Stinger

by Robert R. McCammon

  “Stinger hasn’t found it yet. The beam’s still activated.” She watched the dance of the fires, and she knew she had to tell them the rest of it. “The beam’s very strong. The longer I’m out of the pod, the weaker the defense mechanism becomes.” She met Jessie’s gaze. “I never thought I’d be out of it this long.”

  “You mean Stinger’s got a good chance of finding out it’s in our attic,” Tom said.

  “I can calculate the odds, if you like.”

  “No.” Jessie didn’t care to hear them because they’d be in Stinger’s favor, like everything else seemed to be.

  Rhodes walked to the window to get a breath of air. The last few cars were barreling into the parking lot. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what those people were running from. He turned toward Daufin. “You said you could get away in Stinger’s ship. How is that possible?”

  “I’ve escaped from Rock Seven twice before. I was hunted and taken back by Stinger both times. I know the ship’s systems, and the machines that operate the controls. And I know how to use the star corridor to get home.”

  “If you got inside, you could find a way to shut off the force field?”

  “Yes. The force field comes from the auxiliary power supply. That power is rerouted to start the…” There were no Earth words to describe the pyramid’s flight system. “The main engines,” was the best she could do.

  “So the force field has to be shut down before the engines can start? How long does that take?”

  “A variable amount of time, depending on how much power’s been drained. I’d calculate roughly fifteen to twenty of your minutes.”

  He grunted, trying to clear his mind enough to think. “Sun’ll be coming up in about an hour and a half. There’re probably several hundred state troopers, air-force people, and reporters around the force field’s perimeter by now.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “I’ll bet old Buckner’s in charge. Bet that bastard’s going crazy trying to keep the news hounds from taking pictures. What the hell: this’ll be all over the newspapers and TV within twelve hours and there’s not a damned thing anybody can do about it.” The smile faded. “If the force field was down, we’d have a chance to get out of here with our skins still on.” He lifted his arm and looked at the bruise in the shape of a hand imprinted around it. “Most of us, I mean. I want you to think hard: is there any way to get into that ship?”

  “Yes,” she answered promptly. “Through Stinger’s tunnels.”

  “I mean another way.” The mention of those tunnels had sent a dagger of fear into Rhodes’s heart. “How about the portal the flying thing came out of? Are there other passages into the ship?”

  “No. Only the tunnels.”

  The breath hissed from between his teeth like air from a pierced tire, and his hope deflated with it. There was no way on God’s green earth he could go back into those tunnels.

  Gunniston returned from the corridor, and with him was Zarra Alhambra. “Tell them what you told me,” he urged.

  “Somethin’ came up out of the street over in Bordertown,” Zarra said to the colonel. “All of us were in the church. Cody Lockett and Rick saw it, and we cleared everybody out of the church and herded ’em over here. That’s all I know, man.”

  “Where’re Cody and Rick now?” Tom asked.

  “I don’t know. Everythin’ was happenin’ so fast. I guess they’re on the way here.”

  Daufin felt the seeker beam rotate past, its chill prickling her skin. Her calculation had been off by four seconds.

  The door opened again. It was Bobby Clay Clemmons, who’d been up on the roof keeping watch with Mike Frackner and a couple of other ’Gades. He glanced quickly at the Rattlers; any other time he would have attacked them in a blind rage for intruding on ’Gade territory, but all that was forgotten. “Hey, Colonel!” he said. “Somethin’s movin’ around down there!” He strode to the window, and Rhodes went with him.

  Two of the cars down in the maze of vehicles still had their headlights on. At first Rhodes couldn’t see much through the smoke and dust—and then he caught sight of a shape moving quickly over on the right, and another one on the left. A third shape, running low to the ground, skittered under a car and stayed there. And now more of them were coming along Travis Street. He heard the scuttle and scrape of claws as the things climbed up over the cars. He shuddered; he was reminded of walking into the kitchen of the farmhouse he’d grown up in, switching on the lights, and seeing a dozen roaches scurry off a platter of birthday cake.

  Dark, scaly backs darted through the headlight beams. A spiked tail swung, and one of the lights smashed out. Another tail rose up, quivered with tension, and broke out first one headlight and then a second. The fourth and last headlight was smashed. Down in the murk, the things began to swarm toward the apartment building, their tails beating haphazardly at the sides of the cars, but they stopped at the edge of the parking lot.

  “Stinger’s afraid of the electric light.” Daufin was standing beside Rhodes, peering over the windowsill. “It hurts him.”

  “Maybe it hurts Stinger, but maybe it doesn’t hurt all those things.”

  “All are Stinger,” she said. Her eyes followed the twitching of the spiked tails. Their hammering was becoming a regular rhythm now, like a brutal taunt. “He won’t get in here while these lights are on.”

  Tom had already picked up his rifle from the table. Beside it was the tear-gas shotgun that Rhodes had brought in, and Gunniston still had his .45 automatic. Rhodes looked at Bobby Clay Clemmons. “Have you got any weapons here?”

  “Arsenal’s this way.” Bobby Clay led him into the next room and switched on the battery lamp mounted to the wall. Its light revealed racks where a variety of objects hung: sawed-off baseball bats, a couple of pellet rifles, and two pairs of brass knuckles. “This all you’ve got?”

  “That’s about it.” The boy shrugged. “We never…like…wanted to kill anybody, man. Few other things in here.” He walked to a green footlocker and opened it. Inside were tools—a hammer, two or three screwdrivers, assorted jars of nails, and other junk. There were only two items that Rhodes thought might be of use: a battery-powered bull’s-eye lantern and a flashlight. He pulled them out and turned them on to check the batteries. The lantern was strong enough, but the flashlight was almost dead. He took the lantern back to the other room, just in case—God forbid—something should happen to the wall lights.

  The crashing of spikes against metal was steady and insistent. The noise got to Tom; he crossed the room, slid the rifle’s barrel through the window, and fired at one of the dark shapes. The slug, if it hit, did not stop the rhythmic pounding.

  “Save your bullets!” Rhodes told him. “Stinger’s trying to psych us out.” He heard more gunshots, from other windows. Bullets scratched sparks off the concrete, but the noises went on. It sounded like the tramping of an army over broken glass.

  Tom was about to pull the rifle barrel back in when he saw something else out there. It was a large shape, coming steadily across the parking lot toward them, but he couldn’t make out anything else. “Rhodes!” he said. “Look at—”

  There was the sound of metal crumpling. And in the next second what might have been a car door crashed against the side of the building. Glass shattered in a window three or four away from the one where Tom stood. A fusillade of gunfire erupted. Rhodes came to the window, could only see the vague outline of something huge out there—and then the mashed bulk of a red Mustang hit the wall about ten feet away and slid down with a shriek of metal. Whatever it was, the bastard was strong enough to hurl a car twenty or thirty feet. “Get down, everybody!” he said, ducking below the window. The others got down too, and before she could think about what she was doing, Jessie grasped her little girl’s body and pulled her close.

  “Gunny!” Rhodes said. “Go down the hall and keep everybody away from the windows!” The other man hurried out. Rhodes peered up over the sill. The shape was moving closer, but not yet in the wash of the b
uilding’s lights. Another piece of metal—a hood, he thought it might be—sailed out and bounced off one of the first-floor windows, but the crash and echo sounded like the place was coming to pieces. A tire followed within seconds, shattering the window two apartments to the left. Someone cried out in pain as flying glass hit them, and Daufin broke free from Jessie’s grip.

  She rushed to the window before anyone could stop her, and she grabbed the rifle out of Tom’s hands and struggled to balance it on the sill. Even as Rhodes was reaching for her, she lodged two fingers on the trigger and squeezed. The recoil threw her backward, skidding her across the floor, but instantly she was up again and trying to drag the rifle with her. Her eyes were wild, wet with rage and frustration. Tom clutched the rifle before Daufin could get it up on the sill, and as he pulled her away from the window the wall exploded inward over their heads.

  Rhodes saw the thing’s tail burst through in a shower of rubble and dust. Stones clattered down around Jessie, Zarra, and Bobby Clay, and Tom protected Daufin with his body. The tail darted out again, leaving a hole as big around as a washtub. Rhodes looked out the window, got a nerve-shredding glimpse of the creature’s head as it scuttled back from the light’s edge. As it retreated, it slashed out with its tail again and the spikes shrieked past the wall.

  Daufin squirmed away from Tom, her skin radiating little shocks like an electric eel, and leapt up onto the windowsill. Rhodes thought she was going to jump through, and he dared to grab her arms. A shock coursed through him, rattling his teeth, but he hung on. “No!” he shouted, trying to hold her back as she thrashed like an animal.

  Her attention was only on one thing: getting out of this box and leading Stinger away from the humans trapped here. But suddenly she saw the huge shape coming through the smoke; the white light washed onto its head, glinting off the needle teeth in its thick, elongated jaws. Two of the eyes ticked toward her, while two aimed at another window, and for a second she thought she could see her face reflected on the thin black pupils. Whether those eyes knew her or not, she didn’t know: they were as cold and impassive as the icy vaults of deep space. Stinger kept scurrying forward, the tail rising up behind it like a deadly question mark. The full glare of the electric light fell onto its head. There was a sizzling sound that made Rhodes think of bacon on a grill; he saw the creature’s eyes blistering and oozing where the light touched them. The tail whipped forward, and Rhodes yanked Daufin out of the window and to the floor. The spikes crashed into the wall of the apartment next door. There was a cacophony of screams, and the entire second level shook.

  Brick dust filled the room. Rhodes sat up, peered out, but the thing had retreated from the light. In the parking lot the tails of the other Stingers kept up their steady, martial drumbeat. Daufin was lying on her side, breathing heavily, knowing that Stinger was trying to smash out the lights. Then something hit her like a physical blow: the seeker beam had been due to pass twelve seconds ago. Her mental countdown was still progressing. Where was the seeker beam? If it had been turned off…

  She didn’t want to think about what that might mean.

  “Hang on,” Rhodes said tersely. “It’s coming back.” He reached for Tom’s rifle.

  In the close darkness of the Hammonds’ attic, Scooter began growling. Sarge lit another match and held it to the ebony sphere in his hand. Couldn’t see anything in it, but when he shook it he thought he could hear the quiet slosh of liquid. Thing was as cool as if it had just come out of a refrigerator. He pressed it against his cheeks and forehead like a piece of ice. Scooter got up off the sleeping bag and gave a nervous yip, and Sarge said, “Don’t you fret, now. Ol’ Sarge’ll take care of—”

  The house trembled, and from downstairs came the scream of splitting wood.

  “—you,” he finished thickly.

  There was a crash of furniture either falling or being thrown over, then silence. Scooter whined and pressed against Sarge’s side, and Sarge put his arm around his best friend. The match went out, but he didn’t try to light another because the scrape on the box would be too loud.

  The silence stretched. Then came the sound of footsteps, entering the hallway. They stopped just below the attic’s hatch.

  The hatch was jerked open, and the steps unfolded.

  Sarge crawled away from it, his hand clenching the black sphere.

  “Come down,” a man’s voice said. “Bring the pod with you.”

  Sarge didn’t move. Scooter growled softly.

  “If you have a light, I want you to throw it down to me.” An impatient pause. “You don’t want to get me super pissed, do you?”

  The voice had a Texan accent, but there was something wrong with it. Around the words was a rattling, as if whoever was speaking had a nest of snakes in his throat. And now there was another noise too: a low moan that sounded like a dog in agony.

  Sarge tossed the box of matches down the hatch. A hand caught and crumpled it. “Now you and the pod.”

  He didn’t know what the man meant about a “pod,” but he whispered shakily to Scooter, “We’re gonna have to go down there. Ain’t no way around it.” He slid toward the hatch, and Scooter followed.

  A man-sized shape stood in the hallway. As Sarge reached the bottom of the steps, a hand grabbed the sphere away from him so fast it was only seconds later that Sarge felt pain and the welling of blood from his fingers. Fella’s got sharp nails, he thought. Scratched the fool out of me. He could see the man lift the sphere up before his face. There was something writhing at the man’s chest, where nothing ought to be but skin and shirt.

  The man whispered, “I’ve got you.” And the way he said that made the flesh crawl at the back of Sarge’s neck.

  The hand placed the sphere down in that writhing mass on his chest. Sarge heard the click of fangs as the sphere was accepted.

  And then the man’s arm—as damp and slimy as a centipede’s belly—hooked around Sarge and lifted him off the floor, squeezing the breath out of him. Sarge was too stunned to fight back, and before he knew what was happening the man was striding toward a gaping hole in the den’s floor. Sarge tried to call for Scooter, couldn’t summon up his voice, and then the man had walked into the hole and they were falling. Sarge wet his pants.

  The man’s legs hit bottom like shock absorbers, but the impact traveled through Sarge’s body and made his head feel like a sack of shattered glass. Sarge gave a muffled groan. The man began running through the winding dark, boots making a shuckshuckshuck noise in the ooze, and carried Sarge away.

  52

  The Trade

  THE CREATURE’S TAIL SLAMMED through the wall into the room where Curt Lockett and four other people hugged the floor. Bricks flew, and one of them hit the battery lamp that hung on the wall near the door and broke it to pieces. The light went out. Curt heard the boom of a shotgun from the next room. The tail thrashed over his head and exited in a boil of dust, and Curt crabbed out of the room into the corridor as fast as he could move.

  The hall was packed full. Dozens of Inferno and Bordertown people crouched close to each other in the sharp glare of the lights, so tight they looked like they were melded together. Dust was billowing through the corridor, babies were crying and so were a few full-grown men. Curt felt pretty near tears himself. He’d come here hunting Cody, but one of the Renegades had told him that Cody was gone. So Curt had stayed to wait for him, and then all hell had broken loose. He crawled away from the door, getting another wall in between himself and that big sonofabitch with the spiked tail. Somebody was babbling in Mexican right next to his ear, but the bodies shifted to give him shelter.

  The floor heaved. More bricks caved in, and screams swelled. An old woman was sobbing next to him, and suddenly her hands were on his arm, moving along the forearm until they locked with his fingers. He looked into her wrinkled face and saw that her eyes were clouded with cataracts. She kept rocking back and forth, and the man beside her put his arm around her shoulders.

  Curt and Xavier Mendoz
a stared at each other. “Where’s Cody?” Mendoza asked.

  “Still out there somewhere.”

  The old woman began speaking frantically in Spanish, and Mendoza tried to comfort her as best he could. Paloma Jurado was desperate to find out what had happened to Rick and Miranda, but as far as Mendoza knew they hadn’t gotten to the building yet.

  Curt saw the fat bulk of Stan Frazier squeezed up against the wall not far away. The man was sweating buckets, and he had a shiny hogleg Colt pistol clamped in his hands. When the building shook again, Curt pulled his hand free and crawled to his neighbor. “Hey, Frazier! You usin’ that?”

  Frazier made a little gasping noise, his tongue lolling around in a shocked white face. Curt said, “Don’t mind if I do,” and worked the gun out of the sausagey fingers. Then he crawled back on his belly into the room he’d just vacated, where there were two holes in the walls the size of truck wheels. He crouched at the shattered window, pulled the Colt’s hammer back, and waited for that battering ram on legs to come out of the smoke again. He would’ve given his left nut for one sip of Kentucky Gent, but there was no time to let the craving take him because the smoke parted and there was the creature’s shape again, skittering forward. The tail whipped out, hit the wall somewhere to Curt’s right, and hurled a storm of bricks. Curt started firing, heard two of the bullets ricochet off body armor but two more made a satisfying splat as if they’d hit softer tissue. The tail swung in his direction, passed the window, and crashed into the wall of the room next to him. The floor shuddered as if a bomb had gone off. Curt fired the last two shots and saw gray fluid spray from a foreleg—then the thing had withdrawn into the murk again and there was a crunching noise as it backed over cars.

  “Here.”

  Curt looked around. Mendoza had left Paloma Jurado with his wife and uncle and crawled into the room. He offered his palm, and in it were four more bullets. “He had these in his pocket,” Mendoza said. “I thought you might need them.”