by Frank Lauria
Before descending for another section of fabric, Rashad paused to scan the green-tinted horizon. The blue sun was setting, but there was nothing unusual. Yet.
Inside the skiff, the cockpit hatch closed, and sealed. So far, so good, Fry noted, her attention focused on the monitor. The screen read HULL INTEGRITY TEST. Sealing the hatch had been phase one. Fry scanned the rising pressure gauges.
“Looks like we’re a few shy.”
Fry whirled. Riddick stood there, Imam’s long blade dangling from one hand. He was staring at the depleted battery bay. “Power cells I mean,” he amended.
“They’re coming,” she said, voice tight. “When we get the Sand Cat up.”
Riddick didn’t seem to hear. “Strange, not doin’ a run-up on the main drive yet,” he observed. “Strange . . . unless he told you the particulars of my escape.”
“I got the quick-and-ugly version,” Fry said, impressed by Riddick’s sharp intelligence.
“And now you’re worried about a repeat of history?”
“Entered our minds.”
He stepped closer. “I asked what you thought.”
“You scare me, Riddick. That’s what you wanna hear, isn’t it? There—I admit it. Can I get back to work now?”
Fry found the courage to turn her back on him. Riddick moved behind her and paused to study the controls. The cabin pressure was building. Any second Fry expected him to slash her throat.
“Think Johns is a do-right man?” he whispered, breath warm against the back of her neck. She leaned forward, besieged by conflicting emotions. Did he already know? Was this a test?
“Why, what’d you hear?” she asked, voice strained.
“Well, guess if it was trickeration he’d just X me out, huh?” Riddick speculated, mouth still brushing her neck. “Then again . . . I am worth twice as much alive.”
He gently turned her around, goggled eyes reading her face. “Didn’t know? Johns ain’t a cop. Oh yeah, he got that nickel-slick badge, but nah—he’s just another merc, and I’m just a payday. That’s why he won’t never kill me, see?” He bent down and whispered in her ear. “The creed, is greed . . .”
Unsettled by the revelation, Fry gathered herself. “Stow it, Riddick,” she snapped. “We aren’t going to turn on one another—no matter how hard you try.”
Never mentioned turning on anybody, Riddick noted with grim amusement. He pressed closer and felt her body respond slightly. “Don’t truly know what’s gonna happen when the lights go out, Carolyn. But I do know that once the Big Dyin’ starts this psycho-fuck family of ours is gonna rip itself apart. So you better find out the truth. When it all goes pitch-black—you better know exactly who’s standin’ behind you.”
“Hull integrity . . . 100 percent” the monitor droned abruptly. Exhaling gases, the hatch hissed open.
Fry pulled away and moved quickly to the exit. Riddick didn’t try to stop her.
“Oh, ask him ’bout those shakes,” he suggested casually, watching her leave. “And ask why your crew-pal had to scream like that ’fore he died.”
Emotions colliding like billiard balls, Fry stumbled out the door into the harsh sunlight. But as she hurried toward the compound, Riddick’s last words continued to ricochet through her skull . . . had to scream like that ’fore he died . . .
The red shotgun shells were Johns’s favorite.
In fact they were about the only thing he truly loved. Those fat red bullets had the power to shoot away everything corrupt, toxic, treacherous, or perverse, and propel him into a warm, cozy cocoon, where everything was as clean as new sheets, and nothing could ever touch him.
Sensual as a woman’s tit, Johns thought, stroking a stack of red shells before selecting one. He went about the preparations with care, savoring each stage. First he laid out a blue disinfectant cloth and small mirror. Then he placed the syringe on the cloth and wiped it clean. Finally he popped open the shotgun shell and removed the glass ampule concealed inside. King Morphine, monarch non grata in seven galaxies, Johns noted fondly as he slipped the ampule into the syringe.
Peering into the mirror Johns opened his right eye wide and brought the syringe close to his eyeball. Ultra-speed injection pierces center inner socket just above the eyeball, Johns repeated mentally, reciting the instructions dutifully. Shooting morphine directly into the brain required close attention to detail.
He was so engrossed that he didn’t hear anyone enter.
“Who are you really?”
Fry’s question was like ice water. Startled, Johns glimpsed his face in the mirror, fixed between embarrassment and shameless hunger. He turned and saw her framed in the doorway.
“You’re not a real cop, are you?” Fry went on, moving closer.
Johns licked his lips. “I never said I was.”
“Never said you were a hype, either.”
Fry’s blue eyes flashed a fierce challenge as she bent down and brazenly rummaged through his open ammo bag. She came up with handfuls of red shotgun shells. Years of sweet dreams in an unfriendly universe.
“Little morphine in the morning, so what?” Johns said, recovering his composure.
Fry looked at him with seething contempt. “And here you got two mornings every day. Wow, weren’t you born lucky.”
“Not a problem unless you’re gonna make it one . . .”
“You made it a problem when you let Owens die like that,” Fry reminded, voice shaking. She opened her hand, letting the red shells spill to the floor. “When you had enough drugs to knock out an army of junkies.”
Johns’ eyes followed the rolling shells. “Owens was already dead. His brain hadn’t caught up to that fact.”
Fry’s contempt escalated to sheer disgust. “Anything else we should know about you, Johns? Christ, here I am lettin’ you roll dice with our lives when you . . .”
Without warning Johns caught her wrists. As Fry struggled he pulled her arms around his body, forcing her into an embrace. He pressed her hands against the small of his back. She felt something hard and leathery running along his spine. Dimly she realized what it was and stopped struggling.
Johns released her hands and turned so she could see. A thick, jagged scar zigzagged his backbone, like a purple shoelace.
“My first run-in with Riddick. Went for the sweet spot and missed. They had to leave a piece of the shiv in there,” Johns added, steely eyes locking on hers. “I can feel it sometimes . . . pressin’ against the cord. Feel it movin’ under my skin. Like little spiders tryin’ to chew their way out. So maybe the care and feeding of my nerve-ends is my business.”
Bloated with self-pity but not a drop of human mercy, Fry thought, disgust brimming over into hatred. “You coulda helped—and you didn’t.”
Johns shrugged and began gathering the scattered shells. “Yeah. Well, look to thine own ass first. Right, Carolyn?”
He used her name like an icepick, reminding Fry that she had tried to cancel everyone’s ticket to save her skin.
Through her fuming anger Fry was aware of jabbering shouts outside. The frantic Arabic was punctuated by a single English word. “Captain!” The Muslims were calling. “Captain!”
Suddenly Rashad appeared in the doorway. “Captain, quick!” he said breathlessly.
Fry shouldered past him. “I’m not your fucking captain, okay?”
She strode outside, closely followed by Rashad. Johns stayed behind long enough to wrap his brain in a silky turban of morphine before joining the others.
The survivors were gathered on a ridge, silently staring at the shimmering sky.
It looked like a drug-inspired laser-show. An immense arch curved overhead, like a black rainbow. Darkly luminous, deeply ominous, it hung over them like a funeral wreath.
They watched hypnotically, as the huge arch kept rising, inching toward the twin suns.
Shazza was the first to rouse from her trance. She grabbed Fry’s shoulder and shook her awake. “If we need anythin’ from the crash ship—I suggest we kic
k on!” Shazza declared. “That Sand Cat’s solar-powered.”
But as the survivors raced toward the vehicle, an enormous shadow crept across the desert . . .
Johns risked missing the bus to retrieve his shotgun shells from the main house.
He swung out the door and ran awkwardly to catch up to the Sand Cat. Riddick reached down and reeled him aboard. For a moment his face was inches from Johns’s.
“Don’t wanna miss this,” Riddick grinned.
“Lookit!” Audrey cried. “Lookit!”
They turned back and saw the rim of a colossal planet, cresting over the horizon. Fry realized the luminous arch was actually the planet’s ring. It’s happening too quick, she realized, fear booming through her belly.
Shazza seemed to have the same thought. Her long black hair flared around her head as she stepped hard on the accelerator. The Sand Cat responded, engine whining as the vehicle bumped and rocked across the desert. When they entered the maze of giant bones Shazza didn’t slow down, weaving wildly through the obstacle course. The Sand Cat hit a rough bump, spilling some percussive flares. We need those, Fry thought frantically, but it was too late to stop.
Behind them, the shadow was spreading across the desert as if in pursuit. Shazza kept the Cat moving, skillfully guiding the bulky vehicle through the canyon graveyard. As they roared full-throttle inside a massive ribcage, the Cat’s roll-bar smashed out some low-bridge bones, showering them with sharp chips.
Finally they reached the crash ship, but the shadow had overtaken them. They all leaped off the Cat and sprinted to the cargo container.
Huffing and sweating, Paris paused to steal a look and was transfixed.
He stood rooted in stunned awe, like Lot’s wife, as he watched the gigantic black planet swallow up the universe.
The survivors scurried for the battery bay with the fervent urgency of ants before a storm. Elbowing ahead, Johns yanked the first power cell from its socket and began dragging it over the deck. Riddick yanked a second cell and swung it onto his shoulder. Muscles oiled with sweat, Riddick shot the struggling Johns a kiss-my-ass grin as he passed.
Ignoring his stampeding heartbeat, Johns awkwardly shouldered the leaden cell and stumbled after Riddick.
Shazza wheeled the Cat closer to the ship. Riddick dumped the first cell onto the vehicle, Johns the second. They were racing each other—and the rapidly approaching eclipse. Everyone kept working feverishly. Fry loaded cutting torches onto the Cat and went back to help Audrey with a case of food.
As Riddick emerged, hauling another cell, he glanced up. The planet’s dark ring already blotted out the yellow sun, creating a surreal orange and black twilight. The red sun’s glare highlighted the nearby pinnacles and they loomed like witches’ hats against a Halloween sky.
Last call, Riddick observed ruefully.
“Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Fry shouted.
But as Riddick eased the heavy cell onto the Cat, he knew they wouldn’t make it. Their daylight was almost used up.
It was as if God was closing the blinds. And as the orange sky darkened, a faint, high-pitched squealing drifted across the dusk.
“Keep working. Don’t stop!” Fry warned.
But Paris couldn’t resist. He squinted in the direction of the sound.
The plump dealer sniffed the air like a point dog and saw the pinnacles standing in the distance. Yes, Paris decided, the sounds are definitely coming from the pinnacles. Pleased with his little discovery, he lifted the case of liquor.
Before Paris reached the Cat, the giant ring began blotting out the red sun. Only the fading halos of orange light around the pinnacles kept the night at bay.
Suddenly a second darkness swept over the survivors. They all stopped, heads turning toward the growing, high-pitched clamor. When Fry located the source her legs turned to water.
It billowed out of the pinnacles like writhing black smoke. Backlit by orange coronal light it seemed to be thick volcanic ash spewing from the hollow peaks. But after a few seconds Fry realized these were living things. Newly hatched creatures squealing in delight over their first nightfall.
“Jesus,” Johns growled. “How many can there . . . ?”
His words trailed off as the hatchlings kept coming in waves, blotting out what little light remained. Thank God they’re moving away from us, Fry thought, gaping at the dense black clouds of hatchlings boiling across the sky like thunderheads.
It was wishful thinking.
As she watched, one huge wave of creatures cleaved away from another, and peeled back toward them, screeching wildly as they came.
“Just a suggestion,” Paris offered, backing toward the ship, “but perhaps we should flee.”
“Cargo hold!” Fry yelled. “Everyone in the cargo hold! Lesgo! Lesgo! Lesgo!”
The survivors scrambled for the safety of the cargo container. When Fry reached the metal hold she turned back and saw Riddick and Shazza still coming. Shazza had trouble running and Riddick was dragging her along. Just behind them the squealing, twisting torrent of hatchlings was descending like a tornado.
Riddick and Shazza hit the dirt an instant before the screeching wave swooped low, skimming inches over their heads. They seemed to suck everything from the air, leaving nothing for Shazza to breathe. She shut her eyes tight, face pressed against the alien sand and lungs swelling as if she were underwater.
Riddick, on the other hand, was fascinated. He lay on his back, staring at the roiling, shrieking mass above his head with no more fear than a kid looking up at the stars. Until he decided to experiment.
Probing very carefully, Riddick eased his bone shiv into the black swirl above him. Instantly something slapped at it. When Riddick pulled it back the blade was whittled down to a jagged nub. It’s like a river of razor blades, he realized, heart quickening.
Shazza’s heartbeat was galloping like a mad horse. She lay huddled against Riddick, fists clenched and skin prickling with a thousand alien species of vermin. Jovian slime worms, Venusian snapping tarantulas, Ovidian vampire snakes, Magellan earwigs . . . every crawling, oozing, loathsome life-form imaginable was swarming over her skin.
Nerves frayed like violin strings, Shazza heard a discordant screech inside her skull, like chalk on a slate—and snapped. She whipped a panicky look at the nearby ship. Not that far, she told herself, mind screeching with terror as she wormed toward the cargo hold.
Abruptly, the gibbering swarm dissolved. In the sudden quiet, Shazza lifted her head. They were gone. Tentatively she got to her feet . . .
Audrey saw the whole thing from the cargo hold. The black swirl rose up and circled, as if lost. A moment later Shazza awkwardly stood up.
Audrey waved her arms and shouted, “Tell her to stay there. Stay down, Shazza! JUST STAY DOWN!”
Riddick extended a hand to stop her, but Shazza started running toward the ship.
“NO, NO!” Audrey shrieked as the dark cloud gathered above Shazza’s stumbling form. “NO! NO! NO!”
Shazza heard too late. She half-turned as the screaming cloud enveloped her—then vanished. Audrey stood stunned at the mouth of the hold, peering out at the silent emptiness.
Without warning a squealing torrent blew past the doors. Horrified, Audrey caught a last glimpse of Shazza whirling in the center of the howling storm, her body shredded into bloody kite tails, before she disappeared into the lowering darkness.
The others saw it, too. Reflexively they shrank back from the mouth of the hold. But Audrey couldn’t move. Paralyzed with terror, she watched helplessly as Riddick stirred, checked right and left as if about to cross a busy street, and slowly got to his feet.
Too slowly, Audrey thought. She tried to shout but nothing came.
Clapping his hands clean, Riddick strolled to the hold like a man on vacation.
A familiar clicking rose up behind him. Fry moved to the doors. She knew that sound better than anyone.
CLICKETY-CLICK . . . CLICKETY-CLICK . . .
As
the sound grew louder, Riddick bent to pick something up. It was Shazza’s breather. Fry looked behind him and saw the pinnacles crumbling—as if being eaten from within.
The only light remaining was a narrow strip of orange flame shooting up from the massive rim of the ascending planet. The falling darkness, disintegrating pinnacles, and relentless clicking came to an eerie crescendo as Riddick suddenly broke into a flat-out sprint—as if pursued by an unseen predator.
Just as Riddick reached the hold, the narrow red corona flickered out like a candle, and the world plunged into perpetual night.
At the mouth of the hold, Riddick lifted his goggles, and looked out with his jaguar eyes. Riddick’s night vision gave him a clearer image of the creatures emerging from their collapsed nests. He could crudely trace their features: large, mammalian predators with hammerheads and vicious talons. They launched themselves into the night sky, leathery wings spread, gliding, clicking, searching . . .
Like bats, Riddick realized, clicking for echo location . . . Sounding out a world they haven’t inhabited for twenty-two years . . .
“What is it?” Fry asked, watching his face. “What’s happening?”
Riddick lowered the goggles over his eyes. “Like I said. Ain’t me you gotta worry about.”
The hold’s vaultlike doors boomed shut. Locked inside, with only their handlights, the survivors huddled like Neanderthals in a cave, listening to the yowls of the circling sabertooths.
Audrey stubbornly resisted the lockdown, hoping for a miracle. “What if . . . what if she’s still out there . . .” she insisted, “. . . still alive?”
“Well,” Johns rumbled. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions here . . . but remember that boneyard? These just might be the very same fuckers that killed every other living thing on this hell-planet, okay? Chances of Shazza knockin’ on that door soon just about zero squared.”