Stinger

by Robert R. McCammon

  But he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. It was a sense he’d developed by necessity, to guard against a ’Gade coming up behind him at school and taking him down with a kidney punch. The back of his neck prickled and he kept glancing around, but nothing moved through the smoke. It was more than being watched, he decided; it was a sensation of being taken apart, measured, dissected like a frog in biology class. “Creepy in here,” Zarra muttered, walking just to Rick’s right, and Rick knew Zarra must be feeling it too.

  They crossed the yard to the jumble of bricks and metal beams that Cade had pointed out. Not far away was a mound of cars and pickup trucks that had been crunched together like a bizarre sculpture. Joey Garracone got down on his knees in the sand and started tossing broken bricks aside and calling for his father.

  “You and Zarra start on the other side,” Ortega suggested, and they went around the collapsed building—where they came face-to-face with a burned-up corpse lying next to a crumpled sky-blue Corvette. The corpse’s head was smashed in, and broken teeth gleamed in the gaping mouth. Whoever he was, he had reddish-blond hair; a white man, not Joey’s father. The heavy, sickly-sweet odor of burned meat reached them, and Zarra gasped. “I’m gonna volcano, man!” He turned and ran away a few yards, bending his head toward the ground. Rick clamped his teeth together, walked past the dead man, and stood waiting for the dizzy sickness to pass. It did, mercifully, and then he was ready to work. Zarra came back, his face yellow.

  They began to search through the ruins of the engine shop, clearing away some of the mountain of bricks. After about ten minutes of work, Ortega uncovered another dead man: it was Carlos Hermosa—Ruben’s father—and the way the man’s body was contorted Ortega knew the spine and neck must be broken. Joey stared for a moment at the corpse, his face covered with dust and sweat, and then he silently continued his labor. Ortega made the sign of the cross and kept tossing bricks aside.

  The work was hard. It looked to Rick as if the whole building—which had been a flat-roofed structure about forty feet long—had caved in on itself. He moved a length of pipe, and broken bricks tumbled down along with a charred sneaker that he at first thought might have a foot in it but was empty, its owner either buried or blown out of his shoe by the concussion.

  He came to a metal beam that Zarra helped him shift with back-wrenching effort, and after the beam was laid aside Zarra looked at him and said quietly, “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Listen!”

  Rick did, but all he could hear was Cade’s tape deck playing.

  “Hold it. I don’t hear it anymore.” Zarra walked into the wreckage, searching for the sound he’d heard. He bent down, tossed more bricks and rubble away. Then: “There! You hear that, man? Over this way!”

  “I didn’t hear anything.” Rick went to where Zarra was and waited. A few seconds passed—and then, muffled and indistinct, came the clink of metal against metal. It was a steady rhythm, coming from somewhere deep within the ruins, and Rick realized somebody was signaling. “Hey! Father!” he shouted. “Over here!”

  Ortega and Joey came running, their clothes and skin filmed with dust. Zarra picked up a piece of pipe and hit it against a brick a few times, and they all heard the answering knocks from below. Ortega got down on his knees, shining the flashlight in amid the bricks in search of an airspace. Zarra kept signaling, and the clinking noise came back to him.

  “It’s Domingo Ortega!” the priest shouted. “Can you hear me?”

  They waited, but heard no response. “Help me,” Ortega said, and he and the boys began to work at a fever pitch, digging their way down through three or four feet of rubble. Within minutes their hands were scraped raw, and blood seeped from cuts in Rick’s palms. Ortega said, “Hold it,” and leaned forward, listening. There was the sound of metal on metal again, someone hammering at a pipe. “Can you hear me down there?” Ortega hollered.

  A weak, raspy shout drifted up: “Yeah! Oh Christ, yeah! Get us outta here!”

  “Who are you? How many are with you?”

  “Three of us! I’m Greg Frackner! Will Barnett and Leon Garracone are down here too!”

  “Papa!” Joey yelled, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Papa, it’s Joey!”

  “We’re down in the work pit, and there’s all kinds of shit wedged in on top of us,” Frackner continued. “I can see your light, though!”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Broken arm, I reckon. Ribs don’t feel too swift either. Will’s coughin’ up blood, and Leon’s passed out again. I think his legs are busted. What the hell hit us, man? A bomb?”

  Ortega avoided the question. “Can you move at all?”

  “A little bit, but it’s mighty tight in here. We’re breathin’ okay, though.”

  “Good.” It was clear to Ortega that they were going to need more muscle power to get the three men out. “Just take it easy, now. We’re going to have to go back for some picks and shovels.”

  “Whatever it takes, man! Listen…can you leave the light where I can see it? I keep thinkin’ I hear somethin’ diggin’ down here. Like underneath us. I’m scared of rats. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Ortega said, and wedged the flashlight in between two bricks so its beam would shine down into the airspace. “We’ll be back!” he promised, and he grasped Joey’s shoulders and pulled the boy up too.

  They started back across the autoyard, under the violet glow and the motionless black clouds, and Rick had that crawly sensation of being watched again. He turned toward the pyramid.

  A man was standing about twenty feet away. He was lean, tall, and broad around the shoulders; he stood slightly hunchbacked, and his arms dangled limply at his sides. Rick was unable to tell much about the man’s face, other than that it looked to be wet. The man wore dark pants and a striped short-sleeve shirt, the clothes covered with dirt. He was just standing there, his head cocked slightly to one side, watching them. “Father?” Rick said, and Ortega heard the raw nerves in Rick’s voice and stopped; he looked back, and then all of them saw the hunchbacked man who stood like a statue.

  Ortega’s first thought was that it was one of Cade’s workmen who’d just dug himself out of the ruins. He stepped forward. “You all right?”

  “Who’s the guardian?” the man asked, in a thick, slow drawl that had an undercurrent like the whistle of steam from a teakettle.

  The priest’s steps faltered. He couldn’t see much of the man’s face—just some slicked-down gray hair and a damp and gleaming slab of forehead—but he thought he recognized the voice. Only the voice usually said What can I fit you for, padre? It was Gil Lockridge, Ortega realized. Gil and his wife Mavis had owned the Boots ’n Plenty shoestore for over ten years. But Gil wasn’t so tall, Ortega thought. And he wasn’t so large around the shoulders, nor was he hunchbacked like this man was. But…it was Gil’s voice. Wasn’t it?

  “I asked you a question,” the man said. “Who’s the guardian?”

  “Guardian?” Ortega shook his head. “Guardian of what?”

  The man drew in a long lungful of air and released it—a long release—with a noise that reminded Rick of the way that sidewinder had rattled when he’d reached into the box for the Fang of Jesus. “I don’t like bein’…” There was a hesitation, as if he were searching for the correct phrase. “Bein’ trifled with. I don’t like it a’tall.” He took two strides forward, and Ortega backed away. The man stopped, and now Ortega could see some kind of ooze sliding off the man’s lantern-jawed face. Gil’s eyes were black, sunken, terrible. “I know the one I’m lookin’ for is here. I know there’s a guardian. Maybe it’s you.” The eyes fixed on Zarra for a second. “Or maybe it’s you.” A glance at Rick. “Or is it you?” The gaze returned to Father Ortega.

  “Listen… Gil…how’d you get out here? I mean… I don’t understand what you’re—”

  “The one I’m seekin’ is a subversive criminal,” the man went on. “An enemy of the collective mind. I don’
t know how you deal with criminals on this”—he looked around with a sinuous movement of the neck and said contemptuously—“world, but I’m sure you understand the concepts of law and order. I intend to bring the creature to justice.”

  “What creature?” It hit him then: what Colonel Rhodes had said about Stevie Hammond. “The little girl?” he asked before he could think about what he was saying.

  “The little girl,” the voice repeated. The eyes had taken on a keen glint. “Explain.”

  Ortega stood very still, but his insides had twisted into knots. He damned his tongue; there was an awful hunger on the wet and waxy face of the man-thing that stood before him. It was not Gil Lockridge; it was a mocking imitation of humanity.

  “Explain,” the thing commanded, and took a gliding step forward.

  “Run!” Ortega shouted to the boys; they were frozen with shock, couldn’t move. “Get away!” he yelled, and as he backed up he saw a length of pipe lying on the ground beside his left foot. He picked it up and held it threateningly over his head. The thing was almost upon him, and he had no choice; he hurled the broken pipe at the Gil Lockridge face with the strength of panic.

  The pipe smashed into the moist features with a noise like a hammer whacking a watermelon. The right cheek split open from eye to corner of mouth, and gray fluid dripped out. The face showed no reaction, no pain. But there was a slight smile on the crooked mouth now, and needlelike teeth glinted inside the cavity. The rattling voice said with a hint of pleasure, “I see you speak my language.”

  There was a ripping sound: the tearing of brittle cloth. Little crackling noises like a hundred bones breaking and rearranging themselves within seconds. Joey Garracone screamed and ran, but Rick and Zarra stood their ground, transfixed with terror. The man’s hunched back was swelling, bowing his spine downward; his eyes were riveted to Ortega, who moaned and retreated on trembling legs.

  The thing’s shirt split open, and a bulbous lump rose at the end of the spine. It tore through the pale counterfeit skin and revealed black, interlocking scales similar to those on the pyramid. From its lower end uncoiled a dripping, segmented tail about five feet long and triple the thickness of Zarra’s bullwhip; the tail rose into the air with a clicking, bony sound, and at its tip was a football-sized nodule of metallic spikes.

  “No,” Rick heard himself croak—and the grinning, split-open face ticked toward him.

  Father Ortega turned to run; he got two strides away before the monster leapt after him. The spiked tail whipped forward in a deadly blur, caught the side of the priest’s head, and demolished it in an explosion of bone and brains. Ortega fell to his knees, his face a crimson hole, and slowly, with exquisite grace, toppled into the sand.

  The monster whirled around, crouched and ready, the tail flicking back and forth with fragments of Ortega’s head clinging to the spikes.

  Zarra let out a choked shriek, backed away, and stumbled over a pile of rubble. He went down hard on his tailbone, sat there gaping as the creature took a step toward him.

  Rick saw automotive parts scattered all around him; there was no time to judge if he should run or not, because in another few seconds that spiked tail would be within range of Zarra. Rick picked up a twisted hubcap and flung it, and as it sailed at the monster’s head the tail flicked out almost lazily and knocked the piece of metal aside.

  Now Rick had the creature’s undivided attention, and as it stalked toward him Rick hefted a car’s door from the sand and held it before himself like a shield. “Run!” he shouted to Zarra, who started crawling frantically on his hands and knees. “Go!”

  The tail swept at Rick. He tried to dance out of its way, but the thing hit his makeshift shield and threw off a shower of sparks; the impact lifted him off his feet and hurled him onto his back on the ground. His hands still gripped the dented-in car door, which lay on top of him, and as he struggled up, his head ringing, the monster advanced in a crouch and the tail swung again.

  This time the car’s door was ripped away from him and flung through the air. Rick twisted, scurrying toward the unpainted frame of a Jaguar sedan that sat near a pile of rusted metal six feet away. As he flung himself into the doorless and windowless car, he heard the bony rattling of the monster’s tail right behind him; he pulled his legs in just as the ball of spikes whammed against the Jaguar’s side, making the frame shudder and moan like a funeral bell. He scrambled through the opposite door hole, got his feet under him, and ran.

  He didn’t know where Zarra was, or if he was heading out of the autoyard or deeper into it. The hanging layers of dark smoke accepted him, and fitful fires glowed red through the gloom. On all sides stood heaps of car parts, chassis, rows of BMWs, Mercedes, Corvettes, and other high-ticket vehicles awaiting transformation. The place was a maze of metal walls, and Rick didn’t know which way to run; he looked over his shoulder, he couldn’t see the thing behind him, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He ran on, his lungs straining for air through the smoke, and in another moment found his way blocked by a steep ridge of scrap metal. He turned back, ran past a collapsed building where a dead man in a blue shirt lay sprawled amid the bricks.

  Rick stopped below a pile of flattened car bodies, his lungs heaving, to try to get his bearings. He’d never been in here before, the smoke seared his eyes, and he couldn’t even think straight. What had happened to Father Ortega seemed unreal, a pull from a bad dose of weed. He was shaking now, his body out of control. He was going to have to start running again, but he feared what might be waiting for him out there in the smoke. He slid his hand into his pocket to grasp the Fang of Jesus.

  But before he could get his fingers on the switchblade, something dark dropped down like a noose and tightened around his throat.

  He knew what it was, because he heard the bony clicking of the tail’s segmented joints. The monster was above him, sitting on one of the flattened cars. Rick’s heart stuttered, and he felt his face freeze as the blood left it. Then he was being lifted off his feet, the pressure just short of strangling him, and he thrashed until a hand gripped his hair.

  “The little girl,” the awful, hissing voice said. The thing’s mouth was right beside Rick’s ear. “Explain.”

  “I don’t… I don’t…know. I swear…” His feet were about six inches off the ground. He didn’t know anything about a guardian, or a little girl, and he felt the gears of his brain start to smoke and slip.

  The tail tightened. Rick squeezed his eyes shut.

  Maybe five seconds passed; to Rick it was an eternity he would never forget. And then the voice said, “I have a message for the one called Ed Vance. I want to meet with him. He knows where. Tell him.”

  The tail went slack—click click click—and Rick fell to his knees as it released him.

  At first he could only lie huddled up, waiting for the spikes to smash his head in, unable to move or think or cry for help. But gradually he realized that the thing was going to let him live. He crawled away from it, still expecting a blow at any second, and finally he forced himself to stand. He could sense the thing watching him from its perch, and he dared not turn around to look at it; the slick, bony feel of the tail remained impressed in the flesh of his throat, and he wanted to scrub that skin until it bled.

  Rick almost broke into a run, but he feared that his legs were too weak and he’d fall on his face. He started walking, retracing the way he thought he’d come; the smoke parted before him and closed at his back. He was dimly aware that his legs were moving on automatic, and in his mind the images of the monster killing Father Ortega and pursuing him through the autoyard darted like a cageful of shadows.

  He came out of the autoyard about forty yards north of where they’d gone in, and how long that journey had taken he had no idea. He kept walking south along the collapsed fence, and finally he saw Cade’s Mercedes sitting in front of him.

  Instantly Lockjaw began barking furiously, rearing up in the backseat. Zarra was sitting on the pavement, shivering, his knees d
rawn up to his chin and both arms clutching the bullwhip to his chest. He looked up, saw Rick, and scrambled to his feet with a grunt of surprise.

  Mack Cade stood at the edge of the autoyard, the .38 in a white-knuckled grip in his right hand. He whirled around, aiming the pistol at the figure that had just lurched out of the smoke. About fifteen minutes ago, Joey Garracone had raced past him, trailing a scream that had even overpowered Cade’s tape deck. Soon afterward, Zarra had come out babbling about something with a tail that had killed Domingo Ortega. “Hold it!” Cade shrieked, his blue eyes wide. “Stop right there!”

  Rick did. He wavered, almost fell. “It’s me,” he said.

  “Where’s Ortega?” Cade’s false cool had cracked like cheap plastic, and underneath it was a little boy’s terror. “What happened to the priest, man?” He kept his finger on the trigger.

  “Dead. Out there somewhere.” Rick motioned with a leaden arm.

  “I told you not to go in there!” Cade shouted. “Didn’t I? I told you not to, you stupid shits!” He peered into the haze, searching for Typhoid; the dog had raced out there a few minutes ago, barking and growling at something, and hadn’t returned. “Typhoid!” he hollered. “Come on back, boy!”

  “We’ve got to tell Vance,” Rick said. “It wants to see him.”

  “Typhoid!” Cade took three steps into the autoyard, but could make himself go no farther. The concertina wire snagged his trousers, and oily beads of sweat rolled down his face. “Typhoid, come on!”

  Lockjaw kept barking. Cade prowled along the wire, calling for Typhoid in a voice that began to strain and quaver.