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Authors: Dean Koontz
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folk?”
“Maybe a little. But the men will be finished quickly. Women’s instinctwill be to get the children out the moment it starts, but they’ll find the doors locked.”
“Then we take the women,” said Tom Zell.
“Yes.”
“Leaving the children for last.”
“Yes. Eliminate the strong, proceed to the weaker and then to the weakest. When all the adults have been processed, we can secure the children and present them to the Builders one by one, as they’re needed.”
chapter
15
In the pretty little house, Jocko spent an hour climbing the stairs and descending. Up, down, up, down.
Sometimes he sang as he raced up, plunged down. Or whistled. Or made up rhymes: “Jocko eats kittens each day for lunch! He eats them not singly but by the bunch! He eats children for dinner and then—he coughs them up and eats them again!”
Usually, Jocko paused on the landing. To pirouette. Pirouetting sometimes made him nauseous. But he loved it. Twirling.
Jocko didn’t actually eat kittens. Or children. He was just pretending to be a big mean monster.
Before he started up the stairs, he made scary faces at the foyer mirror. Usually the faces made him giggle. A couple of times, he screamed in real terror.
Jocko was happy. Happier than he deserved to be.
He didn’t deserve great happiness because, for one thing, he
was
a monster. Just not big or mean.
He started life in New Orleans as a kind of tumor. Inside thestrange flesh of one of Victor Frankenstein’s New Race. He grew, grew inside the other person. Became self-aware. Broke free, destroying his host. Free of the New Race body. Free of Victor.
When you began as a tumor, life could only get better.
Jocko was taller than an average dwarf. Pale as soap. Hairless. Well, except for three hairs on his tongue. A knobby chin. A lipless slit for a mouth. Warty skin. Funny feet.
Not funny
ha-ha
. Funny
yuck
.
He wasn’t the kind of new man that Victor would have
tried
to create. Lots of things Victor created didn’t turn out like expected.
Up the stairs and down again. “Jocko’s a spook! Troll, demon, a ghoul! Jocko is beastly! Strange, weird, but
so cool!
”
Jocko didn’t deserve to be happy because he was also a screwup. He never looked before he leaped. He often didn’t look
after
he leaped.
Jocko knew what goes up must come down. But sometimes he threw a stone at dive-bombing birds, and the stone fell back on his head, and so he ended up stoning himself.
Birds. They said a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush. Jocko preferred the two in the bush. In Louisiana, birds attacked him on sight. Savagely. Pecking, screeching, pecking. Jocko remained wary of birds.
A monster. A screwup.
Worse. A coward. Jocko was easily frightened by so many things. Birds. Coyotes. Cougars. Runaway horses. Rap music. His own face. Brussels sprouts. The television.
The TV was super scary. Not when it was turned on and you could watch shows. When it was
off
. The blank TV was a big mean eye. TV watched Jocko when it was off.
Erika kept a folded blanket atop the TV. When the TV was off,she covered it with the blanket. The eye was still open. Open under the blanket. But at least it couldn’t see Jocko.
Monster. Screwup. Coward. And when alone, he couldn’t stop moving, doing. Fidgeting. Severe hyperactivity disorder. He read it in a book.
Yet Jocko continued to be enormously happy. Hugely happy. So happy he needed to pee frequently. He was happy because he was seldom alone these days. He and Erika formed a blissful family in this small house on forty acres of meadows and woods.
Made in Victor’s creation tanks, Erika was sterile, like all her maker’s New Orleans creations. But she still had an urge to mother someone. Victor would have killed her if he’d been aware of it.
Victor said families were dangerous. People were more loyal to their families than to their rulers. Victor wanted no divided loyalties among his creations.
Erika called Jocko
“Maybe a little. But the men will be finished quickly. Women’s instinctwill be to get the children out the moment it starts, but they’ll find the doors locked.”
“Then we take the women,” said Tom Zell.
“Yes.”
“Leaving the children for last.”
“Yes. Eliminate the strong, proceed to the weaker and then to the weakest. When all the adults have been processed, we can secure the children and present them to the Builders one by one, as they’re needed.”
chapter
15
In the pretty little house, Jocko spent an hour climbing the stairs and descending. Up, down, up, down.
Sometimes he sang as he raced up, plunged down. Or whistled. Or made up rhymes: “Jocko eats kittens each day for lunch! He eats them not singly but by the bunch! He eats children for dinner and then—he coughs them up and eats them again!”
Usually, Jocko paused on the landing. To pirouette. Pirouetting sometimes made him nauseous. But he loved it. Twirling.
Jocko didn’t actually eat kittens. Or children. He was just pretending to be a big mean monster.
Before he started up the stairs, he made scary faces at the foyer mirror. Usually the faces made him giggle. A couple of times, he screamed in real terror.
Jocko was happy. Happier than he deserved to be.
He didn’t deserve great happiness because, for one thing, he
was
a monster. Just not big or mean.
He started life in New Orleans as a kind of tumor. Inside thestrange flesh of one of Victor Frankenstein’s New Race. He grew, grew inside the other person. Became self-aware. Broke free, destroying his host. Free of the New Race body. Free of Victor.
When you began as a tumor, life could only get better.
Jocko was taller than an average dwarf. Pale as soap. Hairless. Well, except for three hairs on his tongue. A knobby chin. A lipless slit for a mouth. Warty skin. Funny feet.
Not funny
ha-ha
. Funny
yuck
.
He wasn’t the kind of new man that Victor would have
tried
to create. Lots of things Victor created didn’t turn out like expected.
Up the stairs and down again. “Jocko’s a spook! Troll, demon, a ghoul! Jocko is beastly! Strange, weird, but
so cool!
”
Jocko didn’t deserve to be happy because he was also a screwup. He never looked before he leaped. He often didn’t look
after
he leaped.
Jocko knew what goes up must come down. But sometimes he threw a stone at dive-bombing birds, and the stone fell back on his head, and so he ended up stoning himself.
Birds. They said a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush. Jocko preferred the two in the bush. In Louisiana, birds attacked him on sight. Savagely. Pecking, screeching, pecking. Jocko remained wary of birds.
A monster. A screwup.
Worse. A coward. Jocko was easily frightened by so many things. Birds. Coyotes. Cougars. Runaway horses. Rap music. His own face. Brussels sprouts. The television.
The TV was super scary. Not when it was turned on and you could watch shows. When it was
off
. The blank TV was a big mean eye. TV watched Jocko when it was off.
Erika kept a folded blanket atop the TV. When the TV was off,she covered it with the blanket. The eye was still open. Open under the blanket. But at least it couldn’t see Jocko.
Monster. Screwup. Coward. And when alone, he couldn’t stop moving, doing. Fidgeting. Severe hyperactivity disorder. He read it in a book.
Yet Jocko continued to be enormously happy. Hugely happy. So happy he needed to pee frequently. He was happy because he was seldom alone these days. He and Erika formed a blissful family in this small house on forty acres of meadows and woods.
Made in Victor’s creation tanks, Erika was sterile, like all her maker’s New Orleans creations. But she still had an urge to mother someone. Victor would have killed her if he’d been aware of it.
Victor said families were dangerous. People were more loyal to their families than to their rulers. Victor wanted no divided loyalties among his creations.
Erika called Jocko
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