The Night Killers

by Senese, Rebecca M.

“I would love to stay but Josh and I have some appointments.”

  Josh stood up from the table and tucked the chair back into place. “I wish we could skip it, ma’m.”

  “I can just imagine your appointment,” Gran said. Humor danced in her eyes. “Best you be getting on with it.”

  Sister Theresa glanced in Sami’s direction but Sami gave a slight head shake. This was for Rick and Josh. The purse of the Sister’s lips conveyed her understanding.

  Gran ushered Rick and Josh toward the door. “Now don’t be getting up to too much mischief. I can’t be bailing out your sorry selves.”

  “I would never ask you to do that, Mae,” Rick said. He bent to kiss her cheek. She gave him a hug, then Josh.

  They stepped through the doorway. Sami saw Rick glance back one last time as the door slid shut. As Gran turned back, Sami forced cheerfulness into her voice.

  “So how about some dessert?”

  * * * *

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” Josh’s hand tightened around the glass in front of him.

  Rick shook his head and sipped his beer. “The Council is thinking about cutting out the squad patrols. They’re looking for any excuse.”

  “Any excuse to commit suicide.” Josh lifted the glass and took a gulp of amber liquid. “So is that what we’re doing here?”

  They sat in the Vampire’s Tooth, one of the squad bars. Low lighting hid most people’s faces and most of the stains on the tables and worn carpeting. The drinks were cheap but watered down. Sheer proximity to the squad barracks kept the place in business.

  Across the room, Rick could see several members of other squads sitting and drinking. Over by the door, three members of Scourge of Heaven leaned forward over pints of beer, murmuring. At the bar, four women from Isis’ Furies sat tossing back shooters. In the back, several members from some of the other, smaller squads mingled and talked. All seemed subdued. Even the music normally blaring from the speakers had a hushed quality.

  Rick and Josh had been sitting for half an hour. Not one fight had broken out since they arrived; that had to be some kind of record. Normally they would have been swamped by other squad members for news of the situation outside but no one had come near them.

  Time to shake it up, Rick thought. He swallowed the last gulp of his beer and stood.

  “I’ll get the next round,” he said. “You wait here.”

  Josh nodded, swirling the last of his scotch in his glass.

  Rick carried the beer glass to the bar and set it down, adding one more ring to the stained surface. The bartender moved forward, picked up the glass and wiped a rag over the bar.

  “Another round for my friend and I,” Rick said. The bartender nodded and turned to get the drinks.

  Two seats over the ladies from Isis’ Furies huddled over their shooters. Rick leaned over the bar.

  “And a round for the ladies.”

  The bartender nodded.

  One of the ladies glanced over, then looked away quickly. Definitely not the norm. He waited a moment then slipped closer.

  Three of the ladies huddled closer, more determined to ignore him as the bartender added another set of shooters to the glasses in front of them. The fourth woman, a petit brunette, half turned toward Rick as she picked up her glass. She raised it to her lips almost in a salute and slugged it back. She set the glass back on the bar then nodded at Rick.

  He took the opening. “Awful quiet in here tonight.”

  Several of the ladies flinched, took a shuffling step away. The brunette stood her ground and turned fully toward him.

  “Been like this a while,” she said. “You been out?”

  “Just got back early today. Rick Collins, The Night Killers.”

  She hesitated then shook his outstretched hand. “Marissa Hawkins, Isis’ Furies. Not much of a welcome home for you.”

  Rick shrugged. “Guess no one’s in the mood for a party. What’s got everyone’s guns twisted?”

  The crux of the matter. Marissa half turned away. Her fingers toyed with one of the empty glasses on the bar. The bartender set the beer and scotch in front of Rick who pulled out his credit tab and handed it over. During the pause, Marissa seemed to come to some decision.

  “There’re problems in the Council. Rumors that they’re shutting the outside patrols down. Disbanding the squads.”

  Rick shook his head. “Crazy.”

  “You said it, brother. What do those idiots know? Sitting in their comfy offices while we put our butts on the line. It uses too much resources to stock us. We give the vampires fresh kills. All the usual bullshit. No imagination.”

  She signaled the bartender for another drink.

  Rick took a sip of his beer. “The USC will fight it. This nonsense will blow over.”

  A harsh, braying laugh erupted from Marissa’s lips. “The USC? You have been out a long time. If they were giving us support do you think this place would feel like this?” She swept an arm back, taking in the rest of the room.

  The beer curdled in Rick’s stomach. Mitchell had expressed support for the squads but what if others in the USC didn’t feel the same way? What if Mitchell himself were just spouting the words Rick wanted to hear? He’d been through minor upheavals in the past between the USC and the Council but this was something else again.

  “Thanks for the head’s up,” he said. He picked up the scotch and his beer.

  Marissa turned to him. “We have to look after our own. I heard some of the other squads are thinking about making a run to one of the other domes. If you’re interested in hearing more, take this.”

  She handed him a data bead then turned her back as her drink arrived.

  Rick slipped the bead into his pocket and returned with the drinks to the table. Josh pushed his empty glass aside and picked up the fresh one Rick set down. He raised it to his lips.

  “What’s the word?” The glass hid his mouth from any prying glance.

  “The word is not good.” Rick sat and took a pull from his beer. It went down like lead. Maybe he should switch to death blasters.

  “Same rumors about the Council with an additional twist. The USC wants to shut us down as well.”

  Josh choked on his drink. He coughed and thumped his chest. With a head shake, the attack passed. He wiped tears from his watering eyes.

  “The USC?”

  Rick nodded. “The perfect end to a perfect week.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Light leaked in through the doorway, turning the insides of his eyelids red. Peter stirred. Was it morning already? He didn’t want to get up and go to school. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and turned his face into the pillow. Still light leaked in. His head ached. Maybe Mom would let him stay home because he didn’t feel well.

  Stay home with her snarling mouth…

  Peter’s eyes popped open. His gaze swept across the dim room. Empty. Grey metallic walls. Floor of steel sheeting. Ceiling of the same steel sheeting. Not his room at home.

  He took a deep breath and felt his racing heart slow down. It’s okay. Okay. After a moment, he tried to sit up.

  Bad idea. His head began pounding immediately, pain lacing across his temples and down the back of his skull. He lay back down and closed his eyes. A psychic hangover, he hadn’t had one of those for years. What had he been doing? He tried to remember. Vague images floated across his mind. Dark hallways, a dust filled office, disjointed holo displays, the laboratory. A woman’s face rose up and he remembered Lucy. Her image solidified and memories began to form, anchored by her face. His old home drifted away, taking with it thoughts of school and his mother’s snarling mouth. He pushed them back into the tiny corner of his mind where he kept them locked away.

  The headache lessened. He contemplated sitting up again. Where was Lucy? What had happened? An image of the lab rose up. They had been talking in the lab, he remembered that much, then pain. From what? He concentrated but his temples throbbed, making him wince. Relax, breathe deeply. Trying to force i
t was the worst thing for a psychic hangover, he remembered that from training. He focused on breathing, expanding his diaphragm, keeping his heart rate steady and smooth. The vice grip on his temples lessened. His neck loosened. The pressure on his scalp decreased.

  He let his mind drift, guiding it back to the lab. Lucy perched on her chair, peering at a microscope. Her brow tensing, a scowl building on her face. He remembered hostility radiating off her in waves, too strong for him to protect himself against. Then darkness.

  She’d been angry about something, he couldn’t remember what. He struggled to sit up. His head tightened, threatened more pain but he took a few deep breaths and leaned back against the headboard. Every movement was a small victory, lessening the psychic hangover by working through it.

  He wished he could remember specifically what she’d been angry about but that’s how it was with psychic hangovers. Slight amnesia was a normal byproduct. Eventually his memory would return. He just had to relax and let it come on its own.

  For now he needed to eat. A few more minutes of breathing exercises allowed him to stand. Another deep breath and he could cross the room to the door. He paused. No way around facing that light in the hallway. He was going to have to do it. He took one more deep breath, held it and opened the door.

  Light flooded the doorway. He squeezed his eyes shut. His temples tightened, a pounding throbbed across the top of his skull. He let his breath out slowly, took another deep lungful as he stepped into the hallway. His right hand reached out, touched the wall. His fingers followed the rough surface along the right in the direction of the kitchen. He kept his eyes closed but still red burned inside his eyelids. The pain squeezed around the sides of his head like tentacles questing for the weak spots. The muscles in his legs trembled as he moved forward. His stomach growled from hunger and upset. The psychic hangover short-circuited everything and it would overwhelm him again if he didn’t get something to eat fast. But he couldn’t go faster without opening his eyes and doing that would intensify the pain.

  Only five doors to the kitchen, he recalled. He could get that far before having to open his eyes and delay the increasing pain for just that much longer so he could get there and eat before it overwhelmed him.

  His fingers hit a doorway, then empty air. He moved forward, groping blindly. After a moment, his fingers stubbed into the other side of the doorway. His knuckle scraped, the skin stung, then the wall continued. Four more doorways to go. Hopefully he would have skin left on his knuckles.

  His legs grew steadier as he moved along. After the second doorway, he was able to gauge how wide they were so avoided stubbing his hand again. At the fifth doorway, he turned into it and paused. He was going to have to open his eyes. He braced himself against the doorway.

  Opening his eyes a crack still allowed light into his eyes. Pain slammed into his head. He shuddered. His eyes watered, blurring the image of the kitchen. He stumbled forward, caught himself on a counter. The pain clutched his scalp and radiated down his shoulders. His stomach twisted in sympathy. Food, now!

  He reached for the refrigerator, yanked the door open. His questing fingers closed on an apple. He lunged at it. His mouth snapped, teeth ripping deep into the apple skin. Sweet juice flooded his mouth, dribbled down his chin. He barely chewed before swallowing and taking another bite. The apple was gone in moments. The knot in his stomach loosened. He reached for another.

  For almost fifteen minutes, he knelt in front of the refrigerator as if in front of an altar and gorged himself on whatever his hands touched. The pain faded, slowing his hands, then stopping them. He sat back and surveyed the ruin in the fridge. He could open his eyes completely without the pain searing into them.

  Most of the fruit was gone. He would have to tell Lucy so they could harvest more from the hydroponics gardens. He let the fridge door swing shut. The pain had shifted to a dull ache. His body felt sore as if he’d been running for hours. He was through the crucial phase now.

  He stood up, listening to his knees crack. Now he had time to wonder how long he’d been unconscious. He touched his face. His beard hadn’t had time to grow so it hadn’t been a full night. As if that was a comfort.

  Face it, just passing out like that was a concern. For the first time, he allowed the fear into his thoughts. He was stuck out here in the middle of the desert with no help. In the city he would have had hospitals, treatment centers for psychics, even just another psychic who could help orient him. Somehow he was changing, becoming more sensitized. Until he reached equilibrium he was going to have to be careful.

  The sound of steps in the hallway distracted him. Lucy probably checking on him. He listened to them stop in the distance. He could picture her at the doorway to his bedroom, looking confused. He moved to the doorway as her footsteps started forward.

  She stopped when he appeared. The wrinkles on her forehead smoothed out. Her shoulders dropped.

  “Are you all right?” she said.

  “Still a little tired,” he said. “I’ve eaten most of the fruit. We’ll have to harvest more.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  He stepped back from the doorway. “I had to eat a lot to recover. See for yourself.”

  Confusion crossed her face as she moved to the fridge and opened the door. Her mouth dropped open when she saw the devastation.

  “How could you eat all of that?” Outrage tinged her voice.

  “I needed to recover,” he said. “Maybe you can tell me what happened.”

  “What do you mean tell you what happened?”

  “I can’t remember. You were sitting in your lab at your microscope. That’s the last thing I remember.”

  He could tell she wasn’t sure if she believed him. She nibbled on her lower lip. Her gaze dropped away.

  “You really don’t remember?”

  “Amnesia is one of the side effects of a psychic hangover. I had some kind of reaction to something but I can’t remember what. It’s important that I figure it out, Lucy.”

  She brushed back a few strands of hair that had escaped from beneath her turban. “It’s probably just a stress reaction. You’ve had a big change in your life. It’s a lot to get a handle on. You’re probably fine now.” Before he could reply, she turned back to the fridge. “This is a more urgent situation.”

  “What do you mean?” he said. “We just have to harvest more from the garden.”

  “None of it is ready yet and won’t be for another week or two. We’ll have to go into the village for supplies.” She headed for the door.

  “Village? There’s a village near here?”

  She was already through the doorway and heading down the hall. He had to hurry to keep up. His muscles moved stiffly, not cooperating. Her lead lengthened. The hallway light pierced his eyes, not as bad as before but his head ached. He was acutely aware that she’d used the lack of fruit as an attempt to distract him from what had happened. Obviously she didn’t want to discuss it but he couldn’t figure out why. Of course, he couldn’t because he couldn’t remember. The memory might come back over the next few days but if it didn’t, he was going to have to question her again and next time insist that she talk.

  She turned off to the right, down a hallway that he hadn’t had a chance to explore. The lighting in this area was well maintained. He hadn’t had to fix anything here. The hallway ended abruptly at a large steel door with a rotating handle. Lucy punched a code into keypad beside the door and swung the handle. The door slid back and she moved inside. Peter followed.

  Lights flickered on, illuminating a small munitions stockpile. To the left sat a vehicle covered with a grey tarp. Lucy marched past it toward a smaller tarp-covered object. She yanked the cover off, exposing an old motorcycle. With practiced ease, she folded the tarp and tossed it onto a shelf against the wall.

  “We can get there on this. It’s forty-five minutes there and another forty-five back. We’ve still got most of the afternoon left.”

  “Wha
t time is it?” Peter asked.

  “Just after two. The sun won’t go down until after seven. We’ve got plenty of time.” She left him standing by the motorcycle and moved to the shelves of munitions. She disappeared between the shelves then returned a few moments later carrying two rifles. He recognized one as the one she’d brandished the first day he’d met her. From her pocket she pulled a box of shells.

  “I’ve mostly just got guns. Nothing fancy like you had on your squad, but these should do well enough.”

  “It would be better not to have to use them at all,” he said.

  “That is the ideal.” She handed one of the rifles to him.

  He checked the workings. It was old but clean. It looked fine. Beside him, Lucy wrapped a length of cloth around her head like a turban. Again, he thought of the first time he’d seen her in the desert. It felt like yesterday and yet the time here seemed endless. She tossed him a length of cloth.

  “Wrap up,” she said. “It’ll help against the sun and heat.”

  As he wrapped the cloth around his head, tucking in long strands of blond hair, Lucy continued to get ready. He stayed back, out of her way. She obviously knew this routine to perfection. Her hands roamed over the bike, making minute adjustments, wiping the mirror down, tightening a screw. Finally she appeared satisfied. She grabbed a satchel hanging on the wall and slipped it over her head, slinging it across her body. She opened it to rummage around and Peter saw a jumble of wires and pieces of metal. The frown on her face told him she didn’t like what she found.

  “It will have to do,” she mumbled. He wanted to ask what she meant but she was already swinging her leg over the motorcycle. She lifted a pair of goggles off the handlebars and slipped them over her face.

  “Sorry I don’t have a second pair.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll keep my head down.” He got on the bike behind her, slipping his left hand around her waist and clutching the gun close to his leg.

  Lucy pressed a button and a portion of the wall began to slide away. She hit the ignition on the bike. The rumble filled the chamber. The bike inched forward. A large lift, he realized, as the door slide shut behind them, sealing them in darkness. With a clank, the elevator began to rise.