F. Paul Wilson - All the Rage

All the Rage

A Repairman Jack Novel

F. Paul Wilson

for Jennifer andJohn and their new life together

The Ozymandias Prather OddityEmporium may seem familiar to some readers. Freak Show, the anthology Iedited for the Horror Writers of America, chronicled its final tour. Thanks toSteven Spruill and Thomas Monteleone for allowing their characters from theanthology to appear here.

Readers familiar with the GardenState Parkway may wonder why theyve never seen the New Gretna rest stop: yousimply havent looked hard enough.

Thanks to the usual crew for theirenlightened and discerning input: David Hartwell, Coates Bateman, ElizabethMonteleone, Steven Spruill, and Albert Zuckerman.

This is crazy, Macintosh said.What are we doing here?

Dr. Luc Monnet watched the unkemptyounger man breathe into his grimy hands and rub them together as he paced backand forth on the wet grass. It had rained most of the day, but now the skieshad cleared.

You should have brought a jacket,Tom.

You didnt tell me wed bestanding around in a field at goddamn three in the morning!

A moonless sky vaulted above them.Nearby, the glowing ribbon of Route 290 lay still and largely empty; beyond itthe lights of downtown Chicago lit the horizon with false dawn. Hulking massesof hotels or office buildings rose here and there across the flat land likedesert buttes.

Youre the one who wanted to knowthe source of the molecule, Luc said.

Demanded was more like it,but that was such a loaded term. Luc wanted to keep everything on an even keelfor the moment.

I still do. But what are we doinghanging around a circus?

Its not a circus. Luc gesturedto the looming shadow of the large oblong tent behind them. As the sign says,its an Oddity Emporium.

Macintosh snorted. Euphemism forfreak show. That still doesnt explain what were doing here.

This is the source of themolecule.

Ok, fine. But why are we standingoutside cooling our heels? And I do mean cooling.

Luc grinned in the darkness. IfMacintosh saw him, hed probably think it a response to his feeble attempt athumor. But Luc found nothing funny about Macintosh. Nothing likable about himeither. Especially his looks. They were such a mismatched pair. Lucsclose-cropped, styled brown hair, trim five-nine frame, and tailor-made slacksand sweater next to Macintoshs tall, ungainly torso, his wrinkled shirt, wornjeans, shaggy hair, and wispy goatee.

Truth was, he was glad Macintoshwas uncomfortable in the cold. He wished hed freeze to death right here andnow. The swine didnt have much longer to live anyway, and that would spare Lucthe ordeal of having him killed.

Killed, he thought,shuddering at the concept. Im going to cause another human beings deathtonight. What would have been unthinkable two weeks ago had become something hehad to do. He felt nothing for Macintosh, only a crawling anxiety to have donewith it.

And was all the subterfuge necessary?Macintosh whined. Separate flights, separate hotels, you picking me up on thestreet in the wee hours of the morning to haul me out here to the middle ofnowhere. Like some bad movie.

Luc bit back a sharp retort. Didntthe damn fool ever shut up?

Think about that, Tom, he said,keeping his voice even. It wouldnt do to betray his loathing for this piece ofhuman garbage. Yet. Just think about it.

Macintosh was blessedly quiet for amoment. Thinking, perhaps? That was something he should have done before hedemanded to know the secrets of the molecule.

Macintoshwhat had he been thinkingwhen hed hired this slovenly creature? A brilliant researcher with gapingholes in his intellect. Perfect example: if hed possessed a lick of commonsense he never would have come here.

Yeah, Macintosh said finally. Isee what you mean. But how much longer?

Luc lifted his wrist and pressedthe illumination button on the rim of his watch. The face lit, revealing4:11:08. That was Eastern Standard Time. He hadnt bothered resetting it.

A few more minutes, he said.

In truth, the moment hed beenwaiting for had passed. Ten minutes and fifty-four seconds after four had beenthe mark, but he always liked to give himself a cushion. Just in case.

Canvas rustled behind them and adeep voice said, Were ready.

Luc turned and saw a tall figureholding back a tent flap.

Finally! Macintosh cried as Lucled him toward the faintly lit opening.

Good evening, Mr. Prather, Lucsaid to the tall, oddly shaped man holding the flap. The owner of the show hadarrived.

Good evening, Dr. Monnet, Prathersaid in his deep voice that seemed to echo around him. He pronounced Lucssurname properly, but with an odd cadence.

Ozymandias Prather. An odd-lookingducknearly six and a half feet tall, with narrow shoulders, a barrel chest,and wide hips. His long, narrow head completed the conical layout of his body.

This is Dr. Macintosh. I told youthat hed be coming.

You did indeed, Prather said.

No one offered to shake hands.

The air within was thicker andwarmer but only marginally brighter than the starlight outside.

Didnt they pay their electricbill? Macintosh muttered as they followed Prather down the midway toward abetter-lit area at the far end of the tent. And whats that stink?

Luc clenched his teeth. Thats thesource.

At the end of the midway, in a poolof wan light, sat a cage. Above the iron bars a chipped wooden sign heraldedthe amazing sharkman! in faded red letters. Two roustabouts crouched before thecage, struggling with something between themsomething long and dark that endedin three taloned fingers.

My God! Macintosh said, stoppingand gaping at the sight. What is that?

That is the source.

He knew what was going throughMacintoshs mind: Sharkman? That arm cannot belong to a man of anysort. It has to be a fake, a muscle-bound performer in a rubber suit with aclawed glove.

That was what Luc himself hadthought when hed first seen the creature that crouched behind the bars. But ithad proved to be the real thing. That dark reptilian skin bled when punctured;the talons on the ends of those thick fingers were sharp and deadly.

But Luc was dismayed that tonightit took only two of Prathers roustabouts to steady the creatures arm. Theseidentical, vaguely canine fellows looked even odder than Prathermuscular,neckless hulks with close-cropped hair, big square teeth, tiny ears, and dark,deep-set eyes. When Luc had begun taking samples last year, five of them hadhad difficulty restraining the thrashing Sharkman.

He squinted past them into theshadows of the cage but could make out only a darker blot within. He didntneed to see the creature to know it was failing. At first he hadnt been sure,but now with each visit it was more and more apparent that it was fading away.Another month, perhapscertainly no more than twoand it would be dead. Thewellspring of the molecule would be gone.

And then what would he do?

The precipitous drop in cash flowwould be the least of Lucs problems.

He did his best to shake off thesick feeling crawling through the pit of his stomach and withdrew theveni-puncture kit from his coat pocket.

Macintosh said, This is some sortof joke, right?

Feeling very tired all of a sudden,Luc shook his head. No, Tom. No joke.

He unwrapped and inserted the shortend of an eighteen-gauge double-pointed phlebotomy needle into the plasticsheath; with two serum separation tubes ready, he approached the arm.

W-what are you going to do?Macintosh said.

What does it look like? Im goingto draw some blood.

The rank smell of the creaturemixed with the wet-dog stink of the roustabouts, making him a little queasy.Holding his breath, Luc didnt prep the dark skin, simply trapped a ropy veinbetween two fingers and worked the needle point through the grittyepidermislike stabbing through layers of sandpaper. As soon as he was into thevein he snapped the vacuum tube home and watched it fill with dark fluid, muchdarker than human blood.