Cover image for The fury and the terror
The fury and the terror
Farris, John.
Personal Author:
First edition.
Publication Information:
New York : Tom Doherty Associates, 2001.
Physical Description:
384 pages ; 25 cm
General Note:
"A Forge book"--T.p. verso.
Format :


Call Number
Material Type
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Item Holds
X Adult Fiction Central Closed Stacks

On Order



The United States is besieged by terrorists-terrorists who work from within the White House itself. Their weapon of choice is a type of mind control not even dreamed of years ago. Eden Waring, star athlete and valedictorian, is about to address fellow graduates and family members in the school's stadium when she is overwhelmed by a terrible premonition: a DC-10 is about to crash at the ceremony site. From that moment on, her life is forever changed. On the run, pursued by a powerful covert agency and married to a man she can no longer trust, Waring must use her full psychic potential to save the lives of millions of Americans while she tracks down a complex plot that leads to the Oval Office itself.

Author Notes

John Farris was born in Jefferson City, Missouri in 1936. He attended Southwestern College in Memphis. He sold his first novel the summer after he graduated from high school, in 1955. His other books include King Windom, The Long Light of Dawn, The Captors, Nightfall, Dragonfly, Elvisland, Phantom Nights, and Before the Night Ends.

Many of his books were adapted into movies. Harrison High was adapted into the film Because They're Young in 1960 and When Michael Calls was adapted in 1969. The Fury was the basis for the 1978 film, which Farris wrote the screenplay. He wrote and directed the film Dear Dead Delilah in 1972.

(Bowker Author Biography)

Reviews 1

Publisher's Weekly Review

Terrormeister Farris's sequel to The Fury outdoes its bestselling predecessor in mystery, malevolence and mayhem. Moving at video-game speed, this fanciful thriller pits ambitious politicians against psychics on the run to save America. The novel opens with a bang as Eden Waring's college valedictory speech turns into a warning that an airplane is about to crash on campus. Eden's adoptive parents take refuge in the countryside, and her boyfriend decides which side he's on, while Eden hides from MORG, the secret government agency for psychic bioengineering, and from an evil First Lady both seeking to harness Eden's powers for their own ends. On the run, Eden develops such skills as producing her doppelg„nger at will; she also learns she is the daughter of the preceding novel's heroine, Gillian (dead but still visiting Eden in her dreams), and of Gillian's soul mate, Robin (alive but held captive in MORG's Montana hideaway). Eden joins forces with an ex-game hunter once married to her mother, and with a beautiful black model with a few powers of her own, to thwart the First Lady's plan to take over the White House, MORG's effort to control psychic activity and a terrorist plot to wreak havoc at a Garth Brooks concert. Farris (Dragonfly; Sacrifice, etc.) packs his novel with villains, explosions and odd, occasionally grotesque characters possessed of just enough charm to make readers care. Through frenzied plot twists, he mixes humor with pseudo-science, creating his own world which he promises we can return to in the forthcoming The Fury and the Power. (Apr.) Forecast: Despite the nearly 25 years since The Fury was first published, this sequel, supported by a major ad campaign, should draw lots of attention, bolstered by Forge's reissue of the original novel in October 2000. The Fury was a hit movie, of course, directed by Brian DePalma, and perhaps its sequel will enjoy the same fate. (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved



MAUI, HAWAII • MAY 28 The four MH-60K helicopters from MORG's Elite Force left Hickam Field at one A.M. and proceeded southeast at two thousand feet, past the beachfront dazzle of postcard Waikiki. A few kliks beyond the famous headland they were at maximum cruising speed of 167 mph, making good use of a fifteen-knot tailwind. The moon was two days from the full in a clear night sky. From a higher perspective, observed against the crinkly sheen of the ocean below them, the fleet of warships resembled black wasps with razor-sharp halos. The woman code-named Zephyr, in the lead chopper, passed the time before acquisition of their target by socializing with Portia Darkfeather, the team leader, and Zephyr's occasional lover. "It's the lemons, babe," Zephyr said. "The peel, and the zest, that make potted veal something out of the ordinary. We didn't have much else when I was a kid, but we had Meyer lemons growing in our backyard. Have you tasted a Meyer lemon?" Darkfeather put her six-month-old cat, a Persian named Warhol, on her left shoulder. In the low light of the flight deck Warhol fixed Zephyr in the crosshairs of his gaze. Eyes like those of an idol with a jinxed history. "Don't think I have," Darkfeather said. "Meyers are more like a blend of an ordinary lemon with a mandarin orange. They came to California by way of China. Four times the sugar of a regular lemon, and the aroma is divine. My mom never used any other variety with her potted veal. Pops would bring home some prime veal from the butcher shop when he was sober enough to hold a job. Another of Mom's secrets was rice wine with the veal stock." Darkfeather said, "I never tasted veal. While my mama was alive we had chicken couple times a week. Simmered in Mexican beer, you know, to tenderize it. And Mama would baste the chicken with chipotle peppers pureed in adobo sauce. Talk about good eating." Molokai was on the horizon. The helicopters continued southeast, along the Kalohi Channel, the sparse lights of the small island of Lanai appearing on their right. "Did you ever surf the Pipeline or Jaws?" Zephyr asked Darkfeather. She was a child of the surfin' sixties herself, a runaway beach bum at age fourteen. All of which had never been a part of her official biography, although the tabloids had feasted on such tidbits of her past for many years. "Not me. My brother did Jaws once. Sixty-footers. But you got to know when your nerve is writing checks your talent can't cash." "Oh, baby," Zephyr agreed. And put an end to the small talk. Darkfeather fed Warhol a snack from a Ziploc bag. "Eight minutes to target," the Flight Leader said. The wind had shifted, coming out of the northwest now, and the ride was getting bumpier. Zephyr looked ahead to the airport beacon at Kapalui and the cluster of resorts around Kaanapali on Maui's west coast. Beyond Kaanapali the west Maui mountains were clearly visible. A seldom visited, by tourists, part of the island. Up to four hundred inches of rain a year made the craters, forested gorges, and marshes difficult to penetrate. Only a few bad roads dwindled into the interior from the shoreside towns. The mountains were an ideal place to hide out, if you wanted to get really lost. The lights of Lahaina were coming into view, which raised Zephyr's pulse count in anticipation. She'd been disappointed before, after numerous sightings, stalkings, and forfeitures. But this time she was damned sure they had her, had the Avatar. Zephyr was outfitted, like the others seated behind her, in special ops gear. She like being with the military types. The resourceful, the mission-ready. Their terse jargon, the acronyms as sharp and jagged as combat knives. Unlike Portia's Praetorians, she wasn't carrying a weapon. The Mamba Team helos were well armed, the usual impressive stuff like chain guns and rocket pods, but they weren't there for a turkey shoot. Zephyr had allowed that flash-bangs might be necessary. As were the dogs, three big German shepherds in another helicopter. Portia Darkfeather was on the Mamba Team frequency. "Designated Hitter, this is Mamba Leader. We are in the gut. ETA four minutes and thirty seconds. How do you read? Over." "You are loud and clear, Mamba Leader. All is calm, and all is bright." "We have Zephyr aboard tonight," Darkfeather said. "Let us all be worthy of her admiration." "Roger that, Mamba Leader." The helicopters had begun to descend from two thousand feet, a six-degree slope that Zephyr felt in the pit of her stomach. "Heading zero-niner-zero," the flight leader said. "Systems check, gentlemen." The other pilots acknowledged him. "We're go here." "Go." "Full green. Go." Thereafter the radio was silent as the sea loomed closer and they flew across the foaming wake of a lash ship steaming low and westbound in the Auau Channel. Portia Darkfeather turned in the right-hand seat, passing binoculars back to Zephyr. The flight leader switched on the outboard searchlight. They were now skimming the sea at an altitude of a hundred feet, the two rotors of each helicopter in the formation blowing the crests off the heavy waves forming over the reef. Zephyr looked to starboard, focusing the glasses as the stealth choppers made landfall. They crossed the shore road of Lahaina, rising abruptly to follow the contours of the land. They were in computer-assisted flight mode, and Zephyr's seat harness tightened uncomfortably. It was becoming more of a thrill ride than she had anticipated. Fortunately she'd nibbled only a little food at the luau in her honor at the Governor's mansion. Zephyr blinked to clear her vision as they dove into a valley shaped like a seahorse, with its narrow head at the base of Puu Kukui. The seahorse was divided by the silver seam of a shallow river, descending in stair-step falls from the mountains ahead of them. At the end of a Jeep road two-thirds of the way up the valley, Zephyr recognized the hexagon of Colonial-era white buildings with their pagodalike roofs that she had seen in reconnaissance photos. Darkfeather keyed her mike. "Designated Hitter, do you have visual on our position?" "Affirm, Mamba Leader. We see you." "Say your situation." "Still calm. No movement inside the--okay, couple of lights just came on. I see a face in a window, second floor. They've made you, Mamba Team." "Dreamtime is over," Darkfeather said scornfully. "Light up the LZ and go for the Avatar. Say again, you are go for the Avatar." Then it was happening so fast Zephyr had difficulty keeping track of all the action. Two of the helos circled behind the cloister, searchlights blazing as doors flew open below. Men and women, most of them apparently roused from their beds and wearing little clothing, ran in panic toward the rain forest fifty yards away. They were met by a unit of the infil team that had been lying in wait at the forest perimeter. Members of Mamba Team fast-roped down from the hovering helicopters to assist in the roundup. There was little resistance. A couple of the younger, swifter runners had to be overhauled and thrown to the ground. Other members of the strike force were storming the cloister. All helicopters remained aloft. Portia Darkfeather had tucked her cat into a pouch on her vest. She scanned the faces of the captives, who had been made to lie on their backs in a circle, feet touching, hands behind their heads. Their eyes were squinched shut against the searchlight dazzle. Zephyr recognized several of the older telepaths from surveillance photos. Ivy Papillion. Ping Lee. Noorul Meskerem. "I don't see Cheng," Darkfeather said. "She wouldn't run with the others," Zephyr told her. "She's too smart for that. She'd have another way out planned. Tunnel, maybe." "Scanning now," Darkfeather said, looking at the infrared screen. Thermal imaging would reveal any sign of human life in subterranean passages. She keyed her mike. "Mamba Leader to Designated Hitter, give me a status, over." The voice of DH leader, coming from inside the cloister, was muffled and rushed. "Roger, Mamba Leader. We're clearing the second floors of Alpha and Bravo buildings. We have not made contact with the Avatar. Blue Leader, report." "Roger that. TI scan negative, cellar is clear. Nothing down here but vintage wine." "Negative on tunnels and caves," Darkfeather advised. Zephyr slipped into an old habit, grinding her back teeth. No way to treat all those expensive crowns. She made herself relax. "Could she have skipped early?" "DH has had a lock on the place for the last six hours." "Unless she peeped them," Zephyr objected. "And Kelane's like a wraith." "The best T-blockers we've ever trained are on the DH team. No leaks there, I'd bet my sweet pussy on that. And I don't mean Warhol." "Then she's down there. Okay, assume I'm Kelane Cheng. I have a little warning, then all hell is busting loose outside. I know I have--what, less than a minute? How do I handle it? I've always been good, but I need to get lucky." "Maybe I know where you're going with that," Darkfeather said after a few seconds. She keyed her mike. "Designated Hitter, recall all units now . I want a head count." "Say again, Mamba Leader?" "Account for all personnel immediately." Members of the faculty of the cloister and several initiates were being herded from the buildings into the glare of helicopter searchlights. The German shepherds were patrolling. One feisty old gent wearing a toga had to be gigged to calm him down. Two more members of Designated Hitter appeared from a side door, away from the throng on the lit-up lawn. They were carrying between them a sheet-wrapped body, small, probably female. Unconscious, or dead. Zephyr put the glasses on them. "Portia? Upper left quadrant of the lawn, by that stand of overgrown lobelias." "Roger." The faces of the DH team, a bulky man and a woman half his size, were unseeable behind deflector shields as they put the wrapped body on the lawn. Then they turned and walked away from the lighted perimeter, ignoring the recall orders that were crackling over the radio. They didn't hurry, but they didn't have far to go to reach the edge of the forest. "One of them has to be our gal Key-lawn-ee," Zephyr said, with a shiver of excitement. "The big hunk is probably Romanzo." "They must have brain-locked a couple of our guys and stripped them." Darkfeather changed the angle of the helo's searchlight and said to the flight leader, "Get over there." She keyed her mike. "Designated Hitter, the Avatar is wearing ops gear! Mamba Flight Leader is in pursuit!" When the light hit the pair on the ground, illuminating them against the forest wall, they split up and ran into the trees. Dogs were racing across the lawn after them. Kelane Cheng stumbled at the river's edge, looking back at the incoming helicopter, just above the treetops. She froze momentarily, then started across the waist-deep river. "Wait a minute!" Darkfeather yelled. "Something's wrong!" "What do you mean?" Zephyr yelled back. "That isn't Cheng!" "Looks like her!" Darkfeather shook her head curtly but otherwise didn't argue. She swung a keypad to a position at lap level and began working the keys. "The little bitch jerked a knot in our tail. That's Cheng's doppelganger down there. The dpg and Romanzo carried Cheng out of the cloister, wrapped in that sheet." To the flight leader she said, "Black light going hot. We're locking on the dpg." "Roger, locking the dpg," the baffled flight leader said. "What does black light do?" "What does Kryptonite do to Superman? Also, black light is the only sure way to tell a dpg from the homebody. They don't show up on thermal imagers." The flight leader glanced across a bank of instruments and glowing screens to confirm. "How about that? Spooky." "But they have body heat," Zephyr said, being in a position to know. "One of those little mysteries we haven't worked out yet," Darkfeather said. "Where does the doppelganger come from?" the flight leader asked. "According to folklore, we all have them," Darkfeather said. "You ought to get in touch with yours, sometime." "Hell no!" Darkfeather laughed. "Just ragging on you. Producing a double is a feat for adepts like the Avatar. It's a left-handed art." In the middle of the shallow river the runaway doppelganger, caught in the beam of black light, struggled against the river rapids, unable to advance. A German shepherd leaped into the water and swam toward the dpg. Kelane Cheng's doppelganger reacted by sluggishly raising its hands in an attitude of terror. "They're also scared shitless of dogs." Darkfeather swiveled in her seat as the helicopter hovered, and keyed her mike. "All air and ground units, this is Mamba Leader! Cheng is in the forest." To the flight leader she said, "Put us down. Praetorians, get ready to deploy with the giggers." "Roger," said one of the ops behind Zephyr, and there was a shifting of bodies, the clicks of harnesses being released. The lead helicopter dropped to the river's edge, two feet above the ground. Portia Darkfeather leaped out first, crouched, sent the Praetorians who followed her into action with curt hand signals. Then she turned to help Zephyr out into the maelstrom stirred up by the rotors. They scrambled up the bank as the helicopter rose again, searchlight flashing on the scene in the middle of the river: three ops from Designated Hitter and the German shepherd dog had surrounded Kelane Cheng's doppelganger and were prodding the lookalike toward shore. Two more helicopters were stationary above the forest, torching it with their lights. Ops from Multiphasic Operations and Research Group were at full scramble amid the exotic trees, in pursuit of Kelane Cheng. Darkfeather paused to receive a report, grinned broadly as she turned to Zephyr. "Got her!" Zephyr trembled from the release of a year's worth of frustration, took in a deep lungful of the heavenly Hawaiian air. "Yeah baby! What about Romanzo?" "Nothing yet." The capture zone was a clearing containing a scum-covered pond. Zephyr and Darkfeather followed a boar path illuminated by light sticks and emerged from the Ohia trees to see Kelane Cheng lying on her side near the pond, in an auroral glow from the sky. The tops of the trees thrashed in the wind from the helicopter directly overhead. Darkfeather waved it off. Cheng had left the bedsheet behind; she was naked. She had been gigged twice, in the hip and below a shoulder blade. She lay motionless but not comatose from the pharmacopeia fed to her by the CO2 darts. There were tears on Cheng's cheeks; her lips were parted but she breathed normally. She didn't look at anyone. "What did you gig her with?" Zephyr asked Darkfeather. She was gasping a little from the headlong pace. Obviously she'd skipped too many of her aerobic kickboxing sessions the past couple of months, because of the heavy travel schedule as a stand-in for her ailing husband. "Depakote works best on telekinetics. What effect it has on brain-lockers is an open question, so we hedge the bet with Trazadone and Klonopin. Rest assured she'll behave." Zephyr stared at Cheng while she was catching her breath. Such a waiflike creature, probably not more than five feet, ninety pounds. Tiny lacquered pearls of toenails. She wore her hair long, strands of it falling across her petite breasts. Zephyr told herself that she didn't need to be afraid; Cheng looked so harmless in her downfall. But what strength still lay in her mind, in spite of the brain-numbing drugs? "Can I talk to her now? I don't want to waste time. I want her on that plane to Plenty Coups before dawn." "She'll hear. Doesn't mean she'll cooperate when the dope wears off." "That's something you don't want to bet your sweet pussy on." Darkfeather grinned, showing off the dimples Zephyr liked so much. Too bad they were going separate ways in a short while. Zephyr thought of the sybarite's bath in the Presidential Suite at her hotel, Portia's long body awash in aromatic bubbles. Rona sometimes swung both ways; but (as an AC-DC distaff member of the British royals had confided after their tryst) when it came to sex, "things go better with bloke." Zephyr sighed, her pulses quickening. "Let's do it," she said, and led Darkfeather to Kelane Cheng. Darkfeather pulled her pistol from the utility holster--room for a Sig Sauer P220 model semiautomatic, a Ka-bar fighting knife, and extra magazines for her Sig--that was strapped to her thigh. She kneeled by Cheng's head and placed the muzzle gently over one ear. Cheng gave no sign that she noticed. Zephyr kneeled where the Avatar could see her. Nothing changed in the dark slanted eyes. "History in the making," Zephyr said gleefully. "Here, tonight. We've been gentle. Maybe a sprained ankle, some bruises, but nobody's gotten really hurt yet." Zephyr thought she saw a smile. "So unlike you," Cheng said, barely above a whisper. Zephyr said, "Your karma, baby, has just hit you in the face. We're not going to prolong this. You know who I am. You know what we want you to do. It will be done." "Never. He must die." "No, darling. I want you to consult the practical side of what little brain we're allowing you to keep for now and think about what may happen if you continue to be wrong-headed. Think about Portland, Key." Kelane Cheng reacted with horror and loathing. "Hey, Kelane? I blame you for Portland. You caused a thousand people to vaporize and thousands more to suffer by refusing to save one life. And Portland was a relatively low-yield device. Portland will recover, in time, if anyone cares to live there anymore. But the terrorists who nuked Portland may have something a little larger in store for--well, where do you think it could be, next time? Albuquerque? Wichita? Frightens me to think about it. We can fight these monsters, Key. We need more help, however. We need Robin Sandza." "Your own dying will last ten thousand years." "Oh, Kelane. So judgmental." "Deaths on a thousand worlds too primitive for fire, where the only luxury is a dirt cave." "Spare me. All I really care about is my country. But the Sino-Islamic coalition will bring us down if we don't have strong hands at the helm of the ship of--" There was a commotion at the edge of the clearing. Zephyr, interrupted in the flow of her rhetoric, looked around. Three members of Mamba Team had arrived with a captive, who, even though he had been gigged, still had some fight in him. Zephyr rose and looked down at Kelane Cheng. "Frank's here," she said happily. Cheng's small shoulders drew together; she closed her eyes briefly. "There's nothing you can do to Frank. Nothing you can do to me. We will never bring Robin Sandza back." "I want Romanzo over here," Zephyr said sharply. Portia Darkfeather, still holding the muzzle of her semiautomatic pistol against the Avatar's glossy head, gave Zephyr a look. She liked knowing the game plan in advance, and Zephyr apparently was going to improvise. The Mamba ops half dragged Frank Romanzo to the pond. He addressed them all in smutty Spanish. They dropped him a few feet from Kelane Cheng. His head was down. He had the shudders and was drooling. He looked longingly at Cheng, agony in his eyes. Then he wiped his bearded chin and glared at Zephyr. "Frank, why don't you crawl over there and give Key a good-bye kiss? May be a while before you guys get together again." " Madre de putas ," Romanzo said to Zephyr. He looked at Kelane Cheng again, pleadingly. "Don't worry," she murmured. "I'll be all right." "Kiss her, you big galoot," Zephyr chided Romanzo. Romanzo pulled himself to the side of his lover. Zephyr motioned for Darkfeather to move out of the way. Darkfeather got up reluctantly. When Zephyr was in her default mode, then usually it was time to worry. Romanzo, his face inches from Kelane Cheng's, spoke to her in low tones. She wanted to embrace him, but her motor reflexes, like his, were nearly out of commission. Her hand brushed his cheek and fell limply on his shoulder. "Awww," Zephyr said. She took the cocked .45 caliber Sig Sauer from Darkfeather's hand, steadied it in her hands, right arm extended, ball of her index finger on the trigger. "Frank!" Kelane Cheng said, no strength in her to push him aside. The warning came too late. From five feet away Zephyr fired twice, quickly, blowing the back of Frank Romanzo's head off. Zephyr was momentarily shocked. Forty-fives make a lot of noise. There was far more blood than she could have expected, and other stuff, flying everywhere. Sticking to her clothing. But she'd always handled blood okay, depending on the volume. Romanzo had slumped across Cheng's limp body. Her teeth were bared, eyes with a pinpoint luster as she stared up at Zephyr. Zephyr shrugged to hide a tremor. She'd shot animals before, including a favorite horse. This was different, and it wasn't. There was always satisfaction to be gained from eliminating part of the competition, however she achieved it. End of story, no tears. "He called me the mother of whores. So, listen, Key, grow from it, you know?" Zephyr ruined a thumbnail handing the Sig Sauer back to Portia Darkfeather. "See you in a few days," she said casually, and walked away, taking a couple of deep breaths only when her back was turned. Keeping her head up, making an effort not to stumble. Two of Portia's Praetorians fell into step behind her. Darkfeather watched Zephyr for a few moments, angry but inscrutable. Then she pulled Frank Romanzo's body off Kelane Cheng, who looked at her, and beyond her, the fires of that remarkable mind cooled to ash. For now , Darkfeather thought, rejecting pity. Her own mind hardened protectively. She knew too much about Kelane Cheng to lower her guard for even a few moments. The medical team had arrived. They inserted an IV and began dripping fluids that contained more tranquilizer drugs. Then they wiped the Avatar's face clean, shaved some of the hair from her scalp, dabbed ointment between her breasts and on her temples. They attached the electrodes that would monitor brain-wave activity, her heart and respiration rates. The helicopter that was taking Cheng back to Hickam Field, and to the jet waiting for her there, circled the clearing and hovered overhead. Darkfeather decided that, in spite of Zephyr's impulsive--okay, call it sadistic--kill of Frank Romanzo, it had been a good night's work. Designated Hitter would complete the dispersal of the other psychics who had been flushed from the cloister. They would be removed to isolation cells in locations around the U.S. With their powers unlinked from the Avatar, they might be of some future interest to MORG's psi research facility. But Kelane Cheng was the top banana. Darkfeather should have been in a better mood. But even in twilight sleep the Avatar seemed to be at work, casting a spell that had settled dismally in the marrow of Darkfeather's bones. It was her heritage to believe in the supernatural, in ill omens and premonitions. A German shepherd moaned, then growled. She turned and there was the Avatar's doppelganger, standing just behind her but spectral now, losing definition as Cheng recalled it. In the pouch on Darkfeather's ballistics vest her pure-white Persian cat squawled and clawed as the doppelganger vanished in a flash of light that came right at Darkfeather and made her flinch. Cold traveling point of light through her flesh, leaving its mark like an indelible scratch on the soul as the dpg merged with its homebody. Definitely not an illusion. She knew she would continue to feel it for a while. She let Warhol out of the mesh-front pouch and snuggled him against her cheek, relishing the furry warmth. Glanced again at Kelane Cheng as Cheng was loaded onto a stretcher. Her head lolled, but there seemed to be a smile on her face that made Darkfeather's mood even worse. It was a long way to Plenty Coups, Montana. And now she sensed that in spite of the precautions they were taking with the Avatar, the odds were against any of them getting there. Copyright (c) 2001 by John Farris Excerpted from Avenging Fury by John Farris All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.