Nightworld ac-6

by F. Paul Wilson

  Alan fitted the etagere snugly against the door, then pulled his wheelchair closer. He'd stocked its backrest pouch with the equivalent of a toolchest. Hammer, nails, saw, ax, pliers, screwdriver—anything he might need on short notice during the night. He couldn't run to the workshop for them, so he carried them with him.

  He took out the hammer and began driving half a dozen of the biggest nails he had into the seams between the tiles along the outer edge of the etagere. Damn shame to mess up these beautiful marble tiles like this but they 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 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 stay with her and do his best to protect her, but he wished Ba were here to help. 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 entrance to the foyer. 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 pillow case. 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 bonsai, now smashed and broken in the shattered remains of the greenhouse—but Alan thought she was as beautiful now as ever.

  "Hi," he said. "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. "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 that we stay here. And for some strange reason I feel it more tonight than ever. 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 family. I want our little family back together again, Alan. Toad Hall is our home, but we've got to survive. That comes first."

  "I know what this place means to you," he said, squeezing her against him. "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 its 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 soulmates, 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 to sleep together let alone make love since last week when the attacks had begun.

  "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 etagere. 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 Movie Channel:

  Joe Bob Briggs' Drive-in Movie—A Special All-Day Edition.

  Flesh Feast (1970) Cine World Corp.

  Twilight People (1972) New Worlds

  Beyond Evil (1980) IFI- Scope HI

  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) Twentieth 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

  The scrape of metal on metal.

  It snapped Alan 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 etagere 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 was pumping furiously 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 grace later. Right now Alan wanted to kick that etagere 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 etagere 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 etagere. Not only had it been pushed away from the door, it had been moved with enough force to bend the nails onto their backs and now rested atop them.

  Alan shook his head grimly. "How in the world…?"

  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 etagere. A squeaky scrape echo
ed 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 almost 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 that he was a sitting duck for the bugs that had already got in. He knew there were at least three. There 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 etagere 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 Alan's scalp. That was no chew wasp pushing through its hole. There'd been power behind that thrust. Something big was out there. Bigger than—

  Alan suddenly remembered the dents in the storm shutter out front, and that long depression in the yard. He had a feeling whatever had been responsible for them was back.

  Christ!

  He didn't know what it was using to push the etagere but Alan had been able to push it back, so maybe things weren't so bad as they seemed.

  And then the etagere 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, his heart pumping wildly as he brought all his upper body strength to bear on the etagere. I could beat this thing!

  But what was this thing? How was it pushing the etagere?

  As if in answer to his question, 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 was coated with glue. It began drawing him toward the door.

  Thoroughly frightened now, Alan quickly 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, reached into his wheelchair pouch, and fumbled around until he found the ax. It wasn't a big ax—a hatchet, really, with a short handle and a wedged head, no more than three inches along the cutting edge. But it was sharp. Alan got a good grip and 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! Alan thought. I can beat it!

  He pushed the etagere out of the way and quick-crawled to the door, positioning himself to the right of the hole. The little holes had merged into one hole now—a little arch about eighteen inches wide and about 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, but that was 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 half a dozen fresh tentacles surged through at once, rearing up, reaching for his arms, his face. He swung wildly at them, catching one in mid air, one against the door. He was taking a bead on another when he heard buzzing wings and gnashing teeth above and behind him.

  The 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 he 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.

  Damn you! Damn you all to hell!

  He chopped at an extended tentacle, severing its tip, then heard the buzz again and swung blindly at the air.

  And connected. The broken, oozing body of the chew wasp—its jaws still smeared with blood from Alan's ear—bounced off the door and fell to the floor. Immediately, one of the tentacles coiled around its squirming form and yanked it outside.

  Alan chopped at a particularly thick tentacle, severing it half way through. As he drew back to finish the job, something slammed against his back, shooting a blaze of pain through his right shoulder. He grunted with the sudden agony. As wings buzzed furiously by his ear, he dropped the billy and reached over his shoulder. When his questing fingers found the horny beak piercing his flesh, he knew a spearhead was trying to make him its next meal. It must have come in at an angle and glanced off his shoulder blade. A direct hit would have put it right through to his chest cavity, collapsing his right lung and leaving him with a sucking chest wound. He had to get it out before it dug itself deeper and finished the job.

  Alan wrapped his fingers around the twisting, gnawing beak and yanked. He was rewarded by another eruption of vision-dimming pain, but the spearhead came free. It writhed and twisted and wriggled and flapped madly as he brought it around front. But as he raised his hatchet to chop it in half, the tentacle he'd wounded seconds ago coiled around his right wrist and wrenched it toward the door. He groaned as the sudden movement sent a bolt of pain lancing down his arm from the shoulder wound. His fingers went numb momentarily; he lost his grip on the hatchet handle and dropped it. But he couldn't worry about that now. He had to get his right hand free. Now. So Alan struck at the tentacle with the only weapon he had—the bug writhing in his left hand.

  Using the spearhead's pointed beak as a knife, he stabbed and slashed madly, repeatedly. Desperate breaths hissed between his teeth. This was out of hand now. He'd lost the high ground and was on the defensive. He spotted a slew of new tentacles sliding under the door—how many did this thing have?

  He had to retreat. He was going to be in very big trouble if he didn't pull free in the next few seconds and get out of reach.

  He took a big swing with the spearhead, angling it so it cut into the open, oozing area he'd previously damaged with the hatchet. As the bug's sharp beak pierced through the far side, Alan pushed it deeper, cramming it into the tissues. It must have struck a vital nerve trunk because the distal end of the tentacle went into spasm, coiling and uncoiling wildly.

  Alan pulled free of its grasp and immediately rolled away from the door. Leaving his wheelchair behind, he rose to his hands and knees and scrambled across the foyer floor toward the living room.

  He almost made it.

  Two strong, healthy legs would have got him to safety. He cursed his legs as they slumped beneath him, slowing him down. His right arm was letting him down too. He had to depend on his arms for a good part of his speed, but the right one was wounded. His left hand was just inches from the living room carpet when he felt something coil about his ankle. Even then, a good strong kick might have freed h
im, but his legs didn't have a good strong kick in them. He realized then that he should have tried for the stairs. If he'd have been able to reach the newel post of the bannister he'd have had something to hold on to.

  As the tentacle dragged him back, Alan clawed at the marble floor, looking for a crack, a seam, anything to hold on to, but there was nothing. It had been too expertly installed. He kicked feebly with his free leg but then felt another tentacle wrap around that ankle and worm its way up to his thigh.

  And now he was being dragged back at a faster rate.

  He spotted his hatchet where he'd dropped it. He tried to reach it. He stretched his good arm and fingers to the limit, until he thought his shoulder would dislocate, but could not get near it. Like a departing sailor gazing at his home port from the stern of a ship, he watched the hatchet slip further and further out of reach.

  Next came his wheelchair. He grabbed at that, caught hold of a foot rest but it simply rolled with him. He clutched it because it was all he had to hold on to.

  And then other tentacles, Alan couldn't count how many, looped and coiled around his legs, and he couldn't kick free now, even if he'd had two good legs. He was helpless. Utterly helpless.

  I am going to die.

  Although he never stopped struggling against the inexorable tug of the tentacles, the realization was a sudden cold weight in his heart. Fear and dread shot through him, but not panic. Mostly there was sadness. Tears sprang into his eyes. Tears for all the things he'd never do, like walking again, or watching Jeffy grow up, or growing old with Sylvia, but most of all, for the way he'd be dying. He'd never feared the moment, but then he'd always imagined the moment arriving when he was gray and withered and bedfast and that he'd welcome it with open arms.