Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Oh, Moki, don’t toy with them. Aren’t things bad enough already?”

  “Who’s toying? I sense a strange power in me. I have a feeling I just might be Maui, or at least his avatar. I tell you, Bati, I’m here in this place at this time for a reason. Perhaps this is a sign as to why.”

  Kolabati grabbed his hand and tried to lead him down the slope.

  “Moki, no. Come back to the house. Work on that new sculpture you started.”

  He pulled free. “Later. After I’ve told them who I am.”

  She watched him stride back up to the rim and face the Niihauans, saw him pound his chest and gesture to the fires below and then to the night sky above. The traditional Hawaiians stepped back from him and whispered among themselves. Then the alii gestured to one of the younger men, who stepped forward and drove his spear into Moki’s chest.

  Kolabati screamed.

  His consciousness is fuzzy, but he still has control, even though his being is in solution.

  Such a strange feeling to have all his tissues—bones, brain, organs, nerves, intestines—distilled to liquid. All that he was resides now in a sack suspended from the hub of the four-spoked wheel that was once his body. The spokes have grown thicker, longer, and the stony womb has enlarged to accommodate his increased size. A cavern now, stretching downward into the infinity where the cold fire burns. The icy glow from below chills the sack where he grows, where his components reorganize into his new form. The petrous columns that arch across the cavern act as conduits for the fear, the violence, the pain, the misery they siphon from the surface, feeding him, shaping him.

  His new form shall be ready by the undawn on Friday.

  But now it is time for the next step—to deny them sight of the sun.

  PART TWO

  TWILIGHT

  MONDAY

  Fellow Travelers

  WFPW-FM

  And in business news, we are witnessing a global collapse of the world’s stock markets. The Nikkei Exchange has crashed. All stocks from Hong Kong, throughout Europe, and in London are in free-fall. There is no reason to expect the U.S. exchanges to fare any better when they open in New York this morning. We are witnessing the greatest financial cataclysm in history.

  Precious metals, however, are a different story. Gold opened in Hong Kong at twenty-four hundred fifty-one dollars an ounce and went through the roof from there. Silver opened at an astounding fifty-seven dollars an ounce and hasn’t stopped rising. No price seems too high to bid on these metals.

  Manhattan

  Hank thought of his bags of silver coins as he watched his TV. He’d called that right. And he knew he was just as right about the food. The picture flickered now and again, but he never totally lost power. He had a battery-powered portable ready if needed. About the only things on were preachers, movies, and news—disastrous news.

  The president had proclaimed a state of national emergency but the armed forces were proving ineffective against an enemy of such overwhelming numbers and so intimately mixed with the population they were meant to protect. Soldiers with wives, husbands, children, parents were staying home to protect their own. The remainder were vastly outnumbered. For every hole they plugged with explosives—in the instances where they could safely use explosives—two more opened up elsewhere. People were quickly losing confidence in the government’s ability to manage the situation. The social contract—if such a thing had ever existed—was dissolving.

  He listened at the door. Quiet out there. He wondered if any of the Kickers had left the basement yet. Probably waiting for sunrise. But why wait till dawn?

  He raised one of the window shutters a couple of inches and peeked out. The sky was getting lighter now. The night things should be on their way back to the holes already if they wanted to make it before sunrise. Should he risk stepping outside his little cocoon? Might be good for the Kickers to see their Fearless Leader out and about before anyone else.

  Hank lifted the bar off the door and opened it an inch or so for a quick peek. Dim out there. All the lights either out or broken. The only illumination came from broken windows at the ends of the hallway.

  Someone out there. Down the hall to his left a still form lay curled on its side. A long trail of smeared blood ran from his doorway to the body. No one else in sight. No things either. Who was that? Looked vaguely male. Drexler?

  He stepped outside, twisted the knob to make sure it wouldn’t lock, and closed the door behind him. He’d just started along the blood trail when he heard an angry buzz from far down the hall behind him. He whirled. He couldn’t see anything, but he knew that buzz. He’d heard it enough these past nights. Wings. Big, double dragonfly wings. And then he heard another sound—the gnashing teeth of a chew wasp.

  Terror rammed a fist down hard on his bladder. Too early! He’d left the room too damn early.

  The buzz grew louder, angrier, closer. And then he saw it, hurtling down the hall at a level of about five feet, directly at him. The grinding of the teeth picked up tempo. With a scream building in his throat, Hank leaped back to his door, pushed through and slammed it closed—

  —right on the chew wasp’s head. Its crystalline teeth gnashed in fury as it struggled to squeeze into the room. Hank kept pressure on the door, not daring to let up for an instant. If it got through, no telling what it would do to him. Worse, it might be attracting others. Had to do something—now.

  He spotted the door bar a few feet away. He stretched for it, got a grip, then swung it with all he had, once, twice, three times, crushing the creature’s head.

  When its jaws stopped working, he eased his pressure on the door and let it slip to the floor. He quick-kicked it into the hall and then slammed the door. He leaned against it, gasping, waiting for his heart to slow.

  He decided he didn’t need to be the first out and about.

  He gave it another ten minutes, then stepped out into the hall again. But this time he stayed by the door, squinting left and right, listening for the sound of wings. A bit brighter now. And still quiet.

  Taking a deep breath, he once again approached the corpse. As he neared he recognized Drexler. Well, sort of. If not for the white suit—now 90 percent red—he’d never have been able to tell. His body was shrunken, wizened, all his exposed skin shredded, chewed up but strangely bloodless. His eyes had been eaten out, leaving red, raw sockets.

  How did you die, Drexie?

  As if in answer, he heard a sound, something between a cluck and a gurgle. It seemed to come from the corpse. As he stared, he saw the throat work, the jaw move. But he couldn’t be alive!

  And then Drexler’s mouth opened and Hank saw something moving inside. No, not inside anymore, slithering out. A flat, wide, pincered head, dark brown where it wasn’t bloody red, followed by a sinuous six-foot body as big around as a beer can, powered by countless fine, rubbery legs, all dripping red.

  Some sort of giant millipede, squeezing out Drexler’s gullet and coming right for him. And it was fast.

  Hank yelped and backpedaled until his back slammed against the wall. He turned and tried to climb it.

  But the thing wasn’t interested in him. It veered toward the doorway and raced down toward the lobby. Heading for the street and nearest hole, no doubt.

  He’d never seen anything like that before. It had to be the latest addition to the bug horde.

  Leaving Drexler’s remains behind, he slipped downstairs to the front lobby area. The big double doors stood open, the left half off its hinges. He eased through and stood on the front steps.

  Monday morning. The sky looked funny. Not quite sunrise yet. Ordinarily the streets would have been jumping by now, clogged with cabs and cars and delivery trucks. But nothing moved. No, wait. Up the street he spotted a garbage-can-size beetle with a wicked set of mandibles spread wide before it, scuttling by at the corner, heading uptown; an occasional flying thing whizzed through the air, also in the general direction of Central Park. Except for those, the streets were empty. Wher
e had the giant millipede gone? How could it have got around the corner so fast?

  He went back inside. Where the hell was everyone? And then he remembered Drexler screaming through the door something about bugs in the cellar.

  He hurried to the stairwell to the basement, and when he saw the smashed door, he knew what he’d find beyond it.

  His in-house Kicker crew had been wiped out.

  In that instant he saw his next move with perfect clarity: He had to get out of town. And he knew just where to go. During the summer he’d taken a few jaunts down to the Jersey Shore, to places like Asbury Park and Seaside Heights. Even rented a bungalow for a week in an oceanfront town called Chadwick Beach. Most of the houses there were little more than plywood boxes, but he remembered a couple of places that looked fairly sturdy, equipped with storm shutters and heat. They’d be empty now, the beaches and boardwalks all but deserted, waiting for the summer renters—renters who wouldn’t be coming. A perfect hideaway.

  Had to get moving. The guys had left a couple of hand trucks in the lobby, and a van out back. He could fill that with cases of food and haul ass out of here. It would take a bunch of trips with the hand truck, but if he didn’t waste time, he could be on the road in less than an hour.

  WFPW-FM

  JO: Hi, this is Jo and Freddy. Yeah, I know we’re early but we’re the only ones left at the station. No one knows where the other guys are.

  FREDDY: Headed for the hills, if they’re smart.

  JO: Yeah. But we’re not smart. We’re sticking this out. In fact, we’re moving into the station. We’re living here, man, and we’re staying on the air as long as they let us. And since nobody else is around, that could be a long time.

  FREDDY: Yeah. Jo and Freddy all day and all night.

  JO: Right. So let’s get this started. It’s Monday morning, May twenty-second. The sun rose at 7:40 A.M. According to the Sapir curve, it will set at 5:35 this afternoon, leaving us with a measly nine hours and fifty-five minutes of sunlight today.

  FREDDY: So do what you have to do quick and get home soon. And be careful out there, folks. Be good to each other. We’re all we’ve got left.

 

  JO: Hate to interrupt the Youngbloods, man, but you’re not gonna believe this: The Pentagon is … gone. I mean, gone, man. One of those holes opened under it during the night and it just ain’t there no more.

  “Isn’t the sun coming up?” Bill said, looking out the window. The sky was brightening but no sun, just a strange yellow light.

  Jack came up beside him. “Looks overcast.”

  “But those aren’t clouds up there, or even haze. It’s like … I don’t know what it’s like. Looks like a yellow scum of some sort’s been poured over the sky.”

  “Whatever,” Jack said. “We’ve waited long enough. The boogie beasts have called it a night and it’s time to roll. You ready?”

  “Soon as I get back from Carol’s place. She needs to pick up some things.”

  “All right. I’ve got a couple of stops to make myself. When I get back, you and I and the Amazing Criswell will all head out to the Ashe brothers’ airfield.”

  “Okay. I’ll be ready.”

  “Don’t get lost. There’s not a lot of time to spare.” He turned to go, then turned back. “How you getting there?”

  “Car.”

  Jack reached into his belt and pulled out a pistol. He held it out to Bill, grip first.

  “Better take this.”

  Bill stared at the thing. Its dark surface gleamed dully in the diffuse light from the window. It seemed as if some sort of alien creature had invaded the apartment.

  “A gun? I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  “I’ll show you. First you—”

  “I couldn’t use it, Jack. Really.”

  “It’s ugly out there, Bill. People were calling this city a jungle last week. They thought it was bad before the first hole opened up. They had no idea how bad it could get. Not much trouble right around here—the creeps are no more anxious to get near that hole than anyone else—but you get too far up- or downtown and you’ll run into spots that would make a jungle look like a Sunday afternoon drive. Take the gun. Just for show if nothing else.”

  “All right.” Bill took the pistol and was surprised at its weight. “But what about you?”

  Jack smiled. “Plenty more where that came from. Besides, I never carry just one.”

  As Jack hurried off, Bill slipped the pistol under his belt and pulled his sweater down over it. Then he took the stairs down to the apartment where Carol had spent the night.

  Jack found Julio’s open but damn near deserted. Half of the front windows were smashed, most of the dead plants had been ripped from their hangers. And worst of all, something had gnawed on the Free Beer Tomorrow … sign.

  “Where is everybody?”

  Julio paused in his sweeping up the glass fragments and shrugged. “Some hiding, some gone. You hear from Gia?”

  “Yeah. Spoke to her during the night and this morning. They’re doing okay. No bugs out their way.”

  Not yet, at least.

  Gia had sounded on edge, but he’d expected that—ripped from her home, living in a bunker. He kept telling her it was all for the best. And he believed it.

  “You planning on staying open?”

  Another shrug. “Don’ know. Hate to give in to the bugs, but we spent last night in the cellar and it was scary. The power’s been off and on. If I got no power, I gotta serve warm beer. And that’s no good.”

  “Close up and get some stuff together. I got a safe place for you—at least temporarily safe. We’ve got room. Whattaya say?”

  He watched the muscular little man as he looked around the place that was his life, his livelihood. He knew how stubborn Julio could be. They’d been friends forever. Jack wanted to see him safe.

  Finally Julio nodded. “Yeah, why not? But just at night. I stay open in the day. Every day.”

  At least that’s something, Jack thought.

  And who knew how many more days there’d be?

  In the strange, shadowless yellow half-light that was passing for day, Bill skirted the park to the south and headed east across town in a borrowed Volvo. No roadblocks and no traffic to speak of. No police, either, and that concerned him. As he readied to turn uptown he glanced at the Queensboro Bridge.

  “Carol!” he said as he screeched to a halt. “Look!”

  “Oh, my God!”

  A section of the span had broken up and now floated in the air, tethered to the rest of the bridge by twisted pieces of steel that groaned in the breeze.

  “A gravity hole,” Carol said. “And it was such a beautiful bridge.”

  “The engineers have been saying for years what poor shape the bridges were in. Now we know how right they were.”

  Aiming for the Upper East Side, he drove along the middle of the street. With the exception of Glaeken’s building, it seemed as if almost every window in the city had been broken.

  He eased to the left and upped their speed when he spotted a mob clustered around the front of a grocery store.

  “Nelson and I used to grocery shop there.”

  Nobody was shopping now. Pillaging was more like it. People were jumping in and out of the broken door and windows, looking for anything remotely edible. But with nothing left to pillage, the enraged mob was tearing out the empty shelves and hurling them into the street. Three men were brawling over what looked like a can of tuna fish.

  Farther on, groups of tight-faced people hung about on the glass-bejeweled sidewalks, clustered in tense circles, glancing nervously over their shoulders this way and that with fear-haunted eyes. He saw three women standing around a doorway sobbing as a sheet-covered body was carried out. The people on the streets looked like ghosts.

  “It’s falling apart.” Carol had her arms crossed in front of her chest as if to ward off a chill. “Just like Nelson said it would.”

  As Bill was s
lowing for a red light at 63rd—habit, pure habit—somebody shot at them. The bullet punched through the rear window and smashed the right rear side pane on its way out. Bill floored the gas and sped uptown, ignoring traffic lights the rest of the way.

  He double-parked in front of Carol’s apartment building and led her toward the shattered front door. Inside, she gasped when she saw a body on the floor. Someone had covered it with a drape from one of the ruined windows.

  The elevator ride was slow and rough, as if the motors weren’t getting enough juice. As soon as the doors opened on her floor, Carol bolted from the car and ran down the hall. Bill noticed some drying brown stains on the carpet and what looked like a trail of the same leading past her apartment but said nothing. She had her door open by the time he caught up with her. He stayed close behind as she entered.

  He bumped up against her back when she stopped dead inside the threshold.

  “It’s a wreck!”

  The windows were broken, the furniture gnawed and gouged.

  “Good thing you weren’t here.”

  If Nelson hadn’t run off, they might have stayed here last night, and might have ended up like that corpse in the lobby.

  So damn it all, Bill was glad he’d taken off. Because it meant one less barrier between him and Carol. He loathed himself for that. But he wanted her. God, how he wanted her.

  He forced himself to pull back and take her arm.

  “Let’s move it.”

  She led him to a storage closet where they each grabbed a suitcase, then to the master bedroom. She pulled clothing out of drawers, handed it to him, and he stuffed it in a suitcase. Then she opened a closet. She stopped and touched one of Nelson’s suits.