Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack) (34 page)

Even the man in the moon has turned his back on us.

“Take me with you tomorrow,” Nick said to Bill. “You won’t find anything without me.”

Carol watched Bill stare at Nick, then look questioningly at Glaeken.

After a pause, Glaeken nodded. “He’s right, I think. He may help shorten your trip. And right now anything that saves time is worth a try.”

Feeling colder than ever, Carol turned back to the window and leaned against Bill. As she stared at the pale, unfamiliar ridges of the moon’s new face, she gasped. Something dark, hideous, and mind-numbingly huge was sweeping across the sky, blotting out the light. It passed slowly, like a floating shroud, casting a chill over everything in its enormous shadow, and then it moved on, leaving the moon visible again.

She shuddered and felt Bill’s arm slip around her shoulders. But even that could not dispel the chill of foreboding that had insinuated its way into her bones.

Ernst huddled under a blanket in the Lodge basement, counting the hours till dawn. Surrounded by snoring Kicker louts, with cases of Hunt’s canned baked beans for his bed, comfort was an impossibility, sleep a forlorn hope.

What had become of his life?

Last summer he had been on top of the world. The
Fhinntmanchca
had been gestating in the subcellar directly beneath where he now lay, he was the One’s right-hand man, and the future was his to command.

Now, less than a year later, he saw no future except suffering and death along with the hoi polloi.

At least he was safe for tonight. Both his apartment and his office right upstairs had been invaded last night, but the cellar was secure: windowless foundation walls of thick stone, with a single bolted door the only access to the outside world. Running water, a couple of hot plates, a microwave oven, a kerosene stove.

He could survive as long as the door held up and the food held out. And then … what? If only—

He felt the floor vibrate and sat up.

What was that? Another hole opening in this end of the city?

More vibrations. They seemed to be coming from the subcellar. But the only thing down there was the remains of the Orsa. It had started out made of stone but had become organic, and after completing its task of creating the
Fhinntmanchca,
it had begun to decay. Back in the fall of 2001, the subcellar wall had been breached to bring it in, and then repaired. To dispose of it would require a similar excavation, and the High Council had not got around to allocating the funds.

Was the onset of the Change affecting the Orsa? Reviving it? Perhaps Ernst could find a way to turn this to his advantage.

More vibrations, but no one else seemed to notice. He rose and stole across the littered floor to a small room off the main area. He opened a door to a closet, and inside pulled up a trapdoor in the floor. All the Order’s lodges had been built with subcellars and escape routes, but this building had been sealed off with the arrival of the Orsa.

He stood over the rickety wrought-iron spiral staircase and listened to the vague, unidentifiable sound that echoed from the dark, dank space below. He started down. The staircase had been damaged by the
Fhinntmanchca,
and wobbled under his weight. When he reached bottom, he found the light switch in the wall and flipped it.

He repressed a scream as the space lit up to reveal a horde of beetlelike creatures with shiny black bodies four to five feet long pouring through a break in the subcellar wall—the very spot that had been breached to bring in the Orsa.

They must have been attracted to the subcellar by the Orsa, for they seemed too intent on devouring it to notice him.

Ernst watched for only a single heartbeat, then he turned and started back up the staircase. His hands shook and his sweaty palms slid on the steel railing as he moved as silently as possible. He did not look back—did not
dare
look back until he reached the top.

As he closed the trapdoor he peeked below and saw two of the beetles starting up the staircase. Frantic, he let the door drop and looked around for something to weigh it down. Food! Cases of canned goods in the main room, but he’d never get to them in time.

He had to get away, but where? Thompson’s room. He’d break the door down if he had to.

So he ran. As he passed through the main room he opened his mouth to shout a warning, then thought better of it. When running from a bear, one needn’t run faster than the bear, only faster than the slowest of those with you. And if those with you weren’t running at all …

He kept mum as he hurried to the exit door, unlocked it, and stepped out into the stairwell to the main floor. Deserting all caution, he ran up to the front vestibule. A few of the globular flies clung to the marble walls there, but otherwise it seemed quiet. No victims readily available, he supposed.

Without pausing, Ernst darted for the stairway to the second floor. He heard wings buzz behind him and increased his speed. His aging heart beat a terrified rhythm and the air seemed thin, lacking oxygen. He wasn’t used to physical exertion and his muscles screamed in protest.

He ran to Thompson’s door and began pounding on it.

“Hank! You must let me in! The bugs have breached the cellar and I have nowhere else to go!”

No answer. He pounded harder.

“I am begging you. For the love of whatever god you believe in, let me in!”

Buzzing to his right—the globular bugs floated out of the stairwell and veered toward him.

“PLEASE!”

Silence from within.

This was it, then. He pulled the ampoule of cyanide from his pocket and raised it to his lips. One bite and—

A furious buzz to his right and something tore at his arm, blasting a blaze of pain into his elbow and sending the ampoule flying.

“No!”

He couldn’t—wouldn’t die like this!

He dove for the floor, for the cyanide, and then they were upon him.

Ernst Drexler screamed in agony.

Hank snapped awake.

He’d been roused before by sounds from the security shutters. Bugs—spearheads most likely—ramming themselves against them. They’d have swarmed in and eaten him alive if not for the warning from the Kicker Man. He’d listened for a while as they battered futilely against the steel, then fluttered off, heading for redder pastures.

It used to be the nights were never long enough for Hank. His head would hit the pillow and before he knew it, he’d have to rise. At various times during the night he’d heard screams from outside on the street, but was never tempted to peek.

But this was different. Someone pounding on his door.

Drexler.

He sounded hysterical, crying about bugs in the cellar, in the hallway, begging to be let in.

As if.

Hank turned the light on and watched the door, but didn’t move from the bed. He pressed his hands over his ears to shut out the noise.

Never liked Drexler, never liked his stupid white suit, never liked the way he always looked down his nose at Hank and the Kickers with his Euro sophistication and aristocratic ’tude. But even if it had been his brother Jerry out there, no fucking way Hank was opening that door. Who knew what else would invite itself into the room?

A sudden agonized scream broke through the seal of his palms and he snatched them away to listen. No further screams came, but he heard violent thrashing just beyond the door, accompanied by muffled, gurgling sobs that were awful to hear, even if it was Drexler.

Then silence.

Yeah, hard to feel sorry for Drexler. He and his Order had paved the way for all the shit that was coming down outside.

As Hank reached for the light switch he noticed something dark and gleaming on the floor. He looked closer and realized that blood was leaking under the door and pooling by the threshold.

So much for Ernst Drexler.

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

Up from the Depths
(1969) New World

The Fly
(1958) 20th Century Fox

Return of the Fly
(1959) 20th Century Fox

The Curse of the Fly
(1965) Lippert/20th Century Fox

Night Creatures
(1962) Hammer/Universal

Not of This Earth
(1956) Allied Artists

Ceremonies

Maui

“It’s a gift, Bati! A sign from Pele herself!”

Moki’s voice was barely audible over the blast-furnace roar of the volcano. Dressed only in his
malo,
he stood near the ruins of the visitor center on the rim of the newly awakened Haleakala. Perspiration coated his skin, giving it a glossy sheen as red and orange light from the fires below flickered off the planes and curves of his taut, muscular body, making it glow against the inky night sky.

The two yellow stones in his necklace seemed to glow with internal fires of their own. And why not? The necklace had been working overtime on Moki. Only moments ago he had emerged from the crater with second-degree burns blistering most of his body. But the blisters had shriveled and the damaged skin had peeled and sloughed away to reveal fresh, unmarred flesh beneath.

Kolabati backed away from the heat and worried about Moki. He’d changed so drastically. He was no longer the man she’d loved and lived with. He was a stranger, a deranged interloper fashioning his own delusions out of the madness around him.

Yesterday she had been afraid for him. But now she was afraid
of
him. The cataclysm that had destroyed the Big Island and reawakened Haleakala seemed to have pushed him over the edge.

And tingeing Kolabati’s fear, coloring it a deep, dull red, was anger. Why? Why now? Why did all of nature choose this time to go mad? Coincidence, or fate? Was her enormous karmic burden—and she knew too well the extent to which the deeds of her many, many years had polluted her karma—finally catching up to her?

“What does it mean, Moki?” she called back, humoring him. “What kind of sign would the fire goddess be sending you?”

“She didn’t want me leaving Maui to gather lava from Kileau, so she destroyed Kileau and brought her fires to my backyard.”