Scott Sigler - Nocturnal - A Novel

And in the middle of the cavern, encrusted with lights of all shapes and sizes, sat a pair of wooden ships. Big ships. They looked old, like the Nina , the Pinta and the Santa Maria he’d learned about in school.

Neither ship had masts. The closest one pointed away at an angle, its black hull cracked and broken in a hundred places. The bottom was buried in the ground, as if it were sailing a sea of dirt, frozen in time like a movie on pause. The deck angled a little to the left, matching the ship’s slight tilt. On the ship’s wide back end, Rex saw chewed-up wooden letters that spelled out the name Alamandralina .

To the right of that ship sat the second, this one rolled all the way over on its side so the ruined deck pointed up at a forty-five-degree angle. The hull looked barely intact, as if some giant had picked up the whole ship, lifted it up a hundred feet in the air, then dropped it to crack like a melon hitting pavement. He could only make out a few of the letters on the back of this one: an R , then space for two missing letters, then an AR , another space, then an O .

Rex saw lights coming from inside the ships. Through the cracked hulls, he saw beds, walls and makeshift doors. All these things were level with the ground — people clearly lived in there, even though no one seemed to be home.

Some cars were parked in the space between the ships: a battered school bus with windows blacked out, and two pickup trucks that looked like they belonged in a scrapyard.

All this, under the streets of San Francisco? And this place looked old , like it had existed since those ships actually sailed the ocean’s waters. A hidden world that had always been here, just waiting for him to find it.

“Sly, this is amazing.”

“This is Home ,” Sly said. “Welcome to your kingdom.”

Rex tried to take it all in. So stunning, so overwhelming. But if this was his “kingdom,” where were his subjects?

“It’s empty,” he said. “I thought there would be more of us.”

Sly laughed, a hissing, scraping thing that a few days ago would have made Rex piss his pants in fear.

“There is,” Sly said. “Tons more. They’re in the arena. That’s where we’re going, to announce to the people that you have come to lead us to a better day.”

Sly kept saying that phrase. What did it mean? Maybe it was like in the fantasy novels, where a chosen one led people to overcome evil. If it was a prophecy, Rex hoped he could fulfill it.

“The arena,” Rex said. “How do we get there?”

“More tunnels,” Sly said. “It will take us a little while. When we’re there, everyone can see you and you can see Mommy. Hillary said it was real important you meet Mommy.”

“Who’s Hillary?”

Sly grinned his toothy grin. “She’s the reason we came to get you, my king. You’ll like her. But this won’t all be fun — Firstborn will be there. He will not be happy to see you. But don’t worry, we will protect you.”

Rex looked at Sly, then at Pierre, at Sir Voh and Fort. These men were so big, so strong. How could Firstborn possibly threaten them all?

From the tilted ship, an echoing voice called out. “My king!”

A little man stood on the high rail. As Rex watched, he jumped off and dropped to the ground twenty feet below. The man should have splatted , but he landed on his feet and didn’t even slow down. He ran forward, covering the distance faster than Rex would have thought possible.

He’s really fast. Marco was fast, too. Is everyone like that?

The man stopped a few feet away. Rex felt the ba-da-bum-bummmm in his chest. Such a great feeling! This man was family.

He was short, only a few inches taller than Rex. He had a bald head with yellow, mottled skin. His nose was so strange — a hooked, hard thing that curved down and out to end in a sharp point. It started out yellow where it grew out of his face, fading to black at the sharp tip. It was more like a beak than a nose. Rex saw two little holes above the beak, just below and inside the eyes. Ah, those were his nostrils.

The man smiled a wide smile. Behind the wickedly curved beak was a mouth full of tiny, stubby teeth. He wore raggedy clothes, just like the rest, all dirty and smelly and torn up. His right arm was in a white sling. Rex could tell that he was young, like Sly and the others.

“My king! I am Sucka! I have fought and killed for you.” He stuck out his left hand, the skin there as yellow as his face. He wanted to shake Rex’s hand, like Rex was a grown-up or something.

Rex shook it.

Sly reached out and held Sucka’s left shoulder. “Sucka proved himself, my king. He killed Issac and the mother of Alex. Then he fought the monster himself.”

Rex drew in a surprised breath. “You fought the monster ?”

Sucka grinned and nodded. “He shot me with the magic arrow! It was real scary. He would have taken me, but a cop came onto the roof just in time. I jumped away. I haven’t healed as quick as normal, but they got the magic arrow out and it’s getting better.”

Sly’s green hand mussed Sucka’s nonexistent hair. “Sucka is a brave one. He’ll serve you well.”

Sucka’s face turned a pale orange. He was blushing.

Sly’s smile faded. He looked very serious. “My king, are you ready to go to the arena?”

It would be dangerous. Firstborn would be waiting, but Rex’s new friends would protect him.

He nodded. “I am. Take me to meet my people.”

Mommy

The white dungeon led out into a white hallway. The hallway had the same poorly fitted stones, the same countless slathered-on coats of white enamel paint. Mismatched lights lit the curved roof. A thick, brown electrical cord, painted over in some parts, ran from light to light, hanging down slightly in some places, nailed up to ceiling beams in others.

Where the ceiling was only stone, the stones looked well fitted, like the angled blocks of some medieval craftsman. In more places than not, however, random pieces of rock, tile and chunks of wood patched the ceiling in a white enamel kaleidoscope of shapes.

Aggie saw smears of blood on the white floor — the path of the boy with no tongue. Hillary pushed Aggie on. They walked past a white-robed man wearing a Richard Nixon mask: the long nose, squinty eyes and wide grin. The man stood behind a scratched yellow mop bucket that stank of bleach. He swabbed a wet mop across the trail of blood.

“Wait,” Aggie said. “Can I ask a question?”

“Maybe,” Hillary said.

Aggie didn’t know what that meant, but she hadn’t said no. “What’s with the masks? You don’t wear one.”

Hillary let out a huff of disgust. “Because I am la reine prochaine . The ouvriers wear the masks in tribute to the guerriers who risk their lives to bring us food. You understand?”

Aggie didn’t. Was she speaking Italian?

His confusion must have shone on his face. Hillary shook her head, then reached out and pulled off the Nixon mask. As it slid free from under the white hood, Aggie held his breath, expecting to see something horrible — but it was just a man. A light-skinned black man. He stood there, mop still in hand, half-lidded eyes staring out. His mouth hung open. The tip of his tongue was touching the inside of his lower lip.

“Hey,” Aggie said, “is he retarded?”

“He is an ouvrier . He does the work that needs to be done. Now you stop talking and walk, or we will miss it.”

Hillary pushed Aggie in front of her. Each shove was just hard enough to keep him going, but he felt strength every time her hands connected with his body. They moved quickly. He got the feeling she didn’t want to be seen.