It's like a cockroach working up a plan to defeat the shoe on its way down to crush it.

We are the clay, and you are Michelangelo. And we will be your masterpiece.

So often the monsters that crowd our minds are nothing more than the strange and thoroughly alien progeny of our own fearful fantasies.

What were they thinking? 'It's an alien apocalypse! Quick, grab the beer!

Maybe the last human being on Earth won't die of starvation or exposure or as a meal of wild animals. Maybe the last one to die will be killed by the last one alive.

You are the human clay," Vosch whispers fiercely in my ear. "And I am Michelangelo. I am the master builder, and you will be my masterpiece.

To hell with monsters and to hell with men. There is no difference to me.