Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)

by F. Paul Wilson

  The Horror Channel’s Drive-In Theatre

  Night of Bloody Horror (1969) Howco International

  Cataclysm

  Maui

  The moana puka appeared around dusk.

  Kolabati and Moki had been standing on the lanai watching the sun sink into the Pacific—earlier than ever. Barely a quarter to seven. They were also watching the airport far below. Kolabati couldn’t remember ever seeing it so busy.

  “Look at them,” Moki said, grinning as he slipped an arm around her waist. “The shrinking daylight’s got them all spooked. See how they run.”

  “It’s got me spooked too.”

  “Don’t let it. If it sends all the Jap malahinis scurrying west back to their own islands, and all the haoles back to the mainland—preferably back to New York, where they can fall into that hole in Central Park—it’s all for the good. It will leave the islands to the Hawaiians.”

  She’d been fascinated by the news of the mysterious hole in the Sheep Meadow. She knew the area well. Her brother Kusum had once owned an apartment overlooking Central Park.

  “I’m not Hawaiian.”

  He tightened his grip on her waist. “As long as you’re with me, you are.”

  Somehow his encircling arm was not as comforting as she would have wished. They watched the airport in silence awhile longer, then Moki released her and leaned on the railing, staring out at the valley, the sky.

  “Something’s going to happen soon. Do you feel it?”

  Kolabati nodded. “Yes. I’ve felt it for days.”

  “Something wonderful.”

  “Wonderful?” She stared at him. Could he mean it? She’d been plagued by an almost overwhelming sense of dread since the trade winds had reversed themselves. “No. Not wonderful at all. Something terrible.”

  His grin became fierce. “Terrible for other people, maybe. But wonderful for us. You wait and see.”

  Kolabati didn’t know what to make of Moki lately. His behavior had remained bizarre since Wednesday when the gash on his hand had healed so quickly. At least once a day he’d cut himself to see if the healing power was still with him. Each time he healed more quickly than the day before. And with each healing the wild light in his eyes had grown.

  As the daylight began to fade, Kolabati turned toward the door, but Moki grabbed her arm.

  “Wait. What is that?”

  He was staring east, toward Kahului and beyond. She followed his gaze and saw it. Something in the water. White water, bubbling, roiling. A gigantic disturbance. With foreboding ballooning within her, Kolabati grabbed the binoculars from their hook and focused on the disturbance.

  At first all she saw was turbulent white water, giant chop, a chaos of sloshing and swirling. But as she watched, the turbulence became ordered, took shape. The white water began to swirl in a uniform direction, counterclockwise, around a central point. She identified the center in time to see it sink below the surface and become a dark, spinning, sucking maw.

  “Moki, look!” She handed him the glasses.

  “I see!” he said, but took them anyway.

  She watched his expression as he adjusted the lenses. His smile grew.

  “A whirlpool! It’s too close to shore to be from converging currents. It’s got to be a crack in the ocean floor. No, wait!” He lowered the glasses and stared at her, his face flushed with excitement. “A hole! It has to be a hole in the ocean floor, just like the one in New York! We’ve got our own hole here!”

  Together—Moki with undisguised glee, Kolabati with growing, gnawing unease—they watched the whirlpool organize and expand. The troubles from the outer world, from the mainland, were intruding on her paradise. That could bring only misfortune. They watched together until it was too dark to see, then went inside and turned on the TV to catch what the news had to say about it. The scientists all agreed—the ocean floor had opened in a fashion similar to the phenomenon in Manhattan’s Central Park. Already the locals had a name for it: moana puka—ocean hole.

  Moki could barely contain his excitement. He wandered the great room, talking a blue streak, gesticulating wildly.

  “You know what’s going to happen, Bati? The water’s going to be sucked down into whatever abyss those holes lead to, and it’s going to keep on disappearing into nowhere. And eventually the ocean level is going to drop. And if it drops far enough, do you know what will happen?”

  Kolabati shook her head. She had an inescapable feeling that she was witnessing the beginning of the end—of everything.

  “Greater Maui will be reborn.” He went to the doorway that opened onto the lanai and gestured into the darkness. “Molokai, Lanai, Kahoolawe, even little Molokini—all of them were part of Maui before the Ice Age, connected to our island by valleys rather than cut off by channels of sea water. I see it happening, Bati. I see them all joined again, reunited after ages of separation. A single island, as big as the Big Island. Maybe bigger. And I’ll play a part in the future of Greater Maui.”

  “What future?” Kolabati said, joining him at the door. “If the Pacific Ocean drops that far we’ll be looking at the end of the world!”

  “No, Bati. Not the end. The beginning. The beginning of a new world.”

  And then the sky caught fire. All around them, like a sustained flash of sheet lightning, the night ignited. At the far end of the island she saw the Lahaina coast and the Iao Valley of West Maui light up like day. The same with the island of Lanai across the channel. Then a blast of superheated air, choked with flaming debris, roared overhead and to the sides, withering west Maui, searing Lanai, yet she and Moki remained in cool shadow, shielded by the enormous bulk of Haleakala.

  “Shiva!” she cried in the Bengali dialect of her childhood. “What are you doing?”

  And then came the sound. The floor shook and seemed to fall away beneath her as the night exploded with a rumbling, booming, deep-throated roar that shuddered through her flesh, shook every cell of her body, and rattled the very core of her being.

  As she tumbled to the floor she heard Moki’s voice faintly above the din.

  “Earthquake!”

  He crawled to where she lay and rolled on top of her, using his body to shield her from the shelves and lamps and sculptures crashing down about them.

  It went on forever. Kolabati didn’t know how the house’s cantilever supports managed to hold. Any moment now they were going to give way and send the house tumbling down the slope. Only once before in her life—when Jack had borrowed her necklace for a number of hours and all of her years had begun to assert their weight upon her—had Kolabati felt so close to death.

  The earth tremors and shudders persisted but became quieter, muffled. Moki lifted himself off her and she struggled to her feet.

  “Pehea oe?”

  “All right … I think,” she said, not bothering to reply in Hawaiian.

  They clung to each other like sailors on a heaving deck. Kolabati looked around. The great room was a shambles. Moki’s sculptures lay all about in pieces, their carved wood cracked and splintered, their lava bases shattered.

  “Oh, Moki. Your work!”

  “The sculptures don’t matter,” he said, clutching her tight against him. “They’re the past. I would have had to smash them myself. Don’t you see, Bati? This is it! The new beginning I told you about. It’s here!”

  He drew her to the trembling lanai where they leaned over the railing and stared up at the dark mass of Haleakala, toward her summit, rimmed now with fiery light.

  “Look, Bati!” he said, pointing up the slope. “Haleakala is alive! After hundreds of years of dormancy, she’s come back to life! For me! For us!”

  Kolabati pulled away and fled back inside. She flipped one light switch after another but the room remained dark. She picked her way through the debris to the television but could not get it to work. The electricity was gone. At least they had a generator. She hoped it still worked.

  “Bati!” Moki called. “Hele mai. Stand with me and watch
Haleakala. The House of the Sun has rekindled her fires. She’s calling us home!”

  Kolabati stood amid the shambles of their house—their life—and knew that her time of peace had ended, that things would never be the same. She was afraid.

  “That wasn’t just Haleakala erupting, Moki,” she said, her voice trembling like the floor beneath her. “Something else happened. Something far more violent and cataclysmic than an old volcano coming to life.”

  It’s the end of the world, she thought.

  She could feel it in her bones and in the way the ancient necklace pulsed against her skin. The air about her screamed with tortured atman, released in sudden, violent death.

  Haleakala had awakened, but what else had happened?

  The pain is gone. Only the ecstasy remains. And it grows. The night things run rampant in the dark sectors above. Rasalom senses the delirium of fear and pain and grief and misery they leave in their wake.

  And then came the convulsion of death and horror when the Pacific volcanoes roared back to life. The surge was almost unbearable.

  As a result, the pace of the Change has picked up. He is so much larger now, and his granite womb has grown to accommodate him. The chips of sloughed stone have disappeared down the hole that opened in the bottom of the chamber. Like the other holes that have opened around this globe, it, too, is bottomless. But it leads to a different place. A place of icy flame. Even now, a faint glow creeps up from the depths.

  And the Change … his limbs have thickened, hardened to a stony consistency. His head has drawn into his trunk, concentrating his essence in a soft, bulbous core, a fleshy center in the hub of a four-spoked wheel.

  He spreads his intangible feeders farther and farther afield, seeking more nourishment. He can never get enough.

  SUNDAY

  Sunday in New York

  WNYW-TV

  And now the news: The sun rose late at 7:10 A.M. this morning and found not only a devastated New York City but the entire world reeling from the events of last night …

  Manhattan

  What a night.

  Jack stood yawning in the chilly dawn outside Gia’s town house. He shivered and tugged the zipper on his jacket a little higher.

  Almost June. Wasn’t the weather supposed to be getting warmer?

  Across the East River the sun was rising red and quick over Queens. He thought he could almost see it moving. Around him, Sutton Square had never looked so bad. The little half block of town houses hanging over the FDR Drive had been spared Friday, but last night more than made up for it. Shattered glass on the sidewalks, lacerated screens hanging in ribbons from the windows.

  The chew wasps and belly flies had been back, but other things—bigger, heavier things—had come as well. Luckily, the louvered wooden shutters flanking the windows of Gia’s town house hadn’t been merely ornamental. They were hung on real hinges and able to swing closed over the windows. The night had been long and tense, filled with hungry, predatory noises, but they’d passed it in safety.

  Other places hadn’t been so lucky. Jack was wondering whether he should check out some of the neighboring town houses to see if anybody needed help when he noticed something hanging over the arm of the streetlamp on the corner. Something big and limp.

  He took a few steps toward it and stopped when he realized it was a corpse. Female, maybe, but so torn up and desiccated it was hard to tell.

  But how had it got there? Twenty feet up. Was there a hole creature big enough to fly off with someone?

  Things were worsening faster than he’d imagined.

  Jack checked the Glock at the small of his back and the extra magazines in his pockets, then went to check his car. The Vic’s black paint had bubbled off in spots as if it had been splashed with acid, and the windshield was fouled with some putrid-smelling gunk that Jack wiped off with a rag from his trunk.

  “Eeeeuuuu! What happened?”

  Jack turned and saw Vicky standing in the town house doorway, dressed in bib-front overalls, a flannel shirt, a jacket, and her green-and-white Jets cap. With the little suitcase in her hand, she looked like a country cousin arriving in the big city for a visit. But her blue eyes were wide with shock as she stared at the car’s ruined finish.

  “The things from the hole,” Jack said, waving her forward to distract her from the corpse on the lamppost. “That’s why I want you and your mom to leave.”

  “Mom still doesn’t want to go.”

  “I know that, Vicks.”

  Jeez, do I know.

  Gia didn’t want to leave the city, thought she and Vicky could weather the wolf just fine in their brick house here on Sutton Square. Jack wasn’t having any of that. He was willing to let her have her way in most anything unless he thought she’d be in danger. He’d been relentless last night, wearing her down until she’d finally agreed to leave the city with Abe first thing this morning.

  “Is that why you and Mom were yelling last night?”

  “We weren’t yelling. We just had a … difference of opinion.”

  “Oh. I thought it was a fight.”

  “Your mother and I? Disagree? Never! Now come on, Vicks. Let’s get you settled in the car.”

  As Vicky stepped down onto the sidewalk, Gia emerged behind her. She was dressed in jeans and a navy-blue V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt. Her eyes, the same shade of blue as Vicky’s, went as wide as her daughter’s when she saw the street. She ran her fingers through her short blond hair.

  “Oh, Jack!”

  “I’ll bet this is nothing compared to the rest of the city.”

  He put his index finger to his lips and pointed to the body on the lamppost. Gia started and staggered back a step when she spotted it.

  “Dear God!”

  “Still think you’ll be safe here?”

  “We did okay last night.”

  Stubborn to the end.

  “But it’s going to get worse.”

  “So you’ve said—a thousand times.”

  “Two thousand times. I get paid to know these things.”

  “And you’re sure Abe’s place is better?”

  He mimicked Abe’s accent. “Like a fortress it’s built.”

  She shrugged resignedly. “All right. I’m packed. Like I promised. But I still think this trip is overkill.”

  Jack ducked past her into the house to grab the suitcases before she changed her mind. Everything fit in the trunk with plenty of room to spare. He wondered about the toddler accessories he’d be packing if Emma were with them. A high chair probably. And what else? Toys. Yeah, toys. Toys in a survival bunker.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat and climbed behind the wheel. He zigzagged down to 57th Street and started up the long incline toward Fifth Avenue.

  Bad, but not as bad as yesterday. Most people—the sane ones, at least—had stayed in last night. Early Sunday morning was about the only time midtown Manhattan could be called quiet, but even fewer cars than usual roamed the streets today. Most of those were either police or emergency vehicles of one sort or another. All the streets were littered with sparkling glass fragments. Here and there along the way he spotted an occasional shrunken husk that had once been a human body. One or two dangled from high places, as if they’d been dropped or thrown there after being sucked dry. Jack kept glancing back at Vicky but she was slumped down in the backseat, engrossed in one of her Nocturnia books, oblivious to her surroundings.

  Good. He kept an eye on Gia, as well, watching her expression grow tighter, her face grow paler with each passing block. By Madison Avenue she was ashen. As he pulled to a stop at a red light, Gia looked at him with eyes even wider than before. Her voice was barely audible.

  “Jack … I’m … what…?”

  She closed her mouth and stared ahead in silence.

  Jack said nothing, but he was sure he wouldn’t have any more resistance to the idea of getting out of town.

  From the right came a sudden explosion of glass as a display case crashed t
hrough a corner jewelry store’s only unbroken window to land on the sidewalk.

  A guy with glazed eyes and lank, oily brown hair, sporting a stained black T-shirt and torn jeans, followed it through the hole, laughing as he landed and rolled on the pavement. He was white but wore enough tats and gold chains to qualify as a charter member of the Lil Wayne wannabe club. His fingers were stacked with so many rings he couldn’t bend them. Another guy, heavier but dressed identically and sporting an equal amount of gold, made a more traditional exit through the door. They gave each other a metallic high five. Then they spotted the Vic.

  “Hey, man!” the first one said, smiling as he approached the car. Jack spotted the Kicker Man tattoo on his right hand. “It’s a ride!”

  The heavier one followed him. “Yeah! Want some gold? We’ll give you some gold for a ride downtown. We got plenty!”

  Jack couldn’t help laughing.

  “Yeah, right. And like maybe I’ll let you hold my wallet while I drive you around.”

  As the looters’ disarming grins twisted into rage, he gunned the car and pulled away through the red light.

  Trouble was, Vicky was now sitting up and alert to her surroundings.

  “Why didn’t you give that man a ride, Jack?”

  “Because he’s one of the bad guys, Vicks. What’s called a looter.”

  “But he just wanted a ride.”

  “I don’t think so, Vicks. You know those silverfish we find crawling in the bathroom every so often?”

  Vicky made a face. “Yuck.”

  “Yeah, well, looters are lower than silverfish. When the good folks are occupied fighting fires or helping earthquake or storm victims, looters sneak in and carry off anything that’s not nailed down. Those guys didn’t want a ride; they wanted our car.”