Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)

by F. Paul Wilson

  Bugs … the great room was full of them, mobbed with them. They obscured the walls, perched on the furniture, floated in the air. All kinds of bugs, from hovering chew wasps to drifting men-of-war, and all facing the same direction, away from the smashed windows, toward the interior of the room. Jack’s legs urged him to get the hell out of here, but he had to see what held them so spellbound.

  He dropped to his knees and inched forward. The bugs remained oblivious to him. He stretched out on the bare floor and craned his neck around the edge of the entryway to bring the rest of the room into view.

  More bugs. So tightly packed he could barely see through the crush. Then a gust of wind sluiced through the windows, undulating the hovering mass enough for Jack to catch a look at the center of the great room.

  They all faced the sculpture, Moki’s final work—the only object in the room on which the bugs had not perched. Its long, arching wooden spokes lay bare for their entire length, from where they sprang from the walls to the jagged, unwieldy aggregate of black and red lava fragments at their center. The bugs hovered about it, every one of them faced toward the center like rapt churchgoers in silent benediction.

  And the lava center … it pulsed with an unholy yellow light, slowly, as if in time with the beat of a massive, hidden heart.

  A single glimpse and then Jack’s view was obscured again. But that glimpse had been enough to break him out in a sweat and send him sliding back along the floor. Something about that sculpture, the way it glowed, the reverence of the bugs, the entire scene disturbed him on a level too deep to comprehend or understand. Something within him, not from his personal experience, but some sort of racial memory, a warning carved on his hindbrain or encoded in his genes, flooded him with circulating fear, leaving him unable to react in any way but flight.

  And when he was far enough down the hall, he rose to his feet and ran around a corner where he stopped, panting. He resented the dread crawling under his skin. He prided himself on his ability to govern his fear, channel it, use it. Now it was nearly out of control. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, willing himself to be calm. Half a minute of that and he was in control again. But his fingers still trembled on their own in the adrenaline aftermath.

  He moved toward the stairs—where he found Ba. And a woman struggling in his iron grip.

  Jack shook his head. “Bati … some things never change.”

  Ba had stayed behind in case something like this happened—or if Jack didn’t make it back.

  “I was going back,” she said through clenched teeth. “But my way!”

  “I don’t think you can get back, unless it’s with us.”

  With her free hand she reached behind her neck and unclasped the necklace, then held it out to Jack.

  “Take it then.”

  Jack blinked. “What?”

  “And while you’re at it,” she said, tapping the center of her forehead, “put a bullet right here.”

  “Bati—” He didn’t know what to say.

  “You’d rather watch me die slowly?”

  Damn her. Always manipulating. She knew he wouldn’t shoot her, and knew he couldn’t sit and watch her rot.

  To Ba, he said, “Let her go.” To Kolabati: “Put that back on, and get in the car. You can decide after you’ve met Glaeken, but you are coming with us.”

  “Yes,” Ba said. “We must leave. I fear we might already be too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  A tortured look flickered across his features, all the more startling because of their usual waxy impenetrability.

  “I do not know. I only know I must return to the Missus.”

  “Okay, Big Guy. We’re on our way.”

  They escorted Kolabati to the Isuzu and put her in the passenger seat with Jack behind her where he could keep an eye on her. He wasn’t letting her out of his sight.

  They weathered the cascade of fish bouncing off the hood and roof as the car swerved through the downhill switchbacks. When Ba finally hit pavement he picked up speed. The wheels skidded on dead fish and clumps of wet seaweed.

  “Easy, Ba. If we crack up, we may never get back to the plane, and then this whole trip will be for nothing. If it’s not already.”

  “I must get back to the Missus. Quickly. She needs me.”

  Jack studied his grim, intent features in the dashboard glow. Ba was scared too. But not of bugs. Scared for his adopted family. Why? Why now? What was happening back there?

  WEDNESDAY

  In the Still of the Night

  WFPW-FM

  FREDDY: It’s a minute after midnight. A little over nine hours till the light.

  JO: We’re almost halfway home. Hang in there, man.

  Monroe, Long Island

  Alan felt like a vampire.

  Why not? He was living like one. Up all night, sleeping when he could during the light. Reminded him of his days as an intern. Thirty-six hours straight without a wink hadn’t been at all unusual. But he was older now, and the stress of the nights—the insane paradiddles on the storm shutters, the incessant gnawing at the outer walls—carried over into the dwindling daytime, keeping his naps fitful and restless.

  He was exhausted, plain and simple. But he couldn’t let Sylvia know. She was a wreck as it was. The only time she got any rest herself was when she could curl up in the basement with Jeffy and Mess and Phemus, secure in the knowledge that Alan was patrolling the upper reaches of Toad Hall.

  He was just finishing one of those patrols now, wheeling through the first-floor halls, checking the candles, replacing the ones that were guttering into glowing puddles. The power had failed around midday. He’d thought it might be just a local failure but the radio said LIPA was off-line for good. Another time it might have been romantic. Knowing what was outside, straining to get in, made it anything but.

  So now with the midnight rounds completed and fresh candles flickering in every room, Alan settled himself down in the TV room and turned on the radio. Strange how a little adversity could change your habits. A week ago he wouldn’t have thought twice about leaving the radio playing while he’d made his rounds. Now, with the power out and batteries scarce, he didn’t leave it on a moment longer than necessary.

  Jo and Freddy were still hanging in there, God bless ’em. Their voices were ragged, sometimes they were completely incoherent—their fatigue enhanced by a little herb, perhaps—as they broadcasted in shifts; their signal seemed at times like it was generated by a collection of frantic, wheel-spinning gerbils, but they weren’t giving in to the fear. Neither was a fair share of their remaining listeners.

  And neither was Alan.

  Only problem was they didn’t play doo-wop. They played good stuff, some new but mostly so-called “classic rock.” As far as Alan was concerned, the real classic stuff had been sung on street corners—with the bass vocal and popping fingers for rhythm, and close, soaring, three- and four-part harmonies telling the story. That was where it all began. Some great stuff had come out of the sixties, and even the seventies, but the heart of it all, the classic end of the music, had begun in ’55 and tapered into the sixties until the Brits began reinterpreting the music.

  “Eight Miles High” came on. Alan could live with that. The Byrds knew their harmony—even if it was two-part masquerading as three-part—and he was losing himself in McGuinn’s Coltranesque solo when he heard an unfamiliar sound from the front hall. He turned off the radio.

  Splintering wood.

  He pulled the tooth-studded billy from the pouch behind his backrest, laid it in his lap, and wheeled toward the front of the house. As soon as he entered the foyer he saw the problem. After nights of constant effort, the chew wasps finally had managed to rip off the metal weather strip from the bottom of the front door and were now busily at work gnawing rat holes at the floor line. Sharp-toothed lower jaws were visible in two spots, sawing relentlessly at the wood, gouging off pieces, building piles of splinters.

  Not good. In no time they�
��d have a couple of holes big enough to wriggle through. And then Toad Hall would be full of chew wasps—and spearheads, too, no doubt.

  All looking for Jeffy. But to get to Jeffy they’d have to go through Sylvia. The very thought of that sickened him.

  But to get to Sylvia they’ve got to get through me.

  Alan looked around for some sort of backup defense, something to shore up the weak point. He spotted the heavy brass étagère to the right of the door.

  Perfect.

  He rolled over to it, removed all the netsuke and piled them gently in the corner, then pulled the étagère over onto its side. He tried to let it down easy but it hit the floor with a clang. He found that maneuvering it against the door from his wheelchair was all but impossible, so he slid from the seat onto his knees and worked from the floor.

  As he was guiding the thick brass back of the piece against the door, a chew wasp began to wriggle its head through the hole it had made. As its eyes lit on Alan, its movements became more frantic, its toothy jaws gnashed the air hungrily. Alan grabbed his club and bashed in the creature’s skull with two blows. It wriggled for an instant, then lay still, its carcass wedged in the hole, blocking it.

  Alan fitted the étagère snugly against the door, then pulled his wheelchair closer. He’d stocked its backrest pouch with the equivalent of a tool chest. Hammer, nails, saw, ax, pliers, screwdriver—anything he might need on short notice during the night.

  He took out the hammer and began driving a half dozen of the biggest nails he had into the seams between the tiles along the outer edge of the étagère. Damn shame to mess up this beautiful marble but it could be replaced. The people besieged in Toad Hall could not.

  Alan pulled himself back up into his chair and regarded his handiwork. It looked pretty stable. With only wing power behind them, he doubted the bugs were strong enough to push back the heavy brass piece even if he’d left it unsecured. But now, with nails acting as stoppers, he was certain they’d be frustrated until morning. He heard sharp little teeth scraping against the far side of the metal.

  “Let’s see you chew a hole in that.”

  Tomorrow, though, he’d have to find some way to reinforce the outer surface of the door.

  Maybe Ba would be back by then. Alan hoped so. As much as he insisted on his own independence and refused to lean on anyone else, Toad Hall was awfully big. Too big to be adequately patrolled by one man in a wheelchair. With the welfare of Sylvia and Jeffy at stake, he couldn’t let his pride endanger them. As long as Sylvia insisted on staying here, he’d do his best to protect her. But he wished he had Ba for backup. Even more, he wished they’d all moved in with Glaeken last Saturday when the old guy had offered.

  “Alan?”

  He wheeled around and found Sylvia standing in the foyer entrance. She wore the loose sweater and baggy old jeans that were serving as her pajamas during the siege. Her face was pale and lined from the pillowcase. She did not look like the Sylvia Nash who’d once appeared in The New York Times Magazine with her unique bonsai art—her beautiful trees now lay smashed and broken in the shattered remains of the greenhouse—but Alan found her as beautiful as ever.

  “Hey. You’re supposed to be catching some sleep.”

  “I heard all that banging. I thought something was wrong.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you, but the chewers have started to gnaw rat holes in the door.”

  She came over and dropped onto his lap; she slipped her arms around him and hugged.

  “I wasn’t sleeping. I couldn’t. I’m worried about Ba. I’m afraid he won’t come back. And if he doesn’t, if he’s … dead … it will be my fault for letting him go. I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Alan put his arms around her waist. “We’ve been through this, and if anyone can take care of himself, it’s Ba.”

  “But I’m worried about you too, Alan. When I’m down in the basement with Jeffy and you’re up here alone I begin to think I’ve been very foolish, very selfish in insisting we stay here. But for some strange reason I feel it more than ever tonight. So I’ve made up my mind. Tomorrow we move in with Glaeken. Hopefully Ba will be back by then and we can all leave here as a group. I want our little family back together again, Alan. Toad Hall is our home, but we’ve got to survive. That comes first.”

  He squeezed her against him. “I know what this place means to you. I know how tough it is for you to leave it.”

  “It’s like giving up.” He could feel her jaw muscles bunch as she spoke. “I hate to give up.”

  “But it’s not giving up or giving in. It’s a strategic withdrawal so you can live to fight another day when you’ve marshaled your forces.”

  “I love you,” she said, leaning her head against his. “Sometimes I wonder why you put up with me and my stubbornness.”

  “Maybe it’s because of your stubbornness. Maybe I like a woman who don’t take no shit from nobody, not even this Rasalom guy and his bugs.”

  Sylvia jerked her head up, fluttered her eyelids, and put on her Southern belle voice.

  “Whah, Doctah Bulmuh! Ah don’t believe Ah’ve evah heard you speak that way! Especially in front of a layday!”

  “I only speak that way when I’m under a lady.”

  They kissed—simultaneously, spontaneously. Whether it was body language or the kind of telepathy that develops between soul mates, Alan didn’t know. And didn’t care. All he knew at that instant was that it was time for a kiss. And Sylvia knew it too. So they kissed. Simple.

  “When was the last time we made love?” he heard her say as he nuzzled her neck and inhaled the scent of her.

  “Too long.”

  They hadn’t had a chance even to sleep together since the attacks.

  “Another good reason to move in with Glaeken,” she said. “An excellent reason.”

  They sat there for a while, Sylvia cradled on his lap, and held each other, listening to the bugs gnaw at the edges of the brass étagère. Alan realized again how much he loved this woman, how attuned he was to her, like no other person he had ever known. The thought of her coming to harm was unbearable. Tomorrow they’d move to Glaeken’s and she’d be safe, as safe as anyone could be in this madness.

  But first he had to see them through the night.

  The Bunker

  “What’s that?”

  Gia bolted upright in bed. A small night-light burned but otherwise the bunker was dark. Beyond the curtain, Abe snored. But between his loud, discordant rumbles … another sound.

  Rasping … grinding …

  Without disturbing Vicky, Gia slipped out of bed and padded around the curtain to where Abe slept. He lay on his back like a beached whale. She shook his shoulder once and he jolted awake.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Listen,” she said.

  And now, with the snoring silenced, the new sound came through loud and clear. She felt sick when she realized what it was.

  “Something’s chewing on the outer wall.”

  Abe shook his head. “No. Impossible.”

  “Listen! It’s the burrowers. Has to be.”

  Abe listened.

  “You may be right. They’re trying to get in. But they haven’t a chance. Like I said, four feet of steel-reinforced concrete—an atomic bomb they’ll need. And even then…”

  Gia shivered. It sounded good in theory, but what if whatever was out there kept it up all night, night after night, chewing up just a little wall at a time? Eventually they’d get through.

  She hurried back to bed and snuggled against Vicky. But sleep was impossible. The noise … the grinding, the chewing … went on and on.

  The Horror Channel’s Drive-In Theatre—Special All-Day Edition

  Flesh Feast (1970) Cine World Corp.

  Twilight People (1972) New Worlds

  Beyond Evil (1980) IFI-Scope III

  The Night God Screamed (1973) Cinemation

  From Hell It Came (1957) Allied Artists

  The Unearthly
(1957) Republic

  Night of the Dark Full Moon (1972) Cannon

  Bug (1977) Paramount

  Creatures of Evil (1970) Hemisphere

  The Unknown Terror (1957) 20th Century Fox

  The Day the World Ended (1956) AIP

  Scream and Scream Again (1970) Amicus/AIP

  It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World (1963) United Artists

  Monroe, Long Island

  The scrape of metal on metal.

  Alan snapped to full alert. Without hesitating he wheeled out of the game room and rolled toward the foyer. That was where it had come from. It sounded as if the étagère had moved. Alan didn’t see how that was possible, but he had his toothed billy out and ready in his lap, just in case.

  As he turned into the living room he heard the buzz of wings.

  They’re in!

  His heart pumped dread but he kept on rolling. Maybe there were only a few. Maybe—

  Something flashed toward him. He snapped his head back and it blew by his cheek, jaws grinding furiously.

  Chew wasp.

  Alan’s heart pumped madly now. He fumbled in his lap for the billy. By the time the bug had banked around for a return run, he had it ready. Visibility wasn’t great in the candlelight so he didn’t swing at it. He simply held the billy between his face and the bug and braced himself.

  The chew wasp ran into the club mouth first. It glanced off to the right and shredded its wing on the club’s teeth in passing. Alan left it flopping around on the rug and wheeled into the foyer. It wasn’t going anywhere with one wing and he could administer the coup de grâce later. Right now he needed to push that étagère back into place before any more of its friends got in.

  He smelled them first—that rotten carrion odor. And as he rounded the corner from the living room into the foyer he saw two spearheads and another chew wasp wriggle free from behind the étagère and take flight. Either they didn’t see him or they ignored him as they winged up the open curved stairway toward the darkness of the second floor.