more recently than an hour and a half. They were overdue to make
another pass.
He turned east and hurried toward the Youngblood spread, hopeful of
encountering a highway-maintenance crew before he had gone far.
Whether they were equipped with a big road grader or a salt-spreading
truck with a plow on the front--or both--they would have microwave
communications with their dispatcher. If he could persuade them that
his story was not just the raving of a lunatic, he might be able to
convince them to take him back to the house to get Heather and Toby out
of there.
Might be able to persuade them? Hell, he had a shotgun. For sure,
he'd convince them. They'd plow the half-mile driveway clean as a
nun's conscience to the front door of Quartermass Ranch, smiles on
their faces from start to finish, as jolly as Snow White's short
protectors, singing
'Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it's off to work we go' if
that's what he wanted them to do.
Impossible as it seemed, the creature on the stairs appeared even more
grotesque and frightful in the obscuring embrace of fire, with smoke
seething from it, than it had been when she'd had a clear look at its
every feature.
Yet another step it rose. Silently, silently. Then another. It
ascended out of the conflagration with all the panache of His Satanic
Majesty on a day trip out of hell.
The beast was burning, or at least the portion of it that was Eduardo
Fernandez's body was being consumed, and yet the demonic thing climbed
one more step. Almost to the top now.
Heather couldn't delay any longer. The heat was unbearable. She'd
already exposed her face too long and would probably wind up with a
mild burn. The hungry fire ate across the hallway ceiling, licking at
the plaster overhead, and her position was perilous.
Besides, the Giver was not going to collapse backward into the furnace
below, as she had hoped. It would reach the second floor and open its
arms to her, its many fiery arms, seeking to enfold and become her.
Heart thudding furiously, Heather hurried a few steps along the hall to
the red can of gasoline. She snatched it up with one hand. It felt
light. She must have used three of the five gallons.
She glanced back.
The stalker came out of the stairwell, into the hallway. Both the
colpse and the Giver were ablaze, not merely a smoldering gnarl of
charred organisms but a dazzling column of tempestuous flames, as if
their entwined bodies had been constructed of dry tinder. Some of the
longer tentacles coiled and lashed like whips, casting off streams and
gobs of fire that spattered against the walls and floor, igniting
carpet and wallpaper.
As Toby took one more step toward the curtained bed, Falstaff finally
dashed into the room. The dog blocked his path and barked at him,
warning him to back off.
Something moved on the bed behind the drapes, brushing against them,
and each of the next few seconds was an hour to Toby, as if he had
