Scott Sigler - Nocturnal - A Novel

Pookie couldn’t move.

A crazy thought — maybe Rex would find him innocent, maybe the thumb would point up .

Rex lifted up on his toes. He looked back at Pookie and smiled a madman’s smile. Rex pointed the thumb down and threw his fist toward the deck like a singer finishing off a rock crescendo.

“Firstborn,” he said. “Carry out the execution.”

This time, Pookie would not close his eyes.

Mother Mary, full of grace …

A furred hand closed on the back of his neck. Firstborn pulled Pookie close. Slanted green eyes glittered with excitement for the task at hand.

Deliver us from evil as I walk in the shadow of the valley of … the death-shadowy valley in …

Shit. What a time to forget the Lord’s Prayer.

The hand slid to the front of his neck, lifted him, started to squeeze …

I don’t want to die oh shit oh shit …

John Smith’s hands flexed on the reassuring bulk of his automatic shotgun. The cloak surrounded him, hid him, made him feel like a different person. Any moment now, he’d be called upon to step up, step forward and start shooting. Were all these monsters guilty? Would he be firing on individuals who had nothing to do with the crimes committed by others? Would he be killing based on nothing but race?

It was too late to debate morality — Bryan was out there, exposed and alone. Pookie was a captive. If John hesitated, both would surely die.

John heard a barely audible buzz. He turned to look at Adam, who held up the receiver — it blinked red.

Bryan had hit the button.

John leaned in close to Alder and Adam.

“Hit the head if you can, but if you’re rushed just shoot center-mass,” he said. “Clear the ledge, then start chucking grenades to cause more confusion. We need to make them think there’s hundreds of us, so they run instead of attacking. You guys ready?”

Alder and Adam nodded.

John wasn’t ready, wasn’t even close, but the time had come.

He turned and walked down the tunnel toward the ledge.

Black-furred hands held him aloft as if he weighed nothing more than a child.

He couldn’t breathe.

This was the end.

From off to the left, Pookie saw something small flying through the air. Had a spectator thrown a rock? It landed somewhere behind Pookie, clattering against the old wood.

Then he heard a hiss, like a hundred sparklers going up at once. Light flared from behind him, intense light, casting his shadow forward onto the prow and the people gathered there.

“Mommy,” the creature said, and then Pookie felt his back start to get hot.

The crushing hands let go. Pookie fell to the deck, surprised at the sudden freedom. Firstborn stepped over him and ran toward the back of the boat, as did the snake-face, the dog-face and the girl with the metal whips. Pookie turned to see where they were going, but had to flinch and avert his eyes from the bright light blazing near the ship’s cabin. He looked back at Rex, who stood there, blinking, not moving, flickering shadows playing off his face.

Echoing gunfire sounded from up on the ledge to the left of the prow. Pookie looked in that direction. Some kind of commotion up there: muzzle flashes, people scrambling, bodies falling off the edge and plummeting to the floor below.

And then, off to the ship’s left, he saw something amazing — a man leaping off the cavern’s ledge thirty feet above. He sailed toward the ship, rising up nearly to the ceiling before arcing down, his blanket falling away behind him. Legs bicycle-kicked the air. Arms rowed forward like a long jumper’s. He wore a black peacoat.

Bryan?

Pookie locked in on the black mask, on the scrawled white death-grin coming closer, closer.

In midair, Bryan’s hands shot behind his back and came out holding pistols.

Pookie had a moment to think that’s pretty fucking impressive, home-slice , then Bryan started to tilt forward, out of control. Arms flailed and legs kicked awkwardly — Bryan smashed into Rex’s back, knocking the boy’s body forward and driving him face-first into the deck’s broken planks. Bryan and Rex skidded through the wood, spraying up jagged splinters and bits of board, then they fell through the deck and vanished from sight.

Battle Royale

Bryan dropped into darkness, things smacking him in his face, his arms and his hands as he fell. He hit hard on his head and shoulder and came to a stop. Landing — something he’d have to work on.

He struggled to stand. He still held a five-seven in his right hand. His left hand was empty. He’d lost that gun and it was easy to see why — his pinkie and ring fingers flopped sickly, both broken at their base knuckle.

Cracked boards surrounded him. Old dust choked the air. He’d smashed through the upper deck and apparently one below that. Fifteen feet above, he saw the jagged hole in the deck and the mast lights rising above it. He had to get up there, had to reach Pookie and the others. Bryan struggled to stand amid the angled pile of wood. He got his footing, then bent and jumped . He cleared eight feet and landed on the second deck. Another quick leap took him back to the main deck.

Gunfire and screams echoed through the cavern. At the back end of the ship, the cabin wall and door blazed with crawling flame. Something inside cried out in a deep voice. Monsters beat frantically at the flames, trying to put them out. Bryan saw Pierre and Sly and Firstborn, the whip-woman who had killed Robin, all of them trying to fight the fire, but he couldn’t take them on now: he had to get the hostages out first.

He looked toward the poles holding Verde and Chief Zou and the others. Blocking the way stood the nerdy kid with the distended belly. He wore bent horn-rimmed glasses and held a silver Zippo in his right hand.

In a practiced motion that would have made the most hard-core hipster chain-smoker green with envy, the kid brought his left hand up, flipping open the Zippo and lighting it with the same motion.

The kid’s cheeks puffed out, like he was about to puke. His stomach made a gurgling noise Bryan heard even over the crackling flames. The kid held up the Zippo and let out a sound that was half-belch, half-roar.

Flames billowed out, a spreading fireball ripping toward Bryan’s face.

Bryan stepped back over the hole in the deck and dropped down as the fireball ripped the air above him.

From John’s right, an insectile monster scrambled over the dead body of one of its brothers and rushed in. John spun to face it, pulled the shotgun trigger twice — the first blast hit it in the chest, the second in the head. The thing flew back, half of its obscene face ripped away. Something hammered John’s left shoulder, driving him against the cavern wall. Clumps of dirt and stone broke off around him — someone was shooting at him.

“Alder! Sniper!”

“I have him,” Alder said. Alder knelt, aimed his cane at a blanketed gunman on the cavern’s opposite ledge.

Fingers scraped at John’s left foot. He looked down — a little red-haired girl, no more than ten, crawling up from under the ledge, her tiny fingers reaching out for his foot. The look in her eyes: murder, hate, hunger .

John swung the shotgun muzzle down, held it an inch from her face and pulled the trigger. A cloud of brain and bone, the girl spun away down to the trenches below.

Alder’s cane-gun fired; the sniper fire ended.