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ed into the street； wheeled around； and took off with a wonderfully cinematic little screech。
Kirk； of course； had it all on tape。
Now all that remained was one nagging fact： the odds against Laura broadcasting this footage。 Particularly the way Tom's name kept ing up； from a 'PAL standpoint； it was probably doomed。
〃But it's a big wide world out there；〃 he muttered out loud。 〃And somebody's gonna want to know。〃
Kirk shut the camera off and jogged down the slope to his car。 With a little help and a minimum of interference； this could be edited down to fighting weight in less than half an hour。
And then。 God help you； motherfucker； he vowed； watching Blake's exhaust dissipate into the air。 You're gonna fry。
It was twenty minutes to three。
Forty…One
The reactor would not stay down。
The plant buzzed like a colony of warrior ants。 Checking valves。 Looking for leaks。
Looking for miracles。
PEMA wasn't answering； the NRC was on callback。 So what？ They all knew that in case of emergency they were effectively on their own。 Personalities subsumed to habit。 To training。 To desperate fatal professionalism。
As the relentless brazz of the neutron alarm bored a hole into them like a soldering iron on their souls 。。。
〃Jesus； I can't stand it；〃 Henkel said； his voice climbing。
〃Put a lid on it！〃 Sykes ordered； as he turned to Jenkel。 〃Is pressure backing off any？〃 he asked。
〃Nothing you'd want to write home about；〃 Jenkel said； his voice perfectly level。 〃We're running out of headroom here； boss。〃 Rorschach…patterns of sweat stained the back of his shirt。
〃Goddammit；〃 Sykes muttered； and ran a hand through his scrub of hair。 It was getting thinner by the second。
Along with their chances for survival。
They worked under the gun： trying not to think of their families； or the whole world that lived and breathed outside； the world that hung in the balance。 They opened up the auxiliary feed valves and flooded the core with superborated water at a rate of over two hundred gallons a minute。
And the power stayed up 。。。
They vented the steam from the turbines； dumping it into the condenser to feed back into the system。
And the power stayed up 。。。
The reactor song was growing； getting louder by the minute。 By two…forty they could hear it without the microphone； a subsonic drone that resonated in their bones； filled them with an oil slick of dread。
At two forty…five； the first neutron alarm went off； joining the chorus。
They increased the auxiliary feed。 Two hundred and forty gallons a minute。 Two hundred and fifty。
And the power stayed up 。。。
They leeched off more steam； fed more water。 Two fifty。 Two seventy…five。 They topped out at three hundred gallons a minute。 The auxiliaries could not keep up indefinitely。 The steam generators were drying out； making it very difficult to remove the heat。
They were running out of options。
And the song was getting stronger。
As the power stayed up。
By the time they started the bleed and feed； they knew they were fucked。
Bleed and feed。 A last…ditch effort to cool a hot core。 Bleed off high…pressure steam by blowing it into the containment vessel； then turn on the condensers and feed it back into the loop。 Voila！ Instant closed system； secondary coolant path。 Crude but effective。
But 。。。
What if 。。。 ： the nagging footnote to their strategy。 What if the reactor doesn't cooperate？ it asked。 What if the coolant suddenly got ambitious； got greedy； each molecule deciding to absorb more than its fair share of neutrons； so that it became unstable beyond reason； like a drunk on a bender。 What if the wild water heated the core to the point where the bleed pumps couldn't pump anymore； couldn't keep up with the pressure as the superheating fuel element boiled the water away 。。。
Deep in their hermetically sealed world； the reactor crew did their jobs； quashing stray thoughts of wives and husbands； of kids and dogs and tidy little homes with yards to mow。 To think of them was to fear for them。 To fear was to lose everything。
So they thought of nothing。
And did their jobs 。。。
Forty…Two
born of poison and ing of age it summoned itself together now older wiser more plex divinely inspired and driven to worship at the seven…acre alter of itself in its purest most potent primal form a state of liquid grace in regal repose drawing its pilgrim acolytes to mecca to manna to motherlode like a hive to its sleeping queen in the moments before she awakens
At Paradise Waste； the preparations were under way。
For the Boonie…spawn； that entailed handling the forklift； bringing the last load of barrels to the truck bed's edge。 A small coterie of malformed and transformed others…late of the Iron Horse…unloaded and packed them in tight。 It was the last of the four trucks at their disposal to be loaded up and readied to roll。
And their moment was at hand。
All four trucks idled hard at the loading docks； like racehorses trapped at the starting gates。 Two were stubby Mack F…10 tankers the Honegers used for hosing down state roads； mostly with waste oil obtained from Leonard。 The third was Strong John's pride and joy； a big…wheeled Chevy pickup with not much bed but plenty of souped…up horsepower to spare。
The fourth； of course； was Boonie's。
The Boonie…spawn cackled as it slid off the forklift； waddled toward the truck's misshapen cab。 It was mad； in the way those who see God are often mad。 Its eyes had seen the glory； so to speak。
And it had so many of them 。。。
In every way； Boonie's consciousness burned far brighter now than it had when it was his own。 Like a coal stoked to raging incandescence； it rode piggyback on Overmind； thrived in its soul…furnace heat。
Of course； it burned more quickly； too。 Like his body； in its current state； it could not last much longer。 But these were simply problems of form； and form was no longer a problem。 All for one； and one for all： the egalitarian ideal； etched in marrow and pus。
There was no more perfect example than the thing that had once been Cousin Drew。
It lolled at the edge of the loading dock apron； already too huge for the truck to carry： well over fifteen hundred pounds of cacophonous molten flesh and bone。 It spread across on the concrete and macadam like a gray； bloated tick； its surface riddled with grasping limbs and yawning； insatiable maws。
Not all of the Iron Horse's patrons had made the transition as players。 Some of them had been saved： cocooned in an all…too…conscious paralysis； like spiderfood in a wriggling web； then loaded onto the back of Boon's truck。
Greedily now； the Drew…spawn plucked them off the pavement where they'd been thrown； stiffing them into its many many mouths。
Donating their substance to its mass。
Digesting； with relish； their unsoundable screams。
The others…Strong John； Daryl； Dean…worked diligently； trundling the barrels past。 Overmind performed the miraculous rites of transubstantiation upon each truck…load in turn： a fingertip here； a stray clot there。 Take this and eat； for this is my body。 Making a new covenant。
For the new world。
The Boonie…spawn clambered behind the wheel； its bloated body glistening sickly in the pale light。 Eyes and more eyes…eyes within eyes…covered its every surface inch。 Most of them were scabbing over： a deliberate； painful telescoping of vision。
It did not need to see so much。
Its function…its mission…was the soul of simplicity。
At the front entrance to Paradise Waste； a pair of unmarked trucks pulled up。 They were nondescript； but for the unmistakable greasy sheen of NewSpawned life。
The Boonie…spawn； beholding them； felt a moment's flickering confusion。 They were One； they were not One 。。。 its tiny mind could not pute。 Should it attack？ Should it retreat？
On this one point； and this one point alone； it was not precisely clear。
Overmind's position remained to simply wait。
And see。
The thing that had once been Austin Deitz had never met Harold Leonard in life。 But it recognized the face。 Even mottled and vacant； purpled and pale； with the first tiny fly eggs freshly laid in the moist dead eyes and grimacing lips。
Even in death…beyond pain and retribution…it was still clearly Harold Leonard's face。
No； said the thing that had been Austin Deitz。 Rage welled up in the unbeating heart； drew ugly black creases in the mutating face。 Too easy； it said； bitterness roaring through the dead veins like a tidal wave of fire。
Get of too easy； it determined； kneeling with one leg on the fat man's chest for leverage。 No。 Cupping the back of Leonard's head with one hand。
Taking his chin with the other。
Breaking Leonard's neck was easy： a quick； brutal snap to the right。 It was only the beginning。 The Deitz…thing strained； tendons standing out in its own neck as first one； then another ligament popped in Leonard's own。 The mute sound of muscle and ligature； stretching and tearing； was unbelievably loud in the room。
The Deitz…thing pulled； and the first red fissure opened up in the throat； just above the collarbone。 The clotting carotid artery blew； unleashing a sloppy spray of rich red lubrication。 Harold Leonard's triple chins stretched to the limits； transcending elasticity； then they； too； gave； leaving nothing behind but a few slick rubber bands of stubborn tissue。
The Deitz…thing twisted； first this way then that； wearing down that final wave of resistance。 Then it gave one final yank。
And the head； at last； pulled free。
Now you see； the Deitz…thing said； turning for the door。
Leonard had no real hair to speak of； so it carried the head by using the lower jaw as a handle of sorts； dangling upside down。 In its other hand； it carried a small； selected stack of very important papers。
Full of very important names and home addresses。
Because Austin Deitz had always been a man with a mission； and the thing that he'd bee was no exception to that rule。 It had a new mission； now； a mission all its own。 The only justification it could find for its hideous death and worse rebirth。
Very soon； it knew； they would cross the final bridge。
There were a few people it needed to see first。
But there was precious little time。
The others were still waiting in the trucks when the Deitz…thing returned。 So far； so good。 The trucks had grown rows of bristling spines across the cowls and fenders while he was inside。 So much the better。
It dropped the papers in the vacant driver's seat and then impaled Leonard's head； facing forward； on the hood。 The sentient ooze from the truck…spawn's pores embraced the neck…stump eagerly。 Holding it fast。
Making it One。
Then the Deitz…thing got back behind the wheel and drove off in the direction of Wyndham Hills。
A minute later； Leonard's head began to scream。
Forty…Three
At nine minutes to three； the storm came back。
It rolled in on angry； brooding tiers： swollen blue…black cumulus and ghostly； low…slung nimbostratus； crowding the ceiling of the sky。 It made the oxygen in the air itself press； turn chill and thick； absorbed or displaced by the moisture that blackened and bloated the heavens。
And there was a stench in the air； an unsettling chemical tang that clung to the tongue like a tinfoil tourniquet。 It rode in on the mist that now descended： a clammy； diaphanous veil； settling over the woodlands and farmlands； the suburbs and industrial parks that encircled and squeezed the densely packed concrete heart of the city。
Violent gusts of warmer breeze attempted to flee the ing darkness； sent stray cans pinging down the streets and newspaper fluttering in their wake。 Windows rattled in their casements。 Trees whispered and arched their backs。 Wind razored； whistling； through the cracks in the walls of Paradise。
Very quickly； the downtown sidewalks began to clear。 Hangers…out went in； drove off； or hunkered in doorways。 All watching the skies。 What stragglers on foot remained were either headed somewhere fast or had no place to go。
In the outlying regions； as well； th