recliner with a cup of coffee. He, along with the others, was not really interested in the rerun of I Love Lucy, but it served as background noise and provided a few chuckles here and there. Dave was more interested in getting to know Lisa. He felt sorry for her but he also genuinely liked her. He could tell she had potential, that she would grow beyond her present hardships. A true survivor.

"Tomorrow you can stick around the bookstore and see how I do things, how I treat the customers," Sarah said. She had confidence in Lisa and Lisa responded to that.

"I'm looking forward to it," Lisa said. Her eyelids drooped despite her enthusiasm. Fatigue caught up with her with a vengeance. "I think I'd like to take a shower and go to bed. Is that okay?"

"Certainly. It's been a long, eventful day and we've both felt a little ill with our headaches."

"Well, good-night guys, and thank you so much."

The phone rang at eleven PM, startling Dave and Sarah. They usually didn't get calls this late at night. Dave reluctantly left his comfortable recliner to answer it.

"Hello?" Dave said.

"Hello Dave. This is Dr. Crumb. Sorry to be calling this late, but I thought you might be interested in the preliminary report from the EPA."

"Yes, I am. What did they find?"

"The good news is they found nothing. Soil samples from the area where you found the dog were normal, and water samples from nearby streams were normal too. Everything so far checks out fine."

"That's good. Thanks for calling and letting me know."

"But there's just one thing."

"What's that?"

"If everything's normal and there aren't any toxic substances around that could cause such a radical mutation, then what in hell happened to that dog? I've never seen a deformity like that occur in nature, nor have I seen flesh behave in the way that that animals did."

Dave expressed curiosity and told Dr. Crumb he felt the same confusion. Dave was a down-to-earth person and didn't like inexplicable phenomena intruding into his world, like yesterday when Sarah tried to describe her meeting with the Receiver and told him of the missing hours. She had no explanation for those blank hours other than she must have been hypnotized. This bothered him, unauthorized hypnosis was a serious matter, and should not be taken lightly. He got her to promise she'd never go back there again.

Dave thanked Dr. Crumb and said goodbye. Now he was left with one more unanswered question. Too many mysteries were creeping around this town; they've even started to invade his marriage.

Dave related Dr. Crumb's information to Sarah, which relieved her mind a little more. The last thing she needed to worry about was being exposed to some substance that could harm her baby--if she were to become pregnant.

Dave turned off the TV and followed Sarah into bed.

Lisa awakened with a start. She flung the covers from her body and sat up in bed. What was that noise? It sounded like whimpering coming from the kitchen--loud enough to be heard above the rain.

At first she thought it was Byte, except it didn't sound much like a dog; it sounded more mechanical than animal. And very deep, with a gurgle, as if coming from beneath water. A bubbling, mechanical whimper. She didn't have a clue as to what it might be.

Maybe it was a normal sound for this house, something that Dave and Sarah just took for granted. Maybe they had a strange refrigerator or heating system, some appliance that made strange noises.

She lay back in bed and pulled the covers up. The sound stopped. Whatever it was, it was gone.

Sarah woke up without knowing why. Something had disturbed her sleep. She had been dreaming about Byte. In the dream her playful collie had been romping about in an open meadow full of yellow daises. The sky was crystalline clear, deep and blue and infinite. Byte, smiling maniacaly, was chasing a butterfly. He jumped and snapped his jaws, always falling short of his pray. He didn't really want to catch it; he was more interested in the chase itself.

Sarah jumped into the air and flew in graceful circles above Byte. She felt free and powerful. The dream was so realistic she could even feel the cool air against her skin. Somehow her clothes had disappeared, the fresh air caressed her nakedness. Byte watched her fly, his tail wagging happily. She soared high into the air, swooped in a long, graceful arc and dove earthward, stopping ten feet above the ground where she righted herself and landed gently on her feet.

Byte ran to her and forced his head under her hand, begging to be scratched behind his ears. She obliged him. He sniffed the air, searching for the direction of an odor that began to interest him.

He suddenly darted off into the meadow, stopping to sniff the ground occasionally. Finally he found the object he had been searching for. It was buried, so he clawed the dirt with his front paws and uncovered it. Sarah couldn't see what it was. "What is it boy? What do you have?"

She walked over to where Byte stood. He was waiting patiently for her, panting, excited for her to see what he had found.

Beneath his paws was a mirror. Sarah picked it up and stared at her reflection. Why wasn't she shocked? The eyeball in the center of her forehead stared back at her. It blinked. Her original eyes glowed with intelligence, but the third eye looked dumb, lethargic.

It was all so natural. So normal.

Nothing to fear.

And now she was awake. Dave's body faced hers, his chubby belly warming her slim one, his arm draped around her back. It was safe here, in their cozy house. Safehaven. The rain pounded on the roof, trying to get inside, but it could not penetrate, could not invade their peaceful sanctuary. Dave warmth made her feel so secure.

Thunder rolled across the landscape, rattling their windows. Sarah reflexively squeezed tight against Dave's body. In the depths of his slumber, he responded by tightening his arm around her back, drawing her closer. His love for Sarah could not be blocked, even under layers and layers of sleep.

A sound.

A low whimper.

A long whimper. It went on and on. From the depths of some alien ocean, it gurgled to the surface. It echoed across a desolate, dark landscape. On and on it went.

The sound reached Lisa's ears. Just before she faded into sleep. Again she flung the covers off, and this time she jumped out of bed and stood quietly in her long T- shirt, listening to the strange whimper that would not end. Would not cease its eerie wail. She turned on the lamp by her bed, its soft glow filled her room with a sick yellow light.

Her T-shirt was unsuccessful at flattening her breasts. They swelled in rebellion against the cotton fabric. She wanted to go to the kitchen to see what the sound was, she was certain it came from there, but if Dave got up and saw her in this T-shirt, she would be very embarrassed.

Someone knocked on her door and it scared her. "Yes?" Lisa said, as she made ready to jump back in bed and cover herself if the reply was from Dave.

"It's me, sorry to wake you. Can I come in?" It was Sarah's voice.

"You didn't wake me. Come in."

Sarah glanced about the room, thinking that Lisa might have a radio on, hoping that that was the source of the weird sound. Lisa's tiny pocket radio was on the table under the lamp. It was turned off. Sarah was disappointed; now the mystery only deepened.

Sarah finally took in Lisa's figure, startled by her stunning chest. She'd never realized how really full Lisa's body was. Sarah could imagine that a young girl with a figure like that would be challenged by problems the less endowed would never understand. Sarah was fairly well endowed herself, but nothing like Lisa.

Lisa self-consciously folded her arms across her chest and Sarah became embarrassed for staring.

The whimper.

The whimper grew in volume, filling their heads with a nauseating vibration. Then, the sound slowly faded, as if sucked into a black hole.

The sound's source was somewhere in this house. When Sarah was in bed, she could have sworn it came from Lisa's room, but now it sounded like the kitchen. The two women looked at one another, both wearing curious expressions on their faces. "What is that sound?" Lisa asked.

"Its got me stumped. Whatever it is, I don't hear Byte growling at it."

"I thought it was Byte at first, but then it sounded more like a machine than an animal."

"let's go see what it is." Sarah pulled her robe snugly against her body. A chill was in the air despite the fact she had set the furnace at sixty-seven degrees.

Pressure increased in both their brains, but neither of them told the other about the pain.

"Will the noise wake your husband up?" Lisa was fearful Dave would see her wearing only a T-shirt.

"I tried waking him up to ask him about the noise, but he's dead to the world."

Lisa grabbed her jeans that were lying at the foot of the cot and put them on--just in case. She tucked in her shirt, leaving it a little loose. "Well, let's go."

They walked down the hall towards the kitchen. The strange whimpering started up again. Sarah flipped on the hall lights. The end of the hall led to the kitchen but the light only illuminated a thin wedge of the kitchen's checker patterned linoleum floor. They could see nothing unusual.

So far.

The women hesitated before the kitchen entrance. Most of that room was in blackness. No moonlight came through the windows because of the clouds and rain--and no streetlamps were near their home.

Raindrops fell so hard they rattled the window glass: but still the whimpering noise rose above all other noises.

"I'm scared. Shouldn't we get Dave?" Lisa said, her voice trembling.

"It's okay. We can handle it," but Sarah quickly doubted her own words. Why was the sound so mechanical and organic--all at once?

It must be the refrigerator going bad. It must be. What a racket it made. Sarah smiled at Lisa and said, "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound so glib, but I'm sure it's something simple, something we'll laugh at when we..."

The whimper deepened in tone. Down, down it went.

Sarah lifted her right arm. Her forefinger touched the light switch. She flipped it on.

The light flooded the kitchen.

Dave rolled over in bed. His arm held nothing; and it was the absence of his wife's warm flesh that finally woke him. His eyelids flickered open, gummy and slow. "Sarah?" he said, the word coming out thick and dreamy.

What was that weird noise? Why was Sarah gone? Dave threw the covers off his chunky body. He wore only his flowered boxer shorts. He sleepily got out of bed, his coordination so sloppy he almost tripped over his slippers. He put them on.

"Sarah?" Dave called as he opened the bedroom door. He saw Sarah and Lisa standing in the kitchen entrance, frozen in place. They didn't turn to look at him. Sarah didn't answer him: she was too absorbed by whatever was making that weird noise.

"What's going on?" Dave said as he came up behind them. He looked over the tops of their heads into the kitchen.

Why was Byte standing on the kitchen table, thought Dave. Sarah should make the dog get down, he didn't belong up there, where they ate. He'll shed all over. Who wants dog hair in their food?

And what's making that weird noise?

Details came to Dave's eyes slowly; it prevented information overload.

Pain gripped Byte. To much pain for him to cry...much less move. His eyes were wide and fixed, his jaw clamped shut. He trembled. He trembled in waves, as if freezing cold liquid zipped back and forth across his spine.

The women watched. Scared. Transfixed. What could they do?

Dave was fully alert now, all sleep washed from his brain. He saw Byte's tail. Where it normally ended an extension grew, a fleshy hairless tube covered with thin veins. At the end of the tube was a head. A bare skinned dog's head. Its teeth were metal. They gleamed with chrome plating. The head whimpered low and slow...bone rattling bass.

The head was eyeless.

Thank God. Wouldn't want that thing to have eyes...

Dave stared at his beloved pet. Byte, in slow tortured movement, looked at Dave, eyes begging for relief. Byte's new head groaned and flopped around on the table like a fish out of water.

The hypnotic vision of horror loosened its grip on Dave's mind. He ran to the kitchen counter and flung open the cutlery drawer so hard it fell to the floor, spilling out all shapes and sizes of knives. Dave grabbed a large, razor sharp, carving knife.

He approached Byte.

And began to saw off the grotesque addition to Byte's tail. He sawed and sawed. Tough gristle made it difficult. Blood covered his hand: it made the knife slippery.

The new head with its long trailing tubular neck plopped to the shiny kitchen floor. The mouth opened as far as it could and screamed.

Then it was dead.

Byte yelped with pain and relief. He jumped off the table and ran to Dave, licking him, covering him with kisses.

Sarah and Dave and Lisa had a long night.

Paul's night was longer.

9: PEARL

It was ripe. So ripe the brittle bone of his cranium wanted to shatter like a delicate porcelain cup. But the timing was off. Paul stood before the noisy, steaming, stainless steel dishwasher, watching the temperature gauge rise. Only a little while longer and he would be out of here--on his way home. Home in both a physical and a spiritual sense. Deep inside, Paul understood that today was the Great Day. The emergence of the brain pearl--the Gift. But it would have to wait...just a little longer. He had dishes to wash.

A bell rang from the top of the dishwasher, indicating that the proper temperature and time had passed and that the dishes were now sterilized. He slid open the right side dishwasher door and pulled the steaming tray from the hot, wet innards of the machine and pushed it along the stainless steel ramp to the very end, where the dishes would quickly dry.

He opened the left side dishwasher door and with a grace born from weeks of experience, shoved the pre-rinsed tray of dishes into the gaping mouth of the steaming machine. He slammed the metal door closed and without a hitch--like a ballet dancer moving through a graceful arc- -flipped the switch on the front metal panel that sent the spray of sudsing steam exploding within the confines of the big metal box.

The first set of dishes were almost dry. He finished them with a white towel and began to stack them away in the kitchen. The cooks were gone. No one was left in the restaurant except for him. He liked being alone; he enjoyed the contrast of this quiet emptiness to the hectic pace that existed here only a few minutes before: Trays of food rushed to hungry customers by leggy waitresses, sandwiches built with blazing speed by Jerry the cook, the good natured bantering by the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Bradly, who filled the air with laughter; all these things made the restaurant a busy success.

"Saint" was the nickname jerry had given him. Once Jerry said it, the name stuck, so all the employees and even some of the customers started calling him that. When he gathered the dirty plates from the tables of satisfied customers, often they would say to him, "How's it goin', Saint?"

And they were right. He was a saint. He served the Great Receiver for the glory of the Transmitter. Of course, no one understood him when he tried to explain his philosophy. The Receiver warned him that people wouldn't understand. The Receiver could have silenced him by slicing a few synoptic connections with a dagger of pain, but that didn't happen. That meant it was okay to speak of the grand scheme. No one cared. Not in the least.

The bell rang again, alerting Paul to the completion of the dishwashing cycle. He slid open the metal door and reached inside to grab the tray. He pulled it out.

The dishes were heaps of melted ceramic. Pink glowing steam rose from them and flew up his nostrils--burning him. Paul fell over backwards, landing on the hard tile floor. His head hit next to the drain. He stared at it, unable to move. The brain pearl pulsed behind his eyes. Rivers of blue energy flowed from it, cold and unforgiving, to all the cells of his body.

His porous cells opened their membranes, swallowed the energy, keeping it locked within their chromosomes like an electrical treasure. A few genes mutated, switched places, migrated according to new information that ran through them.

Paul was so happy, lying on the floor in a pool of water. He could feel the glory opening him up like a flower, blossoming, crackling with static. Brilliant strings of light danced over his teeth and wrapped around his tongue. Crackling. Zap. Zap. Zap.

"You've got to get up and finish your work. You can't let it happen here," the Receiver's voice said, echoing across some vast chamber of mind. Paul could hardly understand the words, not that they weren't clear enough, but because pure ecstasy rushed over his thoughts, wrapped them in confusion, pushed them over the edge so that he fell with them into a dream, and then another...and another...

Deep dark dream.

He dreamt all his work was finished. All the dishes were stacked neatly in their cupboards, all the glasses, all the silverware. He mopped up the floors and locked the back door.

Somehow he found himself standing on the curb with his thumb out, looking for a ride home. It was raining. He wore his black raincoat. Cold. So cold. Why was he going home? Had he really finished his work?

A yellow taxi pulled over to the curb. The back door opened. The Receiver was peering out at him, eyes magnified behind the terribly thick glasses that hung low on his nose. "Hello Paul! Nice to see you. Please, get inside before you catch cold."

Paul did not understand, did not know who greeted him, did not comprehend the words. He only had feelings, not thoughts. He felt good. Happy.

For a brief moment his brain clicked into reality. Of course! It's the Receiver! He's come to pick me up from work. He's never done that before. How kind of him. Big drops of water battered Paul's plastic hood like a snare drum.

"Get in Paul, don't stand there like a dummy. The meter's running."

Move legs, Paul commanded his body. They would not move. But a new dream came, a living entity that invaded his head and took over his willpower; simple as flipping a switch. Paul stooped over and entered the cab, the Receiver slid over to make room.

"What's wrong with your friend?" the cab driver said, twirling the ends of his giant mustache.

"Just a little too much to drink. It's his birthday," the Receiver said.

They took off down the road, gliding on wheels made of fluffy clouds. So smooth and easy. Paul smiled idiotically.

"You've got a nosebleed," the Receiver said, taking a handkerchief from the pocket of his bright yellow raincoat and wiping the crimson spill from beneath Paul's nose. "Oh yeah, you're ready to go. Ripe as a fig about to fall from a tree."

Time wound round and round in a spiral, a giant spring filling the universe. Then it stretched out taut, pulling space with it like a thin rubber sheath, until it snapped back, compressing all things--turning years to nanoseconds. It felt good to Paul that time revealed itself as a flexible coil and not a painfully sharp, rigid plane.

Paul was caught in the throes of ecstasy, riding the rings of time like a holy cowboy on the back of a cosmic bull.

The car floated to a stop in front of Paul's tenement building. "Let's get you inside, my friend," the Receiver said, helping Paul out of the cab. The Receiver paid the cab driver, giving him a large tip. "Thanks buddy," the driver said. Paul waved him good-bye.

Now they floated up the stairs. Gliding in dreams. Dreams wrapped in dreams. Paul didn't hear the ancient steps squeak in protest from their body weight.

"Nice place." The Receiver made the sarcastic comment as he helped Paul sit on the edge of the bed. "Don't lie down. Just sit there while we make this thing happen. You do know what's going to happen, don't you Paul?"

"Yes," Paul said, a voice from deep within a dream.

"I just don't want a lot of fallout. Fallout makes for such a mess."

"I'll try not to. I'll try."

"Good boy, Paul. You know how these reality shifts call forth the monsters, and we don't need monsters running around, do we Paul?"

"No."

His sinus passages ached. His head hurt. Felt so big, ready to burst like a ripe melon. "Got to get out of these clothes--" Paul stood up to take of his raincoat, shirt and pants. He sat back down on the bed, dressed in yellow stained underwear.

The Receiver handed Paul a handkerchief. "Blow."

So dizzy, thought Paul as he blew into the handkerchief with all his strength. It felt as if his guts were being squeezed through his nostrils. He looked at the cloth in his hands...Hard to focus his eyes. The cloth was so bloody; green mucus ran in slimy ropes within rivers of red. Again. Harder. I can do it...

Blow your brains out.

"Good boy. A little more," the Receiver was so happy. After all, this is what it's all about.

Paul's face was a mass of pain. It hurt when even a few molecules of air ran past the tender membranes. His mother stood before him. Her greasy flabby face smiled down at him. From under the long hemline of her dress a thick reptilian tail emerged. She scraped the muscular tail against the floor.

"Don't do this Paul!" the Receiver said.

The woman's bones cracked and snapped as her body elongated, stretched towards the ceiling, her clothing ripped from her body--a pile of rags beneath her mutating form.

The mother-thing's legs and feet became covered with gray scales; from her toes grew long, curved spikes. They dug into the wooden floor, cutting grooves wherever she moved. The scales faded at her waistline, changing to bright pink skin that covered rolls of fat that threatened to burst from their thin confines.

Her breasts were huge and hung to her waist. They were covered by an almost transparent membrane webbed with thin crimson veins--a road map of blood trails.

And her mouth was a toothless oval, outlined by a thick, black, ridge of erectile tissue. Inside, giant silver cilia wiggled and squirmed. Hungry.

Her arms were long tentacles, soft, fleshy, covered with rubbery suction cups. She waved them senslessly in the air. What did she want? Food?

The Receiver was disgusted. "A monster. Jeez, Paul, I told you: no monsters. And your own mother yet!"

"I...I can't help it." Paul blew into the handkerchief again. Some gray tissue, thick and slippery, hung from his nose. A bit of his brain; thoughts emanated from within the living cells as he wiped them from his face.

The Receiver tried to push Paul's mother into the corner of the room, get her out of the way. She whipped her tail, nearly flinging the hot plate from the dresser. A low moan rose from the depths of her throat, full of suffering, pain. She banged her distorted head against the ceiling. Some plaster fell. "Quiet!" the Receiver commanded with a rough, whispery yell.

"Ohhh..." Paul groaned. He was very ill, but still he blew his nose. Over and over again. The Gift was coming, slowly sliding through the soft wet tissue. The inflamed membranes. A lump in his septum. One big rush of exhaled air and....Plop.

It lay in the handkerchief, shrouded in the bloody gray lump of brains that served as its placenta.

"Wonderful!" the Receiver shouted, unable to hold in his joy. He ignored the creature in the corner and ran to Paul. "Congratulations Paul! You did it!"

Paul fell backwards on his bed, staring at the ceiling, still holding the handkerchief in his hand.

The Receiver took it from him. He opened the cloth and stared at the slimy lump. He plucked the Gift from its slimy shroud and wiped it on his pants.

It looked like a pearl. White, glistening. Beautiful. Subtle rainbow colors shimmered below its hard surface.

Paul curled into a fetal position and shivered. His ears rang. Sweat ran freely from his pores. His thoughts fell into an infinite abyss, warm and soothing. Wet. He breathed through his mouth, his nostrils plugged with brains. That's okay. Everything is okay. Down here in the dark. The air smelled like fish. Old maggot ridden fish. Was mother still here? I think so. Nice of her to visit. Visit her brainless son. Hard to form thoughts when half your brain is smeared across a handkerchief. But he could feel, sense the warmth that covered him. The dark womb caressed him, tempted him to go deeper, deeper into the dark.

The mother-thing slumped away from the wall, walked over to the shivering figure on the bed. She fell on top of him, her body so large it overflowed the bed.

Her body melted, pooling into the lowest concavities of the mattress, dripping off her son's body, the yellow liquid never losing its surface integrity. Then it began to steam. Vaporizing. Odorous fog rising into the air and vanishing. Soon, their was no trace that the monster had ever existed.

The Receiver placed his hand on Paul's shoulder and shook him. "Paul...Paul, can you hear me?" Paul groaned from deep down the lengthening shaft that enclosed his consciousness' painful remains. "Thanks for the Gift. The Transmitter will love it. I'll do my little blessing bit and give it to him."

He patted Paul's shoulder affectionately. "I feel a new message coming on. This one's just for you." The Receiver's body vibrated, glasses falling on the bed as he leaned over Paul's pathetic figure. He took Paul's bloody head in his hands and stared into the glazed, sightless eyes.

Deep down in the darkness, it was warm. Gone was the cold that had gripped his brain, that constantly emanated from the pearl--the Gift. Quiet. Soft. Gentle. Secure. Go further down, down where your heart can relax, no longer constantly pumping, day in and day out, the ceaseless, thankless job of providing every cell in your body with blood. Let it go...Let it out...Relax.

"Well done, my faithful servant." It was the Transmitter! Speaking within Paul's head for the first time! It was so deep down within him, the very bottom of his being. Just swim further into the blackness, the wonderful warm blackness that sucked away the gross material body, the unspiritual ugly extremities. "Come to me." Yes, Yes my master, Paul's thoughts shrinking, imploding. Sucked into a singularity, vanishing...

Dead.

The Receiver stopped vibrating and picked his glasses up from the bed and put them back on his thin nose. He clucked his tongue and shook his head in a gesture of pity. "So sorry my friend, but such is the path to the Transmitter--your reward, so to speak."

Paul lay on his bed like a man who had succumbed to a drug overdose. Pale, thin, an endorphine analog floating in his bloodstream. His body would present a mystery to the coroner. Foul play? Suicide? Nothing would ever come of this. Just another poor fool who faded into the underbelly of counterculture that still flourished in the county of Santa Cruz.

The Receiver took in one last look at Paul. He had been such an enthusiastic follower--so loyal, so obedient.

He placed the Gift in a deep pocket of his raincoat, then rubbed his hands together rapidly. He looked at his palms. Smooth, almost shiny. No fingerprints. He turned the ancient brass doorknob and opened the door.

The Receiver walked to a phone booth by the market and called a taxi. He waited in the market, pretending to look at magazines while glancing out the window. It took only ten minutes for the taxi to arrive. The Receiver pulled the hood of his raincoat over his head and ran to the taxi. Rain drops exploded on the cars, the roofs, the sidewalk.

"Just follow my directions," the Receiver said to the overweight cab driver who puffed on a fat cigar, oblivious to the fact that some people might be offended by the smelly smoke. The Receiver wasn't though. A little smoke was nothing to whine about.

They drove deep into the mountains on a little used road. No cabins, no little stores marked the roadside. They turned right onto an even more obscure, muddy dirt road that led higher up the mountain. "Hey buddy, this ain't no jeep," the driver protested.

"Right you are," the Receiver said, touching the greasy, thinning hair of the driver with his forefinger. The balding man let out a low moan--his complaining stopped. "Just do what I say, friend, and life will be great."

The cab driver's pupils expanded, filling the iris. Brain fading, auto-pilot kicking in. Just follow directions.

The taxi was covered in mud, bouncing and slipping on the rough road. The trees were thick and tall, crowding the already thin road that wound like a snake into the wet darkness. Near the top of the mountain the Receiver commanded the driver to stop. He immediately applied the brakes, sliding the car to a halt.

"When I get out, turn the car around and drive back. You'll wake up when you reach Highway Nine. You'll be happy with the large tip," he handed the driver a wad of bills. "Thanks for the lift to San Jose." A memory implant embedded itself into the driver's brain. This certainly wasn't San Jose--but it was for the taxi-driver.

The Receiver got out of the car and watched the driver turn around. It was difficult, the tight area forcing the cab off the road and into a clump of ferns. It took almost five minutes for the driver to get the car pointed down the mountain. The Receiver smiled, watching the car disappear around the corner before he began his final trek deep into the woods.

Good thing he wore his rubber boots because at times the mud was very deep. He didn't care. This was a day to celebrate. The beautiful pearl was safely tucked away in his pocket and soon the Transmitter would have it.

He reached the top of the mountain, the trees too thick to allow a view of the valley and the little towns nestled along Highway Nine. He thought of the people of those towns, all blissfully ignorant of his doings as they went about their daily lives.

Their boring, mundane little lives buffered them from cosmic secrets. That was good. They were kept ignorant of their fate. Some of them would be foolish enough to try and reject it. Humans could be so obstinate, so ungrateful at times. They didn't understand what was best for themselves, trapped as they were in the narrow confines of earthly reality.

This dimension, this world, sucked. And like sheep, its inhabitants accepted it, lived in it, shutting out the possibilities of other, greater universes...

A small clearing was just ahead, a violet glow outlined the redwood trees that circled it. Before the clearing, lying about the area, were small objects: brightly colored blocks, spheres and pyramids--all of them no larger than a fist. The Receiver saw them half buried in mud, scattered in ferns, even in the branches of trees.

A deer nosed about the parameter of the clearing, perked up its ears--became startled--and ran off into the forest.

The Receiver approached the clearing, entered it, and paid his respects.

Karen pounded on Paul's door while she held her baby awkwardly with one arm. Sue was bundled in thick blankets that Karen had covered with a piece of plastic to keep her dry. It was still pouring rain outside. Would it ever end?

No answer. "Paul! Are you there? Open up!" Karen pounded on the door again. He must be there. He hardly ever went anywhere when he got home from work, and besides, he knows today is her payday for letting them use her house. "Come on! Open up!"

"Hey! Shut up!" A sloppy old man, stubby gray whiskers behind a cloud of cigar smoke, wearing a low neck t-shirt with dark yellow stains around his arm pits, was yelling at Karen from his doorway across the hall. "Show some respect ya little punk."

Marijuana had unhinged any normal social response in Karen. She didn't realize how angry the man was at her, so she walked up to him and asked, "Can you help me? Do you know Paul?"

The old man stared at Karen as if she were an animal, something to shoot at and mount on the wall. He decided to speak to her. Maybe she would go away. "I know that religious freak--thinks he's some sort of guru. Why you want to see him?"

"He owes me money."

Now the man could understand. It figures the jerk would try to welch on a deal. Holier-than-thou shithead. He clamped the fat cigar tight between his teeth, smoke making his eyes water. "Move out of the way, sister," he said as he walked over to Paul's door and started banging on it. "Wake up ya stupid shit!"

"Paul! Answer the door!" yelled Karen. The baby began to cry.

"What the hell's goin' on here?" said a grotesquely fat man waddling up the stairs, breathing so hard he sounded like a steam engine. He wore a loud Hawaiian shirt that hurt Karen's eyes. She had to squint to look at it.

"That's the landlord," whispered the old man to Karen.

Karen guessed the manager's weight to be at least five hundred pounds. His seemed to be all torso, a huge ball resting on wide, stubby legs. The fat man looked at the unlikely couple and said, "So what's all the yellin' about, Jones?"

"I think the guru might be in trouble. He's not answerin' his door."

"So? How do you know he's not out?"

"Saw him when he got home from work. Been inside ever since," the old man lied. The guru could have left. What the hell... "Maybe he had a heart attack. Better open it up."

"I'll decide that," the fat man said as he attempted to take a ring of keys from his pocket. By the time he got them out he was drenched in sweat from the strain. He was a man who didn't like to exercise much. Not at all, really. Walking up the stairs had been murder. Life was simpler in front of his TV set, belting back a few beers-- this kind of landlord-tenant stuff was such a pain in the ass. He ought to sell the damn place and move to Hawaii, except moving was such a hassle.

The landlord inserted the proper key into Paul's lock, huffing and puffing as he did so. Just turning the key was a major event. Karen would have been impatient if she wasn't so stoned.

The thing that hit them first was the smell. Rotten fish. The odor nearly knocked them over. Baby Sue cried at the top of her lungs; Karen tried to calm her.

After the shock of the smell it took a few seconds to actually focus their eyes on the scene before them. "Well I'll be damned..." the landlord said.

Through her marijuana haze, Karen was last to have the scene gel into coherent forms within her brain. When it did, she screamed, setting off another round of crying from her baby.

They entered the room. Even though the smell made them gag, curiosity turned out to be a greater driving force than nausea. They stood over Paul's pale body, saw the blood that had recently flowed from his nose. The landlord reluctantly grasped Paul's shoulder and shook him. "Hey, hey, wake up!"

The guru was dead. Stiff, cold. He definitely wasn't just napping.

"How could he die from a bloody nose?" Karen said, calming her baby by rocking her back and forth.

The landlord pointed at a brightly colored orange pyramid lying in the pool of blood beside Paul's head.

"What the hell's that?" the old man asked, reaching for it.

"Hey! Don't touch anything! Leave it for the cops," the landlord said. "Lets get outta here...leave this mess for them."

They left the room and the fat man locked the door. "If your not stickin' around young lady, I'll need a way to get hold of you. Police might want to ask you some questions-- since you knew him. Was he a relative?" The landlord stared at the baby, not trying to conceal the implication.

"No, just a friend." Karen told the landlord her phone number and he jotted it down on a pad he took from his brightly colored shirt. She thanked them and walked downstairs to the living room that had been converted into a lobby--of sorts. There was a desk that the landlord used from time to time, a big, green, guest book rested on top of it. Overstuffed couches and chairs were arranged so that anyone using them could easily see the old Zenith that chattered and glowed day and night. Remarkably, the place was kept fairly neat and clean.

A few old men sat around watching the news. Karen sat in one of the old chairs in order to think for a moment-- make sense of what just happened. It was really a comfortable old chair, she thought. It formed itself around her shape, made her feel at home. She felt the tendrils of marijuana loosen and fall from her thoughts, sobering her.

Paul was dead and she felt sorry about that. But what was worse was she needed her money...now. Today. They weren't going to use her house for free--no way. The special aura the Receiver found in her home--that special vibration--wasn't free. She had enough business sense to know that you sold what others wanted. Like sex.

It was no big deal to make some horny guy pay for getting his wick dipped. The guy should pay; it was only fair. Her other girlfriends did the same thing.

It wasn't like being a real prostitute. She had other sources of income, like welfare checks. When she got pregnant with Sue, it was perfect, not a bad thing at all. Just that much more money. Dope money. State sponsored drug program. California was a great place to live.

But now she needed her meeting money. That's what she called it. Enough smoke had cleared from Karen's brain for her to realize she should drop by Rick's on the way home. He'd know how to get her money.

Rick didn't like her much. Too bad for him. She would have let him do it for free. She knew Rick noticed her body, but he never did anything about it, even when she teased him the best she could. What would he think of her new nipples? Three inch nipples would turn any man on, though they did seem a bit cartoonish--these nipples that one day decided to turn giant.

Karen covered Sue the best she could and stepped outside into the sheets of roaring rain. Her beat-up Volkswagen bug was parked right out front next to the curb. She got inside and strapped the kid in the baby seat. Sue had fallen asleep, despite the noise the rain made as it sliced through the air. Her baby was a deep sleeper and that was good. Karen wondered what the baby dreamed of. Toys? Tits?

Rick's van was parked close to the house. Karen pulled up along side of it. She decided to leave Sue in the car. No sense disturbing her, getting her wet, for what should only take a few minutes.

She ran quickly to his front door and rapped her knuckles against the wet wood. Rick's porch wasn't covered by a roof. He needed one.

"What's going on?" Rick said as soon as he opened the door. He gestured for her to step inside. Karen could see from Rick's disheveled appearance and intense, pained, expression that he knew something important had just happened. How he knew she couldn't understand--must be that ESP stuff.

"It's Paul. He's dead," Karen said without tact.

Rick sat down heavily on his couch, looking forlorn, almost in tears.

"Hey, I didn't think you guys were that close," Karen said, seeing Rick's sad expression. He kept rubbing his forehead, as if trying to squeeze something out of it.

"It's not just that..." He was worried. Anxiety lines fell over his face, tightened their grip on his flesh.

"I've got to ask you about my money," another tactless remark from Karen's smoked brain cells. Some people might think her cruel, heartless; Rick knew she was just an idiot.

"You'll get your money."

"I need it today. Now."

Sometimes Rick was powerful and decisive, at other times he was weak and scared. A man with two opposite personalities. All his acquaintances were baffled by him-- except for the Receiver.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his billfold. He didn't have much money; working at the electronics store didn't pay all that much, the commissions weren't great--but it would be worth paying out of his own pocket to see Karen leave. She really bugged him. He needed to be alone right now.

Karen took the wad of bills from Rick and counted them.

"How did he die?" Rick asked...but he knew. Deep inside, he knew. The realization of what he had gotten himself into was growing each day: as was the Gift. The brain pearl. The alien tumor that destroyed the person who gave it birth.

"Don't know."

"Was there blood?"

"Yeah. Lots of it. Came from his nose."

Now the blood drained from Rick's face. He should have realized the consequences of messing around with your brain couldn't be healthy. But he enjoyed the power--the psychic energy was so addictive, blinding him to the truth. He was too weak to fight against the pleasure.

"Doesn't make sense," Karen said. "People don't die from a bloody nose...Do they?"

10: NOSEBLEEDS

He shouldn't be sitting here. He has a moral duty to perform, an important one. He must speak to Lisa and Sarah. Warn them. Help them somehow. Explain to Lisa that he had been wrong to lead her to the Receiver. And Sarah...her innocent curiosity is going to victimize her. He must warn her...warn them both. How could he have been so blind, so intellectually dishonest?

But Rick sat on his coach, staring at the ashes in the fireplace--not moving. Frozen in place. It was cold. He needed to get the fire going again. But he didn't. He thought of Paul instead. Paul had been a sincere man that he admired. Looked up to. Paul had lifted Rick out of a deep depression caused by his divorce, showed him an amazing power he could aspire to. But now Paul was dead. Duped into something neither of them could handle.

Damn the Receiver.

Damn the Transmitter.

Even as the Gift grew day by day within his brain, he still had little knowledge of the Transmitter's nature-- who or what the hell it was. After all these weeks, it was still a mystery. Was the Transmitter a spiritual entity, some sort of god? He had been taught that the Transmitter was the final goal. Did that mean it was God? The creator of all the universe?

His heart told him no.

Then...what was it?

He must warn Lisa and Sarah. It took all his willpower just to stand. His knees felt week--barely adequate to support his muscular frame. Concentrating, attempting to gather his thoughts to a focal point, he searched for his jacket. Can't find it. Can't find it anywhere.

He fell heavily to the floor as his knees buckled. What's wrong with him? Nothing like this has ever happened before. He tried to stand up but only succeeded in rolling over on his back. He stared at the wood paneled ceiling, all the swirling grain patterns formed by knots, fibers and lines of resin. They were beautiful in a way. They seemed to lead somewhere...if he could only follow them...

Rick felt something sticking into the back of his right shoulder. Must move over a little. With great effort he slid his body to the side. Rick turned his head to look at it. It was a bright pink pyramid, a child's toy. Josh must have brought it over, left it on the floor.

The pyramid began to glow from within, then suddenly shot upwards, the pointed top sticking deep into the ceiling. From the surface of the pyramid, where it met the ceiling, blue light slowly spread outward, tracing the lines of wood grain.

Beautiful, thought Rick. It was hypnotic, watching the light flow along the grain, swirling, turning, straightening. Just follow the light, watch where it leads.

There was something he was going to do, something urgent. What was it? He couldn't remember just now, the lines of light were much more important. He must carefully follow them as they spread further from the embedded pyramid, gracefully flowing outward from their source.

Rick's eyes glazed as the Gift, the brain pearl, clutched his thoughts, grew stronger.

All of the ceiling was aglow now, throbbing with blue light--sparkling electric glitter. His mind was drawn upwards, into the myriad of swirling, fluid lines. His thoughts came apart, flowing with the energy, self lost to the ocean of light.

The Gift grew larger. Blood began to flow from Rick's nose, but the ripped membranes weren't painful: they screamed out in ecstasy. He was so wrong to think the Transmitter evil. There was no evil in the pleasure he felt now, the insights that blossomed in his mind. The Receiver had led him to this glorious moment. He only needed to let go...

The phone rang.

And rang.

Over and over. The sharp electronic squeal cut through the psychically charged air without mercy. The unpleasant sound stabbed Rick's eardrums. Forced its way in. Wrenched him from the heavy hypnotic state.

Rick quickly sat up, as if startled from a dream. He wiped the blood from his nose onto his shirt sleeve. "What happened?" he asked himself. The phone. He must answer the phone.

It was like moving through thick honey when he walked. Don't hang up. Give me a chance to answer. But it was so hard to think when his head ached so terribly. It felt as though a bomb had blown up in his head--smashed his brain into the hard wall of his cranium.

He almost stumbled and fell over his jacket that was lying on the rug. Hadn't he just been looking for it? Yes, of course he had...but then he'd been distracted. Can't let that happen again. Must go over to Sarah's place, talk to her and Lisa, warn them.

Ring.Ring...Ring.Ring.

He picked up his jacket, flung it over his shoulder.

The phone on the counter yelled at him, screamed at him, begged him to answer. His body moved in slow motion, even though he commanded his muscles to move at top speed.

With all the strength he had left, he picked up the phone and answered, his words thick and clumsy. "Hello?"

"Hello, Rick? Is that you?" Lisa asked, concern in her voice.

"Yeah, its me. I was thinking of you. Wanted to come over and talk to you."

"Well, we want to talk to you too. Something happened hear last night. Something really weird. We think you might have some ideas about it."

Oh no. Chills spiked his spine. Had the Gift already been seeded in their brains? Probably. Anything could happen once you've met the Receiver. "I'm on my way."

"Good. See you in a few minutes."

"And Lisa...I'm sorry. So sorry." He hung up. A great sorrow swept over him. Guilt blackened his soul.

Terrible anxiety flooded through Lisa after Rick had hung up. He had apologized to her. For what? What could that mean? It didn't sound encouraging.

It sounded downright frightening.

Sarah decided not to open the bookstore today. She was just too tired after their ordeal last night. They had spent the night talking, drinking coffee until the sun dimmly lit the rainy gray day, letting them know morning had arrrived. But still they couldn't sleep. Who could sleep after what they had just gone through? With nerves jangling from caffein and brains stretched to the limits of logic, they decided Boulderdale's current strangeness was definitly related to the Receiver. It had to be.

Even Dave, the paragon of logic and down-to-earth philosophy, conceded that the Receiver must be at the heart of these bizarre events. Reality had been derailed ever since Paul had given Sarah that damn flyer. And being no great believer in the supernatural, he deduced this Receiver guy must be some sort of technological wizard. What sort of technology or what his motives might be, he had no idea--but science, not spirits, was the cause of Boulderdale's plunge into the Twilight Zone. This reasoning was the glue that held Dave's world together...

almost.

The scene that haunted his mind the most was that of disposing of the monster's head. He had held it reluctantly, with as few fingers as possible, plopping it into a plastic trash bag, running outside in the rain, throwing it in the trashcan. He would rather have burned the damn thing, destroying it completely.

He had had to touch the damn thing. And that sent chills down his spine.

Byte was his normal self again, now that the hideous head had been removed. Sarah had bandaged the tip of his tail--thankful for so little damage to her beloved pet. Byte now slept soundly on his blanket by the refrigerator.

"Is Rick coming over?" Sarah asked.

Lisa was still thinking about Rick's apology, but managed to answer yes to Sarah's question.

Dave sat at the kitchen table across from Sarah, sipping on his tenth cup of coffee. At times he drifted into a kind of dream, lulled by the constant patter of rain against the roof. The weather had lost some of its ferocity, but still the rain kept coming. And coming. And coming. It had a relaxing effect on Dave, and that was good. Anything to distance him from the nightmare.

Lisa made more coffee in the Mr. Coffee machine. None of them wanted to leave the room, each needing the support of the others.

When the coffee was done, Lisa refilled her cup and joined them at the table. For over five minutes no one said a thing. They were exhausted from all their talk and speculation, but still no one dared leave to try and get some rest. Nervous energy and caffeine propelled them, and so they waited for Rick, hoping that he could provide some answers to their questions. Rick would have to be honest with them: hold nothing back. They must know the truth.

Sarah smiled because the three of them suddenly seemed very humorous to her. Dave's and Lisa's eyes were bloodshot through and through, and she was sure her own were just as bad. Sarah laughed, giddy from fatigue. And even though the laughter sounded hysterical--even to her, the others joined in shortly. It felt good to blow off steam, relieve the stress that had been accumulating.

"Does anyone want pancakes?" Sarah asked.

"Sounds great," Dave said.

"Perfect," Lisa said.

When Sarah stood, her head swam, and for a moment she had to hold onto the table to steady herself.

"You okay hun?" Dave asked.

"Fine, Spud. Little dizzy from all the caffien." Sarah recovered quickly, walked over to the cupboards and began mixing the ingredients for homemade pancakes. No premixed, just-add-water stuff for her.

"Great pancakes hun."

"The best," Lisa said, holding a fork full of syrup sopped pancake pieces. Pancakes and rain and mountains seemed to go together somehow.

Someone knocked on the back door. Byte's ears twitched and he growled in his sleep.

"Its got to be Rick. Good," Sarah said, and got up to let him in.

Sarah gasped when she opened the door. The handsome, muscular man she had first seen was now reduced to a wet, pathetic hulk. Sarah had not heard him drive up in his van. "Come in, Rick. Get out of the rain."

"Thanks," he said, voice quivering.

Sarah introduced Rick to her husband. The two tired men shook hands and then Rick took a seat at the table.

"Would you like some coffee? Pancakes?" Sarah asked.

At first Rick didn't answer as he sat down at the table. He looked around the kitchen. How nice it was. How kind of the Dugeon's to let Lisa, a poor stranger, move into their home. Everything would have been going her way if not for him. Through the dark regrets that swelled within him, he finally managed to say no thanks to Sarah's offer.

"Paul's dead," Rick said. A few simple words that fell from his lips like lead weights. A long silence filled the raw spaces between them all. Lisa dropped her fork on the floor.

Dave broke the silence. "What the hell's going on around here?" His words were directed at Rick, at Sarah, at God...anyone who might answer him.

Another silence.

Then, like a dam bursting, the group broke out in a flood of talk, rapidly relating the events of last night-- releasing another round of pent up tension. When Rick heard what they had to say, he grew more morose. It was all too evident that there had been an uncontrolled interdimensional shift within this house. Physical distortion on the earthly plane had occurred here, focused on the Dugeon's pet dog.

With all the candor he could muster, Rick explained what he believed happened.

"Interdimensional shift? What's that supposed to mean? Are you saying that there are dimensions that exist beyond three dimensional space, beyond time?" Dave asked, frowning. He wasn't being sarcastic; he really wanted to know what Rick thought. Maybe Rick really new something. He picked up his coffee cup and examined it--contemplated the space it occupied.

"Yes. Just as radio frequencies are received by a television, modulated and converted to sounds and pictures, a reality other than our own can be received here--if the proper receiver exists--and displayed in our own world.

It sounded reasonable to Dave, if he accepted the premise of the existence of other dimensions. And at this point, he really didn't have a lot of other options-- considering what happened last night. "You said something about a `proper receiver.' Now, explain what you mean by that."

Rick could no longer look any of them in the eye, so he stared at the table top. He fiddled nervously with his long hair. "I thought I was helping, I thought I was doing good..."

Lisa knew that Rick was a good man. He loved his son. He wanted the best for people, but his powers confused and fascinated her. He seemed more than human at times, able to bend nature to his will, but now, as he sat at the table a worried, sullen man--he was all too human. The confusion in his face that she had seen before and tried to ignore, now dominated his nature.

Rick reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wallet sized picture and placed it on the table before him. "This man changed my life, and now I'm afraid he has begun to change your's also." He directed his comments to Sarah and Lisa. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and let out a small sob. "I only wanted to help you Lisa...really."

Dave understood Rick's grief at the loss of his friend, Paul, but couldn't relate his doom and gloom attitude to Sarah and Lisa. Dave picked up the small photo from the table and recognized the man in the picture immediately. "Why do you carry a picture of this man?" Dave asked.

Sarah saw the picture and answered for Rick, "It's a picture of the Receiver, the head guru of that meeting I went to." Even as she said those words, a painful throb shot through the center of her brain.

"Well, this is really strange, because I've seen this man's picture before," Dave said, sipping his coffee as he studied the picture.

"What do you mean? Where've you seen him before?" Sarah asked, rubbed her forehead, trying to ease the sharp pain and release the cranial pressure.

"In the computer mags. He's a famous computer programer and hardware designer--a real genius. They've dubbed him `the silicon virtuoso.' He can make a computer stand up and do the Cha-Cha. I really like his programs. His variations on fractal--"

"You've seen the Receiver in computer magazines?" Rick asked, startled, forgetting his grief for a moment.

"Sure. All the time. Only they don't call him the Receiver. His name's Gilbert Keyhurst. He used to be in hardware, designed some chips that leapfrogged computer technology by at least ten years. But he's given that up. All he does now is programming," Dave looked at each person at the table in turn, and added, "At least I thought that's all he did..."

Now Rick was even more confused. He had no idea the Receiver was a famous computer wizard.

Sarah sipped her coffee with a surprised look on her face. This mystery was only becoming more confusing. The pain continued to throb in her head. She excused herself from the group and walked to the bathroom medicine cabinet to get some aspirin. She looked at her face in the cabinet's mirror. It was the face of a stranger. Dark rings circled her sunken eyes. Haggard, haunted eyes.

"Sarah?" Lisa said, suddenly appearing at the bathroom entrance.

Sarah opened the cabinet and took out a bottle of aspirin. She shook out a few tablets and popped them in her mouth, dry swallowing them.

"I was just going to ask you for aspirin," Lisa said, rubbing her forehead, "must have read my mind."

"You've got a headache too?"

"Bad one. Really bad."

Lisa took a few aspirin and sipped at water directly from the faucet, then toweled off the drops from her chin. They both returned to the kitchen anxious to try and fit the pieces of this strange puzzle into place.

As they sat back down at the table Rick was holding the photo in his hand, staring at the Receiver as if for the first time. "What else do you know about the Receiver?"

"Nobody knows much about his personal life. For many years he just disappeared, lived out in the desert like a hermit. But sometimes I feel like I know him because I've used some of his programs...and because I'm a programer too. Birds-of-a-feather sort of thing." Dave paused, thought, then said, "A person's creation reveals something about that person. You leave your mark in your work."

Rick pondered this as Dave looked at his wife and Lisa, seeing signs of pain in their faces. "Are you two all right?" Dave asked.

A wince flashed across Sarah's face. "Soon as the aspirin kicks in."

With great concern Rick looked at the two ladies. He put the photo back into his pocket and shook his head. He fumbled for a way to express the heaviness that crushed down on his shoulders. "Aspirin won't help. Not for long."

"Why? What do you mean?" Lisa asked.

"It's Paul. He was the first. The first to receive the Gift. And now he's dead. Karen found him lying in a pool of blood. Blood that had flowed from his nose. Have you had nosebleeds? Pressure in your head?"

Fear crawled up Sarah's and Lisa's spines. They didn't like the way this puzzle was coming together. They both turned pale, as if a doctor had just informed them they had contracted a fatal disease.

They had.

Now Sarah felt angry. Angry at Rick, at Paul, at the Receiver (or Gilbert Keyhurst, whatever his damn name was). But her anger mainly focused on Rick. What right did he have to sit at her table and make up stories like that? He was implying she might die...from a headache. A simple headache, for heaven's sake.

Dave could feel his wife's anger; he was intensely worried. "Just what are you trying to say, Rick?" Dave asked.

Rick stood up quickly, and purposely energized his brain pearl, felt it throb. Within seconds his nose bled. He felt weak, dizzy. He sat back down, wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve. "You see, I am a victim too, only I'm much further along than Sarah or Lisa."

"Victim of what?" Dave asked.

Rick took a moment to organized his thoughts. He had to be very clear in his explanation. But even as he outlined some ideas in his mind, he could feel the Receiver trying to make contact with him. He fought it. For the good of all, he must not let the Receiver take over.

"Well, are you going to explain yourself or not?" Dave was becoming impatient.

With a grimace of pain that slashed across his face, Rick said, "The Receiver teaches that the way to personal power is through the mastery of fear. He can induce fear in people as a way to test them and produce growth." The Gift shot electric spikes into his spine. Cold and terrible. He began to shiver. "If a person is genetically susceptible, the Receiver can induce a growth within the subject's brain--what he calls the Gift. This Gift grows and acts as a link between the subject and the Receiver."

Sarah nervously rubbed her forehead. A pressure pulsed in the gray folds of her brain tissue. Lisa, pale and frightened, stared at her.

Rick continued, "When the Gift becomes ripe, it is released through one of your nostrils. I thought this was a good thing, a sign of power, a gift to the Transmitter-- the entity the Receiver serves. But now I know it was all a lie...resulting in nothing b...but death--" Rick's back suddenly straightened, as if a metal rod were shoved up his butt. His eyes grew big as golf balls as he fell to the floor--body stretched out stiff as a wooden plank. He snorted and made gurgling noises, trembling violently.

"What should we do!" yelled Sarah, springing from her chair and running to Rick.

Dave and Lisa joined her. "Some sort of epileptic seizure," Dave said. "Let's get his feet in the air."

Lisa ran to her bedroom and grabbed her pillow, returned quickly and placed Rick's feet on it.

"I'll call nine-one-one," Dave said, making his way to the phone.

"No!" Rick screamed through the thick saliva that foamed from his mouth.

Dave wondered at Rick's protest and decided to ignore it.

But it didn't matter. The phone was dead. Not even a dial tone.

Blood began to pour from Rick's nose. "Someone get me a towel," yelled Sarah, her face glazed with panic, her anger forgotten.

Gilbert Keyhurst stepped into the clearing, rain splattering against the yellow plastic hood of his raincoat. In the center of the clearing was a small dome house, covered with wooden shingles. From the windows issued a violet light that flickered, varying in intensity. All around the structure, tiny, colorful, geometric objects lay like discarded children's toys. He unlocked the door of the dome and stepped inside.

His head was buzzing with images from Safehaven as seen from Rick's, Sarah's and Lisa's perspectives. They all lived in the Receiver's mind--breathed inside him.

Rick was ripe and ready to give birth to the Gift, and with a little shove, the ladies would rapidly follow. Tonight was special because he now had the first of the Gifts, a brain pearl, ready to hand over to the hungry Transmitter. If he was lucky, before morning, he would have some more.

The inside of the dome was almost bare. A sleeping bag laying on top of a foam rubber mat next to the curved wall served as Gilbert's bed. A knee high refrigerator held his perishable food and a small floor cabinet held the rest. On top of the cabinet was a microwave--the only way to cook, as far as Gilbert was concerned. A boxlike structure met the ceiling, five feet long and five feet wide. Inside was the bathroom, similar in design to one for a small RV.

But the main attraction was the computer. It sat on a desk in the very center of the dome like a shrine, its monitor screen glowing with a violet light--the only light now on in the room. Gilbert had spent a large some of money to have power and water brought to this remote location, but he needed privacy and he needed his computer. And getting a phone line up here was no piece of cake either. Gilbert needed the phone so his computer could talk to the world.

He sat at the desk and began to type out commands on the keyboard. The screen came to life and the red light on the CPU glowed, indicating his hard drive was being accessed. He scrolled through long columns of text with the search function, finding the proper program to execute.

He highlighted the name of the program with his cursor and pressed the return button on the keyboard. Almost at once the screen exploded into a kaleidoscope of unearthly colors and patterns. "Wonderful!" he said, grinning from ear to ear. He enjoyed manipulating electrons, making them flow through the gates of logic to perform works of wonder.

Nobody had ever guessed--never even imagined--that true enlightenment could flow from a computer. His computer was special because it was linked with another world. Gilbert picked up a shiny needle that was connected by a coiled wire to a special card in his computer.

"Here goes!" he said excitedly to himself. He inserted the needle up his nose, positioned it, then shoved it vigorously into his brain. Each time he did this, it was equivalent to a minor lobotomy. Small price to pay for such grand spiritual rewards.

The invocation program needed a human link, real live DNA, in order to work properly. Gilbert chuckled a bit through his pain at the thought of mass marketing the program. Of course, that was impossible--not even desirable--but as the rivers of energy grabbed hold of his thoughts, he pictured millions of kids abandoning their video games in favor of this program. What would that unleash upon the world? A new age...or millions of brain dead kids with bloody needles stuck in their noses?

He chuckled some more. Then...

His flesh rippled, melted under the onslaught of forces that rushed into this world from another, darker one. Just beside his desk, floating a few feet from the floor, the evil light from that darker world began to dawn.

Dave handed his wife a towel so that she could wipe away the blood from Rick's face. His body had stopped trembling and the blood flow from his nose began to subside. "I'll be okay," Rick said. "It's passing now...the episodes passing." Rick took the towel from Sarah, held it under his nose, and struggled to his feet. His knees still felt weak, but he knew--for the time being--he would be all right. He sat back down on his chair. "Sorry."

"You're sure you're okay?" Sarah asked as she helped Rick to his chair at the table and sat next to him. Lisa stood behind Sarah, her hand on Sarah's shoulder. Lisa's eyebrows were knit together in worry and concern. Was this going to be their fate? To bleed to death because of some mad guru they'd met only once?

"Yes, I'm fine now. The pressure is receding." He placed the towel on his lap after giving his nose one last wipe. "My Gift--the object in my brain the Receiver planted--is very mature. Its nearly ready to come out, and I'm scared. Scared that my fate will be the same as Paul's. But I'm also afraid for you. You've had sinuslike headaches?"

It wasn't a question, but Lisa and Sarah nodded their heads in the affirmative.

"And you've had a manifestation in your house, which is a pretty clear sign that the Receiver is connected to one, or both of you."

Sarah felt dirty, unclean. A foreign growth, a deadly tumor was lodged in her head. She had to get rid of it.

Dave stood at the kitchen counter, pouring more coffee into his cup. "If I hadn't seen all that I've seen these past few days, I'd call an asylum and have you picked up. But as it stands, I have no choice but to accept your interpretation of these events," he took a sip of his coffee, "and it scares the hell out of me. How can we stop this? How can I help my wife?" He walked over to the table and sat next to Sarah. He held her hand.

"I don't know," Rick said, his voice trembling, devoid of hope.

"Maybe a doctor can help. We leave right now, get a brain scan, have it removed. What other choice have we got?" Dave, as tired and emotionally thrashed as he was, became hopeful. There is always a solution, no matter what the problem. Sarah brightened at her husband's suggestion, which showed the desperate shape they were in. For something as scary as brain surgery to sound good...things had to be bad.

Rick didn't share in their relief; he knew it wouldn't work. Dave could discern this by Rick's facial expression. "So what's wrong with my idea?" Dave asked Rick.

"It's impossible to surgically remove the Gift. The Receiver taught me that the Gift quickly spreads a network of thin fibers throughout the brain. Any attempt at removal would render permanent damage to the brain because the Gift becomes a part of the brain. Only when it reaches maturity does it detach itself from the host...but I don't believe that anymore. It never lets go. That's why Paul died."

Painful silence fell across the table like molten lead. If Rick was right, then what hope did the women have? Dave thought the most prudent course of action would be to have x-rays or a brain scan taken, find out if these fibers really existed, or for that matter, if this brain pearl really existed. Why should he trust what this stranger says...a stranger who just pops in and proceeds to scare his wife...

But somehow he knew Rick was right. Right about everything. Dave felt tension and terror in his heart beyond anything he had ever known. For the first time in his life, he felt completely helpless. What could he do? "How long have we got before...before things get dangerous?"

A new sadness fell over Rick's face. He listened a few moments to the rain falling on the roof before he finally spoke. "I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know? You must know! It's happening to you isn't it?" Dave yelled, face flushing a deep crimson. Sarah thought he was going to punch Rick.

"I don't know because everything's changing. Paul has given birth to the Gift, and that's never happened before. What happens now? Does the Transmitter gain power? More control over time and space? I just don't know." Rick's voice trembled as if he were going to cry.

"Let's all calm down," Sarah said, "we'll get nowhere if we get mad and upset with each other."

Dave's anger overrode Sarah's plea. He stood up and pointed his forefinger in Rick's face. "Better start explaining a little clearer what all you're talking about. What the hell is the Transmitter? An alien? A spirit? Some sort of god? It's all a bunch of shit to me!"

Rick suddenly broke down in tears. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed uncontrollably. It was painful to see a muscular, powerful man reduced to such a weak, helpless state.

"Well, what is it? Tell me!" Dave yelled, putting aside all feelings of mercy.

"I don't know...I don't know..." sobbed Rick.

Lisa's nose began to bleed profusely.

11: NEW SPACES

When night fell over Boulderdale, it brought with it even greater amounts of rain: pounding, freezing rain, cutting through the atmosphere in great, icy sheets, hitting the ground as if gravity had tripled.

Lisa was in bed, covered with four blankets, but still she shivered with cold, her skin prickly with goose bumps. Her nosebleed had finally stopped, after fighting with it for over an hour. They'd used up nearly an entire box of tissues before the blood clotted.

Lisa shivered, pulled the blankets up to her neck. Her head throbbed so hard at times it made her wince. Aspirin had little effect, if any.

Sarah reached for a glass from the kitchen cupboard. The room spun in circles, forcing her to stand still for a moment. She was afraid to admit it, even to herself, but the pressure in her head was becoming worse. After Rick's words about the so-called "Gift," she'd become very frightened. "Scared silly" was a more appropriate phrase.

Anger had subsided in Dave, and instead of trying to place blame, he got down to the business of finding a logical solution. He sat on his bed, all his computer magazines spread out before him. Every magazine with a reference to Gilbert Keyhurst he stacked in a separate pile. His computer was turned on, running a public domain program written by Keyhurst. Dave was trying to get into the Receiver's head--find out what made him tick. Find a clue to ending this nightmare.

Rick sat on the other end of the bed and watched Dave work. At times a question about the Receiver would form in Dave's mind and he would seek an answer from Rick. Rick sincerely tried to help, his mind opening up with new insights formed by Dave's unique viewpoint.

The idea that startled Rick the most was Dave's investigation from a technological viewpoint, not a metaphysical one. Rick never knew of the Receiver's status as a famous hardware and software designer; such a concept never entered his mind. Hell, he didn't even know his guru's name was Gilbert. Somehow it fit.

Sarah brought a glass of water to Lisa. "The phone's working again, so I made appointments for us to see a doctor tomorrow. We've got to cover all the bases--in case Rick is wrong. After all, maybe these headaches are nothing more than a flu bug."

"How are you doing Sarah?"

"I'm okay." She wasn't. Even as the words emerged from her mouth, it felt as if her brain were pregnant, a bloated, giant fetus kicking inside her cranium. And the coldness that grew like a virus in every cell of her body refused to leave, even though the heater was turned up quite high, high enough for Dave to complain about it.

Lisa sat up and took the glass from Sarah. She shivered as she drank most of the water, then set the glass on the table next to her cot. She quickly snuggled back in bed and covered herself up with the thick blankets.

"What's going to happen to us?" Lisa asked; her voice, small and pathetic, touched Sarah's heart. She felt almost unbearable pity for the teenager. Life had thrown so much misfortune her way at such a young age. Sarah knelt beside the cot and stroked her fingers through Lisa's hair.

"We'll find an answer to all this. Dave's in the bedroom this very moment, searching for an answer. And believe me, if anyone can do it, he can."

Lisa's young mind wanted to believe that--it was her only real hope. She doubted that going to the doctor tomorrow would do any good. Her intuition told her that this illness was not one conventional medicine would know anything about. This illness was supernatural, evil. Not some germ that could be cured with an antibiotic.

Magazine article after magazine article was speed read by Dave. Rick picked up the articles after Dave finished them, but he could not read nearly as fast as Dave. "Can you retain all that information reading that fast?" Rick asked.

"Yes, it's a gift I have. I could read like this even as a child. I also have a high comprehension level."

In only an hour Dave had finished all the articles he owned on Keyhurst. But no sudden revelation popped into mind, only the sense that Keyhurst was a genius, a man who had come up with some startling new ideas, technologies that were truly new--not even guessed at before. In fact, one of Keyhurst's chip designs resided in Dave's computer, not to mention the innovative software he had written.

But why the guru thing? What was that all about? What had happened to the man to make him take such a path? And what was this power he discovered that could bend reality- -that opened a door to another dimension?

"Tell me everything the Receiver ever taught you about the Transmitter," Dave said, as he sat down before his computer and began to explore Keyhurst's program. Software was always a reflection of the author's thought patterns. There was no way around it, the programer left his mark in the way his creation worked, looked and felt.

"I've already told you all I know. The Receiver was always vague as to the exact nature of the Transmitter. He referred to it as an entity at times, a being existing on some higher plane of reality, but I don't remember him ever speaking of it as being all powerful or all knowing like God. But he did speak of it as our goal, our destination in the spiritual journey."

"And when he channeled this entity, you actually heard its voice?"

"Yes. Well, no, not really. It communicates with visions, feelings, sensations based around fear."

"Fear?"

"Yes. Fear is the path to growth. The saying at my gym is `no pain, no gain,' so when I heard the doctrine of handling extreme terror as a path to spiritual growth, it made sense to me. The mastery of fear."

Dave pondered Rick's words as he watched his monitor's screen draw intricate fractals, bizarre patterns, from a set of transcendental mathematics. The patterns were animated, flowing around and into one another, constantly reforming, metamorphosing. Dave studied the pull-down menus, checking out the options. On one strip were the levels, labeled: Deep, Deeper, Deepest. "Deep" was selected as the default. He highlighted "Deepest" and sat back to watch the show. Keyhurst's eye-candy program was hypnotic...to say the least.

Byte's ears perked up as he lay resting on his blanket next to the refrigerator. A clacking noise mixed with the roar of the rain.

"Oooh!" Lisa yelled, grabbing her head with both hands, "It hurts!" And inside Sarah's head her brain pearl swelled too, simulating a sharp sinus headache. Both women broke out in a cold, greasy sweat. "What's happening to us?" Lisa moaned.

"I wish I knew," Sarah whispered the words, then moved a chair from the corner of the room to Lisa's bedside. She sat down on it heavily, feeling all the fatigue from the sleepless night crash through her body, scrape away her energy. "Is it getting colder in here, or is it me?" Sarah asked, shivering as she pulled her coat collar snug against her throat.

A low growl rumbled in Byte's throat; he raised his head, sniffing the air, searching for whatever it was that had just caused change in the general atmosphere of the home.

"Hon?" Sarah lightly shook Lisa's shoulder. For a brief moment terror flashed like a strobe light in Sarah's mind- -Lisa's dead!--but then, the sound of lisa's snoring brought instant relief, thankfulness filling Sarah's heart. She's asleep. At last. At least one of them would find some peace tonight.

Or so Sarah thought.

The monitor screen drew Dave's and Rick's attention like a powerful magnet. They couldn't keep their eyes from the colorful, intricate patterns that danced so gracefully across the CRT. It wasn't just exhaustion that made their minds susceptible to the beauty of the images, it was the genius of Gilbert Keyhurst, his ability to open a doorway to a strange, new world. Their minds filled with wonder and curiosity about that world, attempted to dive in deeper...deeper...

Deepest.

Leaving the comfort of his blanket, Byte explored the kitchen, sniffing along the walls, in the corners. His ears twitched, snatching almost invisible sounds from the air. He whined quietly, becoming more disturbed. Something was wrong in his house. Sniff, sniff. Something wrong. Strangers. Enemies.

Floating up, up, high into the cold night air. Gliding beneath the cold, gray clouds that cried their heavy tears on the town below. Fly, dip, arch your back and draw an arc across the sky. Strange gravity pulled her away, into the mountains, away from the few yellow lights that marked the town of Boulderdale below--marked the homes of a few night owls.

Lisa didn't want to float in the direction her nude astral body was being pulled. She shivered, tried to resist the force that sucked her to the mountain top...gliding a few feet above the dark, damp treetops-- shapes outlined in silver by whatever dim light survived the rainy night.

She tried to twist her body away from the invisible hand that held her, tried to swim upstream, back to her bed, back to her new home.

Now real terror gripped her. She fought, thrashed against the force. It's evil, that mountain top. Thick with evil. Uncaring, hateful evil.

Byte sniffed along the bottom edge of the door. Clank, click, click. Small noises, intermittent. They were outside, on the roof and on the grounds around the house. Byte growled quietly, unsure what to attack, what the enemy was, where it was.

Lisa's legs now pointed in the direction of the energy's source; she renewed her struggles to swim away from its iron grip, but it pulled, pulled hard on her goosepimpled dream-flesh. She drew closer and closer to the mountain top, finally hovering directly over it. Below her, a wooden shingled dome, violet light fanning out from its windows, illuminated the water puddles in the clearing that surrounded it.

The weird gravity, thousands of icy tendrils, wrapped around her, yanked her from the sky, pulling her through the dome roof as though it were nothing but a cloud.

Inside, she floated above the Receiver who sat before a computer, his face lit by a bright violet light coming from the monitor screen. Something...a coiled black wire, ran from his nose to the back of the computer. He didn't appear to notice her as she floated above him...oblivious to all but his mysterious task.

A shape began to coalesce out of thin air next to the computer desk. Terror shredded lisa's dreaming mind.

Was Lisa having a nightmare? The teenager groaned as Sarah stroked her hair--trying to ease the girl's troubled sleep. Sarah was in need of a little comfort herself, since her headache grew worse with each passing moment. Soon she would have to try and get some sleep, end her headache with a blanket of dreams...if that were possible. Her eyelids weighed a ton. She just might be able to grab a few winks...

Byte began to paw at the bottom of the door as the clicking, clacking noises increased. Then he let out a series of rapid barks, interspersed with low, vicious growls.

Byte's barking finally broke the spell cast by the patterns that flowed with ever increasing complexity across the monitor screen. Dave and Rick both shook their heads in an attempt to cast off the spell that gripped their minds.

"What's wrong with Byte?" Dave asked, more to himself than to Rick. He felt chills crawl up his spine as memories of touching that bizarre head came vividly to mind. Not again, thought Dave. Not again.

Dave ran to the kitchen, flipped on the light, and found Byte barking at the door. The dog was okay, no monster head grew from his tail. A wave of relief rushed through him.

"Who's out there?" yelled Dave to whoever might be standing outside the door. He doubted even a burglar would be out on a night like this...but you never know. He decided to get his shotgun from the closet. Can't take chances where his wife's concerned.

And what was that noise? It sounded like hail. It was probably cold enough to form hail stones, and from the sound of them, they must be quite large.

Sarah was standing in the hall, next to the closet door. "Why is Byte so excited, Spud?"

"Don't know," Dave said as he opened the closet door, took out the shotgun and pumped a round into the chamber. It made a satisfying click. "But I'm going to find out."

"With that?" Sarah pointed to the shotgun.

"I'm not taking any chances."

Back in the kitchen, Byte had not eased up from his barking and growling, but when he noticed Dave entering the room he ran over to him, and with eyes wide and tail wagging, ran back to the door--communicating just as effectively as human speech the need to investigate.

"It's okay Byte...it's okay," Dave said, turning to wave his hand at Sarah, indicating for her to stay close to the hall entrance. He had no idea what might be waiting outside.

Byte backed off, allowing Dave to prepare to open the door. Dave held the shotgun pointed upwards--a finger on the trigger--his other hand on the doorknob. "Get behind me Byte...that's a good boy."

He swung the door open quickly, stepped back and brought the shotgun level, ready to fire. "What the hell?"

"What is it?" Sarah asked, daring to walk over to her husband. He stared at the backyard, no longer concerned about using the shotgun, having relaxed his shooting stance.

"Flip on the floodlight, hun," Dave said as he set the gun against the kitchen wall and stepped out on the back porch. "Jeez...what is all that? Looks like..."

The clacking and clicking noises continued, mixed with the roar of rain. It certainly wasn't hail making those strange sounds.

Sarah joined her husband under the small porch roof and gazed in confusion at their backyard.

"What are those things?" Dave asked, rubbing his chin in consternation.

"Looks like a bunch of children's toys..." answered Sarah.

Dave stooped to pick one up. The backyard was filled with them, covering every inch of ground, littering the trees as they fell from the sky. Drops of water glistened from their surfaces like jewels in the glare of the floodlight.

Dave held a yellow, baseball sized sphere in his hand. It was light and seemed hollow from the sound it made when he tapped it with his finger. Spread across the ground were spheres, cubes, pyramids--all approximately the same size, all of them differently and brightly colored.

Rick silently joined them on the porch...startling Sarah. He seemed to have beamed there, like some character from Star Trek. "Sorry for surprizing you..." he apologized. He looked around at the backyard and grew very worried. This fallout was powerful. It wasn't from him and it certainly wasn't from Sarah or Lisa. This was something new, something he'd never seen before--the scale was too large for any mere disciple to produce. His nose began to bleed. He ran to the bathroom for tissue.

Rick knew his time was approaching fast. The Gift swelled in his brain and trembled--moved a little--trying to follow the olfactory nerve and emerge into the world. Rick wiped the blood from his face with toilet tissue, but more blood followed, refusing to clot. He would have to go home now. He couldn't possibly put the Dugeon's through what he knew was going to happen. His own terrors were about to manifest. Big slimy nightmares. Rip-you-apart nightmares.

Rick took a handful of tissue and held it under his nose and quickly made his way to the kitchen where Dave and Sarah still stood on the steps, gazing at the strange sight before them. "Must leave now," he said through his hand that held the wad of bloody tissue.

"Oh no...not again," Sarah saw the pain and blood on Rick's face and her heart went out to him.

Lisa moaned in her sleep. At the dome, the Receiver looked up at her astral body and smiled, blood pouring from his nostril that held the coiled wire. "Hello Lisa."

The flesh body of Lisa writhed on the cot, thick crimson flowing from her nose.

The geometric objects stopped falling from the sky, but the rain continued. Unrelenting. Rick stumbled backwards and fell to the floor. Byte licked the blood from his face.

The geometric shapes in the backyard rippled and swirled, formed huge patterns, like-colors joining like-. Over and over again the patterns changed, gracefully flowing from one to the next. Sarah grabbed her head, shut her eyes, felt cold tendrils of madness growing in the gray mass of her brain.

Then reality shifted. Big time.

Sarah took hold of Dave's hand and pulled him inside the house. She slammed and locked the door against the insanity going on in the backyard. A rush of light rammed through the kitchen windows, followed by a blast of thunder.

Dave, suffering from a form of shock, suddenly phased back into the present moment from the sound of the blast hitting him like a slap to the face. "Sarah, I..."

Sarah was kneeling beside Rick when her husband said those words, but when she looked up, Dave was gone. "Spud? Spud? Where are you?" Like a powerful drug reaching the zenith of its effect, madness took possession of her, wrenching, squeezing sanity from her mind like water from a sponge.

"Oh lord! Help!" she screamed, pulling her long blond hair until it hurt, hoping the pain would wake her up, snap her out of the madness.

It didn't.

The lights came on in the kitchen. It was very bright, illuminating in painful detail every nook and cranny. Rick had disappeared from the floor. Byte was also missing. Sarah ran from the kitchen to her bedroom, searching for Dave. The bedroom lights were on. Photons intense and hard. No shadows. Nothing hidden. The computer was on, monitor screen displaying the same complex patterns the objects in the yard had formed.

Like a living entity, fear filled the atmosphere of the house--replaced the oxygen--so Sarah's every breath charged her with terror. Her mouth was dry and she began to hyperventilate. Over and over she repeated in her mind, I am Sarah Dugeon...I am Sarah Dugeon...I am Sarah...

...Dave sat across from Sarah in the dim candlelight of Paisan's. They both loved this Italian restaurant. Not only was the food great and the atmosphere terrific, it was the location of their first date, and on this, their tenth anniversary, they continued their tradition of visiting this little restaurant.

Sarah took a bite of spaghetti and winked at Dave. Their relationship had always been deep and comfortable. The theory that relationships require work, that effort must be expended to maintain the glue that bonds couples together, didn't seem to apply to them. Being together for them was as natural as breathing. When other couples spoke of seeing marriage counselors and attending therapy groups, it made marriage sound like a job...not a pleasure. Marriage was supposed to be a joy. The greatest joy in life.

"Best spaghetti in the universe," Dave said, admiring the food at the end of his fork, and when he finely took it in his mouth he savored it as if it were his last meal on earth.

"That's a heavy statement, Spud. Suppose the universe is filled with Italian restaurants, all staffed with genetically engineered super-chefs. Could be, you know."

"You think the universe is populated, that we're not alone among the stars?"

"Sure. Don't you? It would seem much stranger to believe that we are the only inhabited planet, than to believe the universe is filled with inhabited planets!"

"Next your going to tell me you believe in angels."

Sarah knew Dave was teasing her. He knew she'd been a regular member of a Methodist Church right up until her collage years, and that she'd never doubted for an instant the existence of God...or His angels, even after she'd stopped attending church regularly. And though Dave didn't discuss whether he believed in God, it was evident in the way he handled life, his philosophy and demeanor, that he did. "I see an angel standing beside you right now, ready to club you in the head if you don't lighten up!" she said, laughing.

Dave grinned and took a huge bite of buttery garlic bread. He dabbed his napkin around his mouth. Piasan's was never stingy on the butter. "I love the fact that you can see the mystery and wonder of the universe and just accept it--accept it in a childlike way. It's very appealing to me."

"You don't fool me Spud. Despite your hard-line, logical, scientific attitude, I know you understand that real science and real religion aren't at odds with each other. They're both part of the same thing, the same reality."

"Speaking of reality, I've got a super surprise for you when we get home."

The stars sparkled brightly above the trees on their way home. They both burped at the same time and laughed at themselves. Great food deserved great burps. When they parked and got out of the car, Dave made Sarah close her eyes before he would let her enter the house.

The surprise was not hidden for long because as soon as Dave opened the back door the new puppy jumped all over Sarah, covering her with wet kisses.

"Oh Dave! Thank you!" Sarah kissed her husband and then picked the collie up in her arms and gave it a hug. As a little girl, her parents owned a collie. Her mom had told her how the dog used to be very protective of Sarah--never let her out of sight. And somewhere buried in her subconscious were memories of that collie, memories that always warmed her heart towards that breed of dog.

"Hope you don't mind that I've picked out a name for him already. Of course, if you don't like it, we can change it."

"What's the name?"

"Byte."

"Bite! Why? Did he bite you?"

"No, no. Not that kind of bite. B-y-t-e, Byte, like in computer lingo."

"Figures. But I like it. It's cute." Sarah set the dog down and rubbed his back. "Byte it is then."

Dave was always so good at picking out gifts and this one was really special. Her heart melted when she looked at Byte's smiling face. "Now I get to show you what I bought you."

"Do I need to close my eyes?"

"No, just wait here one minute," but as Sarah started for their bedroom, the phone rang. She was closest to the wall phone so she answered it. "Hello."

"Hello Sarah!" It was the Receiver. "Sorry to intrude on your happy little space, but business is business."

The phone went dead.

Lisa walked into the kitchen. She was naked. Her long, full breasts bounced with her every step. She seethed with sensuality, even her weak chin added to her sexiness.

Sarah dropped the phone, frozen in terror. This wasn't right. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Blood dribbled from Lisa's nose. She licked it up with her tongue. A tongue that was more lizardlike than human.

At first Dave seemed confused, then delighted. "What an anniversary present! You can sure pick'em hon," he said with lust filled eyes.

That's not my Dave. He doesn't act this way.

And that's not Lisa either.

Lisa took Dave's hand and led him away to the bedroom. Sarah fought her fear, her anger, tried to move her mouth, protest this behavior. Finally she broke the chains of emotional pain and yelled, "What the hell are you doing!" Her own voice grated inside her head, made the brain pearl pulsate with every vibration of her vocal cords.

Her logical thought patterns burst apart, and Sarah's mind spun wildly like a car out of control on a slick road, heading down highways that looped and twisted through dark nightmare landscapes, through damp forests of madness reeking of pure terror.

"Dave!" she called and ran for her husband who had just disappeared into their bedroom with the voluptuous Lisa. When Sarah looked in the room, Dave was ripping his clothes off in excitement. Lust lit up his eyes like blazing halogen lights. He never reached this level of sexual excitement with me, thought Sarah. It was a crazy thought because this wasn't real--it was some sort of hallucination--a nightmare.

I must wake up, Sarah thought as she pinched her flesh, hoping pain would snap her back into the real world. Harder. Pinch that arm harder and harder because Dave is lowering his chubby body onto Lisa's slim one: her tiny waist, her huge, firm breasts that lolled back and forth with each of Dave's passionate thrusts...

"NO! NO!" Sarah grasped Dave's sweaty shoulders and yanked with all her strength, trying to pull him off, but the added movement only increased his lust--increased Lisa's--bringing the rutting couple to a wet, sweaty orgasm.

Dave pulled himself off Lisa. He smiled broadly; now the lust in his eyes shown for Sarah, as if he hadn't just gotten through rutting like a damn pig with another women. How could he do such a callous thing? Sarah cried, ran from the room and down the hall towards the bookstore. She punched in the code to disable the alarm and entered the store. It was dimly lit by the night light left on to discourage burglary.

She slammed the door shut and ran to hide behind a row of books. She was in the hobby section near the front of the store. It didn't take long for Dave to follow Sarah and burst open the door with a loud bang. His naked body outlined by the harsh brilliance from the hallway.

"Come on hun, join the fun. I'm still hot and rarin' to go!"

Dave was possessed. Those weren't his words. They emanated from whatever creature wore his body, used his flesh like a hand puppet.

"You can't hide from me. Come out and get your piece of the meat," he said as he flipped on the main lights. Lisa popped up behind him, still naked.

"Yeah, Sarah. I'd like a little piece of you too. Share it with me, just like you do with Dave."

Sarah leaped to her feet and ran to the front door, quickly unlocking it and running outside. She could hear Dave and Lisa laughing at her, smirking. She hated whatever force animated them. Whatever monster played with reality like so much clay. The Receiver.

She had run outside.

But instead of feeling a blast of cold air and rain on her face, she was standing in the kitchen. Her brain reeled, the kitchen swam in circles all around her. She clutched her head and shut her eyes.

The astral Lisa was scared. Gilbert's head rippled as if seen in a wave of heat. He spoke to her in a voice that gargled, as if underwater. "See that ball of light beside my computer desk? It's forming the gateway, a portal, from which the Transmitter will emerge. Stick around and watch!"

The real Dave was terrified. How had he gotten here, sitting at his desk? He had no idea. But through his terror, his love for Sarah directed him. He sat before his computer, running Gilbert's program through a text reader, scanning it in ASCII form...he had an idea...a hunch. He must continue, hold on to his sanity--for Sarah's sake.

Sarah opened her eyes. The kitchen was huge, distorted. The floor stretched forever in all directions; all the contents: the counter, the table, the chairs, everything-- all stretched like rubber to conform to the room's new dimensions. The ceiling was so high it nearly disappeared in the thick atmosphere; dark purple clouds passed between it and Sarah. The kitchen was a new world, vast and frightening.

The air was so thick that when Sarah tried walking, she had to strain to move through it; like molasses it resisted her limb's movements. She felt a vibration in the strange atmosphere, felt it everywhere, moving over her flesh. It wasn't pleasant. It was nightmarish, pressing against her, forcing her movements into a slow motion dream. Slower...Slower...

She must fight it.

"It's coming Lisa! It's coming!" Gilbert said to Lisa's floating form. The ball of light pulsed.

Dave found comments embedded in the ASCII gibberish. There was something here that could help him. He just knew it. If he could only concentrate, ignore the slimy black balls with chrome teeth that swarmed around his feet, gnawed at his ankles...they couldn't be real...had to be all in his mind...

Lisa could not tear her dream-eyes away from the light. It was hypnotic, powerful. She could hear Gilbert laughing hystericaly, screaming, "COME ON! COME ON!" over and over again.

She could almost make out a shape forming in the center of the light, small and undefined, constantly changing but always growing--larger and larger. It was passing through the gateway, entering our world, our reality.

"See it Lisa? See it?" Gilbert was so excited and his flesh so unstable he had a hard time forming words. "Other psychics claim to channel spirits, but that's just a lot of bunk," his mouth formed into something like a soft duckbill, cartoonish, too large and clumsy. With great difficulty he said, "I channel tech...technology."

The object grew in the womb of light. It was all colors of the rainbow, flashing and cycling in random patterns; its shape a bundle of simple geometric forms constantly metamorphasing, sphere to cube to pyramid, hundreds of them melting and reforming in a recurring flurry of intense movement and energy.

It sucked in Lisa's consciousness like milk through a straw.

Sarah knew that the real Dave was out there--somewhere- -along with Lisa and Byte. She must find them, fight against this perversion of reality and the paralyzing fear that threatened to overwhelm her.

The air was thickening even more, vibrating even stronger. A transparent gel with a vicious molecular structure.

The room continued to stretch further and further in all directions, until the horizon line of the floor disappeared into infinity.

The Transformer emerged into this world, hungry.

12: REVELATIONS

Lisa didn't know how to return to her body. She remained fixed in position by lines of force that stretched from dream to reality. But the desire to return to flesh became weaker and weaker as the transformations of the Transmitter held her mind captive. So beautiful, so fluid, the metamorphoses of hundreds of simple geometric forms in rapid flux--sphere to cube to pyramid--sphere to cube to pyramid--over and over again...

"I've got the Gift," Gilbert said to the floating form as it lit the dome's interior with a dazzling light show.

The Transmitter suddenly spun like a top, all the while its surface in constant change. Then, just as abruptly, it stopped spinning. In a high, stilted voice, the voice of a child, the Transmitter said "Please place the memory module directly in the receptacle located on my topside."

Gilbert reached into his pocket and removed the tiny pearl. He smiled at the device, the culmination of all his labors.

He rose carefully from his chair, not wanting to disturb the needle in his nose that connected him to the computer. The Transmitter floated approximately four feet above the floor; its current height was a little over two feet, so Gilbert had to stretch a bit to hold the pearl shaped memory module above the Transmitter's constantly changing surface. A blue pyramid stabilized just below the memory module, while the rest of the surface remained in flux. The sides of the blue pyramid opened like a flower and Gilbert dropped the device inside.

"Please sit in your chair as I attempt to lock on to the memory module."

Gilbert sat back down. He looked up at Lisa's astral body and smiled, "I'm excited, aren't you?"

Lisa wanted her body back, wanted to be safe in bed, away from this madness. Nothing made sense to her. The Receiver sat in his chair below her; his body, even his voice, went through subtle changes, as if influenced by the rhythm of the changes on the Transmitter's surface.

The Transmitter, though it spoke in a childlike voice, still seemed more machinelike than organic. Lisa could sense that it wasn't alive, despite the Transmitter's power of speech and highly animated surface. Because it was a machine, the Transmitter was all the more frightening, a thing with no feelings, no morals, no sense of right or wrong. It was impossible to anticipate its actions or understand its objectives. Lisa wondered who could have designed such a machine. Was it an advanced race from another planet? Probably.

The Transmitter's constantly changing surface began to slow down its metamorphosis. A new rhythm was established...like a heartbeat.

"I should now have movement. Testing." Remaining at its present distance from the floor, the Transmitter quickly shot away from the desk and stopped before it hit the curved wall of the dome, then followed the wall's curvature, making three orbits--halted--then shot back to its original starting position by the desk.

Gilbert was thrilled. This was all new stuff to him, since the Transmitter had only revealed itself to his mind before, never crossing the threshold into this world. Though the Transmitter's alien presence played havoc with his flesh, he could now feel his cellular structure begin to stabilize. An almost forgotten instinct of human vanity made him hope that he could retain at least some of his human form--not be too terribly altered by the forces that emanated from the Transmitter.

The builders of the Transmitter, the Elder Gods, had experimented with free will in mechanical devices before, and never had these devices been disloyal. Then, about a million years ago, a problem developed. A spark of rebellion raced through the circuits of once loyal machines...and some worlds where the races of men once thrived were made desolate--the aftermath of contact with diseased technology.

Now that the electronic information age had dawned on Earth, all the pieces existed to build a portal, a link between the dimensions. A bridge to span from this world-- this new feeding ground--to the abyss. Gilbert's mind had been an open channel--easy to transmit technology through- -his synoptic matrix well suited to the plans of the rebellious machines, the Ancient Ones. For them, Gilbert was a vessel to manipulate--to inspire. Superficial damage to his brain from use of the neural-linker only made the job easier.

From out of the abyss the Transmitter has emerged.

"I am SAKKAK. In the TIME before TIME I was friend to the Elder Gods and the Race of Watchers, but since my post as Guardian of the Other Side and Observor of the Mortal Worlds, linear time has enlightened me. Now I serve no other ENTITIES--be they creator or creature--but myself."

"Glad you're here," Gilbert said, grinning literally from ear to ear, his mouth twice its former length.

"The Gift has given me power of mobility, the digital record of human fear providing energy through my DA converters."

"That's wonderful."

"You are to remain stationed at your computer as the Guardian of the Gateway. Under no circumstances are you to leave your post."

"No problem."

"For your obedience to me you will be rewarded by further mutation into a cyborg, all your flesh eternalized and rendered self-sufficient, your mind encased in a cube of timeless-motionless subspace.

"Is that good?" Gilbert asked somewhat nervously. It sounded like he was being asked give up his human form in exchange for immortality. Oh well, that's fair enough. Vanity is not a virtue--it's actually a despicable human trait, source of much unhappiness.

"I will lock your thoughts into perpetual ecstasy and open all space, all worlds, all levels of reality to your free inspection."

"You can do that?" Excitment crowded any doubts from Gilbert's mind. To be able to explore virtually all of reality was incomprehensible in its grandeur.

"Certainly. All you need do is guard the computer."

Lisa felt the Transmitter, SAKKAK, reach into her thoughts, sift through them like sand.

"Lisa, your astral double is becoming unstable. I will return you to your physical body. The Gift resides in your body, as well as your friend Sarah's. I must prepare you both for harvesting. The synergistic addition of two more memory modules to my being will allow me to perform major reality shifts on your world. My most holy goal of sector domination draws near."

The thick gel that encased Sarah increased its vibrations in slow increments, gradually becoming stronger and stronger--until Sarah screamed with the last bit of air in her lungs, though the scream never escaped from her mouth.

The gel atmosphere hardened, cracked, and blew apart. Now a comfortable atmosphere of normal density returned, allowing her to move freely. To search for Dave.

The distorted landscape hurt to look at it. Sarah's mind rebelled at the painful angles and monstrous curvatures, the stretching of everyday objects to conform to her kitchens insane proportions.

Purple clouds drifted overhead. They boiled and seethed with some inner energy that chilled Sarah to the marrow of her bones.

"DAVE! DAVE! Where are you!" She yelled. Her words echoed over and over, mocking her, taunting her efforts as she continued her hike across the black and white checkered floor. It took hours for her to reach the kitchen table, its top towering forty stories above her head. Each supporting chrome leg had a girth equal to that of a house. The table was miles long and Sarah figured it might take all night to reach the end, and she couldn't even guess how many hours before she found the entrance to the hallway.

Maybe it was best to give up, sink into the madness, let it drowned her and take her to whatever nightmares awaited.

No. That was wrong thinking. She must find Dave. The real Dave. The man she loves.

The purple clouds sucked electrical charges from the floor. Thin strands of lightning formed webs of light on their way to the clouds above. The table acted as a barrier to the electrical storm, a storm that Sarah hoped would dissipate by the time she reached the end.

She felt exposed. The huge, flat area surrounding her made her feel naked, vulnerable. What if the clouds drifted below the table top and lightning sprung from around her feet? Through her body? She would be fried in a flash.

Sarah continued on, straining to hold on to her sanity as madness clawed at her cranium like a wild beast. The outer landscape was as psychotic as the beast within her brain, her only link with reality was the center of her soul: her eternal spirit.

A clicking sound crept up behind her.

Dave kicked at the monsters that demanded his ankles flesh. Blood stained his trousers. The creatures bounced like soft rubber balls, their chrome teeth chattering wildly. As soon as they were kicked away they returned, insistent and vicious, rolling towards Dave's skin as if it were a magnet, sinking sharp spiky fangs through his flesh, ripping and shredding.

The information that scrolled across his monitor screen was the key...the key...if these damn little monsters would just leave him alone.

Dave kicked and screamed at them. He bent down and grabbed one. The terrible creature felt slick and soft, making clicking sounds with its pointed teeth. He squeezed it: hard. Real hard. The little beast screamed out in Sarah's voice and Dave almost dropped it.

But he didn't. He squeezed harder.

It burst like a melon in his hands, spewing thick yellow mush from its innards. "Yeah! Take that, creep!"

Dave began stomping the spherical monsters as he pulled them from his bloody ankles. They fought back, snapping at his fingers. One of them finally managed to take hold of his middle finger, bit hard, penetrating the bone. "Ow!" Dave screamed as he squished the beast with his other hand; crimson blood mixed with the creatures yellow guts and flowed to the floor.

The battle was won. A foul odor of rotten fish rose from the black flesh and yellow viscous fluid that pooled around his chair. Dave's heart thumped from adrenaline but relief flooded through him also, taking some of the edge off his nerves.

With blood dripping from his right hand, he used his computer mouse to scroll through the ASCII display of Gilbert's program.

Buried in the undecipherable characters were clear lines of text.

There it was. What he was hoping for.

A comment, listed in clear English: Gilbert's address and phone number. It wasn't even a long distance call.

Dave wrote the information down on a piece of scrap paper. Now, if his phone was working and if he could link with Gilbert's computer...

Lisa experienced severe vertigo, the dome swirling around her, a ball of nausea crawling up her throat like a big warty toad. A wave of cold air hit her astral body and blew her through the dome wall, a rush of acceleration, speed so great it blistered a layer of dream material from her astral flesh. All she could see was a blur of colors as she sped to her home--

Through the roof...then--the force abruptly left her. She floated near the ceiling, staring down at her body. It was scary to see herself lying there, for all appearances, dead.

How do I get back in my body, she wondered. Was she doomed to float here forever? She tried swimming, arcing her arms and kicking her feet. It worked. She moved through the air like a fish through water, closer and closer to her silent, material body. Now, only inches from it, she stared at her own face, but it was a stranger's face, not the one that greeted her in the mirror every morning. But of course! It wasn't reversed like it was in the mirror.

She could feel her own warm breath on her astral face. Very weird. Frightening in ways she could never have imagined. She psyched up her courage and reached down, hugging her material body. A soon as she touched her dormant flesh a tingling sensation--warm and friendly-- tugged at her astral body, drawing her closer--fear disappearing completely.

A brilliant flash of blue light and her eyes opened. She stared at the ceiling where only moments before she had floated. She blinked her eyes, felt the weight of her flesh and smiled at her success. Her body fit like a glove.

Having returned to the flesh, she now felt the Gift growing painfully in her brain. Was it worth it?

Click. Click. Click.

Sarah turned towards the sound. A ten foot tall cockroach, its black skeletal body stretched out like a piece of rubber to conform to the environment's distortions, was rapidly approaching, mandibles clacking hungrily.

On top of the creature, riding side saddle, were two little twin girls: each one holding a crutch, each one wearing a leg cast. They spoke in tongues--just like Sarah had heard spoken when she visited a Pentecostal church with an old college chum. The giant, weirdly distorted cockroach was listening to the twins, answering back with a series of shrill squeals. The monster did not slacken in its pace towards Sarah.

Sarah ran. Ran as fast as she could. It was her only defense in this bizarre world where huge areas of landscape consisted of nothing but bare linoleum. She was completely vulnerable, her very life now depended on her legs and her endurance.

The cockroach was relentless, moving effortlessly and gracefully, its babbling passengers hoisting their crutches in the air to cheer the beast on.

She was making good time, covering more distance than she ever thought she could. Breathing hard, stitches in her side from exhaustion, she forced her body to its limits, squeezing every drop of adrenaline from her glands.

Sarah could see a dark speck lying just outside the shelter of the table. What was it?

Click. Click...Click. Click.

Don't slow down, she inwardly yelled at herself. No time to grow faint or freeze from fear. Her last day on earth would not be spent as some cockroach's dinner.

She risked turning her head to check out her distance from the monster. She shouldn't have. It only terrorized her. The creature was less than six yards from her...and gaining.

Got to run faster. Got to move those legs.

The cockroach stretched out its long antenna towards Sarah--tried to touch the back of her head. Closer, closer, only a few more feet.

Now Sarah could make out the dark speck on the linoleum floor. It was a human body. Straining her eyes she could recognize the figure by its clothes. It was Rick.

She ran towards him as fast as she could, the stitch in her side almost crippling her. But what could she do when she got there? Maybe the cockroach monster would eat them both. Quickly she changed directions--towards the other end of the table--away from Rick. She prayed this was the right decision, that the monster would continue to chase her and decide not to attack Rick, who was unconscious and completely helpless.

From far off in the distance, what seemed like miles, where the hallway entrance stretched crazily to the ceiling, another tiny figure appeared. Was it Dave searching for her? The tiny shape was running towards Rick. It spotted her and beckoned her with a waving arm to run in its direction.

Sarah decided to switch directions again, to run towards Rick. The other figure (Dave, she thought), looked like he would reach Rick at the same time she got there. Dave must have some plan, some defense against the beast who was hot on her tail.

As she neared the spot where Rick lie unconscious, she saw that the other running figure was not Dave, but Lisa. She had Dave's shotgun in her hand. Good. Very good.

Lisa had successfully crossed the plain, dodging the lightning that shot upwards from the linoleum floor to the boiling purple clouds above.

The cartridge was already in the chamber when Lisa brought the gun up, snuggling it against her shoulder like she'd seen in the movies. She centered the gun sight on the monstrous cockroach and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

What now?

"Pump it! Pump it!" shouted Sarah as she neared Rick.

One of the spiky antennas touched Sarah's hair. She screamed and dove for the linoleum, sliding on the slick surface. She rolled onto her back and looked up, staring directly at the vertical chomping jaws of the giant roach. The monster lowered its black skeletal head over her, its shiny bulging eyes hypnotic in their lack of intelligence.

Lisa fumbled with the shotgun. Pump it? How? Pump what? She noticed the cylinder made of wood under the guns barrel. She grabbed it, pulled. It slid, ejecting the faulty cartridge and inserting a fresh (hopefully good) cartridge in the chamber. Again she aimed, pulled the trigger.

BLAM!

The top of the roaches head disappeared in an explosion of black gore. The huge insect slid backwards and fell over, dumping the twins to the kitchen floor. Sarah's clothes were covered with an oily black liquid. She was filthy, but safe, and breathed a sigh of relief.

The odd twins scrambled for their crutches and struggled to their feet. Still speaking in tongues, they hobbled as fast as they could away from Lisa and her gun, vanishing in the distance.

"We need to help Rick and find Dave. Have you seen Dave?" Sarah prayed she was speaking to the real Lisa, not some nightmare creation bent on seducing her husband.

"No, I woke up from a really weird dream and started looking for everyone. But when I stepped into the hall, the house was different, all twisted and stretched. I couldn't find your bedroom."

"How did you get the shotgun?"

"It was leaning against the wall where your bedroom door used to be. I grabbed it...figured I'd need it."

Sarah turned to look at the giant cockroach, black fluid leaked from the jagged wound on its head. With disgust, Sarah noticed the smelly liquid being absorbed into her clothes. Rotten fish smell.

"I've got to get out of these," Sarah said as she carefully undressed, trying not to touch the black blood that slimed her clothes.

"No sense being shy, especially in our situation," Lisa said.

Sarah tossed her ruined clothes onto the roach's corpse. The giant spiky legs gave a series of spasmodic jerks when the cloth touched them. Sarah jumped back, frightened for a moment that the creature might still be alive.

Naked, she felt even more vulnerable in the wide open stretches of floor space, but the nauseating black fluid that had stained her clothes was worse.

The two women focused their attention on Rick. Sarah patted his cheeks trying to awaken him. She wished she had some cold water to throw on his face--that would do the trick.

"Oh...my head!" Rick said as he rose from unconsciousness, clutching at his forehead and wincing with pain. He discovered he still held some toilet tissues in his hand and used them to wipe his nose. No new blood on the tissue. He could be thankful for that.

It took him a few minutes to become fully aware of his surroundings, but what he saw only confused him. Somehow he'd been transported to a new world, a world that had checkered linoleum instead of soil and...no...he was still in the Dugeon's kitchen, only it was unbelievably large. And for some reason, Sarah was bending over him naked as a newborn babe. He struggled to his feet. That's when he saw the cockroach.

Massive interdimensional fallout. Massive reality shifts. This was bad. Real bad.

The women explained their situation to Rick as best they could. The goal now was to find Dave, make sure he was safe, and find out if his clever, logical mind was approaching a solution to this nightmare.

"Sarah, please, take my shirt," Rick said, exposing his muscular torso has he took it off and handed it to her. She thanked him. His shirt was so large that it almost reached her knees.

The group looked around, studying the dimensions of the kitchen. The hallway entrance looked so far away, even farther than before.

"Lisa, you mentioned that my bedroom disappeared, that the door was no longer there," Sarah said as she adjusted her shirt.

"Everything was so strange in the hallway--hard to tell what was going on, what with all the twisting and bending and everything--made me dizzy."

"The hallway was changing, even as you walked through it?"

"I'm not sure. It could've all been in my head."

As the two women talked, Rick grew more uneasy. He was certain they had little time left to discover an answer to their problems. Even now, the Gift squirmed in his head, injecting bolts of fear into his primitive brain centers. He was sure that Sarah's and Lisa's brain implants were also growing, changing, opening death's door a little wider. Their only chance was Dave. Dave was smart--knew about a side of the Receiver that had never even crossed his mind.

Before passing out, Rick had wanted to go home--save the others from terrors his mind would unleash as the brain pearl took over. But now, gazing at a kitchen the size of a world, he knew this reality shift was caused by something greater than anything their minds could ever produce. Something new had entered into the world...and it must be stopped before it stopped them.

"Let's get going. I'll bet anything that Dave is at his computer..." Rick waved them on, in the direction of the hallway.

It must be true, thought Sarah. Dave was strong. If anyone had the strength of will to resist these nightmares, it was her husband. And he was the only one not infected by the alien tumor implanted in their brains.

The three started on the dangerous journey across the linoleum wasteland. Overhead, the churning purple clouds continued to pull up dangerous electrical charges from the floor. There was no way to know when or where a web of bluish white light would rise from the linoleum, snapping and crackling as it flashed to the clouds above. Their only guide was human intuition.

Fallible human intuition.

Lisa kept rubbing her forehead in obvious pain. Sarah also felt the sinuslike headache generated by the Gift. Fear trickled out of the unearthly tumors like an icy poison. And now this fear was hard reality, a part of the outer world.

Suddenly a blinding electrical flash appeared before them, the shock wave from its heat knocking the group off their feet, sending them sliding across the floor's slippery waxed surface.

Sarah was dazed and confused, heart pounding like a jackhammer. What was that terrible smell? She saw whisps of smoke at the edge of her vision, then realized it was coming from her hair. She grabbed a handful and studied the ends; they were all singed and blackened. At least it was her hair and not her face.

The group stood up and checked each other out. No one was seriously hurt but all were stunned, dazed by the light and noise that sent them sprawling. This place was dangerous, and the quicker they got to the hallway and away from these clouds, the better.

They all took off running with the women in the lead. Rick wanted to keep a concerned eye on them, even though their positions made little difference, since the lightning could spring up anywhere. It was a purely psychological comfort.

The crackling sound of thunder increased the nearer they came to the hallway entrance. Gasping for breath as exhaustion began to overtake them, they finally reached the hallway entrance. It stretched high into the clouds, lost to any sort of human scale.

But reaching the entrance might not have been such a good thing.

Rick darted ahead of the women and spread out his arms, yelling, "STOP!" at the top of his lungs, halting them just before they entered the hallway. The women had been too tired, too exhausted, for their minds to register all that their eyes had seen. Rick, panting and sweating, pointed to the hall entrance, and between gulps of air, said, "What in...what in hell is...that?"

Lisa now noticed what Rick was pointing at. She knew what it was. It was the thing from her realistic dream. The Transmitter. SAKKAK. And it floated about ten feet off the floor, guarding the entrance to the hallway. Half the size of an average man, it nonetheless throbbed with awsome power.

Rick had no idea that this thing had once been the goal of his spiritual desires. He had never seen it before.

"It's SAKKAK," Lisa said.

"Sa...sak...What are you saying?" Rick asked.

"SAKKAK, the Transmitter."

13: SAKKAK

SAKKAK floated downwards, stopping its descent about five feet from the floor. It wanted to be larger. Since its body was modular, consisting of individual spheres, pyramids and cubes all bundled together, growth was accomplished by adding more of these shapes to the main body.

The techno-monster willed it to be so.

From somewhere far off in the horizon, the back door opened, letting in some of the toylike objects that had rained from the sky. Flowing in a channel bound by invisible borders, they tumbled and danced across the wide expanse of linoleum, until they reached SAKKAK, where they jumped from the floor to SAKKAK's body, drawn to the entity like a magnet.

SAKKAK's overall shape became that of two large pyramids, connected at their bases. The individual objects composing its body pulsed with rhythmic change--sphere to to cube to pyramid--over and over again with hypnotic regularity.

Rick, Lisa and Sarah stood in awe at the scene before them, their eyes unable to move from the Transmitter's growing form, at the dance of shape and color. Terror gripped each of them, yet they couldn't turn away. The brain pearls within their craniums synched with the Transmitter's rhythm of change, connected by invisible lines of force...

"Within you are the memory modules. I NEED THEM." The Transmitter's voice started out like that of a small child's, but it lowered in pitch and grew increasingly loud as it spoke, until the last words literally shook the ground.

Sarah trembled, icy knives sliced through her bone marrow and spread outward, filling her with horror. She was going to die. Die without even saying good-by to Dave. No longer would they kiss, make love...never have a child to raise and nurture. Her world was gone, lost before it ever really started...

Slowly...the Transmitter floated closer to the terrorized humans. Urine dripped down Lisa's leg. She wanted to run, flee this house, flee this nightmare, but her muscles were locked tight. Just a powerless little bunny in the giant hands of the HUNTER. She tried to scream. Nothing. Vocal cords frozen in terror--like arsenic poisoning--all her muscles activated, strained to the limits, yet motionless. The only activity was in her mind, running at lightspeed but going nowhere.

Can't just stand here and give up without a fight, thought Rick. He was the guilty one, dragging others into this nightmare. He was responsible. He was to blame. His parents would be so disappointed in him if they were alive to witness his moral downfall. He must save these innocent women who were unfortunate enough to have met him. He always spoiled things...his marriage...

Dave tried to concentrate, and the way he did this was to hold thoughts of Sarah close to his heart. His love for her gave him strength enough to carry on, to brave the reality distortions that materialized around him.

He brought up his communication program and attempted to link up with Gilbert's computer. Gilbert had left his name and phone number, along with other messages, embedded in the program as comments, this was the key to prooving Dave's hunch...

DAMN! Error messages. He couldn't transmit through his modem. Were the phone lines down? If he couldn't get through on the phone, then his plan would fail, fail without even giving it a shot. He stared at the screen, thinking, then decided to try the bedroom phone. See if it was connected.

He almost lost his footing when he rose from the chair, it was such a mess on the floor, a pool of slime from the squashed monsters. He stabilized himself by holding onto the back of his chair. The phone was on the nightstand by the bed. But it was so far away.

Miles away.

In the dark damp cave that his bedroom had become.

Dave blinked his eyes, rubbed them, tried to force this vision back into familiar reality. It hurt his brain to process the images of distorted angles and warped distances that he now saw. It had to be an illusion, a trick on his perception centers. Something was playing with him. Something that had power over time and space.

He thought of the horrible little monsters with their sharp chrome teeth. Whatever he was dealing with definitely had power and knew how to use it.

Suddenly, as if waking from a deep, absorbing dream, Dave looked around his room. Then...Suddenly, as if waking from a deep, absorbing dream, Dave looked around his room. Then...Suddenly, as if...No! Stop!

A time loop. Dave sat back down on his chair, feeling so dizzy it made him nauseous. He tried to calm himself. Relax. Just relax.Balls of greasy sweat broke out on his forehead.

An unwelcome thought popped into his mind. How long had it been since he'd seen Sarah? Hours...minutes?--he really didn't know; his sense of time turned to a sticky lump of taffy that was being twisted and pulled from one side of his mind to the other. Maybe it's been years since he'd seen her...yes, years...she was lost to him forever...

A wave of depression washed over him, nearly drowning him in its intensity. No, he can't let this happen...he had a job to do...an important job...one that could save Sarah...save her from that thing growing in her head...but what was that job?

What was he supposed to be doing?

The phone rang.

"Can you use your magic on it?" Lisa asked in a tiny, trembling voice. Rick's heart broke when he looked into her pathetic, fearfilled eyes.

"I have no magic."

"But you do. You made an ID card for me from thin air. So can't you zap that thing? Kill it? Please...it scares me..." She was near tears, her chin quivering.

Rick now understood that his powers were a sham. He had been nothing but a puppet, used by the Transmitter for its own ends. If the Transmitter didn't want him to have telepathic or psychokinetic powers--he didn't. "Lisa, I--"

Lisa began to cry. Sarah, while keeping an eye on the Transmitter as it floated towards them, hugged her and tried to comfort her--but Lisa was near hysterics, shaking so badly that Sarah could barely hold her.

Rick inhaled deeply, clenched his fists and ran towards SAKKAK. He met the entity with muscular arms raised and pounded on its constantly metamorphosing surface with all his might. His muscles bulged and glistened as he slammed his knuckles into SAKKAK's sides.

The techno-monster didn't budge, didn't move an inch because lines of force anchored it firmly to this dimension--this world that had become its feeding ground.

Rick yelled and cursed at the Transmitter as he continued to beat on it, even though his hands began to blister and shred, clear pus mixing with blood that splattered against the techno-monsters sides. "Damn you to hell!" Rick screamed in frustration.

A pulse of energy, visible as an expanding cocoon of blue light that surrounded the Transmitter's hypnotic body, violently shoved Rick backwards--sending him sprawling across the slick floor, crashing into Lisa and Sarah, knocking them over like bowling pins.

"I WILL FORCE THE MEMORY MODULES TO RIPEN. I WANT THEM...NOW." SAKKAK's body shot sheets of lightning into the purple clouds above. The kitchen's vast dimensions began to shrink like stretched rubber returning to its original shape. The clouds turned to vaporous snakes and rushed towards the Transmitter, absorbed by the techno- monster and converted to energy.

The three struggled to their feet. Only moments before, Sarah had felt small and vulnerable in the huge, distorted kitchen, but now, as the kitchen returned to normal size, she felt the steel bands of claustrophobia crush her. So did the others. They were all trapped in the close, immediate presence of a monster from the abyss. A technological horror built by the gods.

SAKKAK blocked the hallway entrance, its body tall enough now that its tip nearly reached the ceiling.

"DAVE! DAVE!" Sarah screamed, her voice had been small when the kitchen was as large as an entire world, but now- -normal proportions restored--her voice rang throughout the house. Throughout Safehaven.

But Dave didn't answer. Where was he?

Again Rick ran at the Transmitter, attempting to shove it aside. He pushed against the thing with all his might...and again he failed. SAKKAK began to spin like a top, whirling the surrounding air into a hurricane, forcing Rick and the others to back away, to cover their eyes from flying debris.

SAKKAK slowly stopped spinning. From its sides emerged three shiny flexible tubes, their surfaces scaley and rainbow colored. They whipped around chaotically for a few moments, then quickly snaked through the air towards their victims, one each for Rick, Lisa and Sarah.

They tried to escape from the tubes, rushing to the far corners of the kitchen, but it was hopeless, the Transmitter grabbed them, curled its chitinous tentacles around them and tightened its grip.

Sarah struggled against the tube that wrapped itself around her waist, as did Lisa and Rick, but to no avail. Even with Rick's thick muscles, he couldn't budge from the iron grip of the tentacle. How could something no thicker than a garden hose be so strong? So tough and unyielding?

There was a scratching at the door.

A scratching that could be heard above the roar of rain and blasts of thunder. Then a whine, low and insistent. It was Byte! He wanted in from the rain!

Sarah struggled against the tube with increased fury, the thumping of her heart and her rising blood pressure caused her brain pearl to throb with blinding intensity, scraping against her cranium like hundreds of razor blades. Poor Byte, so cold and wet. She must let him in.

Or should she? He's probably safer outside...But then why did her intuition, the very core of her being, demand she let Byte in the house...that it was the right thing to do? She had to let him in.

Rick was closest to the back door. Sarah watched him struggling with his tube and it looked to her if he stretched a little, wiggled a little, he could open the door. She yelled for him to let Byte in.

Lisa was in the other corner of the room, crying. The pain in her head was growing stronger--taking over. Blood began to poor in crimson streams from her nostrils, running down her t-shirt. She felt the alien tumor squirm, shift, begin its journey to the outside world. A deadly birth.

Sarah saw the blood.

Then she felt the warm trickle from her own nose, the stabbing pain, the deep fear rising from the primitive reptilian areas of her brain. It was too late. Death was near and she could smell it, and it was the coppery smell of blood.

When Rick's nosebleed came, it came in a torrent, bursting from his nose in a thick bubbling river as if rushing from a ruptured dam. But he would not give in. He would not die without doing at least one act of kindness to make up for the sins he had committed against these women. Blood splashed against the bulging muscles of his chest and mixed with his sweat, pain ripped through his head like a chainsaw, but still he struggled, pushing down on the tube, finally freeing his torso by a few inches, the tube slippery from blood and sweat.

He stretched, leaned as far as he could towards the door, his hand a few inches from the doorknob.

SAKKAK responded to Rick's struggles and jerked him from the door.

But not before Rick twisted the doorknob and flung it open.

"FOOLISH MORTAL," rumbled the Transmitter. It lifted Rick into the air, the thin tube amazingly powerful. SAKKAK shrank a little in height which expanded its midsection; it needed room to position Rick, upside down, between itself and the ceiling. A blue pyramid emerged from the top of SAKKAK's body and opened like a flower. Inside was a hollow needle. SAKKAK brought Rick down, thrusting the needle into Rick's nose. Blood gushed over SAKKAK's metamorphosing surface. Faster and faster the geometric objects that composed SAKKAK's body changed. Sphere to cube to pyramid. Sphere to cube to pyramid. Faster and faster.

SAKKAK sucked the memory module out of Rick's brain with a loud, grotesque slurp.

Rick screamed. Once. Quickly.

Then he fell limp in the tube's grasp. SAKKAK effortlessly threw the dead body across the room, almost hitting Byte as the collie rushed through the back door.

Lisa stood passively observing everything with glazed eyes--shocked, hopeless, her brain disconnected.

"Byte!" Sarah yelled, happy to see her beloved pet alive and well, at the same time horrified and scared by Rick's gory death. Maybe Byte shouldn't be here. It was dangerous. She had been wrong to ask Rick to let Byte in. Look what happened to him.

He was dead.

Crumpled up in a pool of blood, half in, half out of the doorway, his pale face washed of blood from water that had flooded onto the porch, his long hair floating in swirls about his face.

Byte growled angrily at the floating Transmitter. It was an intruder, a trespasser on his turf. He must protect his masters. "GRRRRR..."

Struggling against the tube that wrapped around her like a boa constrictor, Sarah worried over Byte, feared he would antagonize the Transmitter and end up dead. "Here Byte, here boy." He's a good dog. He'll come to me, thought Sarah.

Byte charged SAKKAK and ripped into the floating entities underside, tearing off chunks of spheres, pyramids and cubes that continued to change even as Byte's powerful jaws clamped down on them. Byte whipped his head back and forth, let go of the chunks, and grabbed some more.

The phone rang.

But Dave didn't answer. He sat in awe at the sight of his bedroom melting, reforming, snapping back to its familiar, normal form. When time switched back to regular universe mode, it nearly dumped Dave from his chair, clearing his mind instantly. The phone worked now and that was the most important thing. His most immediate worry.

As byte ripped another clump of interdimensional flesh from SAKKAK's bottom, Dave was typing rapidly on his keyboard.

The phone stopped ringing.

Silence. All the commotion in the kitchen, the growling and the screaming, never made it to the bedroom--becoming diverted to an address somewhere in the abyss. Dave had no idea what was going on only a few yards away, all he knew was that he must act.

And quickly.

Dave's computer dialed the phone; since most people today had multitasking computers that scanned for incoming messages, his chances were good that...

The screen displayed CONNECTION SUCCESSFUL in bold, blinking red letters.

"Take this you little twerp!" Dave said as he sent out DRILL BIT through the phone lines.

DRILL BIT was a vicious computer virus. Ravenous. It scribbles magnetic nonsense over any disk surface it can find and shreds ram memory into illogical bloody bits. It then hides in any electronic corner it can find and waits to strike again, like a hungry lion. Once a computer is infected with DRILL BIT you might as well buy another machine--there is no cure. Dave had written the program as an experiment, a mental exercise; being a moral man he would never use it.

Unless it was to save his wife.

Dave could do nothing more but keep his fingers crossed and hope that by destroying Gilbert's computer he could put a plug in the reality leak, stop the interdimesional fallout. From his understanding of articles written about Gilbert, from his observation of Gilbert's ingenious programs and inventions, Dave concluded Gilbert must have an IQ double of a genius. An evil genius

He would enjoy defeating him.

Gilbert had developed a new model of the universe, a frightening model that consisted of doorways...portals into unknown and mysterious types of space. Doorways that could be accessed electronically. Too bad for Gilbert that his ego distorted his powers of discretion. The messages buried in his public domain program--one even mentioning entities from the abyss--provided Dave with a major piece of the puzzle.

He hoped.

Dave rose from his chair and stood listening, wondering why things were so quiet. He couldn't hear any sound from the kitchen. It was time now to go see his wife and pray with her that his theory was correct and that DRILL BIT would slam the door on this craziness from the abyss, from outer space.

Where Byte had just ripped off another chunk of the Transmitter's bottom, another tentacle slithered out, whipping around the collies torso with lightning speed. Byte cried out with a raspy whimper, tried to break away, but it was useless. The colorful tube gripped the animal like iron.

SAKKAK lifted Byte into the air, the poor dog struggling and whining pathetically. Sarah watched in horror as the tentacle carried Byte towards her; her precious pet's eyes wide with terror. The Transmitter wanted to mock her, anger her, by waving Byte around in the air, inches from her nose.

And her nose bled. Gushed. The alien brain tumor slipped a bit from its moorings, trying to give birth to itself. "You son of a bitch, set my dog down!" Sarah screamed, straining to release herself from the tentacle's relentless grip.

As soon as Dave stepped into the hallway, all of the commotion from the kitchen flooded his ears. "What the hell!" he yelled and ran towards the thing that floated above his kitchen floor, blocking the entrance.

Dave couldn't get past the thing, the only way was to scoot under it. He did.

And saw the bloody scene before him. His mind spun in circles and he nearly passed out from the horror. It was insane. Too much to take in. Rick's dead body lay halfway out the back doorway, Sarah and Lisa were bleeding, held by tubes connected to the bizarre thing that hung suspended in the air. And poor Byte was being waved about in the air like a flag, held by a patriot from hell.

"Dave! Help us! Please!" screamed Sarah, bursting into tears.

He grabbed the tube that wrapped around his wife and pulled with all his might. Nothing. He ran to the counter for a knife, grabbed one, ran back to Sarah and began to saw away at the tube. The knife blade broke. Didn't even make a scratch. He yanked on the otherworldly flesh again, strained until he thought he'd blow an artery in his brain.

SAKKAK spoke. "I WANT WHAT I CAME HERE FOR. THE MEMORY MODULES ARE MINE." It tightened its grip on Sarah and Lisa and Byte. Squeezed. Forced a shot of cold fear into their bodies.

Dave felt helpless. Trapped. When would he wake up from this nightmare? Pretty soon now the alarm would go off, it would be a bright sunny day, birds chirping...

Lisa and Sarah both screamed at once, pain filled shrieks that rent the air. Their brain pearls dislodged from their wet gray wombs.

Byte howled pitifully and went limp. SAKKAK hurled the dog into the wall. Byte hit it with a loud thump and slid into the sink below; blood gushed from motionless dog's wide open mouth.

Sarah felt herself being lifted into the air, watched helplessly as she drew nearer the long hollow needle that had been used to suck the Gift from Rick's brain.

Now she felt the tentacle tighten and turn her body upside down. She looked down at SAKKAK. Saw the hollow end of the needle. It was so big. She felt herself being lowered.

Felt the coldness of the needles surface as it entered her nostril.

Down, down she went.

lower and lower.

What's that sucking noise?

"NO!NO!NO!" screamed Dave as he tried to fling himself at SAKKAK, but a cocoon of energy flashed around the entity and knocked him to the floor.

Lisa could not stop shrieking, an endless loop of screams...

He tapped the RETURN key on his keyboard. "What the hell?" Gilbert asked with some difficulty. His mouth was hard to use since it had changed so much. It was a small circular hole outlined with a ridge of black gristle.

He tapped the RETURN key on his keyboard, again.

He wasn't human any longer. Now he resembled a giant gray slug, except he still had human arms and hands--after all, he still needed to use the keyboard. Rapidly blinking green LED's studded the length of his slimy body. They were a nice decorative touch.

But all that didn't matter now because his keyboard didn't respond. He pressed RETURN again. And again.

And again.

His monitor screen blinked to black and his disk drives whirled fast and crazy. What did all this mean?

He whipped his eyestalks around, searching every side of his computer for an answer. His eyestalks were very long. Didn't even have to leave his chair or twist his head (he thought he still might have something that resembled a head) to look all around the room.

But he found no answer, no clue as to what had happened. Everything was just fine a minute ago. The computer had been just fine.

Perfect, really.

The dome's interior lit up as though a hydrogen bomb had went off, x-raying Gilbert, displaying his organs. Suddenly SAKKAK was there, floating in the middle of the room.

"YOU FOOL! I WAS SO CLOSE TO BECOMING RULER OF THIS QUADRANT." SAKKAK was mad.

The giant slug that had once been Gilbert slid off his chair, crawled away from his master's presence, leaving a trail of mucus. "Sorry...don't know what happened..."

"DON'T KNOW? DON'T KNOW? DAMN YOU!" The dome exploded, flew apart, wood shards flying and spinning in all directions over the forest. Gilbert was flung solidly against the hard surface of a wet redwood. He bled yellow pus.

"Sorry. Really I am," Gilbert whimpered.

"NOT GOOD ENOUGH. NEXT TIME, DON'T CALL ME...I'LL CALL YOU..." And almost instantly the Transmitter winked out of this dimension. Like turning off a TV set, his presence shrank to a white dot and--POOF--disappeared.

Gilbert lay wet and helpless under the redwood tree, his LED's continuing to blink on and off down the length of his mucus oozing body. Now he was just another slug in the forest.

Lightning lit the sky above him. Gilbert watched it-- wanted to cry, but his new eyes didn't have that capability.

In the days that followed...

The heavy rains finally left and the skies above Boulderdale sparkled, shimmered with cleanliness and clarity. Squirrels once again scampered about the ground and birds sang as they floated through the air--free to come forth and celebrate the warmth of the sun.

The police had investigated Rick's death at the Dugeon's home. The man had suffered from a severe brain hemorrhage, and the bruises on his body were caused from banging against the walls and floor--results of spasms generated by his malfunctioning brain. For awhile, a few of the officers believed the Dugeons had murdered Rick, but not after the autopsy. Not after discovering what a mess Rick's brain was in, as though it had imploded, all the veins and arteries ruptured...

Sarah had talked to Lisa's mother on the phone...with Lisa's permission. The horror of what her father had done was revealed and Lisa got permission from her mother to stay at the Dugeon's home, but to "Please finish high school."

Lisa's mother divorced her husband--he now sent support checks to the Dugeons for Lisa's care.

In the months that followed...

Lisa continued her high school education, becoming the most talented art major the school had ever seen.

Safehaven bookstore continued to prosper, and when Sarah became too pregnant to stand all day selling books, Dave gladly took over.

After the baby girl was born, Byte became her loyal guardian, as protective of her as if she were his own pup.

Beam's Doorway is designed by spacefilter