Nocturnal

by Scott Sigler

  John watched Bryan take the pen, look at it, and smile. It wasn’t a healthy smile.

  “Time to go,” Bryan said. “John, you’re in the car with us.”

  Bryan opened the back door. “Aggie, in the middle. We need to talk on the way there.”

  Aggie got in, followed by Bryan. Alder climbed in the other side, leaving John the front passenger seat. John looked at his Harley and wondered again if he should just get on it and get the hell out of here. His apartment was ten minutes away. He’d spent six years afraid of his own shadow, and now Bryan wanted him to go into tunnels and shoot monsters?

  John wanted to leave, but he couldn’t — not if they had Pookie.

  He got in the car and shut the door.

  Bryan sat in the back, drenched in shadow. He took off his hat, opened the pen, then started to draw something on the mask. “Aggie, while we drive, you tell me everything you can about what happened to you in those tunnels, about everything you saw. Adam, get us to the Civic Center station, fast.”

  The Magnum’s big engine growled as the station wagon rolled out of the Walgreens parking lot.

  The Crown

  Blindfolded and bound, hanging from a pole like a butchered pig, Pookie bounced in time with the steps of his captors. His wrists and ankles hurt from too-tight ropes, from his own weight pulling against his bones. He lost track of how long they carried him — fifteen minutes? thirty? — through tunnels so narrow he felt dirt walls scraping against his left and right sides at the same time. At one point, they had set him down and dragged him through an area so tight Pookie felt the earth pressing into his back and face as well.

  Finally, the echoing noise of a crowd and a sensation of openness told him he’d entered a much larger area. Was this where he would die? Would it be quick?

  Hands lifted him to a standing position. The knots around his wrists and ankles were cut free, but those same hands — strong hands — held him so tight he couldn’t even try to escape. New ropes wrapped around his chest, his stomach, his legs. The ropes pulled him tight against a thick pole at his back, but at least he stood on his own feet again.

  The blindfold came off. Pookie blinked as his eyes adjusted to the lights. He was in a wide cavern. About thirty feet up, a ledge lined the wall like the deck of a football stadium, a ledge lined with …

  Mary mother of God …

  People and monsters, hundreds of them, stood up there, looking down at Pookie and the others.

  On his left, tied to vertical poles, he saw Rich Verde, Mr. Biz-Nass, Sean Robertson and Baldwin Metz. On his right, Jesse Sharrow, Chief Zou and then her two little girls.

  Pookie pulled at his ropes, but his body didn’t budge. What was he standing on? Broken wood? He craned his neck, trying to take everything in. It looked like he was on the deck of a shipwreck. He faced the broken prow. If this was an old ship, which was impossible, the pilothouse would be somewhere behind him.

  Only fifteen feet away, a mast rose up from the deck — a mast covered with human skulls. Thirty feet up, a wooden pole crossed that mast making a big T. And there, still dressed in a hospital gown, hung a crucified Jebediah Erickson. Spikes driven through torn flesh held his bloody hands to the wood, pinned his bloody feet to the mast. The old man was awake — he was obviously in great pain, but he also looked pissed as hell. He tried to shout something, but the gag in his mouth kept him from forming words. On his left and right, lights clustered each end of the T — flaming torches as well as the mismatched electric rigs you’d see on a construction site.

  The crowd started to cheer. Someone walked past Pookie’s left, between him and Rich Verde. It was the boy, Rex Deprovdechuk, dressed in a red velvet cape … was he wearing a crown? He was, a crown of twisted iron and polished steel.

  Jesus, deliver me from this evil.

  Rex looked up to the crowd on the ledge. He spread his arms outward like a stage performer, turned left, then right, so they could all see him. The crowd screamed for him — some screams sounded human, some didn’t, but they all resonated with righteous rage.

  Something sniffed at Pookie’s right ear. He tried to flinch away, but he could barely move. He turned … he was only inches from the yellow-eyed gaze of the snake-face.

  “Clean,” the snake said quietly. “We don’t get that often, but things are changing.”

  Out front, Rex raised both hands high, then dropped them. The audience fell silent. When he spoke, his adolescent voice echoed off the cavern’s walls and ceiling.

  “For centuries they have hunted us,” the boy said. “And this one” — he pointed up at Erickson — “has killed more of us than any other. Firstborn could not deliver him to you, but I have!”

  The crowd roared again. Hundreds of monstrous creatures shook their fists. They screamed, some even jumped up and down like a revival meeting.

  The boy raised and dropped his hands again, cutting off the cheers, commanding everyone’s attention. His diminutive size didn’t seem to matter; he had an aura about him, the charisma of a born leader. Pookie couldn’t look away.

  “Soon we will pass judgment on the monster,” Rex said. “But first, we have criminals to put on trial!”

  Rex turned to look at Pookie and the others, and for the first time Pookie saw the madness in the boy’s eyes — Rex was psychotic, drunk with power, smiling a madman’s smile. If there had ever been a normal boy inside Rex Deprovdechuk’s body, that boy was gone.

  Rex pointed. Pookie shuddered, thought Rex was pointing at him, but Rex was pointing to Pookie’s right.

  At white-haired Jesse Sharrow, his blue uniform streaked with tunnel dirt.

  “Bring him forward,” Rex said. “Let the trials begin!”

  Civic Center

  Aggie had changed his mind. There was a God, and whatever God was, it hated Aggie James.

  The Magnum pulled into the parking lot of Trinity Place at Market and Eighth. The psycho cop on his left finished his drawing and dropped his pen on the floor. He held up his black mask, examining his handiwork.

  Aggie stared at the design. What did I ever do to deserve this?

  “You ain’t much of an artist,” Aggie said.

  Clauser nodded. “I’m not looking for fans.”

  The mask had already been disturbing enough. With the paint pen, the crazy cop had added a childish, skull-smile line drawing that glowed an electric white against the flat black fabric.

  And this man, this scary-ass Bryan Clauser, was going to force Aggie back into the tunnels.

  If going in meant there was a chance Aggie could get his baby back, he had to take it. He had a plan — he just had to wait for the right moment, have a giant set of balls, and hope to finally get some luck to fall his way.

  The cop set the skullcap-mask in his lap. “Everyone, listen up,” he said. “The entrance to the Civic Center station is right behind us, on the sidewalk. At this hour, the station is probably closed so we shouldn’t run into anyone. We walk out of the car and head straight down. There’s cameras all over and we can’t get them all, so ignore them and just descend. If there are any BART cops, I’ll handle them. We move fast, we’ll be down there in twenty seconds and into the main tunnel before anyone can react. Muni trains have stopped running this late, so Aggie will lead us right off the platform and into the tunnel. Right, Aggie?”

  Aggie nodded.

  “Good,” Clauser said. “Everyone does what I say, when I say it. Hoods up, tuck your weapons in, and let’s go.”

  “Wait,” Aggie said. “I need one more thing.”

  The cop stared at him with those cold eyes. He put the black skullcap on, then lowered the mask. The white skull smile grinned.

  “You already asked for one more thing, Aggie. What do you want?”

  Time for the giant set of balls; it was now or never.

  “A badge,” Aggie said. “I know we’re going to fight monsters and all that, but cops are gonna show up and I already got two strikes. If you all get killed, I need enough bul
lshit to get away.”

  The skull-smile shook his head. “No way.”

  “Then I ain’t going.” Aggie crossed his arms and gave his best hard stare. He’d never been much of a poker player, but now everything was on the line.

  Bryan Clauser stared back. Angry green eyes glared through slits. The skull-smile grinned. “Fuck it,” he said. “Not like I’m going to need this thing anymore.”

  He reached into a pocket and handed over his badge. Aggie took it, amazed that his bluff had worked. Now all he had to do was stay alive just a little bit longer.

  “Time to go,” Clauser said. “Everyone follow me. If you fall behind, you’re on your own. Aggie, you stay with me, and don’t try anything.”

  Doors opened. Out of the black station wagon stepped two men in hooded cloaks, two men in black peacoats and black masks, and a scared-shitless black man with a gun and a badge. They crossed the dark parking lot to the brick sidewalk, then to the U-shaped concrete wall surrounding the escalator down to the subway.

  Terror tried to tangle Aggie’s feet. He felt like his head might explode, like he might go crazy at any moment.

  He was going back down … maybe he was already insane.

  Aggie kept moving for one thing and one thing only: for the baby.

  Clauser went down first.

  Everyone else followed.

  Innocent Until Proven Guilty

  The biggest man Pookie had ever seen held Jessie Sharrow tight, only it wasn’t a man, it was two men, one with a professional wrestler’s size and a tiny head, the other with a withered body, a huge head, and a tail wrapped around the bigger one’s thick neck.

  A bunch of monsters stood on the shipwreck’s prow. The snake-face; Tiffany Hines’s dog-face, who wore a too-small tuxedo jacket and orange Bermuda shorts; a black-haired girl with a pair of chain whips curled on her hips; a tall, black-furred, cat-faced man wearing jeans and a black-fur cape; the wrinkled old babushka lady; and a little guy with wire-rim glasses and an obscenely distended belly who kept flicking a gold Zippo lighter. These creatures, along with the two-men-in-one, seemed to have some privileged standing with Rex.

  Rex stood on the prow’s farthest point, arms again raised to address the audience. “You have heard the arguments. Now, we must pass judgment.”

  There hadn’t been any arguments, just a long list of accusations against Sharrow — accusations like aiding and abetting murderers, conspiring to kill people, being a bully, and hating on us like a dick. They were the accusations of an awkward teenage boy who suddenly had all the power in the world.

  Rex raised his left fist, his thumb pointed in parallel to the ground.

  The crowd roared guilty! guilty!

  Jesus … the kid thought he was a Roman emperor or something, and this was his coliseum. Rex turned slowly, letting everyone see his fist, his thumb. He gazed up at his people, his eyes wide with murder, his upper lip curled and his teeth gleaming in the lights of the ship’s skull-encrusted mast.

  Guilty! Guilty!

  Rex lifted up on his toes, then pointed his thumb down.

  “Sir Voh,” he said. “Carry out the execution.”

  Pookie shook his head in denial, pulled at the ropes, wished for a miracle.

  The big one lifted Sharrow and set him down on the deck. A sprawling right hand the size of Pookie’s chest pressed down on Sharrow’s stomach, holding the police captain in place. Sharrow’s blue uniform — which had always been so clean and perfectly creased — was covered with dirt from the long haul to the ship.

  “Please,” Sharrow said. “Please!”

  The little one crawled higher to perch on the top of the big one’s head. Tail still wrapped around the big one’s neck, he stood on emaciated, spindly legs. He looked down at Sharrow. “For the king. Fort, finish him.”

  The big man raised his left hand to the sky and made a fist.

  Guilty! Guilty!

  “No!” Sharrow grabbed at the hand on his stomach, he punched, he scratched, he even lifted his head to bite but his mouth wouldn’t reach.

  The fist slammed down onto Sharrow’s chest, crushing him like a fluid-filled lightbulb. Blood sprayed out of his mouth, the droplets arcing high into the air to fall on the deck, the dirt, and on Sharrow himself. His legs and arms spasmed briefly, then fell limp.

  The monster stood. Sharrow’s bloody chest had been smashed flat. He didn’t move, didn’t twitch — he was just gone.

  Rex pointed at the corpse. “Remove the criminal!”

  White-robed men scrambled out from somewhere behind Pookie. Four of them lifted the shattered body, which flopped in the middle as if the chest were the broken spine of an old blue book. As the masked men carried the body past Pookie to somewhere behind, Pookie closed his eyes.

  Jesus save me from this madness.

  “Him!”

  Rex’s voice again. Pookie couldn’t look — was Rex pointing his way? Would he be the next one to face the boy’s judgment?

  “No, leave me alone!”

  The voice of Dr. Metz.

  Pookie opened his eyes to see the white-robed men dragging the silver-haired medical examiner up to the prow. Rex was watching, nodding, smiling wide with a closed-jaw grin.

  “Bring that bully here,” Rex said. “Let the next trial begin!”

  Can’t You Smell That Smell?

  It was four in the morning and the Muni station was empty. The only obstacle had been a pull-down gate, which Bryan had attacked with his gloved hands, bending and twisting and snapping until he and the others could slip through. From there, they’d hopped turnstiles and headed down unmoving escalators. Even Alder made good time, fast-hobbling on his cane.

  The Muni platform spread out in front of them, a long, empty, light-colored floor with deep, blackish tracks below on either side, tracks that led into shadowy tunnels. Aggie led them off the platform and onto the tracks. Adam pointed out the third rail, told everyone it had nine hundred volts, four thousand amps, and to steer clear.

  Bryan wasn’t sure if Aggie would make it. The man was literally shaking. On the drive here, Aggie had told his story of a white dungeon, of masked men, of an old shipwreck buried deep underground and a bloated nightmare known as Mommy. With all Bryan had seen and experienced in the last few days, he had no reason to doubt Aggie’s story. There was no question that Aggie believed every word of it — you couldn’t fake that kind of fear.

  This had to work. He had to find these things, find the one with the chain-whips, find Pookie.

  They walked through the tunnel, along a narrow ledge that paralleled the rails. Flashlights played off grimy white-tiled walls and cinder-filled tracks. They didn’t have long before the station opened again for morning trains. Bryan led, followed by Aggie and the others. John Smith brought up the rear.

  Only five minutes into the tunnel, Aggie tapped Bryan on the shoulder.

  Bryan turned. “Is this it?”

  Aggie’s hands shook, making his flashlight beam jitter on the white tiles. “I don’t know, man. I think I walked about this far. I can’t really remember.”

  “You better,” Bryan said, “and fast.” Aggie looked up the tunnel, down the tunnel. He looked at the walls, searching for something.

  That scent …

  Had Bryan imagined it? He breathed deep through his nose … there it was again, the smell that made him want to do something, made him want to protect.

  He put a hand on the tile wall, then knelt on one knee. He looked left, sniffed, paused, looked right, sniffed.

  Stronger to the right.

  He stood and gently pushed Aggie behind him, then walked on. Yes, stronger.

  Footsteps behind him.

  “Yo, pig,” Adam said. “What is it?”

  Bryan sniffed deep, kept walking. “Aggie brought a baby out of here last night. I think I can smell it.”

  The odor grew stronger as he walked. This same exact scent had made him dizzy in the hospital. Bryan felt his hunter’s excitement buildin
g. The smell started to fade, just a little, but he could tell it was weaker. He turned and retraced his steps. The scent again grew in intensity — when it was at its peak, he stopped.

  He knelt … stronger still the lower he got. Bryan dropped to his hand and knees, bent his head and sniffed where the tiled wall met the narrow walkway.

  Strongest of all.

  He looked up at Aggie. “Is this it?”

  “Maybe,” Aggie said. “I just don’t know.”

  Bryan stood. He raised a foot.

  Aggie grabbed his shoulder. “Wait! There’s like pillars and stuff right behind there. It’s booby-trapped to collapse. Be careful.”

  Bryan lowered his foot. He tapped on the tile wall with his knuckles. It sounded hollow. He reached to the right, knocked there to test the sound — solid, like a tile wall should be.

  “Give me some light.”

  Flashlight beams danced, reflecting off the dirty hexagonal tiles. Bryan leaned in. Right there … was that a darker line of mortar? He drew his knife and slid the point along the line … the blade slipped through. He angled the blade down and pried. A thin, black gap rewarded the effort.

  “Shine it in here.”

  Adam pointed his flashlight into the gap. Bryan saw bits of a tunnel beyond. He slid his fingers into the gap. “Everyone look out,” he said, and then he yanked. The fake wall split down the middle, shreds of plywood and bits of tile flying onto the tracks.

  Four flashlights played into the narrow tunnel. Inside, Bryan saw a line of hodge-podge brick-and-masonry pillars extending off into the distance.

  “That’s it,” Aggie said.

  Bryan didn’t need the confirmation, because he could smell that this was it. He leaned down until his nose touched the ground. Here.

  Aggie leaned in. “That’s where I set him down. Go in and you’ll see footsteps in the dirt, follow them real careful.”

  Bryan stood. He took a flashlight from Adam, then entered the tunnel. He played the beam across the ceiling, the walls, the floor. He saw the footsteps Aggie described.