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

by Richard Parry

  The man leapt at Rex. A part of Rex’s mind said, Well, that’s just dumb, he’s two steps away, seems a lot of wasted effort, at the same time as another part of his mind was saying, Well, Rex, why the fuck is the taser in your jacket pocket. The man collided with Rex and he stumbled back — that’s why he jumped, knock me off balance, makes sense — and his back hit the wall behind him. He didn’t know how he’d managed it, but he had a hand up, forearm jammed against the other man’s neck. Just James’ Dad was actually trying to bite him, teeth snapping, thick ropes of saliva strung between his pearly whites — more of a beige, really, man needs a dentist — as his mouth opened wide before each snap.

  He could feel his old heart hammering inside his chest, and it’d be push and shove whether he’d make it out of this one. Rex got a moment of clarity —you senile old man, if you don’t find a solve for this, this crazy asshole is going to do something to Just James — and he mustered himself, rolling his shoulder forward and getting some space between them. The tick-tick-tick of the taser sounded loud as he fired it right into the other man’s neck, and Just James’ Dad dropped, stretching himself long and loose against the wooden floor. Rex looked at the taser in his hand, no clear memory of how it had got there, and then let his gaze rise up to the wide-eyed stare of Just James, standing in the hallway with a bucket held low in one hand, a bundle of towels in the other.

  Rex straightened up, looked around for a second, then said, “Ah, good. You got the stuff.”

  Just James nodded, silent and solemn.

  Bending over to check the prone man, Rex said, “We won’t be needing ‘em after all. Just drop them where you are, son, and go get your shirt.”

  “Did you … did you just tase my Dad?”

  The guy had a pulse and was breathing steady, so Rex let him be. Looking up at Just James, he nodded. Hell of a thing to do to someone, especially in front of their kid. You’re an asshole, Rex. Should have handled that better. Water? Towels? Could have thought of something better than that. Poor kid was going to be scarred for life now, all because Rex was older and slower than the kid needed him to be.

  Just James stood still for a moment, then a big grin broke out across his face. “That’s so cool,” he said.

  ∙ • ● • ∙

  Rex felt the sunlight across his face, the warmth of it welcome against the cold of the air. He had Just James at his side, the kid dressed in sensible clothes against the chill. Rex had helped him pack, the job a little rushed in the face of them not being sure of when Just James’ Dad was going to come to. Back in his days of working in the Department, they’d fought more fires than people, and tasers weren’t really a thing.

  Still, they’d got a few things together for the kid, and Rex had shown him how to fold for space — roll ‘em up, like this … that’s right, tight like a tube — and even found space for Just James’ current book to snuggle in there alongside something called a Nintendo DS. Rex had no idea what the little electronic device was for, but it seemed important to Just James so he’d thought what the fuck and went with it. The book was big and heavy and impractical, but it was a library copy of The Princess Bride. Rex didn’t read much make-believe but he’d read that, and it had been so good he’d read it twice more straight after.

  If that’s what Just James was using space for, it was good enough for Rex.

  He held the kid behind him with one arm, feeling a twinge go through his shoulder, no doubt pulled in the short fight upstairs with Just James’ Dad. It’d work well enough for now, just needed to get the kid to safety, maybe find a car, and then—

  Good God damn, he thought. The town car was still there, pulled in at the side of the road. He could see that young woman — Sky — still inside it, windows wound up safe and snug. Rex looked to the left and right, then pulled Just James along behind him, down the steps from the brownstone, across what seemed an ocean of exposed sidewalk, and to the car. He knocked on the window, and heard the clunk as the central locking released the doors. Yanking the back door open, he hustled Just James inside, then sagged in behind him, pulling the door closed. Another clunk, and all the doors locked again.

  “Hey,” said Sky.

  “Hey yourself,” said Rex. “Didn’t I tell you to get gone?”

  “Strong independent woman,” said Sky.

  “What?”

  “She means,” said Just James, “that she does what she wants.”

  “Smart kid,” said Sky. She craned her neck around. “I’m Sky.”

  “James,” said Just James.

  “Just James?”

  “That’s right,” said Just James.

  “Hell of a bill,” said Rex, “for you to be sitting out here.”

  “It’s okay,” said Sky. “I’ve gone off the clock.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Rex, “but thanks.”

  “I know what you meant,” said Sky, raising a hand to the windows of the car in a gesture that seemed to say, City’s gone to hell, but what’s a girl to do? “Got any idea of where you need to go?”

  “No,” said Rex, then, “Yeah.”

  “Which is it?”

  “Well,” said Rex, “I got no particular place to be, and Just James has no particular place to be either. But I figure, you got people.”

  Sky thought about that, nodding slowly. “I’ve got people.”

  “And,” said Rex, “I figure, now we’ve got my people,” and here he placed a hand on Just James’ shoulder, “we should go get yours.”

  “Well okay then,” said Sky.

  “Okay then,” said Rex. “Let’s go.”

  “Small problem,” said Sky.

  “What’s that?” said Rex.

  “I got no clue where they are,” she said. “Except maybe at the apartment.”

  “You’ve got an apartment?”

  “More of a slum,” said Sky, “but we do what we can.”

  “Okay,” said Rex. “Sounds good.” He leaned back in the seat, his shoulder nagging at him again, and figured the day had turned out just fine so far.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “We need to get back to the apartment,” said John. “These crackerjack motherfuckers are getting me down.”

  “I don’t think,” said Val, “that I’ve ever called someone a crackerjack motherfucker.”

  “But you’ve always wanted to,” said John, hefting the piece of wood like a bat. It was about three feet long, broken at one end, sawed at the other. Val had seen him grab it from a window frame that had busted out into the street, surrounded by rolls of toilet paper. God only knew why the store had had a display of toilet paper in the window, but he guessed it made a weird kind of sense. Everyone needs it.

  “It’s a good name,” said Val. He gestured at the city around them. “Kind of captures the essence of it all. I guess the burning question is, ‘Why?’”

  “Why did I call them that? No clue, really,” said John. Val watched as he stepped up on a pile of rubble that looked like it used to be a bus stop, all broken wood and metal and shattered glass. Something — or some things — had hit it hard. “I think we should go this way.”

  “No, I meant, why are they here at all?” Val frowned. “That way looks like it’s full of burning cars and dead bodies.”

  “Exactly,” said John. “Won’t be any live ones to bother us.”

  “Except for the ones that did the killing,” said Val. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, still sore from where he’d punched the last crazy in the head. He wasn’t used to the pain — never much of a fighter before, and after, well, the—

  Night.

  —thing inside him had done most of the swinging.

  “Except for those,” said John. “Also, I see cop cars.”

  “So?”

  “Cop cars means cops,” said John. “And I could use a friendly face.”

  “It hasn’t really been my experience that cops are all that friendly,” said Val. He fell in step with John anyway. One way was a
s bad as another, and what he really wanted was—

  Pack mate.

  —Danny. He wanted to hold her, to smell her, to know she was all right. Without her here, nothing was okay, and now he’d lost his—

  Gift.

  —abilities, there was a good chance he’d die. Die, and not be able to tell her how much she meant, and that he understood, and that he was sorry.

  “To be fair, there was that one cop,” said John. “You remember her. Used to kicking ass and taking names.”

  “Carlisle?”

  “The devil herself,” said John. He frowned. “I mean that in a good way.”

  “She’s not a cop,” said Val. “She gave all that up.”

  “She put it on hold,” said John. “She’s not the kind of—”

  A man ran out of a doorway to their right, screaming — ranting? — and slavering like a dog. Val caught a glimpse of wild eyes before the man was on him. Instinct took over, his hands grabbing at the lapels of an immaculate suit jacket. A button popped, spinning off to bounce against the sidewalk. The lunatic twisted away, arms free of the jacket. Val was left holding the empty suit jacket, one sleeve pulled inside out. He stared at it for a sliver—

  Sickness.

  —of time. He gave the jacket a few quick twists around his arm, just before the other man lunged again. Val pushed his wrapped arm against the guy’s face, feeling it through the fabric as teeth tried to close on his flesh. Val clenched his fingers into a fist and punched the man in the head. It was a clumsy shot, his hand hitting more forehead than anything else, and he gave a yell of anger and pain. Val brought a knee up into the other man’s groin and was rewarded by a cough as the teeth loosened, the guy stumbling back. Val eyed him up, took aim, and swung his fist in a savage cross.

  John watched with a critical eye as Val’s attacker fell to the ground, lights out. Rubbing at his jaw, John said, “I give you five, maybe six out of ten, but only because you look like your heart’s in it.”

  “This isn’t,” said Val, panting a little, “as easy as it looks.”

  “Sure it is,” said John. “You’re just not very good at it.”

  Val coughed, wiping something red away from his lips. “To be fair, I’ve got this virus.”

  “I got a friend who had cancer,” said John. “Came to work at the gym every day. With cancer. Emilio. You met him.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” said Val, bending over to search the fallen man. He pulled out a wallet. “Guy’s name is actually Lionel.”

  “No way,” said John, holding out a hand. “Lemme see that.”

  Val handed over the license. “So why you telling me about Emilio? You said Emilio was crazy.”

  “What Emilio was,” said John, “was reliable. You got cancer?”

  “No,” said Val.

  “Then get the fuck up,” said John. “We got people we care about we got to go find.”

  He’s right. Val straightened his shoulders. “Sorry,” he said.

  “No, it’s cool,” said John. “Your girlfriend is a werewolf. She can take care of herself. Mine drives a cab.”

  “It’s Uber,” said Val.

  “It’s a service that takes you places for money,” said John. “But not like an escort service.” He frowned. “Look, the thing is, she’s—”

  “Family,” said Val. Like that, something—

  Pack.

  —clicked. “She’s one of us.”

  “I’ve never told her,” said John.

  “Maybe we should,” said Val. He looked farther down the street. “One thing, though.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m going to need more than my fists and harsh language. I need my own stick.”

  “This isn’t a stick,” said John. “This is Michelangelo.”

  “You’ve named your stick?”

  “Mike, here,” said John, “hits like the king.”

  “Great,” said Val. “Let’s go find his brother, Donatello.”

  “You’re more a Raphael kind of guy,” said John.

  “Why you figure?” Val looked at his feet. “I’m the smart one, aren’t I?”

  “You got anger issues,” said John. He nudged aside some debris with his foot. “Here.”

  “Is that … is that an actual bat?” Val reached down, his fingers touching the metal. It was black, etchings through the paint marking it up and down the shaft. He let his fingers trace the autograph on the bat, then ran them over the Big Stick inscription at the business end. “Well I’ll be.”

  “What?”

  “This, sports fans,” said Val, “is a genuine Frank Thomas bat. Autographed.”

  “’Big Hurt?’” said John. “I’d like one of those. Let me see it.”

  “You’ve got Mike there,” said Val. “Me and Raph here are just fine. Shoo.” He stood, hefting the bat. It felt light and right in his hand, the weight like the familiar hand of an old lover. Weird.

  Still. Plenty of time to work out how he knew anything about the Chicago White Sox later on. You’ve never been much of a sports fan, Val. Where’d this come from?

  But something in his hands knew how to hold the bat, and he felt a faint hint of memory, like the scent of smoke on the wind.

  ∙ • ● • ∙

  “That doesn’t look good,” said Val. He pointed with the bat at the ring of police vehicles a block further up. “Still got the lights on, but nobody’s home.” He walked past the door of a police cruiser — the rest of the car nowhere in sight — gouges dragged through the metal. The door had been tossed like a Frisbee, the edge of it buried in the asphalt of the road. He swallowed. That really can’t be good. He only knew of one thing that could leave a memento like that.

  “John.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Check it,” said Val, tapping the door with the toe of his shoe.

  “Looks like one of your calling cards,” said John.

  “Looks like,” said Val. “So here’s the thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The briefcase.”

  “Silver one?” John arched his back, working some kinks out. “Sucked the thing out through your eyeballs?”

  “The very same,” said Val. “What I think we have here is evidence of where it’s gone.”

  “Like a case of herpes?”

  Val sighed. “It’s not … no. Because if you give someone herpes, you don’t lose it.”

  “You got herpes?”

  “No,” said Val. “I have a virus that causes human cells to turn to mush and all your blood to explode out through your chest. I think it’s worse.”

  “So says the man,” said John, “who’s never had herpes.”

  “I got nothing,” said Val. “Back on topic. I think that someone took it.”

  “The herpes?”

  “The—”

  Night.

  “—Night,” said Val.

  “We’re calling it the Night now?”

  “Yeah,” said Val. “Also, I vote we call anyone we meet who’s crazy, well, we call them a zombie.”

  “It’s a little clichéd,” said John, “but we’ll run with it for now.”

  What you’ve got here, thought Val, is more blood on your hands. You’ve lost the Night, and now someone worse than you has it. “John?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We need to fix this,” said Val. “We need to—”

  “Hold up,” said John, hand out. “I know.”

  “What?”

  “We need to get the gang back together. Find Sky. Make a call. Chopper in the big guns.”

  “Danny?”

  “And Carlisle.”

  “What about Adalia?” Val rubbed his face, then looked around the street. Aside from the two of them, Chicago was silent as a morgue.

  John looked at his feet. “I hadn’t thought that one through.”

  Val clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Keep working that angle. Let me know how you get on.” Val hefted Raph, giving the bar a twirl. One t
hing’s for sure. You’re not going to involve more of the people you love, Valentine. This one’s on you. “Let’s go.”

  They walked up to the police perimeter. Val felt like his head was on a swivel, no creature inside him to warn him of danger. He felt its absence like a missing tooth, an ache and a gap, something that had been wrenched out with a pair of pliers.

  That’s new. He’d been wanting to get rid of it for so long, to stop being responsible for the death around him. Thing is, you didn’t take good enough care, and now you’re responsible for … for whatever the hell this is. He paused for a second. “John.”

  “Sup?”

  “Do I come across as a sociopath?” Val tapped his bat against the ground, feeling the weight of it land against the ground at his feet. “It’s a serious question.”

  “You want to do this now?” John gestured with his free hand at the cars ahead of them. “There’s shit going on here.”

  “Sure, fine,” said Val. “You don’t call, you don’t write…”

  “Look, okay,” said John. “The thing is—”

  There were five of them, screaming and ranting, meaningless words tossed in front of them as they cascaded out a first story level to land on the sidewalk to their side. They surged as one, darting like a school of carnivorous fish. They boiled up and over John like he was a jungle gym — John got one good swing in with his piece of wood, a resounding thwak as it connected with one of the zombie’s heads, the man — man? Is that a man or a woman? — tumbling back. The other four bore John to the ground, and he went down with a yell.

  Val felt that small hand on his wrist again, a tiny helper tugging him along. He stepped forward, the Sox bat in his hand spinning like a gymnastics baton. The first hit landed with a hollow, wet noise, the skull of a — Christ, it’s a woman, don’t look, just get it done — zombie caving in. The remaining three looked up from John, all heads moving at the same time like they were operated by the same remote control. Val hefted the bat. “Get off him, you crackerjack motherfuckers! It’s me you want. And you know what? You want a piece of me? Come get some.”