Night's Fall (Night's Champion Book 2)

by Richard Parry

  Or, really, trying to bite him. That was weird. Ten years in the force now, he’d seen some wild times, even that one where a man had used a pair of pliers to pull out his own teeth. Said they were demons in his head or something. Willis didn’t know much about that, except that insurance wouldn’t cover it, and that poor bastard would be left eating all his meals through a straw.

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead, put his hat back on, straightened the uniform. His people standing to the left and right of him wore expressions ranging from confusion to anger, fear to something a little more blank than useful. That was okay, they’d come around, they just needed someone in charge to do the right thing. Unlike that useless prick Davis, the man had run screaming down the road thirty minutes ago and they hadn’t heard from him since. Doing the right thing seemed a little harder when your superior officer was so spineless he invited insubordination.

  Still. Libby wouldn’t have liked it if he’d busted the man’s jaw. Or maybe she would have, but with number two on the way they needed a steady paycheck so he rolled with it. The universe had a way of working this kind of shit out, and with Davis turning crazy with fear and running off without the squad — well, that there was a problem solving itself.

  Dispatch were about as much use as teats on a bull, nothing but crazy coming out of the radio, so he’d turned it off.

  “Officer Tomlin.” Willis squinted a little at the new crowd gathering a couple blocks down, perched at an intersection. “Tomlin, let me see those glasses.”

  Tomlin handed him the binoculars, and Willis leaned against their makeshift barricade of cars, adjusting the focus so he could see what was what. Sure as sin, right there was another pack of them, looking for trouble and a place to let it free. “Tomlin?”

  “Sir.” Tomlin was a good one, didn’t get nervous under fire. She seemed a natural, maybe the kind that would wear the sergeant’s stripes herself before too long.

  Willis lowered the glasses, looking at his team. “Tomlin, there’s another group coming up. You know what that means.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. She turned away from him, starting to organize their group. Not that there was much organizing to do, Willis had seen to that, but the thing about doing the right thing was also making sure that your team felt important. Useful. Every piece more important than the whole, his Dad had told him once. Make them feel useful, they’ll be useful. Words to live by.

  Still. There was something strange about this new group. Willis felt his mouth form into a half smile, and he hid it by wiping some of the grime from his face. Strange, huh? This whole day was strange. Let’s just say it’s more strange. As near as Willis could tell, the whole city had gone barking mad, citizens clawing at each other. Sure, they’d had briefings on terror attacks, he knew the drill for when someone dropped a pack of white powder in the mail and called in an Anthrax scare. What he didn’t have a procedure for was when citizens started hunting in packs, roaming the city, biting and clawing at each other. Willis rubbed his arm through his uniform, his sleeve hiding the mark on his forearm where one of them had sunk in teeth.

  It had been Tomlin who’d pulled that one off.

  Focus, Willis. He held the glasses back up, looking for what had set off his weird-shit-o-meter. He scanned the pack, doubled back. There. One of the freaks wasn’t like the others. Seemed more focused somehow. In charge. Willis couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was a focal point for this pack. It made a certain kind of crazy sense. If the disease — or whatever it was — that had got into the fine people of Chicago made people hunt in packs, well, maybe they needed a pack leader.

  Hell if I know. That one’s above my pay grade. You need to stay with the program, Willis. Your job’s same as it always has been. Keep the bad people of Chicago from hurting the good. Do the right thing.

  Willis rubbed at his jaw. Something about the other man kept nagging at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Maybe a fresh set of eyes. “Tomlin?”

  “Sir.” She was at his elbow again, and he held out the binoculars to her.

  “Check out that group over there. See the guy, kind of in the middle.”

  “Dirty shirt?”

  Willis frowned. “I thought it was gray.”

  “Definitely dirty, sir.” She leaned on the car in front of them. “My husband rocks a set of dreads like that.”

  “Bobby has dreads?” Willis paused for a second. Need to get them over for another barbecue. Been too long. The thought was crazy in the middle of all the rest of this crazy, so he went with it. “That I’ve got to see. You guys want to come over this weekend?”

  “Beers and a game?”

  “I figure.”

  “You’re on,” she said. “So, that guy. Seems outside of it. Blending in, maybe.”

  Blending in. That could be it. If he had a cure, some kind of immunity maybe, they needed to get him to safety. Do the right thing. “Maybe,” he said. “I tell you what. They come this way, try not to shoot that guy first. Spread the word.”

  “On it,” she said. “Don’t shoot him first. Maybe second, third.”

  “Maybe,” said Willis, hearing the desperate humor in her voice. “Maybe, Tomlin.” Willis checked his weapon, making sure revolver was loaded. He’d used it more today than he had in the last ten years, inside or out of a practice range.

  Turned out, they didn’t have long to wait. The new pack worked its way towards them, shuffling to a halt again about fifty feet away. Willis shrugged, cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello.”

  The other guy — please, God, let him be immune, let there be some kind of way to stop all this — blinked at him across the empty distance. “Officer Willis.”

  Now that was strange, the man knowing his name. Willis felt that needed some kind of response. “It seems you know my name, sir. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “It’s written on your shirt,” the other man said. He made a vague gesture towards Willis that could have been pointing at his badge, him, the squad, or the world in general. “Clear as day.”

  “Clear as … you’re telling me you can read my shirt from fifty feet away?”

  “The Night gives me certain privileges,” the other man said. “What I want to know is how you’re … resisting.”

  “Immune?” said Willis. “We were wanting to ask you the same thing. Why those shamblers around you haven’t gone wild.”

  “My children do as they’re told,” said the other man. “For some reason, you’ve resisted the call to become one of them.” He paused, licking his lips. “One of us.”

  “Sir,” said Willis, “if you don’t mind me saying, you’re not making a lot of sense.”

  “It might seem that way,” said the man. “How are you doing it?”

  “Just trying to do the right thing,” said Willis. “So. Sir. If you walk slowly away from the herd…”

  “Herd?” The man cocked his head, something like a smile on his face. “I think pack is a better term.”

  Tomlin was at his shoulder again. “Sarge? Something’s not right with this one.”

  “You think?” Willis was only half listening. Thing is, there’s a time when you need to uphold the law, and there’s a time you need to do the right thing. Right now, the right thing is getting this screwball to walk the fuck away. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to move on.”

  “Move on?”

  “Clear the area,” said Willis.

  “Ah,” said the man. “Yes. We’ll clear the area.” He tipped his head towards Willis and his squad, and the pack surrounding him leapt forward like bulls out of the gate. Willis had time to blink once before he heard the report of Tomlin’s weapon, brought his own up to bear and started squeezing the trigger.

  Too damn many. Six rounds in the chamber, even assuming every shot hit there was no way they’d drop ‘em all, and Brummel at least — maybe a couple others — was a lousy shot. Willis found himself looking past the rush of the pack to the other man, standing still as a
stone, still fifty feet away. Fifty feet was a bad range for a pistol shot, but what the hell. Seemed like the right thing to do. Willis lifted his sidearm, breathed out, and squeezed. The shot rang out, the bullet hitting the other man right in the head.

  Willis didn’t have time to clap himself on the back. Sure, one in a million shot, whatever, he could write it up in the report if that ever happened. Until then, he’d need to—

  The pack stopped dead, swaying on their feet. Still had crazy in their eyes, but it was like someone had put down their remote control. They looked at each other, and at Willis’s squad. Some of them drooled, but none of them moved forward.

  “Nice shot, Sarge,” said Tomlin. “What did you do?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Willis. “It seemed—”

  Something huge lifted itself from the pavement behind the pack. It was taller than a man, impossibly muscled, with fangs and claws and Lord knew what else. Willis stared, mouth open, then threw a glance at Tomlin. “Are you…”

  “Yeah,” she said. There was a kind of resigned set to her shoulders. “Yeah.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Willis. He looked at his squad, then back at the creature. He stared into yellow eyes. Hell with it. He lifted his sidearm again and started firing.

  Ah, he thought a few heartbeats later. That wasn’t the right thing to do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Rex found the inside of the building a little dim for his tastes, the light from the open door reaching slender fingers in behind him. There was a woman lying face down on the floor, a pool of blood around her head. Probably gone, but he needed to check anyway. He crouched down, old knees protesting, and checked for a pulse at her neck. Nope.

  He dragged himself back to his feet, heading towards the elevators. He clicked the button, but no light came on. Great, just great. At least he’d spent some time keeping in shape, right? The walk up seven flights of stairs wouldn’t kill him. The stairs in the old building were opposite the elevators in the lobby, an open ring with a banister rising up through the core. He spared a look up, the top lost to a dim gloom.

  Or maybe it was just his eyes. It’s not like those were getting any younger either.

  Rex started up the stairs, just the way everyone else would, except a little slower. He held the taser in one hand, thinking of Sky waiting back out in the car. She probably wouldn’t wait for an old guy to get up and down seven flights of stairs, but that was okay. She’d done her bit, and now he needed to find Just James and do his part.

  Nice girl. He hoped she’d find her boyfriend. Joe? John? Something like that.

  Three flights later, he came across a second body. Young man, lying face up this time, eyes open. A lot of people died with their eyes open, that was the truth, but Rex had an innate distrust of people who acted dead but had their eyes open.

  “Son?” Rex shuffled a step closer. “Son, are you okay?”

  The man didn’t move. Rex frowned, waited a couple more beats, then said, “Son, I can see you breathing. I’m just gonna come out and say it, you’re behaving in a way that makes me overly cautious. You understand what I’m saying here?”

  The man’s eyes flicked towards him, then he rose to his feet. Not in the old man way Rex would have, all creaking joints and a lot of cursing, but in a smooth, oiled-machine way. Like something wild. The kid’s expression was empty as a gourd, and he bared teeth at Rex.

  “Right,” said Rex, and met the kid’s charge with the taser. The weapon tick-tick-ticked and the kid convulsed, dropping like a pole axed steer. “That’s probably enough conversation. You rest easy.” He checked the kid, then turned him on his side. Recovery position, they called it. Rex had always thought that was one of those labels meant to make something bad sound not bad, and that fit the bill here. Being tased felt bad.

  He kept walking, rising through the building in his own steady way. No more encounters on the way, just a forgotten mop and bucket on five. There was water in the bucket, so Rex figured it for a work in progress. That kind of job could keep for a day with more certainty in it.

  The corridor leading to Just James’ apartment was dark, like a night without the moon. He reached in his pocket for his phone — no signal — and fiddled with it until he made the flashlight app do its thing. The tiny light tried to shoulder past the dark in the corridor, doing a passable job for something that was supposed to make phone calls.

  “Damn, which one is it … there it is.” Rex found Just James’ apartment, and reached up and rapped on the door. He took a step back and turned the light on himself so anyone inside could see through the peep hole. After a minute, he heard the chain being pulled back and the door unlocked. Just James stood there in socks and jeans and a happy smile, and not a lot else.

  “Rex!” He rushed out into the corridor, grabbing Rex around the middle in a hug.

  “Well, hey,” said Rex. He used his free hand to return the hug, just a little more awkward than most people did it. Hugs weren’t really his speed, it was a thing a younger generation did, or hippies. Rex wasn’t young, and he wasn’t a hippy. Not all of California was full of hippies, despite what CNN might have to say about it. “Say. Can we step inside?”

  “Sure.” Just James led the way back inside and Rex pushed the door closed, sliding the chain across. “You came.”

  “I sure did,” said Rex. “We had an appointment.”

  “We were going for lunch,” said James.

  “Still can,” said Rex, “as soon as you put a shirt on.”

  The kid’s face fell a little. “About that.”

  “Yeah?”

  “My Dad’s in my room.”

  “You don’t say,” said Rex. “What’s he doing there?”

  “I locked him in,” said Just James.

  “Seems a fair thing to do,” said Rex, “given a certain set of circumstances.”

  “Are you asking me what happened?”

  Rex frowned. Just James’ Dad was about two hundred pounds, not the biggest asshole Rex had ever had a conversation with, but the man was full of angry. And a coward, which didn’t help, because angry cowards always wanted to prove some shit. Twenty years ago, Rex could have — but it wasn’t twenty years ago. It was today, and Rex’s old bones didn’t have that youthful spring anymore. “I’m not sure.” He scratched a few fingers through the stubble clinging to his chin. “I was hoping we could just get a coffee.” Rex frowned. “Actually, I was hoping we could get a coffee in a different city. It’s not safe anymore.”

  “I need a shirt,” said Just James. “My shirts are in my room.” He looked at his feet, shuffling a little. “My Dad’s in my room.”

  “Hell with it,” said Rex. “Lead the way.”

  Just James padded ahead of him, socks whispering across the smooth wood of the floor. Rex hadn’t really paid it much attention before, he’d only been here to pick the kid up once or twice, and each time he couldn’t wait to get out. In a certain light, the old wood’s richness was attractive, sombre, and out of place with the paintings lining the hallway. Paintings, hell — these are straight out of a calendar. Someone had taken the time to pull apart an old fitness calendar and frame the pictures along the walls.

  Rex figured it wasn’t Just James.

  The door to Just James’ room was closed, a keyhole underneath the knob. Just James held his hand out, palm up, an old black key resting there. Rex looked at it for a moment, then took it between two fingers. He held it in his hand, feeling the weight of it. The weight of what was going to happen when he opened that door.

  The world is full of assholes. Rex put a hand against the wall, lowering himself with all the care and attention his knees demanded. He hunched over a little, lining up his eye with the keyhole. He tried to make sense of what he was seeing before he realized he was staring at another eyeball doing the exact same thing. Except the eyeball was full of crazy, skittering about in the tiny view window, and Rex heard a giggle on the other side of the door.

  “Let me out,”
said a man, his voice reedy.

  “I just want a shirt,” said Rex. “I’d like to come in and get a shirt. Is that okay?”

  The eyeball vanished from the keyhole, and Rex caught a partial glimpse of the room. Tail end of a bed, a window over it, blinds drawn. Not much to work with there. Something slammed on the other side of the door, causing Rex to jerk back, a cry of surprise coming from over his shoulder — Just James — before the other man screamed, “LET ME OUT!”

  Didn’t sound good, no matter which way you cut it. Rex rubbed at his chin, feeling that stubble again. Needed a shave. Could probably wait some. He turned and looked Just James square in the face. “Son?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m going to need some towels, big ones if you can get them. A bucket of water about this big,” and here Rex held his hands about a foot and a half apart, “as cold as you can get it. Feel free to use ice. You got ice?” Just James nodded at him. Rex frowned. “Well okay. Off you go.”

  The kid padded away, socks slipping a little on the polished floor as he hurried. Rex waited a few heartbeats until he heard the kid rummaging around somewhere. If Rex had made a good guess of apartment life, towels would be an easy ask, the bucket less so. Ice water would keep the kid busy for even longer. He had maybe a couple minutes to get this resolved. Squared away. He put his hand back against the wall, pulling himself upright.

  He still had the key in his hand. He fitted it into the lock, pausing before he turned it. “Okay,” he said. “I’m going to open the door. Let you out.”

  “Good, good, goodgoodgood,” said the other man. Rex heard a sound that could have been someone hopping from foot to foot. People didn’t do stuff like that, not in the real world. Not if they weren’t crazy as a sack of weasels.

  Rex turned the key, the mechanism making a satisfying series of clicks as he twisted it. He had a moment to reflect on how they just didn’t make stuff like that anymore before the door was yanked open in front of him, Just James’ Dad — step-Dad — silhouetted in the frame, light from the window behind him casting his face into shadow. Rex could make out the eyes though, still full of the same damn crazy, and that carried on through the man’s frame as he stood there, shoulders hunched, one side canted lower than the other.