The sheriff’s office stepped in after the accident, sealing the cave’s entrance with boards and sheets of plywood. A sign was posted, warning people of the dangers and forbidding any trespassing within the cave. Both sign and boards were enough to deter any future would-be spelunkers from entering the cave--at least they had been. As Hawk rounded a bend in the path leading to the cave’s entrance, he noticed that sign and boards were no longer in place.
It took Jay Little Hawk thirty minutes to hike back to his jeep and return again to the Boot. It wasn’t just because the boards weren’t in place that he had gone to get his flashlight. It was more on account of the odor coming from the cave--a sickly sweet kind of smell, like a mixture of sour grapes and shit. There was no mistaking the odor: it was the smell of death.
In addition to the foreboding stench, an eerie quietness hung over the area. A great hush had fallen over the forest dwellers--a hush, Hawk thought, with all the nervous energy of the calm before a storm. Now a white man, his ears attuned to different sounds, might not have noticed the strained silence. If he did, he might have mistaken it for the peaceful serenity of the country. Having been raised in the old ways, Hawk knew that what he was experiencing was anything but serene. A message had been laid out for him by his timid forest friends, one as plain as any conceived of paper and pen. A message of warning.
He cocked his head slightly to listen. No doubt about it, something was wrong. Was it a warning not to go into the cave?
Switching on his flashlight, he carefully stepped over and around the boulders, boards and sheets of plywood at the cave’s entrance. Except for a few discarded beer bottles, the first chamber was empty. Aiming his light at the floor, he noticed a disturbance in the dust. A path led from the entrance back into the tunnel. Someone had been in the cave, but he couldn’t tell how long ago it had been.
Moving as silently as a cat, he slipped into the narrow mouth of the tunnel. He kept his back pressed against the rocky wall; his flashlight extended before him in his left hand. Twenty feet farther in, the tunnel took a sharp turn, cutting off the light filtering in from the entrance. Switching off his flashlight, Hawk momentarily enjoyed the sensation of being in darkness so deep he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.
By turning the light off, he forced himself to use his hearing. People often depend too heavily on their eyesight, ignoring the other senses God gave them. But Hawk had spent years tuning each of his senses. He was as much at ease in the dark as he was in broad daylight.
Holding his breath, he listened for sounds that might have gone unnoticed. To his left, he could hear the faint scraping of legs as insects scurried over the rocky wall. From somewhere near the entrance came the chirping of a cricket and the soft rustling of dried leaves being tossed about by the wind. If there was someone else in the cave, he would have heard them. It may have been only a slight shift in position, or the soft raspiness of an expirant breath, but it would have been enough to alert him to possible danger. He heard none of these, however. He was alone.
Assured that he was not placing himself in jeopardy, Hawk switched the flashlight back on and continued forward. Reaching the point where the tunnel connected up with the second chamber, he shined the light down into the rocky room below.
The second chamber looked much the same as when last he saw it. The floor was littered with beer cans, pop bottles, and burger boxes; the rocky walls were decorated with graffiti. The wooden ladder was still in place, the floor near its base still stained a reddish-brown from the blood of the boy who’d fallen from the slippery rungs. The sheriff’s department had tried to wash away the bloodstain, but it had already set into the porous rocks.
The shape of the second chamber made it impossible for him to see all of it from the upper level. Obviously, someone had been in the cave recently. Why else would the boards sealing the entrance have been removed? Whether they had ventured into the second chamber remained to be seen. One thing, the sickly-sweet odor was stronger now, more pronounced. Had it happened again? Had someone sneaked into the cave, slipped from the ladder and gotten hurt? Hawk dreaded what he might find in the chamber below.
Turning around backward, he stepped onto the first rung. The ladder was still sturdy, but he moved slowly, making sure his smooth-soled cowboy boots didn’t slip. Fifteen rungs later he was safely on the ground.
The second chamber was three times the size of the first, and darkness swallowed the beam of his flashlight before it reached the back wall. Hawk studied the floor as he crossed the room. Someone had been in the second chamber.
Glancing back up, he was surprised that he hadn’t reached the back wall yet. The chamber was big, but it wasn’t that damn big. Nevertheless, instead of reflecting off a graffiti-covered wall of gray, the flashlight’s beam disappeared into total darkness. Hawk suddenly realized what was wrong. He hadn’t miscalculated; he should have been standing at the back wall, but it wasn’t there. Instead, he faced an opening about seven feet high and nearly twice that wide, its base choked by a pile of fallen rock.
Had the wall collapsed because of Friday’s earthquake? Curious as to what lay on the other side of the opening, he scaled the hill of stone.
Beyond the opening was a narrow passageway about six feet high and seven feet wide. The passageway appeared to connect up to another, even bigger chamber. A foul wind blew from that chamber.
Hawk started to step into the passageway when he was overcome with a feeling of numbing terror. He froze. Only twice before had he experienced such a sensation. Each time it had come as a premonition, a warning of great peril. Even then, the feeling had never been as strong, or as clear, as it was now.
Switching off the flashlight, he again allowed the darkness to engulf him. He slowed his breathing and listened for any sounds that might offer a clue to the danger he faced. All was quiet; the only sound was the beating of his heart.
Remaining motionless, Hawk forced his mind to relax, clearing it of all thoughts. He turned off the little voice inside his head, becoming like a lake whose surface only rippled slightly from the cool night wind. His mind no longer transmitted; therefore, it could receive.
Almost immediately, Jay Little Hawk knew the danger he felt was not a stationary thing. Nor was it something that had entered the cave after him. Whatever the danger was, it came from deeper within the cave, from the very bowels of the earth--and it was coming his way.
As Hawk’s feeling of terror increased, something touched his mind. A presence so evil and foul that it was beyond the description of words.
Stifling a gasp, he opened his eyes and stared into the blackness before him. He couldn’t see what was coming, yet he knew it came for him. For the very first time in his life, Hawk knew what fear was. For the very first time he fled.
Chapter 5
In the inky depths of eternal night, in the total blackness of subterranean passages, where blind things slither and crawl, he awoke. The creature with glowing eyes of amber, whose name had long since been forgotten by man, stirred from his restless slumber and hissed a breath of anger.
He had gotten little pleasure from the two men he slew the night before. Their blood had been watery, lacking in the taste that comes from courage and a strong heart. The killings had left him less than satisfied, the bloodlust still strong in his veins. Nor had there been time to enjoy more than a few bites of the deer he killed, barely making it back to his lair before daylight.
Rocking back on powerful haunches, he dug a black claw into his left flank, scratching at an itchy patch of scaly hide beneath the sparse reddish hair. He thought about the days before men. The good days. There had been such battles then. The ground had shaken with the roars of great beasts, dim-witted but full of courage. Their blood had been hot and spicy. Tasty.
But then came the great light. With a tail longer than the mightiest creature, it ruled the night sky, turning darkness into day. He’d hidden from the light, seeking refuge in a cave, sleeping while the sky darkened and
the world grew cold.
He’d slept a long time, a very long time. When he finally awoke the world was different. White, cold and barren. Gone were the great beasts and the thrill of a challenge. Gone too were those of his kind. He was all alone in the world, the last of his species, the last of an era. Had he been given the gift of tears, he would have cried. Instead, he turned his back on the frigid world and returned to his cave, entering a state of deep hibernation, remaining that way until the day of the great shaking.
With a growl as cold as ice, the creature arose and left his lair. Darkness had again fallen on the outside world. It was time to hunt, time to eat.
With speed surprising for his size, he navigated the twisting passageways of the subterranean world. He paused when he reached the ladder leading from the second chamber of the Devil’s Boot up to the first, for he still had difficulty climbing it. But he hesitated for only a moment before starting up.
He paused again when he reached the mouth of the cave, taking time to look out over the landscape. A long time had passed since he was free to hunt. Sniffing the air, he let a fat gray tongue roll against his upper fangs. The scent of prey flavored the night wind. Not close, but not far either. It was time to kill.
If anyone had been walking near the back pasture of Roy Owens’s farm at that particular moment, they would have noticed a disturbance amongst his herd of Hereford cows, a restlessness unusual for such a calm, quiet evening. Mooing woefully, the cows crowded together for protection. Standing a little apart from the herd, Roy’s prize Hereford bull, Bubba, sniffed the air, blew snot and pawed nervously at the ground. The Crota was coming.
About the same time Skip Harding was finishing up the last of the reports he had to write--hours after Jay Little Hawk fled the Devil’s Boot--Richard Cummings was settling down to a dinner of scrambled eggs with grilled potatoes and onions. His wife, Jewell, would have frowned at such a combination for dinner--it always gave him gas--but she had passed away a little over two years ago and he’d been living alone ever since.
Actually, he wasn’t alone in the truest sense of the word. While no human companion shared his modest, two-bedroom mobile home and five acres of wooded land, there was Bruno. And although the lop-eared pit bull may not have been the greatest at carrying on a conversation or playing checkers, he helped to fill the painful void left by Mrs. Cummings’s absence. In fact, the dog filled it rather nicely. Bruno never complained when Richard didn’t shave and take a bath each and every night. Nor did he fuss when Richard drank more beers than he really should, or had a few friends over on Saturday to watch the ball game. To top it all off, Bruno enjoyed scrambled eggs and potatoes for dinner. No, Bruno was all the companion Richard needed, all the companion he would ever need. On a scale of one to ten, he actually rated higher than the late missus, God rest her soul.
He and Bruno had grown very close over the years, each able to sense the other’s needs. So when halfway through dinner Bruno started to growl in his low, rumbling voice, Richard knew that something was wrong.
“Shhh... take it easy. What’s the matter, Bruno? You hear a fox?” Setting down his fork, he reached a reassuring hand beneath the table.
Richard peered out the window over the table but couldn’t see anything in the darkness. Nor did he hear anything out of the ordinary. That didn’t mean there wasn’t someone messing around out there. Bruno had been right too many times in the past for Richard to doubt him now. Just last Wednesday they’d caught a carload of teenagers using his driveway as a place to park and get a little drunk.
Bruno stood up, the muscles in his haunches and neck tight with anticipation. He cocked his head, listening to sounds only he could hear. His growling grew louder.
”Okay, boy. I believe you. Let’s say we go have a look outside.”
Getting up from the table, Richard followed the dog down the narrow hallway to the back door. Opening it, they both stepped out onto a small, wooden back porch. Bruno’s growling became more threatening.
“Who’s out there?” Richard yelled.
There was no reply. The only sound was the wind gently caressing the leaves of the tall oak trees.
“I’m warning you, you’d better answer!”
Still no reply.
Bruno tensed; his muscles tightened.
“Sic ‘em, boy!” Richard ordered.
Bruno exploded off the porch. Running low to the ground, he raced down the path leading through the woods to a small pond. Richard followed at a fast walk. He reached the edge of the woods in time to see the dog disappear around a curve. No sooner had Bruno slipped out of sight than the peaceful quiet of the night was shattered by the furious snarls of the pit bull on the attack.
Bruno had something!
Richard smiled. There wasn’t anything on four legs or two that the dog couldn’t handle. He’d only gone a few steps farther, however, when the snarling turned into high-pitched yelps of fear, and then into animal screams of pain.
Something had Bruno!
Richard hurried down the path, stopping when he reached the curve where he’d last seen the dog. There was no sign of him.
“Bruno!” he called.
All sounds of a confrontation had stopped. A strained silence descended over the forest. The crickets held their breath.
“Bruno...” he called again. “Here, boy.” Richard heard the snapping of sticks, the rustling of dry leaves. Something moved a few yards ahead of him. The noises were heavy and loud, too loud to be made by a dog.
“Bruno?” Goose pimples broke out along his arms. The skin around his temples grew tight. “Damn it, Bruno. Are--”
Something sailed through the air, crashed to the ground in front of him. Richard jumped back, startled.
“What the hell?”
He took a hesitant step forward. The thing before him moved, lifted a head in his direction. It whimpered and cried, its body glistening in the moonlight. Richard took another step.
Not a possum. Not a coon.
Richard leaned closer, and suddenly realized what the creature was. He screamed.
“No! Please, God, nooo!”
He staggered back, clutching his chest. He hadn’t known what it was at first. How was he supposed to know that the bloodied, raw body before him was his beloved pit bull, Bruno? The dog had been literally skinned alive, looking like something fresh from the womb, all wet and shiny, pink flesh white in the darkness.
Richard’s heart constricted in pain; his eyes watered. The blood rushed from his head, causing his legs to fold up under him like an accordion. He tried to catch himself from falling but failed. Arms outstretched before him, his left hand struck Bruno’s bloody body and slipped off.
Pain flashed white behind his eyes as Richard struck the ground. The impact caused him to bite his tongue. He tasted blood. Stunned, he didn’t move, content to lie there and feel the pain. But then he realized that his left hand was lying across Bruno’s side.
He jerked his hand back as though burnt. The sudden movement launched another explosion of colors through his brain. Richard didn’t care. He pushed himself up into a kneeling position. There was blood on the palm of his hand. Bruno’s blood. The air about him stank of it. The smell entered his nostrils, gagging him.
He shook his head to clear his mind, to keep from getting sick. There was nothing he could do for Bruno. As he watched, the pit bull’s life ended with a wheezy gasp and a final shudder. The dog’s tongue rolled limply out from between his heavy jaws. A froth of pinkish liquid followed.
Dead. Bruno was dead.
A strange, crackling noise drew his attention away from Bruno. It sounded like someone crunching a giant bag of potato chips, or electricity sparking from the end of a live wire. The noise came from every direction at once. Richard looked about, searching for the source of the crackling, but the darkness refused to reveal its secret. Then, a scant twenty yards away from him, something emerged from the trees.
Oh, my God.
The creature wa
s huge, monstrous, the biggest thing Richard had ever seen--bigger even than the bears he and Jewell saw at the St. Louis Zoo back in ‘73. It stood on the trail, staring at him with a pair of glowing yellow eyes. Snake eyes.
For some strange reason Richard felt that the creature was studying him, sizing him up for one reason or another. He also had the feeling it was going to do the same thing to him that it did to Bruno.
Run!
With a gasp of fear, Richard struggled to his feet. The thing with the glowing eyes came toward him.
He had to get out of the forest, had to make it to his trailer or he was a dead man. Even then, he couldn’t be sure if he would be safe. Could the trailer’s thin aluminum walls keep out such a beast? He had no other choice: there was no place else to hide.
Fighting terror so powerful he could taste it, Richard began to stagger down the path when a pain suddenly pierced his laboring heart, an excrutiating burning that stabbed deep into his chest. A familiar agony, one he had experienced three years earlier. Richard was having a heart attack.
“Please, no. Not now. Not now...”
His bottle of heart medicine sat on the nightstand beside his bed. He hadn’t thought he would be needing it. His heart had been fine for years. But the shock of seeing Bruno killed--seeing the monster--was too much.
The pain struck again, harder, spreading from his shoulder down to the tips of his fingers. An invisible knife driven deep into a heart that was already scarred and weak. Richard grabbed his left side and doubled over. He tried to tell himself that the pain was no worse than a bad case of gas, but that wasn’t true. It was much worse.
Gathering his courage, he glanced behind him. The creature still followed, but it wasn’t any closer. Maybe he would make it to his trailer after all. Perhaps there was hope yet...
A dark thought crossed his mind. Why wasn’t it any closer? He was barely moving, his walk a mere shuffle. The creature should have caught up with him, but it hadn’t. Why?
Crota Page 5
