The Tomb

by F. Paul Wilson

Jack had decided on his course of action during his first few running strides across the roof. He dodged around two of the chimneys, ran diagonally across an open area to the edge, and then turned to wait, making sure he was easily visible from the door. He didn’t want the Mother to lose too much of her momentum looking for him.

  A second later she appeared. She spotted him immediately and charged in his direction, a moon-limned shadow readying for the kill. Neil the anarchist’s flagpole blocked her path. She took a passing sidearm swipe at it and shattered the shaft so that it swung crazily in the air and toppled to the roof. She came to the generator next—and leaped over it.

  And now there was nothing between Jack and the Mother rakosh. She lowered into a crouch and hurtled toward him. Sweating, trembling, Jack kept his eyes on the taloned hands aiming for his throat. He was sure there were worse ways to die, but at this moment he could not think of one. His thoughts were fixed on what he had to do to survive this encounter—and the knowledge that what he planned might prove just as fatal as standing here and waiting for those talons to reach him.

  He’d pressed the backs of his knees against the upper edge of the low, foot-wide parapet that ran along the rim of the roof. As soon as the Mother had appeared he’d knelt atop the parapet. And now as she charged, he straightened up with his knees balanced on the outermost edge of the parapet, his feet poised over the empty alley five stories below, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. The rough concrete dug into his kneecaps but he ignored the pain. Had to concentrate completely on what he was about to do.

  The Mother became a black juggernaut, gaining momentum at an astonishing rate as she crossed the final thirty feet separating them. Jack did not move. It strained his will to the limits to kneel there and wait as certain death rushed toward him. Tension gathered in his throat until he thought he would choke. All his instincts screamed for flight. But he had to hold his place until the right instant. Making his move too soon would be as deadly as not moving at all.

  And so he waited until the outstretched talons were within five feet of him—then leaned back and allowed his knees to slip off the edge of the parapet. As he fell toward the floor of the alley, he grabbed the edge of the parapet, hoping he hadn’t dropped too soon, praying his grip would hold.

  As the front of his body slammed against the brick sidewall, Jack sensed furious motion above him. The Mother rakosh’s claws had sunk into empty air instead of his flesh. The momentum she’d built up was carrying her over the edge and into the beginning of a long fall to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a huge shadow sail over and behind him, saw frantically windmilling arms and legs. Then came a blow to the rear of his left shoulder and a searing, tearing sensation across his back that made him cry out.

  The blow jerked Jack’s left hand free of the roof edge, leaving him hanging by his right. Gasping with pain and clawing desperately for a new grip on the parapet, he couldn’t resist a quick look down to see the plummeting form of the Mother rakosh impact with the floor of the alley. He found exquisite satisfaction in the faint, dull thud that rose from below. He didn’t care how tough she was, that fall broke her neck and most of the rest of the bones in her body.

  Fighting the agony that stabbed through his left shoulder blade every time he raised his arm, Jack inched his left hand back up to the top of the parapet, then slowly, painfully, pulled himself back up to the roof.

  He lay stretched out atop the parapet, breathing hard, waiting for the fire on his back to go out. In her wild flailings to save herself from falling, one of the Mother’s talons—whether on a hand or a foot, Jack couldn’t say—must have caught his back. His shirt felt warm and sticky against his back. He gently reached around and touched his rib cage. Wet. He held his hand up before his face—it glistened darkly in the moonlight.

  Wearily, he raised himself to a sitting position with his legs straddling the parapet. He took one last look down into the alley, wondering if he could see the Mother. All was dark. He went to swing his outer leg over onto the roof and stopped—

  Something moved down there. A darker blot rustled within the shadows of the alley.

  He held his breath. Someone heard the thump of the Mother’s fall and came to investigate, right? Hoped so. Hoped that was all it was.

  More movement … along the wall … moving upward … and a scraping sound, like claws on brick …

  Something climbing the wall toward him. Didn’t need a flashlight to know what it was.

  The Mother was returning.

  22

  Groaning with disbelief and dismay—not possible … but it was happening!—he swung his legs onto the roof and staggered away from the edge. What was he going to do? No use running despite the lead he had, the Mother would surely catch up with him.

  Fire and iron … fire and iron …

  The words burned across his brain as he raced around the roof in search of some sort of weapon. No iron up here. Everything was aluminum, tin, plastic, wood. If only he could find a crowbar or even a piece of rusted iron railing—something, anything to swing at her head as she poked it up over the edge.

  Nothing. The only thing that even remotely resembled a weapon was the broken remnant of the flagpole. It wasn’t iron and it wasn’t fire … but with its sharp, splintered lower end, it might serve as a twelve-foot spear.

  He lifted it by its top end—by the ball at the tip—and hefted it. It wobbled like a vaulting pole and the oscillations caused waves of pain in his back.

  Heavy, crude, unwieldy … but it was all he had.

  Jack put it down and loped over to the edge of the roof. The Mother was no more than a dozen feet below and climbing fast.

  Not fair! he thought as he ran back to where the pole lay. He’d as good as killed her twice in ten minutes, yet here he was hurt and bleeding and she was climbing a brick wall as if nothing had happened.

  He picked up the pole by the balled end and levered it to a horizontal position. Groaning with the pain, he pointed the splintered end toward the spot where he expected the Mother to appear and began to run. His left arm began to lose strength as he ran. As the point sank toward the roof surface he clenched his teeth and forced it upward.

  Have to keep it up … go for the throat …

  Again, he knew timing would be critical: If the Mother gained the roof too soon, she’d dodge him; too late and he’d miss her.

  He saw one three-fingered hand slip over the edge of the parapet, then another. He adjusted his direction to the area above and between those hands.

  “Come on!” he screamed at her as he increased his speed. “Keep coming!”

  His voice sounded hysterical but he couldn’t let that bother him now. Had to keep that goddamned point up and ram it right through her—

  Her head appeared and then she was pulling herself up onto the parapet. Too fast! She was too fast! He couldn’t control the wavering point, couldn’t lift it high enough! He was going to miss his target!

  With a cry of rage and desperation, Jack put every pound of his body and every remaining ounce of strength left to him behind a final thrust against the balled end of the pole. Despite all his effort, the point never reached the level of the Mother’s throat. Instead, it rammed into her chest with a force that nearly dislocated Jack’s right shoulder. But Jack didn’t let up—with his eyes squeezed shut he followed through with barely a break in his stride, keeping all his weight behind the makeshift spear. A moment of resistance to the spear’s path, followed by a sensation of breaking free, then it was yanked out of his hands and he fell to his knees.

  When he looked up, his eyes were level with the top of the parapet. His heart nearly stopped when he saw the Mother still there—

  No … wait … she was on the other side of the parapet. But that couldn’t be. She’d have to be standing in mid-air. When Jack forced himself to his feet, he understood.

  The miniature flagpole had pierced the Mother rakosh through the center of her chest. The sharpened end of the pol
e had exited through her back and come to rest on the parapet of the neighboring building across the alley; the balled end lay directly in front of Jack.

  He had her. Finally, he had her.

  But the Mother wasn’t dead. She twisted on her skewer and hissed and slashed her talons at Jack in futile rage as he stood and panted a mere six feet from her. She couldn’t reach him.

  After his relief and awe faded, Jack’s first impulse was to push his end of the pole off the edge and let her fall to the ground again, but he checked himself. He had the Mother rakosh where he wanted her—neutralized. He could leave her there until he found a way to deal with her. Meanwhile, she was no danger to him or anyone else.

  And then she began to move toward him.

  Jack took a quick, faltering step back and almost fell.

  Still coming for him! His jaw dropped as he watched her reach forward with both hands and grip the pole that skewered her, then pull herself forward, pushing the pole through her chest to bring herself closer and closer to Jack.

  How could he fight a creature that didn’t feel pain? That wouldn’t die?

  He began swearing, cursing incoherently. He ran around the roof picking up pebbles, bits of litter, an aluminum can, hurling them at her. Why the hell not? About as effective as anything else he’d done to her. When he came to the emergency generator, he picked up one of the two-gallon metal cans of diesel oil and went to hurl that at her—

  —and stopped.

  Oil. Fire!

  He finally had a weapon—if it wasn’t too late.

  The Mother had pulled herself almost to within reach of the roof edge. He twisted at the metal cap but it wouldn’t budge—rusted shut. In desperation he slammed the edge of the cap twice against the generator and tried again. Pain shot through the earlier wound in his palm, but he kept up the pressure. Finally it came loose and he was up and scrambling across the roof, unscrewing the cap as he moved, thanking the faulty power grid for the last blackout. Without it, he and the other tenants wouldn’t have chipped in for an emergency generator.

  Oil sloshed over his bandaged hand as the cap came off. Jack didn’t hesitate. He leaped onto the parapet and splashed the oil over the slowly advancing rakosh. She hissed furiously and slashed at him but Jack remained just out of reach. By the time the can was empty, the air around them reeked of diesel fuel. The Mother pulled herself closer and Jack had to drop back to the roof to avoid her talons.

  He wiped his hands on his shirt and reached into his pocket for the lighter. After an instant of panic when he thought his pocket was empty, his fingers closed on it. He held it up and thumbed the little lever, praying the oil on his hand hadn’t got to the flint. It sparked, the flame shot up—and Jack smiled. For the first time since the Mother had shaken off the damage of five hollow-point rounds in the chest, Jack thought he might survive the night.

  He thrust the lighter forward but the Mother saw the flame and ripped the air with her talons. He felt the breeze as they passed within inches of his face. She wouldn’t let him near her. He couldn’t toss the lighter at her and expect an explosion of flame. Diesel fuel needed more than that to start it.

  Then he noticed that the pole was slick with the oil. He crouched next to the parapet and reached up to the ball at its end. The Mother’s talons raked by, millimeters away from his hair, but he steeled himself to hold his position as he played the flame of the lighter against the oil on the ball. For an agonizing moment, nothing happened.

  And then it caught. He watched raptly as a smoky-yellow flame—one of the loveliest sights he’d ever seen—grew and spread across the ball. From there it crept along the upper surface of the pole, straight toward the Mother. She tried to back away but was caught. The flames leaped onto her chest and fanned out over her torso. Within seconds she was completely engulfed.

  Weak with relief, Jack watched with horrid fascination as the Mother’s movements became spasmodic, wild, frenzied. He lost sight of her amid the flames and black smoke that poured skyward from her burning body. He heard sobbing—was it her? No … his own voice. Reaction to the pain and the terror and the exertion was setting in. Was it over? Was it finally over?

  He steadied himself and watched her burn. He could find no pity for her … the most murderous engine of destruction ever imagined. A killing machine that would go on—

  A low moan rose from within the conflagration. He thought he heard something that sounded like “Spa fon!”

  And then she was still. As her flaming body slumped forward, the pole cracked and broke. The Mother rakosh spun to the floor of the alley trailing smoke and flame like the loser in an aerial dogfight. And this time when she hit the ground she stayed there. Jack watched for a long time. The flames lit the beach scene painted on the alley’s opposite wall, giving it a sunset look.

  The Mother rakosh continued to burn. And she didn’t move. He watched until he was sure she would never move again.

  23

  Jack locked his apartment door and sank to the floor behind it, reveling in the air-conditioned cool. He’d stumbled down from the roof in a daze, but had remembered to pick up his Glock on the way. Weak … every cell in his body cried out in pain and fatigue. Needed rest, and probably needed a doctor for his gashed back. But no time for any of that. Had to finish off Kusum tonight.

  He pulled himself to his feet and went to the bedroom. Kolabati was still asleep. Next stop, the phone. He didn’t know if Abe had called while he was up on the roof. He doubted it; the prolonged ringing would have awakened Kolabati. He dialed the number of the shop.

  After three rings, a cautious, “Yes?”

  “It’s me, Abe.”

  “Who else should it be at this hour?”

  “Did you get everything?”

  “Just got in the door. No, I didn’t get everything. Got the timed incendiary bombs—a crate of twelve—but couldn’t get hold of any incendiary bullets before tomorrow noon. Is that soon enough?”

  “No,” Jack said, bitterly disappointed. He had to move now.

  “I got something you might use as a substitute, though.”

  “What?”

  “Come down and see.”

  “Be there in a few minutes.”

  Jack hung up and gingerly peeled the torn, blood-soaked shirt from his back. The pain had subsided to a dull, aching throb. He blinked when he saw the liverish clots clinging to the fabric. He’d lost more blood than he’d thought.

  He got a towel from the bathroom and gently held it against the wound. It stung, but the pain was bearable. When he checked the towel half a minute later, he found blood on it, but very little of it fresh.

  Jack knew he should shower and clean out the wound but was afraid he’d start it bleeding again. He resisted the temptation to examine his back in the bathroom mirror—it might hurt worse if he knew how bad it looked. Instead, he wrapped all his remaining gauze around his upper chest and over his left shoulder.

  He went back to the bedroom for a fresh shirt and for something else: He knelt next to the bed, gently unclasped Kolabati’s necklace and removed it. She stirred, moaned softly, then was quiet. Jack tiptoed out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  In the living room he clasped the iron necklace around his throat. It gave off an unpleasant, tingling sensation that spread along his skin from head to toe. He didn’t relish wearing it, nor borrowing it from Kolabati without her knowledge. But she’d refused to remove it in the ship, and if he was going back there he wanted every edge he could get.

  He slipped into the fresh shirt as he dialed the number of Abe’s daughter’s apartment. He was going to be out of touch with Gia for a while and knew his mind would rest easier after confirming that everything was cool in Queens.

  After half a dozen rings, Gia picked up.

  “Hello?” Her voice was tentative.

  Jack paused for an instant at the sound of her voice. After what he’d been through in the past few hours, he wanted nothing more than to call it quits for the
night, hop over to Queens, and spend the rest of the time until morning with his arms around Gia. He’d like nothing more tonight—just holding her.

  “Sorry to wake you. I’m going out for a few hours and wanted to make sure everything is okay.”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “Vicky?”

  “I just left her side to answer the phone. She’s fine. And I’m just reading this note from Abe explaining that he had to go out and not to worry. What’s going on?”

  “Crazy stuff.”

  “That’s not an answer. I need answers, Jack. This whole thing scares me.”

  “I know. All I can say right now is it has to do with the Westphalens.” He didn’t want to say more.

  “But why is Vicky … oh.”

  “Right. She’s a Westphalen. Someday when we have lots of time, I’ll explain it to you.”

  “When will it all end?”

  “Tonight, if things go right.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Naw. Routine stuff.” He didn’t want to add to her worries.

  “Jack…” She paused and he thought he detected a quaver in her voice. “Be careful, Jack.”

  She would never know how much those words meant to him.

  “Always careful. I like my body in one piece. See you later.”

  He didn’t hang up. Instead he depressed the plunger for a few seconds, then released it. After checking for the dial tone, he stuffed the receiver under the seat cushion of his chair. It would start howling in a few minutes, but no one would hear that … and no one could call and wake Kolabati. With luck, he could take care of Kusum, get back here and replace the necklace without her ever knowing he’d taken it. And with considerably more luck, she might not ever know for sure that he had anything to do with the fiery explosion that took her brother and his rakoshi to a watery grave.

  He picked up his variable frequency beeper and hurried down to the street, intending to head immediately for the Isher Sports Shop. But as he passed the alley, he paused. He had no time to spare, yet he could not resist viewing the remains of the Mother rakosh.

  A jolt of panic shot through him when he saw no corpse in the alley. Then he came upon the smoldering pile of ashes. The fire had completely consumed the Mother, leaving only her fangs and talons. He picked up a few of each—still hot—and shoved them in his pocket. Someday he might want to prove to himself that he’d really faced something called a rakosh.