What the hell were they?
Vince was always prepared for violence because violence was an integral part of the world in which he moved. You couldn't expect to be a drug dealer and lead a life as quiet as that of a schoolteacher. But he had never anticipated an attack like this. A man with a gun — yes. A man with a knife — he could handle that, too. A bomb wired to the ignition of his car — that was certainly within the realm of possibility. But this was madness.
As the things outside tried to chew and claw and batter their way through the door, Vince fumbled in the darkness until he found the toilet. He put the lid down on the seat, sat there, and reached for the telephone. When he'd been twelve years old, he had seen, for the first time, the telephone in his uncle Gennaro Carramazza's bathroom, and from that moment it had seemed to him that having a phone in the can was the ultimate symbol of a man's importance, proof that he was indispensable and wealthy. As soon as he'd been old enough to get an apartment of his own, Vince had had a phone installed in every room, including the john, and he'd had one in every master bath in every apartment and house since then. In terms of self-esteem, the bathroom phone meant as much to him as his white Mercedes Benz. Now, he was glad he had the phone right here because he could use it to call for help.
But there was no dial tone.
In the dark he rattled the disconnect lever, trying to command service.
The line had been cut.
The unknown things in the bedroom continued to scratch and pry and pound on the door.
Vince looked up at the only window. It was much too small to provide an escape route. The glass was opaque, admitting almost no light at all.
They won't be able to get through the door, he told himself desperately. They'll eventually get tired of trying, and they'll go away. Sure they will. Of course.
A metallic screech and clank startled him. The noise came from within the bathroom. From this side of the door.
He got up, stood with his hands fisted at his sides, tense, looking left and right into the deep gloom.
A metal object of some kind crashed to the tile floor, and Vince jumped and cried out in surprise.
The doorknob. Oh, Jesus. They had somehow dislodged the knob and the lock!
He threw himself at the door, determined to hold it shut, but he found it was still secure; the knob was still in place; the lock was firmly engaged. With shaking hands, he groped frantically in the darkness, searching for the hinges, but they were also in place and undamaged.
Then what had clattered to the floor?
Panting, he turned around, putting his back to the door, and he blinked at the featureless black room, trying to make sense of what he'd heard.
He sensed that he was no longer safely alone in the bathroom. A many-legged quiver of fear slithered up his back.
The grille that covered the outlet from the heating duct — that was what had fallen to the floor.
He turned, looked up at the wall above the door. Two radiant silver eyes glared at him from the duct opening. That was all he could see of the creature. Eyes without any division between whites and irises and pupils. Eyes that shimmered and flickered as if they were composed of fire. Eyes without any trace of mercy.
A rat?
No. A rat couldn't have dislodged the grille. Besides, rats had red eyes — didn't they?
It hissed at him.
“No, “ Vince said softly.
There was nowhere to run.
The thing launched itself out of the wall, sailing down at him. It struck his face. Claws pierced his cheeks, sank all the way through, into his mouth, scraped and dug at his teeth and gums. The pain was instant and intense.
He gagged and nearly vomited in terror and revulsion, but he knew he would strangle on his own vomit, so he choked it down.
Fangs tore at his scalp.
He lumbered backward, flailing at the darkness. The edge of the sink slammed painfully into the small of his back, but it was nothing compared to the white-hot blaze of pain that consumed his face.
This couldn't be happening. But it was. He hadn't just stepped into the Twilight Zone; he had taken a giant leap into Hell.
His scream was muffled by the unnameable thing that clung to his head, and he couldn't get his breath. He grabbed hold of the beast. It was cold and greasy, like some denizen of the sea that had risen up from watery depths. He pried it off his face and held it at arm's length. It screeched and hissed and chattered wordlessly, wriggled and twisted, writhed and jerked, bit his hand, but he held onto it, afraid to let go, afraid that it would fly straight back at him and go for his throat or for his eyes this time.
What was it? Where did it come from?
Part of him wanted to see it, had to see it, needed to know what in God's name it was. But another part of him, sensing the extreme monstrousness of it, was grateful for darkness.
Something bit his left ankle.
Something else started climbing his right leg, ripping his trousers as it went.
Other creatures had come out of the wall duct. As blood ran down his forehead from his scalp wounds and clouded his vision, he realized that there were many pairs of silvery eyes in the room. Dozens of them.
This had to be a dream. A nightmare.
But the pain was real.
The ravenous intruders swarmed up his chest, up his back and onto his shoulders, all of them the size of rats but not rats, all of them clawing and biting. They were all over him, pulling him down. He went to his knees. He let go of the beast he was holding, and he pounded at the others with his fists.
One of them bit off part of his ear.
Wickedly pointed little teeth sank into his chin.
He heard himself mouthing the same pathetic pleas that he had heard from Ross Morrant. Then the darkness grew deeper and an eternal silence settled over him.
PART ONE
Wednesday, 7:53 A.M.-3:30 P.M.
Holy men tell us life is a mystery.
They embrace that concept happily.
But some mysteries bite and bark
and come to get you in the dark.
A rain of shadows, a storm, a squall!
Daylight retreats; night swallows all.
If good is bright, if evil is gloom,
high evil walls the world entombs.
Now comes the end, the drear, Darkfall
CHAPTER ONE
I
The next morning, the first thing Rebecca said to Jack Dawson was, “We have two stiffs.”
“Huh?”
“Two corpses.”
“I know what stiffs are,” he said.
“The call just came in.”
“Did you order two stiffs?”
“Be serious.”
“I didn't order two stiffs.”
“Uniforms are already on the scene,” she said.
“Our Shift doesn't start for seven minutes.”
“You want me to say we won't be going out there because it was thoughtless of them to die this early in the morning?”
“Isn't there at least time for polite chit-chat?” he asked.
“No.”
“See. the way it should be… you're supposed to say. “Good morning, Detective Dawson.” And then I say. “Good morning, Detective Chandler.” Then you say. “How're you this morning?” And then I wink and say—”
She frowned. “It's the same as the other two, Jack. Bloody and strange. Just like the one Sunday and the one yesterday. But this time it's two men. Both with crime family connections from the sound of it.”