The Monster Novels: Stinger, the Wolf's Hour, and Mine

by Robert R. McCammon

  “Cody!” Mr. Mendoza called, from where he stood jawing with the bus driver. “Where’re you goin’?”

  “To do a good deed,” he replied, and before the man could speak again Cody accelerated away. He swung the Honda in front of Jurado’s sister just at the edge of the lights, and she looked at him with puzzlement that became a flash of anger. “Hop on,” he offered.

  “No, I’ll walk.” She sidestepped the Honda and kept on going, the suitcase tugging mightily at her arm.

  He followed at her side, the engine putt-putting and Cody in the saddle but more or less walking the machine along. “I won’t bite.”

  No answer. Her steps had gotten faster, but the suitcase was holding her back.

  “I don’t even know your name. Mine’s Cody Lockett.”

  “You’re bothering me.”

  “I’m tryin’ to help you.” At least she’d answered that time, which meant progress of a kind. “If you hold that suitcase between us and hang on, I’ll get you across the bridge and to your brother’s house in about two minutes.”

  She’d come this far alone, in a groaning bus with a man snoring noisily in a seat two rows behind her, and she knew she could make it the rest of the way. Besides, she didn’t know this boy and she didn’t accept rides with strangers. She glanced back, noting uneasily that there was no more light until she reached the protection of the glass orbs that illuminated the bridge. But the houses were close, and she didn’t really feel in any danger. If he tried anything, she could either swing the suitcase at him or drop it and claw at his eyes.

  “So what’s your name?” he tried again.

  “Jurado,” she answered.

  “Yeah, I know that. What’s your first name?”

  She hesitated. Then: “Miranda.”

  He repeated it. “That’s a nice name. Come on, Miranda; hop on and I’ll take you across the bridge.”

  “I said no.”

  He shrugged. “Okay, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you about the Mumbler.” It came to him, just like that. “Good luck gettin’ across the bridge.” He revved the engine, as if about to speed away.

  She took two more determined steps—and then her determination faltered. The suitcase had never felt so heavy. She stopped, put the suitcase down, and rubbed her shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh. I thought somethin’ was wrong from the way you stopped.” He read it in her eyes. “Don’t worry about the Mumbler. He’s not usually creepin’ around before eight-thirty.”

  She stuck her wrist in front of the Honda’s headlight. “It’s after eight-thirty,” she said, looking at her watch.

  “Oh. Yeah, so it is. Well, he’s not real active before nine.”

  “Who exactly are you talking about?”

  “The Mumbler.” Think fast, he told himself. “You’re not from around here, so you wouldn’t know. The Mumbler’s dug himself a cave somewhere along the Snake River; at least that’s what the sheriff thinks. Anyway, the Mumbler comes out of his cave at night and hides under the bridge. Sheriff thinks he might be a big Indian guy, about six feet eight or so, who went crazy a few years back. He killed a bunch of people and”—think fast!—“and got acid thrown in his face. Sheriff’s been tryin’ to catch him, but the Mumbler’s quick as a sidewinder. So that’s why nobody crosses the bridge on foot after dark; the Mumbler might be underneath it. If you don’t cross over real quick, the Mumbler’s up on that bridge like greased smoke, and he takes you down with him. Just like that.” He paused; she was still listening. “You’d do better if you ran across the bridge. ’Course, that suitcase looks mighty heavy. You set it down on the bridge, and he’s likely to hear the thump. The trick is to get across before he knows you’re there.” He gazed for a moment at the bridge. “Looks longer than it is, really,” he said.

  She laughed. The boy’s expression during the telling had gone from cool to mock sinister. “I’m not a dumb kid!” she said.

  “It’s the truth!” He held up his right hand. “Honest Injun!”

  Which made her laugh again. He realized he liked the sound of her laughter: it was clean, like what Cody envisioned the sound of a mountain stream over smooth stones must be like, someplace where snow made everything white and new.

  Miranda hefted her suitcase again. Her shoulder protested. “I’ve heard some tall tales before, but that one wears elevator boots!”

  “Well, go on, then.” He feigned exasperation. “But don’t stop once you start across. Just keep goin’, no matter what you hear or see.”

  She regarded the bridge. Not much to look at, just gray concrete and pools of light and shadow. One of the glass globes had burned out, so there was a larger shadow pool about ten feet from the far side. She found herself thinking that if there really was a Mumbler, that would be the place he might strike. She hadn’t come all the way from Fort Worth, changing buses in Abilene and again in Odessa, to get killed by a big scar-faced Indian. No, it was a made-up story, just to get her scared! Wasn’t it?

  “Full moon,” Cody said. “He likes full moons.”

  “If you touch one place you’re not supposed to,” she told him, “I’ll knock you cross-eyed.” She held the suitcase upright, close to her chest, and sat behind Cody.

  Bingo! he thought. “Grab my sides.” She took his dirty shirt between tentative fingers. “We’re gonna give it some gas to clear the bridge before the Mumbler knows we’re there. Hold tight!” he warned—and then he let the engine rev until it howled. He kicked it into first gear.

  The motorcycle shuddered and reared back, and for an instant Cody felt his heart leap into his throat and he thought the extra weight was going to tip them over. He leaned forward, fighting gravity. Miranda clenched her teeth on a scream. But then the Honda was shooting along Republica Road, the front end bounced down and burned rubber, and they were heading toward the bridge with the wind in their faces.

  Miranda’s hands gripped into his sides, about to claw the meat from his ribs.

  They shot onto the bridge, cocooned in a roar. The bridge’s ornate lampposts with their smoked-glass globes flashed past. Here came the biggest pool of shadow; it seemed as large as a tarpit to Miranda.

  And then Cody had a wild hair. He just had to do it.

  He yelled, “There’s the Mumbler!” and jerked the Honda into the left lane as if to escape something slithering over the bridge’s right side.

  She shrieked. Her arms clutched at his chest, the suitcase pinned between them and about to blow the breath out of both of them. Her hair was flying around her shoulders, and for a gut-wrenching second she imagined something had plucked at it with an oozy hand, trying to tear her right off the cycle. Her shriek kept spilling out, her eyes about to jump from their sockets—but suddenly the shriek reached its limit and gurgled into laughter, because she knew there was no Mumbler and there never had been, but they were through the shadow and off the bridge and now Cody was cutting his speed on the streets of Bordertown.

  She couldn’t stop laughing, though she didn’t know this boy—this gringo—and didn’t trust his hands not to wander down to her legs. But they did not. She loosened her grip on his sides, holding on to his shirt again, and Cody relaxed because she’d just about pinched hunks of skin off him. He laughed with her, but his eyes were wary and flicking from side to side. He had entered the kingdom of the Rattlesnakes, and he had to watch his ass. But at least for the moment, he figured he sure had a pretty insurance policy perched behind him.

  Cody swerved onto Second Street, avoided a couple of roaming dogs, and powered toward Jurado’s house.

  19

  One Night

  WHILE CODY HAD BEEN spinning his yarn about the Mumbler, Ray Hammond stared from the window of his room and let himself think what might happen if he was to go AWOL.

  I’d get my butt beat, that’s what, he decided. And I’d deserve it too.

  But still …

  He’d been in his room for about
two hours, had plugged the headphones into his boom box and listened to Billy Idol, Clash, Joan Jett, and Human League tapes while he worked on a plastic model of a SuperBlitzer Go-Bot. His mother had come in about twenty minutes ago, bringing him a ham sandwich, some potato chips, and a Pepsi, and had told him that Daufin was still motionless in the kitchen. It was best that he stay here, out of the way, until the air-force men took the creature away, she’d said—and Ray had seen how that idea tore his mother up inside, but what was her choice? The thing in the kitchen was no longer Stevie; that was a bone-dry fact.

  Thinking about his sister being gone, while her body stood in the kitchen, was a weird trip. Ray had always thought of Stevie as a little monkey, getting into his tape collection, his models, even once almost finding the cache of Penthouse magazines at the back of his closet, but of course he loved the brat; she’d been around for six years, and now …

  And now, he thought, she was gone but her body remained. But what had Daufin meant about Stevie being protected? Was Stevie gone forever, or not? Weird, weird trip.

  From his window he could see a blue neon sign farther down Celeste Street, between the Boots ’n Plenty shoestore and the Ringwald Drugstore; the sign read WARP ROOM. That was where everybody would be hanging out tonight, playing the arcade games and buzzing about the helicopter landing in Preston Park. They’d be cooking up rumors right and left, really throwing the tales around, and the place would be full of smash foxes. And of everybody there—all the ’Gades and jocks and party animals—only he would know the truth.

  Right, he told himself. My sister got dusted today, and I’m thinking about girls. X Ray, you’re the king turd, man.

  But his mother had said something to him about twenty minutes ago that he heard a lot: Stay out of the way.

  That seemed to be his middle name. Ray Stay out of the way Hammond. If it wasn’t the older guys saying it to him at school, it was his own folks. Even Paco LeGrande, today, had been telling him to stay out of the way. Ray knew he was a zero with girls and not too sharp on looks, his talent in sports was nonexistent, and all anybody like him could do was stay out of the way.

  “Dammit,” he said, very softly. The Warp Room beckoned him. But he was supposed to stay here, and he knew for sure that Colonel Rhodes didn’t want him going outside and telling everybody that an alien had come to visit Inferno. Forget it, he thought. Just stay here, out of the way.

  But for one night—one night—he could stroll into the Warp Room and be somebody, even if he didn’t tell a soul.

  Before he knew what his fingers were doing, he unhooked the window’s latch.

  Going AWOL was a serious offense, he thought. Like Dad-would-blow-his-top kind of offense. Indefinite-grounding offense.

  One night.

  He pushed the window up about three inches; it made a faint shreeking noise.

  Still can change your mind, he told himself. But he figured his folks wouldn’t check in with him for a while; he could go to the Warp Room and come back before they ever knew he was gone.

  He pushed the window up another few inches.

  “Ray?” A knock at his door, and his father’s voice.

  He froze. He knew his dad wouldn’t come in without being invited. “Yes sir?”

  “You all right?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Listen … sorry I jumped you. It’s just, you know, that this is kind of a trying time for everybody. We don’t know what Daufin’s doing, and … we want Stevie back, if that’s possible. Maybe it’s not. But we can hope, huh?” Tom paused, and in that pause Ray almost slid the window back down, but the Warp Room’s blue neon burned in his eyeglasses. “You want to come out? I think it’d be okay.”

  “I’m …” Oh, Lord, he thought. “I’m … just gonna listen to some music, Dad. On my headphones. I’ll just stay in here, out of the way.”

  There was a silence. Then: “Sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes sir. I’m sure.”

  “Okay. Well, come on out when you want.” Ray heard his father’s footsteps, moving along the corridor to the den. Murmured voices, Dad and Mom talking.

  It was time to go, if he was going. He slid the window all the way up, climbed out with his heart pounding a fugitive rhythm; he slid the window down when he was out, and he ran along Celeste Street toward the Warp Room. If there was one thing he could do well, it was run.

  But he found the Warp Room not nearly as crowded as he’d expected; in fact, only six or seven kids were inside, milling around the pinball machines. The Warp Room’s walls were painted deep violet, with sparkly stars dashed here and there. Day-Glo painted planets dangled on wires from the ceiling, being stirred into small orbits by the fans. Arcade machines—Galaxian, Neutron, Space Hunter, Gunfighter, and about ten more—stood bleeping and burping for attention. Every so often the speaker atop the Space Hunter machine boomed out a metallic challenge: “Attention, Earthlings! Do you dare do battle with Space Hunter? Prepare for action! Prepare to be destroyed!”

  At the back of the place, its manager—an elderly man named Kennishaw—sat on a folding metal chair reading a copy of Texas Outdoorsman magazine. A change-making machine stood next to him, and on the wall was a sign demanding NO CURSING, NO BETTING, NO FIGHTING.

  “X Ray! How’s it hangin’, man?”

  Ray saw Robby Falkner standing with Mike Ledbetter over by the Galaxian machine. Both of them were freshmen, and both of them were Nerd Club members in good standing. “Yo, Ray!” Mike called, in a voice that hadn’t yet lost its childhood squeak. Ray walked to them, glad to see anybody he knew. He noted a ’Gade standing near the back, playing pinball; the boy’s name was Stoplight, because his hair was dyed red on top and green on the sides.

  “How’s it goin’?” Robby gave Ray a high five while Mike concentrated on beating a few more points out of Galaxian.

  “Okay. How about you?”

  “I’ll do. Man, that was neat about the chopper, huh? I saw it take off. Man, that was neat!”

  “I saw it too,” Mike commented. “Know what I heard? It wasn’t any meteor that fell, no way! It was a satellite the Russians put up. One of those death satellites, and that’s why it’s radioactive.”

  “Yeah, well you know what Billy Thellman heard?” Robby leaned in closer, gathering the other boys together to share a secret. “It wasn’t any meteor or a satellite.”

  “So what was it?” Ray kept his voice cool.

  “It was a jet. A super-secret jet that crashed. Billy Thellman said he knew somebody who drove out there to see it, only the air-force men have got Cobre Road blocked off. So this guy started out on foot, and he walked and walked until he came across this crane scoopin’ pieces of somethin’ off the ground, and all these men in radiation suits. Anyway, they stopped this guy out there and they took his name and address and they got his fingerprints on a little white card too. They said they could take him to jail for sneakin’ around out there.”

  “Gnarly,” Mike said.

  “Right. So they asked him what he’d seen, and he told ’em, and that’s when they let him in on the secret. Billy says he heard it was an F-911, and that was the only one the air force had.”

  “Wow,” Ray said.

  “Man, look at her!” Mike whispered, furtively motioning to a lean blond girl who hung on the shoulder of a boy playing Gunfighter. “That’s Laurie Rainey. Man, I hear she can just about suck the chrome off a fender!”

  “Smash fox,” Robby observed. “She’s got skinny legs, though.”

  “Man, you wouldn’t think they were skinny if they were wrapped around your ass! Shit!” Mike thumped the Galaxian machine with his fist, because the game had ended and he hadn’t beat his best score. Old Eagle Eyes Kennishaw saw it, and hollered, “Hey, boy! Don’t you hit on the machines!” His ire vented, he returned to his magazine.

  The three boys drifted past Laurie Rainey for a closer look, and were rewarded with a whiff of her perfume. She was holding on to her date’s belt, which Mi
ke pointed out in a whisper was a sure sign that a girl was hotter than a short-fused firecracker.

  “How come you’re so quiet?” Robby asked Ray when they’d wandered over to the row of pinball machines.

  “Me? I’m not quiet.”

  “Are so. Man, you’re usually jawin’ up a storm. Folks on your case?”

  “No.”

  “So what it is, then?” Robby leaned against a machine and cleaned his fingernails with a match.

  “Nothin’. I’m just quiet, that’s all.” It burned in him, but he knew he must not spill it.

  Mike jabbed him in the ribs. “I think you’re hidin’ somethin’, cockhead.”

  “No, I’m not. Really.” Ray dug his hands into his pockets and stared at a spot on the discolored linoleum. That crap about an F-911 had almost brought a laugh out, and he struggled not to smile. “Forget it.”

  “Forget what?” Robby asked, fired up by the idea that a secret was being kept. “Come on, X Ray! Let’s hear it!”

  It was so close to being told. In one more minute, he might be the most sought-after kid in Inferno. All kinds of smash foxes would be crowding around to hear. But no, he couldn’t do it! It wasn’t right! Still, his mouth was starting to open, and what would come out of it he didn’t know. He was forming the words in his mind: Let’s just say I know it wasn’t any damned F-9—

  “Looky here, looky here! Where’s your girlfriend, fuckmeat?”

  Ray knew that slurred, dark-toned voice. He whirled toward the doorway.

  Three of them were standing there: Paco LeGrande, a plastic splint along the bridge of his nose and bandages stuck to his cheeks and forehead to secure it; Ruben Hermosa, grinning and damp-faced, his eyes bloodshot on weed; and Juan Diegas, another husky Rattlesnake.

  Paco limped just a little as he took two steps forward, his combat boots clunking on the floor. All conversations within the Warp Room had ceased, all attention riveted to the invaders. “I asked you where your girlfriend was,” Paco repeated, smiling thinly, his face swollen and purple circles ringing his eyes. He cracked his knuckles. “She’s not around to save your skinny ass, is she?”