A FATHER'S TORMENT . . .

He looked at the outline of bushes. Privacy. A hiding place. Crazy. Last
place in the world that thing would be, if it had a brain, was here. And
if it was just sneaking around aimlessly, chances were one in a million
that it'd end up here.

It could be anywhere. Everywhere.

It. The thing. The infant. The animal. The killer. Whatever it was, he
wished they would stop calling it "his baby." They wanted to blame him.
Stick him with it. It came from Lenore, for chrissake, and maybe his
sperm didn't have anything to do with it. Maybe some tumor. Some weird
growth.

i Warner Bros.

A Warner Communications Company

presents

A Larco Production

IT'S ALIVE!

A Larry Cohen Film

Starring

JOHN RYAN

SHARON FARRELL

ANDREW DUGGAN

GUY STOCKWELL

JAMES DIXON MICHAEL ANSARA

Music by Bernard Herrmann

TECHNICOLOR®

Written, Produced and Directed by Larry Cohen

ii IT'S ALIVE!

by Richard Woodley

Based on the screenplay written by Larry Cohen

BALLANTINE BOOKS NEW York

iii Copyright © 1977 by Random House, Inc.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a
division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada
by Ballantine Books of Canada, Ltd., Toronto, Canada.

ISBN 0-345-25879-7-150

Manufactured in the United States of America

1 Frank Davis straightened his tie and brushed off his herringbone suit
and smoothed his short, sandy hair. Then he stepped from the elevator
into the carpeted hallway. He nodded to the receptionist at his left,
then to an assistant secretary on his right, and strode briskly into his
office suite.

Once past his own secretary, in the anteroom to his office, and inside
and protected from view, he slumped down into his swivel chair, rubbed
his eyes, and stared at his uncluttered desk top for a few moments. Then
he cleared his throat, picked up the phone, and pushed the intercom button.

"Mary, ask Buck if he can see me right now, okay? I've got some new
ideas on the Marcus account that I'd like to run past him."

"I know he's got an appointment at ten, Mr. Davis."

She would have been advised of that sometime late last night. Old Buck.
"Tell him I need five minutes. And coffee, black."

"Sugar?"

"No." Every day she asked, every day he said no.

"Surely."

He sighed, pulled open a file drawer, and took out the manila folder
marked "Marcus Toys."

His secretary rapped lightly at the door and came in, carrying a large
brown mug on which was a red heart enclosing, in black letters, "Frank."
She put it carefully on the desk, then stepped back primly to the door.
"Mr. Clayton can see you now," she said.

She leaned back against the door, smiling, her hands behind her, her
chest out.

Frank brushed by her, chuckling to himself at her pose. With the
detachment of a man about to become a father for the second time, he
admired her looks and

2

enjoyed how coyly she deployed her body. Like so many of the young
broads out there, she wanted to keep her job, that's all. Keep her job
just long enough to rind somebody to marry; then retire from all this
flirtation and have babies of her own. Buck would not be the one. That's
why she still posed for the field.

He walked into Buck Clayton's office without knocking, dropped the
folder on the broad leather-topped desk, and sank into the soft,
black-leather chair. "Whew."

Clayton turned slowly from the expanse of window overlooking Beverly
Hills. "Already whew? At 9:30?" He smiled broadly as he seated himself
on the edge of his desk and folded his strong arms.

Buck Clayton, the president, was a bachelor with the husky build of a
football player-broader and shorter than Frank's slim 6'2"-and was
dressed in a style Frank thought of as "careful casual." He wore a
flowered shirt open a couple of buttons at the top, a wide white belt
with a huge brass horseshoe buckle, tight white flared slacks, black
Guccis. "You look tired, old man."

Frank felt like an old man, especially today, but always in the company
of Clayton. Both were thirty-five, but Clayton managed somehow to make
Frank feel old. Because Clayton was a bachelor and Frank a family man.
And Frank always had to wear a suit and tie. Public relations was for
suits and ties. Except for the president.

"I am, Buck. Lenore was up most of the night. She's really
uncomfortable. She's almost due, you know."

"Yeah."

"I thought the second one would be easier."

"Yeah. Any problems with Marcus?"

"No, no, not at all. I just had a couple new ideas, looking ahead to the
Christmas season, and I thought I'd better check them with you. For
example, in October I thought we could plant a couple of stories about
new toy safety, and set up interviews

3

with old man Marcus himself to explain to what lengths they had gone in
research and-"

Buck shook his head. "No problem, no problem. Frank, anything you want
to do is fine by me. You're never wrong. You know how I feel about your
judgment. Just go ahead."

"I just thought you'd-"

"Nobody in this firm is more responsible than you, Frank, or has better
ideas. You're my ace. On your accounts, you're the boss."

"Okay. Thanks. I was also going to bring up the Sturbridge Electronics
account.?

"Same deal. Whatever you think. Unless there's a problem."

"No problem."

"Terriffic. Nothing's wrong with Lenore, I hope."

"No, no, I guess not. The doctor says everything's fine. Just sleepless
nights."

"Your son's okay?" j

"Sure. Chris is fine."

"Good, good." Clayton stood up, slapped Frank on the shoulder, and went
back behind his desk. "Glad everything's shipshape, Frank baby. I've got
a couple guys coming in, so I better get back to work."

"Sure, right." Frank started for the door. "I'll keep you posted."

"No need. You're the perfect man for toys, right? I'll watch for the
articles."

"I meant about Lenore, when the baby comes."

"Oh yeah, right."

Frank went back to his office and took out a yellow pad and began
jotting down notes for the stories he would propose to the press. New
West magazine might even go for something. They would be having a
special section on toys. Or if they weren't, he would suggest it.

Yes, he was tired. Poor Lenore. Chris had been easy, but that was eleven
years ago. They probably shouldn't have waited so long this time. If you
could call it waiting. A truth they had never spoken about

4

-wouldn't even think about now-was that they hadn't wanted their first
child so soon, and definitely didn't want a second on the heels of the
first. So right after Chris was bora came birth-control pills. For too
many years. Lenore hadn't felt well when she took them, her face got
splotchy. So she stopped, on doctor's advice. But they wanted two
children anyway, eventually, and after a few years went by it seemed
that they'd better hurry-the age difference would already be a lot. But
nothing happened. Then she took fertility pills for a few months, until
some magazine articles about that scared them both, and she stopped
those pills too.

And six months after she stopped, she got pregnant. What wonders awaited
the pill-takers! All those years and all those pills, and the result was
you had one child too early, and one too-no, it wasn't too late.

And this time Lenore was a lot more uncomfortable. The whole term had
been rough, but especially the last couple of months. Lenore had been
scared by so many stories that she would not now take any more pills,
not for anything, not even to relax and sleep. But the doctor was not
worried. Everything seemed to be fine. Some people have discomforts, he
said. No two children develop the same way, no mother can expect the
same feelings every time. Everything was okay.

The only startling thing was that the doctor said the baby seemed to
have grown unusually fast in the last couple of weeks. Any day now.

Frank spent the day roughing out the proposals for story ideas that he
would suggest to various newspapers and journals. The key was to develop
himself the questions they might ask, and the kinds of answers they
might get-statistics, points of view, possible people to
interview-stressing the importance of the subject. The key was, in fact,
to do most of the work himself. The press looked fondly on stories
taking minimal effort. And the main thing for the public-relations
executive to do was to give them good (good = positive)

5

ideas, accurate information, and quick accessibility to the subject.

A good public-relations man knows that the press is lazy. Everybody is
lazy. That's why they take pills -the quick fix.

Frank had been able to capitalize on that fact in the campaign a year
ago for Liebreich Pharmaceuticals. You couldn't say that people who took
Liebreich drugs were lazy, of course. Nor did you lie. You simply
stressed the positive side which every controversy has, and is easy
enough to accept if you don't think too much about it.

The controversy had involved a lot of current articles suggesting that
our society was too dependent upon drugs. Other drug companies ran and
hid from the press. Liebreich did not. It was Frank's genius to have
them volunteer for a story. The key to the press was this: Lock your
door to them and they will kick it down to expose your sins; open your
door and they will look for nothing, so pleased are they for easy
entree. Closed is open, open is closed.

So Frank had Liebreich open up to them, which meant the company showed
them nothing, and the lambs of the press sat at the feet of the
executive vice-president, nodding in friendship and respect, as he said:
"I see no particular value to society in having busy, productive people
waste time feeling lousy."

One of Frank's better lines. The resulting stories identified Liebreich
Pharmaceuticals with candor, warmth, and concern for improvement of the
human condition; while other companies, in comparison, seemed somehow
related to the secretive, street-corner profiteers bent on doping our
society to death.

None of this was clear in the articles, of course. Images, in public
relations, are not black and white, but pleasant, suggestive fogs.

Once in a while, quite divorced from that account, Frank thought about
pills. Didn't worry, just thought. Everybody lived on pills. Got through
their days and nights by fooling their bodies with capsules. Frank

6

didn't take pills. Never. If he was going to take pills, he would have
done it playing guard on the basketball team at City College, when he
had to play tired or hurt. Everybody on the team took them except him.
Painkillers of various types, and ups-mostly Dexes-to keep them going at
full speed through four quarters of fast breaks. The center died from a
liver ailment when he was thirty-three. Frank was as healthy as Jack
LaLanne.

Lenore's combination of birth-control pills and fertility pills seemed
like a joke. What would bow be the result of such a comic mix? The
result, he thought, chuckling, was that after all those contradictory
tablets, you just proceeded to have a normal baby, like anybody else.
Pointless. Like vitamins. You felt however you thought you felt.

Which caused him to have some impatience with Lenore. Her mother had
taken twenty different vitamins and pills every day. It took him some
time to convince Lenore that pills were worthless, or even dangerous.
Early in the marriage she had taken ups for energy and downs for sleep.
He got her to stop that. But then, in the after-Chris panic about family
planning, she had taken up the quick-fix stuff again.

Frank's thoughts returned to his work.

"Ask Marcus if he has ever manufactured a dangerous toy." The press
would love it. The good public-relations man knows that you can sell a
story to the press if you seem to be on their side, suggesting a way to
controversy-while you know, privately, that it can be neatly resolved to
the client's benefit. And old man Marcus, well briefed by Frank, would
have a splendid answer. He would welcome the question, shake his head
and mutter something off-the-record about irresponsible toy
manufacturers, and take the issue head-on. He would be concerned. He
would give the press some pithy quotes, which Frank would compose.
Something like: "My own grandchildren use my toys. I would no sooner
give my granddaughter a dangerous toy than I would hand her a loaded gun."

7

Grandpa would sell a lot of toys.

Lenore would be a lousy public-relations person. She fretted. She
worried. Most important, she made people around her nervous.

She was afraid the baby wouldn't be perfect. Who gives a goddam? If
Frank were going to be a mother, he'd relax and let nature take its
course. The public-relations approach would be: "Our babies are always
fine, because we care, and so we take every precaution in the manufacture."

She fretted. Why does he kick so hard?

Because he's strong as an ox, like Chris.

Why is he suddenly so big?

Babies always feel big, near the end.

Why do I feel so strange, this time?

You're going to have a baby, Lenore, that's all, and the second is not
the first. We're going to have a baby. You feel strange because you
think you feel strange. You seem fine to me, Lenore. Why do you look at
me like that?

The day passed quickly. Frank worked into the evening, and arrived home
at 8:30.

For a while he sat in his tan Cadillac and looked at the house. He
thought briefly about his secretary, Mary, how good she was looking to
him lately, how available. But he knew why he was thinking like that:
the last couple of months are always a bit rough, wife-wise.

The Marcus account had kept him late again. Lenore would wish he had
been home earlier. But it was things like the Marcus account that got
them this house, what they had always wanted, split-level colonial with
a trim yard and a kidney-shaped swimming pool, all rimmed with thick
bushes on a nice, quiet street in suburban Westwood. Good place for kids
to grow up.

Of course, Lenore worked too, sometimes, substitute-teaching in
kindergarten at the nearby Darwin Public School. She sure did like kids.
If it had been up to her, they might have had a dozen. But they had

8

It's Alive!

always been in agreement, really, on spacing. Always.

The only light turned on was in the kitchen, which meant perhaps that
Lenore was feeling better, and was waiting to have supper with him. A
good sign.

Frank believed in signs--not omens, exactly, but signs-which he called,
in his best public-relations style, indications. He acted on them.
That's what first attracted him to Lenore. Something in her eyes.
Strange, large, beautiful eyes. An indication. A sign nobody else would
recognize. They both had it: something in their blood, as shown in their
eyes, indicating, mysteriously, that they belonged together, like a
species. Chris had it too, in his eyes.

Frank could swear to have seen it in her eyes again the day she became
pregnant-this time. He didn't know it at the time, of course. But deep
in her eyes, he recalled later, had been the announcement: at this
moment she had conceived a child for them, another of their own, their
blood.

This new child too would have that look in his eyes. Did he think,
"his"? So big, so active, had to be a boy.

The light in the kitchen was a good indication. And so he went in
cheerfully.

Lenore lay in bed, her hands lightly on the nightgown covering her
swollen belly. She didn't care what anybody said, this time she felt
different. It, the baby, felt different. What nobody seemed to
understand was that she didn't feel so much worried as weird. It kept
her awake nights, caused her mind to wander during the days.

She was sorry it kept Frank from sleeping too. But he was just going to
have to get used to the idea that having a baby was a family affair. It
was not, after

9

all, just her baby, but theirs-just as Chris had been. He had been
angry, or at least annoyed, when she became pregnant with Chris. As if
she'd done it all by herself.

When their first baby was born, Frank quite naturally loved it. "I." Or
"her baby." In time, however, Chris became "his son," revealing quickly
the same strengths and cat-like quickness of his father, with his
father's eyes.

But they could as- well have been her eyes. All three had the eyes of
the Davis family-large, round, dark. A look some people called
"intimidating" or "piercing," others described as "searching." With
them, there would never be a question of parentage; their eyes gave them
away. Handsome family. She combed her wavy blond hair with her fingers.

She knew he was working late on the Marcus account. That was fine. He
needed to work, loved it. She did not, as he sometimes did, see public
relations as a clever game. She thought it was important. Marcus was
important, because toys were important. They had kept all of Chris's
baby toys, which were good ones, and had them ready now, in the crib
room, for the new arrival. Because she thought toys were so important,
she had even managed to convince the school administration to stock the
kindergarten at Darwin with similar toys-solid-wood toys or simple,
colorful windups. No cheap metal with dangerous edges, or plastic so
fragile that it cracked if you sat on it. Toys that allowed children's
imaginations to roam. So successful had she been in arranging for toys
that the kindergarten room resembled the room with Chris's toys here at
home.

But Frank didn't think it was all that important. For boys especially.
They should be strong and quick and play ball. Frank wanted a boy this
time too, she knew, though he never said. A boy would be fine with her.
So long as it had all its fingers and toes.

If he wanted a child at all ... He said he did, of course. But initially
they had discussed an abor

10

tion. He worried about the pills or something. But in the end they
decided they really wanted the child.

And the baby would be fine. There, in the dark room, she could almost
feel it talking to her, reaching for her. Almost feel its eyes on her.
Davis eyes. She could almost feel it trying to dig its way out of her womb.

She felt weird.

He called softly at the foot of the stairs. "Lenore?" He went up and
walked into the almost-dark bedroom. He knelt next to the double bed and
felt lightly around the covers. She wasn't there. "Lenore?"

He stepped into the hall and started back toward the stairs. The door to
the crib room was ajar. The room was dark. He gently pushed the door
open. A shape moved along the floor in the corner. He switched on the light.

"Lenore! Jesus, you scared me. What in blazes are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, Frank. I was just kind of sitting here, messing with the
baby's toys."

"But why in the dark, for chrissake?"

She smiled and shook her head. "I know you'll think I'm crazy, Frank,
but the baby, well, it seems to like it better in the dark. It's much
calmer." '"Sure." He sighed. "You coming to bed?"

"Okay. Did you eat?"

"Baloney sandwich and a glass of milk."

"I'm sorry, I should have made you something. There's a porterhouse in
the freezer for you, and-"

"I'm fine. I wasn't hungry. Drank coffee all day. Where's Chris?"

"He went to bed early, same time as me. I think

11

he likes to feel like I do, like he's sharing in the baby. He's very
excited."

"Let's hope he stays that way, when he's got a little brother-uh,
baby:-to compete with."

"Of course he will, silly. He's been an only child too long. He wants
the baby as much as we do. Everything's all set up with Charley?"

"He's ready any time we are. He's planning to take some time off anyway,
so he's ready for Chris, any time of the day or night, for as long as we
want to leave him there."

"Just while you take me to the hospital, okay? He'll want to be home
with you, to get ready for me and the baby."

"Right. Let's go to bed. I'm beat."

"Go ahead. I'll be right there. Turn off the light, will you, Frank?"

Shaking his head, he turned off the light in the nursery, and went back
to the bedroom. He threw off his clothes, fell into bed, and immediately
went to sleep.

Lenore sat on the floor in the baby's room. "There, there, now, it's
dark again. Just go to sleep, my baby." She cupped her hands under her
belly and rocked slowly back and forth.

Lenore sat up suddenly in the dark, clutching at her "belly, her hair
falling over her eyes. "I'm afraid," she said softly. She brushed her
hair back and stared straight ahead into the night. "Frank, I'm afraid.
Frank?"

Frank stirred. "Hmm?"

"I don't know why. I'm just so scared." Her voice was calm.

12

It's Alive!

Frank sat up and blinked. He put his hand on her arm. "What is it? Is he
kicking again?"

"More than that. It's time. The baby wants to be born."

He smiled at her, but she stared straight ahead. "D-day, hunh?" He put
his hand under her hair and leaned over to give her a kiss on the cheek.
"Okay. Well, we'd better get dressed."

They got out of bed. Frank switched on the light.

"Ow."

"What is it, hon?"

"The baby. The lights, I guess."

"Hey, smile, sweetheart! This is a great occasion." He took her face in
his hands and kissed her firmly on the mouth.

She pulled away. "We should have packed before. We should have been ready."

"Hey, sweetheart, it'll only take a minute. We weren't ready for Chris
either. He came two weeks early, remember. This character is right on
schedule. That's a good trait to begin with-punctuality. Hey, what's the
matter, honey?"

She stood facing the wall. "I suppose it doesn't matter how many times
you've been through this before. It's still scary."

"Come on now. Not scary. Wonderful." He took a suitcase out of the
closet and tossed it on the foot of the bed. "Go ahead now. You call the
doctor and I'll pack."

She took the phone from the bedstand, drawing the long cord with her
into the bathroom.

Frank pulled open her dresser drawers and started pawing through her
clothes. "I don't know what the hell I'm looking for in this mess," he
muttered. He took up armloads of clothes and dumped them into the suitcase.

Lenore came back from the bathroom and replaced the phone. "Darling, let
me do that. You go wake up Chris."

"Okay, but don't lift the suitcase."

13

Their Siamese cat hissed from the corner. Frank reached down and picked
it up. It struggled and scratched his arm. "Hey, what's got into
everybody around here? Come on, Biscuit," he petted the cat to calm it,
"we'll go wake up Chris." Frank hurried down the hall, his pajamas
flapping around his legs.

Chris slept soundly under the model planes that hung from his ceiling.
In one corner was a mound of sports equipment: football helmet and
tackling dummy, two baseball gloves, roller skates, a down sleeping bag.
The wall at the head of his bed was covered with posters proclaiming
love and sports. On one that said, "Happiness Is a Warm Puppy," he had
crossed out "Puppy" and above it scrawled in red crayon, "Baby."

For a moment Frank petted the cat and gazed down at his sleeping son,
smiling. Then he lowered the cat so that it licked Chris's face.

Chris slowly turned and opened his eyes. "Hi, Dad. What time is it? Am I
late for school?"

"Nope. But it's time to get up. We're going to have to drop you off at
Charley's house. You can go to school from there. He's expecting you."

Chris sat up quickly. "Mom is having the baby?"

"Right. A trick she does rather well every eleven years. Now get
yourself together, and don't forget your books."

Chris sprang out of bed. "Wow! Having the baby!" He sat back down.
"Mom's having our baby!"

Frank tousled his son's hair and started out of the room. "Hurry up, now."

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Can anything happen to her?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, remember that movie we saw on TV, where the mother died?"

"That movie was supposed to take place a long time ago. Things like that
just don't happen now. Hospitals

14

are better, doctors are better, everybody's healthier."

"But she says the baby is so big . . ."

"Hey, come on," he laughed, suppressing his annoyance that Lenore had
mentioned that to Chris. "She had you, didn't she? And look at the size
of you, you big ox. Hurry up now, so we can get you over to Charley's."

"I'm glad I can go to Charley's," Chris smiled a little. "He's so nice
to me."

"And so conveniently unattached."

"Hunh?"

"He's my best friend. He loves you almost as much as I do. Get dressed.
I gotta go help your mom. She's the main one right now, you know."

"And the baby."

"And the baby. Hurry up!"

Frank got dressed, called Charley to advise him of their arrival, and
started out. He stopped for a last peek in at the nursery. The white
wooden crib stood in the center of the room, the colorful patchwork
quilt neatly tucked in at the sides.

He grinned and chuckled. It was beautiful. Cozy. Perfect

He carried out the two pale blue suitcases and put them in the car
trunk. Then he walked back to meet Lenore coming out of the house. She
was wearing a two-piece blue maternity outfit, and had a black purse
slung over her arm. Chris trotted out behind her.

"You look beautiful, darling," Frank said, "just like always." He opened
the car door for her, then felt his chin. "Jesus, I forgot to shave. I
feel so grubby, next to you. Maybe I should just run in and-"

"No."

"Okay. Hey, hon, I was just joking. Smile a little."

"I feel so ... I feel fine." She smiled at him.

"Can I sit in the front?" Chris asked. "So the four of us can be together?"

"Maybe on this trip you shouldn't . . ."

"That would be fine," Lenore said, standing aside

15

and letting Chris squirm into the middle of the seat

The streetlights flashed by on the windshield as Frank drove. "Man, you
forget how dark it is in the middle of the night."

Lenore smiled, looking straight ahead.

"You okay?"

"Fine," she answered.

"No kicking?"

"Some."

"Interesting how you women can tell just when it's time."

"The baby knows." She smiled. "The baby knows it's time."

They pulled up in front of Charley's house. It was on the edge of their
middle-class neighborhood, a smaller house than the others, smaller
lawn, not recently mowed. Charley stood at the curb, dressed in bathrobe
and slippers, the streetlight glow sparkling on his balding head. He
waved to them.

"Okay, Chris, get out my side." Frank slid out and walked over to
Charley. They shook hands. "Sure do appreciate this, buddy."

"Forget it, Frank. Where's Chris?" "Right here, he's ..."

Chris was still in the car. "Why can't I go to the hospital with you, Mom?"

"You know I'd love to have you there, but children simply aren't allowed
as visitors."

"If I had my tonsils out again I could go there." "I'll be home in three
days. Or maybe sooner." Frank appeared at the car door. "Come on,
Chris." "Maybe Charley won't like having me around." "Charley only gets
to visit his own boys two Sun

16

It's Alive!

days a month. And he loves kids. Come on, give your mother a kiss and
let's go."

Chris leaned over and hugged his mother, holding on tight and burying
his face in her neck. "Please have our baby fast."

She patted him on the head and turned him away toward his father. "We'll
both call you as soon as we know if it's a brother or a sister."

He picked up his school books from his lap and slid out the door. "I
don't care what it is, as long as you're okay."

"I'll be fine. Hi, Charley."

"Hi, Lenore. I'll be thinking of you. Come on, Chris, we might as well
stay up, if you're game. You can help me whip together some French
toast. Oh, by the way, Frank, I'm taking a week off from the store,"
Charley called out. "Assistant manager's going to hold the fort down and
let me get in some autumn fishing. So there's no problem."

Cheerful goodbyes were waved all around, and Charley disappeared with
Chris into the house.

The streetlight beat in on Lenore. She winced. "Let's get going, Frank."

The front of the small, single-level Community Hospital was bathed in
floodlights. Lenore sat with her eyes closed as Frank pulled up in a
no-parking zone directly in front.

He eased her out of her seat and walked with his arm around her into the
nurse's station. Lenore was quickly whisked away in a wheelchair. A
nurse presented Frank with a packet of forms to fill out.

"I think I did all this before," he said, scanning the papers. "When do
I get to see my wife?"

17

"She'll be brought over to the labor room just before she's taken in for
delivery, Mr. Davis."

"Is somebody taking care of her? Is everybody ready for her? Has Dr.
Francis arrived yet?"

"Do you carry some form of medical insurance, Mr. Davis?"

Frank sighed, nodded, pulled out his insurance cards, and then filled in
the forms.

One advantage in working for this public-relations firm was that it left
no stone unturned. Everything was covered under company policies. No
slipups. The name of the PR game was smoothness. No waves. No arguments.
No hitches. The best PR people were invisible. So Frank was quiet,
polite, efficient. He filled out the forms and took a seat nearby as
directed by the nurse, though he would rather have muttered and paced.
He sat placidly, while his stomach churned and he ached to cry out,
"Where the hell is everybody and what the hell is everybody doing?"

Quiet. The nurses padded around on their white ripple-soles and shuffled
papers. You couldn't even hear them when they talked on the phone. There
was not even any medicine going-on out here. Except for their uniforms,
they could have been secretaries at Clayton Associates. They never made
a mistake, these nurses, because they never tried to do anything
unusual. You came into the hospital, took a seat on a hard plastic chair
on the shiny tile floor. And in a little while you walked out with a
baby. More "medicine" went on in his own bathroom, when he shaved.

Except that he hadn't shaved. A mistake. It occurred to him that Buck
wouldn't approve. A. minor thing, but people noticed you when you hadn't
shaved. In PR, you shouldn't be noticed. Just blend in with the
background. That's why your fees were, so high. People didn't know what
the hell you did with their accounts, so long as you didn't screw up.
And they didn't care. Most PR was a matter of keeping things quiet,
smooth, unnoticeable. So businesses you represented could go on making
quiet, smooth money. No

18

It's Alive!

questions, no arguments, no waves. But the really good PR exec, like him
or Buck, took chances, caused things to happen. Caused publicity, just
at the right time, in just the right way, to just the right degree. You
took the chances that no out-of-control publicity would erupt. Smooth
and quiet. People didn't even know why they bought Marcus toys instead
of others. They were associated with goodness. Nobody knew how or why.
Except Frank and Buck. Business was good, so the fees kept climbing.

Business seemed lousy at the hospital, because nobody was practicing
medicine. They were, of course, somewhere in the innards of this sterile
building. But Frank was being kept out of it.

And here, he was-the damn client!

In spite of himself he walked over to the nurse's station. "Look, my
wife is having a baby, our baby, and I want to-"

"The nurse is here for you, Mr. Davis."

The young nurse in a pale green smock nodded to Frank and motioned for
him to follow. They walked down the antiseptic corridor, Frank's shoes
clacking irritatingly on the tiles a step behind the silent ripple-soles
of the nurse. She directed him to a small room where she handed him a
green wraparound smock similar to hers, and a gauze mask. He donned them
dutifully, feeling a bit silly, then was ushered back into the corridor.

A tall, dignified man in similar green hues, with a small green cap and
a gauze mask dangling loosely around his neck, came around the corner.

"Ah, Mr. Davis."

"Hello, Dr. Francis. Is everything . . ."

"Your wife will be going to delivery in a few minutes." He stuck out his
hand and they shook.

"Any problems?"

He smiled mechanically. "It's going to be quite a large baby. Its growth
in the last two weeks has really been amazing."

"You mean-is there any-well, is everything safe?"

19

The doctor smiled again and patted Frank on the back as he steered him
toward a door. "The next time, Mr. Davis, you really should arrange to
be present at the birth. So many men are doing it these days, and it's
quite a rewarding experience. As I said, next time. It must be arranged
ahead of time, so that you can be prepared for ... for the event."

"You mean, for the blood."

He smiled again. "Yes, to be candid. It upsets some fathers. You must be
ready for it. Next time."

The doctor shook Frank's hand heartily, and set off down the corridor.
The nurse pushed open the swinging door and held it for Frank to pass
through into the labor room.

He went quickly to the bedside of his wife, all covered in white. She
was pale, her face pinched in occasional pain. She took his hand.
Suddenly she closed her eyes and bared her teeth, her body tensing. She
moaned softly through The contraction, then tried to smile as she looked
at him.

"I'm not really very brave."

"Just keep hanging on to my hand."

She nodded. She would do that for his sake, though for her own she would
have held on to her quivering belly with both hands. She couldn't truly
share this time, or this pain, with him. But she knew that he felt
better when she held his hand.

When she spoke, it was really to herself. "It's not hike it was with
Chris. It's different. I can't explain how. I couldn't make the doctor
understand . . ."

"Everything's fine. I just saw Dr. Francis. Everything's fine."

Everything was fine, but different . . . strange. A strange pulse beat
through her. She knew what she knew. Frank never had a baby. Dr. Francis
never had a baby. Even that polite, virginal nurse never had a baby. And
no one, not even she, had ever had this baby before.

Her body stiffened again, and she heard herself moaning. She
heard-though nobody would under

20

It's Alive!

stand that either-the baby moaning, felt it writhing for freedom. "You
better call the nurse, Frank, please."

"Okay, okay. I better get Dr. Francis." He rose quickly.

"No, he'll be waiting. Just get the nurse please, Frank."

"Nurse!" Frank swung out the door and called. "Nurse! Will you please
hurry up!"

The nurse and an intern scurried soundlessly into the room. The nurse
looked briefly at Lenore, then exchanged a glance with the intern, who
nodded.

"Sir," the intern said quietly, "you'll have to go to the fathers' room
now. We'll notify you."

The fathers' room! Like some child! "Wait a minute." He bent over his
wife. "I love you."

Lenore stared at the ceiling, her eyes wide. "I'm glad we decided to
have this baby after all," she heard herself saying. "It wouldn't have
been right to stop it. It would have been so easy and legal, but so
selfish. It's right to have the baby . . ."

"Lenore sweetheart," Frank nuzzled her ear, "don't even think about
that. It's going to be wonderful. We both want it."

". . . I'm going to have it after all, the baby. It won't tie you down,
Frank, I'll take care of everything . . ."

Frank stared after her as the nurse wheeled her bed out and down the
corridor.

He stood watching her wheeled away, until he felt the intern's impatient
stare at the back of his neck. "The fathers' room. Okay?"

Three other fathers, or potential fathers, sat in the room, smoking
cigarettes, staring at the floor and their knees and their hands,
shaking their heads from time to time. Frank stood in the middle of the
room, gazing blankly out the window into the blackness.

One of the fathers had the hiccups. Frank walked out.

He looked at his watch, lit a cigarette, and blew a

21

smoke ring toward the ceiling. He began walking casually up the corridor
in the direction of the maternity viewing room.

"Fm sorry, sir," called a nurse dulcetly from her station, "but you'll
have to go back in the fathers' room. The babies are out."

Frank looked at his watch again without noticing the time, calmly lit
another cigarette, shrugged, and went back into the fathers' room.

The three other fathers were behaving as a team. Now each was filling a
Styrofoam coffee cup from the glass pot on a hot plate.

"Is there anything to stir this sugar with?" asked the tallest one.

"Here, use this," said a sturdy man with a crew cut, handing the other a
pencil. "I've been using it for the past three hours. After a while, you
get to like the taste of lead in your coffee."

The third-a chubby, balding man who had apparently been summoned from a
convocation of some sort, since he was wearing a lapel sticker that
announced, "Hi! I'm Dave Bloomgarden"-stared into his steaming coffee.
"I suppose you think you're joking, but there is an overabundance of
lead in all the foods we eat nowadays . . ."

Frank sat down in the plastic chair opposite Bloom-garden.

". . . The fact is, we're slowly but surely poisoning ourselves, you
know that?"

The other two shook their heads as they paced.

"Fine world to bring a kid into," Frank said, smiling.

"Oh, the buildup of toxic materials in our food substances is
frightening," Bloomgarden went on, fixing his gaze now on Frank. "I
could cite you instances of-"

"You don't have to lecture us," said the tallest man, who was dressed in
a white turtleneck shirt and green slacks. "Just look out the window
every day-get a

22

It's Alive!

load of that smog. What's the difference if we breathe it or eat it?" He
did not smile.

"Maybe we'll learn to adapt to it," said the man with a crew cut. His
chin was covered with stubble as was Frank's. "I'm an exterminator." He
stopped pacing and looked at each of the others. "We service the Beverly
Hills and Westwood area. Here's my card." He held his business card up
to the tall man and Frank, then handed it to Bloomgarden, who studied
it. "I'm not trying to drum up business or anything." Bloomgarden
started to put the card into his jacket pocket, but the exterminator
snatched it back. "The point is, years back we developed this spray to
kill roaches and other household pests. But all it ended up doing was
creating a new breed of roaches. Bigger and stronger and harder to
kill." He nodded rapidly at his own words.

"Yeah," Frank remarked, smiling, "so maybe we'll all thrive on smog and
mercury poisoning and all the rest." He looked absently at his watch.
"Jesus, what's taking so long?"

The others nodded and shook their heads in chorus.

The exterminator pulled a deck of cards from the inside pocket of his
plaid sports jacket. "Anybody want to join in a little game of gin?"

Nobody answered.

"I hope she's not having any trouble," Frank said softly. "She gave
birth to the last one in about forty minutes. I thought they said the
second one came faster."

"What are you complaining about?" said the exterminator, grinning
proudly. "My wife's been in labor for six hours."

"Yeah," the other two nodded.

A baby's cry sounded down the corridor. They all turned toward the door
for a silent moment, then shook their heads.

Bloomgarden stepped over to the cigarette machine in the corner and
dropped coins into the slot. He waited, looking nervously around at the
others, then

23

back at the machine. He rapped it gently. Nothing came out. He slapped
it. Then he pounded it, puffing mightily. "Damn thing," he whined,
"stole my fifty cents!" He looked around at the others. "Stole my fifty
cents, just like that." He seemed near tears.

Frank went over and took him by the shoulders, steering him away from
the machine. "Here," he handed him two quarters, "here's your money
back. And here's a couple cigarettes. Take it easy. Just sit down and
read a magazine."

Bloomgarden sat down and shook his head.

"This everybody's first?" Frank asked. The three nodded. "My second. It
doesn't help to get rattled." He smiled. The others looked grim.

The exterminator dealt a hand of solitaire. "You know what's the biggest
problem in the Beverly Hills area?" ? "Money," Frank said.

"Snails. Slugs and snails. They can wipe out a whole lawn in just a few
weeks. Tike folks feel sorry for them. They're not your usual pest, not
like your ants and roaches. Folks just hate seeing all them cute snails
lying on their lawn dead."

Frank sighed. He walked over and leaned against the door, looking into
the corridor. "Isn't anybody in a happier profession?"

"Siding," said the tall man. "Aluminum, plastic brick."

"I am," said Bloomgarden. "Mortician. My job is bringing a ray of
happiness to people who are trying to cope." He smiled professionally,
nodding at the others. "What's yours?"

"Public relations."

"Oh? You mean politics?" j

"No, no," Frank continued, looking down the corridor, "businesses, all
kinds of businesses. Toys, for example. Kids' toys."

"That's really interesting," Bloomgarden said. "Why, just think, right
here in this room, we represent the care of people from cradle to-"

24

It's Alive!

"Here's a magazine," Frank cut in, handing Bloom-garden a copy of
Natural History. "Why don't you just read for a while."

In the delivery room, Dr. Francis worked between the elevated stirrups
that held Lenore's legs. Lenore groaned occasionally, in
semi-consciousness. "You're doing fine," Francis said. "Just keep
breathing evenly. The head's on its way."

A nurse patted Lenore's brow with a towel.

"Soon, Dr. Francis?" Lenore mumbled. "Is it soon?"

"Yes, yes. Just keep pushing, and breathing steadily. Help me, now, if
you can. Certainly is a big baby, Mrs. Davis. Do you remember how big
Chris was?"

"Seven something. Oooh, it hurts! I'm sorry."

"Seven?" Dr. Francis glanced around at the nurses and interns assisting
him. "This one will be at least ten, maybe eleven, or more."

He stepped away from Lenore and leaned close to the intern. "Enormous,"
he whispered. "Very strange."

Suddenly Lenore convulsed in a drawn-out moan. "It wants to be born,
doctor, can't you see? It wants to be born now!"

Dr. Francis and the intern quickly stepped back to their work. "Head's
coming now, Mrs. Davis, right now. There, I just cut you a little. That
wasn't bad, was it?"

Her head rocked back and forth.

"Now, the head, a little more. I'm putting the forceps on the baby's
head now. Help me a little, one more push . . ."

The intern's eyes widened, and he stumbled back against the wall,
staring . . .

25

Frank leaned against the fathers'-room door, staring idly down the
corridor, at the far end of which he could see the double swinging doors
leading to the delivery room.

A scream came from behind those doors. Then another, many. The
delivery-room doors swung violently open, and a doctor staggered out.
His green uniform and gauze mask were spattered with blood, and he
clutched at his throat with his rubber gloves. He lurched several steps,
gargling in his own blood, and fell, still clutching his throat.

To the screams from the delivery room were added those of the nurses at
their station as they gaped, horrified.

Frank tore down the corridor and dropped to his knees beside the doctor.
He carefully pulled down the mask, and saw that it was Dr. Francis.
"What, doctor? What?" He sprang to his feet and spun wildly around,
looking for help.

More piercing screams came from the delivery room, then crashes of metal
and glass.

Frank was by now surrounded by nurses, standing or on their knees,
quaking, crying hysterically. He pushed savagely through them, fighting
his way to the delivery-room doors, unable to hear Dr. Francis choke on
his last words, "It's . . . alive . . ."

"He's dying!" a nurse sobbed behind him. "The doctor's dying!"

Frank burst through the doors and down the short hallway to the delivery
room itself.

And then he stopped, swayed, and groped for support against the door,
staring in at a scene of carnage. He slid inside and along the wall of
the room, shaking his head slowly in stunned disbelief.

26

It's Alive!

Interns and nurses were sprawled grotesquely around the floor in pools
of blood. Equipment tables were upended, surgical gear scattered around
the room. In the middle of it, rising above the massacre on the silver
steel bed sheathed in white, lay Lenore, her legs still in the stirrups.
She was quiet and still.

"Lenore, Lenore-" Frank choked and stumbled toward her, coughing. He
slipped in the blood and fell over her, clutching her, hugging her.
"Lenore-"

Her eyes opened slowly. "My baby? My baby?"

"My god, Lenore, what happened? What happened, Lenore?"

"Where's my baby?"

An intern, propped in a corner like a torn rag doll, groaned softly. His
eyes opened, then .closed. He raised a hand to his ripped throat, then
dropped it.

Other doctors and nurses now raced into the room, stopping short just
inside the door when they met the scene. Then they began scrambling,
over the bodies. The intern in the corner gasped and gurgled. A doctor
bent over him.

"Alive . . . gone . . ." The intern raised his eyes to the ceiling, to
the skylight, then fell over on his side, his head thumping onto the
floor, his eyes still staring.

The doctor bending over him looked up into the skylight. A small hole
had been broken through it, the jagged edges of glass tinged with blood.

"Everyone's dead," whimpered a nurse, who sank to her hands and knees.

"Where's my baby . . ." Lenore murmured.

"WHERE'S OUR BABY?" Frank screamed. He reached out this way and that,
clutching at the doctors and nurses who were slipping and falling in the
gore to check the bodies for life. "WHERE THE HELL'S OUR BABY?"

Two sets of arms clamped him from the rear. He struggled insanely, but
they pulled him away from Lenore and pinned him against the wall.

A doctor hunched over Lenore, examining her

27

quickly. He turned to Frank, his face expressionless, his voice icily
calm. "Your wife's going to be all right. She's not hurt. She's all right."

"The baby-she had the baby, didn't she?"

"Yes. Of course. The umbilical cord has been severed." Then, low, to one
of the interns: "But not surgically. More like it's been chewed
through!" He nodded to the two interns who held Frank. "Better get him
out of here."

A nurse keeled over in a faint, and an intern toppled onto her, both
becoming sick on the floor.

Frank wrestled with the arms that held him to the wall. "Where's the
baby, for chrissake! What the hell -in God's name-Jesus Christ, somebody-"

The doctor motioned toward the door. "Get him outta here, dammit!"

Frank planted his elbows against the wall and clenched his fists as he
strained against the grip of the interns. "You gotta tell me-"

"You better come with us," one of them said. "I'll get you a sedative.
You can lie down. Your wife's okay. Easy now-"

"TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF ME!" Frank lurched forward and yanked one intern
around, sending him slithering to his knees. "YOU GOTTA TELL ME WHERE MY
CHILD IS! GODDAM YOU! SOMEBODY'S GOTTA-"

A third intern grabbed his free arm and twisted it behind him. Frank
snapped his head back in pain. They steered Frank out of the room. Tears
rolled down Frank's face as he stumbled along with them, but no more
words came. He twisted his head back to see the doctor in the delivery
room staring up at the hole in the skylight.

28

It's Alive!

The first siren howled in the night, then another, and another, as from
different points police cars converged on the small hospital.

Frank felt numb. He was lying on a bed somewhere in the hospital.
Horrifying images swept past his closed eyes. The place was alive with
strange sounds: feet running, beds being rolled along; voices, some
calm, some crying, some pleading, some directing. ". . . Over here,
officer, this one . . . Oh my god ... It looks like it climbed up ...
Please, nurse, just do as I say . . . The skylight ... I count five,
including . . . She seems okay . . . Couldn't have been more than two
minutes . . . Nobody said anything, except that intern there . . . Maybe
the wife will be able to ... Nobody else was hi here . . . No, officer,
nobody knows anything . . . Headquarters is sending . . . No, the hole's
not big enough for a grown . . . I'm sorry, sergeant, but that's all we
... Yes, autopsies . . . Like claws, an animal ... I don't care what the
press wants . . ."

Frank opened his eyes. "Press?"

A doctor stood over him, looking closely at a hypodermic needle as he
depressed the plunger, sending out a tiny spurt of fluid. "This will
calm you for a little while, relax you."

"I don't want to relax! I want to talk to my wife."

"Plenty of tune." He wiped Frank's arm with alcohol and stuck the needle
in. "We all want to talk to her. She's the only one who might be able to
tell us what happened."

"But our baby, is it dead?"

"No sir, I don't think-"

The other doctor in the room hissed.

"That's all I can say."

29

Frank felt the first waves erf sleep advancing on him. He struggled to
stay awake. "The press, I better talk to the press . . . / can handle
them. I know just how to . . ."

Lenore stared up through the fog at the two heads above her. One had a
doctor's green cap on it. The other was hatless. Gray curly hair. They
were not familiar.

"It hurt," she said weakly, "it hurt very much. It was coming. The head
was coming. Forceps . . . the doctor said. I must have passed out." The
faces stared at her, saying nothing. "Why . . . what's wrong? Can I see
my baby now? Will someone bring my baby?" She tried to rise, but had no
strength. "Won't somebody say something? There isn't anything wrong with
it, is there? Please answer me!"

"Just be calm, Mrs. Davis. I'm Dr. Norten. This is Detective Perkins.
Just tell us whatever you remember."

"Detective? Police? Why isn't Frank here? My husband. He'll tell me
everything. He'll tell you everything. Will someone-please gdt my
husband?" She closed her eyes and her chest shook with sobs. "Tell
me-that-my baby didn't die! Please tell me it didn't die!"

"Mrs. Davis." Detective Perkins, with his sad, furrowed face, leaned
over her. "We believe your baby is very much alive. We need to know what
happened to cause-"

The doctor elbowed him sharply.

Lenore looked at the detective. "I don't know. Except I had my baby.
Frank will know everything. Or Dr. Francis. Why isn't Dr. Francis here?"

The doctor gently pulled the detective away from

30

the bed, far enough so that Lenore could no longer hear them. "I'm
afraid she's not going to be able to help, just now."

"But somebody's got to-"

"Lieutenant," the doctor's voice rasped impatiently, "we've got several
people dead here. They are the only ones who would know what-"

"But this one's alive, doctor-the mother. And we've got another one
alive, one 'something.' Out there somewhere. I can't help the dead. I've
got to know what we're after."

"You're after a baby, lieutenant, a baby that might have killed five
people. That's all anybody knows."

Several confused and alarmed ambulatory patients milled around the night
receptionist's desk. She shook her head and tried to calm them. "I'm
sorry. Just our rules for tonight. No one's allowed in the maternity
section. You'll have to return to your rooms."

Nurses had run up to the patients by now, and were leading them back to
their rooms.

A uniformed policeman came through the doors that led into the hallway
of the maternity ward and helped the nurses herd away the frightened
patients. "Sorry for the noise, folks. There's been a slight accident.
Nothing for you to worry about . . ."

The receptionist was on the phone. "I'm sorry, but I really don't know
exactly what's going on. I have no information. . . . That's right, they
don't answer my questions either. A scare of some kind. But I'm sure
it's just a precaution. You know how doctors get, about staph infections
or such things. . . . Later on today, or perhaps tomorrow . . ."

A set of flashing lights appeared on a car outside. This one was not
police, however, but press. White

31

31

lettering on the door said, "KBOP Radio-TV." A reporter with a note pad
got out and pawed his way against the outcoming crowd of would-be
visitors. He was followed by a cameraman lugging his machinery, and a
sound man with his audio equipment slung from a shoulder strap. They
were stopped at the door by the police officer.

"Sorry-"

"Just let me see Ned Schultz, okay? The hospital PR. Get Ned out here,
okay?"

The officer shut the door and retreated. A few moments later a dapper
man in a blue blazer, with slicked-back black hair, came to the door.
"You wanted me, Buzz? You can't get in, just can't. Everything's havoc
in here."

The reporter beckoned him outside, and the PR man stepped out. "Buzz,
there's nothing I can say, absolutely nothing. It's a madhouse. You'll
have to deal with the cops on this one."

The reporter stuck out his hahd. "You always play ball with us, Ned. And
we always stick by you."

The PR man nodded, and they shook. Schultz's hand closed over a $20
bill. He leaned forward to speak confidentially. "Look, Bu^z, I'll do
what I can, okay? But you got to protect me, right? Nothing gets traced
back to me. I don't know what I can get for you, but I'll get something.
Move your car, okay? Around the corner . . ."

Led by a police officer and a nurse, Frank approached a door on which
hung a red sign: "Absolutely No Visitors."

Another policeman standing outside the door nodded at them and pushed
the door' open.

Frank went immediately to Lenore's bedside.

32

Two men stepped up to him. "I'm Dr. Norten," said the man in green,
"chief resident of the hospital. This is Lieutenant Perkins, a
detective. She's coming out of sedation now, Mr. Davis."

Frank ignored them both and leaned over the bed. "Lenore honey, can you
hear me?" She opened her eyes gradually. "Don't be afraid, sweetheart."

"Why didn't they let you come to me before?" Her voice was languid with
weariness and drugs. "Did they tell you what-"

"Just rest, darling. There's been an awful mix-up. Somebody might have .
. . left with our baby, and I'm holding this hospital responsible." He
glanced around angrily at the two others in the room. He hadn't meant to
bring up the subject like this. "But it's okay, honey, I'll get it
straightened out."

"You might as well know, Mr. Davis," said Detective Perkins in a low,
firm voice, "nobody took your baby. That hole in the skylight wasn't
large enough for any adult to get through."

Dr. Norten gritted his teeth as he eyed the detective. "Actually, that's
correct, Mr. Davis. Apparently it exited through the skylight. There's
no other way out of the delivery room, except the door, and there were
people out there at all times."

Frank looked from one face to the other. "What do you mean? What are you
saying?"

"We're saying," Perkins explained, his face stony, "that your baby,
whatever it is, got out by itself. After attacking the others."

"No . . ." Frank stared at them, shaking his head, "no, what the hell
are you-"

"I've been hearing things, Frank," Lenore said slowly, "through the
door. When they thought I was asleep. Crazy things. Frank . . ." Tears
rolled down her cheeks. "Why would anything like this happen? Happen to
us-" Sobs stopped her voice.

Frank caressed her forehead. He looked up at the doctor. He swallowed
hard. "What's going on, doc

33

tor? Has everything gone crazy? Go ahead and tell us, tell us what
happened."

Norten frowned. "This, uh, baby, Mr. Davis, this baby of yours, is
apparently some kind of, uh, weU ..."

"Just tell us, for chrissake!"

"... a very peculiar being, apparently. Quite singular. Small enough to
be born of your wife, obviously. Yet strong enough to attack grown
people, to reach the skylight ..."

"They've been calling our baby a monster, Frank." Lenore's face
reflected her own terror at the words.

"Monster?" Frank looked at Lenore, then at the doctor, then at the
detective. His eyes were pinched in attempts to comprehend. "I don't see-"

"It appears that it killed five people in that room, Mr. Davis," said
Detective Perkins, "tore their throats out."

"No, no . . ."

Lenore sobbed silently.

"And escaped through the skylight, on its own. Of course, that's still
speculation, partly. But that's what we got so far."

"But, but, why do you call it a monster? Did anybody see it?"

Dr. Norten cleared his throat. " 'Monster' would not be my word, Mr.
Davis. Some kind of mutant, perhaps. Nobody alive has seen it. So we're
guessing, to some degree. We want to find out, just as you do, what it is."

"But, killed? It couldn't kill. Doctor, a baby couldn't kill!"

"We don't know this baby's physical and psychological makeup. We are all
creatures of flesh and blood, including this offspring. That's why I
must ask you and your wife to submit to certain tests, Mr. Davis."

"I won't!" Frank clenched his fists as he wept. "I refuse! I won't have
anything to do with it!"

"We think," Dr. Norten went on, "that you have an

34

obligation to medicine, to science-to say nothing of the law-to help us
determine what might have caused This ah, mutation."

"But this, this is insane!" Frank bit his lips, his eyes beseeching the
others in the room. "This whole night is an insane dream!"

"You don't think it was anything in us, do you, doctor?" Lenore's eyes
were suddenly clear, her voice stable. "You see, we have another child.
He's eleven years old and he's perfectly normal. All his fingers and
toes ..."

Frank searched her eyes, and didn't recognize them.

". . . And the two of us, you can see we're perfectly normal too. Why,
we're the most normal people in town. Frank is in public relations, and
I teach school part-time. We're just fine."

Dr. Norten took a step closer to her, a sheaf of papers in his hand.
"You've never been exposed to radioactivity, that you knew of, Mrs.
Davis? Or undergone particularly extensive X-ray treatments? Or perhaps
suffered an accidental overdose of something?"

"No!" Frank stepped between the doctor and Le-nore. "None of that.
Nothing. Balderdash!"

"Possible genetic damage can't be ruled out, Mr. Davis," the doctor
said, blinking once.

"Nothing can be ruled out at this point in time," said Detective Perkins.

"Must I stay here, Frank?" Lenore smoothed the blanket on top of her.
"I'm feeling much better now. Why can't I just go home?"

"I'm sorry," Dr. Norten said, "but we can't release you just yet."

"I've gotta get my wife outta this hellhole."

Perkins expanded his chest. "I must remind you, Mr. Davis, that the
hospital has the legal right to detain Mrs. Davis, under the circumstances."

"She's not a prisoner, dammit! I'm paying the bills here."

"Tut-tut, Mr. Davis." The doctor examined his

35

papers. "We're not worried about the bills, I'm sure. I see here you've
got all the proper insurance. Oh no, it's not the bills."

"Manslaughter," Detective Perkins said stiffly, "crime scene. This whole
place is a crime scene. Roped off. Nobody enters or leaves without my
say-so."

Dr. Norten patted the detective on the shoulder. "I'm sure Lieutenant
Perkins doesn't mean to sound harsh. Nonetheless, we have a very serious
and difficult problem on our hands. May I ask you, Mrs. Davis, how long
had you been taking birth-control pills before this pregnancy?"

"Several years, doctor. But I stopped taking them a couple of years ago.
For a while, more recently, I took fertility pills. But I'd stopped them
too, before I got pregnant;"

"Oh? That's quite odd."

"Look, doctor," Frank said, "no need to get personal."

"Only in the sense that I am, after all, a physician. Now, Mrs. Davis,
the files of the late Dr. Francis indicate that you inquired about an
abortion eight months ago."

"Dr. Francis is dead?"

"I'm afraid, madam, he was one of those attacked. And, yes, he is."

"Doesn't everybody consider abortion nowadays?" Frank asked, surprised
at his own matter-of-fact tone. "It was just a question of convenience,
and then we decided we wanted the baby."

Detective Perkins harrumphed. "We all make mistakes- Uh, I apologize for
that."

Frank glared at him.

"So now," Dr. Norten went on, "let me make sure I have this. First you
didn't want a child, hence the birth-control pills. Correct? Ah-hah.
Then you wanted a child quite badly, hence the! fertility pills.
Correct? Just so. Then you considered >an abortion-"

"Correct, dammit!" Frank felt like spitting, but

36

It's Alive!

figured he'd be arrested. "We haven't done anything most people don't
do. We're perfectly normal. This is all quackery. Gan't you see what
we've been through?"

"I don't like it here anymore," Lenore said softly. "The walls, the
smells, the sounds in the corridors, the stories, the questions, the
hurts, the bright lights- the lights scared us, in the delivery room.
Everything reminds me of what happened-what you say happened. I'd like
to go home now. You people can call me there, or at school."

Her tone was bland, cold. Frank didn't like it. She sounded like a
recording. "Doctor, my wife is ... This hospital will be to blame for
her mental state. If you force her to stay here against her will, you'll
have to answer for what happens."

The doctor turned to Perkins. "May I talk to you outside, lieutenant?"

"Yeah."

They nodded at Frank, and went out the door, leaving him alone with Lenore.

"Come over here, Frank. You haven't even touched me."

He bent over her and caressed her forehead, as he had done before, when
she was waking.

"That feels good. You're not afraid of me, are you, Frank?"

He forced a chuckle. "I've always been afraid of you, especially those
eyes."

"Strange to think of that, that you might be afraid of me-now."

"Afraid? Nutty idea. Why should I be afraid? There must be some rational
explanation for all this."

"Yes. If it matters. Explanations don't always matter. I tried to tell
you, all along. How many did it kill, Frank? Four?"

"Look, honey, I don't believe any of that-"

"Was it four?"

"Five, they said. Including Dr. Francis. But those oafs don't know what
they're talking about. A newborn baby couldn't-"

37

"Dr. Francis. He said it was a very large baby. I remember he said that.
Before he saw it. When it was still inside me. You found them, didn't
you? All of them. You were the first one in there, somebody said."

"Please, Lenore." He held her hand tightly. "Don't talk about it."

"Did you see it, Frank? You can tell me. I won't tell anybody. Didn't
you see at least a glimpse? Did it have our eyes?"

"I didn't see anything. It was gone."

"It climbed all the way up to the skylight?"

"Lenore, please, there's no need to torture yourself about-"

"Isn't that what they said, to the skylight?"

"Yes." Frank thought he saw the briefest glint of a smile on her lips,
and he shuddered.

"It must be very strong for such a little thing. Frank, doesn't anybody
know what it looks like?"

"No, I guess not. Not yet. Everybody who could have seen it was . . ."

"Of course not. Nobody knows yet. But soon, everybody will know, isn't
that right, Frank? Everybody will know just what our baby looks like."

He shuddered again, and gripped her hand.

"You know what, Frank? I don't think it's ugly."

"Lenore, for goodness sake, stop talking about it."

"It's just different from other babies. It's afraid and doesn't want to
be hurt. It's stronger than other babies, and it gets violent when it's
afraid. But I don't believe it's ugly. You don't either, do you, Frank?"

"You're exhausted, honey. You don't know what you're saying. Maybe it
would be better if you stayed here, just one more day."

She looked at him, narrowing her eyes. "I want to know, do you think our
baby's ugly?"

"I don't know, Lenore. I guess it's in the eyes of the beholder. And I
haven't seen it."

"You don't want me to come home."

38

"Of course I do." He rubbed her cheek. "You know I do."

"You don't want me to come home because I had an ugly baby."

"No, no, I do, I don't care about the baby, I-"

"You don't care about our baby?"

He shook his head rapidly. "I do, I do! I'm going around in circles." He
kissed her on the cheek and turned toward the door. "I'd better go out
and check on those two, the doctor and the cop. I don't trust them. Can
you imagine those jerks, trying to blame us?"

"Well," Lenore murmured softly, "we are the parents."

The strange smile again flitted across her face.

"Let's not argue," Frank said. He blew her a kiss and stepped out into
the corridor.

The doctor and the lieutenant stopped whispering when they saw him.

"We've decided that your wife can go home," Dr. Norten said, "tomorrow
morning. Or, that is to say, later this morning."

"So you needn't bother bringing your lawyer into this," added Detective
Perkins.

"Who said anything about my-"

"I'm sure you realize," the detective went oh, pulling his ear, "that
it's in everyone's best interest to keep this quiet for the time being.
In your business, I'm sure you understand about the timing of, er,
publicity. So let's just keep this between us, at least until we find
out what's become of the, er, infant."

"Christ, no word yet? Strange that nobody's seen-"

"I don't see how it could survive the night," said Norten, "without
nourishment or clothing."

"Yeah," said Perkins. "Like any animal, though, it's probably holed up
somewhere."

"It's not an animal!" Frank snarled. "Whatever it is, you can't classify
it as an animal. It's human, buster, and that's disgusting to you, isn't
it? Isn't it, Dr. Norten?"

39

"Um, 'disgusting' isn't a word I would use."

"Kills like an animal," huffed Detective Perkins, "according to what
I've seen. And when we find it, we'll have to destroy it like a crazed
animal."

Frank suddenly felt beaten. "I don't care. I suppose you have to do
whatever is necessary. I don't want to hear about it, or think about it,
or have anything to do with it."

"Glad you feel that way," said the detective. "Makes our job easier."

"And I hope your wife understands, as well," Dr. Norten added.

"What's to understand? It's better not to think about it."

"But we have to think about it," the detective said, "in our business."

"Of course."

Dr. Norten edged toward Lepore's door. "I'll just peek in and say good
night to your wife, Mr. Davis."

"I'll drive you home, Mr. Dayis, if you got nothing against a prowl car."

"No thanks. I've got my car."

"Don't leave town."

"What? Of course not. I'll be home, if you need me. Or at my office."

Frank stepped into Lenore's room behind Dr. Norten.

Lenore was sitting up in bed, combing her hair. "I'm feeling better now."

Frank took her hand. "We've resolved our little conflict. I'll be
picking you up around eleven this morning, to go home."

"That's fine."

He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Good night, honey."

She giggled.

"What's the matter?"

"I wonder if it's a boy or a girl. That was so important to us, wasn't
it? And now we may never find out. Good night, love."

40

Frank stepped into the corridor and almost tripped over two orderlies
who were mopping the floor. He grimaced in disgust, imagining what they
were mopping up. He strode briskly past the receptionist and out the
front door, which one of Perkins's men opened for him.

His Corfams clopped on the concrete entranceway, echoing against the
building. He stopped and listened -he didn't know for what. Police cars
were parked all around, the dark forms of their drivers inside. They
paid him little notice; evidently Perkins had got word outside that he
should be permitted to leave Community Hospital. It was quiet out here.
Slowly he scanned the thick hedges that ringed the hospital. He shook
his head and continued to Ms car, still where he'd left it, directly in
front of the hospital entrance. Police cars were parked behind it. On
his windshield, glistening with dew, was a parking ticket. He snatched
it and ripped it up, scattering the pieces into the street.

He -slid into the driver's seat and put the key into the ignition. Then
he sat still, turning his head to look into the backseat. He stared at
the emptiness. Then he sighed, started the motor, and drove away.

A block down the street he passed another row of thick hedges. A segment
of the hedge moved. The movement followed the path of his car for a few
feet, then stopped.

Frank drove nervously, stopping abruptly for red lights, bucking forward
when they changed. He spun the radio dial back and forth, and finally
got a news broadcast:

". . . Police still offer no explanation for the mysterious five deaths
that occurred last night at Community

41

Hospital in Westwood. Informed sources at the hospital allege that the
deaths followed the birth, only moments before, of an infant in a
mutated form. KBOP has acquired exclusive information naming Mr. and
Mrs. Frank Davis, of Westwood, as the parents of the infant in question.
The whereabouts of the newborn child are not known-"

Frank viciously switched off the radio and slammed his fist into the
dashboard. "They named us! The bastards named us! Don't they have any PR
guy at that stinking hospital?"

He pulled into his driveway, Ms lights picking up a glint off the
backyard swimming pool. Though dawn streaked the sky at the horizon] it
was still quite dark. He got out of the car and stood, slowly letting
his eyes fall around the lawn, the bushes, the perimeter of the house.
There was no sound save that which his hard-soled shoes made on the|
macadam and, as he approached the house, on the manicured grass.

Climbing the four steps to his front door, he slid the key into the
lock, turned it, and shoved the door open. Then he turned and looked
back again at the lawn and the shrubbery. He left the front door ajar as
he switched on the foyer light, two living-room lamps, and the overhead
fluorescents in the kitchen. Then he went back and shut the front door,
flipped the knob of the double-lock closed, and connected the security
chain.

Frank had never been in this house, at dawn, alone.

He stood for a few moments in the silence of the well-lit downstairs.
Then he walked stiffly into the kitchen, feeling his muscles ache with
exhaustion, and pulled open the refrigerator door. Plenty of milk (you
could always tell when Chris wasn't home), cold cuts,

42

It's Alive!

salad greens, cheeses, various leftovers. Nothing appealed. He pulled
open the freezer door of the side-by-side. Piles of meat-steak, chops,
roasts, hamburger. He was too tired to wait while a frozen hunk of meat
cooked. He closed the door.

He wasn't really that hungry.

He crossed the living room to the den, to the bar, and poured himself
two fingers of Chivas. He wasn't really thirsty, he never drank much,
but he needed to relax, and sleep. He took off his shoes. Taking a sip,
he leaned on the bar. Ice. Could never take it straight. He traipsed to
the kitchen, grabbed some cubes from the freezer, and headed back for
the den, glancing up the stairs as he passed.

When he reached the den, he halted. Slowly and quietly he put his drink
down. He looked back at the stairwell. Nonsense. He padded across the
living room and looked up the stairs. Foolishness. Still . . .

He went quietly up.

Upstairs he switched on the hall light. Doors to all four bedrooms were
closed, as usual. Habits. Shut the doors when you leave. You too, Chris.
He opened the door to Chris's bedroom and flipped up the light switch.
Just as Chris had left it-bed not made. Ordinarily there was a rule. Not
last night.

He went into his bedroom and turned on the light. Of course, their bed
was not made either. Lenore's dresser drawers were still open. Imagine.
She'd be appalled.

The guest room was spotless, tidy, sterile, as always. Necessary, in his
business. Never could tell when you had to entertain a client. Couldn't
tell an overnighting client to wait in the hall while you fixed up his
bed. No client had ever slept in his house. But you never could tell.
Never have anything messy, in your office or your home, that a client
might see. "Good PR men," Buck had once said to him, "wear clean underwear."

The nursery room. He turned the knob, pushed the

43

43

door open, and reached around, before entering, to feel for the light
switch.

A yowl. Something leaped from the darkness. Frank swung his arm in front
of his face and stumbled backward into the hall.

The cat landed at the top of the stairs, arched its back, then sat down
and licked itself.

"Biscuit! Damm it. Whew! Been locked in there all night?" He went over
and picked up the Siamese, rubbing its belly, then put the cat down and
went back to the nursery and turned on the light.

Everything just as they had left it, the toys Lenore had been playing
with still in the middle of the floor. He knelt to pick them up, and put
them neatly back in their place in the corner. The white crib with its
gay quilt stood like a forlorn shrine.

Frank backed out of the room, and quietly closed the door, as if not to
wake the baby.

He went back downstairs and drained his drink. Pulling off his tie, he
slumped into his soft leather den chair. The phone rang. He reached over
and picked up the bar extension.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Franklin Davis?"

"Who's calling?"

"This is the Los Angeles Times. This Mr. Davis? We'd like to ask you a few-"

"Davis don't live here anymore. This is the cops."

"Please don't pull that on us, Mr. Davis. We're a responsible newspaper.
There is no way of avoiding this. It's an important story, no getting
away from it. And we'd like to give you the opportunity to-"

Frank slammed down the receiver, breathing heavily. Then he took the
receiver off the hook and laid it on the bar.

"No more calls from those cranks!"

Then he unlocked the antique desk and pulled open the top drawer; he
took out a .38 revolver, checked to see that it was unloaded, then aimed
it at the wall.

44

It's Alive!

"Any of those nosy newsmen come around here, I'll scare the pants off 'em."

He put the gun back. No I won't, he thought. Think if it hit the papers
that a gun-crazed father threatened members of the press. Think of
Clayton Associates.

He sat down and stared at the wall.

In moments he felt himself dozing. He shook his head, pulled himself
painfully erect, and dragged through the living room. Checking the locks
on the front door, he headed for the stairs. Then he stopped, turned,
and went back through the kitchen.

The hook was in place over the cellar door.

He started again for the stairs when Biscuit brushed past him
languorously. Getting no attention, the cat shrugged its shoulders and
continued through the kitchen to the back door. It looked back once to
see if there was any final chance for petting, and, discerning none,
nosed through the two-way flap at the bottom of the door and disappeared
into the night.

The back door was bolted. Frank watched the flap drop shut behind the
cat, covering-he blackly enjoyed taunting himself-a hole something of
the size of that he had seen at the hospital, in the skylight.

He chuckled at his own morbidity, and went to bed.

The light of dawn spread dark shadows from buildings along the street. A
bus stopped at an intersection lined with factories which, while silent
now, would hum with activity in a couple of hours. A man in a cheap
tuxedo with rhinestone-studded lapels got off the bus, carrying a
trombone case in one arm and a morning paper in the other.

The bus pulled away and the man put down the case and took the newspaper
from under his arm,

45

unfolding it for the front page, when he heard a faint whimpering.

He looked up. The whimpering came again.

He knitted his brows and turned his head slowly, listening. The sound
came again, low, plaintive.

A baby's cry.

"What the ... ?"

He picked up the case and began walking slowly past the darkened
factory. The cry was a bit louder. The hiccuping cry of a tiny infant.
He stopped at the head of a narrow alley between buildings. The cry was
coming from deep in the alley.

"Who in hell would leave . . . ?"

He searched the shadows with his eyes for signs of somebody-surely
somebody was in there with the baby. He could see nothing.

Putting down his case and paper, he walked tentatively into the alley,
feeling his way along the building.

"Hey, baby, easy now, it's okay. Somebody leave you here in the dark all
by yourself? It's okay. No wonder you're upset. We're going to take you
to a nice, warm police station. Where the hell are you?"

The cry became a wail, then a shriek.

"Hey!"

The shriek was joined by his scream. He could not see what quickly
clawed the life from him.

Across a nearby back lot, a house window went up. A woman's voice.
"Who's out there?"

She could.hear nothing more, not even the sound of something slithering
or crawling away.

The window closed.

Police Sergeant Whipple thumbed through the pile of the night's arrest
records and reports. Then he pushed them aside and picked up the morning
Times. His

46

eye fell immediately to the headline halfway down the front page:

FIVE DIE IN HOSPITAL; BIG INFANT SOUGHT

WESTWOOD, October 10-Police today would not, or could not, reveal any
clues in the mysterious deaths last night of three doctors and two
nurses at Community Hospital.

The five had reportedly been involved in the delivery, moments before,
of a baby to Mrs. Franklin Davis of Westwood. The baby is listed as missing.

The five victims (names listed below) apparently died from throat wounds
similar to what might be inflicted by, as one source put it, "one of
those little hand rakes you use in flower boxes."

Police spokesman Det. It. Pinkins said that rumors that the attacks were
carried out by a mutant infant were "premature."

He said that the police were not ruling out possible murder-kidnapping,
or even the explosion of some warfare anti-personnel device that could
have killed the adults and propelled the infant out through the
skylight, leaving a small hole (see pictures, page 5).

A confidential hospital source, however, insists that the Davis infant,
as yet unnamed by the parents, was in fact a huge mutant, and that it is
currently the primary suspect in the attacks.

Attempts to reach Mr. Davis, a public-relations executive with Clayton
Associates in Beverly Hills, have been unavailing.

Police, already under fire recently for lackluster performance, have
shrouded their investigation in secrecy, except to say that a "special
unit" has been formed to work on the case and to search for the missing
infant.

As often pointed out by this newspaper, such "special units" in the past
have had no success at all in apprehending . ..

47

Sergeant Whipple wadded the newspaper into a ball and threw it at the
ceiling. "This rag has been out to get us for years!" he bellowed. "And
who the hell is Pinkins?"

"Perkins, sir," said a patrolman nearby. "After twenty years, they still
never get it right."

"Hogwash! They make it sound like we're doing nothing! We got twenty
guys out all night on this one case, risking their damn lives, and they
make it sound like we don't know our assignment from a hole in the ground!"

"You call me, sergeant?"

"Oh, Lieutenant Perkins. No sir. Just this story in the paper got me so
upset."

"Live with it, sergeant. That's cause we can't give em any of the true
facts at this point in time. We're trying to play it low key. But don't
worry, we'll get this kid. We'll solve this like we solve most tough cases."

"Sir?"

"Informants. Sooner or later somebody'll spot this kid, or mutant, or
whatever, and tip us off."

"I sure hope so, lieutenant. My wife is scared to death."

"Everybody's scared. Six deaths already."

"Six?"

"Yeah. Musician on his way home early this morning. Kid caught him in an
alley. We think it was the kid. It's alleged to be the kid. Same
wounds-throat ripped out. We're saying it was a dog. Playing it low key."

"Whew!"

"Yeah. Whatever it is, it really gets around-fast. We're trying to get
some triangulation on its movements now, see what direction it's headed in."

"Any clues?"

"Nothing solid yet. We got people calling in from everywhere. They see a
shadow, they call in. They hear footsteps, they call. My guess is it'll
try and get out of town."

48

"So the thing is still alive."

"Oh it's alive, all right. It got through one night, it'll get through
more. Let me look at those reports."

"This whole thing's got me damn wrought up."

"I don't blame you, sergeant. Monster baby on the loose. But we'll get
it. I won't sleep until we do."

"Nobody will, sir."

Frank pushed his way through a mob of shouting newsmen at the door to
his office building. Photographers' flashes went off in his face.

"Mr. Davis, can you just tell us . . ."

"What's your reaction to ..."

"How's your wife taking all this . . ."

He shoved and elbowed reporters away. "Leave me alone! I've got nothing
to say!"

Building security guards kept the press back as Frank at last reached
the elevator and rode up to his floor.

As he stepped out, the heads of both the receptionist and the assistant
secretary turned toward him, their conversation ceased. Then quickly
they looked away. He walked quickly to his office, straightening his tie
as he went.

His secretary followed him into the inner office.

"Oh, good morning, Mary. I can only stay a few minutes. I have to pick
up my wife at the hospital at eleven. Can you reschedule my appointments
for the rest of the day?" He thumbed through his desk calendar without
sitting down.

"Sir, I think Mr. Clayton wants to talk to you."

"Tomorrow. Now, about that meeting with Marcus -maybe we could make it
for cocktails at 6:30 at the Hilton. I know he wants to approve the
campaign by the end of the week."

49

"Excuse me, sir, but I think you better see Mr. Clayton now. He said
it's urgent."

"Okay, okay. I'll be right in. Take care of my schedule, will you?"

"Surely."

Clayton smiled broadly as he met Frank at the door. "Come on in, Frank,
good to see you." He clapped him on the back. "Come on, sit down. You
look exhausted." Frank

dropped into the leather chair.

Clayton stood behind his desk. "You eaten anything, Frank?"

"No." ?

"Sylvia." His secretary appeared at the door. "Get Mr. Davis a couple of
poached eggs on English muffins and a side of Canadian bacon. And a tall
glass of fresh-squeezed O.J. That oughta do the trick for you, Frank.
Can't have you collapsing on us, right?"

"Look, Buck, I can't eat anything-"

"Go ahead, Sylvia, scoot' She bowed and left. Buck leaned forward over
his desk, planting his square hands on several file folders. "You can't
let this get you down, Frank. It could happen to anyone. That's what
they say."

"They?"

"I spoke to the hospital."

"They tell you anything?"

"Well," he smiled, "I'm very well connected over there. Vice-president
of the fund-raising committee and so forth. They were very helpful.
Listen, any little thing I can do for you, just . . ."

"No, nothing, thanks. We're getting Lenore out of there today. This
morning, in fact."

Buck raised his eyebrows. "You think that's wise, health-wise?"

"Mary said you needed to talk to me."

"Yeah." Buck nodded thoughtfully, turned to stare out the window for a
few seconds, then looked back at Frank. He folded his arms across his
chest. "Look, Frank, you've got three weeks' vacation coming, and

50

I think it would be a good idea if you took it now."

"But Buck, I can't. The Marcus account. The Stur-bridge campaign. I'm up
to my ears in work. These things can't wait, you know-especially Marcus,
because he wants to approve by the end of the week. Besides, the truth
is I need to work, Buck. It's something to take my mind off things."

Buck smiled and waved his hand. "Hey, fella, everything's gonna be fine.
We'll take care of everything for you." His gaze hardened slightly.
"Frank, our business is public relations. Images. You're so good at
that, you know all about it. The best. You know what goes into it, what
a good position for us is, PR-wise. And right now the fact is you're too
. . . well . . . controversial. Just for the time being, of course-no
fault of yours. But our clients want then-PR men to be, well..."

"Anonymous."

Buck grinned and slapped a fist into his palm. "Right! You got it. I
knew you'd understand. Nobody's got a better grip on this stuff than
you. So the idea is, until you become a little less of a, a celebrity-"

"You're not taking the accounts away from me? Not now, at the last
minute? Hunh, Buck?"

He waved his hand. "Oh, I know how you feel, Frank baby, but you and
your wife need a vacation- more than ever. Perfect time for it." He
leaned across the desk and smiled. "I've got this little place near St.
Thomas in the Virgin Islands-you've heard me talk about it: exquisite
spot, gorgeous, nothing but sun and sand, no phone, no newspapers. I'll
let you have the key. And you can stay as long as you like. How's that?
Hunh?" He spread his arms, beaming.

"Whatever happened wasn't my fault," Frank said softly, eyes on the
floor, his hands damp with perspiration. "It had nothing to do with me."

"Well, about that, unh . . . course not, Frank. Nobody's talking about
fault around here. Nobody's to

51

blame. That's not the name of the game in our business, right, Frank?
Only results. That's all we care about. You're top-notch in results. But
these things happen, Frank. You know O'Connor, down in accounting? He's
got a retarded kid. Insisted on keeping him right in his own home too.
And nobody thinks about that. Nobody blames him."

"We're not talking about a retarded kid, Buck, and you know it. We're
talking about a monstrosity of some kind."

"Well, sure, I just meant that your baby is-"

"Not my baby, for chrissake!" Frank was suddenly on his feet, his fists
clenched. "It's not my baby! And it's not a baby at all!"

"Hey, hey, calm down." Buck came around the desk and put his arm across
Frank's shoulders, pushing him back down into his chair. "Maybe we'd
better not talk about it right now." ,

"Buck, I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy." He looked up, his eyes
moist, his voice pleading. "I just don't know how to behave. Everybody
saying awful things, asking nasty questions. People sticking microphones
in my face, calling me up . . ."

Clayton laughed weakly. "What you need is a good public-relations firm
to handle this for you."

"Yeah," Frank tried a smile, "but you know as well as I do, this matter
won't be cleared away until that-whatever it is-is dead."

"Yeah." Buck went over to the window and stared out. "Frank, on your way
down, why don't you take the service elevator so you won't have to face
all those media jerks, okay?"

Frank numbly hoisted himself from the chair and started out. He bumped
into Buck's secretary, arriving with the tray of food. Frank nodded to
her and left.

She stood uneasily with the tray.

"Sylvia," Buck said, "dump that stuff. And have them clear out Frank's
desk and send all his personal belongings to his home. He won't be
coming back."

52

It's Alive!

A young woman with long, bleached-blond hair, wearing a tight green
miniskirt and a waitress's apron, stepped out of her back door. She
squinted into the sunset that baked the low brown hills-really little
more than scrub-covered mounds-that began some fifty or sixty feet
behind her house, stretched, sighed, and headed for her Mustang.

She heard a sound from the tangled mass of scrub growth on the nearest
rise, and stopped. She heard it again, a low crying.

She shook her hair back and walked slowly toward the sound, climbing
into the brush. As she dipped over the top of the little hill a minute
later, there came a sudden howl, and dust.

A neighbor coming out of her house moments after saw only the dust cloud
drifting away in the light breeze, and what looked like a single
high-heeled shoe sitting alone at the top of the bill.

"Darned neighborhood kids," she muttered.

Lenore sat in the front seat of the car, alongside Frank, resting her
head back against a pillow. She blinked sleepily and yawned.

Frank patted her knee. "We'll be home in just a few minutes, honey."

"I feel better already, being out of that place. I'm not going to need
any more of those shots, am I? I don't like being made to sleep. I'm
sure I'll get along all right if they'll just let me alone."

53

"I've hired a nurse for you. She'll be there every day, until this-until
you're back to strength."

"I don't need a nurse, I just-"

"It's best for you, believe me."

"It's just that I-I don't know about having somebody around the house,
just now . . . somebody strange, staring at me."

"No, no," he smiled at her, "it won't be like that. She'll be a really
good nurse, professional."

"I'm surprised anyone would want to come to work for us, under these
circumstances."

"Dr. Norten took care of it. Underneath that stiff exterior, he's really
a nice guy. He cares about you. And listen, I've got a surprise." He
pulled her over gently and hugged her. "I'm going to be with you all the
time too. I told Clayton that I'm going to have to take my three weeks'
vacation now. I insisted."

"But, Frank, what about the Marcus account?"

"Buck'll just have to take care of it himself. He needs to work on
accounts more. He's getting too dependent on me."

"But wasn't it important to you, to do it yourself, after all you've put
into it?"

"Just another account. It's all set up now, anyway. Buck can just run
with it. Probably be a stack of new accounts when I get back. Bigger
ones. I've been angling for an airline. Anyway, you're more important
than any of that."

"Do you think Chris knows?"

"I spoke to Charley this morning. He kept him home from school. He
hasn't told him about anything, just that you're okay. But sooner or
later he'll switch on the television. There's only bo long you can keep
all this secret from him. Charley said he'd do his best."

"I want him home right away. I want things to be normal again. Like they
were before."

"Yeah."

She stared ahead, but reached up and touched his

54

cheek with the back of her hand. "You know, we've been drifting apart
the last few years, little by little. I was hoping that the baby would
bring us back . . . together. Isn't it strange that it's doing just
that? Even though it's-it's-"

"People get through these things, honey." He turned into their driveway.
"We'll get through it. We're finished with it. It's just a police matter
now."

He stopped the car and opened his door.

She stared out the windshield, unmoving. "It was so horrible at first,
all those deaths, and then just twenty-four hours later you've adjusted
to the nightmare, accepted it as being real, somehow. All that happened
doesn't seem real-or else, that part of it is real, and this is not,
sitting here, with you, at our home. I don't know which is real, anymore."

He took her hand, which was limp. "All of it is real, sweetheart. But
the bad part is over. We survived it. We both need some sleep, some
rest. In a few days; we'll be back to normal."

"What about Chris?"

"Chris? Oh, he'll understand, eventually. He'll get over it too."

"No, I mean now. Aren't we going to pick him up?"

"Uh, not just yet, hon. Let's get you rested up first."

"He'll want to come home. I want him home. To have the whole family
together."

"Soon, okay? Day or two. Maybe after the . . . the-"

"The police. After the police are finished."

"Yes, honey. They may be done already. Or today sometime. They'll find it."

"Our baby."

His teeth clamped together. But he spoke calmly. "Not our baby, Lenore.
Don't call it that."

She looked at him, her eyes wide and dark and deep. "That's what it is,
Frank. Our baby."

55

Detective Lieutenant Perkins and two other officers stood over the body
of the late musician lying on a steel table in the coroner's lab. The
coroner probed at the wounds with a steel tool.

"It must have been born with quite a set of teeth," Perkins said,
working his jaws around his cigar.

"And nails, lieutenant," the coroner said. "They probably extend to an
inch and a half, judging from the depth of the wounds. Hd went after
this poor man tooth and nail. Must have jaws as powerful as a cheetah."

"Full set of works, right from day one."

"I understand that a woman in the neighborhood heard a baby's cry, right
about the time this happened."

"Yeah."

"It must have been hungry, kills to eat. Besides being strong. It was
able to climb up the wall of the delivery room and pull itself through
the skylight. I think you're going to have quite a job cornering
something like that. Not to mentibn its size. Something that small could
hide anywhere."

"Yeah. Better watch yourself. Might be right in there on one of those
slabs, when you pull it out."

"What?" The coroner cringed.

"I'll be at the hospital."

Perkins chewed on his black cigar as he stared up at the damaged skylight.

"No smoking in here, lieutenant."

"It ain't lit, Dr. Norten. Now, according to our

56

report, the thing was able to climb up the wall there and haul itself
over the ceiling and crash through the skylight. But I don't figure it
quite that way."

"Well, lieutenant, clearly that's how it got out of the-"

"I know it got out through the skylight. But it didn't crawl up there.
It didn't have to."

"How then ..."

"It jumped, doctor. Straight up."

"You're not telling me that such a little tyke could ___jj

"Tyke! Haw! Listen, doctor, you better get it through your head that
this ain't no regular baby we're dealing with."

"I know, I know. It's just that I'm used to using certain language, you
understand, in my practice. I've never dealt with a mutant before."

"The trouble is, you keep imagining this thing is some sort of regular
kid with extra long fingernails or something. What we've got here is an
animal. Coyote. Hyena. Baboon. Ape. Alligator. Think more along those
lines. Only worse."

"But it came from human-"

"Don't matter. Leave that to the science eggheads to worry about in
nineteen hundred and ninety-nine. Right now we're tracking down an animal."

"How long do you think you'll be able to get away with it, telling
people these latest killings were done by a dog?"

"Five minutes, maybe ten. Dumber folks a little longer. It wasn't one of
my brainier ideas, but I just wanted to do whatever I could to keep
things calm."

"But the public won't like being lied to."

"Phooey. Folks forget all the lies if you come with the truth at the
end-which we will. Now, about this skylight. You see, there ain't no way
to really climb up there. That's number one. Number two is: the way it
kills, it doesn't go climbing up folks. All the wounds have been at the
throat and face. Nothing on the legs or trunk. It leaps through the air,
and hits

57

right at the throat for the quick kill. Then it doesn't stick around. It
takes off right away. That's important."

"Why so, lieutenant?"

"Because, see, it helps us know what we're dealing with. Now, I think
the coroner had it right, that it killed in the delivery room out of
fear and panic. But he had it wrong on this second bunch."

"How so?"

"It wasn't hungry, not Mice he said. Oh, it might have been hungry-who
the hell knows what its feeding schedule is? But that wasn't why it
killed. Because it just killed and left, I didn't dispute the coroner
because I just want things to stay smooth, at this point in time. And
anyway, it don't matter what the coroner says. His business is dead
people. What matters to me is we catch the damn thing before he gets
more business. And that means it's important that / know why it killed."

"And do you?"

"Maybe. Still fear and panic, I would guess. Every time. I think it
cries because it wants somebody to come to it. But the people that come
to it cause it to panic and strike. But then I ain't no psychologist."

Dr. Norten, his hands folded primly in front of him, gazed in awe at the
detective. "So what does all that mean?"

Detective Perkins rubbed his chin and chewed on his cigar. "I'm not
sure, doctor. Not yet. But I know this, and I haven't told anybody until
right now: it ain't trying to leave town."

"You mean-"

"Scared as it may be, it's staying right here in our own backyard. And
it's gonna kill until it finds who or what it's after. Or until we find
who or what we're after. Which is it. Let's get outta here."

They walked down the corridor. "I must say," Norten commented, "it
strikes me that it shouldn't be so difficult to find this thing. I
should think it would stick out like a sore thumb, wherever it is."

58

"That's why you're a doctor and I'm a cop. But I get your point. See,
this thing can really move. One day here, next day there. But always
around the area. Now, a tyke it's not. But it ain't a big rascal either.
It could hide anywhere-inside, outside, up a tree, down a hole. My
original hope was that it would move only at night, and sleep during the
day, when we could home in on it. It seems like it's moving all the
time, day or night. That makes our job tougher. But it makes it tougher
for that son of a bitch too. Cause it's gonna get tired and careless.
And sooner or later somebody's gonna spot it. And if that somebody is
lucky, he's gonna be able to get away long enough to drop a dime and
call us."

Dr. Norten shivered. "I'm sorry, lieutenant, but all this just makes my
flesh crawl."

"Mine too, doctor. But on the other hand, / couldn't stand working in
here with all these scalpels and broken bones and kidney stones floating
around."

"You have an interesting way of putting things, lieutenant."

A call came over the P.A. "Telephone for Detective Perkins . . .
telephone for Detective Perkins . . ."

Dr. Norten led him to a wall phone.

"Perkins here."

"Lieutenant, we just got a call from a woman who says there's a cat
cornered up a tree. Says it looks like a mutant."

"Tell her it is, and to call the A.S.P.C.A."

He hung up the phone and walked with the doctor to the main entrance.

"Lieutenant, I so much wish we knew what this infant looked like."

"Don't worry, doctor. You see it, and you'll know."

59

Frank sat on the living-room floor, with newspapers spread all around
him. In spite of his better judgment, he had been unable to resist
reading everything about the case, and had bought every paper that
carried a story. Oddly, there was little new information. Police were
trying to pass off the latest killings as the work of a wolf-like dog.

If only it was. He would not let Lenore see any of the stories.

He cradled the telephone on his shoulder as he scanned the pages. "Hi,
Chris, how you doing? . . . Yes, Mom's home. . . . I'm very busy now.
I'll tell you all about everything later."

"Dad, why can't I go to school? Why can't I go out, or have any of my
friends come over. And most of all, why can't I come home?"

"I can't tell you right now. But everything's going to be okay. Mom's
fine. You'll just have to trust me. Do you trust me?"

"I always do, Dad, but-"

"You'll have to stay with Charley for the rest of the week. You wouldn't
mind that, would you?"

"Well, I like Charley, I really do. And he's lots of fun. But I want to
see Mom and the baby."

"The baby's ... not home yet."

"Is it sick?"

"Yeah, that's right. The baby's sick and everything here is a mess. Mom
needs quiet and rest. It's easier all around if you stay where you are.
You don't need tQ go to school-isn't that what you always say? So just
catch up on your reading or build some models or something."

"Will you tell Charley to let me watch TV? He says

60

It's Alive!

kids watch it too much, or something. Will you tell him it's okay?"

"Let me talk to him."

"Okay."

"Hi, Frank."

"Charley, we've got a real problem, and-"

"I know. I understand. I'll see to everything. Maybe I'll take Chris
fishing up at the lake for a couple days. Good idea?"

"Terrific."

"All set then. You give Lenore my love."

"Right, Charley. Listen, nobody ever had a better friend."

"That goes both ways, Frank. Talk to you in a couple days."

Frank sat back on the floor and rubbed his eyes. Lenore's nurse, wearing
a white uniform, walked by, carrying a tray with two pill bottles, a
pitcher of water, a glass, and a folded towel.

"Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Davis?"

"No thanks. How is she?"

"Resting nicely, as usual."

"Then does she need those pills? She says she'd rather not have them."

"I'm only following doctor's instructions, Mr. Davis. You know, you
really should try some of these tran-quilizers yourself. Dr. Norten said
you-"

"Just take care of your patient, Nurse Gray." He quickly shook his head
and rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just
that I'm better off left alone."

"I understand, Mr. Davis. You just stay right down here and relax. I'll
see to your wife."

61

Upstairs, Nurse Gray pushed the door open quietly, and, seeing that
Lenore was awake, put the tray down on the bed beside her.

"How are you feeling, Mrs. Davis?"

"Fine. More pills?"

"To relax you. Dr. Norten's prescription."

"Okay, I guess." She swallowed one pill from each bottle, and drank some
water.

"Would it help you to talk about anything, Mrs. Davis? Anything that
happened?"

"No ... I don't think so."

"Sometimes it helps, you know, to talk to somebody in a professional
capacity."

"I don't remember much, which is just as well."

"Try, Mrs. Davis, it'll do you good. Are you sure you didn't see it?
Even get one little look?"

"No, I'm sure. I told everyone, I passed out. I guess I did. I don't
remember anything."

"Perhaps you're trying to freeze it out of your mind. It must have been
awfuL Some people say it has teeth and claws. Did you know that?"

"Why would I know that? I haven't heard anybody say that."

"Did you know that it's killed more people than just those doctors and
nurses? Were you aware that it killed a musician in an alley? And a
waitress behind her house? They say it was a dog, but I believe it was
your child."

"No, I don't believe it." Lenore's eyes widened, her face paled. "Why
are you telling me these things?"

"Oh, there's no doubt about it, in my mind. The same kind of wounds as
the poor doctors and nurses suffered in your delivery room."

"I-I-" Lenore started to cry. "What do you want me to say?"

62

It's Alive!

"Say anything you feel, Mrs. Davis, and cry too, that's good for you.
Get it all out. Tell me everything. Take your time."

"But please, I-" She leaned toward the nurse, and in so doing put her
hand on the tray, on the towel. She snapped back her hand as if burned,
staring at the towel. "What have you got under there? What is that?" She
ripped the towel away. A tiny tape recorder hummed with reels spinning.

Lenore sat bolt upright, trembling, pulling the covers tight around her
throat. She stared in shock and confusion at the nurse. "Who are you?
What are you doing here? What do you want?"

"I'm your nurse, you can tell me anything." She backed away a step.

"Who are you really working for? I want my husband-"

"Oh, I'm a registered nurse, all right," she smoothed her dress
casually, "but I also do some writing now and then, on the side. Dr.
Norten-" She stopped herself.

Lenore sank deep into the covers. "You're not writing about mel Frank! I
want my husband!"

"I only wanted the woman's angle on this," Nurse Gray said, now showing
some nervousness. "The public's entitled to know how you feel. Don't you
want them to understand? It's a public service."

"Frank! FRANK!"

Lenore moved to get out of bed. Nurse Gray pushed her back, quite
frightened now herself. "Will you shut up, Mrs. Davis? I was only trying
to get some information. I wasn't trying to hurt you."

"FRANK!"

Frank burst through the door.

"She's a reporter" Lenore whimpered. "Please make her go away."

Frank looked at his wife, then at the nurse. "What the hell's going on?"

Nurse Gray took the tray and started marching stiffly toward the door*

63

"Recorder. Frank, she's got a tape recorder." v Frank whirled to the
tray, grabbed the tape recorder, and smashed it against the wall. "Get OUT!"

Nurse Gray trotted out, terrified, stumbled her way down the stairs and
out the front door.

Frank knelt beside the bed. "Lenore, Lenore, god I'm sorry! What was
that all about? What was she recording?"

"She wanted to know everything. She wanted me to talk."

"But why? For who?"

"She didn't say." Lenore cried quietly.

"Lie down now, please, just try to calm down. She's gone. It's okay."

"I don't want anyone else in here," she sobbed, "no one in the house but
you. And Chris. Just our family."

"Just us, sweetheart. Just relax now."

"And Chris."

"Chris has gone fishing with He'll be back tomorrow or day

Charley, to the lake, after. He's fine. Then

we'll all be together."

"Nobody but our family."

"Nobody. I don't understand what happened with that nurse. I can't trust
anybody. You had your pills?

Good. Sleep now, darling. Just

»o to sleep."

With Frank caressing her forehead, Lenore gradually fell asleep. '

Frank went downstairs and slumped into his chair in the den. He needed
to sleep too. My god, that such a thing should happen to Lenore! Like
everyone was against them. She was on the ragged edge already, he
feared. No one to turn to. Thank god for Charley. He wished he could go
to work tomorrow. But even if he could, he wouldn't. He wouldn't leave
Lenore alone all day.

They needed the three weeks, anyway. They needed to get away-would, in
fact, to St. Thomas, just as soon as she was able.

64

A bright new day. The driver stopped his white Homes Dairy truck at the
curb and went around to the back and opened one of the loading doors.
Bottles and cartons in crates were stacked nearly to the roof. He
whistled cheerfully as he clanked through the bottles, picking one from
here, one from there, and filling his hand-carrier.

Still whistling, he strode up the sidewalk toward the porch of the
ranch-style house. A breeze riffled through the hedge to his left.

Except that there was no breeze.

On the porch was a row of empty bottles, a note protruding from the top
of one. The milkman set down his carrier and pulled out the note and read it

The breeze seemed to move along the hedge, toward the milk truck.

The driver nodded, folded the note, stuck it in his pocket, took out
four of the eight bottles that were in his carrier, and left them on the
porch. Then, resuming his whistle, he headed back toward the truck. At
the sidewalk he paused to adjust a trash-can lid that was only half on.
Then he stepped into his truck, started the engine, and moved off down
the road.

The bottles clinked behind him as he rolled to a stop sign. There, with
the truck standing still, the bottles continued to rattle.

The driver knitted his brow. He pulled on the brake, stood and turned to
lean in the small door behind the driver's seat, and adjusted the
position of the nearest crates. Still the bottles farther back continued
their glassy tinkling. He scratched his ear. Then he leaned far in,
bending over the nearest crates to reach the farther ones, standing on
his tiptoes.

65

He froze. "My GOD!" Suddenly his feet left the floor. He had no time to
scream. A gurgle came from his throat. He saw only the narrow, long,
clawed fingers that flashed toward him, digging into his neck and back
and hauling him through the small door.

Bottles crashed. Out of the rear door, milk trickled, then poured in a
flood, washing down over the bumper; a river of fresh white milk flowed
down the gutter and disappeared into a storm drain.

Fresh white milk until it mixed with red.

Detective Lieutenant Perkins was quite irritated indeed by the presence
of State police Captain Sanford and his Troopers. He didn't Iik4 them
butting in. Perkins and Captain Sanford and a handful of officers under
the command of each stood near a wall over which was spread a huge map
of the western parts of the city. Jutting from the map were five
stickpins, four with tiny blue banners on them, one with red.

Captain Sanford peered at the map, and Perkins chewed a cigar and peered
at Mm.

"Well," said the captain, "throw out the first pitch, get the ball
rolling, everybody out of the trenches, let's get this show on the road.
This is serious."

"We've been serious," Perkins drawled, "for three days now, captain." He
stepped to the map. "The red pin is the hospital where the. first
attacks occurred. The four blue pins represent the locations of the
subsequent attacks." '

"Four? I understood there were only three others."

"A motorist stopped out in the canyon to fix a flat. Found him in a
ditch beside the road. Few hours ago. That makes four." :

The captain squinted at the map, extending a thumb and forefinger,
rotating his hajid and sighting over

66

It's Alive!

them. "There's no pattern here, no angles, no coordinates. The thing
just moves around from one place to another, killing wantonly."

"Actually," piped up one of Perkins's officers, "we think it may be
heading-"

Perkins held up a palm quickly, and scowled at his junior man, chomping
vigorously on his cigar. Then he turned to the captain. "You didn't
expect it to have some kind of master plan, did you? After all, it's
only three days old."

"Three days is too much ... too much," Sanford said somberly, shaking
his head. "I guess that's why we were called in."

"I would imagine," Perkins said.

"Manpower," the captain snapped up straight, "and clout. Equipment,
personnel, entree to the governor. We got all that That's some kid out
there." He stuck out his lower lip. "Could have used this kid in
Vietnam. Appetite for combat. Guerrilla warfare. Heh-heh. Now then," he
rapped on the map with his knuckles, "we could just flood the whole area
with Troopers, scour it from top to bottom, flush the bugger out that
way." >

"I'm afraid we'd end up shooting each other," Perkins said.

"Leadership and discipline would correct that. Or, we could just slip a
few plainclothesmen into the area, like ordinary citizens, you know,
have them leaning on lamp posts, strolling on side streets, sitting on
park benches."

"I don't think we need decoys," Perkins said. "Our problem ain't that
kind of problem. We just need a careful, intelligent search."

"Choppers and binoculars. Hover all over the area, keeping eyes peeled."

"Helicopters wouldn't help us much at night, which is half our problem."

"Gas, smoke, bring him out coughing like crazy, ready to quit."

"This is a heavily populated residential area, cap

67

tain. Excuse me, but I'd like to suggest that we gotta just be quiet and
careful and fast. We been using a tactical quick-strike mobile force, on
the road round-the-clock, coordinating with foot patrols. It's just a
matter of time."

"Time, time, TIME! This thing is killing people! If only I could see
what this thing looks like, just once, get a peg onto it, get my hooks
into it!" He jabbed his finger into Perkins's chest. "Before it gets its
hooks into you. Heh-heh. Listen, the orders are pretty simple. Kill the
goddam thing, right?"

"Right."

"No arrest, no reading the rights."

"Nope."

"That shouldn't be hard."

"Finding it is the hard part."

"We'll do 'er, we'll do 'er. Now, you say this thing -what should we
call it? You got a better name? We ought to put a code on it."

" 'Thing'" is okay. We know what you mean."

"Now, you say it's larger than a baby, but smaller than an adult?"

"Judging by the hole it got cut through, right."

"But stronger than either?"

"Well, it jumped straight 4ut that hole, in my opinion.51

"Christ, must have thighs like

Jim Brown. And what

else?"

"We figure it must have claws of some sort, from the wounds. Beyond
that, we got a blank on it. Seems like it drinks milk, like from the
milk truck. Cries sometimes-some people claim to have heard it, before
it killed. We don't know for sure. We know it moves around, we don't
know how. like a mole, maybe. That's about it."

"Does it bleed?"

"Who knows?"

The captain snickered. "Oh, it'll bleed all right. Wait'U it gets a
taste of my magnum hollow-tips."

"We just figure it's like an animal, captain. Approach

68

it that way. Like a very dangerous, unpredictable animal."

"Like your damn DOG!" Captain Sanford belched laughter.

"Just to keep people from panicking, captain."

"What's the difference, get chewed up by a mad mutt, or ripped apart by
some two-headed dwarf? Dead's dead."

"Well, I think word has gotten around anyway that it wasn't a dog,
captain. You can't fool all of the people too long."

"Let's not let politics creep into this," the captain said sternly. "Job
is tough enough. Straight ahead with it. We've got to act before more
innocent people die."

"Right."

"So," Sanford pulled a large note pad from his inside jacket pocket,
squatted, flipped it open on the floor, and began to sketch on it, "I've
got a plan. A whole bunch of tactical mobile patrols, coordinated with
foot patrols, a whole bunch of telephone operators sending important
messages instantly to the field. When that pint-sized terrorist shows
its hand-or claw or whatever the hell it shows-we've got it!"

"One thing, captain." Perkins bit off the end of his cigar and spit it
away. "It's also got a brain. Remember that. That's why it can slip
around like it does. And, at a distance of a few feet, it's quicker than
we are. Keep a tight rein on your men. You let one of your men drift off
by himself, you're gonna lose a cop."

Dr. Norten and Professor Eckstein of the U.C.L.A. Medical Center sat on
the sofa in the Davis living room. Frank paced impatiently back and
forth in front of them.

69

"Mrs. Davis seems to be progressing very nicely," Norten said. "I'm
terribly sorry about that nurse. Frightful woman. Can't understand what
got into her. You must be handling the nursing job very well yourself." I

"Not much to do," Frank admitted. "Well then, I guess there's nothing
else to talk about."

"Actually, I and Professor Eckstein here were really hoping we could
discuss a related matter with you for a few minutes."

"About what?"

Professor Eckstein fidgeted with his briefcase. "You must understand,
Mr. Davis, that I'm acting on behalf of the scientific community in the
interests of increasing knowledge in the field of genetics."

Frank furrowed his brow. "Come on, professor, you don't have to put it
to music. What is it you want?"

"I have here several forms .upon which we would appreciate your
signature. We are simply anticipating the complicated legalities which
might intrude upon a study of this nature."

"Let me see the papers."

Eckstein handed him the documents. "I might mention that already hi
excess of one hundred thousand dollars has been allocated by I the
university for examination of this phenomenon] We have some of the
leading men in the field prepared to associate in this project, and it
is hoped that their research might lead to a breakthrough in the
understanding of why mutations occur."

"What you want to do," Frank said, slapping down the documents on the
table, "is experiment on it."

" 'Experiment' is not a word I would use," Dr. Norten put in.

"Undoubtedly it is dangerous," said Professor Eckstein, "and will-and
must-be killed. It is our hope that the brain will not be damaged. My
department has already sent a memo to the authorities urging them to
restrain themselves from excessive violence. If

70

It's Alive!

it can be dispatched by a single bullet, or preferably with a gas of
some kind-"

"You want me to sign away the body."

"In a nutshell. It's your right. After all, it's your child."

"It's not my child!"

"As you wish. It's not for me or anyone else to judge you."

"In any event," Dr. Norten said, "an autopsy would be desirable-probably
required, in fact, in such a case. But I don't imagine that you'll want
to have a funeral for the child. I mean, a formal burial. All of that
wouldn't be good for yourself or your wife, in her current mental state
. . ."

Lenore stood silently, unseen, on the stairs, listening and clutching
her robe tight around her neck, her knuckles white and trembling. Tears
glistened on her cheeks. She turned and disappeared upstairs.

". . . The Medical Center," Professor Eckstein went on, "is simply
willing to relieve you of this depressing responsibility. Now," he held
out a pen, "if you will just sign each copy, above where your name is
typed . . ."

"Christ."

Norten stood and raised his index finger. "It seems that out of every
tragedy, every evil, some good can come, if we can conquer our-"

"Shut up, will you, doctor?" Frank snatched the pen from the professor,
sat down at the table, and began scribbling his name on the documents.
"Here. I don't care. Do whatever you want."

"That's very wise of you," the professor said, "to dissociate yourself
emotionally."

Frank completed the signing and looked up from the table, his eyes
softened. "I suppose it will be in all the medical journals, all the
history books. 'The Davis Child,' or 'The Davis Monster.' Like
Frankenstein."

"I would say it is very likely that this will be

71

remembered," Dr. Norten said, "long after all of us are forgotten."

Frank stood and faced the wall across the table. He chuckled sadly. "You
know, when I was a kid I always thought the monster was Frankenstein.
Karloff, walking around with his big iron shoes, grunting. I thought he
was Frankenstein. It wasn't until I was in high school and read the book
that I realized that Frankenstein was the doctor who created him, not
the monster itself. Somehow, the identities get all mixed up, don't they?"

"Well, perhaps, but I don't think that's really-"

"So I wonder if people will think of the monster as 'Davis.' But you're
right," he turned toward the men, smiling slightly, "it doesn't matter.
It won't be forgotten. Never."

Lenore came down the stairs with a sprightly step, smiling brightly,
hair combed, makeup on. "Oh, hello, you two gentlemen still here? Ijlow
nice."

"Actually we were just preparing to leave," Professor Eckstein said. "I
believe these," he reached for the signed documents and tucked them into
his briefcase, "are mine." He closed the case and patted it.

Dr. Norten put a hand on Lenore's shoulder. "I don't suppose you've been
taking those pills as you're supposed to." He smiled benevolently. "You
really should, you know."

Lenore smiled back and spoke softly. "Maybe it's all the pills I've
taken over the years that brought this on."

"Oh, now, pshaw. You know Dr. Francis wouldn't have prescribed anything
he thought harmful. Nor would I. You really shouldn't be downstairs,
should you?"

"Nonsense." Lenore brushed past him and went to the picture window and
pulled open the drapes. It was growing dark outside. "It's time I was
back on my feet." She turned to face them, her hands clasped together
over her chest. "Why don't you gentlemen stay for dinner?"

72

It's Alive!

"Oh no, we couldn't have you-"

"I believe we have some nice lamb chops in the freezer," she counted off
menu items on her fingers, "and mint jelly, and a fresh green salad, and
I'll make a very light angel-food cake for dessert-that's Frank's favorite."

"Truly we can't stay," Dr. Norten insisted.

Lenore bustled around the room emptying ashtrays into a waste basket,
straightening pillows on the sofa, adjusting lampshades. "This place is
a mess," she smiled as she moved around the room, "lots to do. But I
always feel better when I'm busy. Frank," she didn't bother to look at
him, "be a dear and go down to the basement and get us a bottle of
Beau-jolais. That will be good with the chops." She beamed over at Dr.
Norten. "We keep quite an extensive wine cellar. You should see it. It's
one of Frank's many hobbies. He can do so many things, a many-faceted man."

"I'm sure . . ."

'Til see you to the door," Frank said quietly to the two medical men.

Lenore continued tidying up, humming as she worked.

The three men went outside.

"Her spirits seem surprisingly high," Norten said.

Frank didn't answer.

The doctor took a deep breath and looked off across the neighborhood.
"Lovely evening. Southern California is truly so delightful, so pleasant
for an old man like me. Such a nice, even temperature. Rarely too cold .
. ."

His voice trailed off. He averted his face.

Never too cold. Frank suspected that the doctor was thinking the same
thing. Never too cold. "That's part of our problem, isn't it, doctor?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"It doesn't get cold enough at night. Not cold enough to kill a baby
animal out of its den and away from its mother."

73

"Yes."

"Good night, gentlemen."

Frank stepped back inside and closed the door. He watched out the window
as the two men walked toward their car, talking animatedly and nodding
their heads.

"They couldn't stay," Lenore said matter-of-factly, moving an armchair a
couple of feet away from the wall. "That's a pity."

Frank watched them drive away and remained staring out the window. I

"A nice meal, that's what you need." Lenore headed for the kitchen.
"I'll bet you haven't eaten in a couple of days. Lamb chops and wine,
candlelight . . ."

Frank frowned. "I'll get the wine."

He went through the kitchen to the cellar door, flipped up the hook,
stepped in to the top of the stairs, and without thinking shut the door
behind him.

He hated these stairs. Black. You would think that somebody building a
modern house like this would put a light switch right at the door. He
would wire one up one day soon, he'd always told himself.

He let his eyes adjust to the darkness for a few moments, then started
down the creaking wooden steps.

At the bottom of the stairs he turned to his right, into the main
basement area. Dim twilight filtered in through the small window near
the ceiling, just above ground,level. Shadowy shapes of storage items,
piled high, lined the walls: old tricycles, cartons of clothing he kept
forgetting to dump in the Salvation Army bin, sporting equipment and
.fishing gear tangled together, boxes of books he never would read but
could not bear to throw away. I

He shuffled slowly toward where the bare light bulb was hanging from the
ceiling. He pulled the chain. Nothing. Pulled the chain twice more. He
reached up to tighten the bulb, but it was firmly screwed into the
socket Then he unscrewed it and stuck it in his shirt pocket

74

It's Alive!

The wine rack was against the far wall. Starting toward it, he brushed
between some storage stacks.

From the top of one of the stacks, a small shape wavered back and forth,
then dropped, smacking Frank's shoulder. He gasped, and flailed at it.
It fell to the floor. Old stuffed teddy bear.

Frank stared down at it, gasping for wind, angry at his fright. He
kicked it aside and proceeded to the wine rack.

Squinting closely, he searched through the dark bottles, all lying on
their sides in the tall rack. He turned them in their cubbyholes to see
the labels, and finally found the Beaujolais. He held it up to the light
from the small window. Good wine. Damn window. The latch had long since
rusted off. Another thing he had to fix. A good wind would always blow
it open.

He started for the stairs, then glanced over at the outside cellar door,
a big planked door canted in above the stone steps. He walked up the
steps and pushed at the door.

Padlocked from the outside, just as Be knew it would be.

Entering the kitchen, he dropped the hook into its eye on the cellar
door behind him, put the wine bottle down on the table, and tossed the
dead bulb into the wastebasket. Then he slid open the lowest drawer in
the floor cabinet and rummaged through the small tools, fuses, candles,
match boxes, bits of wire, rolls of scotch tape.

"Lenore?" No answer. "Lenore, we got any more light bulbs?"

He shut that drawer and pulled open each of the others in turn.

"What is it, Frank?" Lenore walked into the kitchen, wearing a long
dress, her hair freshly combed.

"Damn bulb blew in the basement. I guess I gotta go get another one."

"Not now, Frank. Pick some up tomorrow. I'm fixing dinner now."

75

"Okay. Listen, honey." He took her by the shoulders. She smiled up at
him. "Lenore, I'm sorry that those guys came over. They just wanted to
talk about some stuff. You okay?"

"Of course." She cocked her head and chuckled. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"I think you gotta take it easy, for a few days."

"Oh, Frank silly, I'm not an invalid." She turned away and went to the
refrigerator and began pulling out items for dinner.

"I know how tough this has been on you."

"It was tough. Frank. But everything's fine now. Everything's in good
hands."

"I think it's bothering you more than you know, or more than you're
willing to admit."

"Sssh!" She put a finger to her lips. "This is going to be very
romantic. Just the two of us, by candlelight. It'll be just like-" She
turned quickly away again to the refrigerator.

"like what, honey?"

She hummed softly as she put the frozen lamb chops on a plate on the table.

"Lenore, like what?"

She stopped and bit her lip. "Normal."

"Are you . . ." He was going to say "afraid?"

"Am I what, dear?"

"Taking your medicine?"

"I don't need that anymore."

He looked at her, then turned toward the front door. "I'm going out for
a few minutes, just outside, get some air."

"Fine. I'll get everything ready-surprise you, it'll be so nice."

76

It's Alive!

He stood on the steps and inhaled deep the sweet, warm, fall air. Lights
were on in all of the houses. Streetlights cast their strange yellow
cones of glow onto the sidewalks.

Everything looked totally calm, normal. Just another evening. He saw the
faint shapes of the canyon hills in the distance, and in the other
direction the bright lights of Los Angeles quivering in the atmosphere.

Somewhere out there, it was not normal. It was as far from normal as it
could possibly be. For what skulked, somewhere, in those shadows was not
completely human, though not quite an animal. What it was exactly, he
didn't know. No one knew. No one alive. An army of invading troops would
be more normal than the being that lurked in some protected spot,
somewhere. Not here.

Or maybe here.

A State Police car turned the corner and cruised slowly past the house,
five heads inside watching out all the windows, the barrels of shotguns
standing upright among them.

Frank watched it gh'de through the block, turn, and disappear down
another street.

Or maybe right here.

He went down the steps into the yard. He walked softly a few steps, then
stopped, listening. A distant stereo wailed rock. Far away. Not on this
block. Laughter. A neighbor's house.

He went around to the side of his house, staying a few feet from the
bushes that enclosed the property on three sides like a horseshoe,
giving a semblance of privacy. A breeze rippled up, stirring the bushes
and fluffing Frank's hair.

77

77

A faint, low squeal.

Frank froze in his tracks, one foot still raised in mid-step.

Was it a cry of some sort?

Again he heard it.

He went over to the wall of the house. The basement window. The breeze
had teased it ajar. The rusty hinges squeaked. Taking the outside
handle, he pulled it shut.

He walked around to the back. Water in the swimming pool rippled. The
inflated plastic seat floated in one corner. In the darkness, he was
glad he knew what it was. And he was glad he knew it was the cat,
sitting there just outside its backdoor flap.

He went over to the cellar door and felt the padlock. Tugged it. Secure.

Goddam it. He was just walking around scaring himself. And probably
scaring Lenore too, if she heard him rustling around out here.

He looked at the outline of bushes. Privacy. A hiding place. Crazy. The
last place in the world that thing would be, if it had a brain, was
here. And if it was just sneaking around aimlessly, chances were one in
a million that it'd end up here.

It could be anywhere. Everywhere.

It. The thing. The infant. The animal. The killer. Whatever it was, he
wished they would stop calling it "his baby." They wanted to blame him.
Stick him with it. It came from Lenore, for chrissake, and maybe his
sperm didn't even have anything to do with it. Maybe some tumor. Some
weird growth that could just as well have occurred in any woman in the
world.

Something that had never happened before. Like Jesus.

He enjoyed the analogy. Not because he was sacrilegious. But because it
would be a good answer to throw out at people who called it "his baby."
He would say, "What about Jesus? Who was his father?"

They would say, "God."

And he would say, "Maybe this is God's too."

78

And they would hate him for that. They would call him a blasphemer. They
would believe even more strongly that he was the father of a monster.
That maybe he was a monster too, because he had monster blood in his
veins. Monster DNA in his genes. "

But it was God's. Yes. In the final analysis, it was God's work. Just
like we were, and dogs and cats, everything that breathed. And didn't
breathe. That's all he meant. You had to accept it as God's. Even germs
were God's creatures, right?

That's all he meant

Maybe God was trying to tell us something. About germs and
microorganisms and cells. About human cells. You are what you eat. The
things we are taking into our bodies are poisons. Are they not? Do we
know the effects of aU the garbage we eat, drink, inhale, touch, absorb
through our pores?

Weren't lots of scientific experts already warning us about that?

Couldn't God be warning us too?

And besides, how could anyone of decent morality blame him, or Lenore,
for what happened? He made love to his wife, that's all. He worked hard
and was a good father and husband. She was a good mother and wife. They
were not, all things considered, unusual

Except that they were the parents of a monster.

No! He shook his head and sniffed back tears. They were not the parents.
Lenore had had the tragic misfortune to be but a carrier of some vile
organism. They couldn't be blamed. They were already suffering more than
anybody.

Except perhaps for the loved ones of those who were dead. Those who were
killed by the monster. Those who would yet die, if the monster wasn't
killed first

Perhaps tonight it would be killed.

He stood at the front door and breathed deeply to calm himself. He
really did need a good meal, with Lenore. He wiped his eyes. Then he
went in.

The food was still on the table, still wrapped, just

79

79

as it had been when he left. The wine was unopened.

"Lenore?"

He trotted through the house and up the stairs. "Lenore?"

Lenore rolled slowly over on the bed to face him. "Hi, darling. Did you
eat? Sorry, but I couldn't wait up. I just suddenly got so tired and
cold. Are you coming to bed soon?" ,

His mouth hung open. He leaned back against the wall and swallowed hard.
"Yeali, sure. Let me just finish up a couple of things downstairs."

He went back to the kitchen and began putting things back into the
refrigerator and freezer.

What was wrong with Lenore? Maybe he misunderstood her. Maybe she just
meant that she had suddenly felt too tired to make a big meal. That was
to be expected, so soon after that . . . giving birth. But her manner,
her sudden cheerfulness before. Her look. Her eyes puzzled him. He
didn't want to worry about her, not because he didn't care-for he cared
enormously for her-but because he didn't want to face the thought that
anything was seriously wrong. She needed to rest. They both did. They
needed to get away to St. Thomas and lie in the sun and forget
everything. Put it out of their minds. At least for a while.

He was determined to hold himself together. He couldn't let down. His
family depended upon him now more than ever, and he had to maintain
control of himself. Maybe when the police were finished he would go on a
toot.

He didn't think he had ever felt so tired before.

And he wished the wind wouldn't keep blowing the basement window open.

80

She had thought the feeling would leave her, after the birth. But it
didn't. Lenore still felt strange.

Of course, with everything that happened being so strange, being
surrounded as she was with weird events -that could cause her feeling.
But not entirely. Because she felt somewhat like she had felt before-an
odd sense of foreboding, unusual tides of mood and energy. She did not
feel in control of herself.

It was quite normal to feel tired, of course, after giving birth. But
she didn't feel tired all the time, or cold. Sometimes she had enormous
energy, and her body sweated with heat. And during those times she
didn't feel like herself, she felt detached in a way, not part of what
was going on around her. Or inside her.

Her breasts swelled with unused baby's milk. That caused great sadness
within her, and she wished the swelling would go away, the milk would go
away. She didn't need the constant reminder of what her body had been
primed to do, and then been denied.

Frank was holding up well, it seemed. But he was so tired. She wished he
could sleep.

She wished a lot of things. She wished she had a baby. Or that she
didn't have one. Sometimes she felt guilty. Chris, a normal, healthy
child, was enough. She shouldn't have wanted another one.

Or she should have wanted it sooner, had it sooner.

Or never had it at all.

When she thought about it, she felt sad and guilty. But sometimes she
couldn't think. Time just went by. She didn't know how.

She slept. She would not remember her awful dream. If it was a dream.

81

81

"Reel it in slowly now, Chris. It'll wiggle around plenty anyway, under
the water.'f

Chris reeled in and cast again, squinting across the lake into the low
sun. "Charley, will the baby ldok like me?"

"I don't know," Charley said, flinging his lure far out into the lake.
"Why do you ask?"

"Well, your two boys don't look alike. And I was wondering if that meant
the baby won't look like me. I mean, it doesn't have to look like me. I
was just wondering if people would be able to tell that I was its
brother." j

"That's the kind of thing You never can predict, Chris. Nobody can ever
be sure about a thing like that. For example, both your parents have
light hair, while yours is black. We don't know all that much about
heredity."

"What's heredity?"

"Certain things in parents that show up in their kids. Physical things
like size or build or color, or personality things like temperament-you
know, your moods, patience, intelligence. Sometimes kids turn out very
much like their parents, sometimes they don't. When they do, we like to
say it's heredity; when they don't, we don't know what it is. We
aren't.so sure about some things as we like to think we are."

"I'm not sure about everything."

"I know, Chris, and that's good. Kids love to learn. Adults love to
think they already know. We know how to get to the moon, but we don't
understand how everything works in our own bodies. Many years ago,
before you were born, I guess it was when your father and I were kids,
they invented the drug called penicillin. It was a super new medicine to
treat all kinds of

82

diseases. Diseases that killed people. Penicillin worked against those
diseases, stopped them. We thought we had them whipped. But we didn't
know that much about it. Gradually some of these diseases developed new
forms of themselves-just like through heredity- much stronger forms. And
then penicillin wouldn't work on them anymore. So we developed new drugs
to work against the new forms of disease. I suppose in time there will
be new forms of those diseases that will be too tough for the new drugs
too."

"Jeez, that's scary."

"I don't mean for it to be scary, Chris. It's just that the offspring of
all living things seem to change over many years. We call it evolution.
It certainly isn't all scary or bad. It's just that we don't always
understand it and can't always predict it. Sometimes it's like that with
kids-they develop strengths or weaknesses that their parents didn't
have. Did you know that people in the days of our great-grandfathers
were quite a bit smaller than people are today? People are getting larger."

"Really?" Holding his fishing rod up beside him, Chris turned to look at
Charley.

"Sure. I'm taller than my father was. On the other hand, he had a full
head of hair all his life, while I'm getting bald. Who knows why?"

"Will I be taller than my dad?"

"Well, I don't know. He's pretty tall. You might be. Your children might
be taller than you. Or stronger, or darker, or lighter, or smarter or
not so smart-or anything at all. Don't forget, you're your mother's
child too. Her characteristics are mixed with your father's in your body."

"Dad's taller than you."

"He sure is. He was a good basketball player."

"How did you and him get to be friends?" Chris cast, and his line
snapped back and became tangled on the reel.

"Here, let me straighten that out for you. We were friends back in
college. He was on the basketball team

83

and I was a sportswriter for the school paper. We've been friends ever
since those days. We've always helped each other out, especially those
times when you need a friend the most." He pulled several feet of line
off the reel, until it was unsnarled; then he handed it back to Chris.

"Thanks. Why didn't you keep on writing, I mean when you got out of
school? Couldn't you get a job on a regular paper, for pay?"

"somebody had to take over my father's paint store when he died."

"Did you want to?"

"Watch where you're casting now, use your wrist, look out for the
branches behind you. Did I want to? I don't know. I didn't think about
it. It was just the natural thing to do."

"Do you make as much money as Dad?"

"Nope. The paint business is changing just like people are. You can't
always predict what business will be like in the future. For my father,
it was a good business. But now everybody wants to shop at big discount
stores, where paint is cheaper. So my business isn't so hot."

"Dad always buys his paint at your store."

"Well," Charley chuckled, "I guess that's part of our being friends."

"Do you wish you were still married?"

"In a way." He chuckled again. "I'd like to be with my boys more, that's
for sure. That's one reason I like being with you so much. You're almost
like another son to me."

"I like being with you too, Charley, except," he arced his rod far back
and snapped it forward, "that I'd like to be home with Mom and Dad and
the baby. Oh-oh!"

"Yeah, you got hung up on that limb, Chris my boy." Chris's lure was
hooked on a low branch behind him. "Wait a second, I can reach it. I'll
get it down for you."

"I can do it." Chris trotted back, crouched, and

84

leaped for the branch, flicking the lure free with his fingertips.

"Hey, terrific!" Charley laughed. "That's one way you're like your
dad-you both can really jump!"

Christ smiled proudly and reeled the line back onto his reel. "Maybe
I'll teach the baby how to play basketball."

"Maybe, Chris, maybe. Let's go out in the boat for a while. You never
know where the fish will turn up these days."

A group of police officers sat in the small office around Detective
Lieutenant Perkins.

He gnawed on his cigar. "Okay, I know what's going on. And I know what's
bothering you. You'll just have to ignore what people are saying about
us and do your jobs. It's tough on me too. But that's the way it is when
you got a tough case."

He spat a piece of the cigar end into the wastepaper basket. "Everybody
wants to put their two bits in, second-guess you, criticize you. It's
the nature of our business that we can't run around giving progress
reports every step of the way. So people think we're doing nothing.
Until we solve the case. Then they think we're heroes. They're wrong on
both ends of the deal. But that's the way folks are. They don't ever
think anything's going on until it's done. Folks think pigs are just
fat-slob animals until they can bite into a good pork cutlet."

The men chuckled.

"Could I ask a question, sir?" A young patrolman raised his hand.
Perkins nodded. "I just wondered, why didn't you tell the State Troopers
what you think the pattern of killings indicates?"

"I did."

"Well, I know you said about it being an unpre

85

dictable animal, but I mean your theory on what the thing might be after?"

Perkins worked his lips and teeth vigorously around the cigar. "In the
first place, I didn't like those guys being called in. That ain't my
business, of course, and what the mayor or the governor want to do we
just have to live with. But they just barge in here, trampling all over
everything, thinking they're smarter than anybody. I ain't saying it's
not a serious case. But it ain't a question of just calling in every
Tom, Dick, and Harry cop-we got plenty of bodies to do the work. It's a
question," he tapped his head hard several times with his index finger,
"of using your goddam brain. That's the difference between ordinary cops
and good cops. Sure, you gotta beef up patrols, have special
communications, all that stuff. That's easy. It's basic. We had that set
up before the Troopers came in."

He paced back and forth among the officers, his cigar growing shorter as
he chewed and spat

"So, fine, they get ordered into this, we just make more patrols.
Nothing wrong with that-maybe-if they don't end up shooting at us or
their own damn shadows. But as far as my theories are concerned, that's
something else. I ain't telling them because they'd either laugh at me
or try and horn hi on it and run it all themselves. And they aren't up
to it. They don't know the area like we do, the nooks and crannies, the
holes and pipes, the alleys and stairways. They'd stumble into a goddam
swimming pool in somebody's backyard and drown.

"Plus, I may be wrong. And if I'm wrong, the fewer cops who know about
it the better, am I right?"

The officers nodded.

Perkins chuckled. "If I'm wrong, no sense in getting everybody in a
uproar over it, 'cause I don't feel like retiring just yet. And if I'm
right... if I'm right. . ." he stared out the window, ". . . then we
gotta play it cool and quiet. A small group of us are all that's gonna
be in on it, so it don't get blown. Ready to move fast. 'Cause there's
gonna be some shooting. And I don't

86

want a whole mob of cops pumping lead into half of L.A."

A sudden banging on the door, "Lieutenant! Lieutenant!" More banging.
"Lieutenant! They got it! The state cops got it! May I come in?"

The door swung open and a red-faced, breathless young desk officer
sprang into the room waving a piece of paper. "I just monitored the
call! They got it surrounded! Some Mexican's house ..."

State Troopers ringed the yard around the small house, crouched behind
bushes, nervously fingering their shotguns.

Captain Sanford clutched his .357 Magnum so tightly that his entire fist
was white. His eyes, like the others', were focused on a low section of
shrubbery just off to the left of the front porch. Beside him hunkered a
middle-aged man in overalls and a plaid shirt.

The cry came again, a low, mournful, hiccuping cry just like a regular baby.

"That's it!" the man whispered in the captain's ear. "Just like I said
when I called."

"Okay," Sanford whispered to the Troopers nearest him, "move in slowly,
all together, pass the word."

The circle of Troopers emerged from the bushes and started edging toward
the cluster of small shrubs, their shotguns at the ready. The captain
was a step ahead.

Again the cry, unmistakable, louder.

The men crept forward. They were a few yards from the spot. The crying
rose to a wail.

A car screeched up to the curb. A girl's voice yelled, "What's going on?
What's wrong?"

A teenage girl and boy came, running from the car, their long black hair
flowing behind them. "What's WRONG?"

87

87

They broke through the line of Troopers and headed for the shrubs.

"Watch it!" Captain Sanford bellowed. "Everybody down!"

The Troopers flopped into prone firing positions.

The two teenagers parted the shrubs to reveal a stroller in which a
diaper-clad baby now goo-gooed happily.

"Stay away from its fingers!" yelled the captain.

The girl picked up the baby and hugged it to her chest. "But what's
wrong, officers? We just left the baby for a few minutes."

Captain Sanford stood up, brushed himself off, and gingerly approached
the girl. j

"You can put that leg of lamb away," she said, waggling her hand at the
huge pistol.

"What the hell is going on here?" the captain asked gruffly.

"I'm babysitting," she said. "My boyfriend came by and we just left the
baby for a few minutes to pick up some tacos."

"But why the devil'd you put it in them damn shrubs?" ;

"The mother said not to leave him alone in the

house. And we put him back see us leave and get upset. He

there so he wouldn't likes to be out in the

sun. We thought he would go to sleep like he usually does." She kissed
the top of the baby's head. "We were gone just a few minutes."

Captain Sanford clicked on the safety and jammed the Magnum down in his
hip holster. "Well, goddam." He turned and glared at the man in
overalls. "Why'd you call us for a thing like that?"

"It was a baby's cry, just like I read about." The man blushed deeply
and fumbled with the straps of his overalls. "I couldn't see nothin'. I
didn't mean no harm. Better to be safe than sorry, ain't that right?'

Captain Sanford snarled and glared at the man. "But if you live next
door or something, didn't you know there was a baby in this house?"

88

"I don't live around here. I'm a carpenter, on a job down the block. I
was just walkin' by."

Three local police cars careened around the corner, slid up to and over
the curb, and came to a skidding halt on the lawn behind the Troopers.
The men, led by Detective Perkins, spilled out of the cars.

"What in blazes . . ." Perkins pushed through the crowd, saw the baby,
then turned slowly around to Captain Sanford. "Anybody shot?"

"Naw. False alarm. This damn plumber here don't know a baby from his uncle."

Perkins looked at the man in overalls, who stared nervously at the ground.

"Sorry, I heard a cry . . ."

By now several people had come from nearby houses and were bunched on
the sidewalk, watching the scene.

"Okay, okay," Perkins waved them away, "keep it moving. Family dispute.
Everybody back to their knitting."

"We were here within seconds after the call," Sanford said proudly.

"I'm sure you were."

"And I can tell you this." The captain leaned to Perkins's ear
confidentially. "If it'd a been that monster brat we're after, it'd a
been plastered all over the wall of that house before it could say boo."

"I don't doubt that either."

"Okay, men, back in your cars! Good trial run!"

The Troopers scrambled into their cars and sped away.

"Gee, officer," said the man in overalls, standing with one toe on top
of the other, "did I do something really wrong?"

"No, mister," Perkins replied. "You did exactly the right thing. You
might a saved a life. As it was, I think the babysitter here performed
that service just in the nick of time."

She came shyly over to the lieutenant. "I can't tell you how sorry and
embarrassed I am," she said, looking at the baby who gurgled merrily at
her chest. "It

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was wrong, leaving the baby. I hope I don't lose the job."

"You deserve to."

"I know."

Perkins turned to leave.

She took a hesitant step forward. "I was just wondering ..." she
followed him to his car, ". . . whether I should have called the police
about something I saw, last night"

He stopped short and turned back to her. "What did you see?"

"Well, um, nothing really. I mean, that's why I didn't call, because I
couldn't really tell-"

"Tell me now."

"Well, I was walking through the parking lot of the shopping center, you
know, over on Hooper Street? I had worked late at the supermarket-that's
my main job-and the stores were closed, but it wasn't completely dark.
And as I was walking along, I saw something move, on the other side of
the fence, on the ground. You know that picket fence they have? Well I
saw something move. At first I thought it was a dog, or some squirrels.
But it wasn't. I mean I don't think it was. It was getting pretty dark.
I thought I saw the head of something..I can't be sure. I thought it was
a head. Just the back of it Like it was looking in the direction-"

"Look, miss, just tell me exactly what you saw, even if you're not sure."

"Well, like I said, I thought it was a head. But. .."

"But what?"

"Now please, don't laugh at me, or call me crazy or anything-because I
said I just thought I saw it..."

Perkins sighed.

".. . But I swear to God, officer, the head was very big and bald and
round, like some kind of giant human baby."

Detective Perkins bit his cigar in two. "Then what happened?"

"It was as if it suddenly saw something, in the

90

other direction, like over toward the school. And then all at once a
whole bunch of leaves flew up around it, and it was gone. Please,
officer," she put a hand on his arm and looked at him pleadingly, "don't
call me crazy. I know how it sounds. That's why I didn't tell anybody,
not a soul."

"Don't tell anybody else. Maybe you saw something, maybe you didn't.
Appreciate you mentioning it to me. Let's go, men."

They got into their cars and backed off the lawn, leaving the girl
standing there cradling the baby, her boyfriend waiting for her at the
front door.

The officer behind the wheel looked over at Detective Perkins. "What do
you think, lieutenant?"

"I think she saw something," Perkins said, "maybe a balloon. But I don't
think it was a balloon."

"Looks like you've been right about it, then."

"If that's a consolation to you. But this town ain't gonna give a damn
how right I've been. All anybody's gonna care about is that we get this
job done. And we ain't done it yet. All we know is that thing's still
loose. And it's still here, most likely."

"At least now we know for sure it's got a big, bald head."

"We don't know nothing. We see, we hear, we think. Even if that girl did
see something, she couldn't be sure about that at night. And I don't
care if it's got a bowling ball for a head. She's the luckiest person in
this town that she didn't turn up this morning with her throat missing.
Next person that sees it might not be so lucky. So next time it's seen,
it better be by us."

The hospital was quiet, clean, and orderly--approximately back to
normal. Nurses bustled soundlessly through the corridors; doctors
huddled over patients; even the delivery room was functioning efficiently.

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91

Nobody talked about what was now referred to as "the Davis incident."
But memories of it hovered in the air, and the spirit of the personnel
was more somber than before.

It was perhaps to be expected-given all the furor, tensions,
misunderstandings, and publicity of that tragic time-that the hospital's
public-relations man, Ned Schultz, resigned, in the best interests of
everybody concerned. He was congratulated all around for his
unselfishness and grace under pressure, and given a cake. He managed to
find a job with KBOP Radio-TV. Dr. Norten, the chief resident, had
weathered the storm. It was not, after all, any of the hospital's fault.
Some felt that he, like Schultz, perhaps should resign, only because the
public tended to associate him with the awful events.

But, as a direct result of those same events, the hospital was short of
doctors. And Norten had, by reason of his quietly professional demeanor,
been able to convince the hospital board that he above all others should
be relied upon to use his experience at the hospital to keep it
functioning medically well. That he should run everything, in fact

And that he did. He was superbly organized himself, and able to transmit
that skill upon his staff. So well-ordered was he that not (only was he
able to continue and expand his practice! with patients, but also he
found time to stay abreast of all details relating to the horrible
occurrence of a few days before.

As a matter of fact, at his recent overnight private meeting with a
publisher in Chicago, he'd been assured of a six-figure amount whenever
he would be able to deliver a suitable manuscript, which he had
tentatively entitled: "The Davis Incident."

"Telephone for Dr. Norten," announced the P.A., "... telephone for Dr.
Norten ..."

He broke off a conversation with some interns in the corridor, and took
the call in his office.

"Dr. Norten? Professor Eckstein speaking. I promised I'd keep you
posted. I've been going over some reports

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It's Alive!

in the coroner's office. Fascinating details. But I guess you're pretty
familiar with all that."

"Yes, I think so."

"But there is something I find rather curious."

"Oh?"

"Yes, in the blood samples. In the umbilical cord. Tell me, doctor, is
Mrs. Davis an unusually energetic or nervous person?"

"Nervous perhaps, according to Dr. Francis's files. She seemed to have
an odd feeling while she was carrying the ... child. She was apparently
not terribly lucid or articulate about it, but she used the words
'strange' and 'weird' often, according to the notes. I do remember, now
that you mention it, the nurse who tended her in the labor room saying
that Mrs. Davis did appear, as she put it, 'highly agitated' before she
went to delivery. That is, before her husband visited her in labor. The
nurse recounted to me that she seemed quite upset indeed, apprehensive
not about labor pains and the usual things, but about something she
didn't seem to express readily. And again, after she left her husband,
when she was being wheeled in to delivery, there was something she said
about it being 'too late,' and Mrs. Davis sat up. Almost as quickly, she
collapsed back down on the bed, and remained relatively calm after that.
Does any of this relate to what you're curious about?"

"Perhaps, Dr. Norten. And now, is Mrs. Davis feeling especially tired,
more spent than you would expect?"

"Hmm. Odd. When last I saw her, yesterday, she was in fact surprisingly
energetic, I thought. Surprisingly. I urged her to take a Valium and
stay off her feet, but she was fairly dancing around the room.

"For how long?"

"We left within minutes, so I can't say."

"You don't know if that energy abruptly left her soon after that?"

"No. Come, come, my good man, you must tell me what's on your mind."

93

"Just this, doctor. In the umbilical cord, I discovered that there was
an amazing supply of hormones, primarily adrenaline. The umbilical was
saturated with it. It is as if every ounce of adrenaline in her body was
suddenly thrust into the child. Anything in Dr. Francis's files about
her hormone balance?"

"Nothing I can recall, professor."

"Had she ever been on the pill, if I may ask?"

"Why yes, in fact, for many years. Remarkably enough, she stopped taking
them some time ago, then began taking fertility pills of some sort-I
don't remember the make and model. Quaint ambivalence about the
procreative processes,,what?"

"LordI Didn't anybody wajrn her about playing with her hormonal balance
so flagrantly?"

"I daresay, professor, just between you and me, had she been my patient
I most certainly would have counseled a more careful approach; Have you
some conclusions from all this?"

"I fear I might bore you, doctor, with matters you have already
contemplated."

"Tut, tut, Professor Eckstein. If I have considered what you are about
to tell me, you will either confirm my conjectures or deny them. Either
way, we advance our knowledge of the science and the case."

"Very well. We have here a woman who, at least at the moment of birth,
infused her infant with a horrendous dose of adrenaline and other
hormones. Not only would that deplete her, but it would also tend to
oversupply the infant. It would be enough to kill an ordinary newborn
child. But this one accepted the hormones. Such a capability would
suggest grotesque consequences: abnormal growth and strength, and God
knows what other abnormalities and deformities. It could even suggest
why such an infant could survive in cold and damp("

"Ahh." ?

"But of course we must ask ourselves: How could such an infant accept
this hormonal overdose at the last moment?"

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It's Alive!

"Exactly."

"Supposing we postulate that the woman was producing and transferring
gross amounts of these hormones, including adrenaline, from the moment
of conception and through the entire term."

"Precisely."

"It challenges standard doctrine, but were that possible, we might have
found the important clue in the mystery of how this mutant developed."

"Certainly."

"And we shall know what form it finally took soon, when we have the
corpus for examination."

"Assuredly."

"But not, doctor, precisely why."

"Hunh?"

"If this theory is correct, and if our interests involve more than just
the lurid, sensational, shortsighted details of the mutant itself-such
as what one might find in the Guinness Book of Records-then we must
address the riddle of why Mrs. Davis produced these massive amounts of
hormones, what in her body caused them to be loosed by the truckload so
as to produce this gargoyle of a child . . ."

"I should say so."

". . . Because, doctor, as I'm sure you already know, her glands may
still be so afflicted, still producing in outrageous spasms."

"Quite right."

"And if they are, doctor, we must assume one of two things."

"One or the other."

"Either she is unique, in a way herself a mutant. .."

"Or . . ."

". . . or she is not unique. If the former applies, we have a simply
medical curiosity. But if it's the latter- let us pray it is not-then we
could be facing what might turn out to be-I don't want to overstate it-
a horrifying epidemic."

The phone quivered in Norten's hand as he stared

95

wide-eyed at the wall. "We must keep this under our hats, professor."

"You think so? I was about to suggest that we send out an urgent alert
to obstetricians and others involved with-"

"No, absolutely not. Not until we're sure. We would risk a panic."

"But what if-"

"Continue your excellent work, professor. Don't breathe a word to anyone
except me. As the one in charge of the medical aspects of this case, I
must assume total responsibility. Mrs. Davis must be approached
cautiously, for she is highly suspicious of tests or treatment just now.
First, we must have the infant. Then, at the proper time, I will
undertake the research into the bodily functions of Mrs. Davis."

"I hope you're right."

"I believe in proceeding with care and caution."

"So many people already dead ..."

"What's past is past."

"Or prologue, doctor."

The old woman slogged along the dark sidewalk as if through deep sand,
lifting her feet wearily, pushing in front of her a twisted, rusting
shopping cart loaded with rags. It was for this she was known around
town as "the rag lady."

She wore a long, tattered coat, ripped army boots, and a faded kerchief
on her head. She muttered to herself as she moved painfully along.

She slept in stairwells or wherever anyone would let her in to curl up
behind a door. Though not an esthetic treat, she harmed no one.

Whenever anyone would listen, the rag lady told tales. Stories of things
she knew, things she saw: sagas of adventure, visitations of spirits and
Martians, in

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It's Alive!

sights into the cosmos as well as the immediate neighborhood. Children
loved her fables, and would often bring her bits of discarded clothing,
which she added to her cart; parents begged them to stay away from her.

All day and into each night, she walked alone, mumbling her own stories,
over and over again to herself.

She plodded past the playground, where so often she could find an
audience. But now she didn't bother looking for anyone, because it was
night and the playground was naturally deserted. She trudged steadily
on, her head bobbing in rhythm to the slow dirge of her legs.

Until she heard a swing creak.

She pressed her face up against the chain-link fence and tried to focus
her watery eyes on the row of swings in the center of the playground.
The swing squeaked again and again in regular tempo. Just as it did
during the day, when the schoolchildren were there.

Straining to see a distance beyond her normal view, she blinked several
times to clear her old, dim eyes. She could make out the swing now,
arcing steadily back and forth. And someone in it.

"Halloo," she called weakly.

The swing stopped. The child got off. It came toward her. Not walking,
rather half crawling and half hopping. It began to cry.

It neared the fence and stopped, its crying increasing in pitch and
intensity. It wailed now, screamed. It sprang onto the fence.

The rag lady's eyes widened slowly in terror. Blood drained from her
face. She stumbled backward. "Nooo," she whimpered, "nooo . . ." Her
eyes rolled back in her head. She fell across the shopping cart,
knocking it over and spilling its contents along the sidewalk.

-There she lay, face up, amid all her rags, seeing no longer what now
reached the top of the fence and dropped down beside her.

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97

They found her early in the morning.

"Look, sarge, it's the rag lady!"

They pulled the police cruiser to the curb and jumped out. The sergeant
quickly knelt at her head and put his hands along the sides of her neck,
feeling for pulse.

"She's alive, at least. Call for an ambulance."

The patrolman trotted back to the cruiser to send the call while the
sergeant cradled the rag lady's head in his arm.

She stirred and opened her foggy eyes. She threw her hand up as if to
ward off a blow, then slowly lowered it as she peered at the sergeant.

"It's okay now, lady, just take it easy. We got an ambulance on its way.
Don't try and move."

She moaned and rolled her eyes. "Oooh, ooww . . ."

"On its way, sergeant." The patrolman knelt beside them as they heard
the siren in the distance. "What's with her, anyway?"

"Probably hasn't eaten in a

week. Take it easy now,

lady.':

She rocked in his arms and moaned. "I seen it, oooh, I seen it-"

"Yeah, yeah, take it easy, we'll get you into a nice, warm bed."

"Seen what, sergeant? What'd she see?"

"Martian, dinosaur, pot of gold, maybe John Wayne. Who the hell knows?
What'd you see, lady?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oooh . . . baby, I seen the baby . . . ooww ..." |

"What baby?"

The ambulance whined around the corner and lurched to a stop. Two
white-clad attendants pulled a stretcher out of the back and ran over to
where the rag lady lay moaning. Quickly they arranged a pillow

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It's Alive!

and blankets. "Where's she hurt, sergeant?" one of them asked, dropping
to his knees beside him.

"Nowhere I can find. I think she just collapsed."

"Okay, ma'am," the attendant said, slipping his arms under her, "nice
and easy now, we'll just move you onto the stretcher."

"... I seen it... aaah . . ."

"There, there."

They put her gently on the ambulance bed. One attendant stayed with her,
the other closed the doors, and went around to take the driver's seat.

The sergeant waved goodbye and turned toward the cruiser. "Guess we
better take her goddam cart," he said to the patrolman. "Stick it in our
trunk."

The patrolman picked up the cart. "Sergeant, where's her rags?"

"How the hell should I know? Maybe she sold 'em." He picked up the
telephone receiver on the radio. "Dispatcher, this is Car 31, Car 31. Over."

"But who would want to buy-"

"Car 31 ... Yeah, we got a ten-fifty-four here outside the Darwin School
playground, turned out to be the old rag lady . . . Yeah, ambulance just
left . . . No visible injuries, like maybe she just passed out ... Only
communication was she kept ranting about seeing something or other ...
Yeah, a baby. Right ... I don't know, just a baby. Maybe it was Jesus .
. . You knew her . . . Yeah. So we'll get back on our ten-ninety-eight .
. . What? Resume our patrol, for chrissake. Ain't you got no code chart
down there? . . . Right. Ten-four."

"It was just the old rag lady, lieutenant."

"Yeah, I know," Detective Perkins said, wetting down a fresh cigar, "but
what's this about seeing a baby?"

99

"I don't know. That's all the sergeant said when he radioed in. This is
verbatim."

"I don't doubt it," Perkins said, scanning the transcript. "Listen, get
him back on the radio, make him repeat exactly what he heard, tell him I
said so. I'm going over to the hospital."

"But lieutenant, she wasn't even injured-"

"Just do as I say. You get any more details, call me there."

Detective Lieutenant Perkins, accompanied by Dr. Norten in his green
surgical gear, and Professor Eckstein, hurried along the corridor toward
the bed of the rag lady.

"Why the unusual interest, lieutenant?" asked Dr. Norten. "You think she
really saw something?"

"You never know."

They entered the room and went quickly to the bedside.

The rag lady was propped up on pillows, clean and pale, her jaw set in
sassy disdain for her visitors.

"Now then, missus, I'm Detective Perkins, and you know the doctor here.
I understand you saw something last night. Would you tell me about it?"

"Hmmph. I seen it, that's all."

"What?"

"The baby. That monster whippersnapper you been lookin' for."

"Now, dear lady," Dr. Norten cooed, "we all know how you-"

"Tell me what you saw, missus."

She snorted. "Well, if I'm talkin' to a real detective! Lot of folks
pretend to be the law. I see lots of things, you know, on my rounds.
Nobody believes me nohow."

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It's Alive!

He flipped open his wallet to reveal his gold shield.

"All right, then. I seen that thing, close up, on the fence. It come
right over to me."

"Describe it."

"Well, it didn't look much like nothin' I ever seen before. It had great
big eyes, and claws."

"Mmm-hmm. What else? Did it have hair?"

"No hair. Bald as a bowling ball. Funny, round body too, you know? Claws
on the legs. I know, 'cause it was grippin' real good on to the fence."

"Mmm-hmm. Did you just find it there, hanging on to the fence?"

"Oh no. It was over there on the swing, swinging up and down. I thought
it was maybe one of my friends, one of my many close friends. So I
called to it. And it come hoppin' right over to the fence."

"Hopping?"

"That's what I said. Like a goshdarn kangaroo. Except farther. It hopped
farther, higher."

"Hmm. Did you have any conversation with it?"

"Conversation?"

"Yeah, did it talk to you?"

"Now looka here, you may be a detective, but that don't cut no ice with
me if you're gonna wisecrack. How could I talk with a thing like that? I
don't even speak French good no more. It just hung there and cried, just
like a baby."

"I see."

Dr. Norten took Perkins by the elbow and turned him around and whispered
to him, "Detective, I'm afraid you're wasting your time. She could have
read all this."

"Mmm. So it just hung there and cried?" Perkins pulled away.

"Cried louder and louder. And then it started up the fence."

"And?"

"Next thing I seen was them policemen and the ambulance fellers."

"What happened to your, unh, belongings?"

101

101

"My cart! Where's my cart?" She sat up straight.

"We have your cart, missus,, but there was nothing in it."

She shook her head and pursed her lips. "Now that just goes to show ya,
can't leave nothing lying around for one minute, somebody up and steals it."

"You think somebody would steal your possessions?"

"Hmmph, these days? You ikiddin' me? Why, just the other day I was
carrying |a shopping bag full of T-bone steaks, with my purse lyin' on
top of it, with five hundred dollars in it, and six Mexicans came
sidling up to me and started sweet-talkin', and next thing I knew, they
run off with my meat and my money."

"See, lieutenant," Dr. North said, smiling sadly, "what we're dealing
with here?"

Perkins bowed. "Thank you,jmissus. Get a good rest now."

"I hope my credit's good. My medical insurance just run out."

Detective Perkins stood in the hospital corridor and rubbed his chin
pensively.

The doctor and the professor stared at their shoes.

"I wonder," Perkins mused, "what happened to her rags."

Professor Eckstein fidgeted with his tie. "Maybe the thing took them."

"Now, professor," Norten said, "I can't believe that you take the rag
lady seriously. After all, she apparently wasn't even attacked, or hurt
in any way."

"Well, perhaps she wasn't a threat to it, once she passed out. And if
the thing was there, perhaps it took the rags. Perhaps it wanted to
build a nest."

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It's Alive!

"A nest?" Perkins narrowed his eyes.

"Maybe it's getting cold."

"Surely, professor," Dr. Norten said, "if it's gone this long ..."

Professor Eckstein studied the ceiling. "It could be starting to get
cold-if it's running out of adrenaline . . ."

Dr. Norten stepped firmly on the professor's foot.

"What's this about adrenaline?" Detective Perkins asked.

The professor looked back and forth between Perkins and Norten. "Um,
well, unh, just that, um, any warm-blooded animal can, ah, run out of
energy, and get cold."

"I see." Perkins peered at Mm and chewed his cigar. "Well, maybe the rag
lady didn't see anything at all. Maybe she just left her rags someplace.
I've got to get back to the station house. Thank you, gentlemen, for
your time."

They watched him walk away toward the front entrance.

"Well, professor," Dr. Norten hissed, "you almost blew it."

"Sorry. Although he's the police, after all, and I thought he should
know everything that would help them catch-"

"Not now, professor, don't you see? The matter of hormonal balance means
nothing to him. That's a matter best left to the medical profession. It
has nothing to do with their search for this mutant."

"But I was thinking, doctor, that if this thing thrives according to our
thesis, then quite naturally its supply of hormones would tend to be
used up when it's on its own. There's only one place it could go to get
the vast amounts needed to restore its strength."

"No need to belabor what we already know, professor." The doctor bade
him goodbye, then ran into his office to scribble down some hasty notes
with a trembling hand.

103

103

The United Parcel delivery man" handed Frank the large box and he lugged
it into the house and put it on the living-room floor.

"My, what's that, darling?" Lenore came into the room wiping her hands
with a dish towel.

"From the office. Must be a present of some kind. Heavy."

"Well, go on, open it! I'm excited."

He slit the tape with a letter opener and folded back the flaps. He sat
staring at it. "It's my stuff. My office stuff."

"Why would anybody-"

"Pen set, ashtrays, your picture, books-all my stuff."

"Frank . . ."

"I've been kicked out of my office." He shook his head. "I can't believe
it."

She knelt beside him on the floor. "Look, there's a note stuck in there."

He opened the envelope and read aloud:

Dear Frank,

Thought it was best for everybody, to close things out this way, without
going through all the goodbyes and crap up here that might embarrass
you. Everybody here thinks you're terrible, as you know. You're a hell
of a PR man, one of the best anywhere, but it just wasn't going to work
out any longer staying with our firm, under the circumstances.

I know you'll understand how difficult this decision has been for me. I
really can't afford to lose you, but that's the way it goes.

A check for a month's pay will be in the mail to you. You know I'll give
you absolutely the highest

104

recommendation whenever you need it. My loss will

be somebody else's gain.

My best to Lenore. And please keep in touch, by

phone.

Your friend, Buck Clayton P.S. I know you must be going through one hell

of a trying time right now. Guess it's rough being a

parent, although I've never been one-that I know

of, ha-ha.

The note slipped from Frank's fingers and fell to the floor. Lenore
picked it up and looked at it.

"I don't understand, Frank, I don't understand at all."

He shook his head.

"But he must have said something. You talked to him. You told him you
were going to take your vacation. You said everything was all right."
Tears were in her eyes.

"I wasn't being quite honest with you, Lenore. It was Buck who insisted
I get away for a while. / didn't want to go. I wanted to keep working,
keep my mind occupied. He made me go. But he never said anything about
this."

"But why? Why would he fire you? You had his top accounts."

Frank went to the bar and poured himself some Chivas. He drank it
straight and poured some more. "He fired me, Lenore, for
public-relations reasons. I should have expected it."

"But you were the best PR man he had-he says it himself."

"He didn't fire me for public-relations work, just public-relations
reasons. With all that has happened, I guess I became a millstone for
the company. I would make clients uncomfortable, nervous. And in this
business, that's the worst thing you can do, no matter how good your
work is. So, along with everything else, our

105

105

family now has," he drained his drink, "no breadwinner."

"Couldn't you talk to him, Frank, reason with him? Maybe / should talk
to him. I could explain-"

"No, no, no. I understand it completely. Buck did the right thing,
business-wise. I just happen to be the unlucky one lately, falling into
one trap after another."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Maybe the hospital PR joh's still open. Be a natural for me, even at
half the salary I've been making. I'd be a real insider." '

"What do you mean by falling into traps?"

He slammed his glass on the bar. "You know goddam good and well what I
mean, Lenore! I've worked hard all these years to be good at what I do
for a living, and to be a good husband and father. What did I ever do to
deserve getting kicked in the belly like this?"

"But, Frank, what did 1 eves do?"

"I don't know what you dip. Pills, garbage, God-knows-what . . . But
whatever you did got you that damn mutated animal that's running around
out there killing people! It's already cost me my job, and who knows
what else it'll cost me before it's through!"

"But, Frank, you're the father!"

"I'm not the father! There is no father! That thing isn't human! It
isn't mine! It's yours, Lenore, and it's tearing my life apart!"

"Mine?" She sat staring at him, dumbfounded. Her eyes were dry. She
blinked hard a few times, then smiled. "I've got to finish up in the
kitchen." She got up and smoothed her hair. "Don't go upstairs just yet,
I've got a little more straightening up to do-our bed's still a mess.
And then, you know what? I'll make us a nice dinner. How about a roast?
Yes." She headed for the kitchen with a bouncy step. "Roast and baked
potatoes and lima beans. And maybe I'll whip up a fresh cabbage slaw. We
haven't had that in a long time."

"Lenore."

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It's Alive!

"And before that, just to keep you from starving, I'll mix up an onion
dip with celery sticks."

"Lenore!" His eyes were wet.

"Yes, sweetie?"

"I didn't mean what I said."

"What was that, dear?"

In the kitchen, she began pulling out pots and utensils and clanking
them onto the stove. "You mean about no breadwinner? Oh, I'm not
worried. I have so much confidence in you. With a month to play with,
you'll come up with something super-better than what you had." She
trotted and twirled in the kitchen, her face flushed, reaching out this
way and that to accumulate meat, potatoes, vegetables, and pile them on
the counter. "I never thought that Buck Clayton had a big enough
operation for you, anyway-no room to grow. He's a lecher, Buck is. Did
you know that?" She began chopping up cabbage, her hand a mechanical
blur. "He even said something to me once, about getting me alone,
showing me a real good time. I'm glad you're out of that place."

Frank came up behind her and closed her in his arms. "Please, Lenore,
listen to me, slow down . . ." Her entire body was tense with kinetic
energy. "I didn't mean that, about being trapped. I love you so."

She spun from his grasp, then leaned over and gave him a peck on the
cheek. "And I love you. Later I'll show you. Right now just let me put
this dinner together, okay? Dip'll be ready in a minute. Have you talked
to Chris today?"

"He's up at the lake with Charley, you know that Won't be back until
tomorrow."

"Good. Just us. Like honeymooners. You're in my way, lover. Wait in the
den, okay? I'll bring the dip to you."

She stood smiling up at him. Then the smile faded, her knees buckled,
she tottered backward, and slumped down into a chair. She tilted slowly
over, until her head was resting on the table. She shivered.

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107

"What's wrong?" He knelt!beside her and put his hand on her head.
"Lenore, wfrat is it?"

Her eyes were half closed, 'I'm just so tired, Frank, and cold." s

He hugged her. "But all of a sudden like that?"

Tm sorry. I've been so up and down lately. My head is spinning. I'm not
dizzy, exactly. Confused. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating outside
myself, like my body's not my own."

"You've exhausted yourself. And I haven't helped at all. Come on, let me
get you into bed. I'm so sorry for the things I said, for thinking only
of myself, for being such a weakling. I'll carry you up."

"No, I'm okay. I'll go up myself. This usually passes in a few minutes." '

He took her arm and helped her up the stairs and tucked her into bed. He
kissed her on the forehead and went back down to sit in the den. He
poured a drink and sprawled out in the soft chair and fell asleep.

Sometime later in the night! the phone rang. Frank answered it groggily.

"Mr. Davis? This is Lieutenant Perkins. Sorry to be bothering you so
late, but it'$ important. Could you meet me right away over at the
Darwin School? There's something here I'd like you to see, and ask you
about. Just tell my men at the front door you're here to see me." >,

It stemmed, in a way, frooi one of those minor school-board matters.
Having to cut back on their budget, they had sliced out funds for the
night watch-man* letting the old man go, a^ter all those years, with a
Good Citizen plaque and a fcmall pension. But then, after a series of
incidents of petty vandalism, they had installed in the lower windows-at
slightly higher cost

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It's Alive!

than to retain the watchman-a silent alarm system hooked up directly to
police headquarters.

And so, when entry was made tonight through one of the first-floor
windows, the police had been instantly alerted, and cars arrived on the
scene within minutes.

Before the cars arrived, one of the many foot patrolmen assigned to each
block of Westwood and vicinity during the several days' search for the
monster-baby responded to a message on his walkie-talkie and ran around
the corner to the dark, square, two-story brick school. Following
instructions, he didn't go in, but scouted the windows from the outside.
He quickly found one open and heard noises inside: the tinkling of a
music box, the rattling of blocks, the rolling of plastic wheels across
the floor.

Eight cars quickly converged on the scene, their sirens silent. Three
were locals, and five State Troopers.

Most of the men fanned out to encircle the building. Detective Perkins
took a small unit to the front door, followed closely by Captain Sanford
and a handful of Troopers.

"Step aside, lieutenant," the captain said, "my men'll blow that door
right off its hinges."

"No need." Perkins nodded to one of his men, who stooped at the door
with a tiny tool, quickly slipped the lock, and shoved the door open.

"Okay," Perkins said quietly, "stay together until I tell you to split
up. Keep your mouths shut and easy on your trigger fingers."

They entered the building, the local policemen hold-in their revolvers
at their shoulders pointed up, the Troopers cradling their shotguns.
They spread out along the main hallway.

"Where the hell's the lights?" came a whisper. "Wall switches don't work."

"Must be turned off by some master switch, automatically timed. Use your
flashlights."

Beams from a dozen flashlights sprayed around the

109

109

open. Lights played ery comer. Nothing

yellow walls, into open classrooms; heavy breathing from a dozen men
filled the hall.

"Brunt. Where's Patrolman B: unt?"

"Right here, lieutenant," he whispered back.

"What room was it where you heard the noise?"

"I think it must be right down here, third door on the right."

The door was closed. Detective Perkins slowly turned the knob and eased
it around the room, covering & moved; I

Perkins and three of his mep edged inside. Toys were strewn all over the
room. A hand-painted poster that said, "Darwin Kindergarten^" with
flowers and a sun on it, lay on the floor. Perkins stumbled over a tiny
merry-go-round that responded with a few dying notes of its song.

"That's it, lieutenant, that's what I heard."

With his foot, Perkins sent la fire engine rolling across the wooden
floor. I

"That too."

Again with his foot, he pushed over a pile of blocks. j

"Yeah, that's it. Somebody was in here, all right."

"Or thing."

"Yeah." j

"Not here now." <

"If it was," came the hoarse growl of Captain San-ford, "we'd have it
plastered all over the wall before it could say A-B-C."

"You stayed right outside the window, Brunt?" Perkins asked.

"Yes sir, just like you said, all the time until the men had the
building surrounded."

"So maybe it's still in here."

"I sure hope so," muttered Sanford.

"You got all your men together, captain?"

"Sent 'em on ahead, spread 'em to reconnoiter the ground floor."

"I thought I said to-"

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It's Alive!

"Every one of my men is like a guerrilla fighter, lieutenant, handle
himself in any situation."

Detective Perkins gritted his teeth. "Okay, let's seal off this room.
We'll take the rooms one by one, check 'em, seal 'em off."

"Lieutenant, look at this!"

Perkins aimed his light. The patrolman was on one knee beside the
poster. Next to him several small bottles of paints were tipped over.
And from these blobs of paint, which the patrolman now pointed at, were
several tracks of drying color, tracks resembling the spoor of a very
large bird.

"It musta walked in this stuff, lieutenant! It left a " trail!"

Several flashlight beams converged on the tracks and moved slowly along
them, toward the men themselves. The tracks-mixtures of faint blue,
gold, and red- passed directly under them. The men stepped aside, their
lights tracing the tracks out the door and down the hallway.

The men stood where they were, allowing their flashlight beams to move
farther and farther along the hallway away from them, toward the broad
stairway at the end.

"Any of your men upstairs, captain?" Sanford flashed his light around
behind him, at the men herded together. "Nope. All here again, as ordered."

"Except Darcey, captain," came a voice from the rear. "Trooper Darcey
maybe went up."

Perkins snapped his head around to the captain. "Jesus!"

"He'll be all right. Top man. Anything's up there, he'll get it."

The two leaders moved slowly down the hallway, the others bunched up
behind them, all tilting their lights to see the poster paint, bird-like
tracks reaching out ahead of them, but growing fainter, on the floor.

They reached the foot of the stairs and stopped to shine their lights
up. The tracks had disappeared; the

111

Ill

paint was gone. Halfway up was a landing, and the stairs doubled back
over their I leads.

"Darcey?" Perkins called softly. "Trooper Darcey?"

"If he's on the job, lieutenant, stalking something up there, he won't
answer."

"Maybe he didn't go up there, captain," somebody said. "Maybe he went
outside. He said he needed to take a leak."

Detective Perkins started upward, the others pressed behind him. They
reached the landing and stopped. Perkins held up his hand. There wasn't
a sound. They then made the turn and went up the last section of stairs
to the top. The men gathered and all shined their lights down the long hall.

Nothing.

Captain Sanford leaned back into the group. "Couple you Troopers go on
back down. Go outside, see if Darcey's out there. Ask our men out there
if they saw anybody go out."

"Yes sir."

Two Troopers trotted down the stairs.

"Okay. Room by room," Perkins commanded. "Captain, take your Troopers
down the left side. We'll take the right."

The captain nodded and motioned his men forward to the first room on the
left. j

Detective Perkins panned h|s light down the hall, then flashed in at the
first room on the right. The door was open. All the classroom doors were
open. He started toward the first room. He stopped and flashed his light
down the hall again.

Except one room. Fourth down on the right. The door was closed.

Perkins held up his hand, then just one finger, and slowly brought it
down to point it at that closed door. His men fell in beside him,
walking softly, heel-and-toe.

Perkins spread his arms and stopped them. "Everybody got their safeties
off?" he whispered.

He heard one click, and scowled.

112

He began moving forward again.

From outside came a hoarse, whispered call, "Troopers!" followed by the
thudding steps of running boots, then more whispers.

"What the hell they doing out there?" Perkins murmured.

They listened.

"He's asking them if they seen Darcey, lieutenant."

Perkins snatched a cigar from his jacket pocket and stuck it in his mouth.

They were at the closed door. Perkins put his hand on the knob, then
took his hand off and stepped back. He slowly brought his right foot up
to the level of his belly, then smashed it against the door, breaking
the latch and slamming the door open against the wall, the crash echoing
through the school.

Lights shined straight ahead.

"Window's open."

He edged in along the shattered door, running his light quickly around
the room. Then down, under the window, on the floor.

No more caution. His men burst into the room and dropped to the side of
the uniformed body whose fresh blood was spilling from the gouge in his
throat and oozing along the baseboard.

"He ain't ours, lieutenant," one of Perkins's men called out.

Captain Sanford and his men poured into the room and dashed to the
fallen figure. "No, he ain't yours. Ours. Darcey."

Perkins lunged for the window and leaned out. Drainpipe just to his
left, half pulled away from the brick. Tracks on it, sliding, red. Not
paint, blood. He looked down at the ground. "Where the hell's the
Troopers was supposed to be on this side of the building?" he roared.

They came running over the grass from the front. "We're here, sir, just
checking on one of our men."

Sanford leaned out the window beside Perkins. "So it went out the window
and down the pipe."

113

113

"Yeah."

"And my men weren't covering the. ground."

"Nope."

"I'll have to take responsibility for that."

"Don't tell me about it, captain, goddam it! Tell your men about their
buddy!"

State and local policemen stood staring down where the beams of their
flashlights covered the body of their slaughtered comrade.

"Okay," Detective Perkins chomped down hard on his cigar, "somebody find
me a phone. I can't wait no longer. I gotta get Davis up here and ask
him some things."

Frank arrived at the school tp see flashlight beams waving around the
playground and in nearby lawns and shrubbery. He went to the front door,
where he was confronted by two policemen standing with legs apart and
nightsticks in front of them.

"I'm Frank Davis, here to see Detective Perkins. What's going on out there?"

"Afraid you'll have to ask Lieutenant Perkins about that, sir. We aren't
allowed to answer any questions."

"I passed an ambulance on the way here. Anything to do with this?"

"I'll show you to Lieutenant Perkins, sir, he's right inside."

Perkins was seated at the principal's desk, surrounded by several aides
manning communications equipment. Captain Sanford slumped on a chair in
the corner.

Perkins nodded to Frank and motioned to a chair.

"What's going on around here, lieutenant? What was that ambulance doing?"

114

"I'm afraid the school had a visitor, Mr. Davis. I'm afraid it was your
kid."

Frank squirmed. "I wish you wouldn't refer to it that way."

"I know you don't like it, Mr. Davis, but it's time we all faced up to a
few things. I didn't call you over here because you were just an
interested bystander, you know."

"I know. You got it, then? It was in the ambulance?"

"No. We ain't got it. Close, but no cigar." Which reminded him to take
out a fresh one and jam it between his teeth. "It was a cop in the
ambulance. Trooper. One of Captain Sanford's men there." "I'm sorry,
captain. Was he hurt bad?" Captain Sanford turned his face to the wall.
"Dead like the others," Perkins said. "Throat carved out. Killed him
upstairs, slid down a drainpipe, and got away across the grounds somewhere."

Frank stared at him, stunned. "So it's still out there."

"Tell me about it, Davis. Look, I haven't brought you into this much
before now, because I didn't want to upset you any more than you are,
and also because frankly I didn't think you could help us that much.
Maybe you can't. But I want to go over a few things with you, just
between us."

"Okay. Could you make it quick, lieutenant? I left my wife at home
alone, you know."

"I know. We're keeping an eye on the place." "I hope your men aren't
stomping around outside. It'll scare her to death. And you better not
have sent them inside either, because we don't want anybody-" "I know
all that. They're keeping an eye on it, that's all. She won't even know
they're there. Let's take a little walk, you and me."

They left the office and walked down the hall. Detective Perkins nodded
at his man stationed outside the kindergarten room, and he and Frank
went inside and closed the door behind them.

115

Lights were now on in the school. Perkins just stood and let Frank's
eyes wander over the room.

"Well, what about it, lieutenant? What am I supposed to see?"

"This the room where your wife taught?"

"Yeah. Not full-time. Substitute. But when she was at the school, this
is where she worked."

"How often?"

"Maybe once a week, or l*ss. Until the regular

teacher got sick. She's been he

:re quite a bit lately.

She changed it a lot, improved it. She cared a lot about-"

"How changed it?"

"Well, the toys, for example. She's responsible for most of the stuff
you see here. They used to have a lot of junk for the kids to play with:
old metal toys, broken stuff, dirty things that had been here for years.
There never seemed to be enough money for modern toys, good ones. But,
see, I have this account in my public-relations business-or h4d the
account. It was a toy company. And we were able to have the school get a
whole bunch of new toys at discount. It's just like what we have at
home. My boy's eleven now, but he used to play with stuff just like
this. In fact, seeing all these things is like walking into his old room
at home."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Something wrong with that?"

"Nope. But this is the room that thing came to. This is where my man
first heard it. Like it was playing with this stuff." Detective Perkins
knelt and shoved some of the blocks and trucks around. He picked up the
merry-go-round and wound it up. He held it while it played its song.

"My son's got the same one."

"Yeah? Interesting."

"Well, if it's anything like a real human kid, it probably likes to play
with toys."

"Yeah. When's the last time you or any member of your family was in this
room?"

116

"Well, Chris goes to school here, but I doubt that he'd come into this
room. Let's see. My wife was pregnant, as you know, but they waived the
rules to let her keep coming in, since the regular teacher was sick. She
worked pretty much right up until recently. I don't know the last day."

"Okay."

"Look, if you're telling me she had something to do with-"

"When I want to tell you something, Til tell you, Mr. Davis. I'm just
asking, at this point in time. Just asking. Don't read too much into it.
Let's go upstairs."

Men were posted outside every room. Frank and Detective Perkins went
into the room where the body of the Trooper had been found.

"He was right over there, under that window, Mr. Davis." Bloodstains
were still evident. "The window was open. Come over here." They leaned
out the window together. "See this drainpipe? Now, you and I couldn't
reach it from here. But see the blood on it? That's the way the kid got
down. Then it musta just took off."

"After you were already here?"

"Right."

"But why didn't you have men outside-"

"We can't be everywhere. It got by us. We don't know exactly how." A
score of men were scouring the yards and driveways in the neighborhood.
"It's probably not in the immediate area any longer. We found a little
blood on the grass right down there."

"Why don't you use dogs?"

"Tried dogs. They get confused. They just want to follow the scent of
the blood, and that down there ain't the blood of the thing we're after.
If it had a lot of blood on it, they could track it that way. But it
just had a little on its feet, and it disappeared after it hit the
ground. Either that thing don't have no scent of its own, or it's not a
scent the dogs go for. And we haven't got anything from the thing to
wave in front of their noses."

117

He pulled back in from the window and leaned against the wall, chewing
on his cigar. "So now, all of this give you any ideas?"

"Me? How? Am I supposed to have it figured out somehow?"

"Nope. Just wondering what you thought."

"What I thought! Jesus! I think you better catch it, that's all."

"It ain't leaving town, apparently."

"No."

"And it seems to me it's getting kind of bold."

"How? Because it came into the school?"

"That, and what maybe happened the night before. You know the rag lady?"

"Everybody does."

"Well, she says she saw the thing the night before, swinging in the
playground."

"You believe her?"

"I don't know." j

"Did it attack her?" I

"Nope."

"Well, why not?"

"Mr. Davis, I don't know why it does attack, or why it doesn't."

"But the rag lady dreams up all kinds of-"

"Look, if you suddenly came in here today from New York City, and I told
you this whole story of what's been going on around here, you'd figure I
was dreaming. This whole goddam mess is like somebody's science-fiction
dream. So I'm very careful about what I laugh off."

"I understand."

"So I ain't saying she saw it, I ain't saying she didn't. But one night
she says she saw it in the playground, the next night it's in the
school, right next door. I'd say that's getting bold."

"I. . . see."

"Somebody at the hospital yesterday said something about it might be
getting cold."

"Why?"

118

It's Alive!

"It mighta took the rag lady's rags. They were gone. Maybe to build a
nest, a guy said, something about adrenaline, needing adrenaline."

"Then do they know something about its physical makeup?"

"I don't know. How's your wife lately?"

"Tired, naturally. Upset. Depressed."

"Cold?"

"Hey, come on, lieutenant! What're you trying to say? When people get
over-tired they almost always feel cold. You trying to make some kind of
ghost story out of this? Some kind of supernatural nonsense?"

"Nope. Some kind of natural nonsense. I wish it was a ghost story. I
ain't a doctor, but it seems to me that the thing must have something
from both of you in it, something of your makeup, your genes, your
blood, your brains-something."

"Now, dammit! I don't have to listen to that! Everybody's trying to make
us into monsters. This isn't a damn human kid!"

"It ain't a raisin either, Mr. Davis. It ain't a dream and it ain't a
Martian."

"But that's just the kind of talk that gets spread around, starts rumors
that we're weirdos, cost me my job-"

"You lost your job over this?"

Frank stared out the window, his eyes heavy with fatigue. "Yeah. You
can't be in public relations with this kind of cloud hanging over your
head."

"Sorry to hear that. But it's for just that reason that / haven't spread
this kind of talk."

"You haven't?"

"Nope. Not to anybody. Like I said, this is just between you and me."

"But I don't understand. I thought you said you were talking to people
at the hospital about-"

"Listening, Mr. Davis, just listening. My job ain't to tell stories, or
to gossip. But my job is to listen, to everything and everybody. I been
a cop for twenty years. I solve my cases. I don't blabber about it. If I

119

have suspicions, I tell them only to those of my men who need to know. I
keep things to myself until I'm sure. Right now my job is to catch
whatever kind of thing we're after. I ain't sure what it is, where it
is, or what it's gonna do next. I ain't sure about anything. That's why
I'm still listening to everything. You've been helpful."

"How?"

"I ain't sure."

The ambulance was an old model, kept along with the newer ones because
its unusually high undercarriage allowed it to pass over old rutted
roads or up into canyon gullies where the more recent, low-slung models
would get hung up. It was used on the school call, to transport the dead
Trooper to the morgue, because the other ambulances were out on two
traffic accidents and a heart attack.

Since it often picked up a hunk of brush or a branch on its chassis
during one of ijts out-back calls, the driver did not think it unusual
^nd did not pay much attention to the fact that, when he parked it in
the garage at the hospital, something seemed to be hanging underneath,
its shadow protruding slightly at the rear. He would slide under the
ambulance tomorrow and pull off the branch or whatever.

He stepped outside and started to pull down the sliding door of the
garage when he heard something clump to the floor inside. There was a
crash of glass.

He flung the door back up, just as a pale form hurtled through the side
window of the garage. "AAAYYAA!" he screamed as he backed away.

Several people ran out of the hospital. "Through the window!" he gasped,
pointing. "It went through the window!"

120

They ran to the window and looked out. Lawn and hedges and street.
Nothing else to be seen. They shook their heads.

"How'd you break the window, McGurk?" asked one of the doctors.

"I didn't break it! The thing! That thing jumped through there!"

"Where's your bottle, McGurk? Finish it already?"

"Oh, darn it, I ain't drunk!"

The doctor leaned close to him and sniffed. "You don't smell too bad.
You on vodka now?"

"That thing went through the window."

"Sure. Why don't you just stay out here? Maybe it'll come back."

"Hey, I don't get paid for ambulance driving, you know. I'm telling the
cops about this."

"Go ahead. Use the pay phone."

Detective Lieutenant Perkins got on his knees and stuck his head under
the rear bumper of the ambulance. He reached in and felt, then brought
out his hand and sniffed it. He got up and looked at the jagged edges of
the garage window. Then he walked outside, followed by McGurk. He knelt
and studied the shards of glass on the hospital lawn. He picked one
piece up and sniffed it.

"Lemme see your hands, McGurk."

McGurk held out his hands, and Perkins took the ringers and looked at
them, tracing the lines like a palm reader. "Hmm. Clean."

"Of course they're clean. So what?"

"There's grease on some of these glass fragments, McGurk, that's all.
What'd you say the thing looked like?"

121

TLittle-a lot smaller than you or me. Just jumped straight through there."

"What would you say it looked like?"

"I didn't. And I won't. I'm nqt letting you laugh at me." I

Detective Perkins leaned slowly toward him until his face was an inch
away. "Look close, McGurk. Am I laughing?"

"No sir." McGurk leaned backward.

"Am I smiling?"

"No sir." I

Perkins grabbed his shoulders, squeezing them hard. " 'No sir' is right,
McGurk, I ain't laughing. I ain't even smiling. I'm frowning, McGurk.
That means I'm serious, McGurk!"

McGurk choked. "It looked kind of like a baby, officer. But bigger, and
with a big head, I think."

Perkins flung him aside and stomped off to the cruiser. He settled in
beside hisj driver, scowling, his teeth grating around his cigar.

"Well, what do you think, lieutenant?"

"Aaargh!"

The driver gulped. "Sorry."

"I'll ask your dumb questions for you. Why would the thing come back to
the hospital?"

"Well, yes."

"How the hell would I know, you bushy-tailed rookie? Maybe it thought it
was coming home!"

Frank, in his robe, shuffled but to the kitchen. "Morning."

"Hi, darling." Lenore, dressed in slacks, her milk-filled breasts
arching under her sweater, hugged him. "You should have waked me up when
you came in last night."

122

It's Alive!

"You knew I was out?"

"I heard you come in. Out for a walk, I assumed, right?"

"I didn't want to disturb you, you needed the sleep, so I just curled up
on the couch."

She measured some coffee grounds and dumped them into the top of the
electric percolator. "You don't look like you slept a wink. Maybe some
of those pills the doctor prescribed for me ..."

"I'm fine." He rubbed his chin, his hand rasping over the stubble.
"Guess I should shave."

"Not for my sake." She broke some eggs into the skillet. "Oh look,
double yolk. That means good luck."

"Yeah. I'll go get dressed."

"You don't have to, you know, you could just take it easy for today."

"No, I know. But I might as well."

"Before you go, would you mind bringing in the milk?"

"Okay." He walked to the front door and gathered up the six bottles,
making two trips. "We got a new milkman?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"I thought I left a note yesterday, just two bottles, since Chris isn't
here. Maybe I didn't."

"It'll keep. Chris'll be home tomorrow maybe, or the day after."

"Maybe." He opened the refrigerator door. It was well-stocked. He moved
some things to make room for the milk, and put the bottles in. He
couldn't fit the bread in after the milk. The freezer was full too, but
he jammed some of the frozen meat back to the rear and stuffed in the
bread. "We could feed an army."

"Makes such a difference when we don't have regular meals, when Chris is
away. Would you like a rib roast tonight, or Chateaubriand?"

He slammed the doors to the refrigerator and freezer. "I don't care."

"What's the matter? Did I say something wrong?"

123

123

"No, no. I really don't care, both sound good. It's just me. I could use
some sleep. Maybe you're right. Maybe I could use a sedative, knock me
out for a few hours."

"They're upstairs by our bed." She poured two cups of coffee, then came
over and put her arms around him. "You've been right too, Frank darling.
About how we have to get back to normal, the standard routines that help
you get through bleak periods. I'm trying, I really am."

"I know. Maybe you're trying too hard. You don't have to fire around
making fancy meals and all that."

"I want to, makes me feel better. I had the chills last night, but today
I feel terrific."

"Lehore, when were you at the school last?"

"Couple weeks ago, I guess. The other teacher came back-good thing too.
Why?"

"Just wondered."

"If you're worried about the money, we'll be all right. You have your
month's salary. And in a couple of days I'll be able to go back, if they
need me."

"No, it's nothing. Just small talk."

"I know. Isn't it strange how we miss that, just chatting? So much has
gone on, so much serious talk, we haven't had any time to just chat. I
think it's time we brought our son home, don't you? I miss him."

"So do I. But not just yet. He's better off where he is." He started out
of the kitchen.

"Don't you want your eggs?"

"Not now, thanks. Sorry you wasted them. I'm just dead on my feet." He
dragged himself up the stairs.

"Be careful with those pills," she called. "You're not used to them.
They're strong."

He went to the bathroom an<J drew a glass of water. On his way to the
bedroom, he Stopped at the nursery. Opening the door, he looked in,
seeing the cozy crib and the toys neatly placed in the corner of the
room. He closed his eyes and pulled the door shut.

He found the pill bottle on the nightstand, read the label, tapped one
out on his hand, and swallowed it.

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He sipped some water, then tapped out another one and swallowed that. He
emptied his glass, pulled off his robe and sank onto the bed. He pulled
the covers high up around him, and fell into a deep, dizzy sleep.

Lenore took two eggs from the skillet and put them on her plate, next to
two pieces of bacon and two slices of toast. She drained a glass of
orange juice and poured another. She sat down, inhaling with pleasure
the aroma of her food. As she started to eat, the cat jumped up on the
table beside her and sniffed at her plate. Lenore cut off some small
pieces and put them on a separate plate and set it on the floor at her
feet. The cat began eating voraciously.

"Seems like years, right, Biscuit? So hungry."

She finished her plate, then took it to the stove and reloaded it with
Frank's portions, poured some more orange juice, refilled her coffee
cup, and sat back down. She chewed the bacon slowly, savoring it.

"I can just feel the energy flowing back into me, Biscuit. Too bad you
don't like coffee. It's a marvelous stimulant. I feel like I could move
a mountain."

A drop of coffee dribbled onto her chest. She daubed it with a napkin,
and stared down at her breasts, so large and ready to feed a baby.

A tear rolled down her cheek. Brushing it away, she stood up, forced a
smile, and broke two more eggs into the skillet.

Frank dreamed savage dreams. He was chasing a tiny crab. Then the crab
was chasing him, but now it was huge.

Then he was a doctor, dressed in a surgical gown, ordering nurses
around. But every time he spoke sharply, a nurse's throat began to
bleed. Not blood, but milk poured down her neck.

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Then he was lying on an operating table. They wanted him to give birth.
He tried to tell them he wasn't the mother. They said it was a large
baby, looking just like him.

Then he was making love to somebody, somebody with his secretary's face.
Mary kept saying to him, "Mr. Clayton wants to see you now . . ." But he
wasn't making love to her. He was strangling her. Her face became
Lenore's. And she was strangling him.

Then he was in court. They were charging him with not paying a parking
ticket. He wasn't allowed to say anything. They sentenced him to three
weeks in St. Thomas, and handed him a key.

Then he was sitting on the Irving-room floor next to a large cardboard
box. The box was crying like a baby. He opened it. There was a baby
inside. A beautiful tiny baby. He picked it up and hugged it. It became
a crab. A huge crab. It chased him around the room, calling to him, "Mr.
Clayton wants to see you now ..."

He woke. He stared at the ceiling. The sheets were wet with his
perspiration. Turning his head toward the bedside table, he could barely
see it. It was night, the room was dark.

The house was quiet. He blinked. He sat up, rubbing his head. He had a
headache. His left leg was asleep and he shook it, feeling the needles
of returning blood stab into it.

He felt for his slippers, found them with his toes. They were facing
toward his feet. He wiggled them around, finally fitting them on, and
rose, felt dizzy, sat back down, got up, stood for a moment, and headed
for the bathroom.

He picked up his watch from the dressing table. "Jesus, slept all day."

He doused water on his face, and brushed his teeth. He looked into the
mirror. "Shave." He reached into the medicine cabinet and took out the
can of foam, shook it, and sprayed out a glob and rubbed it on his face.
He peered into the mirror at his eyes,

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red-rimmed, baggy. "Headache." Opening the bottle of Bufferin, he tossed
down two tablets.

He heard a door close downstairs.

He walked out of the bathroom to the head of the stairs. "Lenore?" He
cupped his hand around his mouth to call again, and felt the foam. He
went back to finish shaving.

Returning to the bedroom, he found his bathrobe. It was under the
covers. "Wonder what else I took to bed with me." He sat on the bed for
a minute, wishing his head would clear. Then he went downstairs.

The only light was from the small, red-shaded lamp in the den. "Lenore?"
He switched on the light in the living room, then the kitchen. "Lenore?"
She go out or what?

He checked the back door. The bolt was in place. And the front door. The
locks were closed and the safety chain in its slot.

"Come on, Lenore, where are you?"

The guest bathroom, off the den. He went through the living room into
the den and saw that the bathroom door was closed. "Lenore? You in
there?" He tried it. It wasn't locked. She wasn't in there.

"For chrissake!"

Back in the living room, he flicked on the TV. Cartoons. "Sesame Street"
or some goddam thing. He changed channels. News. Lakers lost to the
Knicks, 111-103. Clear, sunny, cool tomorrow. Stay tuned for the movie.
He switched to the "Tonight Show." Surely they would bust into that if
they had a news flash.

Damm it! Doesn't anybody care what the hell is happening around here?
What do they do, bury it in the middle of the news, give it thirty
seconds and then

127

move on to the damn basketball scores? He hissed through his teeth and
plopped down in the chair in front of the TV.

Something touched his shoulder, and he sprang up.

"Lenore!"

"You feeling better now?" She smiled calmly.

"You scared the crap outta me!"

"I'm sorry, dear."

"I called you, a hundred times!"

"I didn't hear you. What're you watching?"

"Where've you been? I called you."

"Straightening up. What's the matter, are you cranky because you just
woke up?" She smiled and patted his cheek.

"Where? I called you all oyer. You weren't downstairs."

"Darling, I've been all over the house. You don't realize how much there
is to do."

"I mean just now. When I was calling you. Where were you just now?" I

She stared at him, stonily. "Chris's room."

"You couldn't hear me in there?"

"Evidently not."

"But / heard you downstairs, when I was in the bathroom."

She picked up the TV Guide. "Mind if I switch? There's a very good movie
tonight. Paul Newman."

"Go ahead. I can't look at TV. My eyes hurt. My whole head's coming
apart." He winced and rubbed his stomach. "I need something to calm me
down."

"Shall I make you a drink?"

"No, no thanks. Excuse me."

She went over to the TV. Frank went into the kitchen.

He opened the refrigerator and reached in automatically, without
looking, taking a bottle of milk. He took a glass from the cabinet and
sat down at the table. The milk bottle was almost empty. He poured the
ounce or two that was left and drank it. Then he got up to get another
bottle.

128

His feet clanked against bottles on the floor by the sink. He stooped to
straighten up the ones he had knocked over. Five milk bottles, all empty.

He opened the refrigerator. No more milk.

Not much of anything.

He stood gazing at the half-empty shelves. "Lenore? Has Chris been here
today?"

No answer.

He walked into the living room, where Lenore was watching the movie.
"Lenore, I said has Chris been here today?"

"No, of course not," she said without turning her head. "Why do you ask?"

"You wouldn't fib to me? I know you wanted him back. But I had a good
reason. So now I'm asking-"

"Dear, I haven't been out of the house all day. If he had been here, I
would have known it. And certainly I would have told you."

There was an edge to her voice that he didn't like. But then, he had
practically accused her of lying. He rubbed his growling belly. "I'm
going to get dressed."

He went upstairs to the bedroom and quickly pulled on his shirt and
pants and shoes. He guessed he had slept too much. He felt lousy.
Nervous. High-strung. Now he wouldn't be able to sleep all night. She
had the TV on too loud. She was laughing.

He hated checking up on her. He hated doing anything sneaky. But he
wanted to know.

He walked down the hall to Chris's room and turned on the light. A mess.
Sports equipment all over the floor. Books down from the shelves.

He needed a drink, after all.

He walked past Lenore in the living room. "I wish someone would respect
my feelings around here," he muttered.

She ignored him. She was cackling at some kind of cartoon or puppets,
what he had first turned on.

He reached over her to turn the sound down. "Why are you looking at that
junk? I thought you were going to watch the movie."

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She didn't answer. She simply leaned forward and turned up the volume.

Frank went into the den and poured several ounces of Chivas. He picked
up the phone and dialed. "Hello, Charley?" j

"Hi. That you, Frank?" | .

"Yeah. Hey listen, Charleys is Chris okay? You been with him all day?"

"Sure, Frank, he's fine. He's right here in the room watching TV, so I
gotta keep my voice down. We had a great time at the lake. What's up?
You okay?"

"Yeah, we're okay."

"I had one hell of a time keeping him away from the newscasts and papers
and all, today. But he doesn't know anything. His teacher sent over his
schoolwork. You've really got a good kid, Frank, you should be grateful."

"I am, Charley, believe me, I am. You've been with him all the time, then?"

"We're like two peas in a ^pod, Frank. Together every minute."

"He hasn't been back here, to our house? I mean, he couldn't have
slipped out and come back here, for a little while?"

"Hey, buddy, you don't doubt me, do you? I know how important this is. I
wouldn't let you down-not ever, but especially now. We just got back
this morning from the fishing trip. I made him lunch, we played
Parcheesi, ordered in a pizza for supper. I sat here with him while he
did his homework-until all the newscasts were over. Then I let him watch
TV. That's what he's doing now. You want to hear more?"

"Forgive me, Charley. I'm sorry I asked. My nerves lately. You're a very
special friend."

"You can relax as far as he's concerned, Frank. He's fine-anxious to
come home, of course, but fine. Want to talk to him?"

"No, not just now. I'll see you-"

Charley laid the receiver on the table before he

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heard Frank's last words. He called, "Chris, your Dad wants to talk to you."

Chris jumped to the phone. "Dad? Hi, Dad! When can I come home?"

"Chris, you haven't been back here today, have you? You didn't run out
on Charley and slip back here today, just for a few minutes?"

"I don't know what you mean, Dad. You told me to stay with Charley.
Don't you trust me? Don't we always trust each other?"

"Sure, Chris, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything. I'm a little tired,
that's all."

"Can I talk to Mom?"

"Not just now, son. She's asleep. It'd be better if I didn't wake her."

"Is she okay? Is the baby home from the hospital yet? When do I get to
see him? It's a boy, isn't it? .. . Dad? Dad?"

Chris looked at the receiver, which now sent out a dial tone. He handed
it to Charley, who put it to his ear for a moment, then hung it up.

Chris looked at the floor. "He didn't even say goodbye."

"That's okay, Chris, it's okay." He put his arm around the boy. "He's
just tired. You didn't hear him say goodbye."

"What did I do? Did I say something wrong? Was he angry because I asked
if it was a boy?"

"No, no, of course not. That special over on TV? You hungry? Come on,
let's go warm up the rest of that pizza."

"No thanks. I think I'll go to bed."

"Good idea, Chris. It's late. Been a long day."

Chris reached the foot of the stairs and turned back. "I'm not mad at
you or anything, Charley, I just feel like going to bed."

"I know. Go ahead. I'll be up in a few minutes to tuck you in."

Chris went into the guest bedroom and closed the door. He didn't turn on
the light. He crossed to the

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131

window and lifted it slowly open. He turned back toward the door and
listened. He could hear Charley moving around in the kitchen.

He leaned out the window. In the dark, he could just make out the large
tree nearby, and the branch that brushed the house next to the window.
He put one leg over the sill and reached for the branch. He got hold of
it with both hands and looked down at the shadowy ground below.

Pulling himself inch by inch out of the window, he finally let his feet
dangle free. He hung from the branch, which dipped and swayed with his
weight. Carefully, hand over hand, he worked his way to the crotch where
the branch joined the trunk. He climbed onto the trunk and squatted
down, looking back at the window.

Still no light in there; Charley was still downstairs.

He shimmied down the trun scrambled to his feet, and to' the backyard in
the direction of

c, dropped to the lawn, >k off running through his home.

Frank stared numbly at his drink on the bar. A line of sweat formed just
under his hair along his forehead. He started to take a drink. Ice.

He went to the freezer aflid pulled it open. He reached in for the ice
cubes, felt them under his fingers, then stopped.

The freezer shelves were almost empty. Most of the meat was gone.

He let his hand slide off the ice cubes, stepped back, and let the door
wheeze shut by itself. He stared at the closed freezer.

He put his drink down by the sink and hurried out to Lenore. She was
laughing quietly, swaying back and forth. On TV now was a commercial for
Chevrolet.

132

"Lenore," he took her shoulders, "Lenore, Lenore, please . . ."

She continued chuckling and swaying back and forth. Frank released her,
staring at the back of her head as she swayed.

No, please no.

He glanced around the room, then at the stairs. He went to the stairs
and started quickly up, then slowed, taking each step quietly,
listening, looking up at the upstairs hallway.

When he reached the last step, he stood silently, holding his breath,
staring at the closed door of the nursery.

"All set?" Charley looked up the stairs. "Ready to be tucked in?" He
listened. Probably asleep already. He turned back toward the living
room, then hesitated. No, I promised him I would be up.

He went softly up the steps and into the guest bedroom. He tiptoed to
the bed and put his hand gently on the covers. Then he put both hands
on, finally slapped all around.

"Chris, you in the bathroom?"

He leaned into the hallway. The bathroom door was open. No light on.

"Chris?"

He saw the open window. "Oh no-!" He ran to it and looked out. "No, Chris-"

He flew down the stairs and out to the garage; he yanked on the door of
the old station wagon. Stuck as usual. Finally he wrestled it open. He
jumped in and ground the starter until it caught at last, rammed the
gears into reverse, churned out of the garage, squealed into forward on
the street, and roared off toward the Davis house.

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133

Chris felt like an animal, excited, tense, watchful, scared. He crouched
under a bush, trying to stem his breathing, his heart pumping wildly. So
many policemen I around. Why? Were they already looking for him?

He knew the ones on the corner had almost seen him. That was the worst
part, the most difficult part, crossing the streets. He had made it
three times. Just one more street to go.

A breeze rustled through the bushes and trees. Chris was glad. They
wouldn't notice his movements.

They shouldn't be looking for him-it wasn't wrong to be going home. But
they might think it was. They wouldn't hurt him, but they would stop
him. They would take him back to Charley's. Charley would be sad. He
wouldn't understand

He liked Charley. Very much. He didn't want to hurt him. He would
explain it to him later. Or Dad would. Dad would understand, Dad always
understood everything. Except now. Now Dad didn't seem to want to talk
to him, didn't want to see him, didn't want him to come home. Maybe Mom
would. He hoped Mom would be happy to have him home.

Anyway, it wasn't wrong to be going to his own home. He wouldn't be
doing it, if it was wrong.

Something was wrong, though. Something was so wrong that it forced him
to climb out of the window at Charley's and run to his own house. Forced
him to. He didn't know what it was. He couldn't figure it out, what made
him do this. Just something he felt. Something pulled him. Like love,
maybe. He was drawn by how much he loved Mom and Dad, and how much
something didn't seem right about them right now, something that scared
him. He loved them so

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much that he started to cry, soundlessly, his tears rolling down his
face and his neck, making the inside of his shirt wet. That's all he knew.

The policeman walked by again on the sidewalk, jabbing the bushes with
his nightstick, his partner a few steps behind. Chris cringed back,
folding his arms tightly over his chest, holding his breath. The stick
jabbed close to his head, and went away. The two policemen walked
farther on.

He could follow the bushes along, for a while. "Why did everybody have
bushes around their houses? It was as if they wanted to help him. They
wanted to give him a place to hide.

While he was trying to get home.

The policemen were gone. Chris slid along the base of the bushes and
across more backyards. One more street to cross.

Frank stood just outside the nursery door, shaking, listening.
Everything was quiet. Lenore had stopped laughing. The TV was off. He
breathed deeply, silently, then shoved the door open.

A shaft of light from the hall cut across the crib. Frank slid in along
the door. His feet hit toys. They were scattered all over the room.

He took a step toward the crib. It was still. Everything was quiet. He
took another step. The light from the hall bathed only the crib, just
like (the thought flitted blackly through his mind) the star of
Bethlehem. Another step. He looked down at the crib.

Empty.

Naturally.

Lenore. Lenore had been in here, just as she had been in Chris's room.
She had messed up the toys. She's on the ragged edge, Lenore is. She
needs help.

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135

God, if all this would only end, just be over, so he could get her out
of here, get her some help, nurse her back. They would all be crazy soon.

He looked down at the crib. He was not checking on her. Not this time.
He took the edge of the comforter in his fingers and pulled it back.
Slowly he lowered the palm of his other hand. He flattened it on the sheet.

The sheet was warm.

It was not Lenore who had been in that crib.

The door slammed shut behind him.

He stood in the darkness. Terror crept up his legs, up his back, along
his neck. He didn't know if he could move. Or should. His leg took a
step backward. His breath came in spasms. Then it stopped altogether.

He took another step back, then another. Against the wall. He slid his
hand up the wall an inch at a time. The switch. He turned it ion.

The room was empty. He was alone.

Lenore was alone too, downstairs.

But he couldn't move. For a minute or two. He stood, seeing nothing,
feeling nothing.

"LENORE!" he screamed. Then he could move.

Chris crawled forward on his hands and knees. He hoped he wouldn't be
punished for his pants. It didn't matter. He was almost home. These were
bushes he knew, played under when he wanted to be alone, to pretend.

The same police car, back and forth on the street. They couldn't catch
him now. They were too late. He was home. He could run to the house.

He sat back on his haunches, gathering his breath for the final sprint.

He scratched the ground with his hands. What was that? Something on the
ground. He picked it up,

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It's Alive!

brought it close to his face to see. Some kind of cloth. Torn. Like an
old shirt.

He felt around. A pile of the stuff. Rags. Placed neatly, round,
hollowed out in the middle. Like a nest.

He would have to find out who'd been messing around in his bushes.

He inched forward to the grass and looked out at the street. He could
see the red taillights of the police car as it turned away around the
corner.

Now would be good.

But Chris was smart. Already he had learned a lot. Across the street
walked two policemen, jabbing their nightsticks into the bushes. They
couldn't fool Chris. He would wait until they all were gone.

He wouldn't go for the front door-too easy to be seen. He wouldn't go to
the front at all. He'd go around to the back. Not to the back door. It'd
be bolted from the inside. But to the cellar door, which had a padlock
on it.

He would only have a few seconds, before the police came around again.
But that's all he needed.

Frank stumbled down the stairs and lurched through the living room.
"Lenore!" She wasn't there, or in the den.

He tore into the kitchen.

Lenore was pressing the hook closed on the cellar door. She spun toward
Frank and leaned back heavily against the door.

"Lenore! Lenore!" He grabbed her in Ms arms. Then he held her away from
him. "What were you doing down there?"

She smiled. "In the basement? Oh, just getting . . . a bottle of wine."

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137

"Where is it?"

"What?"

"The wine. You don't have any wine."

"Oh, well," she again leaned against the door, casually, "I couldn't
find just what I wanted."

He stared at her, panting, his lips quivering. "No."

"No?"

"What were you doing down there?" He grabbed her and shook her
shoulders. "You were down there before too. What were you doing, Lenore?"

She wrenched free, pushed him back, and threw her arms wide against the
cellar door. Her eyes widened, she bared her teeth. "Go away! Leave us
alone!"

"Who? You and Chris? WHO!" He grabbed her arm, twisted it fiercely.

"You're hurting me."

"WHO, GODDAM IT! WHO!"

Her chest heaved, her breath grated through her throat in a howl. "You
know who! YOU KNOW!"

WAS!

Chris watched the patrol car cruise by one more time, then lunged out of
the bushes and raced across the yard, illuminated for a few feet by the
streetlight.

Long enough for Charley to see him disappearing into the shadows to the
rear of the house.

He careened his station wagon against the curb and tugged on the inside
door handle. It wouldn't move. He yanked on it. It broke off in his
hand. He banged on the door with his shoulder. "Chris!" he hollered, the
word resounding in his car.

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Chris felt along the outside basement wall for the flowerpot, lifted it,
scooped up the key, and probed for the hole in the padlock. He found it,
turned the key in it to pop it open, and flipped the lock away. He
pulled hard on the big door, lifting it slowly on its hinge. Slithering
inside, he let the door close quietly down against his back.

He shivered in the dank cellar, standing on the stone steps for a moment
to get his breath. Then he went down the steps and started across the
cellar floor toward the sliver of light glowing under the kitchen door
at the top of the stairs on the opposite side.

He groped along the familiar passage between the storage stacks,
recognizing by touch his sled, his old stroller, the tall pile of old
Life magazines, the fishing poles, the boxes of Salvation Army clothes.

He stopped.

Eyes. Large eyes looking at him. Across the cellar.

"Dad? Mom? Who is it?"

He was afraid, in a way. But not afraid. Something in the eyes made him
not afraid. "Who is it? Biscuit?" They were not cat's eyes. Large,
round, like his own. "Who is it?"

He worked his way slowly toward the eyes, and heard a low whimpering.
"It's okay. I won't hurt you." The whimpering became a steadier cry,
still low. "'It's okay." He moved closer. It cried and sniffled.

Just a few feet away.

He peered through the darkness. His eyes were growing accustomed to it,
his pupils widening like those in the eyes he was looking at. "It's okay."

He could see it now, dimly. He was not afraid. Not at all. Nothing like
he had ever seen before. Or even dreamed. But it was a baby, and it
didn't scare him.

139

He reached out his hand. The crying stopped. It blinked. Slowly it too
raised its hand-its strange, clawed hand-and reached out

Charley hurled himself against the car door, feeling the tendons tear
across his shoulder. The door broke open.

Charley tumbled out, holding his shoulder, and ran for the rear of the
house. "Chris-"

Frank backed away from Lenore. His voice quaked. "It's been here. You've
seen it. You've been helping it..."

They stared wildly at each other.

". . . It's still here, down there. Isn't it? Yes. God, yes!"

He broke for the den, fumbling in his pocket for his keys, ripping them
out, tearing his pocket and scattering coins over the floor.

Hej opened the drawer of the desk and grabbed the .38 and a box of shells.

Lenore ran in behind him, reaching for him, clawing at his back,
slashing his shirt. "No! You can't! You can't do it! It's our baby, Frank!"

He swung his elbow, slamming her against the wall.

He tried to push the shells into the chamber. They fell out of the box
and rolled on the floor. He managed to load one, two. Enough. He swatted
home the cylinder and dashed through the living room and kitchen to the
cellar door.

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It's Alive!

Lenore was right behind him, diving at his hands, tearing them away from
the hook. "You can't! You can't!" She scratched his face and he
staggered back. She barred the door with her arms. "HE-COULD-
HAVE-KILLED-YOU!" Her voice came in wet, fast gasps. "Yes, it's true.
Before, when you were sleeping, he could have killed you. You know it.
But he doesn't want to kill you. He doesn't want to hurt you. You're his
father-"

He lunged for her, but she slid under his hand, down the door,
collapsing on the floor, shivering with sobs.

He sucked for breath, staring at her, fingering the .38.

Charley reached the outside basement door and heaved it open with his
one good arm. "Chris?"

He leaned his head down inside the door. "Chris? You down there?"

He heard a soft voice: ". . . Don't be afraid. Nobody will hurt you. My
name is Chris . . ."

"Who's down there with you, Chris? Frank? Everything okay?"

". . . Don't be afraid . . ."

The door from the kitchen exploded open, spraying a stream of light.

Chris wheeled toward his father. "Don't-"

"Dive, Chris!" Frank hurtled down the stairs, waving his gun in front of
him.

"Dad, don't-"

The thing yowled and leaped from its perch into the shadows.

Frank knocked Chris aside and fired.

The thing screamed and bounded for the outside cellar door.

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141

Frank fired again.

Charley stood silhouetted in the moonlight when the shape hit him. He
staggered backward, tearing at it with his hands as it wrapped around
his throat. Then he sagged slowly to the ground. The thing slithered
away across the grass.

Frank charged up the stone stairs. Charley was lying still on the grass.

Light hit Frank in the face. Two policemen ran up, guns drawn.

"I hit it," Frank said, "I'm sure I hit it at least once."

One of the policemen rolled Charley over, shining his light at the
gaping gashes in the throat.

The other policeman ran around the edge of the backyard, flashing his
light into the bushes.

Police cars screeched to a halt in front of the house.

"You didn't have to shoot him, Dad." Chris stood behind his kneeling
father. His voice was calm. "He wasn't going to hurt anybody."

Frank's body shook with weeping. He bent over his friend. "Look what ...
he did to Charley. Look . . ."

The policeman helped Frank to his feet.

Detective Perkins and several other officers sprinted around the corner
of the house.

"We got one dead, lieutenant-there. Name is Charley something."

"Evans," Frank's voice was barely audible, "his name is Charley Evans."

"Davis shoot him?" Detective Perkins snatched Frank's gun hand, then
eased the pistol out of it.

"No sir. Throat's been ripped open. Guess it was that thing."

"I hit it, at least once. I shot. I hit it."

Police officers immediately fanned out in a search. Other sirens wailed
their approach.

"You see it, Mr. Davis?" Perkins asked.

"Just... a blur."

"This your boy here?"

142

"My name is Chris."

"You see it, Chris?"

"Yes."

"What'd it look like?"

Chris shrugged. "Nobody. Me. Mom. Dad." Suddenly he turned and ran to
the back door, where his mother stood holding herself tightly with her
arms. "Mom-Mom-"

He threw himself against her. They held each other. "He killed Charley,
Mom. He killed poor Charley. He-didn't mean to." Chris wept and they
rocked together.

"He killed others too, Chris. He was afraid. He only wants to live. I'm
glad you're home, Chris . . ." She took the boy inside and closed the door.

Detective Perkins examined Frank's .38. "You shouldn't have tried to do
this yourself, Davis. Lucky you didn't plug your son."

"I did, I-"

Perkins peered at him.

"I mean, I hit the thing."

Perkins turned to the first two officers. "How'd you guys miss all this?"

"We were cruising, sir, just like we were supposed to. We were by this
house at least once every minute. And the foot patrol was on station
too. Musta just happened in a few seconds. We never saw that thing go
in. I figure it musta been in there for a good while."

"You bastards were responsible," he said softly.

"Yes sir. It's just that, we did what you said, you know, short of going
right in the house. And you told us not to do that. And we haven't had
any sleep in two days . . ."

143

143

"Okay." Perkins chewed his cigar. "Get on the search, goddam it!"

"Lieutenant! Lieutenant!"

Perkins trotted over to the bushes. "Look here, lieutenant. Blood. Quite
a bit. He hit it, all right."

"Here too, lieutenant, over here on this fence. Thing musta climbed
over. Losing a lot of blood."

The men traced the trail of blood beyond the bushes and fence into the
next yard.

"Here, Lieutenant Perkins." Captain Sanford stood in the gutter and
stared down a storm drain. The trail of blood led across the sidewalk to
the gutter and over to the drain. The trail stopped there; the blood
trickled down through the grate. "I think we got the damn thing now.
It's down there."

"Okay, seal off the drains!" Detective Perkins barked fast signals to
his men. "Men posted at every opening around here! We'll take The; cars
to the other end of the feeder! Six men cover this house, four outside
and two in! Get Mrs. Davis and the kid outta there, take *em to the
station!"

He started for his car. Frank grabbed his arm. "I'm coming."

"No you ain't."

Frank pushed in front of him. "I have to, lieutenant! I have to be along!"

"You've done enough already. Wounded it. That's plenty. Enough for you."

"No. Not yet!"

Detective Perkins gazed at him, his eyes narrowed. He worked his cigar
over to the corner of his mouth. "You may have finished it off already."

"Maybe not. I've gotta come! I've gotta be there when you find it."

Detective Perkins looked oS into the distance, then back at Frank. "So
you gotta do it yourself."

"It's mine. My problem. Try to understand. Be more than a cop.
Understand what I'm saying. You may need me. Try to understand . .,"

144

"I understand, Mr. Davis. It may not always look like it, but that's my
job. Between us, I figured all along that this thing might be heading
here-might be trying to get to its mother, in fact. In a way I was using
you. But I thought we'd spot it first, was sure of it. Otherwise I never
would have tried it. We blew it, that's all. So you ended up having to
take some potshots. Now, I know what you're saying. But I don't even
hear it. I never heard it. You just get in my car, on your own. Don't
ask questions, don't answer none."

"Thanks, lieutenant." Frank closed his eyes. "I thank you for-"

"Shut up. And here, take this." He handed Frank back his .38. "It's
yours. Put it away. Don't use it. We'll get this thing. No sense in us
both being out of a job."

Professor Eckstein stared down at the report Dr. Norten had written,
several pages, single-spaced, its front cover marked, "Absolutely Secret
and Confidential: Nobody Open."

"It's all there, professor." Dr. Norten beamed.

Eckstein scanned the pages, flipping them over one after the other. "I
see ..."

"Yes! I processed the final lab reports on Mrs. Davis myself. Even she
doesn't know."

"And it's just like I-we had theorized."

"To the penny!"

"This is terribly important, doctor-ominous. I suppose now we should
release it to-"

"No no NO!" Norten grabbed the document and hugged it to his chest.
"That is, not yet. We must, of course, await the final autopsy reports
on the thing itself."

"But meanwhile shouldn't we alert-"

"We can't breathe a word, professor. Just a little

145

longer. If we released this now-you know how the scientific community
is, they'd just scoff at us for an incomplete study. Call us amateurs.
Scaremongers. They wouldn't believe us. Listen to me: we do this right,
it's the Nobel Prize for us. You hear that? The Nobel! Rich! Famous!"

"I'm not so sure I care about being-"

"And above all, professional!" Dr. Norten said, jabbing an index finger
in the air. "Professionalism is good timing. We'll be professional by
sitting on this for a while, until the world is ready for it."

Buck Glayton stared out over

he lights of Beverly

Hills. It had been a very bad day

Today old man Marcus canceled the account.

Not for the reason that his toy business had turned sour overnight-which
it had. Nobody would touch a Marcus toy. It was those pictures that did
that. Goddam pictures on KBOP-TV. Taken right in the school. Pictures of
the toys that vampire kid had been messing with. Identified as Marcus toys.

How in hell'd the TV people find out about that? How in hell'd they get
in there to photograph them? Those pictures knocked the bottom right out
of the Marcus toy business.

But that wasn't why old man Marcus pulled out.

He pulled out, he said, because Frank Davis was no longer on the
account. If Davis had been around to manage things, the old man said,
those pictures never would have happened. So Buck Clayton stared out the
huge window at the lights and wondered what he'd done to get himself in
such a pickle.

There were a million Frank Davises.

Why in hell'd his Frank Davis have to go and father a freak kid?

146

They stood on the spillway outside the end of an enormous pipe, one of
those that form the vast subterranean storm-drain tunnel system that
underlies Los Angeles. A police car sat with its nose in the pipe, and
still there was room for men to pass in on either side. After a heavy
rain, a torrent of water would flush out of this pipe and flood the
spillway. Tonight it was nearly dry.

The portable floodlights arrayed by police caused Frank to squint as he
approached the tunnel entrance with Detective Perkins.

Frank peered into the blackness within the tunnel of huge pipe.

"No guarantee we'll find it in there quick," said Perkins. "We got men
coming in from other directions. But the drains branch off every which
way. It won't get out. But it may take us a while. We ain't gonna be
comfortable in there. Sure you want to come along?"

Frank nodded.

"All right. Now, we'll take a car in there a ways, far as it can go, so
we'll have lights from that for a while. Then all we got's our
flashlights. Don't get lost"

Frank shook his head.

"Let's go."

The band of hunters dressed in blue police uniforms marched into the
tunnel, followed by the car, which spread its light beams over them and
beyond.

The floodlit entrance quickly vanished as they moved around a bend. It
was cold and dank. Water gurgled over their shoes. Sounds of their
walking and breathing echoed along the pipe.

Another group of men appeared, coming toward them from a branch tunnel
to the left. "Clear, lieutenant, all the way out this one."

147

The band took the branch to the right, leaving the patrol car and its
lights behind. Their flashlights flickered off the water and the dark
stone walls.

More branches. Detective Perkins split the men into smaller squads and
sent them off into each new branch they passed. The sounds of their
splashing through the water, their giving and answering commands, their
grunting, wheezing, coughing, and panting bounced off the damp stone and
echoed down the tunnels. It was impossible to tell where each sound was
coming from.

They had been in the tunnel for more than an hour, Frank guessed. They
had doubled back through countless branches, meeting men emerging from
some, sending other men off in new ones. Detective Perkins seemed to
know just where they were. To Frank it was a total mystery. He had no
sense of direction at all. For all he knew, they could be under Pasadena
by now.

He began to lag behind. He stopped and sagged against the wall, watching
the others go on, their lights waving around ahead of them.

The past days of exhaustion gripped him, weighted him down. He could
barely keep his eyes open. And he was cold. Chilled beyond all
recollection of warmth. He pulled his jacket tight across his chest and
buried his chin in the collar.

His light was dimming, and he snapped it off to save the batteries.

He slumped against the wall in the dark, the unreasonable cold numbing
him. Nothing seemed important except to get warm and to sleep. He closed
his eyes, but that didn't help. When he opened them, it was as if he
could suddenly see what he only heard.

148

Silence.

The police were gone. He was alone in the tunnel.

He turned on his flashlight and moved forward, along the route where he
had seen the police advancing. His feet were numb, down in the rivulet
of water.

He should call out. But the notion of that sound erupting in echoes
around him chilled him more.

He slogged along staring ahead into the gloom beyond the dimming beam of
his flashlight. Passing black holes that would be entrances to other
branches of the maze, he stayed in the main channel. Eventually he would
find the police officers, if he kept on in this direction. But he
didn't. He gazed blankly at the entrance to yet another pipe and decided
to go in that way for a while.

He hadn't gone far when he heard the sound. A low, weak, human moan.

Where?

The sound seemed to come from everywhere. Each way he turned, the frail
sound bounced off the stone. But since he hadn't heard it before, it
must be ahead.

He stuck his hand into his jacket pocket and felt the icy metal of his
.38. He took it out. He should have it ready.

He stepped up the pace on his aching legs, his revolver clacking against
the stone wall as he steadied himself with that hand and held his light
with the other. The sound was a bit louder now, a moan of sickness or
sadness or pain. A pleading baby's haunting whine.

"Must not be in here, lieutenant. I think w&been everywhere."

"It's here. Where's Davis?"

"Davis? He was right behind us."

149

"Well, he ain't now. Find a manhole, go topside, use your radio, find
out if Davis surfaced anywhere."

"Yes sir."

"Okay, all you men. Let's double back. Davis is probably back there
somewhere."

The men turned and began retracing the tunnel.

"You think he went out, lieutenant?" a patrolman asked.

"Nope."

"He shoulda stuck with us. He don't know his way around in here."

"Any other news for me, patrolman?"

"No sir. One good thing ..."

"What's that?"

"At least he's got his .38 with him. Sorry, but I saw you give it back
to him."

"You think I'm a fool? It ain't loaded. And he don't have no shells on
him-I know 'cause I patted him down while you guys were looking around
the yard."

"You didn't want him armed?"

"Course not. I value both my job and my life. He ain't trained with
that. He felt better with it on him, that's all. Take a left up here,
you four men," he called behind him. "We're only about a quarter-mile
from where we left the car."

"What if we don't find him, lieutenant?"

"What if! What if! Goddam it, patrolman, will you watch where you're
going and quit stepping on my feet!"

A man ran toward them. "Davis didn't come out! Nobody's seen him!"

"Okay. I'm taking two men down this way here to the right. Rest of you
go on ahead. When you get out, mobilize some cars upstairs. This is the
last section. At least we'll find Davis and gejt him the hell out of
here. If we don't find the other thing we're after, get everybody right
back down ia here, in this section. We'll start all over. GO!"

The rest of the men scampered on ahead. Perkins

150

and his two officers veered off to the right, into a branch he wasn't
entirely sure they had searched before.

Frank's footsteps echoed in the tunnel as he moved slowly toward the
continuous whimpering sound. He held his flashlight and his gun out in
front of him. His eyes burned from his incessant peering into the bleak
mist.

He passed another branch tunnel and continued. The sound faded. He
backtracked to the opening.

It had to be in there.

He went in. The sound was closer, more distinct. He could hear the soft
hiccuping now between sobs.

It was in front of him. He shined his light straight ahead. The tunnel
faded into empty blackness. But it was right in front of him. Slowly he
lowered his light, toward the floor.

There, on a slab of stone slightly elevated above the water, it sat.

A small, shivering thing of pale, smooth, almost translucent skin. Veins
pulsed visibly in the temples of the large, bulbous head which seemed to
rest directly on its narrow shoulders. Its legs and clawed feet were
folded in front of its belly, which undulated with its breathing. Its
short, thin arms and clawed fingers waggled spasmodically in front of
its chest.

It sat there just like a baby.

It cried softly and sniffled as it looked at him with its huge, round,
black eyes.

Frank extended his arm and raised the gun evenly until he could sight
down the barrel at a spot between its eyes.

It made no move, just whimpered and looked at him, its prominent pointed
teeth appearing now and then as

151

it curled its lips in sobs. Tears from the black eyes rolled down its
face and body. The eyes blinked, and Frank blinked back.

He saw the blood. He lowered the gun. Blood oozed down under one arm,
down the side, onto the stone. It formed a pool amid the small pile of
rags on which the thing sat.

It moaned more loudly and blinked and reached one clawed hand around to
feel where the blood was coursing down its side.

"Sssh." Frank dropped the gun, it clattered on the stone. "I know it
hurts, but it's going to be all right."

It closed its eyes, weeping silently.

Frank knelt in front of it and slid forward on his knees. "I hurt you.
I'm sorry. I was scared, like you were; But don't cry. Don't cry any
more. They'll hear you. They'll come and . . . You know I won't hurt you
again."

It opened its eyes and they looked at each other, blinking. It shivered.

"I won't hurt you again."

"Davis!"

He stiffened.

"Davis! You in there? Wherever you are, stay there! We'll find you!"

The thing began to moan.

"No, no, it's okay. Don't cry any more. I'll take care of you. You're cold."

He peeled off his jacket, stood up, and stepped forward, holding the
jacket carefully in front of him. "I'll take care of you. This will make
you warm. Don't cry. This will make you warm." Gently he lowered the
jacket over it, wrapped it snugly, and picked it up, cradling it in his
arms.

It nestled against him, fully enclosed by the jacket, trembling.

Frank began walking in the darkness.

"Davis! We'll find you!"

Frank's tears tumbled onto the jacket in his arms.

152

It's Alive!

He felt the warm moisture of the blood soaking through on his hands.
"I'll take care of you."

"Davis! If you can hear me, give a holler! This is Perkins! Stay where
you are!"

The voice was closer now.

Frank ran, stumbling, splashing through the tunnel.

"Davis! Hold it! Stop!"

They were behind him. Their lights glistened along the wall over his
shoulders. He ran, clutching the shivering bundle in his arms.

Another light, up ahead, coming from the top of the tunnel. An opening.
Metal rungs going up the side.

His eyes blurred with tears, his heart raged hot in his chest, his lungs
fought for room to breathe. He stumbled, lurched, fell to his knees,
holding the bundle tight. A wail of pain came from inside the jacket.

He struggled to his feet, steadying himself against the side of the
tunnel with his shoulder. "I fell. I'm sorry. I have you now. Nobody
will hurt you."

He ran.

The metal rungs. He held the bundle under his left arm and reached for
them with his right.

"Davis! You can't get away, Davis! There's no place for you to go! Let
us help you!"

He missed the rungs, slipped and fell to his knees again. He reached,
stretched, grabbed for the lowest rung, got his fingers around it,
clamped them on it, and pulled himself erect.

"Hold it, Davis!"

Frank turned.

Detective Perkins stood a few yards away. He held up his hand. There was
no gun in it.

"No."

"I'm not gonna do anything to you, or to your friend there." x

"No."

"Give it up, Davis. Nowhere to go. I'm the best help you got, right now."

153

153

The other policemen behind Perkins edged forward. They had guns in their
hands.

"No."

Perkins held out his arms, keeping the other officers behind him.
"Between us, Davis. We can keep it between us. It's over."

"No." Frank pulled himself partway up the ladder.

A policeman lunged forward. Perkins caught him by the collar and hauled
him back.

Frank stared down at them. He was near the exit hole now. Dim light
shone over his head. The bundle shivered under his left arm. Frank held
it tightly.

He stared at Detective Perkins. Perkins stood still, looking up at him.
Slowly, casually, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a
cigar. He licked it and put it into his mouth. He chewed on it.
Otherwise he didn't move. He looked at Frank without blinking.

"There's a whole world out there, Davis," he said softly. "And it ain't
always friendly."

Frank turned and looked up, through the hole. He tightened his grip on
the rung above him.

Then suddenly he leaped up and clambered out.

He was blinded. Headlights from a dozen cars flashed on in his face. He
closed his eyes and stood cradling his bundle in both arms.

The thing wrapped in his jacket stirred, pulling at the fabric, nails
scratching through on Frank's arms. "I'll take care of you. Nobody will
hurt you."

It moaned, then the moan deepened, became hoarse, became a growl.

"Nobody will hurt you!"

"DROP IT, DAVIS!"

He opened his eyes, narrowing them to see through the blinding light.

"THIS IS CAPTAIN SANFORD OF THE STATE POLICE!" The voice came over a
bullhorn. "YOU'RE SURROUNDED BY ARMED MEN! DROP IT!"

"I won't let anybody hurt you."

154

It's Alive!

It growled and squirmed. Frank held it tight.

Detective Perkins and his men climbed out of the manhole and stood a few
yards behind Frank.

He could see the Troopers in front of him now, inching forward, their
rifles trained on him.

"I'll take care of you."

"DROP IT, DAVIS!"

Then he could see Captain Sanford, bearing the bullhorn in one hand and
his Magnum in the other, advancing slowly ahead of the others.

"No."

He could see Lenore too, standing near one of the cars. The lights
sparkled on her face, shimmered in her tears.

Sanford dropped the bullhorn on the ground and came closer. "Lieutenant,
better get your men out of my line of fire. And Troopers, everybody, off
to one side. This guy's armed."

The Troopers scurried around to form an arc to Captain Sanford's right.
Detective Perkins and his men stayed right where they were, directly
behind Frank.

Sanford was just a few feet away now. He stopped. "Drop it, Davis. Drop
it and step away. I'm gonna blast it right here and now."

Frank looked at him. "You don't need to," he called softly. "It's hurt.
It can't do anything."

"Don't be a sap, Davis. We gotta get rid of it."

"Lock it up, but let it live. Please let it live."

"Whether you're holding it or not, in five seconds I'm putting a bullet
through it. One. Two-"

Suddenly the growl from within the jacket became a shriek. It writhed
viciously and tore through. It sprang from Frank's arms, leaping through
the air at Captain Sanford. He got off one shot from his Magnum >bef ore
the thing hit his throat.

He staggered backward and fell, grasping futilely at the demon whose
claws and teeth sank deep into his neck.

In the same seconds, Detective Perkins dove, land

155

155

ing on his belly beside them. He jammed the nose of his pistol against
the side of the snarling, clawing form and squeezed off four quick shots.

For a few moments, all was still.

Then men raced forward to pour over the scene, stooping down at the
bodies of the captain and the creature crumpled beside him.

Frank stumbled over to Lenore and fell against her, wrapped his arms
around her, supported by her, sobbing onto her shoulder as she sobbed
into his chest. "It's over. Darling, it's-over. It was ours. I'm sorry-"

Detective Perkins helped them into the backseat and he slid into the
front beside the driver.

"Where to, sir?"

"Nowhere. Sit."

Frank and Lenore leaned together in the back, their hands and arms
intertwined, their wet eyes closed.

Perkins stared out his open window at the turmoil of policemen,
ambulance attendants, and various officials who milled around, shouting
and cursing. He rolled up the window.

The radiophone buzzed. The driver picked up the receiver. "For you,
lieutenant."

Detective Perkins took the receiver, held it against the seat for a
moment, then put it to his ear. "Yeah? ... I see. Yeah." He worked the
cigar around in his mouth. "I understand. Right."

He put the receiver back in its cradle and turned to look at Frank and
Lenore. Slowly he took the cigar out of his mouth. "Another one has been
born in Seattle."

156

They gazed dumbly at him.

He turned away and stared out the window. They all stared out.

Dawn's light filtered through the smog over Los Angeles. It was the
beginning of a bright new day.