The Taking. Dean Koontz
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Neil said.
She brought the Explorer to a full stop, half on the road, half on the graveled shoulder. “Parasites?”
“They might be parasites,” he said, “these things from the far end of the universe or the dark side of the moon, or wherever they’re from. Parasites—that’s an old theme in science fiction, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“Intelligent parasites, capable of infecting a host body and controlling it as if it were a puppet.”
“What host body?”
“Anything, any species. In this case, Harry’s corpse.”
“You call that logic?”
“Just speculation.”
“But how does this parasite—I don’t care if it’s smarter than the entire membership of Mensa combined—how does it control a host that’s blown out its brains?”
“The corpse still has a jointed skeleton, musculature, intact nerve pathways below the brainpan,” he said. “Maybe the parasite plugs into all that-and can manipulate the host, brain or no brain.”
Her anxiety ebbed just enough to allow for a small amazement. “You sure don’t sound like a guy who was schooled by Jesuits.”
“Oh, but I do. They value nimbleness of thought, imagination, and open-mindedness.”
“And evidently they watch old Star Trek episodes too much. The parasite theory doesn’t qualify as logic in my book.”
For a moment, Neil studied the dripping, silvered forest, which darkled to a black void in the distance. With evident uneasiness, he surveyed the rain-washed county road ahead and behind them.
“Let’s keep moving,” he said. “I think we’re more vulnerable when we’re sitting still like this.”
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