F. Paul Wilson - Nightworld

And then fish weren't the only things in the air. Chew wasps, spearheads, belly flies, men-o'-war, and a couple of new species Jack hadn't seen before, began darting about. Ba accelerated. Jack was uneasy about traveling at this pace through pelting rain and falling fish over an unfamiliar road slick with dead or dying sea life. But the headlights and speed seemed to confuse the winged predators, and Ba plowed into the ones that wouldn't or couldn't get out of the way.

After they passed through Kula, Jack spotted the turn-off for 377. Ba slid the Jeep into the hairpin turn as smoothly as a movie stuntman, downshifted, and roared up the incline.

Jack had to admit—silently, and only to himself—that Ba was indeed the better driver.

The Waipoli Road turn-off came up so quickly that they overshot it. But Ba had them around and back on track in seconds. And then the going got really rough. The pavement disappeared and devolved into an ungraded road that wound back and forth in sharp switchbacks up a steep incline. The slower pace allowed the night things to zero in on the Jeep. They began battering the windows and gnawing at the canvas top.

I had to choose a jeep.

But soon the headlights picked out a brightly painted hand-carved sign that read Pali Drive. Ba made the turn and the road narrowed to a pair of ruts. They bounced along its puddled length until it ended at the cantilevered underbelly of a cedar-sided house overlooking the valley. Ba stopped with the headlights trained on a narrow door in the concrete foundation.

Jack rechecked his map and notes by the dashboard light.

"This is it. Think anybody's home?"

Ba squinted through the windshield. "There are lights."

"So there are. I guess that means we've go to go in."

A spearhead rammed its spike through the canvas top then, narrowly missing Jack's head. Hungry little tongues wiggled through the openings behind the point and lapped at empty air. As it pulled back, sea water began to pour in through the hole.

"Let's go," Jack said. "Shotguns and clubs?"

Ba nodded and picked up the other Spas-12.

"Okay. We meet at the front bumper and head for the house back-to-back. Use the shotgun only if you have to. Go!"

Jack kicked open his door, leapt into the downpour, and dashed-splashed toward the front of the Jeep. Something fluttered near his head; without looking he lashed out at it with the wasp-toothed billy. A crunch, a tear, and whatever it was tumbled away. He met Ba in the glow of the headlights and they slammed their backs together. A spearhead darted through the light, low, toward Jack's groin, while a belly fly sailed in toward his face. The falling sea water stung the healing area on his arm where the first belly fly had caught him. He didn't want to let this one in close. He swung the club at the spearhead and shredded its wings while ramming the muzzle of the shotgun into the belly fly's acid sack, rupturing it.

"Let's move." Jack shouted. "I'll lead."

Like a pair of Siamese twins fused at the spine, they moved toward the door, Jack clearing a path with his billy and shotgun, Ba backpedaling, protecting the rear. When he reached the door, Jack began pounding on its hardwood surface, then decided he couldn't wait. He handed Ba his billy and pulled the plastic strip from his pocket, all the while congratulating himself for bringing Ba along. The big guy was faced into the headlights now, a club in each hand, batting the bugs away left and right. Fortunately, the bugs weren't nearly as thick here as they'd been in New York, but even so, without Ba, Jack would have been eaten alive as he faced the door.

Jack quickly slipped the latch and they burst into a utility room. He spotted a sink and a washing machine before they slammed the door closed behind them and stood panting and dripping in the safe quiet darkness.

"You okay?"

"Yes," Ba said. "And you?"

"I'm just groovy. Let's go see who—"

Suddenly the overhead lights went on. A tall, dark-skinned man with reddish hair stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a loin cloth and a feather headdress and Jack might have laughed except that he was pointing a Marlin 336 their way.

"Who are you?" he said.

Jack put his hands up. "Just travelers seeking shelter from the storm."

"No shelter here for malihini" He stepped forward and raised the rifle. "Get out! Hele aku oe!"

"Easy there," Jack said. "We're looking for Miss Bahkti, Kolabati Bahkti. We were told she lived here."

"Never heard of her. Out!"

Even if the guy hadn't flinched at the sound of her name, the necklace around his neck, a perfect match to the copy Jack carried in his pocket, would have proved him a liar.

Then Jack heard a woman's voice call his name.

"Jack!"

Kolabati had followed Moki down to the lower level to see who was pounding on the door; she'd hung back in the dark hallway, watching the scene in the utility room over Moki's shoulder. Two wet and weary men there, one white, the other a tall Oriental. Something about the smaller man, the dark-haired, dark-eyed Caucasian, had struck her immediately as familiar. But she didn't recognize him until he spoke her name. It couldn't be! But even with his hair plastered to his scalp and down over his forehead, even looking tired and older as he did, he could be no one else. Her heart leapt at the sight of him.

She brushed past Moki and ran to him, arms outstretched. Never in her life had she been so glad to see someone.

"Oh, Jack, I thought you were dead!"

She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him. Jack returned the embrace, but without much enthusiasm.

"I am," he said coolly. "I just came back to see how you were doing."

She stepped back and stared at him.

"But when I left you, you were—"

"I healed up—my own way."

Kolabati sensed Moki close behind her. She turned and was relieved to see that he had lowered his rifle. She manufactured a smile for him.

"Moki, this is Jack, a very old and dear friend."

"Jack?" he said, his gaze flicking between her and the newcomer. "The Jack you said you once loved but who died in New York? That Jack?"

"Yes," she said. A glance at Jack's face revealed a bewildered expression. "I…I guess I was wrong about his being dead. Isn't that wonderful? Jack, this is Moki."

Kolabati held her breath. No telling how Moki would react. He'd become so unpredictable—unbalanced was a better word—since the changes had begun.

Moki's jaw was set and his smile was fierce as he thrust his hand open toward Jack.

"Aloha, Jack. Welcome to my kingdom."

Kolabati watched the muscles in Moki's forearm bulge as he gripped Jack's hand, a wince flicker across Jack's features before he returned the smile and the grip.

"Thank you, Moki. And this is my good friend, Ba Thuy Nguyen."

This time it was Moki's turn to wince as he shook hands with the Oriental.

"You're both just in time," Moki said. "We were just about to leave for the ceremony."

"Maybe now that they're here we should stay home," Kolabati said.

"Nonsense! They can come along. In fact, I insist they come along!"

"You're not thinking of going outside, are you?" Jack said.

"Of course. We're heading uphill to the fires. The night things do not bother us. Besides, they seem to avoid the higher altitudes. You shall have the honor and privilege of witnessing the Ceremony of the Knife tonight."

Moki had told her about the ceremony he'd worked out with the Niihauans, a nightly replay of last night's bloody incident. She wanted no part of it, and Jack's arrival was a good excuse to stay away.

"Moki," Kolabati said, "why don't you go alone tonight. Our guests are cold and wet."

"Yeah," Jack said. "How about a raincheck on that? We're kinda beat—"

"Nonsense! The awakened fires of Haleakala will dry your clothes and renew your strength."