Scott Sigler - Nocturnal - A Novel

Men in hooded white robes with rope belts tied around their waists. Only they weren’t men — they had the faces of monsters. A pig, a wolf, a tiger, a bear, a goblin. Twisted, evil smiles, beady eyes blinking away. Something primitive and raw inside of Aggie screamed for deliverance. Pig-Face carried a wooden pole, perhaps just over ten feet in length. The pole ended in a stainless-steel hook.

The five robe-covered monsters moved slowly toward the boy.

The boy, their child, like my daughter was my child, with her skin as smooth as melted chocolate. My daughter, please don’t kill my daughter …

The Mexican man screamed with rage. Aggie blinked, shaking away the memories that he’d worked so hard to leave behind.

The woman screamed, too, hers one of heart-wrenching fear. Her son mimicked the sound, his all the more hurtful for its high-pitched terror.

The boy saw the monsters coming for him. He thrashed like an epileptic, spit and blood dribbling from his mouth, his eyes so wide that even from fifteen feet away Aggie saw the boy’s full brown irises. The boy clawed at his collar, his fingernails cutting into his own soft skin.

The man continued to shout threats that Aggie didn’t understand, protective rage roaring out and echoing off the white walls.

The white-robed men ignored him.

They stopped a few feet from the boy. One of them produced some kind of remote control and hit a button. The boy’s chain loosened. He shot forward, but only made it four feet before the chain yanked taut again and his feet flew out from under him. The boy fell hard on his back. He rolled to his hands and knees, screaming, crying, bleeding, trying to get up, but the five were on him. Black-gloved hands reached out from white sleeves and held him tight. Pig-Face reached down with the pole and slid the steel hook through the back of the boy’s collar.

The one with the remote control hit another button. The boy’s chain went completely slack and slid free from the hole in the wall. It hit the floor with a cascading rattle, one end still connected to the collar, the other end connected to nothing.

Pig-Face gripped the pole and walked to the door, dragging the boy along behind him. The loose chain trailed along like a dead snake, links ringing against the stone-and-brick floor.

Aggie wanted to wake the fuck up, and wake the fuck up right now .

The mother begged.

The father roared.

The boy’s clutching fingers left thin red smears against the white floor. Pig-Face walked out the door. He turned right and vanished behind a corner. The boy slid out behind him, dragged by the pole. The last sight of him was his chain, pulled out of the room with a final, thin ring when it clanged against the open, white jail-cell door.

The other monsters walked out. One by one, they turned the corner and were gone. Goblin-Face was the last to leave. He turned and pushed the cell door shut behind him. It clanged home, the metallic sound echoing and fading as the mother’s screams went on and on.

Rex Gets in Trouble

Rex sat in the waiting room of St. Francis Hospital, a new cast on his broken right arm. The cast ran from above his elbow down to his hand, wrapping across his palm, leaving his thumb peeking out of a white hole. Stupid thing would be on for at least four weeks.

A feeling of pure dread hung in his chest and head, dragging his chin down almost to his sternum. The arm had been bad, real bad, but now Roberta was coming.

Alex Panos had nothing on Rex’s mother.

He sniffled back tears. They didn’t have money for this. They didn’t have insurance. But Alex had broken his arm … what was Rex supposed to do?

She came through the doors, saw him immediately and made a beeline right for him. Roberta: too skinny, nasty wiry hair that smelled like cigarettes, and that disgusting skin.

She stood in front of him. His chin tried to dig itself even deeper into his chest. She stared. He wanted to just die.

“So you were fighting again?”

Rex shook his head no, but even as he did it, he knew better.

“Don’t lie to me, boy. Look at your goddamn nose. You were fighting again.”

He felt the tears coming. He hated himself for crying. He hated her for making him cry. He hated Alex for all of it.

He hated his life.

“But they attacked me, Mom, and—”

“Don’t you call me that!” Roberta’s voice carried through the waiting room of St. Francis, drawing stares from the walking wounded awaiting treatment. She saw the glances, lowered her voice to a nasty hiss. “You just stop it right now, Rex . Do you have any idea what this is going to cost me?”

Rex shook his head again. The tears streamed down his face.

Roberta huffed and strode over to the billing desk. Rex tried to slink even deeper, but there was nowhere left to go. Roberta and the woman behind the counter exchanged words, then the woman handed Roberta a bill.

Roberta read it.

Then she turned to look at him, and the world grew colder.

Rex hid his face in his uncasted hand, tears wetting his palms. He rocked back and forth. He didn’t want to go with her, but he had no place else to go.

He had no one.

Sharrow Sends Bryan Home

Clauser.”

Someone shook his shoulder. Bryan tried to say something to the effect of leave me alone or I’ll kill you , but all that came out was a three-syllable mumble.

Another shake.

“Clauser!”

Captain Sharrow’s voice. Bryan blinked awake.

“Clauser, this isn’t the place for a nap.”

Damn … he had fallen asleep at his desk.

“Sorry, Captain.”

Jesse Sharrow glared down. His white hair and bushy white eyebrows framed his weathered scowl. Bryan started to stand up; his butt cleared only one inch of airspace before aching muscles and bones froze him in place, then promptly dropped him back down on the chair.

“Good God, man,” Sharrow said. “Wipe that drool off your chin, will you?”

Bryan touched his cheek: cold and slimy. Well, that was certainly a way to score points with your boss. He wiped away the spit.

Sharrow pointed to the stack of paper on Bryan’s desk. “Reprint that.”

Spots of drool had soaked into Bryan’s report.

“Sorry,” Bryan said.

“Go home, Clauser. You’re a dumb-ass coming in here like this, bringing your germs in with you. You want to put the whole department down?”

“I wasn’t planning on making out with anyone, Captain. Except for you, of course.”

“Blow it out your ass,” Sharrow said. “You’re so ugly you make my wife look hot. And that’s saying something.”

“It sure is.”

Sharrow snarled and pointed a finger a Bryan’s face. “Watch it, Clauser. Don’t talk bad about my wife.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Seriously, go home.”

“But, Cap, I still have paperwork for the shooting review board to—”

“Shut your piehole. Get out of here. In fact, don’t bother reprinting that report, just email it to me — I don’t want to touch anything that’s come anywhere near you. Be out of here in the next ten minutes.”

Sharrow turned and stormed off.

Bryan hadn’t taken a sick day in four years. But falling asleep at his desk, drooling on paperwork … maybe it was for the best if he cleared out. With both hands flat on the desk, he pushed himself to a standing position, every muscle screaming the biological equivalent of horrid obscenities.

A crumpled-up twenty-dollar bill landed on his desk.

Bryan looked up. Pookie had thrown it.

“Take a cab,” Pookie said. “I’m not driving you.”

“Don’t want a sick guy in your car?”

Pookie let out a pfft noise of disgust. “You’ve already been in my car. I’m not driving you because you said you’d make out with Sharrow and not me. I have feelings, you know.”