Fear Nothing by Dean Koontz Page A

yeah, megadegrees cooler than that. Cooler than when Zach Blenheim got chewed up by that pit bull and had to have twenty-eight stitches in his arm.”
    “Unquestionably quantum arctics cooler than that,” I confirmed.
    “His eye!” Bobby said, remembering the starburst hemorrhage.
    “Oh, God, his
eye
!”
    “Gag-o-rama!”
    We swilled down Cokes and talked and laughed more than we had ever laughed before in one night.
    What amazing creatures we are when we’re thirteen.
    There on the athletic-field bleachers, I knew that this macabre adventure had tied a knot in our friendship that nothing and no one would ever loosen. By then we had been friends for two years; but during this night, our friendship became stronger, more complex than it had been at the start of the evening. We had shared a powerfully formative experience—and we sensed that this event was more profound than it seemed to be on the surface, more profound than boys our age could grasp. In my eyes, Bobby had acquired a new mystique, as I had acquired in his eyes, because we had done this daring thing.
    Subsequently, I would discover that this moment was merely prelude. Our
real
bonding came the second week of December—when we saw something infinitely more disturbing than the corpse with the blood-red eye.

    Now, fifteen years later, I would have thought that I was too old for these adventures and too ridden by conscience to prowl other people’s property as casually as thirteen-year-old boys seem able to do. Yet here I was, treading cautiously on layers of dead eucalyptus leaves, putting my face to the fateful window one more time.
    The Levolor blind, though yellowed with age, appeared to be the same one through which Bobby and I had peered so long ago. The slats were adjusted at an angle, but the gaps between them were wide enough to allow a view of the entire crematorium—into which I was tall enough to see without the aid of a patio bench.
    Sandy Kirk and an assistant were at work near the Power Pak II Cremation System. They wore surgeons’ masks, latex gloves, and disposable plastic aprons.
    On the gurney near the window was one of the opaque vinyl body bags, unzipped, split like a ripe pod, with a dead man nestled inside. Evidently this was the hitchhiker who would be cremated in my father’s name.
    He was about five ten, a hundred sixty pounds. Because of the beating that he had taken, I could not estimate his age. His face was grotesquely battered.
    At first I thought that his eyes were hidden by black crusts of blood. Then I realized that both eyes were gone. I was staring into empty sockets.
    I thought of the old man with the starburst hemorrhage and how fearsome he had seemed to Bobby and me. That was nothing compared to this. That had been only nature’s impersonal work, while this was human viciousness.

    During that long-ago October and November, Bobby Halloway and I periodically returned to the crematorium window. Creeping through the darkness, trying not to trip in the ground ivy, we saturated our lungs with air redolent of the surrounding eucalyptuses, a scent that to this day I identify with death.
    During those two months, Frank Kirk conducted fourteen funerals, but only three of those deceased were cremated. The others were embalmed for traditional burials.
    Bobby and I lamented that the embalming room offered no windows for our use. That sanctum sanctorum—“where they do the wet work,” as Bobby put it—was in the basement, secure against ghoulish spies like us.
    Secretly, I was relieved that our snooping would be restricted to Frank Kirk’s dry work. I believe that Bobby was relieved as well, although he pretended to be sorely disappointed.
    On the positive side, I suppose, Frank performed most embalmings during the day while restricting cremations to the night hours. This made it possible for me to be in attendance.
    Although the hulking cremator—cruder than the Power Pak II that Sandy uses these days—disposed of human