The Night Children

by Kit Reed

  “Shear her.”

  “No, snatch her baldheaded.”

  “Tie her up and throw her in the Peace Fountain.”

  “Tie her in front of the Dinky Train.”

  “Don’t be stupid, get rid of her.”

  At Jule’s back, Kirk gives her a shake. “Get rid of her for good and all!” His thick breath blasts the back of her neck. Every inch of her skin tightens.

  Some kid says brightly, “Clearance sale!”

  A girl in the circle purrs, “Drop her in the Trash Spinner.”

  The Dingos close in, pushing and shoving. Suggestions buzz like hornets, filling the air. “Underground tram tracks. The trams’ll mash her flat.”

  “Zozzco offices.”

  “Shut up, stupid. Like you want them to know we’re here?”

  “Security headquarters.”

  “No way, she’d turn us in!”

  Then somebody says, “The Dark Hall.”

  Everybody gasps. Whispers ripple and build as kids shift uneasily and close in on Jule, repeating, “The Dark Hall.”

  Suddenly everybody’s afraid. “The Dark Hall.”

  Their tone chills Jule to the heart, two dozen boys and girls muttering, “Not the Dark Hall.”

  Burt shouts, “Enough!” Turning, he rakes his people with the light. “Dingos, back off!”

  There is a rustle and a flurry as the shadows fall back. Whoever these Dingos are, they’re used to taking orders.

  “That’s better. Now, quiet. I’ve gotta think.”

  In the long silence, Jule starts to sweat.

  Kirk has been gripping Jule tightly for so long that his fingers are trembling. One sharp tug and she’d be free.

  But Burt Arno is thinking, whatever that means. The dark shapes in the circle murmur and sigh restlessly. If she ran they would catch her in seconds, and Jule knows better than to try.

  After too long, Burt says, “OK, Kirk, let her go.”

  Kirk lets go with a little grunt of relief.

  It’s like having a bearskin rug lifted off. Jule shakes her arms, waiting for the feeling to come back. Squinting into the light, she waits. Everybody in the circle around them waits. Jule doesn’t run. She doesn’t even cast around for an exit. The light is blinding; if Burt turns it off this very minute, afterimages will be flashing in her head for hours. It will be a long time before Jule can see what’s out there or guess which way to run. Here under the dome at the end point of the fabulous WhirlyFunRide, time has stopped, at least for now.

  Jule does not ask, Can I go now? She knows better. Hulking Burt Arno is thinking. It will go badly for anybody who interrupts.

  Even Mag is still.

  “OK,” he says finally. “Let’s do this.”

  Everybody sighs with relief.

  “Tidgewell, Barlow, the shackles.”

  Two stringy boys about Jule’s age close in with duct tape and a Kryptonite bicycle lock. When they’re done Jule’s wrists are firmly taped to either end of the lock.

  Somebody produces a bejeweled dog collar and new leash with Pet Parade labels still attached. Jule can’t know that where the Castertown Crazies use castoffs or pay for everything they take in the MegaMall, the Dingos steal.

  “OK, Mag. Grab the leash,” Burt says. “We’re moving out.”

  “Where to?”

  “Where else?” Burt’s ugly laugh makes Jule shiver. “The Dark Hall.”

  Somebody in the little cluster of followers moans on a high note. “Ooooh, noooo!”

  Mag says sharply, “We’re not going in there.” It’s half statement, half question.

  “Who, us? No, not us,” Burt says and he heads for the nearest red exit sign, pushing Mag and her captive along in front of him. Behind, the other Dingos fall in muttering, and the little group moves out. “We’re not going in there,” he says, and the air trembles as everybody but Jule lets out a sigh of relief. Burt adds, “She is.”

  SIX

  TICK IS TRYING TO do three things at once.

  First, he is organizing the move. He is worried about little Doakie but he needs to get his people to the next place and safely settled before he does anything else. Then he can find Doakie and get ready to meet Burt Arno for the big confrontation at 4 a.m.

  Right now, he has to move. The deserted shell of Sligo Sporting Goods was a wonderful hideout for as long as it lasted, but that’s all over now. Too bad. The place was big enough for everybody and stocked with a lot of cool things, including a hot plate and a pocket fridge left behind by the company when they went bankrupt and moved out. It was the best hideout they ever had, but they have to pack up what they can, and go.

  Tick is scrawling on a pad, but his mind is on everything else. The smalls are busy bundling up bedrolls while Willie and James sort supplies into two piles: things they can take and things that are too bulky to take.

  Jiggy and Nance are working away with their heads down, but the guilty look Jiggy shoots him says it all: my fault. Tick will have a sit-down with the two of them—tomorrow, probably, lay down some ground rules—but first he has to make it through tonight. They’re leaving riches behind: extra clothes, camp chairs, pictures the kids drew, but in the world of the MegaMall, when you say goodbye to an object, something new will come along to take its place. He had the next spot picked out long before tonight, so that’s taken care of. Tick’s long life in the Mega-Mall has taught him to adapt. Every night he goes prospecting for new places, just in case.

  Location is not the problem. Getting everybody there without being followed is.

  He is busy making maps so the Crazies can go out one by one and find their way to the new hideout without getting lost. All but the smallest Crazies have to travel alone so they can filter into the vacant music store on the far side of the Pennsylvania Dutch Food Court in the music gallery without being seen. The newly vacated store isn’t as big as Sligo Sports and it’s a lot trashier, but it will have to do. The owners moved out so fast that they abandoned a drum set, a trumpet and a handful of CDs, which is a plus.

  There is the problem of finding an abandoned CD player, but that can wait.

  The second thing he has to do is figure out how to handle Burt Arno when they meet in the Montecassino courtyard. What does the leader of the Dingos want, an apology or Jiggy’s head on a stick or something worse? He doesn’t know. Of course he’ll go alone, but will Burt be alone?

  It wouldn’t occur to him to go armed. Tick would never think of traveling with a weapon, no Swiss Army knives for him, no pellet guns and certainly not a baseball bat. His folks have been gone since he was five but he knows what would make them proud. It takes brains, not weapons to solve problems.

  He’s not that kind of person, but what kind of person is Burt? He is the wild card that Tick never thought he’d have to play.

  Since that first meeting Tick has only seen the leader of the Dingos in passing—the wild glint in Burt’s eyes as he and his Dingos swarmed past him on their way out—the chains, the savage flash of teeth. When they meet, Tick is fully prepared to say whatever Burt wants to hear, anything to make this pass. He’ll apologize, if that’s what it takes. Jiggy and Nance thought it was funny when they laid their trap for the outsiders’ gang; they were laughing when they sprayed the Dingos with Silly String, but what they did was destructive and dangerous. It was also extremely dumb. He will apologize, but what if that isn’t enough?

  Tick is prepared to offer goods, like palmcorders from the Crazies’ collection of objects left behind by careless shoppers, along with the tribe’s complete supply of chocolate; he’s even prepared to offer what little money the Castertown Crazies have saved, but is money enough?

  The third thing, and this bothers him most, is what to do about Doakie Jinks. Kid’s too young to read any note they might leave for him, and not smart enough to know the Crazies’ code even if he could. Leaving a map for him would be dangerous. What if the Dingos or mall Security found it instead? Tick supposes they could just go on without
him and hope for the best, but Doakie’s not ready to take care of himself. He’s just a little boy!

  Gleaming red in the corner where he threw it, the Dingos’ arrow taunts him.

  They can’t stay here one minute longer.

  They can’t just abandon Doakie to the mall.

  Around him the Crazies have finished packing, stowing, loading up. Tick’s people have their whole lives strapped to their backs. They clump together, shuffling expectantly.

  One of the smalls clears his throat.

  James murmurs, “Time for liftoff?”

  Willie shakes his head. “No way. Search party first.”

  James says, “No time. We can’t . . .”

  “We have to send out a search party,” Willie says doggedly.

  “Aren’t we gonna look for Doakie?” Doakie’s best friend Jane tugs on Tick’s elbow. She’s trying not to cry.

  “Can’t,” James growls. “We have to move!”

  It’s time for Tick to call the shot. “Both,” he says. “We have to do both.”

  In the next second the vinyl flaps that protect the Crazies’ secret door part so smoothly that at first even Tick thinks the change in the room is just a glitch in the air-conditioning, nothing more.

  A deep voice says, “Lose somebody?”

  Tick wheels. “Lance!”

  Tall, rough-cut Lance the Loner has entered their headquarters so swiftly and quietly that even Tick didn’t know.

  The mysterious outsider stands at the opening in the ragged camo pants and jacket that make him look like a deserter from some unknown army. He’s bigger than Tick. Older. As always, his face is covered by black wool that hides everything but the green eyes. He wears the ski mask because Lance the Loner is so private that nobody gets to see his face.

  Lance has lived in the mall longer than anybody, even Tick, but he and Tick don’t really know each other. They don’t know each other even after all these years. They pass, not like strangers, exactly, but like orbiting planets that never meet. From the beginning, Lance kept to himself. He comes and goes so quietly that you don’t even know that he’s been.

  The two don’t talk, but Tick thinks of the Loner as a friend. He finds notes left by Lance sometimes: where the best food is. Which part of the sector to avoid, and why. When this happens he goes through the Crazies’ stores of food and clothes and small electronics and leaves a present out for Lance. The thank-you gifts are never acknowledged, but when Tick comes back to the spot to check, they’re always gone.

  He sees at once what Lance is doing here. He has a squirming bundle tucked under his left arm.

  “Doakie!”

  “They almost got him.” The big boy drops Doakie on the floor. Doakie wheezes, trying to get his breath.

  Willie says, “What did you do to him?”

  “Saved his hide.” Lance snorts. “A Security goon almost got him. You should be more careful of your kids.”

  “I just found out he was missing.”

  “My point.”

  James says, “He just slipped out.”

  Something about the Loner makes Willie all defensive. “We were about to go looking for him, OK?”

  Syllables come popping out of Doakie: “T-t-t . . .”

  “What’s the matter, Doak?” Tick kneels. “Are you choking or what?”

  Doakie’s eyes are bulging with excitement. He has something to tell but he is wheezing so hard that he can’t talk.

  Tick looks up. “What happened? Is he OK?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Lance says. “Just got the breath knocked out of him.”

  Doakie is waiting for his chest to inflate so he can speak. Struggling, he tries, “Tuh . . .”

  “Where was he?”

  “Tuh . . .”

  “Cartons outside Latrobes Luggage.”

  “Tuh . . . huh . . . ick!”

  “Security bearing down on him, fast.”

  “Did they see you?”

  Lance’s head comes up: proud. “No. I’m too good. Sorry about the can’t-breathe thing. I had to get him out fast.”

  “Duh . . .”

  “Take it easy, Doakie. Don’t try to talk.” Tick stands. “So, Lance. Thanks!”

  Doakie sputters, “Duh . . .”

  “Shh, Doak.”

  “Duh . . .”

  “Really, Lance. Thanks!”

  It’s hard to tell what Lance is thinking because of the ski mask, but Tick thinks he’s grinning. It shows up in the little bounce in his voice. “Welcome. It’s no big.”

  This is the most conversation they’ve ever had.

  “Dingos!” Doakie manages at last. With a whissshhhh, all the little boy’s breath comes rushing back into him.

  Tick looks down, rummaging in his pockets. “Sports compass they left behind at Sligo Sports. Not really a present, but it’s the least I can . . .”

  When he looks up, the big loner is gone.

  “OK, guys. Let’s go. I’ll bring Doakie.”

  “N-noooo!”

  “It’s OK, you’re not too heavy, Doak. Now, let’s move out!” Tick bends to collect Doakie and is surprised by a rush of words that comes out in a mixture of hot breath and spraying spit. “No it isn’t,” Doakie cries.

  “What?”

  “The Dingos caught a girl in the WhirlyFunRide,” he says so fast that the rest comes out before Tick can slow him down or stop him to ask questions. “We have to go save her. Hurry. Before they hurt her bad!”

  SEVEN

  GOING ALONG WITH HER hands taped to the klunky bike lock and Mag running up her heels, Jule happens to be the only one looking up as the Dingos forge on. Mag grips her hair, jerking her head back so that she can only look up.

  The others are looking straight ahead, down the long corridor that will, Jule supposes, take her into the next sector, like it or not. The Dingos are tromp-tromp-tromping, heading for the Dark Hall. She could call for help, but what’s the point? She could scream until Sunday and no one would hear. The Casterbridge MegaMall is deserted. Metal grilles cover everything they pass, and on the long second-floor balconies, all the stores are closed.

  It is scary and exciting. The gleaming corridors of the MegaMall are dead empty, with only store dummies watching from their windows. The Dingos have marched her through so many sectors that Jule loses count. Nobody speaks and she isn’t about to ask. All she knows is that they are marching her to the Dark Hall.

  Burt Arno is walking point. Burt’s people turn when he turns; they go where he goes. When a surveill camera sweeps in their direction he hisses, “Freeze!” and the Dingos drop, crouching until the roving red eye hits the end of its arc and it’s safe to move.

  “So,” Jule murmurs, “a moving target is harder to hit?”

  “No,” Mag spits. “A moving target is easy to spot!”

  Wow, she answered me, Jule thinks. If only we can talk. She tries again. “Um. How far is it?”

  Mag gives her hair a ferocious yank. “Don’t ask.”

  Grouped in a tight triangle, the Dingos trot along behind Burt Arno like troops closing ranks to invade Mars. On either side of Jule, ahead of her and behind her, boys march with their heads down, walking the Burt Arno walk. Like their leader, they keep their heads down and their elbows tight to their sides—all but Mag, who grips Jule’s hair, jerking her head back so that she can’t help but look up, at the glossy railings of the second-floor balconies. Big and small, the others rush on, glaring out from under clenched eyebrows in a conscious imitation of Burt. The Dingos are on the move. They are so used to following orders that nobody stops to question their destination.

  Nobody says what everybody is thinking.

  The Dark Hall?

  Burt wants us to go to the Dark Hall?

  Yes, the Dark Hall.

  Oh, noooooo. Not the Dark Hall.

  You heard what he said. We all did.

  OK, we’re going to the Dark Hall.

  Nobody is OK with it, but what Burt says, the Dingos do.
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  Jule, of course, is something else. She is a prisoner. The Dingos are rushing her along to a place so scary that Castertown kids talk about it in whispers, the way they talk about zombies and witches, or certain ghosts.

  Everybody’s afraid of the Dark Hall because nobody knows what it is or what happens there. In the Castertown MegaMall, somewhere in this monstrous, impenetrable honeycomb, one sector lies unexplored. Nobody goes there, but don’t go looking for it. You won’t come back. Even talking about it is dangerous.

  If there is a Dark Hall.

  Even though they make their parents bring them to the mall every chance they get, every girl and boy in Castertown is afraid of the Dark Hall. The Dark Hall is mysterious and terrible, like the Black Hole of Calcutta or the principal’s office or the seventh circle of hell.

  What goes on inside? Does Amos Zozz, who nobody has ever seen keep prisoners in the Dark Hall? Conduct weird experiments? Breed tremendous, scary animals or monsters or gigantic poison snakes? Is he building engines of destruction, or robots that will conquer the world? Nobody knows.

  Teachers who can’t control their classes threaten: “One more word and it’s the Dark Hall for you.” Even the most loving parents bring it up sometimes: “Bed. Now. You know what happens to children who disobey.”

  They don’t, really, which is the scariest part of all.

  At recess, they share rumors. “You heard what happened to Patty, right?”

  “Mom says she moved.”

  “No way. She disappeared into the—you know.”

  Everybody shudders. “The Dark Hall?”

  Someone whispers, “And they never saw her again.”

  It’s weird. Step up and ask them what happens in the Dark Hall and even your parents will look you in the eye and say, “Don’t be silly.” They say flatly, “There is no Dark Hall.”

  Yeah, right.

  We know there is a Dark Hall, but we can’t prove it. The MegaMall is just too big to explore. Built like a gigantic honeycomb with six-sided galleries connected by circular courtyards with fountains, with hexagonal food courts filling the spaces between, the MegaMall is so expansive that nobody has walked the perimeter. For one thing, the honeycomb is still expanding. Cranes stand just beyond the finished walls. It would take an expedition weeks to map the finished areas, or so the grownups claim.