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

by F. Paul Wilson

  He was just finishing one of those patrols now, wheeling through the first-floor halls, checking the candles, replacing the ones that were guttering into glowing puddles. The power had failed around midday. He’d thought it might be just a local failure but the radio said LIPA was off-line for good. Another time it might have been romantic. Knowing what was outside, straining to get in, made it anything but.

  So now with the midnight rounds completed and fresh candles flickering in every room, Alan settled himself down in the TV room and turned on the radio. Strange how a little adversity could change your habits. A week ago he wouldn’t have thought twice about leaving the radio playing while he’d made his rounds. Now, with the power out and batteries scarce, he didn’t leave it on a moment longer than necessary.

  Jo and Freddy were still hanging in there, God bless ’em. Their voices were ragged, sometimes they were completely incoherent—their fatigue enhanced by a little herb, perhaps—as they broadcasted in shifts; their signal seemed at times like it was generated by a collection of frantic, wheel-spinning gerbils, but they weren’t giving in to the fear. Neither was a fair share of their remaining listeners.

  And neither was Alan.

  Only problem was they didn’t play doo-wop. They played good stuff, some new but mostly so-called “classic rock.” As far as Alan was concerned, the real classic stuff had been sung on street corners—with the bass vocal and popping fingers for rhythm, and close, soaring, three- and four-part harmonies telling the story. That was where it all began. Some great stuff had come out of the sixties, and even the seventies, but the heart of it all, the classic end of the music, had begun in ’55 and tapered into the sixties until the Brits began reinterpreting the music.

  “Eight Miles High” came on. Alan could live with that. The Byrds knew their harmony—even if it was two-part masquerading as three-part—and he was losing himself in McGuinn’s Coltranesque solo when he heard an unfamiliar sound from the front hall. He turned off the radio.

  Splintering wood.

  He pulled the tooth-studded billy from the pouch behind his backrest, laid it in his lap, and wheeled toward the front of the house. As soon as he entered the foyer he saw the problem. After nights of constant effort, the chew wasps finally had managed to rip off the metal weather strip from the bottom of the front door and were now busily at work gnawing rat holes at the floor line. Sharp-toothed lower jaws were visible in two spots, sawing relentlessly at the wood, gouging off pieces, building piles of splinters.

  Not good. In no time they’d have a couple of holes big enough to wriggle through. And then Toad Hall would be full of chew wasps—and spearheads, too, no doubt.

  All looking for Jeffy. But to get to Jeffy they’d have to go through Sylvia. The very thought of that sickened him.

  But to get to Sylvia they’ve got to get through me.

  Alan looked around for some sort of backup defense, something to shore up the weak point. He spotted the heavy brass étagère to the right of the door.

  Perfect.

  He rolled over to it, removed all the netsuke and piled them gently in the corner, then pulled the étagère over onto its side. He tried to let it down easy but it hit the floor with a clang. He found that maneuvering it against the door from his wheelchair was all but impossible, so he slid from the seat onto his knees and worked from the floor.

  As he was guiding the thick brass back of the piece against the door, a chew wasp began to wriggle its head through the hole it had made. As its eyes lit on Alan, its movements became more frantic, its toothy jaws gnashed the air hungrily. Alan grabbed his club and bashed in the creature’s skull with two blows. It wriggled for an instant, then lay still, its carcass wedged in the hole, blocking it.

  Alan fitted the étagère snugly against the door, then pulled his wheelchair closer. He’d stocked its backrest pouch with the equivalent of a tool chest. Hammer, nails, saw, ax, pliers, screwdriver—anything he might need on short notice during the night.

  He took out the hammer and began driving a half dozen of the biggest nails he had into the seams between the tiles along the outer edge of the étagère. Damn shame to mess up this beautiful marble but it could be replaced. The people besieged in Toad Hall could not.

  Alan pulled himself back up into his chair and regarded his handiwork. It looked pretty stable. With only wing power behind them, he doubted the bugs were strong enough to push back the heavy brass piece even if he’d left it unsecured. But now, with nails acting as stoppers, he was certain they’d be frustrated until morning. He heard sharp little teeth scraping against the far side of the metal.

  “Let’s see you chew a hole in that.”

  Tomorrow, though, he’d have to find some way to reinforce the outer surface of the door.

  Maybe Ba would be back by then. Alan hoped so. As much as he insisted on his own independence and refused to lean on anyone else, Toad Hall was awfully big. Too big to be adequately patrolled by one man in a wheelchair. With the welfare of Sylvia and Jeffy at stake, he couldn’t let his pride endanger them. As long as Sylvia insisted on staying here, he’d do his best to protect her. But he wished he had Ba for backup. Even more, he wished they’d all moved in with Glaeken last Saturday when the old guy had offered.

  “Alan?”

  He wheeled around and found Sylvia standing in the foyer entrance. She wore the loose sweater and baggy old jeans that were serving as her pajamas during the siege. Her face was pale and lined from the pillowcase. She did not look like the Sylvia Nash who’d once appeared in The New York Times Magazine with her unique bonsai art—her beautiful trees now lay smashed and broken in the shattered remains of the greenhouse—but Alan found her as beautiful as ever.

  “Hey. You’re supposed to be catching some sleep.”

  “I heard all that banging. I thought something was wrong.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you, but the chewers have started to gnaw rat holes in the door.”

  She came over and dropped onto his lap; she slipped her arms around him and hugged.

  “I wasn’t sleeping. I couldn’t. I’m worried about Ba. I’m afraid he won’t come back. And if he doesn’t, if he’s … dead … it will be my fault for letting him go. I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Alan put his arms around her waist. “We’ve been through this, and if anyone can take care of himself, it’s Ba.”

  “But I’m worried about you too, Alan. When I’m down in the basement with Jeffy and you’re up here alone I begin to think I’ve been very foolish, very selfish in insisting we stay here. But for some strange reason I feel it more than ever tonight. So I’ve made up my mind. Tomorrow we move in with Glaeken. Hopefully Ba will be back by then and we can all leave here as a group. I want our little family back together again, Alan. Toad Hall is our home, but we’ve got to survive. That comes first.”

  He squeezed her against him. “I know what this place means to you. I know how tough it is for you to leave it.”

  “It’s like giving up.” He could feel her jaw muscles bunch as she spoke. “I hate to give up.”

  “But it’s not giving up or giving in. It’s a strategic withdrawal so you can live to fight another day when you’ve marshaled your forces.”

  “I love you,” she said, leaning her head against his. “Sometimes I wonder why you put up with me and my stubbornness.”

  “Maybe it’s because of your stubbornness. Maybe I like a woman who don’t take no shit from nobody, not even this Rasalom guy and his bugs.”

  Sylvia jerked her head up, fluttered her eyelids, and put on her Southern belle voice.

  “Whah, Doctah Bulmuh! Ah don’t believe Ah’ve evah heard you speak that way! Especially in front of a layday!”

  “I only speak that way when I’m under a lady.”

  They kissed—simultaneously, spontaneously. Whether it was body language or the kind of telepathy that develops between soul mates, Alan didn’t know. And didn’t care. All he knew at that instant was that it was time
for a kiss. And Sylvia knew it too. So they kissed. Simple.

  “When was the last time we made love?” he heard her say as he nuzzled her neck and inhaled the scent of her.

  “Too long.”

  They hadn’t had a chance even to sleep together since the attacks.

  “Another good reason to move in with Glaeken,” she said. “An excellent reason.”

  They sat there for a while, Sylvia cradled on his lap, and held each other, listening to the bugs gnaw at the edges of the brass étagère. Alan realized again how much he loved this woman, how attuned he was to her, like no other person he had ever known. The thought of her coming to harm was unbearable. Tomorrow they’d move to Glaeken’s and she’d be safe, as safe as anyone could be in this madness.

  But first he had to see them through the night.

  The Bunker

  “What’s that?”

  Gia bolted upright in bed. A small night-light burned but otherwise the bunker was dark. Beyond the curtain, Abe snored. But between his loud, discordant rumbles … another sound.

  Rasping … grinding …

  Without disturbing Vicky, Gia slipped out of bed and padded around the curtain to where Abe slept. He lay on his back like a beached whale. She shook his shoulder once and he jolted awake.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Listen,” she said.

  And now, with the snoring silenced, the new sound came through loud and clear. She felt sick when she realized what it was.

  “Something’s chewing on the outer wall.”

  Abe shook his head. “No. Impossible.”

  “Listen! It’s the burrowers. Has to be.”

  Abe listened.

  “You may be right. They’re trying to get in. But they haven’t a chance. Like I said, four feet of steel-reinforced concrete—an atomic bomb they’ll need. And even then…”

  Gia shivered. It sounded good in theory, but what if whatever was out there kept it up all night, night after night, chewing up just a little wall at a time? Eventually they’d get through.

  She hurried back to bed and snuggled against Vicky. But sleep was impossible. The noise … the grinding, the chewing … went on and on.

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

  Flesh Feast (1970) Cine World Corp.

  Twilight People (1972) New Worlds

  Beyond Evil (1980) IFI-Scope III

  The Night God Screamed (1973) Cinemation

  From Hell It Came (1957) Allied Artists

  The Unearthly (1957) Republic

  Night of the Dark Full Moon (1972) Cannon

  Bug (1977) Paramount

  Creatures of Evil (1970) Hemisphere

  The Unknown Terror (1957) 20th Century Fox

  The Day the World Ended (1956) AIP

  Scream and Scream Again (1970) Amicus/AIP

  It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World (1963) United Artists

  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 an
d 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.