A Werewolf Among Us

SIX: Nightmare and Paranoia

St. Cyr stepped quickly behind a huge slab of concrete pavement which some tremor of the earth had cracked, lifted, and jammed toward the dark sky. He pressed his back against it, making himself as small as he could, shivered as the dampness of the chilled stone seeped through his shirt.

He listened intently, but he could no longer hear the soft footsteps that had dogged him until this moment.

Stepping from behind the slab, he stared down the length of the avenue, saw that he was alone — unless, of course, someone was hiding behind one of the other tilted blocks of paving.

He did not have time to search them. He could only press forward. But when he did, the footsteps were behind him once more, close.

He ran.

As he increased his pace, the sky seemed to lower, the blackness sink until it lay just above his head, like a roof. The buildings on either side began to close in as well, until the street was barely wide enough to run through. He remembered that, when he had begun this journey, the street had appeared to dwindle toward the horizon until the buildings seemed to come together at a point no larger than the prick of a pin. He had thought that this was only a trick of perspective. Now he saw that the closing together was genuine. In a few minutes, in another couple of thousand yards, the buildings would touch, putting an end to the avenue, leaving him nowhere to run to avoid the stalker.

Behind him, the night suddenly sighed and, an instant later, exploded around him.

Turning, he saw the tottering buildings had collapsed in his wake, bricks tossed into the air like milkweed fluff, dust devils whirling gleefully towards him.

He turned and ran.

On both sides, the abandoned structures, broken windows like mouths full of transparent teeth, leered down at him, swayed in sympathy with his rapid footfalls.

Then the street ended.

The buildings fused into a smooth curve of stone, blocking exit. He stopped, felt the curve, seeking a lever or concealed device for opening a path, found none. Because he was no longer running, no dangerous vibrations were set up; silence was soon restored to the street. In the silence, as he stood bewildered before the fused stones, he heard the footsteps behind him again.

He turned.

The stalker was only a few yards away. The stalker was an old, old friend whose touch he could no longer tolerate, and the stalker walked straight for him, arms open to receive him in a cold embrace…

Baker St. Cyr sat straight up in bed, a scream caught in the back of his throat, his hands full of twisted sheets.

It was a nightmare, the bio-computer said.

He pushed up, felt the water mattress give considerably and attempt to suck him back down, crabbed to the edge of the bed and got quickly to his feet, though once standing he was not certain he could remain that way for long. His legs felt weak, as if he had been running for a long, long time without rest, and his head ached from the top of his forehead backwards and down the length of his neck, as if his skull might be loose. For a moment he had an absurd vision: his head falling off his shoulders, bouncing twice on the thick carpet, rolling over and over until it came to rest against the rectangular window, staring out at the dawn that already filtered under the balcony roof.

The dawn. Suddenly it seemed to him that all of his problems were somehow tied to the rising of the sun, and that if he could force Nature to move backwards into darkness, everything would once more be all right. He stumbled to the floor-to-ceiling window, slapped the palm switch next to the panes, and watched them go abruptly opaque, then change in color until they looked as black as onyx and did not permit passage to a single thread of sunlight.

But that was not enough. He still felt weak, terribly weak, and — frightened.

It was only a nightmare.

Shut up.

He went into the bathroom and, without turning on any lights, found the cold water faucet, filled the sink, bent and splashed his face until he was shivering all over. He dried his face. He felt no better.

Standing before the mirror in the dark, he tried to see his face and could not, was glad that he could not.

Your dream contained a number of familiar symbols, including the broken road, which is, to you, THE PAST.

I don't want my dreams analyzed, St. Cyr told it.

The buildings equal old memories.

Stop it, damn you!

He went into the bedroom again, realized that he could not lie down and sleep, strode into the sitting room, where the patio doors let a wash of warm light into the room. He palmed the switch there and was rewarded with more darkness. After that, he stood in the center of the room, naked but for the shell clamped to his chest, wondering what he should do next.

Do you know whose footsteps you were hearing in the dream?

I don't want to hear about the fucking dream!

You are not well.

The old stand-by rejoinder: go to hell.

You actually should not be a practicing cyberdetective until you have had thorough psychological counseling. You have been hiding too many things from yourself, and you are no longer able to hold them all in. Thus the dream and the stalker in the dream. You have forgotten whom the stalker represents, who that was in real life, or have pretended to forget. I feel strongly that…

The bio-computer sensed the attack even as it began, and it did not complete the admonition.

St. Cyr screamed, though his throat was so constricted that no voice could come out, only a thin hiss like a prophesying snake.

He felt as if he had been invaded, violated.

There was something inside of him, something crawling so deep inside of him that if he did not cast it out immediately, it would draw even deeper and become inaccessible.

You are suffering from a form of paranoia common to all cyberdetectives…

He took a step.

He could feel the creature stirring within him.

He was certain it was creeping inexorably along his spine, anxious for a permanent seat in the center of his brain.

… who occasionally feel that the symbiote is not a symbiote at all, but that you are harboring a parasite.

The only thing he wanted was to cut it out of him, dig down into himself, find this creature and cast it away. He did not think he could manage this with a knife alone, but he decided that was his only hope.

Remove the shell. Rest. Relax. Remove the shell.

He had his fingers around the shell and was prying at it.

I am no parasite. Be calm. I only use the personal, first person pronouns because my thought pulses are transformed into words in your own brain, and you are the one who chooses the first person.

His whole chest ached.

He saw light behind his eyes, growing.

Be calm. I am not even a personality, only a source of data, a system of correlation, a machine for making linkages. Remove the shell. Throw the switch, remove the shell, rest.

While the light grew behind his eyes, he found the switch, turned it off.

He pulled the shell away from his chest.

He ripped loose the two male plugs.

Behind his eyes the light burst white, yellowed, turned orange, then settled into dark browns, in which he slept like a caterpillar nestled in a cocoon.

The sleep was fitful, but at least he did not dream. And though the paranoid siege had drained him, it had also served to make him forget all about the nightmare, the broken road, and the stalker…

He woke at eleven, took a long bath, dried himself, decided against breakfast, drank a glass of Scotch on an empty stomach. The liquor hit hard, but warmed him. At noon, he realized he could no longer postpone the inevitable, and he hooked up to the bio-computer once again.

It had nothing to say.

At the telephone, he found the number for the nearest Worldwide Communications office and sent off a light-telegram to his contact on Ionus, an industrial detective named Talmud. That done, he placed his second call to the Climicon data banks. When the taped voice requested his purpose, he spoke slowly and clearly, to properly key the machines: "Data requested. Why did Climicon issue directives for the extinction of the wolf once native to the Kline Range? Why did it not require the extinction of the wild boar native to the same region? Answer as one question."

Thirty seconds later, the Climicon computer said, "Heavy data. May we stat it, or do you require a vocalized report?"

"Stat it."

Another thirty seconds passed before the long yellow sheets of paper chattered out of the slot in the base of the telephone stand. There were six of them.

"Terminated."

"Thank you." He hung up.

He carried the papers to the easy chair by the opaqued patio doors, palmed the glass panels into transparency again, and sat down to read. The first sheet dealt with the wild boar: Climicon's study of its ferocity and the determination, after exhaustive research, that the species should be maintained, though in smaller herds than was natural for them. The boar, it turned out, was a coward as well, toothed and clawed to little purpose when it came to a confrontation with anything much larger than itself; it preferred to run away from men rather than fight them. The wolf, however, was something else altogether, a real gladiator. It not only seemed fanatically compelled to attack creatures larger than itself, men included, but it also transmitted a deadly bacterial infection. The Climicon report was either purposefully vague on this point or was based on insufficient evidence. It did little more than list the symptoms and the mortality rate among the victims of the disease. Symptoms: loss of weight; high fever; destruction of red blood cells by some unknown agent and a corresponding need for iron; an aversion to sunlight that, in the beginning, is neurotic but which soon becomes physical, as the victim is nearly totally blinded in all but the most dimly lighted rooms. Patients suffered extremely intense nightmares, too, the report said. And periods of insanity when they growled and groveled on the floor like animals, exhibiting an unnatural strength when provoked. One in three died during the second week of illness; two in three survived, after prolonged hospitalization, without injury. The last known case of the sickness had been reported eleven years ago. The report also listed a large number of laboratory studies of the disease, naming doctors and lab assistants. St. Cyr found nothing interesting in this and put the papers down.

Considering the symptoms of the disease — especially the aversion to light, the growling and groveling, the unnatural strength, the nightmares — it is easy to see how the legend of the du-aga-klava, wolf-in-man's-skin, was born.

Unless it's more than a simple disease.

Illogical.

St. Cyr picked the sheets up and read through them again. He could not find any mention of a cure for the disease or even whether the bacteria had been isolated and identified. He rather thought Climicon had not had any luck. If they had, the data would be there.

Many diseases are still incurable. The lack of this data does not have any bearing on the case at hand.

Perhaps not. Not unless there is more to Dane Alderban's notion than would at first seem likely.

Illogical.

St. Cyr sat in the chair by the door, in the gentle morning light, thinking about the report from Climicon, the murder of Betty Alderban, his conversation with Tina, Hirschel's resemblance to a wolf (Immaterial) — not thinking about the nightmare or the paranoid seizure of the night before. Soon it was time to join Dane in the garage for the trip into the mountains where they were to see Norya, the gypsy woman.

Unnecessary diversion.

He got up and went downstairs anyway.