Vault of Shadows

by Jonathan Maberry

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t freaked, Shark. It’s just that it is what it is.”

  “You’re nuts, you do know that.”

  “Yeah,” sighed Milo, “probably. But are Evangelyne and the others really any freakier than an invasion fleet of outer space insects?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How?”

  “Because outer space alien insects are science. I mean, weirdo science, sure, but they’re just another species and advance tech. The Nightsiders are actually supernatural. Magical. I’ll bet you can find them in a dictionary under ‘things that are never going to be possible.’”

  “Guess the dictionary’s wrong, then.”

  “Right. That doesn’t help me stop being freaked out.”

  “C’mon, Shark, you know what I mean. So, okay, four days ago we didn’t believe in any of this stuff and now it’s right here. This is all actually happening; it’s real. It’s now our version of what’s real. It’s the world. If you’re asking if it scares me, then, sure. Werewolves and monsters and magic? Of course that’s scary. All the things from all those books we’ve been reading are real. Vampires and ghosts and all that. It’s all real.”

  “Except dragons,” said Shark. “I asked Vangie about that and—”

  “I don’t think she likes to be called Vangie.”

  “—and she laughed at me for being weird ’cause I wanted to know if dragons were real.”

  “I know. She did the same thing to me. The Nightsiders don’t believe in dragons.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Shark, raising a finger and looking sage, “but do dragons believe in the Nightsiders?”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “Dude—we’re sitting here next to an alien spaceship we stole, in a camp we’re sharing with monsters, and you just tricked an alligator into killing a shocktrooper. You want to go over the whole ‘what makes sense’ thing with me again?”

  “Oh . . . shut up.”

  They both burst out laughing because it really was kind of crazy, and sometimes the world needs to be laughed at. Killer barked happily and wagged his little tail.

  After a minute, Milo said, “Hey, you never told me where everyone else is.”

  After the raid on the camp, the Dissosterin had captured thirty-eight survivors, mostly children and older camp followers. No soldiers. The older folks were still recovering from injuries sustained during the raid and from the crash of the red ship. A few were also in deep shock. The kids—some of whom were older than Milo and Shark—were in no better shape, though they seemed better able to process the fact that monsters were real.

  “Mr. Campos and the other grown-ups are in the ship. Mrs. Rostov isn’t doing great.”

  The oldest of the adults was Inga Rostov, who had taught sewing and tailoring in the old camp. During the crash she’d banged her head, and since then she’d been sleeping a lot. Way too much, but none of the other survivors were doctors. No one knew what to do for her other than to make her comfortable.

  Milo looked at Shark. “She’s not going to . . . you know . . . ?”

  Shark wouldn’t meet his eyes. “All I know is that I overheard Mr. Campos tell Barnaby to prepare for the worst. I can’t think of any way that is good news.”

  “This is so wrong,” growled Milo, balling his hands into fists. “If we had a medic or if . . .”

  His voice trailed off. They both knew what he had been going to say.

  Or if Mom was here.

  All the camp’s soldiers were trained in first aid, and many of them had really advanced skills when it came to battlefield injuries. It was crucial in this terrible new world for everyone to possess skills that went beyond personal survival. The real fight was keeping the human species alive.

  The kids in the training pods all knew first aid. Milo, Shark, and their friends could set a broken bone, stitch a cut, immobilize someone with a spinal injury, and more. They knew which plants were medicinal, and they knew how to use spiderwebs and certain kinds of moss as natural antibiotics. But Mrs. Rostov’s injuries were beyond that level of skill. There was something wrong inside her head, possibly a skull fracture or brain injury, and all the portable diagnostic equipment had been destroyed in the attack on the camp. It was heartbreaking and frustrating in equal parts.

  “What’s freaking me out,” said Shark, “I mean, apart from everything else, is that the grown-ups aren’t helping much. They stay in the ship all the time and they don’t even try to tell us what to do.”

  “I know.” They both looked at the ship for a long time, as if they could see the adults inside.

  Shark said, “I always hated it when Aunt Jenny or anyone told me what to do, but right now I’d be okay with someone telling me to wash behind my ears or tucking me in at night. And if you make a joke I will punch the snot out of you.”

  “No,” said Milo, “I feel the same way. I guess not everyone who’s grown up can handle stuff.”

  “Yeah. None of the old folks are trained fighters, either.”

  “We have to find my mom and your aunt Jenny,” said Milo decisively.

  “Yeah, we do,” said Shark. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Well . . . ,” said Milo slowly, “first we need to finish fixing the ship and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fix the ship and go look for them. I don’t want to be a party pooper, Milo, but have you really thought that through?”

  “I don’t want to hear it. Barnaby’s wrong.”

  The truth was that from the beginning, Barnaby Guidry had outlined why using the Huntsman’s ship to search for the soldiers was a bad idea. Shark said it anyway, ticking the items off on his thick fingers.

  “The Bugs are looking for the ship,” he began, “and I’m pretty sure they’re going to shoot it the heck down as soon as we take off.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Aunt Jenny and your mom don’t know we have it, so as soon as they see it they’ll hide. And they’re really, really, really good at hiding.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “We don’t know where the soldiers are.”

  “I know, but—”

  “And since we’ve stolen the crystal egg, crippled one hive ship, and nearly killed the Huntsman, the entire Swarm is going to be on the alert. We’re better off not using the ship. In fact, we should hide it, strip out as much tech as we can, and go find another EA camp. Barnaby thinks there’s one near Mandeville, over near Lake Pontchartrain.”

  Milo sighed.

  A slim figure stepped out of the shadows on the far side of the camp, glanced briefly at them, and then wandered back into the woods. Small, fragile, with masses of wild blond hair, and eyes that were filled with wonder. Milo nodded toward her.

  “Lizabeth’s the only one who believed that all this stuff was real,” he said quietly. “And we always told her she was crazy.”

  Shark stroked Killer’s stomach. “Hey, just because the Nightsiders are real doesn’t mean Lizzie’s not crazy. She still thinks the Loch Ness Monster lives in the bayou.”

  Lizabeth, who indeed had always been drawn to the world of spirits and shadows, claimed to have seen monsters many times. Until four days ago, none of her claims had ever been verified. Now Milo wondered if their friend simply had some kind of gift. A second sight, or whatever it was called. He’d meant to ask Evangelyne about it, but the wolf girl was never around.

  “Right now,” said Milo, “I wouldn’t bet a whole bag of tech that the Loch Ness Monster isn’t in the bayou. She might be right about all of it.”

  “Maybe,” conceded Shark. “I’m just glad she’s okay.”

  “Wait—what do you mean? Why wouldn’t she be okay?”

  “Because of . . . ,” began Shark, then stopped and started over. “Oh, that’s right, you were already gone this morning when I found her.”

  Milo gripped Shark’s arm. “Found her? Lizzie? Found her where?”

  Shark gently pulled his arm free and pointed to the woods Milo had ju
st come from. “Over there. I was out to do a circle around the camp, you know, just to make sure everything was cool before I sat down to work on the circuit. And I found Lizzie sprawled on the ground. Scared the heck out of me. I thought maybe a hunter-killer got her or something.”

  “What happened?”

  Shark shrugged. “Not much, really. She said she wasn’t paying attention and must have walked into a tree. Knocked herself out.”

  “Is she hurt?”

  “Not that I can see. She’s been a little loopy, but Lizzie’s always a little loopy, so it’s hard to really tell.”

  Milo studied the section of woods into which Lizabeth had vanished. “I went that way this morning,” he said. “I didn’t see her. When did it happen?”

  “I don’t know. She must have gone out right after you did. Doesn’t matter, though. She’s okay.” Shark nudged Milo’s pack. “Hey, you told me about what happened to the shocktrooper, but did you get any of his gear?”

  Milo suddenly grinned. “Yeah, it’s pretty much Christmas for—”

  And that’s when the tree they were sitting under exploded.

  FROM MILO’S DREAM DIARY

  I sometimes dream about an old woman called the Witch of the World. I’m pretty sure she’s not real. Not normal real. Not flesh and bone and like that.

  But she’s real in a different way.

  Evangelyne and the Nightsiders all believe in her. The witch is something magical, but whatever she is, she’s so old there’s no name for it.

  She hasn’t said much since we escaped the hive ship, but the last couple of nights I thought I heard her whispering. It’s driving me nuts, because I can almost understand what she’s saying . . . but not quite. It’s like she’s in pain, like she’s calling for help, but she can’t tell me enough so I can do anything.

  Chapter 9

  Milo heard a deep whoosh, and he looked up just in time to see a long blue line of pulse power streak down from the clouds. He screamed, grabbed Shark’s shoulder, and yanked his friend off the log and down just as the force beam struck the closest oak and turned it into a massive fireball. The leaves ignited and flew like embers into the air, raining down on the surrounding trees and instantly setting them ablaze. The force and intense heat split the trunk of the tree that had been hit, and it fell apart in two halves.

  Killer leaped from Shark’s arms, barking in alarm, as the two boys rolled out of the way to avoid flaming debris.

  “Up there!” cried Shark, pointing.

  But Milo didn’t need help spotting their danger.

  High in the air was a Dissosterin drop-ship. It was thirty feet across, shaped like a flying saucer seen in old books, with a spherical pilot’s compartment in the center. Shocktroopers crouched on small detachable platforms called sky-boards, guns in their armored fists. Milo knew that the ’troopers could either disconnect their sky-boards and swoop down like predatory birds, or rappel to the ground on steel lines.

  The air split with the sound of a deep, furious voice amplified to an unnatural bellow.

  “I want what you stole!”

  It was the voice of the Huntsman. The colossal sound smashed through the air. It was strange, too, as if the Huntsman were shouting through a dozen mouths at once. Then Milo realized that the Huntsman’s voice, repeating and repeating those five words, was booming at them from speakers mounted on the sides of each sky-board.

  “I want what you stole!”

  The shocktroopers all clung to the drop-ship, each of them firing blue pulse blasts downward, setting the forest ablaze.

  Milo and Shark shot to their feet and began running for cover, screaming warnings to the other survivors even though everyone would already know that danger had found them.

  “Shark, get the li’l kids down to the bayou,” bellowed Barnaby, who had appeared from the swirling smoke as if by magic. He pointed to where a knot of scared little ones cowered on the red ship’s entry ramp. “Make for the bolt-hole, you.”

  “On it!” Shark yelled, then emitted an ear-splitting whistle. The kids turned toward him, spotted him through the smoke, and ran from the attacking Bugs. Shark pushed them into the brush, with Killer herding them like a frantic sheepdog. They vanished into the dense woods. The camp was within a mile’s hard run of one of the EA’s many reinforced bunkers. The bolt-holes were small, cramped, but well concealed and stocked with provisions. Ten people could hide in one for a week.

  Barnaby pivoted, aimed his bow, and loosed an arrow. It struck the heavy armor of a shocktrooper and bounced off. The ’trooper fired a pulse blast at them, and Milo pulled the Cajun out of the way just in time. The blast exploded a young pine into sawdust.

  “I want what you stole!”

  “They seem pretty mad, them,” said Barnaby, fitting another arrow.

  “Didn’t think they came because they like your cooking,” snapped Milo.

  He looked back wildly at the damaged red craft. More than twenty people were in there, most of them old and wounded. The shocktroopers hovered directly above the ship, and though they were not firing at it, it was clear that they’d somehow finally managed to track the stolen craft.

  He grabbed Barnaby’s sleeve. “We have to get everyone out.”

  The Cajun’s face was filled with equal parts fear and anger. “I’ll go. You get Lizabeth and the others out of here, you. I’ll hold these gros cafards off, me.”

  The big cockroaches, as Barnaby called them, were firing at everything that moved.

  “With a bow and arrows?” demanded Shark. “You’re nuts.”

  Milo whipped his satchel open, pulled out the two pulse pistols, and shoved one into Barnaby’s hands.

  “How you get these—?”

  “Christmas present. Go!”

  Barnaby slung his bow, snatched the pistol, and immediately swung the barrel toward the drop-ship. “Eat this!”

  He began firing the pistol, sending blue force blasts up through the burning leaves. His first five shots missed, but his sixth hit the arm of one of the ’troopers and blasted the creature from its perch. It fell like a cinder, burning and caterwauling until it vanished into the flames of the burning oak.

  “I got this, me,” yelled Barnaby. “Go!”

  Barnaby fired and fired, hitting two more of the ’troopers. Then the others spotted him through the smoke and trained their weapons down at him. Milo saw what was about to happen and shoved Barnaby as hard and fast as he could. The two of them fell into the mud, and the spot where the Cajun had stood seemed to erupt into a whirlwind of smoking dirt and burning grass.

  Milo rolled onto one knee. “Shark, get Lizabeth and anyone else you can and go to the bolt-hole.”

  “But—”

  Milo threw the second pulse pistol to him. “Go!”

  “I want what you stole!” roared the amplified voices.

  Shark caught the gun, lost one second looking doubtful and confused, and then was gone, with Killer at his heels. Milo heard the gun fire and saw blue flashes in the woods.

  Barnaby wheeled on him. “What you doing?”

  Milo fished a pair of grenades from the bag. “I’m a lousy shot but I can throw.”

  The Cajun grinned, then spun around to offer covering fire as the drop-ship began swooping toward them. Milo had never used a Bug grenade before, but it was like all their tech—incredibly simple. There was one switch and it had to be the arming mechanism. Most of the Dissosterin were dumb as boxes of hair, relying on hive mind guidance to fight. Their tech was designed so that even the stupidest of them could use it. Milo was a lot smarter than a Bug and he understood tech. He flipped the switch, prayed that the grenade had a good timer, wound up, and threw it with his best fastball pitch.

  The grenade cut through the smoke, heading directly toward the drop-ship. Milo knew that he had no hope of a direct hit, not at that distance, but anything would help.

  “I want what you stole!”

  The pitch was good.

  The grenade exploded t
hirty feet from the drop-ship, just as the ’troopers detached their sky-boards for a close assault. The blast shook the whole forest, knocking Milo and Barnaby flat, blowing out half the fires, and punching the drop-ship like a massive invisible fist. Three of the troopers fell off their boards and plummeted to the unforgiving ground. A fourth was in the direct path of the blast and caught the shrapnel in the chest. He flew apart. The drop-ship canted sideways and, true to its name, dropped.

  In all the wrong ways.

  It fell sideways into the burning oak. Several of the ’troopers were still attached to the machine as it collided with the giant flaming tree.

  Their screams were a dreadful thing to hear.

  Barnaby got to his knees, but he was wobbly and when he tried to stand he keeled over, clutching his chest. Milo crawled to him and stared in abject horror at what he saw. A splinter—a piece of body armor from the ’trooper who’d been blown up—stood out from the Cajun’s chest like a knife. Dark blood welled from the wound, and Barnaby’s face went dead pale as the pain hit him.

  “God, Barnaby!” cried Milo. “I’m sorry—”

  Three shocktroopers were left and they dropped through the smoke on their sky-boards.

  “I want what you stole!” Now the voices were faint, the speakers damaged by the blast. The resulting distortion somehow made the demand more unreal and more dangerous.

  “Leave . . . me . . . ,” gasped Barnaby. “I’m done. . . .”

  “No!” Milo tore a strip from his shirt and pressed it quickly and gently around the wound. He dared not pull the spike out, because that would almost certainly make Barnaby bleed to death. The spike, painful as it was, formed a kind of plug for the hole it had torn in the pod leader’s chest. “It’s going to hurt but I have to get you out of here. Can you walk?”

  He tried to help Barnaby up, but the Cajun’s legs buckled. When he crashed down, the impact tore a shrill scream from him. Blue pulse blasts exploded around them, but the ’troopers’ aim was spoiled by the smoke and fire. That faint protection wouldn’t last, Milo knew. He had to get Barnaby out.