Nightworld ac-6

by F. Paul Wilson

  The voice in her head was so calm, so soothing. Almost mesmerizing. Carol shook herself.

  "I—I don't want anything from you."

  "Don't think just of yourself. Think of your friends. I'm offering you and some of them a safe harbor, a haven, a chance to survive the endless night."

  "I don't trust you."

  The smile again, rueful this time. "I wouldn't trust me either. But hear me out. You have nothing to lose by listening to my proposal."

  Carol remembered what Bill had told her about a woman named Lisl who'd lost her soul and her life by listening to Rasalom. But what, besides her sanity and her dignity, did Carol have left to lose? Unless a miracle occurred, tomorrow would hold the world's last daylight. By Friday she'd be in the same leaky life raft as the rest of the world.

  "What do you mean by 'a haven'? And how many of my 'friends' can I take there?"

  "A reasonable number."

  "Glaeken among them?"

  The face rotated back and forth, the equivalent of a head shake.

  "No. Not Glaeken. Anyone else, but not Glaeken. I've waited too long to even my scores with him."

  Carol didn't know what to think, what to do. If Rasalom had agreed to allow Glaeken safe harbor, she'd have known he was lying. There was probably no rivalry, no enmity in human history as long and as bitter and as deeply ingrained as theirs. But he had excluded Glaeken. What did that mean? Could his offer be genuine? If she could save Bill and a few of the others…

  "Come downstairs and we'll discuss it."

  "Downstairs? Oh, no. I'm not leaving this building."

  "I'm not asking you to leave this building. I'm one floor down. In your apartment."

  "How—how did you get in?

  "Come now, Mother dear. I can do anything I wish. Anything. Come visit. We'll talk. I'll be there until darkness falls. After that I'll have other matters to attend to."

  The face grew dim, became transparent, then faded completely. Gone as if it had never been.

  Carol sagged back against the table. Expect the unexpected. Wasn't that what Glaeken had said? Easy enough to say, but Rasalom's face—floating in the air, talking to her as casually as if they'd bumped into each other in an aisle at the A&P.

  And the ease with which he seemed to have entered the building was bad enough, but knowing he was waiting down in her apartment tied her up in knots.

  Should she go? That was the question. And what was this all about? Was she supposed to haggle with him? Barter for lives? The responsibility was numbing.

  Maybe she could ask him about Hank—where he was, if he was. She should have thought of that when Rasalom was here.

  She had to risk it. If she could save even a few people…

  But she didn't want to go alone. She knew she had to, but she didn't like it. She didn't have much time, either. If only she had a weapon of some sort. But what could she use against someone who could change the course of the sun and anything else he pleased?

  As Carol picked up the broken dishes from the kitchen floor and threw them away, she spotted the knife rack over the sink. She pulled out the wide-bladed carving knife and tucked it into the folds of the old cardigan she had borrowed from Glaeken. A laughable weapon, considering who she'd be facing. She knew her best hope was not to need any weapon at all, but the weight of the blade in her hand imparted a modicum of comfort.

  She peeked in on Magda and found her sleeping soundly. Carol guessed it would be all right to leave her for a few minutes. Glaeken would be back soon, and Rasalom had said he'd wait only until dark.

  She hurried downstairs.

  Her apartment had an empty feel. The drapes were open but because the windows faced north, the light was dusky.

  Was he here? What was she supposed to call out? Jimmy? Rasalom? Certainly not Son.

  "Hello?" she said, settling on that. "Are you here?"

  She walked through the living room and down the hall. Why didn't he answer? Was this some sort of a joke?

  Suddenly he was there, stepping out of the bedroom not three feet in front of her.

  He was naked.

  Carol cried out in shock and jumped back.

  "Hello Mother." His voice was coarse, raspy, more dead than alive.

  He stepped toward her as she backed away. His slim body seemed faintly luminescent, and his genitals…he was hugely erect, pointing directly at her face. Suddenly he darted by her and positioned himself between her and the door.

  She turned and faced him, her heart thudding, her palm slick on the handle of the knife in her sweater.

  "Wh-what's this all about? I thought you wanted to talk."

  He smiled. "Isn't it wonderful what desperation will do to people? It paralyzes some, makes others brutish, and makes still others stupid. You fall into that final category, Mother." He spat the last word. "What's it about? It's about a love note to Glaeken and the rest of you. It's about defilement and slow, painful death, Mother. Incestuous rape and matricide. In other words, you and me."

  He leapt at her. Reflexively Carol pulled out the knife and held it before her with both hands. She felt the impact as Rasalom's body struck it, felt the skin part before the point, felt the blade sink deep into his flesh. He grunted and stepped back. He looked down in wonder at the knife handle protruding from his upper abdomen, just below the breast bone. He touched the handle with a finger, then looked up at her.

  "Mother…you shock me. I guess there are still a few surprises left in this world."

  "Oh, God!"

  "He won't help you. He was never there. But I am here now. And I am your God. Think of it, Mother. You are about to be raped by God. And afterwards. He caressed the handle like a priapic tool…"I shall use this to skin you alive. Won't that be a nice gift to hang in Glaeken's closet? Your skin."

  Carol screamed and tried to dash past him but he caught her with one hand and slammed her back against the wall. The breath wooshed out of her with the impact. As she tried to regain it, the door to the apartment burst open.

  "Carol!"

  A group of men—some of then armed—burst in, and in the lead was Bill. He leapt to her side and Carol clung to him, sobbing.

  "Oh, Bill, oh, Bill, thank God you're here!"

  "You!" It was Bill. He was staring at Rasalom who had stepped back and appeared to be surveying the scene with amusement.

  Jack stepped forward and faced Rasalom, a shotgun of some sort cradled in his arms. Ba stood by the door, similarly armed, while Nick stood behind him in the hall.

  "Who the hell are you?" Jack said.

  "I once knew him as Rafe Losmara," Bill said. "But his real name is Rasalom."

  Jack's expression was skeptical as he glanced at Bill, then back to Rasalom's slim, naked figure.

  "You're kidding. This…this is the cause of everything that's going on out there?"

  Rasalom bowed, unfazed by the intruders. "At your service."

  Bill was staring at the handle protruding from Rasalom's abdomen.

  "Is that a knife…?"

  "Probably," Jack said. The sight of the knife seemed to incite him. Jack appeared ready to explode. "I think I've been through this movie before."

  As Carol wondered what Jack meant, Rasalom smiled and yanked the blade free.

  "Please don't be concerned, Father Bill. I'm a rapid healer."

  "Yeah?" Jack said. His face was tight with rage. In a single smooth, swift motion he had his shotgun extended to arm's length, its muzzle inches from Rasalom's face. "Heal this."

  The explosion was deafening. Close against her Bill cried out in shock as Carol screamed and turned away, but not before she saw Rasalom's head disintegrate behind the muzzle flash.

  A moment later, Bill's hushed, awed whisper slipped past the ringing in her ears.

  "Look at that!"

  Carol turned and saw Rasalom's headless body lying on the floor. It seemed to be shrinking, deflating. And then she saw why. Loose soil was pouring from the stump of his neck.

  "Dirt
," Jack said, nudging the body with his toe. "The guy was nothing but skin filled with dirt." His eyes were more than a little wild above his fierce grin. "A real dirt bag."

  Glaeken hobbled through the doorway then.

  "What has happened here?"

  Carol quickly ran over the events of the past twenty minutes. Glaeken nodded with slow resignation.

  "Leave your skin in my closet, he told you?" Glaeken said.

  Carol felt Bill tighten his grip around her shoulders.

  "Why?" Bill said. "What does it mean?"

  "More of his games," Glaeken said. "A diversion while he waits for the Change to be complete, one more thing to confound, confuse, sicken, and terrify. He probably meant to leave Carol's skin and his own. A grisly reminder to me that his Change is far along to completion."

  Glaeken went to Rasalom's remains and lifted the skin by both feet. Jack helped. Together they shook the last of the dirt from within. It looked dry and light, almost like an oversized set of a child's footed pajamas. Glaeken rolled it up and tucked it under his arm and started for the door.

  "Come upstairs. I want to get rid of this once and for all. Then we have work to do."

  Rasalom's skin smoked, curled, browned, blackened, and burned in the fireplace. Carol watched as Glaeken pushed it deeper into the flames with the poker. As the ashes curled and rose up the flue, he turned and surveyed the gathering of his inner circle.

  Carol surveyed it as well. The newcomers were Sylvia Nash and her son, huddled against her. Pale, distant, remote in her grief, Sylvia sat quietly in a corner of the huge sofa. Carol's heart went out to her. Alan was missing. Bill had told her what had happened last night in Monroe. She hadn't got to know that man in the wheelchair, but during their brief contact last Saturday Carol had sensed something fine and strong within him. And now, looking at Sylvia, she could sense a comparable rebellious strength within her. This woman had been battered but refused to bow. Ba stood tall behind her like some preternatural guardian.

  Carol leaned against Bill; Nick sat stiff and straight but inattentive on Bill's far side.

  And at the far end of the sofa sat Jack, aloof, silent, nearly as withdrawn as Nick.

  "Well," Glaeken said, jamming his hands into his pockets, "our wanderers have returned. What have you brought back with you?"

  Bill reached into a sack and pulled out a few odd-shaped pieces of rusted metal. He dropped them onto the marble-topped coffee table.

  "This is the best I could do."

  Glaeken picked up the pieces, examined them closely, then nodded.

  "Amazing. These are from the blade. How—?"

  "Nick helped. I'd never have found them without Nick's help. But are they…is it enough?"

  "These are fine. We only need a sample of the metal." He turned to Jack. "How did you fare in Maui?"

  Jack tossed a heavy, intricately carved necklace onto the table. It rolled and skidded to a stop in front of Glaeken.

  "Let's hope you just need a sample of that too."

  Glaeken picked it up. He didn't examine it. He seemed to know it was right merely by touching it.

  "Very good. Oh, very good. Where's the other?"

  "That's the problem," Jack said, keeping his eyes down. "I couldn't get it."

  Carol noticed Glaeken's complexion fade two or three shades toward white. He seated himself—carefully.

  "Couldn't…get it?"

  Jack capsulized his travails on Maui.

  "I got suckered," he said when he was done. "Kolabati seemed different. I thought she'd changed. I was wrong. Dead wrong. But that's okay, right? You've got enough here to do your thing, right? I mean, you've got the kid, pieces of the old sword, and one of the necklaces. That's enough, right?"

  Glaeken sat motionless for an endless moment, then he shook his head, slowly, painfully.

  "No, Jack. I wish it were, but we need the combined power within the pair of necklaces to make this work."

  Jack shot to his feet and began to pace the room. Carol had learned something about him from Glaeken during the past few days, how he made his living working for people who had been let down by everyone else. She had the distinct impression that here was a man unused to failure, and that his failure here was eating him alive.

  "I don't know where she is. She took off, disappeared. She could be anywhere."

  "It's all right, Jack," Glaeken sad. "You did your best."

  "But I didn't get it done. That's the bottom line: I didn't get it done!"

  "I doubt if anyone else on earth could have returned with even one of the necklaces."

  "All fine and good. But you're telling me one necklace doesn't cut it, so the whole trip was a waste of time. And Bill's trip was a waste of time. And I took Ba with me, and maybe if he'd stayed home…"

  Jack didn't finish the thought. He stopped and faced the group. His eyes were tortured. It took him a moment to find his voice again.

  "I blew it, didn't I? And because of that, there's no way out now, for any of us. I've let you all down. I'm sorry."

  He turned and started for the door. Carol tried to think of something to say that would ease his pain, lighten his load, but before she could call out to him, she saw Sylvia reach out and grab his arm as he passed. He stopped and stared down at her. She rose wordlessly, slipped her arms around him, and hugged him.

  For a moment Jack stood stiffly, looking baffled, then he lifted his arms and returned the embrace. He closed his eyes as if in pain.

  Bill rose to his feet and Carol rose with him.

  "It's okay, Jack," Bill said. "Really. We know you gave it your best shot. If you couldn't do it, then it couldn't be done. We trust in that. And if that's the way it is, then that's the way it is. We go on from here as best we can."

  He stepped toward Jack and extended his hand.

  Jack eased away from Sylvia and gripped Bill's hand, then Carol hugged him, then Glaeken offered his own hand.

  His throat working, his voice on the verge of crumbling, Jack stepped back and stared at the semicircle that had formed around him.

  "You people…you people. Where'd you all come from? Where've you been all my life?"

  His voice failed him then, so he simply turned and walked out the door.

  When he was gone, they stood and stared at each other in silence.

  "There's no hope then?" Carol said.

  Glaeken heaved a sigh, slow and heavy, as he shook his head. His eyes were remote, his disappointment palpable.

  "If there is," he said, "I don't know where to look for it."

  "That's it?" she said. "We've lost? What do we do now?"

  "We do what we've always done," Bill said. "We don't back down. And we refuse to be anything less than we are."

  Carol looked at him standing tall and defiant. He'd told her what he'd been through in the past five years, and if that hadn't broken him, she doubted anything could. She realized then in a blaze of heat how much she loved Bill Ryan.

  Glaeken, too, seemed to draw strength from him.

  "You're right of course. We can make Rasalom come for us rather than crumble and fall toward him. That will be a victory of sorts." He extended his elbow toward Sylvia. "Mrs. Nash, if you'll allow me, I'll show you the apartment I've been holding for you."

  As they left, Bill turned to Nick.

  "Want me take you back to your room, old buddy?"

  Nick was staring at the flames in the fireplace. To Carol's surprise, he answered.

  "I want to watch the fire. I want to see where all the ashes go."

  Carol dared a quick glance at the fireplace, ready to turn away if Rasalom's skin was still there. But it wasn't—at least not recognizably so. Just burning logs.

  "They go up the chimney and float away, Nick," Carol said.

  "Not all of them. Some are on the window."

  Carol turned and for the first time noticed the ashes sticking to the picture window. She gasped and clutched Bill's arm when she realized that they clung there in a gray, feathe
ry pattern—the shape of a headless man, spread-eagled against the dying light.

  Bill hurried to the wall and touched a button. The drapes slid closed.

  "Maybe I'd better walk you home."

  "I can't go back there." The thought of that pile of dirt on the rug, the memory of what he'd planned to do—it sickened her.

  "Sorry," he said. "I wasn't thinking."

  Carol looked at Bill. She didn't know how else to say this, other than come right out and say it.

  "Can't I stay with you?"

  He stared at her for a long moment, then reached out to her, pulled her close, and kissed her.

  "I've been wanting to do that for days," he sighed. "For years. For decades. Forever, I think."

  She looked up at him, into his clear blue eyes.

  "It's time, isn't it?"

  He nodded. "Yes. Long past time, I think."

  He took her hand and led her toward his room.

  WXRK-FM:

  dead air

  Until tonight, Carol had made love to only two men in her life, both of them husbands. Bill was the third and by far the most anxious. His hands trembled as he undressed her, as he helped her remove his own clothes, as he caressed her.

  "I'm a virgin," he told her when they were lying skin-to-skin, and even his voice trembled. "Alive for half a century, and I'm a virgin."

  "I'm not," Carol said, and drew him into her.

  What he lacked in technique he more than made up for with the intensity of his passion. Their lovemaking rocked the mattress. It was hot, it was fierce, and it was over too soon for Carol, but somehow it left her as breathless as Bill. She hugged him tight against her, reveled in his being warm and wet within her.

  And then she heard him sobbing softly on her shoulder.

  "Bill? Are you okay?"

  "No. Yes. I don't know. It's just…I keep thinking…what a waste. This is so wonderful. I've never felt so close to another human being in my entire life. I'm fifty, Carol. We can all count the rest of our days on one hand, and I'm just learning what it's like to make love. All those years—wasted! My life—wasted! What an idiot!"

  "Don't you say that, Bill. Don't you ever let me hear you say that!" She shared his hurt, but she was angry at him too. "You did not waste your life. Maybe your beliefs were misplaced, but not your actions. You spent your life being a father, a real father, to hundreds of lost and abandoned boys, the first and maybe the best father they ever knew. You couldn't have done that as well if you'd had a wife and children of your own. You couldn't have been there twenty-four hours a day for them like you were. So it wasn't wasted at all. You made a difference, Bill. A big difference. A lot of grown men are walking around who still remember you, who still have a warm place in their hearts for you, who are maybe good to their own kids because you were good to them, because you showed them how it's done. That's a legacy, Bill, one that might have gone on for generations if Rasalom wasn't trying to bring all our generations to an end. So don't you dare say you've wasted your life—at least not in front of me."