Or maybe something not very big, with very, very sharp little claws.
I heard a little skittering sound, and my flashlight beam began to quiver.
The light to the hallway was right over my head, but the switch was all the way down the hall, by the stairs up. I turned it out every night because it was easier to sleep without the light spilling under the old door to my room. I’d have to cover twenty feet to get it on, by which point, if Don’s killer was still there, it would have had ample time to get me. Until that time, there would be only dim and indirect light from the staircase, and my handheld light.
I flicked the flashlight beam left and right, trying to paint the entire hallway before I started moving. I caught a flash of movement at the end of the hall—nothing more than a low shadow, vanishing swiftly around the corner that led back to the emergency generator and the storm shelter. I thought I saw maybe a bare tail, a flash of brown fur.
Then nothing.
I held my breath for a few seconds, listening. But there was only silence.
I had just let my breath out again when the door down the hallway opened and Fred emerged from his own apartment, ready to head to breakfast in the mess hall and start the day. I heard his breath catch in his throat, and then go fast as he fumbled for his flashlight and shone it at me.
He let out a high-pitched squeal and bolted.
“God dammit, Fred,” I sighed.
* * *
Mister Pitt didn’t look too happy with me.
It was one thing to face him in business casual clothing in his small and neat office. It was something else to do it when he was dressed in fatigues and body armor with a miniature arsenal strapped to him and that monstrous Frankenstein’s monster of a shotgun called Abomination in his hands.
“Dammit, Scrappy, what did I just say not twenty-four hours ago?” Pitt demanded. “I specifically told you not to do something exactly like this.”
“He didn’t check with me,” I replied.
“What a goddamned mess,” Pitt said.
There was the sudden whup-whup-whup of rotors thundering over the building, and we both looked up. The sound tripled and then quadrupled.
“God dammit,” Pitt muttered. He patted absently at his chest, frowned, and opened a secured drawer in his desk. He took a couple of round, smooth balls of steel painted military olive and with his team’s logo in bright red—a little smiley face with horns. He clipped the grenades to one of the belts strapped across his torso where there was a little room as he spoke: “The timing for this just could not be any worse. Those birds are taking us down to Bayou Sauvage. Every Hunter here.”
“You didn’t check with me either,” I said.
Pitt snorted, as his brow furled, thinking. “Earl has to call this in. We can’t have the staties or the Feds running around this place, so you can expect MCB to show up in a few hours,” he said.
My innards already didn’t feel too good. The mention of the federal government’s Monster Control Bureau didn’t help them feel any better. “What should I do?”
“Do not try to fistfight any of them when they get here,” Pitt replied. “That’s the first thing.”
Pitt’s radio chirped and Earl Harbinger’s voice said, “Pitt, what the hell?”
Mister Pitt made a frustrated sound and clicked the radio’s send button a couple of times in acknowledgement. “Sid. Did you kill him?”
I looked him in the eyes. “No, Mister Pitt.”
Pitt frowned and nodded. “Yeah. Milo says it was maybe the same thing from the workshop. Look, MCB does not give a flying fuck about justice. They just clean up messes. They’ll ask questions and when they find out you two fought a few days ago…”
He left it hanging. The implication sort of dangled around next to my guts, somewhere way below the rest of me.
“If it was me,” Pitt said earnestly, “I’d want to have something’s body to hand them, all wrapped up in a bow. Makes their paperwork easier. They like that. Find that thing.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” I asked.
Pitt’s radio chirped again. “Pitt! Do you want dead Boy Scouts? Because this is how you get dead Boy Scouts! Move your ass!”
“I’ll hold off telling Earl until we’re in the air,” Pitt said, heading for the door. “Give you as much time as I can. Sorry, Sid. Best I can do.”
And with that, he pounded down the hall at a dead run.
I sat there for a minute, just sort of stunned.
The Monster Control Bureau made people vanish. With most of the organization out on a mission, I was going to be on my own.
I’m not a real smart guy, but at least I know it. I mean, fixing things, sure. That’s easy stuff. But dealing with the courts? Talking my way around federal guys? I was more about fistfights and a beer later.
What the hell was I going to do?
Well. I guess I could start with the scene of the crime. That’s what Spenser or Travis McGee would do. Look for clues.
Sure. That would work.
* * *
They’d already moved the body up to the infirmary for Milo to get a look at it, so what was left was just an ugly leftover biohazard.
In other words, a mess. I’m good at messes.
I try to think positive.
I got down close to the puddle of drying blood and fluids. The smell wasn’t as bad now, though it wasn’t what I would call pleasant. I didn’t see much. So I went down the hall and turned the light out. I went back with my flashlight and shone it sideways across the surface of the blood.
There were indentations in it. Not big ones, but there was definitely something there, as if something light had skipped across the surface of the drying blood in little hops, leaving small dents in the dried blood without breaking the surface. One, two, three hops, and then gone.
I squinted at the line and went around to the side of the puddle and took a line on the row of jumps. Then I turned the lights back on and followed that line down the hallway.
It ended at a power outlet.
On a hunch, I pulled out my multitool, extended the blade, and flipped at the plastic cover. It came right out of the wall and landed on the floor, leaving an open hole behind it. I picked up the cover. Someone had filled in the outlet holes with plastic and apparently painted fake slots onto it. They’d gone so far as to saw off the bolt that would hold it on, and glued the head of the screw onto the exterior to make it look normal.
“Sid,” I said to myself. “This is a door.”
But a door for what?
I shone my light inside.
Two little jewels glittered red, way back in the hollow space behind the wall, and then vanished.
“Hey!” I said. “You know how much of a pain it is to run new wire to an outlet once the wall is up?”
Only silence answered me.
Rats again. Maybe. But no clue about little buzzsaw monsters. Nothing to hand to MCB, that was for sure.
I was screwed.
My smartphone buzzed. Me and Fred both had one, so that we could get called around the place when we were needed. I took it off my belt and found an anonymous text message on it:
MISTER SID. WE SHOULD TALK. YOUR QUARTERS.
I stared at the phone for a while, bemused.
“Well, Sid,” I muttered. “Why not.”
* * *
My quarters were what a poetic person might call Spartan. I had a bed and a dresser and a small bookshelf. A little table, a small fridge for snacks. And a big bookshelf. And a second big bookshelf. Most of the books were tattered and old and secondhand, but I’d read them all. I didn’t always understand them but I was working on it. Books were good.
I checked carefully and found nothing in the room. Then I got out my phone and carefully texted: OKAY. I AM HERE.
The answer came back quicker than I could have typed it on the tiny screen. My fingers are kind of thick. PLEASE SIT AT THE TABLE, MISTER SID.
I squinted at the phone. I examined the tabl
e and chairs but didn’t find a bomb there or anything. So I sat down, warily. I still didn’t know who was texting me or whether they wanted me to wind up like Don.
No sooner had I sat down than there was a rattle from a wall vent and it fell outward onto the floor.
My phone buzzed again: STAND BY. DO NOT PANIC, PLEASE. WE MEAN YOU NO HARM.
At that, my eyebrows went up. “Well,” I said aloud. “Come in, I guess.”
THANK YOU, MISTER SID, said my phone.
And then the damnedest thing happened.
In a column five across, tight across the space of the vent, came marching out rats. Big rats. A whole damned lot of rats. They didn’t hurry and…and the damned things were carrying shields. Roman-style legionary shields, on their backs. And strapped onto every shield with what looked like fishing line was a scalpel or an X-acto knife. At least a hundred rats marched out into the middle of the room, formed into a legion square, and at a squeak from a rat in the first row, all stood up on their hind legs and sat there, staring at me.
That was one of the damned creepiest things I ever felt—the attention of a crowd, all concentrated into a space maybe five feet by five in the middle of my floor. Every single little critter there stayed focused on me with an unnerving intensity, not moving, holding still with military discipline.
“Huh,” I said.
Then there was another stir at the vent and four rats came out carrying a smartphone on their shoulders. Behind them marched a white rat in a rough breastplate that had been hammered out from some sheet metal and fastened on with more fishing line. He bore an X-acto knife marked with a stripe of what might have been red duct tape, and his red eyes were focused on me firmly as he walked forward.
The rats with the smartphone stopped behind the legion and set it up at a forty-five degree angle, holding it on their backs, and the white rat went to the phone, set down his spear, and began tapping quickly on the surface of the phone.
GREETINGS, MISTER SID. MY NAME IS JUSTINIAN MALLEUS, AND I OWE YOU AN APOLOGY.
I sat there for a moment. Then I put my chin on my hand and said, “You’re going to have to give me a second here, to adjust.”
Justinian typed his answer and then stood at attention, his paws clasped behind his back. VERY WELL. I AWAIT YOU.
I took a few deep breaths and then said, “All right. I guess. You’re rats. And you can type.”
SPOKEN ENGLISH REMAINS PROBLEMATIC, Justinian typed. WRITTEN COMMUNICATIONS SEEM MORE PRACTICAL.
“Uh,” I said. “Sure. That makes sense. You’re the ones who have been thieving, I take it.”
I REGRET THAT IT WAS NECESSARY TO PROTECT OURSELVES AND TO ESTABLISH COMMUNICATIONS. I WILL TAKE FULL RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOUR LOSSES ONCE THE CURRENT EMERGENCY HAS PASSED.
“What emergency?” I asked.
THE BEAST, Justinian typed. THE CREATURE. THE ONE THAT ATTACKED YOU YESTERDAY.
I narrowed my eyes. “You know about that?”
IT HAS BEEN HUNTING MY PEOPLE. WE HAVE PREPARED OURSELVES TO DO BATTLE, BUT ITS STRENGTH AND SPEED SEEMS OTHERWORLDLY.
I eyed the rat warily, because it struck me that a couple of hundred intelligent rats with X-acto knives could do that to poor Don if they had a mind to…and were crazy enough.
Justinian peered at me and began typing. IF I WANTED TO HURT YOU, MISTER SID, I WOULD NEED ONLY TO HAVE REMAINED SILENT AND WAITED FOR YOU TO SLEEP.
“That ain’t hardly comfortin’,” I said. “But I take your point.” I squinted up at the other vent to the room, high up on the wall. “I heard some ammunition went missing, too.”
Justinian seemed to consider his answer before typing. MY FIRE TEAMS HAVE ORDERS TO SHOOT ONLY IF YOU ATTACK US. THEIR WEAPONS ARE CURRENTLY NOT AIMED AT YOU.
I mused on that for a moment, studying the other vent. I was careful to stay relaxed in my seat, because it seemed prudent. “Justinian Malleus,” I said. “You are more than a little intimidating.”
I ONLY WISH MY PEOPLE TO SURVIVE. THAT IS WHY WE ARE HERE.
“Where the hell did you come from?” I asked.
A GOVERNMENT FACILITY. IT HAD NO NAME. WE WERE CREATED THERE. TORTURED THERE. WE WILL NOT RETURN.
Justinian cheeped something, and the other rats whipped out their spears and planted their steel butts firmly on the floor in a surprisingly sharp, short shower of impact.
“Well, I don’t much care for the government either,” I said. “Why here?”
FILES SPOKE OF ONE NAMED HARBINGER. THEY SPOKE OF HIM WITH ILL FAVOR. IT IS OUR HOPE THAT THE ENEMY OF OUR ENEMY MIGHT BE OUR FRIEND.
Oh, crap. Only someone working in the same circles at the MCB would have information on Harbinger’s operation. And the MCB was on their way.
“Well,” I said. “I guess anything’s possible. But we got to get some things straight, right now.”
ACKNOWLEDGED, Justinian typed.
I got the steps to the door fixed in my head, in case my question set Justinian off. Creatures clever enough to steal weapons and manufacture their own arms might be smart enough to make some kind of zip gun, too, and I didn’t want to be a sitting duck. “Did your people kill the man in the hall last night?”
Justinian stared at me, and his expression was grim. He typed slowly. WE DID NOT. BUT WE WITNESSED HIS DEATH. WE WERE NOT YET PREPARED TO DO BATTLE, AND I ORDERED MY PEOPLE TO REMAIN CONCEALED.
I leaned forward excitedly. “But you saw it?”
YES. IN MY JUDGMENT THE WARRIOR HAD COME TO MAKE PEACE WITH YOU. THE BEAST STRUCK HIM FROM ABOVE AS HE CAME TO YOUR DOOR. IT TORE HIS THROAT FIRST, SO THAT HE COULD NOT SCREAM.
I shuddered. Damn. Poor Don. He was an arrogant ass but he hadn’t deserved to go like that. “Christ almighty. Then it’s smart.”
HIGHLY, Justinian typed. THIS IS HIS COMMUNICATOR. IT TOOK ME TIME TO LEARN TO OPERATE IT AND TO FIND YOUR SIGNAL CODE.
“Hell, took me weeks to work mine,” I said. I rubbed at my jaw. “Do you know where it is? The beast?”
WE BELIEVE IT IS COMING FOR YOU.
Well. That made my heart go skippity-skip, let me tell you. This conversation felt pretty unreal in the first place. Adding a spike of adrenaline to it didn’t make me feel any more grounded, you know?
“Why do you think that?” I asked a little numbly.
WE BELIEVE THE BEAST IS A SOLDIER AS WELL, FOLLOWING THE BIDDING OF ANOTHER. LAST NIGHT, IT HAD COME FOR YOU.
“And Don just walked into it,” I breathed. “What’s controlling it?”
NOT WHAT. WHO. Justinian squeaked an order, and the rats holding the smartphone wheeled it around to face me, and then group-marched closer until they were near my feet. Justinian came along with them, pacing gravely, the butt of his X-acto spear thumping on the ground. Once they reached me, the white rat flicked nimbly through several screens and called up the phone’s photo records. I was treated to a view of what I presumed was Don’s erect former penis, accompanied by the text “Hi, Holly!”; a couple of shots of a neatly cored-out bull’s-eye in a target from the range; and then a movie.
Justinian hit play and stood back.
I watched a view from the vent in my room, focused on the trash can next to my bed. The slats in the vent gave me only a partial view, but it was enough to see someone enter the room. They padded quickly to the trash can, and rummaged in it. They came out with a rumpled cloth—the bloodstained handkerchief Miss Holly had given me to clean up my face with.
I sat back slowly, working through the implications.
Justinian took the phone back and typed rapidly. IN SUPERNATURAL MATTERS, IS THE BLOOD OF A SUBJECT NOT OFTEN USED AS A MEANS TO DIRECT UNNATURAL FORCES AGAINST HIM?
“Yeah. I reckon it is,” I said.
THEN YOU SEE THE DANGER. YOU MUST CONFRONT THE THIEF.
I felt my jaw harden. “Yeah. And there’s more trouble than that coming.” I explained to him, briefly, about the approach of the MCB.
That shook the discipline of the legion. Rats looked at one another in restles
s agitation.
Justinian squeaked at them, and a couple of larger centurion rats squeaked themselves and restored order to the ranks.
IT APPEARS WE BOTH HAVE A PROBLEM. AND A CLEAR OBJECTIVE.
“We do.”
IF WE LEND YOU OUR AID, CAN YOU SECURE A PLACE FOR MY PEOPLE HERE?
“I can’t promise you that,” I said. “But if we help each other out of this, and I can’t convince Mister Earl, I’ll leave and figure out a way to make one for you on my own. How’s that?”
Justinian studied me gravely. Then he typed, NONOPTIMAL, BUT ACCEPTABLE.
“Done,” I said. “One last question.”
Justinian nodded.
“Why me?”
Justinian simply pointed at my bookshelves, one at a time. Then, the damned little thing saluted me, putting his fist to his heart.
The rest of the legion followed suit in a chorus of tiny thumps.
I shook my head. A legion of warrior scholar rats. This was the weirdest job I’d ever had. And I’d once gotten paid to beat a zombie to death.
Justinian began typing again. THE THIEF IS—
I waved a hand without reading the rest of the text. “I know who he is. I recognize his boots.”
* * *
I walked into the empty mess hall, shut the door behind me, and said, “What the hell were you thinking, Fred?”
Fred was seated at the table nearest the kitchen. All the chairs were up on the table. He was supposed to be waxing the floors, but the machine was sitting to one side of the room, unplugged. A stack of donuts left over from breakfast was sitting in front of him and he was chewing on one of them thoughtfully.
“Fucking Thucydides Beauregard,” Fred said. “The high and mighty. You know I had it pretty good around here until you showed up.”
“The hell are you talking about?” I asked.
I would have preferred to charge him, knock him down, and start rabbit-punching him. But I needed to kill a little time—and the doorway to the mess hall was the place that would give me the most lead time if some little claw critter came skittering up to tear me apart.
“You and your kissassery,” Fred spat. “Rushing everywhere. Getting everything done just right. Crossing all your fucking i’s and dotting all your t’s.”
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