The Night's Champion Collection: A supernatural werewolf thriller trilogy

by Richard Parry

  “Get back, man. It’s going to blow!” Panic, real fear in that voice. Rex was no stranger to that kind of fear, he’d seen more than his share of fires. But a Prius blowing? That’d be something else. Wasn’t enough fuel left in this one to start a camp fire. Was there?

  “It’ll be okay,” said another voice. This one calm, relaxed as he spoke over Faith Hill.

  Rex thought a little bit about Faith Hill. Now there was a woman who knew how to carry herself, back in the day. He drifted again, then was yanked back to the here and now as the pain shot up his arm, and he screamed.

  “Sorry,” said the calm voice. Rex pushed his eyes open, but it was hard to see. There was so much smoke in the cab.

  He coughed. “It’s ok,” he said. “Say.”

  “Yeah?” Calm Voice had a calm face, easy smile.

  “I’m gonna die, aren’t I?”

  Calm Voice frowned. “What makes you say that?”

  “I’m all crushed up in here,” said Rex, “and I smell smoke. I’m pretty sure I can’t get out, and I’m pretty sure my arm’s busted good.” Faith called to him over the radio again, and he swallowed. “It’s okay.”

  The other man pushed his face a little closer through the broken windscreen. “Why do you say that?”

  “My fault,” said Rex, coughing again. “Did I hurt anyone?”

  Calm Voice nodded, nice and slow. “Yeah.”

  “Who?”

  “Bus driver’s pretty banged up. Another car over there smashed through the front window of Sears. They’re shook up.”

  “No one’s dead?”

  “Not yet,” said Calm Voice.

  “That’s okay then,” said Rex. “Hey, pal.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You better get out of here. I’m pretty sure this thing’s gonna go up in flames.”

  “Sure,” said the other man. “Can you keep a secret?”

  What the hell kind of question— “As good as anyone else.”

  “No,” said the man. “It needs to be better than anyone else.”

  Rex tried to make out the man’s face through the smoke, but it was getting too thick. “Yeah,” he said. “I can keep a secret.”

  “My name’s Val,” said the other man, “and I’m going to get you out of here.”

  Rex tried to respond, but he couldn’t stop coughing.

  • • •

  Val looked up from the wreck of the Prius. There was blood all over the ground; the guy inside was hurt pretty bad. The smoke from his car was coming off in thick black clouds, one of the tires on fire. Something in the back of the bus caught with a low thwump and flames started to lick out the shattered windows along its side. He caught tall letters written in red, Damned If You Don’t. Val looked at the writing, then down at his hands.

  Yeah. It was then that he looked up and saw a small oval face in the window of the bus, a kid maybe fifteen years old. He was waving at Val, trying to get his attention. Val looked back down at the Prius, then at the kid.

  Flame and death.

  “Not today,” said Val. He took five long steps back from the bus, then pushed himself forward in a sprint, his Nikes gripping the asphalt like claws. Three sprinter’s strides saw him moving fast and low, and he jumped into the air, crashing through a window on the side of the bus. The fire at the back coughed with the influx of air, then whooshed up loud as it sucked, greedy, eager. Hungry. He landed hard against one of the seats, shaking his head as he stood up. The kid was still there, his foot caught between two seats. Pale face, eyes wide with fear. Val looked at the flames that were burning hotter than ever, then back at the window he’d just broken to come in. Nice move, dumbass.

  “Kid,” said Val. “What’s your name?”

  “James.”

  “James, huh?” Val walked closer, taking a look at where the metal was caught and twisted around James’ leg. “Not Jimmy?”

  “No.” James had streaks of tears down his face, tracking clear footprints through black smoke dust. “Just James.”

  “Well, Just James,” said Val, “I’m going to get you out of here.”

  “I’ve tried,” said James. “I can’t get out.”

  “I know a secret,” said Val. “But you have to promise not to tell.”

  “I promise,” said James.

  “Okay,” said Val. “Where’re your parents?”

  “Dad got off,” said the kid. “Step Dad.”

  “Step Dad, huh?” Val frowned. What kind of asshole leaves his kid on a burning bus? “I have to tell you, Just James, that this is going to hurt a little. That okay?”

  “Yes,” said James. Then, after a moment, “Can you … if I die, can you tell my Dad to give my Nintendo to Tommy? He’s my friend.”

  “No,” said Val. He reached a hand down, felt the metal spar that was twisting around Just James’ leg.

  “Why not?” The kid’s eyes were wide with something, a little shock, a little fear. Perfect.

  “You can tell him yourself,” said Val, muscles bunching in his back as he wrenched the metal aside. Just James screamed, then passed out. Val did a quick check of Just James’ leg — going to be a hell of a bruise, but nothing broken — before he grabbed the kid from the seat, tossing him over one shoulder and jumping back out the broken window. He landed easy on the ground, glass crunching under his shoes. He ran to the edge of the crowd — always a crowd, no one wants to get involved, they just stand there — and handed the kid’s unconscious body to a woman.

  She looked at him, tugging down the scarf she held against her mouth. “I — he’s not my—”

  “Lady,” said Val, “I don’t give a fuck. Take the kid.”

  She nodded, mute, seeing something in his eyes. She took James from him, staggering under the weight — sometimes it was easy to forget how easy some things were now. Val turned to go, then spun back. “Make sure he gets help for that leg.”

  “His leg?” The woman looked down at James’ leg, seeing the blood for the first time. “My God, how did—”

  “You see that bus over there?” Val jerked a thumb behind him.

  “Yes.”

  “He was in there. That’s how,” said Val, and sprinted back to the Prius. Smoke was all around now, the fire coming off the bus in big sheets. He felt it lick at him, cringed—

  Only flame and smoke.

  —a little before pushing himself through. He could feel the cotton on his shirt starting to catch as he grabbed at the door of the Prius, setting a foot against it. The heat in the metal of the frame seared his hand, the pain coming with a hot sizzle. He yelled, pulling at the door. The metal groaned before tearing away with a shriek. He tossed the door aside, his hands hurting but the pain already starting to fade. Val bent over, his hands feeling inside the Prius — come on Val, faster, he’s not going to survive the smoke let alone the damn heat — for the man trapped there. His hand came up against the seatbelt, and he grabbed it with his other hand, twisting the nylon—

  He will be free.

  —like taffy, the plastic turning white as it stretched before tearing with a snap. Val grabbed the man, dragging him clear, then turned to run back to the safety of the crowd. He was about half way when the gas tank of the Prius exploded, picking them up like a couple of dolls. Val tucked himself around the man, felt something sharp and hard stab into his back before they crashed together on the ground.

  Val looked up to see the woman he’d given James to. She still held the kid, half clumsy, half protective. He looked around at the crowd. Caught a phone there, trained on him. Another phone, pointed at the inferno. Amateur reporters — no keeping this one a secret. Still. He hadn’t changed. Not yet. He pushed himself to his feet.

  “Are you — are you okay?” It was the woman holding the kid. Her eyes were wide, a hand reached out towards him, but not quite touching.

  Val looked over his shoulder, saw the piece of metal lodged in his back. He coughed around the pain. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.” He reached around, grabbing at
the edge, yanking it free. It looked like a California plate. Of course. Only place a Prius would come from. Val turned to go, felt the woman’s hand on his arm.

  “Your back,” she said. “It’s—” Her eyes widened as she saw his face. “Your … your eyes,” she stammered.

  Val didn’t need to see his reflection. He knew they’d be—

  Change. Rise. Be free.

  —a fierce, bright yellow. Without another word, he pushed into the crowd and away.

  • • •

  “What’s your name? Do you know your name?” The paramedic looked down at Rex, adjusting the air mask.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Bad if you can’t remember your name,” said the paramedic.

  “Rex,” said Rex. “My name’s Rex.”

  “Like a dog?”

  “Like a fucking Tyrannosaurus,” said Rex.

  “Got it,” said the paramedic. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Fine?”

  “You got two sprained wrists and your ribs are going to be feeling everything for a couple weeks. Smoke inhalation too — don’t take off the mask. We need to get you in for a scan to be sure, but your belt took the worst of it. That, and the airbag.” The paramedic looked over at the emergency cordon, the firefighters still working on putting out the flames.

  Damn airbag. Rex remembered the feeling of it punching up into his face. He remembered a man, too, who’d promised to get him out. What had he said? Damndest thing, like can you keep a secret … or something. Rex could keep a secret, especially when he knew that it wasn’t for the grace of God that he’d come out of this. The grace of something quite different. Quite, quite different.

  “He’s all yours,” said the paramedic to an officer standing nearby. The cop walked over.

  “Sir?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sir, do you remember how you got out of the car?”

  Can you keep a secret?

  “No.” Rex coughed a little, adjusting his mask. “Mystery to me.”

  “You sure?”

  “Pretty sure,” said Rex. 30 years in the fire department, I should be dead, some kind of … some kind of goddamn hero pulled me out of a car wreck it should have taken industrial machinery to crack open. Yeah, yeah. I see why you’d want to keep that a secret.

  “You’re absolutely sure?” The cop was folding away his notebook, a frown on his face.

  “Yeah,” said Rex. “What, no one else see anything?”

  “No,” said the cop. “Some kid was yanked from the bus but he says he was out when it happened. Good for him too, ankle looks like it was dislocated, would have hurt like hell. You wouldn’t want to remember that.”

  “Can I…” Rex coughed again. “Can I see him?”

  “Who?”

  “The kid.”

  “Why?”

  “I figure…” Rex licked his lips. “Maybe it’ll jog my memory.”

  “Maybe,” said the cop, in a voice that said bet it won’t.

  “Thanks,” said Rex. It wouldn’t help his memory, not a damn bit. But maybe he could help the kid, say he was sorry, say … well. Something. And … and make sure they were both keeping the same secret.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The alley smelled of rotten cabbage, a dumpster sitting lazy against the wall with its lid open to the sky. Half-disgorged innards seemed to bubble up from the inside like a bad meal coming back. Phillip stared at the same sky, cold asphalt against his back, blood in his mouth.

  “Fucking slope,” said the man. He was stumbling over his words in his haste to spit out his hate. “Fucking chink.” Phillip felt the boot hit his side, his body curling up around his pain, and he retched.

  “You think … you actually think you can come to our country, take our jobs?” The boot hit again. “You want to—” here, the boot hit him in the back, and Phillip arched, crying out “—rethink your attitude, son.”

  “Get him, Percy,” said another voice. Phillip thought this one sounded younger, eager for the blood, for someone else’s pain. I’m going to die here, because I took out the garbage at the wrong time. He stretched a hand out towards the black plastic sack, but a boot came down on his wrist. Phillip screamed as something snapped, and he curled up, sobbing.

  Some distant part of his mind admonished him. You should have checked. You should have looked. It’s not safe here. Five men in an alley? That’s a thing you shouldn’t have walked in on. They’d been arguing over a metal case, handle on the top, and their voices had dropped as he’d walked out the back of the restaurant.

  Phillip looked back up along the strong, tall fingers of the buildings as they reached for the stars. Clouds snuck around a fat moon, her pale face looking down. He tried to speak, nothing but blood and a tooth coming out.

  “What’s that?” The man — Percy — leaned down over him, face broken in a smile that wasn’t nice or kind or safe. He held a gun, an ugly thing of black metal and straight lines. He tapped the muzzle of the weapon against Phillip’s face. Tap, tap, tap. Phillip flinched back at each tap. “You trying to say something, gook?”

  “I’m … I’m sorry,” said Phillip. And he knew it, he felt it, that he was sorry. He just wished he knew what for.

  Percy’s face twisted into a snarl. He reached a hand up. “Give me a knife.”

  There was a giggle behind him, another man stepping into Phillip’s view. Phillip saw the knife, the blade a foot long, a finger ring set at the base of the handle. Percy took the knife, his hand closing slow and steady around it. Percy leaned in close. “I thought you all knew karate or some shit. Hell, boy, you went down like a tall glass of water on a hot day.”

  “No … karate,” said Phillip. “I—”

  “I don’t give two shits,” said Percy. “I’m going to cut you, bleed you out, and walk away. Go home, get laid, and not think about you any more. How’s that sound, boy?”

  “Sounds unfair,” said a new voice from the head of the alley. “Sounds a bit fucking one-sided, if you ask me.”

  Percy’s gaze jerked up, but the knife held steady at Phillip’s throat. Phillip didn’t want to turn his head, he could feel the edge of the knife kissing into his flesh already. Please don’t kill me. I don’t want to die.

  Percy didn’t seem to notice, maybe didn’t care. “Walk away,” he said. “Just walk the fuck away.”

  “Sure,” said the voice. Phillip could hear footsteps as they came closer, his ears picking out the sounds of shoes against the asphalt. “You let him go, I’ll walk away.”

  Percy laughed. “You for real?” He turned his head back to his entourage, the knife easing from Phillip’s throat. Phillip swallowed, tossing a quick glance at the newcomer. Another white man. Clothes look — burned — like he’d walked through a fire. Strong. Phillip met the other man’s eyes. Please, Phillip mouthed at the stranger. Please.

  “I’m for real,” said the man, ignoring Phillip. “Fair trade, I reckon. I walk away with this guy, and you don’t get executed like you deserve.”

  “What?” Percy seemed astonished. “What?”

  “What’s in the case?” The man nodded a head towards the metal case. It was still on the ground. Forgotten, for a moment, before the man had drawn everyone’s eyes back to it.

  “Fairy dust and wishes,” said Percy. He stood up and turned away, Phillip momentarily forgotten. The ugly pistol was in his hand again. “You picked the wrong night to be a hero.”

  “You shoot me with that and—” said the man, and was cut off as Percy pulled the trigger. Six shots rang out, hard and violent in the alley, the flashes from the weapon throwing strong shadows against the wall each time. Phillip cried out, curling up again, a hand against his head.

  Silence. No, not silence: Phillip’s hearing came back in stolen fits and starts, overlaid with ragged breathing, the sound of cars, a siren somewhere — nowhere close — and the shuffling of feet against the grime and muck of the alley floor. He opened his eyes.

  “You finishe
d?” The man with burned clothes was still standing, slightly to the left of where he’d been before. Phillip turned his head to look at Percy — the man was looking between his gun and the man with burned clothes as if he couldn’t believe it.

  “I shot you,” he said. “I shot you five times.”

  The other man held up a hand, palm out. “Look, I don’t want to be that guy,” he said, “but it was six times, and you shot at me.”

  “What?”

  “Six times. You missed.”

  “I don’t … I don’t miss,” said Percy. A sort of honest disbelief was in his voice, a thing that said now there’s something you don’t see every day. “I shot you. I shot you.”

  “At,” said the man, again. “Nearly got me on the fourth one.”

  “What?”

  “The thing is,” said the man, tugging at his burnt shirt, “I was done for the day. It’s been a long one, you know? I’ve already been shot once tonight, and I was in an explosion downtown. I thought, ‘Hey Val, maybe you should go home, put your feet up, grab a Coke and a smile, just let the dawn creep up on you and the sofa,’ and then I come down here and—”

  “Your name’s Val?” Percy took a half step forward, then thought better of it. “You’re a dead man. You’ll never—”

  “Right,” said Val, nodding. “You’ll kill my wife, my kids, my cat. Whatever.” He ran a hand through his hair, and Phillip thought the man looked so tired right then. “You didn’t get my surname.”

  “I’ve got Google,” said the man.

  “Google’s not sorcery,” said Val. “You need to give it something to work with.”

  “Don’t you … seriously? We’re having this conversation?” Phillip caught the movement as Percy flourished his gun in a sudden motion and pulled the trigger. Another shot rang out, but Phillip was looking right at Val, saw the other man already leaning out of the way.

  “The thing is,” said Val, “when I got shot earlier this evening, it was because I was trying to talk someone out of doing something stupid. Kind of like this.”