Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack) (54 page)

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.

Looking for Jeffy.

At top speed he rolled his chair over to the étagère. Not only had it been pushed away from the door, it had been moved with enough force to bend the nails onto their backs. It now rested atop them.

Alan shook his head. “What the…?”

Time enough later to ponder how the little monsters had done this. Right now he had to plug the hole.

With a quick glance over his shoulder at the stairs, Alan slid off the wheelchair to his knees as he had before and threw his weight against the étagère. A squeaky scrape echoed through the foyer as it slid back over the nails and settled again on the floor, flush against the door. Alan turned and leaned his back against it.

Okay. No more could get in, at least for the moment. Now he had to find a way to secure it here until morning. He glanced at his watch: 6:22. Morning was still three hours away. Well, he could sit here all night, just like this; that would do it. Three hours on this marble floor wasn’t forever; it would only seem that way. The problem with staying here was he was a sitting duck for the bugs that had already got in. He knew of at least three. Could be more.

He hefted the billy. At least he didn’t have to concern himself with hunting them down. Sooner or later—most likely sooner—they’d come hunting him. He’d have to be—

The étagère bucked against his back.

Startled, Alan half turned and leaned hard against it with his shoulder. The piece slid back into place.

What the hell was that?

Uneasiness prickled his scalp. That was no chew wasp pushing through its hole. Too much power. Something big out there. Bigger than—

Alan remembered the dents in the storm shutter out front, and that long depression in the yard. He had a feeling whatever had been responsible was back.

Christ!

He didn’t know what it was using to push the étagère but he’d been able to push it back, so maybe things weren’t so bad as they seemed.

And then the étagère moved again, a good foot this time, sliding Alan along with it. He pushed back, his feet scraping along the marble floor, searching for purchase and finding little. And even if they had, he doubted he’d be able to do much.

If only I had two good legs! he thought as he brought all his upper body strength to bear on the étagère.

But what was this thing? How was it pushing the étagère?

As if in answer, a smooth black tentacle, glistening in the candlelight, slid up from the other side and unerringly darted toward his face. Alan ducked and swung at it with his club.

And missed. The tentacle had dodged the blow, almost as if it could see. It came for him again immediately and wrapped around his wrist. Its touch was cold and damp, but not slippery; Alan yanked back in revulsion but couldn’t pull free. His skin was stuck, as if the tentacle were coated with glue. It began drawing him toward the door.

Thoroughly frightened now, he switched the club to his other hand and began pounding on the tentacle. The embedded teeth opened gashes that grew deeper and leaked foul-smelling black liquid with every blow. The traction eased, the grip loosened, and Alan was free again.

But only for a heartbeat. Another tentacle snaked in beside the damaged one and reached for him. Alan fell back and groped in his wheelchair pouch until he found the ax—a hatchet, really, with a short handle and a wedged head, no more than three inches along the cutting edge. But sharp. Alan got a good grip and swung it at the new tentacle. The blade sank deep, severing it clean through about a foot behind the tip. The proximal end whipped back immediately, spraying the foyer with its ebony equivalent of blood, while the free tip wriggled about.

All right!

He pushed the étagère out of the way and quick-crawled to the door, positioning himself to the right of the opening. The little holes had merged into one big one about eighteen inches wide and four inches high. He’d barely set himself when a third tentacle slithered through the near edge. He severed it with a single chop and that tip joined its brother on the floor. A fourth tentacle darted in, then a fifth. Alan hacked at them as soon as they appeared and they withdrew, wounded.

“Yes!” he said, the word hissing softly between his teeth. “Keep ’em coming, you bastards! It’s circumcision time! Let’s see if you’ve got more tentacles than I’ve got chops!”

He was pumped. He knew he was acting a little bit crazy, maybe because he was
feeling
a little bit crazy. Maybe he’d been in that wheelchair too long. Whatever, here he was, free of it, weapon in hand, defending Toad Hall. He hadn’t felt this alive in years.

Suddenly a half dozen fresh tentacles surged through at once, rearing up, reaching for his arms, his face. He swung wildly, catching one in midair, one against the door. He was taking a bead on another when he heard buzzing wings and gnashing teeth above and behind him.

Bugs!

Instinctively, he ducked, but too late. Pain ripped through his left ear. He touched a hand to the side of his face. It came away red. Alan turned and grabbed the billy. Now he had a weapon in each hand—hatchet in right, club in left—and was eager to use them. The pain and the blood from his ear had released something within him. His fear was gone, replaced by a seething rage at these creatures who dared to invade his home and threaten the people he loved.

He chopped at an extended tentacle, severing its tip, then heard the buzz again and swung blindly at the air.

And connected. The broken, oozing body of the chew wasp—its jaws still smeared with blood from Alan’s ear—bounced off the door and fell to the floor. Immediately, one of the tentacles coiled around its squirming form and yanked it outside.

Alan chopped at a particularly thick tentacle, severing it halfway through. As he drew back to finish the job, something slammed against his back, shooting a blaze of pain through his right shoulder. He grunted with the sudden agony. As wings buzzed furiously by his ear, he dropped the billy and reached over his shoulder. When his questing fingers found the horny beak piercing his flesh, he knew a spearhead was trying to make him its next meal. It must have come in at an angle and glanced off his shoulder blade. A direct hit would have put it right through to his chest cavity. Had to get it out before it dug itself deeper and finished the job.

He wrapped his fingers around the twisting, gnawing beak and yanked. He was rewarded with another eruption of vision-dimming pain, but the spearhead came free. It writhed and twisted and wriggled and flapped madly as he brought it around front. But as he raised his hatchet to chop it in half, the tentacle he’d wounded seconds ago coiled around his right wrist and wrenched it toward the door. He groaned as the sudden movement sent a bolt of pain lancing down his arm from the shoulder wound. His fingers went numb momentarily; he lost his grip on the hatchet handle. But he couldn’t worry about that. Had to get his right hand free.
Now.

So Alan struck at the tentacle with the only weapon he had—the bug writhing in his left hand.

Using the spearhead’s pointed beak as a knife, he stabbed and slashed madly, repeatedly. Desperate breaths hissed between his teeth. This was out of hand now. He’d lost the high ground and was on the defensive. He spotted a slew of new tentacles sliding under the door—how many did this thing
have?

Had to retreat. He was going to be in very big trouble if he didn’t pull free in the next few seconds and get out of reach.

He took a big swing with the spearhead, angling it so it cut into the open, oozing area he’d previously damaged with the hatchet. As the bug’s sharp beak pierced through the far side, Alan pushed it deeper, cramming it into the tissues. It must have struck a vital nerve trunk because the distal end of the tentacle went into spasm, coiling and uncoiling wildly.

Alan pulled free of its grasp and rolled away from the door. Leaving his wheelchair behind, he rose to his hands and knees and scrambled across the foyer toward the living room.

He almost made it.

He cursed his legs as they slumped beneath him, slowing him down. His right arm was letting him down too. Had to depend on his arms for a good part of his speed, but the right was wounded. His left hand was just inches from the living room carpet when he felt something coil about his ankle. Even then, a good strong kick might have freed him, but his legs didn’t have one in them. He realized then that he should have tried for the stairs. If he’d been able to reach the newel post of the banister he’d have had something to hold on to.

As the tentacle dragged him back, Alan clawed at the marble floor, looking for a crack, a seam, anything to hold on to, but found nothing. It had been too expertly installed. He kicked feebly with his free leg but then felt another tentacle wrap around that ankle and worm its way up to his thigh.

Now he was being dragged back at a faster rate.

He spotted his hatchet where he’d dropped it. He tried to reach it. He stretched his good arm and fingers to the limit, until he thought his shoulder would dislocate, but could not get near it. Like a departing sailor gazing at his home port from the stern of a ship, he watched the hatchet slip farther and farther out of reach.

Next came his wheelchair. He grabbed at that, caught hold of a footrest, but it simply rolled with him. He clutched it because it was all he had to hold on to.

And then other tentacles, Alan couldn’t count how many, looped and coiled around his legs, and no way he could kick free now, even if he’d had two good legs. He was helpless. Utterly helpless.

I’m going to die.

Although he never stopped struggling against the inexorable tug of the tentacles, the realization was a sudden cold weight in his heart. Fear and dread shot through him, but no panic. Mostly sadness. Tears sprang into his eyes, tears for all the things he’d never do, like walking again, or watching Jeffy grow up, or growing old with Sylvia. But most of all, for the way he’d be dying. He’d never feared the moment, but then he’d always imagined it arriving when he was gray and withered and bedfast, and that he’d welcome it with open arms.

The tentacles dragged his legs through the opening at the bottom of the door. The jagged wood raked the backs of his thighs and then dug into the flesh of his hips and buttocks as he became wedged into the opening.

He wasn’t going to fit through. At least not in one piece.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, I don’t want to die like this!

And suddenly amid the fear and the grief and the pain he realized that he had to die a certain way. He’d been given no choice in how death was coming to him, but he had a say in how he met it.

Silently.

He groaned as the traction on his legs increased and the ligaments and tendons and skin and muscles began to stretch past their tolerances.

Quiet!

He reached up and grabbed the thin cotton blanket from the wheelchair and stuffed it deep into his mouth, gagging as the fabric brushed the back of his throat.

Good. Gag. Then he couldn’t scream. And he
mustn’t
scream.

Oh God, the pain!

Had
to be quiet because if he let out the pain and fear in a scream, Sylvia would wake and come for him … he knew her, knew if she thought he was in danger, she wouldn’t hesitate, she’d charge, she’d wade through a storm of bugs and tentacles to get to him …

Alan screeched silently into his blanket-stuffed mouth as the ball at the head of his right femur twisted free and dislocated from the hip socket with a grinding explosion of agony, and screamed again as the left one followed.

Quiet, quiet, QUIET!

… because it was too late for him and if she came upstairs they’d have her too, and after they got Sylvia, they’d get Jeffy and then Glaeken wouldn’t be able to assemble whatever it was he had to assemble and the Otherness would win it all and the bugs would feast on everybody … he just prayed he’d bought Sylvia and Jeffy enough time … prayed his body would stay wedged in the opening and block the bugs out for a while because soon Toad Hall would be swarming with them and if they had enough time they’d gnaw through the cellar door and all this agony would be for nothing … so he had to hold on and keep quiet for just a few more seconds because in just a few more seconds it would be over and …

Alan’s blanket drank the howl that burst from his throat as his right leg ripped free of his body and slid away into the night and yet he smiled within as he felt his consciousness draining away in the warm red stream pumping from his ruptured femoral artery, smiled because nothing was quieter than a dead man.