Book by Shirley John
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Revue de presse :
Some people are not meant to be in this world very long. They know it, too, in the back of their minds. Maybe they’re uncertain, shaky in the way they live life. Maybe they’re fragile. Others are the opposite extreme, too reckless. Some, like Ray Burgess—
Who was only twenty-seven years old, that night, in a remote Nevada lab—
—Some are just prone to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Death seems to know who’s going to be the antelope that strays too far from the herd.
Right now, Burgess was crouched behind an overturned metal table in the break room, the table’s stainless steel legs projecting away from him toward the door. The lights of the lab were still burning, out there, but here he huddled in the dark next to a soft-drink machine that made him twitch every time it hummed and clicked inside itself. A little light came from the slightly opened door and from the softly suggestive glow of the vending machine.
His right-hand thumb was clamped between his teeth, and every time he heard any kind of metallic noise or the sound of something moving, from the next room, he bit down hard to keep from yelling. It was crumpled and torn, that thumbnail. Pretty soon blood would be seeping out.
He tried to see the luminous face of his watch, but he had his glasses on, thick glasses for his severe nearsightedness, and they made it harder to see things very close. He didn’t want to move enough to lift his glasses. He was afraid if he moved, he might bump the table, might make some kind of sharp noise. Did the watch say 9:10?
If it was 9:10 p.m., then he’d been crouching there for more than two hours.
He wondered if Ahmed had bled to death, in that time.
Chances were, Ahmed was pasted to the floor by a sticky puddle of his own blood by now.
He pictured a skin on the pool of Ahmed’s blood, like on cooled cocoa. He had always liked Ahmed; the little guy had a sense of humor that was balanced by a kind of trusting optimism. He might still be alive.
If I could get out, get someone to take care of Ahmed.
Probably not going to happen. The damn things had of course cut the phone lines, right out of the box. They might even have incorporated the phone lines—fused them with tissue, somehow.
He’d never make it to the phone down the hall. And thanks to the Dazzling Geniuses, as Ahmed called them, in Security, they weren’t allowed to have cell phones in Lab 23. It had never made sense, and now not being allowed to have cell phones made it more likely, it seemed to him, that he and Ahmed were going to die.
Ahmed is going to bleed to death, if he isn’t dead already, and I . . .
Ahmed’s death might be merciful, really, considering the way Kyu Kim had died. The things had picked Kyu because he was the one who opened the Development Box. He was the one who’d discovered that they had disengaged the lab’s safety circuits.
The breakouts had divided Kyu’s body into five parts, to use as many muscle groups as they could commandeer. Which meant Kyu’s legs had begun to thrash and work themselves free from his torso, like snakes being born from eggs. And then his limbs had started moving around the room on their own. The torso, with the head still attached, went humping off in another direction.
And Ahmed had fallen in front of Kyu’s reorganized body, and Kyu’s new jaws started that snap-snap-snapping like electric lawn clippers and ripped into Ahmed’s side—before Ahmed had pulled the sterilizer down, onto Kyu’s head . . . and smashed it. Smashed Kyu’s head broken and bloody.
But Kyu’s body wasn’t dead. Burgess could still hear it thrashing in the next room, now and then, under that big metal cabinet.
Ahmed lost blood fast, lost consciousness when the blood went, and Kyu’s eyeless limbs proved to be more or less useless to them. The breakouts were always experimenting, ironically—so they’d abandoned Kyu’s parts and started some other kind of “interconnected mutual e-construction.” Wasn’t that the term the Pentagon boys had come up with?
Something went click-click in the lab next door, and Burgess gnawed more deeply into his thumbnail, beginning to taste blood.
He told himself, again, that he had to sit still till morning. Dr. Sung will have his daybreak shift at the lab. He’ll put out the alert, and maybe the Secure Penetration Team will find a frequency, or set up a decoy or—something.
Or would they just abandon him? Ahmed had said something about how they might have to firebomb the Facility, under certain conditions—as if it was a bioweapons lab. It almost was a bioweapons lab. But then again, it wasn’t. They hadn’t developed a virus or bacterium; not one.
He had to pee and it was getting worse. Could he hold it? Could he pee on the floor without the breakouts hearing? How good was their sense of smell?
He had taken the wrong road in life, the fatally wrong road, signing on for the Facility. He knew that now. But there was no excuse for it: Everyone at the National Security Agency Advanced Research Facility knew that once you were in the Facility, you were committed.
You can’t just say, I’ve decided to go into something else. If you thought that Chinese scientist at Lawrence Livermore had it bad, just try walking out on the Facility. Suddenly you’d be “an enemy agent.”
Not like there hadn’t been warnings. There had been rumors. Things had been going wrong before he’d arrived. There’d been more than one infection. There’d been a Lab 21 and a Lab 22, dedicated to the same project, and they’d both been quarantined. But the new protocols were supposed to be more than enough. “Micro-womb integrity,” they liked to say. Burgess had shown just the gift for tunneling-electron manipulation; and they had offered the two-hundred-grand-a-year starting salary he’d needed. It had seemed right.
But he’d known. He’s always known that life had it in for him. He’d been pretty sure of it since his mother had joined that Christian end-times bunch. The cult had sucked her right in, like some kind of mutually incorporating program. He’d watched her drive away with those guys. Thin, underfed, faintly smiling guys in prim, cheap suits. And since Dad wouldn’t have anything to do with them, he knew then he’d never see her again.
Right now, he really, seriously had to pee.
He peered at his watch, squinting. Pretty sure it said 9:12. Time was . . . well, it was crawling. The breakouts were so methodical, it wouldn’t be long before they came in. They’d divided things up into sectors by now, probably, and made their assignments. They’d come when it was most efficient.
Come on, man, there’s hope. The Facility will get its SP Team together, and they’ll break in to save you. Any second now.
Was the break-room door swinging inward, just now, a little?
It did seem that the wedge of light spilling from the lab into the darkened room was wider. Was something peering in, looking for him?
The door opened just a centimeter or two more. Not like a person opening the door. Not like someone coming to save him.
Burgess prayed it wouldn’t turn on the light. He didn’t think he could see one without screaming. And if he screamed, they’d know for sure he was here.
I won’t go on drinking binges with Belinda anymore. I know it was wrong, I know she’s married and has a little child, and I won’t ever do that again.
I’ll go see my dad back home, I swear. I know he’s got maybe a year to live and I never go see him. But I will, I’ll go see my dad.
Just don’t let it turn on the light.
There was a muttering, clickety sound from the door.
And the light came on, and he couldn’t help looking over the edge of the table.
And Burgess gave a short scream, distantly aware that he was wetting his pants.
They had stripped all the skin off Ahmed’s skull, to be used in some other project, but they’d left the eyes, and there was no mistaking those big brown eyes. Ahmed’s eyes.
The skull ratcheted up on a shiny metal improvised spinal stalk, turning slowly, like a periscope, to look right at him.
Then the thing began to crawl his way.
The breakouts climbed into some people and reorganized them, like with Kyu. Others were just . . . parts.
Which was maybe why it pushed the overturned tabletop against him, and simply crushed him against the wall.
He was mostly dead before his head popped off his shoulders.
Which was proof, wasn’t it, that death is often merciful?
Major Henri Stanner, AF intelligence liaison to the NSA, was leaning out an open door, half hanging about eight hundred feet over the desert floor. He flicked a toggle on the binoculars to filter out the glare of the sun so the boulders and little trees and gullies were crisply outlined within a wash of blue tint. The wind brought the sharpness of sage, the mild perfume of cactus flowers. Maybe there was a faint rotten smell, too, underneath. Could be someone’s steer had wandered off and died. Could be a lot of things.
Looking over Lab 23 from the air, Major Stanner said, “If you use a compound that burns hot enough, something magnesium based, I think firebombing will do the trick. That’s what the Cleansing Protocol says.” He had to speak loud enough to be heard over the helicopter’s engine, the thwack of its blades. The Blackhawk tilted as it curved back over the Facility. He lowered his field glasses and shook his head. “It’s really not necessary to nuke it.”
“We were thinking jus...
“With his electric intensity, elegant prose, and eye for details both sleazy and tender, Shirley is one of the most original voices in fiction today.” –POPPY Z. BRITE
“Barely street-legal, Shirley’s Bosch-like visions mark him out as perhaps the closest thing contemporary American fantasy has to a genuine ‘outsider artist.’ ” –WILLIAM GIBSON, Author of Neuromancer
“John Shirley accomplishes things that most writers would not dare to attempt.” –BRUCE STERLING, Author of Schismatrix
“John Shirley is an adventurer, returning from dark and troubled regions with visionary tales to tell. I heartily recommend a journey with John Shirley at your side.” –CLIVE BARKER
"Shirley's latest begins horrifyingly--a top-secret government lab is destroyed by nasty, experimental nanotechnology--and just gets creepier, though more subtly so for quite a while, with just flashes of strange things in the woods and odd behavior by the involved populace. The comfortable town of Quiebra is in deadly danger, but the government, afraid of what will happen if the outside world finds out what has been let loose, is playing its cards close to its chest. For the Quiebrans, however, their predicament seems at first only a streak of light in the night sky and a potentially profitable salvage operation for Adair Leverton's father. Shirley's characters are believably flawed and variable, while his nasty little nanocreatures are, well, nasty (also singleminded about spreading). Meanwhile, his prose is often quite wonderful, even when he is describing something stomach-turningly icky. This portrayal of the dangers of secret experimentation with the diabolically dangerous is unnerving, not least because it is frighteningly convincing." -Booklist
" Crawlers has Shirley's trademark intensity, moral outrage and critical wit but also includes deep social and political allegories as well. What happens when humanity becomes too dependent upon technology? Are we sacrificing consciousness for mindless pleasures and superfluous comforts? What if sentient technology turns the tables and begins using us as its tool? Shirley's latest is as terrifying as it is thought-provoking." -Bookpage
"CRAWLERS is a horror story on a par with Dean Koontz, Stephen King and Clive Barker. It is a story of science gone amuck and what the consequences are when not enough safeguards are placed on a scientific black-ops experiment. The novel is fast paced and the action never lets up yet the author doesn't ignore character development. The people who populate the pages of this book are rugged individuals who try to fight the enemy and endear themselves to the audience in the process." -All Scifi.com
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
Description du livre Random House Inc, 2003. PAP. État : New. New Book. Shipped from US within 10 to 14 business days. Established seller since 2000. N° de réf. du libraire VR-9780345446527
Description du livre État : New. N° de réf. du libraire 1625892-n
Description du livre Penguin Random House. État : New. Brand New. N° de réf. du libraire 0345446526
Description du livre Del Rey. PAPERBACK. État : New. 0345446526 *BRAND NEW* Ships Same Day or Next!. N° de réf. du libraire SWATI2122068408
Description du livre Random House USA Inc, United States, 2003. Paperback. État : New. New.. 208 x 140 mm. Language: English . Brand New Book. In a secret government lab somewhere in Nevada, a young scientist cowers in darkness-waiting, listening, and calculating his chances of surviving the unspeakable carnage that has left him trapped and alone. Or almost alone. Soon after, a covert military operation cleanses all traces of a top-secret project gone horrifically wrong. Three years later, it begins again-when the quiet of a warm autumn night in a sleepy California town is shattered by a streak of light across the sky, the thunder of impact, and the unleashing of something insidious. Spreading, multiplying, and transforming everything in its path, this diabolical intelligence will not be denied until the townsfolk-and eventually, all living things-are conquered. Until they are all crawling. . . . N° de réf. du libraire BZV9780345446527
Description du livre Del Rey, 2003. Paperback. État : New. 1. N° de réf. du libraire DADAX0345446526
Description du livre Del Rey, 2003. Paperback. État : New. book. N° de réf. du libraire 0345446526
Description du livre État : Brand New. Book Condition: Brand New. N° de réf. du libraire 97803454465271.0
Description du livre Del Rey, 2003. Paperback. État : Brand New. 1st edition. 383 pages. 8.00x5.50x1.00 inches. In Stock. N° de réf. du libraire zk0345446526
Description du livre Del Rey, 2003. Paperback. État : New. N° de réf. du libraire P110345446526