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al； 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； the curtain began to e down on literally hundreds of unfortunate outdoor events。 Ball games and barbecues。 Weddings and funerals。 Camping trips； keggers and KKK rallies。 All of them； racing against the clock： one eye on their cars； one eye on the ing darkness。
There were just over a hundred and eighty…seven thousand living people in Paradise County。 The wind blew through their souls。 Their heads felt light。 Their lungs felt heavy。 They sweated； despite the cold。 Slow…blossoming； ill…defined dread constricted their throats and coated their bellies like a living liquid； a sentient glandular secretion。 They could literally feel the atmosphere inside their bodies change。
In final preparation。
For the storm。
Forty…Four
There were certain things； Lydia maintained； that one simply did not do。 Like putting an electric blanket on a water bed； for instance。 Or eating pork sushi。 Or autoerotic strangulation。 You didn't do these things； not because of the law； but because they were basically stupid ideas。
So it wasn't the Art Crime； or the threat of getting busted； that was making her antsy。 It was the fact that they were doing it so close to a major body of water。
And the storm was almost here。
Garth and Lydia stood at the foot of the steep； rocky incline that led down into the Codorus Basin； where the creek cut through the center of town on its way to Black Bridge and the river beyond。 Standing in the shadow of the Philly Street Bridge； they were pretty well hidden from the road above。
At night； the rocky banks and shadowed overhang were a hangout zone for wayward inner…city youth； but by daylight they were desolate； with only the broken beer bottles； empty lipstick tubes and used condoms to remind you that you were in hell and found your pleasure where you could。
Directly across the creek lay the End Zone； Paradise's premier yuppie sports bar。 Frank Vickers's environmental action group had convened there； as usual； to save the world while keeping track of the NFL action。 After doing such a swell job on Garth's old man； it was only fair to spread a little joy in Frank's direction。
Under the shadow of the bridge； they couldn't see you from the road； but the terrace of the End Zone had an unobstructed view。 On the concrete wall of the pumping station spillway； Garth was spray…painting their little love note in jagged letters three feet high：
DRINK UP AND DIE；
YUPPIE SCUM！
And it was lotsa fun and all； but Lydia was getting wired。 From where they stood； it was less than ten feet to the rank…smelling； shit…churning； Guinness…colored waters of the mighty Codorus。 Worse yet； they were less than a dozen feet from the dam： a reinforced concrete retainer wall； inset every few feet with jutting steel teeth； each one a yard long。 The teeth acted as a flood stop and general shit…catcher for the fetid creek； but at the moment； they were doubling as the county's largest instant lightning rod。
And the storm was almost here。
〃This is weir