The Taking by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online Page A

AND FAMILY ROOM WERE redolent of the rich aroma of coffee, Molly thought that she could detect the faint but singular odor of the rain penetrating the walls from the saturated night.
        She and Neil sat on the floor in front of the TV, the shotgun and pistol within easy reach, eating chicken sandwiches and potato chips.
        Initially she had no appetite. On first bite, however, she discovered that she was ravenous.
        No food had ever tasted as delicious as this. The chicken proved juicier, the mayonnaise creamier, the pickles more tart, and the chips crispier than any she had eaten before. Every flavor was exquisitely enhanced.
        Perhaps any prisoner on death row, savoring his last meal before being given a lethal injection, experienced the flavors and textures of food this intensely.
        On television, silvery-blue snow fell in the French Alps, in the mountains of Colorado, on the streets of Moscow. Each scene appeared to have been dusted with Christmas-card glitter.
        The domes and minarets of the Kremlin had never before looked so magical. Every glimmering shadow in those twinkling boulevards and sparkling plazas seemed to harbor elves, pixies, and other fairy folk who might momentarily spring into sight, dancing and performing aerial acrobatics in exuberant celebration.
        The ethereal beauty of the sequined blue snow suggested that whatever might be happening could not be entirely without a positive aspect.
        In Denver, although dawn had not yet broken, children were frolicking in the streets, tossing snowballs, drawn from their homes by the novelty of a blue, luminous blizzard.
        Their delight and their musical laughter inspired a hopeful yet uncertain smile from the on-scene network reporter. He said, "And another remarkable detail about this extraordinary phenomenon-the snow smells sort of like vanilla."
        Molly wondered if the newsman had a sufficiently sensitive nose to be able to detect a far less appealing underlying scent if one existed.
        "Vanilla laced with the fragrance of oranges," he continued.
        Perhaps here in the San Bernardino Mountains, the rain no longer smelled as it had when Molly stepped onto the porch with the coyotes. Maybe, as in Colorado, the night now offered the olfactory delights of a confectioner's kitchen.
        Turning, encouraging the cameraman to pan with him, the reporter indicated the wintry panorama: the mantled street, the evergreen boughs laden with fluffy masses of sapphire flocking, the warm amber lights of houses huddled cozily in the blue impossible.
        "It's indescribably beautiful," he said, "like a scene out of Dr. Seuss, a street in Whoville, the glitter without the Grinch."
        The hundred-eighty-degree sweep of the camera came to a stop, zooming in on a group of children who were bundled for winter play.
        A girl of perhaps seven held a snowball in her gloved hands.
        Instead of throwing it at anyone, she licked it, as if it were one of those treats made with shaved ice and flavored syrup, sold at carnivals and amusement parks. She grinned at the camera with blue-tinted lips.
        An older boy, inspired by her example, took a bite from his snowball. The taste seemed to please him.
        This image disturbed Molly so much that if she had not already consumed her sandwich, she would have put it aside, unfinished.
        She remembered the unclean feel of the rain. She would never have turned her face to the sky and opened her mouth to imbibe this storm.
        Evidently, the sight of the children eating snow dismayed Neil no less than it did Molly. He picked up the remote, surfed for news.

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    7
        
        UNABLE TO PRESS FROM HER MIND THE IMAGE OF THE children feeding on the tainted snow, Molly paced and drank too much coffee.
        Neil remained seated on the floor, using the TV remote.
        Up and down the broadcast ladder, more channels