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

by Richard Parry

  “Oh!” said Gabriel. “Bring back a tan.”

  Jessica smiled at the screen. There’d be no trouble with that. Her shoulders were a little burnt from the impromptu game of basketball they’d played earlier, something to work the stress out before the action started. Too much sun and laughter, but it was okay. Shaved a little off the divide she wanted to maintain between her command and her soldiers, but everyone was on edge.

  No one knew why the fuck they were in Qatar.

  No one would tell her why she was here, instead of back home for Christmas. Back with her family. That had been the deal — finish the last one, get a decent holiday at home. But then they’d asked her how important her career was. Said that being a woman in a man’s job was hard enough, said that she’d best step up to the plate if she wanted to win.

  They hadn’t said that, of course. But she’d heard it in their every word.

  Someone cleared their throat behind her. She turned, taking in Gibson and that damn tablet that always brought more trouble. “Just a minute.”

  “Ma’am.” Gibson stood still as a post.

  Jessica sighed. The man was efficient, but had the EQ of a stone. She turned back to the little screen. “I’ve got to go.”

  “We miss you,” said Bobby.

  “Will you be here next Christmas?” said Gabriel. “I’d like to give you a present instead of mailing it.”

  “Yes, honey,” she said. It wouldn’t be long before Gabriel didn’t believe in Santa. It wouldn’t be long before he stopped wanting to be with her. It wouldn’t be long before she lost her chance to get to know her son. “I promise.” Next Christmas, or she was out.

  ∙ • ● • ∙

  The plane shook and trembled around her, the big transport’s turbines churning their way back Stateside. Jessica looked at the empty bay around her. Nothing but a crate swaddled in cargo webbing, empty benches around the edges of the plane, the bay big and cold and harsh.

  She felt inside her for something, found only an empty sort of desperation. She nudged her duffel with a boot, her eyes moving towards the front. She wanted to stalk across the metal floor, pound on the door to the cabin, demand with all the privilege of rank that they get there faster.

  Make the plane get to where her son, not quite fifteen, was dying.

  The crew were doing it anyway. The plane pushed hard through the air, then engines running hard. They knew why she wanted to get home. It wasn’t their fault the only bird on the ground was a hauler, built for capacity, not comfort — or speed. There would be a change of aircraft soon, something faster to get her Stateside before it was too late.

  But it was already too late. She knew it in her heart. There was a price for broken promises, and her son was paying it.

  ∙ • ● • ∙

  It didn’t matter. None of it. The doctor was looking up at her face. “Do you understand what I’ve said, Mrs. Pearce?”

  She understood, alright. She was looking at a closed door to an OR. Civilian, not military, but it still had the same damn smell. Blood, under the disinfectant, she knew that smell as the price for sending men and women to die. There wasn’t the usual sound though — the machines that monitored life were silent, the bustle and pace of surgeons at work was missing.

  She wanted to go in there, scream at them to turn the machines back on. To move like they had a purpose. She turned to the doctor. “No.”

  “We tried as hard as we—”

  “No,” said Jessica. “You didn’t. It was a car crash, wasn’t it?”

  “There was a … there was a truck,” said the doctor. He was a small man with glasses that framed eyes tired beyond measure.

  “I’ve seen men hit by artillery fire put back together, Doctor,” she said. “You’re telling me a road accident can’t be fixed?”

  The doctor looked at her for a few moments, then pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Is there someone we can call?”

  She thought of Bobby, lying cold and dead on a table. Her son, beside him. Their bodies a ruin, but their hearts broken long ago by a wife and a mother who’d never been home. So they’d left home too, Gabriel riding another new bike that Santa had brought while Bobby pedaled beside him. Building memories without her.

  That bike was another one she’d bought to make the guilt go away. She’d paid with money earned by her service. By being away from them.

  “Can you call God?” Jessica took a step towards the man, then clenched her teeth. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault. She relaxed the hands that had balled into fists, straightened her uniform. Her eyes were dry, her face was hard. “Can you?”

  The doctor licked his lips. “No.”

  “Then what good are you?” She turned on her heel, boots taking her away from that terrible room of death. She saved her tears, feeling something clench inside her chest. Something that wouldn’t let go, that held the pain locked away inside.

  What a way to learn that — after all these years — she really did love her son.

  ∙ • ● • ∙

  “Oh,” said Adalia. She could feel the tears wet on her face. “Oh.” She let go of Jessica’s hands.

  “How—” Jessica recoiled from her. “What—”

  “What’s going on?” said Carlisle. “This isn’t a super good time, if I’m being honest.”

  “You have shared a part of your story,” said Ajay. “You have shared the part about how you got here.”

  “You … you saw that?” said Adalia.

  “No,” said Ajay. “I saw your face. Your eyes, mistress.”

  “Someone,” said Carlisle, “needs to say what the fuck is going on. I’m driving a truck in the wake of a werewolf to a city full of zombies, okay, and this is about as real as shit gets.”

  “I wish you hadn’t done that,” said the boy. His eyes shone, bright with remembered tears.

  Adalia looked at Jessica’s eyes, saw the hardness there. It completely covered the pain, you’d never know unless … you knew. She reached out her hand again, but stopped as Jessica tried to pull further away. It would have been comical, this Warrior afraid of a girl in the back seat of a Yukon, except for what she’d seen. Where she’d been. What she was.

  Letting her hand fall to her lap, Adalia looked to the front. “It’s okay, Melissa. I did something I shouldn’t have.”

  “Right,” said Carlisle. After a moment, she said, “And what was that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Adalia.

  “I do,” said Gabriel, his voice sad beyond measure.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “We’re running low on beer,” said John. Val had watched him staring into the refrigerator for a good long minute. “We need to do a beer run.”

  “How about food?” Rex was standing by the window, staring into the street.

  “We’ve got food,” said John. “I put it on the counter.”

  “You put,” said Rex, “peanut butter and coconut water on the counter.”

  “Right,” said John. “Food.”

  “That shit,” said Val, “and don’t take this personally because I love you like a brother, but that shit isn’t food. Not for normal people.”

  “Hey,” said Sky. “I start the day with a tablespoon of peanut butter and a glass of coconut water.”

  “New diet?” said Val.

  “You’re a freak,” said Just James. He held up his hands in defense at Sky’s glacier stare. “Breakfast is Frosted Flakes.”

  “Huh,” said Val. “That’s weird.” He was thinking about another young person he knew who liked Frosted Flakes. “Tiger?”

  “Tiger,” said Just James. “Also, there’s a lot of sugar in it.”

  “I would eat a bowl of Frosted Flakes,” said Rex, turning back to the window. “I think we should get some food.”

  “Right,” said John. “I’m on it.”

  “No,” said Sky.

  “What?” said John.

  “When you go shoppin
g, you come back with beer and fitness magazines. The man said food.”

  “Two things,” said John. “First, beer is a food. Second, I’m not going shopping. I’m going looting.” He turned on the Miles Megawatt Smile. “I’ve never been looting before. Expanding my horizons. Seriously, it’s on my bucket list.”

  A tired old sigh came from Rex. “I’ll go. At least it’ll get done.”

  “Hell with you, old man,” said John. “You trying to steal stuff from my bucket list? How often am I going to get a legitimate, state-sponsored opportunity to loot?”

  “I … I don’t think the state is sponsoring this,” said Rex. “In fact…” His voice trailed off.

  “What?” said Val. He could feel the ache in his bones, something inside not right. That damn virus was going to be the death of him.

  “Cavalry,” said Rex, “or damnation.”

  Val could hear it now, the low thud of rotors slicing the air. He moved to the window, seeing the black shapes of helicopters in the air. One scudded low enough to make out the numbers on the tail, a man perched by a chain gun at the open door. “Fuck me.”

  “It could be an evacuation,” said Sky. “Couldn’t it?”

  “It could be that they want to drop boxes of money on us too,” said Just James.

  “Kid, you ain’t gonna live to be 20,” said Sky.

  “At least he’ll die pretty,” said Val. “I don’t think it changes anything.”

  “How you figure?” said John.

  “Because he’s young. Stands to reason if he dies he’ll be pretty.” Val shrugged. “You’re right though, I’m not a good judge. Sky? Is he going to die pretty?”

  “Could be,” said Sky, giving Just James a critical look, “if some girl doesn’t mark up his face.”

  “No,” said John, “I mean, how you figure it doesn’t change anything?”

  “Right,” said Val. “Well, whether we go outside for food, or to be rescued, we need to go outside. I think if we call it a ‘food’ mission—”

  “Looting,” said John.

  “If we’re looting,” said Val, “we’ll probably get shot.”

  “Christ, man,” said John. “We’re not wearing T-shirts that say, ‘Team Looter.’ We’re going to be subtle.”

  “You are probably the least subtle person I’ve ever met,” said Rex.

  “Thanks,” said John.

  “Wasn’t a compliment,” said Rex.

  “So we’re out on our food mission,” said Val. “And if we see these guys setting down, lifting off survivors, setting up aid tents, and generally doing a Mother Teresa thing, we’re copacetic.”

  “Copawhat?” said Just James.

  “And if we see them shooting everyone,” said Val, “then I have another plan.”

  “We’re all going to die,” said Just James.

  “Thinking the same thing,” said Rex. “Can you spell it out, son?” He looked over at Val. “It’s not like I don’t trust you, but last time you saved my life, by your own account, you were juiced up on magic fairy dust. Today, you’re dying of a killer virus.”

  “I managed to get myself out of bed and to work every day before I was a werewolf,” said Val. “I figure I still have some skills.”

  “Did any of those skills involve military training?” Rex stared hard at him.

  “My boss was an asshole,” said Val.

  “That’s a close second, I’ll agree,” said Rex.

  “I’m going,” said Val, “to negotiate.”

  ∙ • ● • ∙

  Val hefted Raph — a genuine Frank Thomas bat. Kind of a big deal. Super weird thing though, right, was up until a couple of weeks ago, Val couldn’t have told you who Frank Thomas was. Now? All kinds of knowledge had filtered into his head, almost as if touching the smooth knob at the end had let him know that The Big Hurt had played for the White Sox. Man had been born in Georgia. Five-time All-Star. Hell, he’d helped the White Sox to their first World Series title in eighty-eight years. Eighty-eight years. That was something to be proud of, make no mistake, but the odd thing was that a month back Val hadn’t known whether Frank Thomas was a first baseman or a plumber.

  How the hell do you start carrying around baseball cards in your head?

  He gave Raph a twirl. The bat sure felt good in his hands, a satisfying weight that broke no promises. It was the kind of bat you could work your way to a .300 batting average with.

  What the actual fuck?

  Val leaned back against the alley wall, a building grimy with the air of Chicago. Graffiti walked a crazy scrawl at chest height on the wall opposite, but it seemed like nothing but right-angles compared to knowledge that was flowing into his head. About a baseball player, of all things.

  A shot rang out, followed by a sound that would have been a laugh if it wasn’t so nervous. Great. Kids with guns. Val tried to imagine how he’d feel if he was holding a gun in a city of crazy people and one more random guy walked towards him carrying a bat. Probably inclined to shoot someone, more or less. He looked down at Raph then rested the bat against the wall. He could come back for it later.

  John would have kittens. He really wanted that bat.

  Stepping out from the cover of the alley wall took a bit of doing; he was mortal now, couldn’t take stray — or directed — gunfire without bleeding out like any other dude. Once it was done he felt the cold winter sun on his face, felt its touch and took it for the world’s promise that everything was going to be okay.

  It had to be, or there’d be no one to tell John where the bat was. Val felt a small smile tug at his face, then raised his hands into the universal sign of surrender as he walked further into the light. The helicopters had come down at the edge of Ping Tom Park. Crazy place to come down, what with the trees, Val would have put a bird down on the roof of a building and made the troops walk down.

  Hang about. Val didn’t know how to fly a helicopter. Did he?

  “FREEEEEZEMOTHERFUCKER!” The shout was amplified through a loud hailer, the words strung into one long sound of anger. Val saw the bodies at a natural perimeter around the helicopters, thought for a bare second then stopped walking.

  He raised his voice. “Hey.”

  “I said FREEZE,” said the voice again. Christ, but it sounded like a kid. Could have been Just James, if Just James was high on caffeine and holding a SAW.

  “I’m frozen,” said Val. “Look, I got people who need—”

  “I don’t give a fuck what you need,” said the voice. “You move, we will ventilate you.”

  “Got it,” said Val. He stood, enjoying the sun. The little things, right? It wasn’t so bad, and he figured he could stand here for a while longer without too much worry, except — well, there was the kicker.

  Five guys, armed to the teeth, camo, the works. All wearing helmets. Definitely nothing like Just James, not a Nintendo DS in sight. Val looked at them as they took up positions around the helicopters. Yeah, there was one with a goddamn SAW alright, the machine gun looking ridiculous among the measured peace of Ping Tom Park.

  Val wanted to scratch his head. He wasn’t sure how he knew that the machine gun was called a Squad Automatic Weapon — a SAW. He figured moving his hands wouldn’t be the smart play, so he stood there with the sun and a smile on his face and waited.

  And waited.

  After a while, he said, “Can I come closer now?”

  “Shit no,” said one of the soldiers. “Move the fuck along.”

  Val nodded like he was agreeing. “It’s just, we could really use a ride.”

  “Who’s ‘we?’” said the one with the SAW.

  “Shut it, Demetri,” said another.

  “You shut it, Pollock,” said Demetri. “It’s an honest question. Could be VIPs.”

  “Could be unicorns too,” said Pollock. “Odds are about the same.”

  “It’s not unicorns,” said Val, “or VIPs. I got three people who need to be elsewhere. Rex, James, and Sky.”

  “Rex? Like a dog?�
� Demetri had lowered the barrel of the SAW a fraction.

  “Like a Tyrannosaurus,” said Val. “Retired firefighter.”

  “How about you?” said Pollock. “You on the list?”

  “Not so much,” said Val. “I’ve got things that need doing.”

  “So why didn’t Rex, James, and Sky come and ask us for a ride?” Demetri’s head was cocked to one side.

  “More or less,” said Val, “because we thought you’d shoot us all and leave us for dead.”

  “Fair enough,” said Pollock, nodding his head a fraction to the side of Val. Val had a moment’s confusion before he felt agony shoot through his knee. He stumbled then fell forward, catching himself on his hands. Some animal instinct—

  Fight. Kill.

  —made him turn, and he found himself looking down the long barrel of a — M4A1, now that’s unusual, you’d expect to see an M16A4, and how the hell do I know that — rifle pointed at his head. He’d had the back of his knee kicked by this solder. Keep cool, Val, keep cool.

  The soldier was wearing a sneer above camo, but the rifle was held steady — full professional. Except the kid was too close, been spending more time playing Call of Duty than reading his damns ops manual. Ops manual? How the fuck..? “Hi,” said Val, after a moment’s pause. He winced. “Can I get up?”

  “What?” said the soldier looking down the rifle. “Hell, no.”

  “Okay,” said Val. “What now?”

  “Now,” said Pollock, “you tell us where your friends are.”

  “Are you going to fly them out?” said Val.

  “I don’t think you should be concerned about that,” said Pollock. “I think you should be concerned about the gun pointed at your head.”

  “Had guns pointed at my head before,” said Val. “This isn’t really that unusual for a Tuesday.” He looked up at the rifle, the way the soldier was holding it. He could see a place there where he could grab the barrel, pushing it sideways, then use his other hand there on the stock. It’d switch the weapon around, and with a bit of luck he’d get a human shield for free.