Seize the Night

fingers. Maybe those huge fingers wouldn't fit in a groove handle.
    A hard, frantic scraping noise. Something clawing busily at the steel roof, as if trying to dig through. A creak, a hard pop, a rending sound.
    Silence.
    The kids clutched one another.
    Orson growled low in his throat.
    So did I. The walls seemed to press closer to one another, as though the elevator cab were reshaping itself into a group coffin. The air was thick.
    Each breath felt like sludge in my lungs. The overhead light began to flicker.
    With a metallic squeal, the escape hatch sagged toward us as though a great weight were pressing on it. The frame in which it sat would not allow it to open inward.
    After a moment, the weight was removed, but the panel didn't return entirely to normal. It was distorted. Steel plate. Bent like plastic.
    More force had been required for that task than I cared to think about.
    Sweat blurred my vision. I wiped at my eyes with the back of my hand.
    “Yes!” Doogie said, as the G bulb lit on the indicator board.
    The promise of release was not immediately fulfilled. The doors didn't open.
    The cab began to bob up and down, rising and falling as much as a foot with each sickening bounce, as though the hoist cables and the limit switches and the roller guides and the pulleys were all about to crack apart and send us plunging to the bottom of the shaft in a mass of mangling metal.
    On the roof, the gargoyle—or something worse—yanked on the escape hatch.
    Its prior efforts had tweaked the panel in the frame, and now the trap was wedged shut.
    The elevator doors were still shut, too, and Doogie angrily punched the button labeled open doors .
    With a shrill bark, the badly distorted rim of the steel trap stuttered in the frame, as the creature above furiously pulled on it.
    At last the elevator doors opened, and I spun toward them, sure that we were now surrounded by neverland, that the predator on the roof would have been joined by others.
    We were at the ground floor. The hangar was noisier than a New Year's Eve party in a train station with howling wolves and a punk band with nuclear amplifiers.
    But it was recognizably the hangar, no red sky, no black trees, no slithering vines like nests of coral snakes.
    Overhead, the warped escape hatch screeched, rattled violently.
    The surrounding frame was coming apart.
    The elevator bobbed worse than ever. The floor of the cab rose and fell in relation to the hangar floor, the way a dock slip moves in relation to a boat deck in choppy seas.
    I gave the Uzi to Doogie, snatched up my shotgun, and followed the sass man into the hangar, jumping across the shifting threshold, with Bobby and Orson close behind me.
    Sasha and Roosevelt hurried the kids out of the elevator, and Mungojerrie came last, after a final curious glance at the ceiling.
    As Sasha turned to cover the cab with her shotgun, the escape hatch was torn out of the ceiling. The gargoyle came down from the roof.
    The leathery black wings were folded as it dropped, but then they spread to fill the cab. The muscles bulged in the beast's sleek, scaly limbs as it tensed to spring forward. The tail whipped, lashing against the cab walls. Silver eyes flashed. Its raw mouth appeared to be lined with red velvet, but its long forked tongue was black.
    I remembered the seed like projectiles that it had spat at Lumley and at Hodgson, and as I cried out to Sasha, the gargoyle shrieked. She squeezed off a round from the shotgun, but before she could be riddled with squirming parasites, the elevator broke apart and the cab plunged out of sight with the screaming creature still aboard, trailing cables and counterweights and pulleys and steel beams.
    Because the beast had wings, I expected it to rise out of the ruins and soar up the shaft, but then I realized that the shaft no longer existed.
    Instead, I was looking into the starry void that I had glimpsed earlier in the night, where the stairwell should have been.
    Crazily, I thought of a magical wardrobe serving as a doorway to the enchanted land of Narnia, mirrors and rabbit holes leading to a bizarre kingdom ruled by a playing-card queen. This was only a transient madness.
    Recovering, I did the Pooh thing and gamely accepted all that I had seen—and was still seeing. I led our intrepid band across the hangar, where super-weird and maximum-sharky stuff was happening, across this neverland of past, present, future, and sideways time, saying hello to a startled ghost workman