Scott Sigler - Nocturnal - A Novel

“I don’t know your name,” Rex said to the thing riding on top of the big man.

“I am Sir Voh,” the big-head said. The end of his tail tapped against the big one’s barrel chest. “And this is Fort.”

A small moan drew Rex’s attention to another figure lying on the roof.

Alex Panos.

Blood covered his face, matted down his blond hair. A torn bottom lip showed the cracked teeth behind it. Rex had never seen a nose broken that bad; a bit of white stuck out from between the eyes, and the rest of it angled sharply to the left.

Rex had been face-to-face with Alex many times. Alex had always sneered, smiled, looked angry, looked at Rex like Rex was nothing more than dogshit on the bottom of a shoe. But not now. Alex’s eyes pleaded for help from someone, from anyone .

The shriveled man — Sir Voh — spoke. “We have been waiting for you all our lives. Now you’re here.”

The warmth in Rex’s chest made him smile. Why should he be afraid of these people just because they looked funny? They were his friends. They were the ones who had made his dreams come true.

“Waiting for me? Why?”

Sly picked Rex up, then set him on his own feet. Rex’s legs wobbled a little, but he was able to stand.

“We have been waiting for the king,” Sly said. “The king will save us, lead us to a better day.”

I dream of a better day . Was that why he’d put that on the drawing?

The pain in his belly remained intense, but it was already fading. “I’m only thirteen,” he said. “I don’t know much about that kind of thing.”

All four of the somethings smiled in unison, even the tiny grapefruit head. The corners of Pierre’s long, hairy mouth shrank back like a panting dog.

“You know,” Sly said. “You just haven’t realized it yet. You’ve been among the prey for your whole life, because you’re a ringer, like Marco was.”

“What’s a ringer?”

“Someone who looks like them ,” Sly said. “But you are one of us . We have come to take you home. We will protect you.”

Alex moaned, then reached out with a bloody, twisted hand.

“Rex,” he said. “Please … help me .”

Pierre kicked Alex in the ribs. It seemed like just a tap, but Alex’s eyes scrunched tight in pain.

“You thut your mouth,” Pierre said.

Rex looked down at Alex. How pathetic . “What do we do with him?”

Sir Voh crawled out from under the blanket covering him and Fort, then used his spidery arms and legs to descend the mountain of flesh. The big-headed creature reached the roof, then scurried onto Alex’s back. He wrapped his tail around the boy’s bloody forehead. The tail contracted, pulling Alex’s head back until he grunted and made a little whining noise.

“We killed your enemies,” Sir Voh said. “The bullies , the ones who hurt you. We made examples of them, so everyone would know your greatness. This one” — Sir Voh shook Alex’s head — “we saved for Mommy. Unless you want to kill him yourself.”

Fort reached inside his blanket, then held out a massive hand as big as a side of spareribs. In his palm sat a long knife.

Alex saw it. He moaned in fear. Sir Voh held him still.

Rex felt his dick stiffen. Kill Alex kill Alex kill Alex . The bully now knew what it meant to feel helpless .

Rex reached out and took the knife.

Sly’s yellow eyes crinkled in delight. Rex wasn’t surprised to see a forked tongue sneak out of the face, trace across the left side of the pointy face, flick up over the left eye, then slide back inside.

“Morning is coming,” Sly said. “We need to move. Do you want to kill this one, or take him home to Mommy?”

Rex didn’t know who Mommy was, but the four seemed very excited about the prospect of giving Alex to her.

“Rex, please !” Alex managed those two syllables before Sir Voh pulled back so far that Alex started to choke.

So pathetic. So utterly pathetic .

“We’ll take him with us,” Rex said. “But first, open his mouth.”

Pierre knelt and forced Alex’s jaws open.

Rex reached out with the knife.

Pookie Gets His Friend to the Hospital

Pookie raced down Potrero Avenue. San Francisco General Hospital loomed large on his left. He saw a parking spot, slammed on the brakes and angled in. The Buick’s front-right tire rode up on the sidewalk, but he didn’t have time to worry about that.

He jumped out, ran to the rear passenger door and opened it. Inside, a confused-looking Bryan, his hand still pressed to his shoulder with white-knuckle intensity. Bryan looked around. “Uh, Pooks? The hospital is across the street.”

“I know,” Pookie said. “We’re going, I … I just want to take a look at your shoulder first.”

He heard a siren approaching — probably an ambulance with Black Mr. Burns and Erickson.

“Your wound,” Pookie said. “Let me see it.”

Bryan seemed to think about it for a second, then let go. He unzipped his bloody sweatshirt and slid it over his right shoulder. Finally, he hooked the fingers of his left hand under his right T-shirt sleeve and pulled it up high, exposing the wound.

The bleeding had stopped. A small red circle of coagulated blood dotted his shoulder, ringed by a thin circle of pink scar tissue. Less than twenty minutes ago, Bryan Clauser had taken a .40-caliber round in the shoulder. The wound looked a week old, at least.

The ambulance scream grew louder.

They both stared at the wound.

“That cut on my head,” Bryan said. “From when I fell on the fire escape. How is it?”

Pookie looked at Bryan’s forehead. The stitches were still there, but the skin beneath showed nothing but a thin, faded scar. “It’s all healed.”

Bryan sagged into the backseat, unwelcome realization washing over him. “That door at the mansion … could a normal person have kicked that in?”

Pookie shook his head. “No. No way. I should have figured it out when you jumped up on that van with Jay Parlar, but … I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t really want to figure it out.”

Bryan looked up. His eyes were watering. He looked like a man who had lost all hope.

“I’m one of them,” he said. “Those things in the basement … I’m one of them.”

What the hell was Pookie supposed to say now? Rub some dirt on it and get back in there? Hallmark didn’t make cards for an occasion like this.

“It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll figure this out.”

The siren’s scream apexed as the ambulance shot past the Buick, then turned into San Francisco General. Pookie watched as scrub-suited hospital staff rushed out of the emergency room door to meet it. The ambulance’s back doors opened. Paramedics wheeled out Erickson, an IV swinging in time to the rolling bed’s movement. John Smith hopped out as well and ran alongside Erickson and the others into the hospital. The emergency room door closed. Late-night traffic continued to pass by on Potrero Avenue, but other than that, the night’s silence descended.

Pookie again looked at Bryan’s shoulder. “Wanna go in anyway? Have them look at it?”

Bryan flexed his arm, rotated it. “No,” he said. “Call Robin.”

“What for?”

“You know what for. And call John. He’s probably got Erickson’s blood on him. Tell him to find a blood stain, a smear, whatever, and take it to Robin’s right away. Now drive me back to my apartment so I can change. I’ll just stay back here for the ride — I need a minute to myself.”

Bryan reached out, grabbed the door and slammed it shut, leaving Pookie standing out on the street. Pookie stared at the door for a moment, at Bryan inside, then pulled out his cell phone and got in the driver’s seat. Pookie dialed Robin as he pulled out into traffic.