Nightworld ac-6

by F. Paul Wilson

"Then we're trapped."

  "I think we're safe for now. We'll see what the morning brings. But until then, let's keep Jeffy as calm as we can."

  "They're after him, aren't they?"

  Alan nodded gravely. "Sure looks that way."

  She bit back a sob as she dropped into Alan's lap and flung her arms around his neck. She was afraid for Jeffy. If anything happened to him…

  It was all she could do to keep from crying.

  "Why, Alan?"

  "I think Mr. Veilleur might know."

  Sylvia said nothing. Mr. Veilleur…she'd thought of him too. But she didn't trust him. He was hiding too much. Besides, what could a feeble old man do against these hideous things?

  She pulled away from Alan and stood up. She took his hand.

  "We'll handle this ourselves. Let's make that cocoa."

  So good!

  The horror, the pain, the bloodshed, the ravenous, screaming FEAR soaks through from above, filtering through the tissues of the earth, through the living granite into the conduits of Rasalom's changed flesh.

  His raw flesh has healed now, hardened into a tough new covering. His hands and feet remain fused to the walls of the granite pocket, reaching deeper and deeper into the rock, sending intangible feeder roots through the surrounding earth, searching for more nourishment. More.

  And as he feeds Rasalom gains mass, grows larger, thicker. The granite walls of the pocket flake away to accommodate his increasing size. The chips slide to the bottom and collect there like shattered bones.

  SATURDAY

  1 • DAWN

  Monroe, Long Island

  It took her a moment or two to appreciate the silence, but shortly before dawn she realized that the incessant beating on the windows had stopped.

  Sylvia was the first to know because she hadn't slept a wink all night. Jeffy had fallen asleep half way through his umpteenth viewing of Pete's Dragon. Alan dropped off a short while later in his chair. Ba had spent much of the night working on some sort of weapon—carving tiny niches into the wood of one of his billy clubs and fixing chew-bug teeth in them with Crazy Glue. But even he dozed now and then. Sylvia had sat by the door of the movie room, keeping it open an inch or two, listening at the gap.

  Silence. She was almost afraid to believe it could be true. As she rose from her chair, Ba sprang up, instantly alert.

  "Missus?" he whispered.

  "It's all right, Ba. I'm just going to take a look outside."

  "I'll come."

  "That's okay. I'll just be—"

  But he was already by her side, peering into the hall. When he was satisfied that it was safe, he stepped out and held the door for her. Sylvia sighed, smiled her thanks, and followed him.

  She wondered if she'd ever get used to having someone around who was ready to lay down his life for her at any moment. How long had it been? Sometime around 1979 or 80 when she'd recognized Ba in a TV news story about the boat people arriving in the Philippines after crossing the South China Sea with nothing but the clothes on their backs. He'd stood out because he towered above his fellow Vietnamese; she'd dug out the picture her late husband Greg had once shown her, telling her about this huge South Vietnamese fisherman his Special Forces group had trained as a guerrilla, how they'd become friends. The man in the photo and on the tube were the same. She'd rushed to Manila, brought Ba and his wife Nhung Thi back here, and paid all of Nhung Thi's medical bills when the cancer hiding in her lung broke out and spread through her body. After her death, Ba had stayed on as driver, groundskeeper, and one-man security force. Sylvia had told him a thousand times that he didn't owe her a thing, but Ba didn't see it that way.

  Now, as he glided ahead of her, as silent and fluid as a shadow in the pale light that filtered down the hall from the rooms on either end, his newly customized billy club poised at the ready, she was glad he'd never listened to her.

  They entered the dining room and went directly to the windows. Sylvia pulled back the sheers and gasped. The screens hung in tatters, the panes were smeared and fouled, the mullions gouged and splintered.

  But no bugs. Not a single chewer or booger bug in sight. It was as if they'd evaporated in the morning light—or gone back to where they came from.

  "Let's take a look outside, Ba."

  He led the way to the front door, motioned for her to stay back, opened it, then slipped outside. A moment later he returned.

  "It is safe, Missus, but…"

  "But what?"

  "It is not nice."

  Sylvia strode to the door and stepped outside. Down the steps, into the driveway, then she turned and faced the house.

  "Oh…my…God!"

  Toad Hall looked like a disaster area—as if it had sat empty for a decade, then been struck by a hurricane, a hailstorm, a horde of carpenter ants, and a plague of locusts all at once. Besides the shredded screens and splintered mullions on the widows, all the wooden siding looked gnawed. The chewers had left hundreds, thousands of their sharp, crystalline teeth in the wood. They gleamed like diamonds in the morning sun. And the trees—her beautiful willows! Half the branches, the ones facing the house, had been denuded of their leaves, as if the creatures had been so frustrated by their inability to get into the house that they'd attacked the trees in retaliation.

  "Why, Ba? Why'd this happen? What's going on?"

  Ba said nothing. He never offered opinions, even when asked. He stood beside her in silence, his tooth-studded club at the ready, his head swiveling as he scanned the grounds in a smooth, continuous motion, like a radar dish.

  "Stay here," she told him. "I want to take a look next door."

  Ba didn't stay, of course. He fell in behind her. It was a good fifty yards to the stone wall that ran three sides of Toad Hall's perimeter. When Sylvia reached it she fitted her foot into a crevice and pulled herself up to where she could see over. She peered through the shrubs at the house next door, a contemporary that had fallen into disrepair for a while after its previous owner, a golden oldies DJ named Lenny Winter, disappeared a few years ago, but the new owners had done a complete overhaul. She pushed a branch aside for a better look.

  Her stomach turned. The house was untouched. Well, not completely untouched. She noticed a few ripped screens flapping in the breeze, and a wet smear or two on the cedar siding, but nothing near what had happened to Toad Hall. It was very possible the occupants weren't aware of the damage yet.

  Weak and shaky, she dropped back to the ground. As she stared again at the violated exterior of her home, Jeffy's voice echoed in her brain.

  They want to eat me!

  He was right. They'd concentrated their attack on the house where he lived and they'd come after him when they broke into the house.

  Why? Did it have anything to do with the Dat-tay-vao!

  She couldn't let them hurt Jeffy. She'd risk anything to protect him. Even…

  "Ba, do you remember that older man who was here the other day? He left a card on the foyer table. I told Gladys to throw it away. Do you know if she did?"

  "No, Missus."

  "Oh. Then I guess I'll have to wait until she arrives. I may just have to—"

  She noticed that Ba was holding out a piece of paper.

  "No, Missus," he said. "Gladys did not throw it away."

  She took the card. G. Veilleur was embossed at its center.

  She looked at him. She saw only devotion and fierce loyalty in his eyes. But she remembered the fear there last night when he'd pulled her away from that mucous creature. Alan wanted her to contact the old man, and Ba obviously agreed.

  Now it was unanimous.

  "Thank you, Ba."

  With her heart weighing heavy in her chest, she headed for the backyard, toward the garage. She hoped the car's cellular phone still worked.

  WOR-TV

  Hello, I'm Alice Gray, and we interrupt our usual Saturday morning programming to bring you this special news report. Sunrise was late again for the fourth morning in a row. But it never rose for
many of our fellow New Yorkers. As most of you are no doubt already aware, chaos reigned in Manhattan last night as the midtown area became the set of the world's goriest horror movie. Only last night the horrors were real. Real people died, hundreds of them, perhaps as many as a thousand. The police and emergency services are still counting at this time. And these are the killers.

  roll tape of dead insects

  From what we can gather, these creatures flew out of the hole in Central Park last night and attacked everyone in sight, leaving the streets littered with corpses. They were indiscriminate in their choice of targets, attacking men, women, children, even dogs and cats, creating a reign of bloody terror. But shortly before dawn they fled, forming swarms that streamed along the streets back to here …

  roll tape of Sheep Meadow hole

  Witnesses describe the smaller swarms gathering and mingling above the mysterious Central Park hole, swelling to a huge swirling mass before plummeting again into the depths of the earth where they originated.

  back to tape of dead insects

  But what are these things? No live specimens are available, but there are plenty of dead ones around. It appears that the ones that didn't make it back to the hole before dawn died in the daylight. People have already begun referring to them as "vampire bugs." Scientists from a variety of fields—biology, chemistry, even paleontology (that's the study of fossils)—are working at identifying the creatures and devising ways to combat them. State and federal authorities have already arrived and are conducting studies to find a way to prevent them from getting loose again. Talk of placing a huge metal mesh over the hole is circulating.

  back to Alice

  But that may prove futile. Chilling news just in from Long Island and New Jersey of other bottomless holes, identical to the one in our own Central Park, opening up in Bay side, Glen Cove, Hackensack, and other places. These reports are unconfirmed as yet, but we have a team racing to St. Ann's Cemetery in Bay side at this very moment and will bring you live coverage from Queens as soon as they arrive and set up…

  2 • GATHERINGS

  Manhattan

  Glaeken handed the drawings of the necklaces to Jack and watched the younger man study them. These were xeroxes. He had the original drawings safely tucked away in a vault.

  "These are good," Jack said, nodding appreciatively. "Great detail. Just what I need. Where'd you get them?"

  "I've kept them in a series of safe places over the years," Glaeken said. "On the outside chance that I'd need them some day. That day is here."

  "Yeah," Jack said glumly. He rubbed his gauze-wrapped forearm. "I guess it is."

  He rose from the chair and began pacing the living room. Glaeken sensed the tension coiled within Jack, the frustration boiling just under the skin. Jack was used to solving problems, usually other people's problems. Now he himself was faced with a problem for which he had no solution.

  "About your fee," Glaeken said, allowing a smile to show. "What made you change your mind?"

  Jack stopped his pacing and faced Glaeken, his eyes flashing.

  "Not funny, Mr. V."

  Glaeken sighed. "You're right. The events of last night are nothing to take lightly. And call me Glaeken."

  "Glaeken…that's a new one."

  "No, it's a very old one. Not at all an uncommon name in the time of my youth."

  His youth…images seeped up from the deep past…sunlit forests…laughing and running with other boys. It seemed almost inconceivable that there had ever been a boy called Glaeken, and that he had been that boy. So many names since then. But now he was an old man with no further need of pretense, so he might as well revert to his given name.

  "Whatever," Jack said, folding the drawings of the necklace into a neat square as he began roaming the living room again. "All hell seems to have broken loose out there. I saw those things come out of that hole last night. And now there's rumors of others holes opening up all over the place."

  "They're not rumors. I believe I told you—"

  "I know," Jack said, slowing and stopping as he passed the window. "I know you told me." He pointed out toward the Park. "Thousands of those holes? Thousands of them?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "What's going to keep one from opening up right under your building here and swallowing it up?"

  "I doubt very much that will happen. That would be too quick—mercifully quick. The power behind these holes wants me to witness the death-throes of civilization before he comes for me. Besides, those holes cannot open just anywhere. They must locate at specific nexus points in order to connect with the…other place."

  " 'The other place?' Sounds like seance talk."

  "I don't know how else to explain it."

  "But with swarms of those things pouring out from this 'other place' through thousands of holes, the whole planet will be overrun. I'm sure we can find ways to exterminate the bugs, but—"

  "The belly flies and chew wasps are just the first wave. Worse things are on the way."

  Jack was shaking his head slowly back and forth as he stared out the window.

  "What could be worse than those little horrors last night?"

  "Bigger horrors. But only during the hours of darkness. They must return to the holes before sunrise."

  "Swell. I mean, that's a big comfort, isn't it, what with sunrise coming later and later each morning." Finally, he looked away from the window. "You said something before about 'the power behind these holes.' What did you mean? That somebody's in control here—causing the holes?"

  "Yes. His name is Rasalom."

  "Where do we find this guy? How can I get to him?"

  "He won't be found unless he wishes to be. And he's not subject to your brand of solutions. You can't 'fix' him or undo his work by conventional means."

  Jack held up the folded drawings of the necklaces.

  "What about these? You're telling me these necklaces will help close up the holes?"

  "They'll give us a chance. Without them we might as well quit right now."

  "All right," Jack said, shoving them into the back pocket of his jeans. "Sounds crazy to me, but crazy seems to be in charge these days."

  "Very true. But don't go yet. There are some people I want you to meet."

  "The guy who didn't show up yesterday?"

  "No. He had to accompany a sick friend to a hospital. I don't think he'll be back today."

  Bill had called last night to explain his absence and to relate what had befallen his friend Nick. Glaeken had told him to do whatever he thought best for his friend.

  But another call had come this morning—from Sylvia Nash. She told him what had transpired at her house last night. Glaeken had been shaken by the news. He had expected Rasalom's forces to home in on the Dat-tay-vao eventually, but not so soon. Certainly not on the first night. The news increased the sense of urgency simmering within him.

  Mrs. Nash had wanted him to come out to Monroe and see the damage, but Glaeken had refused. He wanted her—no, not her, the boy—here where he could watch over him and protect him and the Dat-tay-vao residing within him. With obvious reluctance, she had agreed to meet him here today.

  "I must tend to my wife for a few moments," he told Jack. "If the doorman announces a Mrs. Nash or a Mrs. Treece, tell him to send them up."

  Jack tore his gaze away from the window. He seemed mesmerized by the hole in the Park.

  "What? Oh, sure. You go do what you have to do. I'll take care of things."

  Glaeken headed for Magda's room. He knew Repairman Jack was very good at taking care of things.

  WXRK-FM

  We've had a lot of requests for this next record here on K-Rock's All-Request Weekend. I guess it has something to do with what happened last night.

  Cue: "The Night Has A Thousand Eyes"

  "Maybe you'd better call and cancel us out of this little meeting," Hank said.

  Carol glanced at him across the bedroom as she finished buttoning her blouse. He'd tested the lock on
the bedroom window for the dozenth time, and now he was craning his neck this way and that, his quick hazel eyes scanning the street below and the sky above.

  "We can't," she said. "It's too important."

  Glaeken had called her early this morning and asked her to come over and meet the others who would be involved in his countermove against Jimmy.

  No! Not Jimmy—Rasalom!

  "I don't think it's safe. That's over by Central Park."

  "Mr. Veilleur said we have nothing to fear in the daylight."

  Hank quickly ran a hand through the thinning light-brown hair that he combed straight back from his receding hairline. That plus his prominent nose tended to give him a hawkish appearance. Carol had been trying to get him to soften his hairstyle. He'd comply for a while, then revert to his old ways. He'd been a bachelor for forty-five years when they met. She had no real hope of changing him into someone with a sense of style, but that didn't mean she'd stop trying. She liked challenges.

  "Nothing to fear in the daylight? And what makes this Mr. Veilleur so sure about that when one renowned scientist after another claims to be completely baffled by that hole and these creatures?"

  "He knows," Carol said. "Believe me, he knows."

  "I don't like this, Carol," Hank said, wandering the tiny bedroom with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. "With all the awful things going on out on the streets, it seems to me the prudent thing to do would be to stay inside until everything's under control."

  Carol shook her head and smiled softly as she pulled a skirt from its hanger in her closet. That was Hank, always weighing the pros and cons, measuring the liabilities, gaging the hazards to find the course of action with the lowest risk-benefit ratio. Always safe and sane, always planning ahead, that was Hank. And there was nothing wrong with that.

  No…nothing wrong with that at all. Carol needed safe and sane in her life. She needed someone nearby who planned for the future. It helped Carol believe that there was going to be a future, and that it mattered.