Dean Koontz - Lost Souls

After a long time of pacing, Mr. Lyss suddenly turned to Nummy and said, “Get off the toilet.”

Nummy was going to say that only policemen and Mr. Leland Reese had the right to tell him what to do. But the sight of the old man’s snarling gray teeth changed his mind. He got up and stood by the bunks.

Mr. Lyss unzipped his prisoner jumpsuit to the waist and then pulled it down off his bony white hips.

Shocked, Nummy turned his back to the old man and hurried to the door of the cell. His face was hot, and he thought he might cry with embarrassment.

He heard Mr. Lyss grunting, then a little splash. He prayed for the sound of the toilet flushing, which would mean it was all over.

Instead, Mr. Lyss was suddenly beside him at the door, dressed again, holding a yellow tube maybe five inches long. “Get out of my way, Einstein.”

“My name’s Nummy.”

“Your name’s anything I want it to be,” Mr. Lyss growled, and Nummy got out of his way.

The yellow tube was made of soft plastic that dimpled between the fingers of the old man’s left hand as with his right hand he carefully screwed off the cap.

“Where’d that come from?” Nummy wondered.

“From out of my ass,” Mr. Lyss said.

Disgusted, Nummy said, “How’d it get there?”

“I put it there.”

Nummy gagged. “Why would you?”

“A lot of hick-town cops don’t do cavity searches.”

“What’s a cavity?”

“My butt’s a cavity, moron. In your case, it’s your skull.”

From the open tube, Mr. Lyss shook out six tiny steel sticks, each with a different shape at its tip.

“What’re them?” Nummy asked.

“Lock picks. As small as I could make them.”

“When did you make them?”

“When they were up my ass. What’s it matter when I made them? Something extraterrestrial is going on here, and I’m not sticking around to meet the Martians.”

“What’s that mean?” Nummy said.

“It means get away from me and shut up.”

“I seen a movie like this,” Nummy said. “You’re a jailbreaker is what you are.”

At the farther end of the corridor, the stair door opened.

Mr. Lyss turned his back to the corridor. With shaking hands, he put the picks in the yellow tube and capped it.

Offering the tube to Nummy, the old man whispered, “There’s no pockets in this jumpsuit. Hide it in your jeans.”

“No way, not after where it’s been.”

Mr. Lyss grabbed him, pulled him close, and shoved the tube in a pocket of his blue jeans.

“You’re a jailbreaker,” Nummy whispered.

As footsteps approached, Mr. Lyss looked as fierce as the people-eating zombies in movies Nummy didn’t like to watch. “You mention the tube, I’ll chew your eyes right out of your head.”

The jailbreaker turned toward the cell door.

A moment later, a young man with a nice face appeared. He stopped at their cell and smiled at them. He had a very friendly smile.

Nummy liked the young man right away, liked him a lot more than he liked Mr. Lyss. The young man had white teeth instead of gray. He seemed to be very neat and probably wasn’t stinky the way Mr. Lyss was. And he didn’t look like the kind of person who would keep anything up his butt.

Because Grandmama had taught him always to do the right thing and because helping a jailbreaker could never be good, Nummy almost handed over the set of lock picks. He hesitated only because he would have to reach into his pocket and touch the yellow plastic tube, and the thought of touching it disgusted him.

As Nummy made gagging noises, Mr. Lyss said to the young man, “What’re you grinning at, pretty boy? You better not be the attorney I asked for. You’re wet behind the ears, just out of law school.”

Nummy realized this visitor wasn’t wearing a uniform. He was in slacks, a sweater, a white shirt.

When Nummy took a second look at the young man, he saw something wrong. The nice face and friendly smile didn’t match what was in his eyes. There was no easy word for what was in his eyes. Crazy wasn’t the right word. But it was close. Hungry wasn’t the right word. But the young man was hungry for something.

“I’ll leave you two until last,” said the visitor. “You’ll be sweeter because you’ll try to resist.”

“Sweeter?” Nummy asked, and Mr. Lyss told him to shut up.

The visitor turned away from them and went to the middle of the three large cells. He used a key to unlock the door, left it open behind him when he went inside.

None of the nine prisoners tried to escape. They didn’t even get up from where they were sitting.

If Nummy had been one of them, he would have at least gotten up. People with good manners got up when someone new entered a room.

Standing in the center of the cell, the smiling young man pointed to a woman in pajamas, sitting on a bunk. “You. Come to me.”

She rose to her feet, stepped to the young man, and stood before him. Her mouth moved, but no words came from her.

He pointed to a tall man in boxer shorts and a T-shirt. “You. Come to me.”

The man did as he was told. His whole body was shaking.

The young man said to them, “I am your Builder.”

Then a terrible, scary, beautiful thing happened.

Erika followed Victor from the main highway onto a two-lane county route that ascended west through golden meadows into woods thick with purple shadows even in the bright morning light. The ribbon of blacktop unspooled up and down the serried hills, rising higher after each descent. Where the topography required curves, they were wide and sweeping, the consequence of massive excavation; this two-lane was less constricted by the landscape than were most country roads and seemed to have been constructed without regard for cost.

The GL550 disappeared over the crown of a hill, traveling at about fifty miles an hour, and when Erika topped the same rise half a minute later, the Mercedes was nowhere to be seen. Ahead lay a long, easy straightaway sloping down for at least a mile to the next curve. Even if Victor had tramped the accelerator the moment that he was out of sight, he could not have traveled such a distance so quickly.

She slowed to search the nearer shoulder of the road for a dirt or gravel turnoff, or for a place where the four-wheel-drive GL550 might have traveled through weeds and away among the trees. By the time she reached the bottom of the grade, she had found nothing.

Hanging a U-turn, driving back up the same slope, she surveyed the other shoulder. A hundred yards short of the crown of the hill, she spotted broken weeds and compressed grass: a well-beaten although uncleared track that disappeared into the forest.

After continuing over the hill, she parked on the shoulder just east of the crest. She left the engine running, the Explorer in gear, and kept one foot on the brake while she considered the situation.

She might be stronger than Victor. He had made her well, with two hearts and virtually unbreakable bones. But like all the New Race that had been created in New Orleans, she was programmed to be unable to raise a hand against her maker or to disobey him.

Nevertheless, she was a creature of flesh and blood, not a mere machine, and she was capable of resolute action. Furthermore, she had reason to believe that during the last night in Louisiana, when Victor’s empire collapsed, the New Race program had dropped out of her, leaving her with free will.

Whether or not she was stronger than Victor, she was surely faster than he was, as fleet as all of the New Race had been. Faster, with better hearing, better vision, quicker reflexes.