Nocturnal

The Crown

Blindfolded and bound, hanging from a pole like a butchered pig, Pookie bounced in time with the steps of his captors. His wrists and ankles hurt from too-tight ropes, from his own weight pulling against his bones. He lost track of how long they carried him — fifteen minutes? thirty? — through tunnels so narrow he felt dirt walls scraping against his left and right sides at the same time. At one point, they had set him down and dragged him through an area so tight Pookie felt the earth pressing into his back and face as well.

Finally, the echoing noise of a crowd and a sensation of openness told him he’d entered a much larger area. Was this where he would die? Would it be quick?

Hands lifted him to a standing position. The knots around his wrists and ankles were cut free, but those same hands — strong hands — held him so tight he couldn’t even try to escape. New ropes wrapped around his chest, his stomach, his legs. The ropes pulled him tight against a thick pole at his back, but at least he stood on his own feet again.

The blindfold came off. Pookie blinked as his eyes adjusted to the lights. He was in a wide cavern. About thirty feet up, a ledge lined the wall like the deck of a football stadium, a ledge lined with …

Mary mother of God …

People and monsters, hundreds of them, stood up there, looking down at Pookie and the others.

On his left, tied to vertical poles, he saw Rich Verde, Mr. Biz-Nass, Sean Robertson and Baldwin Metz. On his right, Jesse Sharrow, Chief Zou and then her two little girls.

Pookie pulled at his ropes, but his body didn’t budge. What was he standing on? Broken wood? He craned his neck, trying to take everything in. It looked like he was on the deck of a shipwreck. He faced the broken prow. If this was an old ship, which was impossible, the pilothouse would be somewhere behind him.

Only fifteen feet away, a mast rose up from the deck — a mast covered with human skulls. Thirty feet up, a wooden pole crossed that mast making a big T. And there, still dressed in a hospital gown, hung a crucified Jebediah Erickson. Spikes driven through torn flesh held his bloody hands to the wood, pinned his bloody feet to the mast. The old man was awake — he was obviously in great pain, but he also looked pissed as hell. He tried to shout something, but the gag in his mouth kept him from forming words. On his left and right, lights clustered each end of the T — flaming torches as well as the mismatched electric rigs you’d see on a construction site.

The crowd started to cheer. Someone walked past Pookie’s left, between him and Rich Verde. It was the boy, Rex Deprovdechuk, dressed in a red velvet cape … was he wearing a crown? He was, a crown of twisted iron and polished steel.

Jesus, deliver me from this evil.

Rex looked up to the crowd on the ledge. He spread his arms outward like a stage performer, turned left, then right, so they could all see him. The crowd screamed for him — some screams sounded human, some didn’t, but they all resonated with righteous rage.

Something sniffed at Pookie’s right ear. He tried to flinch away, but he could barely move. He turned … he was only inches from the yellow-eyed gaze of the snake-face.

“Clean,” the snake said quietly. “We don’t get that often, but things are changing.”

Out front, Rex raised both hands high, then dropped them. The audience fell silent. When he spoke, his adolescent voice echoed off the cavern’s walls and ceiling.

“For centuries they have hunted us,” the boy said. “And this one” — he pointed up at Erickson — “has killed more of us than any other. Firstborn could not deliver him to you, but I have!”

The crowd roared again. Hundreds of monstrous creatures shook their fists. They screamed, some even jumped up and down like a revival meeting.

The boy raised and dropped his hands again, cutting off the cheers, commanding everyone’s attention. His diminutive size didn’t seem to matter; he had an aura about him, the charisma of a born leader. Pookie couldn’t look away.

“Soon we will pass judgment on the monster,” Rex said. “But first, we have criminals to put on trial!”

Rex turned to look at Pookie and the others, and for the first time Pookie saw the madness in the boy’s eyes — Rex was psychotic, drunk with power, smiling a madman’s smile. If there had ever been a normal boy inside Rex Deprovdechuk’s body, that boy was gone.

Rex pointed. Pookie shuddered, thought Rex was pointing at him, but Rex was pointing to Pookie’s right.

At white-haired Jesse Sharrow, his blue uniform streaked with tunnel dirt.

“Bring him forward,” Rex said. “Let the trials begin!”