Free Dead Town by Dean Koontz

place, get out of town, way out, leave it to the army.”
    “You won’t get out,” Deucalion said. “They’ve taken over the police, all authorities. Roads are blocked at both ends of town. They’re seizing key utilities—telephones, the power company. The weather helps them because people will tend to stay at home, where their replicants can more easily find them.”
    “Without phones or any text-messaging devices,” Sammy said, “without the Internet, KBOW is the only efficient way to warn a lot of people.”
    Ralph Nettles said, “I’ve got guns. I … collect.”
    Sammy had always thought that the even-tempered, responsible, detail-obsessed engineer probably had a plan for every contingency from falling in love to Armageddon. Although he’d never heard Ralph say a word to suggest that he collected guns, he wasn’t surprised by this disclosure, and he suspected that the collection would prove to be extensive, though just short of a quantity that would justify the use of the word
paranoid
.
    “I have enough to defend this place,” Ralph said. “My house is less than a mile away. I could be back here with arms and ammo to spare in … twenty minutes or so.”
    Deucalion said, “I’ll go with you, and we’ll be much quicker than twenty.”
    The front-door buzzer sounded. KBOW was locked to visitors after the reception lounge closed at five-thirty.
    “That’ll be Transport Number One,” Deucalion said. “They think they have four zombies to collect. Wait here. I’ll deal with them.”
    Sammy could never have imagined that the stunning revelation of the existence of the replicants and the sight of their alien innards would prove to be less startling than Deucalion’s departure from the room. He, Ralph, Mason, and even half-catatonic Burt all cried out in surprise, however, when Deucalion, turning away from them, did not merely walk out of the room but
vanished
from it.

chapter 12
    Two extra cushions had been added to one of the kitchen chairs to elevate five-year-old Chrissy Benedetto, who otherwise would have been barely chin-even with the top of the table.
    The girl needed both hands to lift her mug of hot chocolate, and each time that she drank, her eyes widened as if with delight at the taste.
    “You make it different,” she said.
    “I use almond milk,” said Erika, who sat across the table from the child.
    “Almond like that nut almond?”
    “Yes. Exactly.”
    “You must squeeze real hard to get milk out of one.”
    “Other people do the squeezing. I just buy it at the store.”
    “Can you get milk out of a peanut, too?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Can you get milk out of a ka-chew?”
    “A cashew? No, I don’t think so.”
    “You’re very pretty,” Chrissy said.
    “Thank you, sweetie. You’re very pretty, too.”
    “I was the Little Mermaid at preschool. You know, last time it was Halloween.”
    “I’ll bet you charmed all the boys.”
    Chrissy grimaced. “Boys. They all wanted to be scary. They were like
ick.
”
    “Pretty is better than scary. Boys always figure that out, but it takes them a long time.”
    “I’m gonna be a princess this year. Or maybe a pig like Olivia in those books.”
    “I’d go with princess if I were you.”
    “Well, Olivia is a
pretty
pig. And really funny. Anyway, Daddy says what you look like on the outside don’t matter. What matters is what you’re like inside. You make good different cookies, too.”
    “I add pecans and coconut to the chocolate chips.”
    “Can you teach my mommy?”
    “Sure. And I could teach you, too.”
    The last quality that Erika Five—now Swedenborg—should have discovered in herself was a talent for relating to and nurturing the young. Having been grown in a creation tank in the Hands of Mercy, in faraway New Orleans, having gained consciousness as an adult, she had neither parents from whom she might have learned tenderness nor a childhood during which she might have been the object of the gentle