The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)

by F. Paul Wilson

  Raymond fluttered a hand in the air. “Because the maintenance people didn’t show up this morning. Somebody’s got to do it.”

  Alicia smiled. “But this is the last board. After this we’ll be sealed in safe and sound.”

  Jack doubted that, but said nothing. He knew Alicia’s type. No way she’d walk away from a responsibility—and those sick kids were a responsibility she lived for. And would die for.

  He said his good-byes and headed for his next stop, knowing he’d likely never see her again.

  New Jersey Turnpike

  Clear sailing on the blacktop. Hardly any other cars. Hank had most of the six southbound lanes to himself.

  He wondered why more people weren’t on the move, then realized that gas was probably in short supply—all the service areas he’d passed so far had been deserted. And where was there to go? According to the news reports, hell was everywhere. It might be a horror show where you were, but you could be fleeing into something far worse. And what if dark fell before you made it to where you were going? Better to stay where you were, hunker down, and try to hold on to what you had.

  He saw the sign for exit 11—the Garden State Parkway. That was his. The Parkway would take him down the coast to the shore towns. Just past the sign was another for the Thomas A. Edison Service Area. Under that, on the shoulder, sat a sheet of plywood, hand painted:

  WE HAVE GAS

  DEISEL TOO

  Yeah, but can you spell?

  Hank checked his gas gauge: half a tank. They were probably charging an arm and a leg per gallon, but who knew when he’d get another chance—if ever?

  Ahead he saw a beat-up station wagon turn off the road onto the service area approach. Hank decided to follow.

  As he approached the gas lanes he saw one of the two overalled attendants leaning in the passenger window of the station wagon. He straightened up and waved the wagon on.

  Probably doesn’t have enough money, Hank thought.

  He smiled and clinked his heel against the canvas bags stowed under the front seat. He had something they couldn’t refuse: silver coins. Precious metal. Always worth something, but more in bad times. The TV had said silver was going for eighty dollars an ounce. And the worse things got, the more it would be worth.

  He slowed, reached down, and pulled out a handful of coins; he shoved them into his pocket, checked that both door locks were down, then headed for the gas lanes.

  The two attendants were clean-cut and clean-shaven, one blond, one dark, both well built, each about thirty. The blond one came around to Hank’s side.

  “You’ve got gas?” Hank said, rolling his window down a couple of inches.

  The fellow nodded. “What’ve you got for it besides plastic or paper?”

  Hank pulled out his quarters. “These should do. They’re all pre-1964—solid silver.”

  The blond stared at the coins, then called to the dark-haired one.

  “Hey, Chuck. He’s got silver. We want silver?”

  Chuck came up to the passenger window. “I dunno,” he said through the glass. “What else you got?”

  “This is it.”

  “What you got in the back?” the blond one said.

  A trapped feeling had begun to steal over Hank. He grabbed for the gearshift.

  “Never mind.”

  His hand never reached it. Both side windows exploded inward, peppering him with glass; a club came in from his left and smashed against his cheek, showering cascades of flashing lights through his vision. He heard the door open, felt fingers clutch his hair and his shoulder, then he was dragged from the van and dumped onto his back on the pavement.

  Pain shot up and down Hank’s spine as he writhed, trying to catch the wind that had been knocked out of him. Above he was dimly aware of one of the attendants reaching into the van’s cab and turning off the engine, then taking the keys around to the rear. He heard the doors swing open.

  “Holy shit!” said Chuck’s voice. “Gary! Take a look! This guy’s loaded!”

  Terrified, Hank struggled to his feet. A part of him wanted to run, but where? For what? To be caught out in the open when dark came? Or to starve to death if he did find shelter? No! He had to get his supplies back.

  He staggered to the rear of his van and tried to slam the nearest door closed.

  “That’s mine!”

  The fair one, Gary, turned on him in red-faced fury and lashed out with his fists so fast, so hard, so many times in rapid succession that Hank barely knew what hit him. One moment he was on his feet, the next his head and abdomen were exploding with pain and his face was slamming onto the asphalt drive.

  He used to be pretty tough, able to hold his own against anyone, but this guy was tough and fast, and the good life Hank had been living the last year had left him soft and slow.

  He raised his head and spat blood. As his vision cleared, he saw a white car speeding toward them from the highway. He blinked. Something on top of the car—a red-and-blue flasher bar. And the state seal on the door. A Jersey State Trooper.

  He’d never liked cops, but he was glad to see this one.

  Groaning, he forced himself up to his knees and began waving with both arms.

  “Help! Over here! Help! Robbery!”

  The police unit screeched to a halt behind Hank’s van and a tall, graying, bareheaded trooper, resplendent in his gray uniform and shiny Sam Brown belt, hopped out and approached the two thieves still leaning inside the back doors.

  “Yo, Captain,” Chuck said. “Look what we found.”

  “Fucking supermarket on wheels,” Gary said.

  The trooper stared at the stacks of cartons. “Very impressive. Looks like we caught us a live one.”

  “Officer,” Hank said, not quite believing his ears, “these men tried to rob me!”

  The trooper swiveled and looked down at Hank, fixing him with a withering glare.

  “We’re commandeering your hoard.”

  “You’re with them?”

  “No. They’re with me. I’m their superior officer. I set up this little sting operation to catch hoarder scum and looters on the run. You have the honor of being our first of the day.”

  “I bought all that stuff!” Hank struggled to his feet and stood swaying like a sapling in a gale. “You have no right!”

  “Wrong,” the trooper said calmly. “I have every right. Hoarders have no rights.”

  “I’ll report you!”

  His smile was white ice. “Move away, little man. I’m the court of last resort around here. Be thankful I don’t have you shot on the spot. Your hoard is about to be divided up among those who’ll make the best use of it. It’ll see us through until the time comes to restore order.”

  Hank couldn’t believe this was happening. There had to be something he could do, someone he could turn to. He shouldn’t have come alone, should have brought a few Kickers for backup, but he didn’t trust—

  And then he saw the tattoo in the thumb web of the officer’s hand and relief flooded through him.

  “You’re a Kicker!”

  “We all are. So?”

  “I’m Hank Thompson!”

  “That supposed to mean something?”

  “I wrote Kick! I created that symbol. I created Kickerdom!”

  The officer sneered. “Yeah, right.”

  He reached for his wallet. “I can prove it!”

  The cop kicked him in the gut. “You ain’t nobody.”

  As Hank gagged with the pain, he saw Gary rip open a carton and pull out a cellophane envelope.

  “Hey, look! Oodles of Noodles. My favorite!”

  Something snapped inside him. Ignoring the pain, he rolled to his feet. Screaming, waving his fists, he charged at Gary.

  “That’s mine! Get your hands off it!”

  He never made it. The captain stepped in front of him and rammed his forearm into Hank’s face. Hank reeled back, clutching his shattered nose.

  “Get running, little man,” he said in a tigh
t, cold voice. “Run while you still can.”

  “You can’t do this to me! I’m your leader!”

  “Git!”

  Mortally afraid now, Hank said, “I can’t! There’s no place to go! We’re in the middle of nowhere! I’ve got two bags of silver coins under the front seat. You can have them. Just give me back my van!”

  The captain reached for the revolver in his holster. He didn’t pause or hesitate an instant. In one smooth, swift motion he pulled it free, ratcheted the hammer back with his thumb, and pointed it at Hank’s face.

  “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  Hank saw nothing in his eyes as the captain pulled the trigger. He tried to duck but was too late. He felt a blast of pain in his skull as the world exploded into unbearable light, then collapsed into fathomless darkness.

  Manhattan

  Jack spotted a few people sitting on the park benches in Union Square as he passed. Didn’t notice any movement, so he couldn’t be sure if they were alive or dead.

  He parked on 17th Street before a storefront diabetes clinic—or at least a place that had once been a clinic. The Laundromat next door was equally demolished, but at least the wrecked equipment still resembled washers and dryers. The clinic … nothing but smashed furniture.

  He stepped through the front room to the office and treatment areas in the rear. Just as deserted as the rest of the place. In the office he spotted the remnants of a Mr. Coffee. He shook his head. That brought back memories. W. C. Fields had his fatal glass of beer; here was where Jack had drunk a near-fatal cup of coffee.

  Which, now that he thought of it, might have led to his first encounter with Dr. Bulmer.

  He heard glass crunch behind him and whirled. A stocky young woman with straight dark hair stood in the doorway, staring at him. She wore a turtleneck sweater, a short plaid skirt, and dark tights.

  “Jack? What are you doing here?”

  Nadia Radzminsky, M.D., had let her hair grow, but otherwise looked pretty much the same as the last time he’d seen her.

  “Looking for you. Don’t have your home address, so I thought I’d give this place a try.”

  He told her about Glaeken’s building and the invitation to stay there.

  With a dazed expression, she looked around at the destruction. “But my patients…”

  “Are gone.”

  Her head snapped around. “You don’t know that.”

  “Nadia, you treat the poor, the homeless, the marginal folks.” He kept his tone gentle. “Lots of people who live behind thick walls with sturdy doors and double locks didn’t make it through the night. What do you think happened to your people?”

  Her eyes glistened with tears. “Some of them must have survived.”

  “Then they’d be here, wouldn’t they.”

  She didn’t reply, just stood there and chewed her lip.

  “The one thing we’re going to need when this is over—if it’s ever over—are doctors. You want to do the most good, you’ll keep yourself safe.”

  She was looking around again. “I don’t know…”

  “And doesn’t your mother live in the city? She’s welcome too.”

  That seemed to tip her Jack’s way.

  “Okay. Where is this place?”

  Jack gave her the address, then added, “You’ll bring Doug too, of course.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  “Okay. See you there. And don’t waste time. There’s not much of it.”

  Good. He had a doctor for the building. Next stop, finish up a little business with an engraver. And after that, a visit to a ghost and his brother.

  WFPW-FM

  JO: Stay out of the water, everybody. In fact, stay away from the water. There are things in the rivers and apparently they don’t go into hiding during the day. We’ve just received a confirmed report of a fisherman being pulled off a dock in Coney Island and eaten alive right in front of his kids.

  FREDDY: Don’t go near the water, man.

 

  “W’happen t’yer car, buddy?”

  Jack had seen the drunk staggering along the glass-littered sidewalk; he’d veered toward Jack’s car as it pulled into the curb in front of Walt Duran’s apartment building.

  “Ran into some bugs,” Jack said as he got out.

  The drunk stared at the ruined paint. He was fiftyish, overweight, and needed a shave; he wore a gray wool suit of decent quality, but filthy. A liter of Bacardi Light dangled from his hand. His complexion was ghastly in the yellow light.

  “Tried to dissolve her, didn’t they,” he said, then his face screwed up and he began to sob. “Just like they dissolved my Jane!”

  Jack didn’t know what to do. What do you say to a crying drunk? He put a hand on the guy’s quaking shoulder.

  “Hang around. Maybe I can find you a place to stay.”

  The guy shook his head and stumbled away along the sidewalk, still sobbing.

  Jack hurried up the building’s front steps. He pressed the button for Walt’s room but got no answering buzz. The glass panel in the front door was broken. Maybe the buzzer was too. He reached through the shattered pane and let himself in, then hurried up to the third floor.

  Despite repeated knocks, Walt didn’t answer his door.

  Concerned now, Jack pulled the piece of clear, flexible plastic he kept in his back pocket, slipped it between the door and the jamb, and jimmied the latch. The door swung open.

  “Oh, shit,” he said when he saw the carnage within.

  The front room was a shambles of shattered glass, torn upholstery, and broken furniture. Jack dodged through the wreckage and hurried to the bathroom where he’d installed Walt last night.

  Empty, damn it. He went to the one remaining place to look, the tiny bedroom.

  Blood. Blood on the sheets, on the floor, on the glass daggers remaining in the frame of the smashed bedroom window.

  “Walt,” Jack said softly, staring at the dry brown streaks on the glass. “Why didn’t you come back with me last night? Why didn’t you stay locked up like I told you?”

  Angry and sad, and not sure which to give in to, he wandered back to the bathroom. Walt’s metalworking tools were set up across the rust-stained tub.

  But where were the necklaces? Probably hadn’t finished them, but Jack knew he’d started them.

  And what was Jack going to do without them?

  Then he spotted something silvery and serpentine in the tub, under the work board. He dropped to his knees and reached in.

  Out came a necklace.

  Jack cupped it in his hands and inspected it. The sculpted, crescent-shaped links, the weird engraved inscriptions, the pair of topazes with dark centers. The look of it, weight of it … perfect.

  A deluge of memories, most of them bad, engulfed him. He especially remembered the night he had worn the genuine article, how it had kept him alive when he should have died, how removing it had damn near killed him.

  He shook off the past and felt a lump form in his throat for the man who had made this.

  “Walt. You were the best.”

  He reached into the tub and found the second necklace, but groaned when he got a good look at it. Only half done. The links on the left side were blank. Walt hadn’t got around to engraving them before … well, before whatever had happened to him.

  One and a half necklaces wasn’t going to cut it. Jack’s plan required two phonies to get the real ones.

  He got to his feet and stuffed the completed copy into his pocket. He’d have to come up with a new plan.

  Out on the street again he looked around for the drunk and spotted him sitting on the curb at the corner. He called to him, but the guy was absorbed in staring down at the sewer grate beneath his feet. Jack walked toward him.

  “Hey, fella! I’ll get you to a safe place where you can sober up.”

  The guy looked up. “Somebod’s downair,” he said, pointing into the sewer. “Can’t see’m but I hear’m movin�
�� ’round.”

  Jack wondered if people were hiding in the sewers.

  “Swell. But I don’t think you’ll fit through that opening, so—”

  “Prolly c’use a drink.”

  The guy reached down to pour a taste of his rum through the grate.

  Something flashed up from the sewer, something long and thick and brown whipped out and grabbed the drunk by his neck and yanked him down facefirst onto the grate. Then it began tugging him into the opening in the curb face. Not slowly, smoothly, inexorably, but with violent heaves, accompanied by sprays of blood and frantic but futilely flailing arms and legs. Three heaves did it.

  Before Jack could recover from his shock and take a single step forward to help, the man was gone. All he’d left behind were splashes of blood and a bottle of rum on its side, slowly emptying into the sewer after its owner.

  No people hiding in the sewers from the night things … night things—big night things—were down there hiding from the day.

  Jack backed up a few steps, then turned and hurried for his car. He had one last stop before heading for Monroe: Astoria.

  WFPW-FM

  FREDDY: —and at sea, the QE2 appears to be missing, man. She was last heard from Sunday evening and since then, nada. If she hit one of the gravity holes she’d have radioed for help. The single air-sea rescue plane that was sent out has found no survivors. Bummer, man.

 

  Astoria, Queens

  With the Queensboro Bridge out of commission, Jack had to take the Triboro, which was jammed. Not like it had been during the Internet crash, but slow, slow going.

  When he finally reached Menelaus Manor in Astoria he was struck by its condition: The neighbors up and down the block showed extensive bug damage, but the old stone house remained intact, almost … pristine.

  Jack knocked on the front door. Lyle Kenton answered. He looked awful—eyes sunken, skin a dull black, his usually neat dreads in disarray.