J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House)

by J. A. Konrath

  “Is Bub hungry?” Sun asked.

  “Hungry Buuuuub. Eeeeeat.” The demon looked beyond Sun. “Fraaaaank.”

  “Good lord,” Dr. Frank Belgium whispered.

  Sun hadn’t even known he’d entered the room, so intense was her focus.

  Bub sprang up on his legs and threw his hands in the air, just as Belgium had. The demon bellowed as loud as a thunder clap, “Goooooood looooord!”

  Both Sun and Frank Belgium jumped backwards, and Frank kept backpedaling until he’d bumped into the sheep, which bleated a scream at the intrusion.

  “Find Andy,” Sun ordered. “And Race.”

  “Sure thing. Sure thing.”

  Dr. Belgium hit the door, repeating “sure thing” like a mantra.

  “Buuuuub is huuuuungry,” the demon said. He lowered his head to her height, pressing his moist pig snout to the Plexiglas. It made a sticky wet spot.

  “Lunch, nooooooow.”

  Sun, who had that jelly feeling back in her legs, fought the fear and stepped up to the glass.

  “Where are you from?” Sun asked. “How do you know English? Did you just learn it?”

  Bub’s lips creased back, revealing a huge valley of yellow, jagged teeth.

  He could bite through a redwood with those teeth, Sun thought.

  “Lunch noooooow. English laaaaaaater.”

  Sun, who hadn’t taken an order from anyone since she was in grammar school, simply nodded. She went to the sheep, her gaze never leaving Bub. The sheep was rooted, shaking like a jackhammer. It refused to budge.

  Sun located the box of Cap’n Crunch, dropped when she’d let go of the harness. There was still cereal left at the bottom, and she lifted the cowl and pushed the box over the sheep’s snout like a feed bag. After a moment of struggle the animal began to munch, its muscles relaxing. Sun led it to the oversized door next to the habitat.

  Bub watched intently, the terrible smile on his face never slipping. Sun took the sheep through the walkway alongside Bub’s pen and stopped at the waist-level entrance hatch. The hatch was set inside a large hinged wall, kind of like a pet door. The wall was concrete, inlaid with the same titanium bars used in the Red Arm. It moved up and down like a garage door—industrial pneumatics—and it was the entrance Bub took when his vital signs indicated he was waking up from his coma.

  Sun hadn’t been present for that event. She’d arrived shortly afterward. But Race spared no detail, telling her how he’d wheeled Bub into the habitat on a gigantic Gurney, then used a crank to lift up one end until Bub slid off and onto the ground, twitching and blinking the whole time. Race had barely pushed the Gurney back out the entrance and closed the door before Bub was on his feet.

  The entrance remained locked, using yet another magnetic bolt operated by a keypad. The hatch in the middle was locked by a simple latch, reinforced with titanium. This was the entrance used for the sheep and the one Race took when he’d been in the habitat on those previous occasions. It was too small for Bub to fit through, but Sun still paused before opening it.

  Now that Bub was talking, it made him more menacing to her, rather than less so.

  She went a hard round with her fear, then pushed it away and opened the small hatch.

  “Fooooooooood,” Bub said.

  He was squatting directly in front of the opening, and his breath, warm and fetid, blew against Sun like a sewer breeze. She felt an adrenalin jolt, like something had run in front of the car and she had to slam on the breaks. It was accompanied by instant sweating and a small cry that died in her throat.

  The sheep tried to buck, but one of Bub’s massive talons lashed out and gripped it by the head, dragging it through the hatchway.

  Sun watched, transfixed, as Bub twisted the sheep in half only a few feet away from her, a tangle of intestines stretching out between the pieces like hot mozzarella on a pizza. Some blood spattered onto her pants. The sheep’s legs were still kicking as Bub jammed them down his throat, not even bothering to chew. Then he uncurled the glistening entrails that hung around his shoulders like Mardi Gras beads and shoved them into his maw, smacking enthusiastically.

  “Gooooooooood,” Bub said to her.

  He licked his talons and belched.

  Sun kicked the hatch closed.

  For a moment she stood there, her heart playing bongos inside of her ribs, trembling so violently her knees were knocking. She became aware that she was holding her breath, and tried to let it out slowly to regain some control.

  He’s just an animal, she said in her mind, over and over again.

  Her mind wasn’t buying it.

  Sun forced composure to return, and then left the hallway and reentered the main room, willing herself to look at Bub through the Plexiglas.

  The demon was almost done eating, his hairy chest matted dark with sheep’s blood. He picked up the severed head and wedged it into the corner of his mouth. It cracked like a walnut. He chewed with a sound similar to a cement mixer, his eyes following Sun as she walked to the center of the room.

  The door opened behind her, and Sun turned to see Race, Andy, and Frank rush in.

  “He’s talking?” Race asked Sun, his attention on the demon.

  “Yes. He told me I was late for his lunch.”

  Andy came up beside Sun but didn’t meet her gaze.

  “Hello, Bub!” Race said, a wide grin on his face and a hand raised in greeting.

  Bub glared at the general, and Sun noted it didn’t seem friendly.

  “Raaaaaace,” Bub said.

  Race scratched the back of his head. “I’ll be damned. What else did he say?”

  “He pointed to things and named them, like me, himself, his lunch.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Andy leaned closer to the Plexiglas. “Do you speak English?”

  Bub closed one eye and the other locked onto Andy, as if scrutinizing him.

  “Hal tafham al arabiya?” Andy asked.

  “Lam asma had min zaman,” Bub answered.

  “What?” Race asked. “What did you just say to him?”

  “I asked him if he understood Arabic. He said he hasn’t heard it in a long time. Qui de Latinam es?” Andy asked.

  “Latinam nosco. Multos sermones nosco. Mihi haec lingua patria quam dicis est nova.”

  “He says he also knows Latin. But you probably figured that out. He also knows many other languages, but English is new to him.”

  Sun checked the corner of the room where the video camera was, reflexively making sure it was still there. It was, red light blinking. This was all being digitally recorded.

  “Okay,” Race said, “there are questions. We’ve got a book in the Octopus for when this would happen, a hundred years of questions to ask. I’ve got to call the President. And the holies, they’ll want to be here.”

  Race turned to leave, moving double time.

  “Ubi sum?” Bub asked. “Quis annus hic est?”

  “He wants to know where he is and what the year is,” Andy translated.

  “It looks like Race isn’t the only one with questions,” Sun frowned.

  Bub glanced at Sun and squinted, his elliptical eyes narrowing in a way that she could only describe as demonic.

  One Star General Regis Murdoch tried to keep his excitement in check as he walked briskly down the Red Arm. This had been an exciting week indeed. He could almost see the light at the end of the tunnel, the conclusion to over three decades of waiting.

  Forty goddamn years, and he was almost out of this hole.

  He reached the Octopus and sat down at the main terminal. The computer took forever to boot up. Once he was online, he accessed CONTACT, the President’s portable internet receiver. The President carried it on him at all times, and almost everyone thought it was a high tech pager. Actually it was a mini computer, capable of receiving and storing more than 40 gigabytes of information: pictures, spoken words, text, computer files and programs, even perfect digital copies of music and video.

&nbs
p; Eight orbiting satellites controlled its transmissions, so the President could instantly receive information while anywhere in the world. It was waterproof, shockproof, and bullet proof. The President could even use it to launch a nuclear strike.

  Deciding that the current situation didn’t warrant an interruption, Race contacted him with one beep. That would tell the President that he was receiving a message, but it wasn’t of immediate urgency. The unit would either beep or vibrate once, depending whether or not it was on silent mode. Two beeps and the President would check the message immediately. Three beeps and he’d plug a tiny ear piece into the CONTACT unit and speak into it like a portable phone.

  When the connection was made, Race clicked on the microphone to speak. His typing skills were considerably lacking.

  “Mr. President, this is Race. Our subject is currently able to communicate. I’m going to begin the interrogation. I’ll keep you updated, and remember what was promised to me.”

  Race hit the Send icon. The spoken word message would be translated into text, encrypted, and sent to the President’s CONTACT unit within seconds. Even though the encryption code was the most complicated in the world and deemed unbreakable, Race still was leery of codes and always kept his messages somewhat vague. The Germans never thought ENIGMA would be cracked either.

  The Roosevelt Book, as Race’s predecessor called it, was in the table drawer next to the main terminal. It was one of Race’s responsibilities at Samhain to maintain and update the information it held. Since Theodore Roosevelt began the Project in 1906, a list of questions had been compiled to ask Bub should he ever awake and be judged sentient. There were many, some scientific, some historic, some theological.

  Each successive President added his own questions to the book, and questions were dropped when they became outdated—for example, they no longer needed to ask Bub the 1918 question “Is it possible to split the atom?”

  The book still had its original leather binding, though it had faded and cracked over the years. The first several dozen questions were typeset, but Roosevelt was wise enough to know that more questions would come up, so bound after the printed pages were two hundred blank ones.

  Race had read through the book many times, and had even added several questions of his own. Now, after a century of sowing, it was time to reap.

  With the book tucked firmly in his armpit, Race picked up the phone and hit the intercom line.

  “Attention, this is Race. Our permanent guest is now talking, so it’s show time in Red 14. Will everyone please meet me there.”

  He hung up and took a micro cassette recorder from a cabinet. Race checked the batteries, and unwrapped a new tape and inserted it into the machine. Then he got up and headed down the Red Arm. His mind was a rubber ball bouncing around inside his skull. It was a familiar feeling; the long stretches of boredom, the careful preparation, and then BOOM!—everything happening at once.

  Just like combat, Race thought.

  He missed that so badly. Just like he missed everything about the Army.

  It was his family.

  Race was born to command. First in his class at West Point, back in ‘50. He entered Korea in ‘51 as a Butter Bar—second lieutenant— and rose to the rank of Captain in four years, most of his ascension due to battlefield victories. Korea was where he came to be known as Race, as in Race to the rescue.

  When the war ended, Race was a man to watch. He was stationed at Ft. Sam Houston in 1959, headquarters for the Fifth U.S. Army. He paid his dues, did a tour in Vietnam, and generally worked his ass off, and on December 29, 1966, he had made Brigadier General.

  Then came the fall.

  There was a 2nd Lieutenant under Race’s command named Harold Bright. They’d graduated together, gone to Korea together, and were the best of friends. Harold was Race’s best man when he married Helen. He was as close as a brother.

  Which made the confession even worse.

  On a drunken March night, two years after Race’s promotion to One Star General, Harold disclosed the affair he’d had with Race’s wife.

  Race was slack-jawed at the betrayal. Harold went into detail about how lonely Helen was, how Race was never around, how it only happened a few times but now it was over.

  The alcohol added to the rage. Race hit him. Harold defended himself. Race broke a bar stool over his best friend’s head.

  Harold suffered a concussion from the assault, and later died from his injuries.

  Helen blamed herself. She begged forgiveness. He forgave, and asked for hers in return. She was strong enough to stand by him during his trial, his discharge from his beloved Army, and his inevitable imprisonment. Race offered no defense for his actions to save her from the scandal.

  But somehow President Johnson found out the truth.

  He admired Race’s stoicism and manliness—LBJ’s exact words. He didn’t want to see Race go to jail, or get booted from the Army. Not only had Race proven himself an excellent soldier, he’d also proven himself a man who had forsaken his own good to keep a secret. That, Johnson had said, was what patriotism was all about. So he gave Race an opportunity to redeem himself.

  Samhain.

  Race agreed, and quickly disappeared, along with all charges against him. Johnson also buried the civil case with Harold’s family by giving them a modest cash settlement. All Race had to do, to keep up his end of the deal, was run the Samhain project until the time Bub awoke and the questions in the Roosevelt Book were answered. LBJ had given Race the impression that it would happen any day.

  And now here it was, forty years later.

  Race could have quit at any time. Many times he almost did, twice even going as far as telling the incumbent President he wanted out. But each time he was convinced to stay. Not through any slick blackmailing technique, or bland patriotic speeches about God and country. The carrot on the stick had always been his beloved Army, and the opportunity to some day command again.

  So Race stuck it out, through years of boredom, through Helen’s illness, through eleven different Presidents. The current Commander-in-Chief even told Race that he had a space waiting for him on the Joint Chiefs of Staff when this was finally over.

  It was all only a few hundred questions away.

  Race arrived in Red 14 to find Andy sitting in a chair next to the Plexiglas. Bub squatted on his haunches, his head at Andy’s level. The image that came to Race’s mind was two old women, sharing gossip.

  “What have we learned so far?” he asked Andy, slapping a paternal hand on his shoulder.

  “Well, not a lot. Bub apparently doesn’t remember much about what happened to him before his coma. He doesn’t even know how he came to be buried in Panama in the first place.”

  Race’s eyes narrowed. This wouldn’t do. Not at all. There were provisions for the possibility that Bub would be uncooperative. The main one involved a very large cattle prod.

  But that was to be a last resort.

  “Well, let’s see what he does know then, shall we?”

  Race took a chair from the computer work station and set it next to Andy, taking a seat. Bub glanced at Race and stretched out his mouth. He appeared to be attempting a smile, but Race found himself repulsed. It took him a moment to regain composure.

  “This is called the Roosevelt Book; it’s a list of questions to ask Bub going back to his discovery. I’ll read the question, you interpret it and give me the answer.”

  Race took the cassette recorder from his pocket and hit the record button. He rested it on his knee.

  “What is your name?” Race asked the beast.

  “Buuuuuub…” the demon answered, staring into Race’s eyes before Andy had a chance to translate. He raised a claw and a talon snaked out, pointing at the General’s chest.

  “Raaaaace.”

  Race shivered. Had it gotten colder in the room? Must be the central air unit, blowing down at them overhead. He folded his arms.

  “Ask him for his previous name, before we started callin
g him that.”

  Andy complied, and Bub whispered a reply.

  “He says he’s had many names.”

  “My God in heaven,” Father Thrist exclaimed. He’d just entered the room, the thick Rabbi Shotzen in tow. “It speaks.”

  “Faaaaather,” Bub said, his voice a cross between a whisper and a hiss. “Raaaaaabbi.”

  “Oh my…” Rabbi Shotzen gasped.

  “What has he said so far?” Father Thrist demanded. “Anything about God? Anything about Heaven?”

  “Heavaaaaaan,” Bub said, raising a claw over his head and extending a finger upward. The way he said the word made it sound somehow unclean.

  “What do you know about heaven?” Thrist approached the Plexiglas, his nose inches from Bub’s. “Are you a fallen angel?”

  Bub’s mouth stretched open and he belched, a sound like a motorcycle starting. His breath fogged up the glass, and Race caught the stench of blood and wool.

  “Father,” Race stepped in, holding the aging priest by the shoulders. “All of those questions and more will be answered. They’re all in my book. Let’s all just sit down, relax, we’re gonna be here for a while.”

  The holies went off in search of chairs, and Rabbi Shotzen dragged over an extra one for Dr. Belgium, who had just arrived.

  “Can he talk?” Belgium asked.

  “Heeeeee… taaaaaalks…” Bub answered.

  Belgium made a sound like a hiccup, and Race watched him turn right around and leave the room.

  “He’s a quick study,” Sun said. “He’s already putting together nouns and verbs. I bet he could learn English quickly.”

  Race furrowed his brow. It would be much easier to interrogate Bub if he knew how to speak American. Save a helluva lot of time.

  The disadvantage would be that Bub would understand everything they said, but indications showed that he was understanding a lot already. Besides, better to know what your enemy knows than to not know if he knows anything or not.

  “Andy, you’ve taught several languages. Have you ever taught English?”

  “To people.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “I don’t think… I mean… he’s a…”