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It barreled straight for the heart of the city。
Lydia and Garth could see it ing。
It was twenty feet tall； and it spanned the width of the basin。 From where Garth and Lydia stood； there was no clearance unless they clung to the underside of the bridge。 They were pylons there； rough handholds to cling to。
They had no other choice。
The wall came in； undercut at the moment it collided with the flood shelf。 Graygreenmultiformed NewSpawn impacted； impaled； blew forward and opened； revealing their innermost selves。 The innards and tendrils that soared through the air in front of the wave meant nothing to the creatures that were spared。 Over the top； and to hell with the hindmost。
Fuck everyone and everything else。
There was a five…headed faceless eel…spawn； razored and flailing and thirty feet long。 It threw itself out of the water blindly； passed less than a foot from Garth's face。 〃HELP！〃 he shrieked； hanging on for dear life。
But Lydia could no longer whip up such passion。 She could already feel herself starting to change。 The toxins were in her bloodstream； in the mist on her face and the air in her lungs。 Her surface flesh felt rubbery and numb； like her shell…shocked emotional core。
It no longer mattered what happened。
Lydia Vickers wasn't dying。
Merely changing in shape。
The next creature down the pike had Garth's name on it。 Its emerald； taloned head raked the underside of the bridge； etching a groove through the concrete and steel。 It caught him just above the hipbone； separated upper intestine from lower as it snapped through the spine like blackboard chalk in an irate teacher's hands。 Lydia's gaze went to her friend's； watched the lenses glaze over。
No future； indeed。
Watching Garth fall was like watching a packet of fast…food catsup grace an order of french fries。 Spool。 Zero fanfare。 He was emptied； crinkled up and gone in a blink of the eye that devoured him。
And all she could do was hang on； hang on； shrinking back against the concrete as far as the physics of the situation would allow。 She had spent her whole life trying to stand out from the crowd； and now all she wanted was to be invisible。
Waiting for the change to take over pletely。
Waiting to join the parade。
There had been； until quite recently； one hundred eighty…eight thousand human souls in Paradise。
They were dying of now； at a rate that averaged out to roughly ten thousand people per minute。
Past the first major volley of rain； the majority were taken out by Boonie's parting gift。 It rode the water mains； infiltrating through the pipes； sneaking up behind the walls to slaughter from within。
It burbled through the Jacuzzi jets of Carol Blake's room at the Blue Dove Inn； bringing both she and her pet tennis pro to a rich red blistering boil。 It came up through Tom Huntington's plumbing to bite off his ass as he sat on the cropper； grunting through a halftime power…dump。 It mixed into Chris Crowley's whiskey and water； induced him to hack up his glistening innards at the foot of the big…screen TV。
It brought Marge Leonard running to the bathroom； in response to the sound of her children's screams。 She found Wally and Timmy and little Thea； thrashing in their Sunday bath； a greasy slick of molten plastic tub toys swirling across the surface as they bubbled and sputtered down to a chunky toddler bouillabaisse。
Marge screamed and shoved her arm into the tub； stripping her flesh all the way to the elbow as she groped for the drain plug and pulled。 Then she collapsed to the floor： her arm gone； her mind gone。
And her babies； swirling down the drain。
It was a pattern that replicated itself again and again； across the county。 From Wolf's Head to Fairview； West Manheim to East Manchester； across the length and breadth of a county under insuppressible siege。 From the Paradise Athletic Club to the Pleasant Acres nursing home； Bob's Big Boy to the Lincoln Woods； the Masonic Temple to the Miracle Car Wash； with thousands and thousands and thousands of private dwellings in between。
Over and over。 Again and again。
Bearing no conceivable； remotely merciful end in sight 。。。
The lines at 911 went suddenly； totally silent。
Cut off from the world。
Dottie Hamm stared around the bright…lit County Control plex； fighting down the astonishing； paralyzing terror she felt。 For years； she had been the one who provided a lifeline for others when they found themselves trapped in the big world of hurt。
Now she was the one without a lifeline。
And； as with Deitz before her； there was no one else to call。
Kelly had put on a fresh pot of coffee。 God bless her。 What else were they supposed to do？ Wait out the collapse of the telephone lines； the return of their emergency backup。 Remain in control。
No matter what。
Dottie poured herself a cup； started dousing it with NutraSweet。 Formaldehyde bloodstream rumors notwithstanding； she hated her coffee unsweetened or black。 Then she dumped in a dollop of half…and…half。
It started to swirl。 Round and round； round and round。
In a lazy figure eight。
〃Dottie；〃 Dave Dell said； and before she had even pletely turned； the cup was up to her mouth。
She tipped it back； and felt the hot liquid affix to her lips like a living thing： sluicing through the space between her teeth； filling her mouth in one enormous burning gulp； then consciously forcing its way down the clenched； sloping aperture at the back。
There was no scream。 The toxin swallowed it whole； on its way down her throat。 It ate her throat as well； boiling the meat and dispensing rank red musclefroth in its stead。 It ate down to her stomach； rebined with her juices； transforming Dottle's digestive tract into an organic pressure cooker of pain。
Dave Dell vaulted over the low sill as she dropped to the floor and spasmed。 He slid his wiry arms under her armpits； desperately attempting the Heimlich maneuver to clear her clogged pipes。 He clasped his hands over her solar plexus。 Took a deep breath。 And pressed。
When her abdomen exploded； his arms went along for the ride。
The spawn that had once been Strong John and Dean worked in tandem。 Like Micki； they used geometry to invoke a higher power。 But instead of a circle； they had traced the manmade straight…line grids that defined the city。
Up and down the narrow one…way streets and shady tree…lined boulevards； past crumbling tarpaper shanties and cozy Cape Cods； past tastefully renovated townhouses and lush Georgian abodes。 Street by street。 Block by block。
Sealing off the city limits。
Their tanker trucks were loaded to capacity with inert； as…yet…unawakened toxin。 Their sprayer rigs had dispensed it： leaving local residents gagging and retching； keeling over by the dozens on their lawns and living room floors in Overmind's ever…expanding wake。
But as the rain conjoined with it； something triggered in the dormant pox。
Self…awareness。 A sense of purpose。
Unlimited possibility。
It rampaged with lethal abandon under the blood…red sky； stirring kin in the fatty tissues of its fleeing victims。 It struck them down； shrieking and thrashing； only to instantly raise them up snake…faced or insect…headed； flippered and flailing； the lost denizens of the city of the damned。
They took to the streets in packs； cavorting with the stormsong。
Ready to join the Parade 。。。
And still the rain came down。
It came in many colors now； an oilslick rainbow that crowded the sky。 Like its brethren at the bridge； it had lost all but peripheral touch with Overmind。 There were simply too many drops to imbue with one single consciousness。
The connection remained as a sort of collective unconscious： a molecule of telepathic toxicity that stayed in touch with its essence； implicitly recognizing itself in every face it saw。
But as it landed and spattered and pooled； a group consciousness reemerged。 Not Overmind； precisely； but a shared beingness that evolved very quickly into a shared identity。 A second…level Overbeing。
A new elemental。
The spirit of the New Blood of the Earth。
The kitchen stank of chemicals and cindered hair。
Gwen sat at the little cafe table she'd scarfed at Christie's Antiques。 She was rapidly retreating： into herself； into a somnambulistic cocoon of shock。
Micki pressed past her； frantically searching the cupboards and drawers。 Micki said she was sorry； it couldn't be helped。 But then； Micki was being incredibly insensitive right now： by making Gwen get out of her chair； by smelling as horrible as she did； by forcing Gwen to look for some stupid candles that wouldn't help anything anyway。
And they couldn't be just ANY candles； no； they had to be WHITE candles； as if that made a fucking bit of difference。 As if any of it did。 As if Gwen should be doing anything but waiting for Gary to e home。
Especially when she felt so terribly sick。
And she did； oh God did she ever feel terrible。 It was like some strange virus had entered her body； a walking talking thinking virus； and it was saying badfeelbadfeelbad； a whispering mantra； badfeelbadfeelbad