“So it must have known that it would be needed too.”
“So it seems. But there were other occurrences back in that first year, a cluster of hideously deformed children born in November and early December. No one could explain it then, but now I can see that they all must have been conceived around the same time as Rasalom. His very presence in town must have mutated them in embryo.”
Jack nodded. He’d heard about that cluster of deformities and, to his regret, had even met some of them.
“That must have been the ‘burst of Otherness’ I mentioned.”
“Seems likely.” Bill shook his head. “Those deformed children … major tragedies for the families involved but merely warnings of what was to come.”
Jack mulled that as Bill guided him through the town, past the high school where he’d been a football star, past the new house built on the site of his family home, burned to the ground, killing both of his elderly parents.
“I’m sure Rasalom was responsible for that too,” he said in a low voice, thick with emotion. He ground a fist into his palm. “So many others—friends, acquaintances, children! My folks, Jim, Lisl, Renny, Nick, and Danny—dear God, Danny! Damn, I’ve got scores to settle!”
Jack put a hand on Bill’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“We’ll get the bastard. We’ll make him pay.”
Sure we will.
“Meanwhile, let me show you something—if I can find it.”
It took Jack ten minutes of scouting before he recognized the street. He turned onto it and found the vacant lot.
“Two years ago, one of those holes opened here—but only for a few minutes.”
Bill rolled down his window and stared. “Wasn’t that—? Yes! That used to be the old Rubin place. But where’s the house? And I seem to remember a big oak.”
“House and most of the tree—down the hole.”
Bill turned to Jack, eyes wide. “The disappearing house! I remember hearing about it but thought it was a Weekly World News story or something along those lines. I never dreamed it happened in Monroe.” He stared out the window again. “The Rubin place … I can’t believe it. But how did you—?”
Jack put the car in gear. “Long story. But we’ve got time.”
Jack told it as they wandered around Monroe. The town—village—seemed all but deserted. No bodies lay about. No bodies anywhere. Probably because unlike the bugs, which merely sucked the juices from their victims, the newer, bigger hole-things devoured their kills. Occasionally Jack spotted fearful faces peering at them from darkened rooms through shattered windows. As they cruised the main drag through the remnants of the downtown harbor-front area, a gang of lupine scavengers began to approach the car.
Bill lifted one of the Spas-12s.
Jack looked at him. “You know how to work that thing?”
“It’s not rocket science, and I almost hope they try something.” He spoke through thin, tight lips. “I’m feeling real mean at the moment.”
At sight of the shotgun they lost interest and trotted away.
Jack stared at him. “Even you.”
“What?”
“It’s getting to you. Even you’re starting to feel the effects of this craziness.”
“And you’re not?”
“Nah. I’ve made my living waiting for guys like that to start something. You’re just beginning to window-shop in the neighborhood where I’ve spent my adult life.”
Abe’s Place
“Like a rifle it’s not. Not like a pistol even. Those you must caress, treat gently. A shotgun is a brute that throws not single well-aimed punches, but flurries.”
She thought of her father and his hunting shotguns, but they were nothing compared to this. The barrels were longer and smaller gauge. She prayed he and mom were all right.
Focus, she told herself.
She couldn’t help them, but she could do everything in her power to protect Vicky. And if that meant learning to shoot …
Gia tried to relax but found it impossible. The surprising weight of the weapon in her hands, the evidence of its destructive power—she was looking at the holes Abe had blown in the barn wall—had her insides coiled into tight little knots.
And now it was her turn to pull the trigger.
She and Abe stood side by side in the ravaged barn, three feet or so from its north wall. Vicky watched from a good twenty feet behind them.
“Okay,” Abe said. “In your hands you hold a fine weapon: a twelve-gauge Benelli M1 Super 90 semiautomatic shotgun. Jack has used one on occasion.”
Gia didn’t ask what occasion.
“Its magazine holds seven rounds. With one in the chamber, you’ve got eight shots. We have two of these—one for you and one for me—and lots and lots of double-ought and hardball shells, so don’t worry about saving ammo.”
“Don’t I have to pump something?” In the movies they always seemed to pump the barrel between shots.
“Like I said, it’s semiauto. You just pull the trigger when you need to, and if you feel another shot is called for, you pull the trigger again.”
“What happens when I run out?”
“I’ll show you how to reload later. First we get you comfortable pulling the trigger. Ready?”
No, but she nodded anyway.
“Okay. That hole in the wall there is the worm’s mouth. You do what I did last night: Jam the barrel in there and pull the trigger. Pull it twice. I’ve got you loaded with alternating shot and hardball shells. Give it one of each. That seemed to be enough to back it up last night. Got it? Barrel in, two quick shots, then back up and see if it needs more.”
Gia nodded. “Got it.”
“I’ll get your earmuffs on, then go to it. And remember to be ready for the recoil.”
The ear protectors looked like oversize plastic headphones. Abe adjusted a pair on Gia’s head, then his own, then he turned and signaled Vicky to hold her ears.
When he nodded the go-ahead, Gia swallowed. God, how guns scared her. But those burrowers scared her more.
She poked the muzzle into the hole, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger.
—and almost wound up on her butt from the recoil.
Abe had warned her but she hadn’t appreciated how strong it would be. She saw him urging her forward, so she rammed the barrel back into the hole and fired again. This time she was ready and held the weapon steady during discharge.
Abe was smiling and she knew she was grinning too. She’d done it, and damn if it hadn’t felt good.
Abe was motioning toward the hole and she faintly heard him shouting, “It’s another one! Get it! Get it!”
And got it she did.
They ran the scenario twice more and she blew away two more imaginary worms.
Yes!
Then she saw Abe reaching for the shotgun. Was he kidding? She pulled her Benelli out of reach.
Yes, suddenly it was her Benelli. She loved it. She thought of that bumper sticker she’d always snickered at: You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead hands. Now she thought she understood.
Abe looked puzzled as his lips moved. She removed her ear wear.
“It’s got to be reloaded,” he said.
“I’ll reload it. Show me.”
“All right already, but—”
He reached again but she wouldn’t give it up. She liked the way it made her feel. She had power. She wouldn’t be helpless against those things. When they came for her and Vicky, she could strike back and drive them off.
She didn’t want ever to let go of her Benelli. At least not until this was over, one way or another.
The Horror Channel’s Drive-In Theatre—Special All-Day Edition
And Soon the Darkness (1970) Levitt/Rickman
When Time Ran Out (1980) Warner Brothers
Nothing but the Night (1972) Cinema Systems
Doomed to Die (1940) Monogram
Night Must Fall (1937) MGM
The Dark (197
9) Film Ventures
Dark Star (1972) Bryanston
Dead of Night (1946) Universal
Fade to Black (1980) Compass International
Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark (1973) TV
Night World (1932) Universal
Abe’s Place
She stood with Abe and Vicky on the stone outcropping and stared at the hole in the valley below. Her arms ached from the repeated recoil of the practice, but she was comfortable with the Benelli now, and could reload almost as fast as Abe.
In the fading light she could make out scores of mounds radiating from the hole. But the ones that had started off in the other direction had curved around and were now pointed toward them.
“They must have sent out a signal,” Abe muttered. “They all know we’re here.”
Gia shivered. That meant even more of them gnawing at the bunker tonight. She prayed whatever Jack was involved in would work.
And soon.
Monroe, Long Island
By 2:30 they were back at Haskins’s place. The fire was still burning in the forge in the back, though not as brightly as before. The clang of metal upon metal filled the air.
“You’re early,” Haskins said at the door, still not inviting them in.
“We know,” Bill said, “but the dark’s coming and we want to get moving as soon as we can.”
“Can’t say as I blame you. Just as well you did show up. They’re almost done. Wait in the car and I’ll bring it out to you.”
Jack hesitated asking, then figured, what the hell. “You wouldn’t happen to have a shortwave, would you?”
“What fer? Don’t know nobody anywheres.”
“I do,” Jack said.
He led the way back to the car. Bill got inside and began fiddling with the radio, trying to find a broadcast of any sort. Jack paced in front, his gut twisting steadily tighter as the gray sky faded toward black.
“Listen,” Bill said, sticking his head out the window. “The clanging’s stopped.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Jack said. “Too late. We’re not going to make it back. Even if we had a goddamn plane we couldn’t make it back in one piece.”
The storm door slammed then, and out came old George Haskins lugging two blanket-wrapped objects in his arms like sick children.
“There you go,” he said, dumping them into Jack’s waiting hands.
One bundle was square and bulky, the other long and slim. And they were heavy. Bill took the smaller one and together they placed them on the backseat, then Jack was diving for the steering wheel.
“It’s been great talking to you, George, but we’ve gotta run.”
“Good luck, boys,” Haskins said, heading back to his front door. “I don’t know what this all means, but I sure hope it works out.”
The rear wheels kicked gravel as Jack accelerated down the road. He glanced at the rearview mirror and saw Haskins standing on the stoop, watching them go. He couldn’t be sure in the dim light but he thought he saw a group of knee-high figures clustered around him. Then Haskins waved—they all waved.
Blinking his eyes to clear them, Jack concentrated on the road.
Somewhere beyond the mists that masked the sky, the sun was setting for the last time.
“We’re not going to make it,” he said. “No way we can get back alive.”
“We’ve got to give it our best shot. We don’t have any other options that I can see.”
“Oh, we’ll give it a shot, Billy boy. One hell of a shot.”
But we’re not going to make it.
He wished again that he hadn’t sent Gia and Vicky off with Abe. He needed to see them again, hold them in his arms—one last time before the end.
WFPW-FM
JO: This is it, folks. It’s 3:01 in the afternoon. Supposedly the last sunset, man. If Sapir’s curve is right, the last time we’ll ever see daylight.
FREDDY: Yeah. Nobody’s offered us any hope, so we can’t pass any on to you. We wish we could, but—
JO: And don’t ask us why we’re here because we don’t know ourselves. Maybe ’cause it’s the only thing we know how to do.
FREDDY: Whatever, we’ll keep on doing it as long as the generators hold out, so keep us on as long as you’ve got batteries to spare. If we hear anything we’ll let you know. And if you hear anything, call us on the CB and we’ll pass it on.
JO: Any way you look at it, it’s gonna be a long night.
PART THREE
NIGHT
Aaaahh! NIGHT. Endless night. Everlasting darkness.
Rasalom turns within his fluid-filled chrysalis and revels in the fresh waves of panic seeping through from the nightworld above. Darkness reigns. His dominion is established beyond all doubt. A fait accompli.
Except for one flaw, one minuscule spot of hope—Glaeken’s building. But that is a calculated flaw. That too will fade once its residents realize that all their puny efforts to reassemble the weapon are for naught. It is too late—too late for anything. The juices from those crushed hopes will be SWEET.
All Rasalom need do now is await the completion of the Change at the undawn tomorrow, then break free from this shell to lay claim to this world.
His world.
And he is nearly there. He feels the final strands of the metamorphosis drawing tight around and through him. And when it is done, he will rise to the surface and allow Glaeken to gaze on the new Rasalom, to shrink in awe and fear from his magnificence before the life is slowly crushed from his body.
Soon now.
Very soon.
END PLAY
Manhattan
“Where can they be?”
Carol knew she was being a pest, that no one in the room—neither Sylvia, nor Jeffy, nor Ba, nor Nick, not even Glaeken himself—could answer the question she’d repeated at least two dozen times in the past hour, but she couldn’t help herself.
“I know I’m not supposed to be afraid, I know that’s what Rasalom wants, but I can’t help it. I’m scared to death something’s happened to Bill. And Jack.”
“That’s not fear,” Glaeken said. “That’s concern. There’s an enormous difference. The fear that Rasalom thrives on is the dread, the panic, the terror, the fear for one’s self that paralyzes you, makes you hate and distrust everyone around you, that forces you either to lash out at whoever is within reach or to crawl into a hole and huddle alone and miserable in the dark. The fear that cuts you off from hope and from each other, that’s what he savors. This isn’t fear you’re feeling, Carol. It’s anxiety, and it springs from love.”
Carol nodded. That was all fine and good …
“But where are they?”
“They’re gone,” Nick said.
Carol’s stomach plummeted as she turned toward him. Glaeken, too, was staring at him.
Nick hadn’t answered her all the other times she’d asked the same question. Why now?
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“They’re gone,” he repeated, his voice quavering. “They’re not out there. Father Bill and the other one—they’ve disappeared.”
Carol watched in horror as a tear slid down Nick’s cheek. She turned to Glaeken.
“What does he mean?”
“He’s wrong,” Glaeken said, but his eyes did not hold the conviction of his words. “He has to be.”
“But he sees things we don’t. And he hasn’t been wrong yet. Oh, God!”
She began to sob. She couldn’t help it. Lying in Bill’s arms last night had been the first time since Jim’s death that she had felt like a complete, fully functioning human being. She couldn’t bear to lose him now.
Or was this part of a plan?
She swallowed her sobs and wiped away her tears.
“Is this another of Rasalom’s games? Feed us a little hope, let us taste a little happiness, make us ache for a future and then crush us by snatching it all away?”
Glaeken nodded. “That is certainly his style.”
“No!” she screamed.
“No,” she said again, in a lower voice. “He’s not getting anything from me. I won’t be afraid, I won’t lose hope, I won’t give up.”
She went to the huge curved sofa, picked up a magazine, and sat down to read it. But she couldn’t see the trembling page through her freshly welling tears.
The Horror Channel
“Got to be those things in the backseat,” Jack said in a hushed voice.
Bill said nothing. He held his breath and leaned away from the passenger-side window as countless tentacles brushed across its surface.
Hurry up!
A giant, tentacled slug blocked their way on Broadway as it squeezed into 47th Street. He mentally urged it to keep moving and get out of their way.
“This happened to me once before,” Jack went on. “With the rakoshi. As long as I was wearing one of the necklaces, they couldn’t see me. One or both of those things Haskins gave us was made from the necklaces. This has got to be the same kind of effect. I mean, look at that slug. It’s ignoring us like we don’t even exist.”
The whole trip had been like a dream, an interminable nightmare. The horrors from the holes had taken over—completely. Their movements had lost the frantic urgency of all past nights. Now they were more deliberate, no longer an invading army, but more like an occupying force.
The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack) Page 228