F. Paul Wilson: Hosts

"I'll leave," he says quickly, backing toward the door. "But I'll be back at exactly 11:52 and I want to see Kate standing out front, waiting to go. If not…"

He lets that hang, then backs out.

Excellent, Kate,the Unity says as she lowers the pistol.

We told him the truth?

Of course. Once the Great Leap is accomplished, we want you to travel—far and wide, spreading the transformed virus everywhere you go. He will think he is thwarting us, but instead he will be doing our work.

Kate feels extra warmth envelop her.

You did well, Kate. You turned an enemy into an unwitting ally. We are so proud of you.

Kate basks in their approval.

19

What a scene!

Questions flooded Sandy's head in a mad rush. What the hell was that all about? The Savior had said he'd been hired by the late great Dr. Fielding to protect him from the cult, but who was the woman he'd tried to pull out of there just now? His girlfriend? And when she'd put that pistol to her throat—what a moment! Sandy could tell from her voice she'd been serious about pulling the trigger. And then when all seven of her fellow cultists had spoken at once… wow. His spine had turned to ice.

No one was ever going to believe this. He wished to God he'd brought a video camera.

The cultists were all back in their seats now with rejoined hands, and Sandy was about to move away from the window so he could go find the Savior, when the front door burst open. And again it was the Savior, gun in hand, but this time he didn't stop, didn't say anything. Moving like a giant raptor he swooped in, grabbed the blonde, and pulled her from the seat, then he threw her over his shoulder and dashed out the door.

Sandy stood frozen, gaping through the window, as shocked—and as mute—as the seven remaining cultists. A few heartbeats ago the blonde had been there, now she was gone. All that remained were her screams, trailing away in the night.

Aren't they going to do anything? He spotted the little Semmerling sitting on the coffee table where the blonde had placed it. Was one of them going to pick it up and go after them?

No. They just stood there in their broken circle. And then, unac-countably, they all began to smile. Sandy watched the Rottweiler woman pull out a cell phone and punch in a number, heard her say, "Dover Township Police? I want to report a kidnapping."

The Savior was going to be in deep shit now! Should he warn him?

20

"Sorry for the caveman act, Kate," Jack said to the screaming, kicking, clawing woman of his shoulder, "but this is the only way."

He glanced over his unburdened shoulder to make sure none of the others was following. The street behind him remained empty.

So far so good. He knew he was still a long way from successfully pulling this off, but he had Kate now and he wasn't going to give her up.

The first part had been easy. He'd guessed Kate would have to put down the Semmerling to resume the hand-holding thing. He'd given her half a minute before going back for her. He could have started shooting but burdened with Kate he might have missed a few of the remaining seven. Better to let Kate's bomb do the work.

And right now he had to get them both away from here before it blew. In the unlikely event that any of the Unity survived, Jack would come back to mop up.

He'd parked on the highway shoulder at the end of the street. Only half a block to go. Get her into the trunk and take off, try to be as far away as possible when—

A deafening roar and then an angry giant slammed him in the back, sending him flying. He lost his grip on Kate. They hit the sandy road surface simultaneously, and then Jack crawled on top of her, as much to keep her down as to shield her.

As she shuddered beneath him in something like a epileptic fit, Jack glanced back at the fireball mushrooming into the sky, carrying with it the last traces of the Unity hive.

And then the debris, some of it aflame, began to fall around them.

"You did it, Kate!" he whispered. "You—"

Something heavy bounced off his shoulders and the back of his head…

Next thing Jack knew he was alone on the road. Sick, dizzy, he pushed himself to his knees, propelled by Kate's voice crying out somewhere behind him.

"Jeanette! Jeanette!"

He turned and saw her stumbling away, toward the inferno that had once been a bungalow. He rose and lurched after her.

Flaming debris lay everywhere—in the street, on roofs—and the bungalow where Kate had sat a few moments ago—gone. Nothing remained of the structure but its concrete foundation slab. Water gushed from severed pipes, steaming in the heat; the four cars that had been parked before it were twisted wrecks; a half dozen neighboring bungalows were ablaze.

He caught up and turned her around. "Kate!"

She looked dazed, and surprised to see him. "Jack? What are you doing here?"

"Is it you, Kate? Really you?"

She nodded, her tear-streaked face reflecting the flames. "Yes, but—"

Jack threw his arms around his sister and hugged her, barely able to speak trough the joy exploding inside him. Kate was back. He could tell. The Unity was gone.

"Thank God! I thought I'd lost you!"

"But where's Jeanette!" she said pushing back. "I have to find her!"

"You can't," he said. "You… won't."

"But I've got to!" she sobbed. "I did this to her!"

She tore away from his grasp. Jack watched her approach the flaming ruins only to be pushed back by the heat. He wanted to pull her away, spirit her back to New York, but he knew she'd never go until she was convinced there was nothing she could do.

He glanced down the road. Cars were pulling over from the highway to watch, to call for help, to run and see. Gawkers trotted up the narrow sandy street, drawn like moths to the blazing spectacle.

Turning, he spotted a dark crumpled form sprawled in the sand on the far side of the wreckage. What were the odds it was Jeanette? Almost nil, but he hurried forward, skirting the heat of the blaze, and the closer he got the more it looked like a person.

He knelt beside the scorched body. No, not Jeanette. Someone else—a male, face mostly torn away by the blast, clothes shredded by debris missiles, but still recognizable as Sandy Palmer. Where had he been hiding?

Poor jerk. Looked like he finally was going to get the fame he'd been chasing—HEROIC REPORTER DIES INVESTIGATING MURDER CULT!—but he wasn't going to be around to enjoy it.

"Oh, Jesus!" said a voice behind him. "Is he dead?"

Jack rose and glanced at the middle-aged gawker, but didn't answer him; more were coming up the street. He could hear sirens approaching.

Time to go. He looked around for Kate, saw her wandering on the far side, near a neighboring bungalow half consumed by flames. He started toward her.

"Hey, I wouldn't get too close to those shacks I were you," said another gawker. "Another one of these propane tanks could go any second."

Propane? Is that what they thought? Of course they would. But Jack knew the bungalow's tank had only added to the blast, not caused it.

And then he stiffened as he spotted the rusty four-foot tank on the side of the burning house where Kate stood, the flames licking at its flanks…

"Kate!" Get away from—!"

The blast was a pale shadow of the first—smaller burst of flame, barely a tenth of the noise and impact—and it momentarily staggered Jack. But it engulfed Kate and sent her flying. She slammed against the wall of the neighboring house and tumbled to the ground like a discarded doll.

As the gawkers screamed and ducked and fled, Jack pounded toward the still form huddled on the sand, repeating one word over and over in a moaning whimper, the only word his dread-mired brain could manage.