Crota

by Goingback, Owl

  “Neat trick,” Randy commented, joining the professor.

  “That was nothing,” Steven smiled. “I once chimneyed a forty-foot vertical shaft in the Spanish Pyrenees. Wouldn’t have been so bad except the shaft was directly underneath a waterfall. Took me almost an hour to make the climb.”

  “I would have taken the elevator,” Randy said.

  “I never thought of that,” Steven said. “My, what a brilliant caver you will make someday.”

  Randy shook his head. “Uh, no, thanks. I’ve seen all the cave I’ll ever want to see.”

  They coiled the rope back up and readjusted their harnesses before setting out across the rooftops. Steven took the lead, setting a pace slow enough for Randy to keep up. He was also considerate by picking a route that made it unnecessary to jump a gap any wider than two feet. Even then, Randy felt his stomach knot up at the thought of what had happened the last time he attempted to jump from rooftop to rooftop.

  Even with the moderate pace Steven was setting, Randy still lagged behind from time to time. Part of the time it was due to the intense throbbing in his head and the tightness in his lower back. Other times he held back deliberately, hoping to spot a beacon of light moving in the streets below. So far there was nothing but the darkness.

  Randy didn’t like the thought of leaving, not sure whether the others were alive or dead, but he didn’t have much choice. As weak as he was, it would be stupid to stay and continue the fight by himself, especially not knowing what he was up against. And he was under orders to keep an eye on the professor, even if the professor was actually keeping an eye on him.

  Seeing that Randy had again lagged behind, Steven decided to stop and take a break. He walked to the center of the roof they were crossing and lit a cigarette.

  “How’s the head?” Steven asked.

  “Which one? I feel like I have two, and they’re both killing me.”

  Steven opened his mouth to say something, when the section of roof he had just stepped on gave way beneath his feet. With a startled cry, he dropped straight down.

  It was the ropes and bulky equipment attached to his chest harness that kept Steven Fuller from falling through the roof and possibly injuring himself on the stone floor in the room below. Instead his chest wedged tightly in the hole, like a cork in a wine bottle. Randy rushed to his aid.

  “Stay back!” Steven warned.

  Randy froze in place.

  Steven took a couple of deep breaths to steady his voice. “Don’t come near me. This roof is weak. We may both fall through.”

  “But I’ve got to get you out of there!” Randy said.

  “Indeed you shall. But you will not do it by getting us both killed in the process. We’ve got to take it slowly. Don’t rush. I’m not going anywhere. I’m wedged pretty tight.”

  “What’ll I do?”

  “First off, I’ve got to see if I can work one of these ropes loose. If I can, and if I don’t fall through in the process, you’ll be able to pull me back up.”

  Moving with slow, precise movements, Steven brought his left hand in to his armpit, hooking his thumb under the coil of rope wrapped over his shoulder and under his arm. He carefully slipped the rope off his shoulder and down his arm to his elbow. Then, like a circus contortionist, he worked his arm out of the coil. His left arm was free, but the rope was still wedged between his chest and the roof. Moving the rope might cause additional stones to tumble, plunging him to the depths below, but he had to take the chance.

  Steven again took a couple of deep breaths. On the last one, he exhaled hard, forcing air from his lungs, decreasing his chest size. At the same time, he gave a steady, upward pull on the coil of rope. An inch moved upwards. Two inches. He gasped for breath, paused, rested. He tried again. More rope moved.

  The rope came free on his third attempt. His body slipped down. Steven closed his eyes, held his breath, but the fall he expected did not come. He was still dangling through the ceiling.

  He tossed one end of the rope to Randy.

  “Quick. Find something to tie that to. You’re in no shape to haul me up by yourself.”

  Randy scrambled across the roof, searching for some fixture to fasten the rope to. He spotted a carved niche in the far corner of the roof. He was tying the final knot when Steven called him.

  “Randy?”

  Randy turned, his fingers till fumbling with the rope. Steven’s face was expressionless, his voice somber and collected.

  “Randy, my lad, please hurry. Something just brushed past my legs.”

  Warning bells went off in Randy’s head. Finishing the knot, he raced back to the trapped professor.

  Steven Fuller was looking down, his face thoughtful, as if he was trying to see through the roof to the room below him. He glanced back up at Randy.

  “It’s back again...I believe it’s sniffing me. I think you’d better pull me out.”

  Steven grabbed the rope in his left hand, wrapping it around his arm. Randy took up the slack and started to pull.

  “Please hurry,” Steven said. “It’s--Aaaayyyyy!”

  The scream exploded from Steven Fuller. His head flew back, his face contorting in hellish torment.

  “Nooo!” Randy cried. He pulled desperately on the rope, trying to free the imprisoned man.

  Steven screamed again. His head snapped straight back. His eyes flew open. He was staring at Randy, staring through him. A thin trickle of blood started at each corner of his mouth. The flow increased, cascading over his lips and down his chin, staining the front of his coveralls. His mouth moved slowly, quivered. He gasped, coughed, and tried to speak, but failed. A roar echoed up from the room below. Then, in the blinking of an eye, he was gone.

  There was no warning. One second Randy was looking at Steven Fuller’s anguished face, the next he was staring at thin air. The professor was snatched from below, disappearing through the hole so quickly it was impossible to follow the movement with the eye. It was like a magic trick: now you see him, now you don’t.

  The rope slid through Randy’s tightened fist, laying the flesh open on both palms. He barely had time to let go before he too was dragged through the hole.

  Rolling to his left, he watched the length of rope uncoil and flash by like fishing line attached to a game bass. There was a sharp pop as it snapped free of its mooring. The piece of stonework to which the rope was tied flashed across the roof and disappeared into the hole. Silence followed, interrupted only by the hammering of Randy’s racing heart, and the crunching of bones in the room below.

  Chapter 23

  Terror is a very personal thing. It seeps in through the pores of the body, turning everything icy-numb. Once inside, it grows like a living entity, feeds and takes on shape, pushing the soul back into a quiet little corner of the mind. Shadows become hideous monsters lurking in wait; the wind becomes whispered words, and the beating of one’s own heart becomes the footsteps of things racing to attack from the darkness.

  Lloyd tripped and sprawled, the flashlight sailing from his fingers. He tried to catch himself but failed, his elbows and then his chin striking the tunnel’s hard rocky floor. Sparks of pain shot through both arms and danced from his jaw to his temples. Shaken but not seriously hurt, he got slowly to his knees. As he did his right hand came into contact with something cold and clammy. Something dead.

  With a startled cry, Lloyd recoiled from what he had touched. Off balance, he fell against the wall, the beam from his carbide helmet light sweeping across what he had stumbled over. A body...Deputy Brown’s.

  Wayne Brown lay on his back, his legs crossed in an eternal figure four, his arms extended straight out from his sides. The deputy’s chest looked like an empty sardine can. Peeled from throat to stomach, flaps of flesh hanging loosely to each side, his chest had been scooped out, robbed of heart, lungs and other internal organs. All that remained were the intestines, glistening wetly in the dead man’s lap.

  Lloyd looked away from the body. He had seen enough, m
ore than he wanted to. Pushing himself off the wall, he recovered the dropped flashlight and stumbled onward. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been running through the underground corridors. For him, time no longer existed. Everything had become the present, the here and now, measured not in minutes and hours but in footsteps and heartbeats.

  Somehow, he had to get away. He had to get back to the surface and tell the others. That’s what he’d do. He’d tell Skip. The sheriff would know what to do. With this brief glimmer of sane reasoning, a spark of determination flared back into him. His pace quickened, changing from a drunken stagger to a fast walk, then to a jog. Before he turned the next corner he’d gotten his second wind and was running flat out. And it was the next turn that finally brought him from the stuffiness of the narrow, lower-level passageways to the openness of the cavern and the empty streets of the ancient city.

  Lloyd stopped and drew a deep breath. The air was slightly sour, but better than what he’d been breathing. It helped clear some of the cobwebs from his head.

  Making a quick compass check, he turned and followed a path that would hopefully lead back to the main avenue of the city. He’d gone no more than half a block when he heard sounds of movement coming from an intersecting alley on his left.

  Instantly, the fear was back with him, digging its icy fingernails deep into his bowels and blowing cold kisses up and down his spine. He unslung his riot gun, snapping off the safety. Too late to run, no time to hide. The only option was to stand and fight.

  The movement came closer, grew louder. Lloyd braced himself. He took a deep breath, let a little out, then held it. His finger tightened on the trigger of the shotgun.

  Something stepped before him. His finger squeezed. The shotgun roared.

  Gut reaction, more than anything else, saved Randy Murphy’s life. Had he taken time to think about his actions, his brain would have been plastered over the stone walls of several buildings. For some strange reason, when he entered the intersection of the two narrow alleyways, stepping directly into the beam of Lloyd’s helmet light and his line of fire, he threw himself face down on the ground. Randy heard the whistle of lead pellets as they sailed over his head. A half inch lower and he would have felt them.

  Both of them remained frozen in place. Lloyd stood stiff as a statue as he clutched the smoking shotgun, finger still on the trigger, knuckles turning white. Randy lay on his stomach, unmoving, barely breathing, face pressed tightly into the dirt.

  A long moment passed. Lloyd’s shoulders slumped. The barrel of the shotgun lowered. “Jesus Christ...” He started towards Randy, faltered, and started again. “Jesus Christ...”

  Randy pushed himself up on his elbows. “Lloyd?”

  Lloyd was at Randy’s side. “Don’t move. Don’t try to talk.”

  “I’m all right,” Randy whispered, pushing himself up farther.

  “Listen, you stay still. I’ll go for help.”

  “Seriously...I’m okay. You missed.”

  “Missed?” Lloyd helped him into a sitting position. His hands raced madly over Randy’s chest, searching for wounds. “Missed? How could I miss? I fired at point-blank range.”

  “I know,” Randy nodded. “Believe me, I know. I heard the pellets as they went by. Sounded like a pissed-off hornet.”

  Lloyd’s hands shook uncontrollably. He grabbed Randy by the lapels. “My God, that was double-aught buck. It could have killed you. I could have killed you.”

  Randy put his hands on Lloyd’s shoulders. “Relax. You came close, but no cigar. I may need new laundry.”

  “Me too,” Lloyd nodded.

  Lloyd took a drink from his canteen, then passed it to Randy. They remained silent for a minute, each trying to regain his composure. It was Lloyd who spoke first.

  “Where’s the professor?”

  Randy swallowed hard. “He’s dead. That thing got him.”

  He quickly told Lloyd about their attempted flight across the rooftops and the death of Professor Steven Fuller. To validate his story, he showed the undersheriff the palms of his hands, still raw and bleeding with rope burn. He also recounted how it had taken him nearly an hour to work up enough courage to move from his spot on the roof. He had lain there and cried, listening to the snapping and cracking of bones from the darkened room below.

  “What the hell is it?” Randy asked.

  “I don’t know.” Lloyd shifted his weight and looked around. “Listen, we’ve got to get out of here. I think that thing lives down here.”

  “I’m all for getting out of here,” Randy agreed. “I damn sure don’t want to be around when it gets hungry again. Which way do we go?”

  “If we head west we’ll connect back up with the main avenue.”

  “Do we go by rooftop or alley?”

  “Alley,” Lloyd said.

  “Thank God.”

  Gathering up their remaining equipment, they started out. Gone was the awe they had felt when first seeing the ancient city. Death had spoiled the sensation, tainted the feeling of childlike wonder. No longer interested in dusty ruins or forgotten civilizations, they cared nothing for the buildings and carved inscriptions they passed. Only one thing mattered anymore: survival.

  They had been walking for about ten minutes when Lloyd suddenly stopped.

  “What’s the matter?” Randy asked.

  Lloyd held up his hand for silence. “Listen. Don’t you hear it?”

  “What? Hear what?” Randy turned his head, straining to hear. There was nothing, only a soft wind moaning ghostlike through the alleys.

  “It’s just the wind,” he said, realizing the foolishness of such a statement. They were in a cave, deep underground; there couldn’t possibly be any wind--yet there was. With the wind came a peculiar crackling, like the crinkling of a cellophane bag.

  “Do you hear it...that funny popping?” Lloyd asked. “I heard the same thing right before Ferguson was killed. That thing’s coming. I know it.”

  Randy spun around, facing the darkness behind him. “Let it come. We’ll give the fucker something to think about.”

  “No!” Lloyd cried. He grabbed Randy by the shoulder, frantically trying to drag him farther down the alley. “You don’t understand! You can’t kill it!”

  Randy shook loose from his grasp. “Bullshit. Everything that lives can be killed.”

  “Not the Crota!”

  “The what?” Randy turned and stared at Lloyd. When he spoke his voice was barely a whisper. “You know something about this thing, don’t you?”

  Lloyd took a step backward.

  “Damn it. You know something, don’t you?” Randy yelled. “You knew about it all along. You said it was a bear. A fucking bear! You knew it wasn’t a bear all along, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” croaked Lloyd.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Randy lashed out. His right fist nailed Lloyd on the left side of his jaw. Lloyd staggered back, collided with a wall and sat down heavily. He made no attempt to stand back up.

  Randy stepped forward, his shotgun aimed menacingly at Lloyd’s head. “You fucking bastard. You led us down here when you knew that thing was waiting for us. Why? Why didn’t you tell any of us what was down here?”

  Lloyd’s lower lip trembled. “I didn’t believe it.”

  “You didn’t believe?” Randy shrilled. “You didn’t believe? Hear that, world: he didn’t believe. Try telling that to Mitchell, Brown and the others. Do you think they’d buy that? You got them killed because you didn’t believe. Do you believe now?”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  Randy laughed. “Sorry! Is that all you can say? You--”

  Randy’s words died in his throat. Lloyd was no longer paying attention to what he was saying. Instead he was staring in bug-eyed terror at something just behind him. Randy didn’t have to look to know what was there. He could feel the increased tempo of the popping in the air about him, feel the hairs on his arms and neck rise almost magically. There
was a soft scraping as a heavy, taloned foot glided across the stones. Another sound that might have been a tongue darting wetly across hungry lips.

  With a yell of defiance, he turned and fired. The shock of seeing the monster for the first time made his blood run cold.

  The Crota crouched no more than twenty feet away, its glowing eyes carefully studying them. The creature’s chest and mane were matted with dried blood--the blood of those who had already fallen victim to it. Lloyd was right and Randy knew it: they couldn’t kill it.

  The Crota roared and charged, running on all fours. Randy screamed.

  The monster crashed into Randy, knocking him down. Powerful jaws closed about his right knee. He screamed again. The jaws bit down. Bones crunched and the leg fell free of the body.

  Randy’s brain flickered and died like the flame of a candle. His body acted on its own as it crawled slowly across the ground, seeking to flee from the Crota. Escape was impossible. His mind knew that; therefore, it had already given up. His body, however, a little slow about catching on, refused to give up the fight.

  Lloyd dove to his right, rolling clear of the battle. He hesitated long enough to witness the pitiful sight of Corporal Murphy crawling helplessly across the alleyway, the stump of his right leg twitching and jerking with a life of its own.

  Randy had crawled only about six feet when the Crota brought one foot forcefully down on the center of his back, snapping his spine like a thin, dry twig. Lloyd didn’t stick around after that; there was no reason to.

  He ran four blocks before reaching the place where they had first entered the ancient city. It was also the spot where he had left the portable field phone. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the phone.

  “Home Base, this is Unit One. Over.”

  Skip’s voice responded instantly. “This is Home Base. Is that you, Lloyd?”