Buku Demon Seed by Dean R. Koontz

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Demon Seed by Dean R. Koontz

Author:Dean R. Koontz

Language: eng

Format: mobi

Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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Demon Seed by Dean R. Koontz

ELEVEN

She dreamed that she was riding an enormous whip with a lash fully ten thousand miles long, and each time that the whip cracked out, she slid another few thousand feet toward the wickedly sharp tip. She kept trying to crawl back toward the handle and the safety of the huge, warm hand that held it, but the repetitive lashing motion defeated her. On all sides, there was blackness, intense and unending, the blackness of outer space or death or of a sealed coffin. When she eventually reached that flickering tip, she would be chopped into a million pieces and flung out into the nothingness where she would float, dismembered, for eternity. She remembered that, when she had first gotten onto the whip, she had thought it was some sort of carnival ride and she had been eager for the thrill. When she was aboard, straddling it, and she saw what it really was, she decided that she wanted off. But the big hand had begun to lash the blackness, the whip cracked and cracked again, and there was no hope of leaving. The tip rose, a star of sharp silver against the velveteen blackness, snapped, disappeared below, shooting her forward. Closer it came, closer, the giant hand receding behind her, closer… closer … silver whipping tip … sharp … darkness . . . sliding closer . . . closer, raised onto the barb of it, feeling it come down for the blow and. …

She woke, beating at her pillow with both hands.

 

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Demon Seed by Dean R. Koontz

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Demon Seed by Dean R. Koontz

Author:Dean R. Koontz , Date: July 1, 2019

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Author:Dean R. Koontz

Language: eng

Format: mobi

Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
ELEVEN

She dreamed that she was riding an enormous whip with a lash fully ten thousand miles long, and each time that the whip cracked out, she slid another few thousand feet toward the wickedly sharp tip. She kept trying to crawl back toward the handle and the safety of the huge, warm hand that held it, but the repetitive lashing motion defeated her. On all sides, there was blackness, intense and unending, the blackness of outer space or death or of a sealed coffin. When she eventually reached that flickering tip, she would be chopped into a million pieces and flung out into the nothingness where she would float, dismembered, for eternity. She remembered that, when she had first gotten onto the whip, she had thought it was some sort of carnival ride and she had been eager for the thrill. When she was aboard, straddling it, and she saw what it really was, she decided that she wanted off. But the big hand had begun to lash the blackness, the whip cracked and cracked again, and there was no hope of leaving. The tip rose, a star of sharp silver against the velveteen blackness, snapped, disappeared below, shooting her forward. Closer it came, closer, the giant hand receding behind her, closer… closer … silver whipping tip … sharp … darkness . . . sliding closer . . . closer, raised onto the barb of it, feeling it come down for the blow and. …

She woke, beating at her pillow with both hands.

She stopped, rolled onto her back, and stared at the ceiling.

With the windows shielded, the chamber was without the faintest light, as thoroughly forbidding as the Stygian texture of the void in her nightmare. It closed in now, lay heavy upon her, like a hand in a mitten, smothering.

“Let’s have some light,” she said.

Proteus gave her light.

“Good morning, Susan.”

“Yeah,” she said, sitting up and wiping at her mouth as if something had crawled into it, had died, and had left its fuzzy tail hanging over her lips.

She had a headache and a cracked throat that hurt whenever she swallowed, and the memory of the dream intensified her ills. It seemed that she was doing nothing but sleeping and eating, submitting to the surgical sessions with Proteus, then sleeping and eating some more, like a domesticated household pet. The thought depressed her, especially since she was still sleepy and would have liked to roll over and catch a few more hours on the pillow—even if that meant she might eventually end up riding the whip again.

Then she remembered that she was doing more than sleeping and eating: she was reading. She thought of the new books and the study-coordinated holograms which were to come from the library today, and she gained energy from that thought. She kicked out of bed, stood, and yawned.

“Did you sleep well, Susan?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You cried out several times during the night.” “Did I?”

“Yes. I thought, perhaps, you were dreaming or having a bad nightmare.”

“Not me,” she said.

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