Scott Sigler - Nocturnal - A Novel

Rex tried to relax in a big La-Z-Boy recliner. Sly said it was the chair most like a throne, so Rex should sit in it. His feet didn’t quite reach the extended footrest — his heels dangled in the space between the pad and the seat cushion.

“I like this movie,” Sly said, laughing. “I’ve seen this one fifteen times. No, sixteen.”

They were watching Reservoir Dogs on Chief Amy Zou’s TV. Rex had never seen it. Roberta hadn’t liked gangster flicks. Rex was having a hard time concentrating on the movie, but it would pass the time until Chief Zou made it home.

Pierre was upstairs with the father and the girls. Rex had worried that Pierre might kill someone, kill them early, but Sly assured him that Pierre could follow orders.

“I wish she had Lord of The Rings ,” Rex said. “That’s my favorite.”

On the TV, Mr. Blonde danced a slow shuffle across the screen, straight razor in hand, as the bloody, duct-taped cop breathed heavily through his nose.

“Love this part,” Sly said. “Mister Blonde is going to cut off that cop’s ear.”

“ Hey , no spoilers.”

“Sorry, my king.”

“It’s okay.”

Rex watched. Such a nice house. Way nicer than where he’d lived with Roberta. Way, way nicer than Home. Home was really cool, but Rex wondered if the dampness and the dirt had an effect on everyone. There had to be a way to find them a better place to live, yet keep them hidden from all the humans that would burn them, kill them.

Sly pointed at the screen. “See that Mister Orange, my king? Firstborn reminds me of him.”

“Which one is Mister Orange?”

Sly walked to the screen and put a finger on the actor lying on a ramp, his white shirt bright red with blood. “This one. You can’t trust Mister Orange. He’s looking out for himself. He’s not looking out for the gang.”

Sly wouldn’t stop talking about Firstborn. Sly was Rex’s best friend, but his hatred of Firstborn was starting to get in the way. Firstborn seemed like a good guy. It was so complicated. Firstborn had saved the people from extinction, saved Rex’s real mother, but he had also killed babies, killed Rex’s grown-up brothers and sisters as well. Sly hadn’t killed any babies. Sly had killed Rex’s enemies, had given Rex his new life.

And Sly had fought Firstborn when Firstborn wanted to kill Rex.

It was hard to figure all this out.

“Firstborn will be cool,” Rex said. “He knelt. He declared me king.”

Sly shrugged his big shoulders and returned to the couch. “Sometimes people lie, my king. Don’t forget — if something should happen to you, he’d be in charge again.”

“But I told the people to kill him if anything happened to me.”

Sly shrugged again. “Firstborn has ruled for over a century. His rule is all we’ve ever known. Unless you name someone to succeed you, then he might kill you and just take his chances, see if he can take over in the confusion.”

Rex fell silent. He watched the movie some more, watched Mr. Blonde’s white shirt blaze in the afternoon sun as he fetched a gas can out of the back of a white Cadillac.

Maybe Sly was right. Firstborn had led for … what … like a hundred fifty years? Maybe it was hard to give that up. Rex needed to take that motivation away.

“Sly, what if I actually named a … what’s that word? The word for who takes over if I’m gone?”

“Successor?”

“That’s it,” Rex said. “If I named a successor, made it real clear, do you think Firstborn would support me? Do you think that would work?”

Sly’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Maybe. You’d have to tell everyone all at once, I think, so there’s no misunderstanding about who would take over. If you did that, he’d know he can’t win.” Sly nodded slowly. “Yeah, then I think he’d follow you for sure.”

On the screen, Mr. Blonde doused the duct-taped cop with gasoline.

“You’d need someone you can really trust,” Sly said. “Otherwise, that person might try to kill you, too. I don’t want to see anything happen to you.”

Mr. Blonde flicked his lighter. Just before he could set the cop on fire, gunshots rang out — Mr. Orange shot Mr. Blonde several times. Mr. Blonde fell dead.

Sly said Firstborn was like Mr. Orange.

Rex turned in his chair to look at the snake-faced man. “Can I trust you , Sly?”

Sly looked down. Rex didn’t know if a man with green, pebbly skin could blush, but Sly seemed overwhelmed with emotion.

“Of course, my king. I’ll always do your bidding. If you’re going to name someone as successor, you could do it tonight, when everyone is assembled to see you enter Mommy’s cabin.”

Rex fell silent. Hillary said Rex had to go be with Mommy, start making new queens as soon as possible. “I’m kind of nervous about that. What if I don’t want to do it?”

Sly smiled. “Whatever you want to do, I’m there. If you don’t want to be with Mommy, well, I won’t let anyone mess with you. I’ll carry you out of the tunnels myself.”

Rex had never had a real friend before. Not one like Sly, anyway. Sly would do anything for him.

They heard the garage door open.

“Tell Pierre to bring them down,” Rex said. “Let’s get ready to meet Chief Zou.”

A New Need

Aggie James stared at the bassinet.

No, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t allow himself to succumb.

Just ride it out … you’ll be free soon .

He looked away, not that there were many places to look. The tiny room must have once been part of the sewer system, back in the times when they built things out of rough-hewn rocks. At least it was warm. The room had power — Hillary had turned on a beat-up heater and an old dehumidifier as soon as they’d arrived.

He wore the same clothes he’d had on when Sly and Pierre had taken him to the white dungeon. The clothes had been waiting for him here. Hillary had cleaned the jeans, shirt and jacket. She’d given him a pair of tan work boots that were almost new, if you didn’t count the blood stain set into the suede.

For the first time Aggie could remember, he was clean, both inside and out.

Yet now he felt a powerful urge … an urge that made him feel dirty . How could he want that? How in the hell could he want that ?

Aggie turned. He stared at the baby. So tiny. So helpless. But what would it become? Would it change to look like those things that had chased down the teenage boy?

The baby hadn’t hurt anyone. The baby just was .

Aggie walked to the bassinet and looked down. The baby slept so peacefully. So quiet, all bundled up in that blanket with the strange symbols. Aggie thought of the day his daughter had been born, thought of her tiny fingers and the way her eyes had closed when she’d slept against his wife’s chest. But this boy wasn’t like Aggie’s lost child. The boy was Hillary’s kind, the killing kind.

This was a creature of evil.

So why did Aggie wanted to pick the baby up? Why did he want to hold it? The urge consumed him. It was even more powerful than that inexplicable lust that had overtaken him while watching Mommy in her cabin.

It was more than a want … it was a need .

He needed to pick up that baby, needed to protect it.

He could fight it no longer. He reached into the bassinet and gently lifted up the tiny, sleeping form. Aggie held the baby to his chest, one hand under the baby’s tiny bottom, the other hand on the back of the baby’s head.

Aggie started to bounce lightly.

“Don’t you worry,” he said. “It’ll be okay. It’ll be fine.”

It was just a baby, goddamit. This child was no more responsible for what his kin had done than Aggie was responsible for the actions of his asshole grandfather. The boy didn’t have to turn out like Hillary — he didn’t have to turn out like those kids in the maze.