Crota

by Goingback, Owl

  His first thought was to jump up and run, but he was too scared to move, too frightened even to hide beneath the covers. He could only lie there and tremble, wondering how the old man with the long hair had gotten into his room. He hadn’t come through the door, because it was still closed, and there was no way he could have walked across the room in the short time Billy had shut his eyes. He couldn’t have climbed in through the window either, for it was closed and locked.

  As Billy pondered these things, the old man slowly walked toward him. Reaching the side of his bed, he looked down and smiled. It was a warm, friendly, loving smile. Billy smiled back.

  Skip would have moved to ease the discomfort in his back, but he dared not. He might have taken a drink of water, but his fingers refused to leave the shotgun resting on his lap. Instead he remained motionless, as he had for what seemed like hours, his gaze focused on the entrance to the courtyard. A lantern flashlight had been placed halfway between where he and Little Hawk sat, its glow giving just enough light to see by while still allowing them the concealment of darkness.

  The waiting was the hardest part. Twice already his fear and nervousness had grown to an almost unbearable level. Each time that had happened, however, words of a prayer had popped into his mind. Spoken in a language other than his own, in the voice of George Strong Eagle, the prayer had calmed his fears, giving him strength and courage.

  During those moments of calm, he followed Little Hawk’s advice and focused his attention inward in order to see out. It wasn’t an easy thing to do; the simple act went against everything he’d been raised to believe in. Still, he found his thoughts slowly clearing, as though a translucent screen had been carefully pulled away. Letting his mind relax further, he discovered that all his senses had increased dramatically. His nose detected dusty, foul odors previously unnoticed, and his ears picked up the sounds of insects scurrying in the darkness. But most startling of all was what he could see. He saw spirits!

  At first, Skip had no idea what he was looking at. Cloudy patches of blue mist drifted and danced about the courtyard. Some of the clouds floated lazily by like thunderheads on a warm summer day; others chased each other around and around in a constant whir of motion. A few of the patches vanished into the ground while several others rocketed toward the cavern’s ceiling. When they came close Skip noticed a strange humming inside his head. But it wasn’t until he grew tired of watching, focusing his attention instead on what he heard, that he realized the humming was actually a blending of many voices, like the sound of a crowd of people all talking at once.

  He was trying to pick out an individual word or two, when another sound caught his attention: the soft, gentle scraping of something moving very slowly, very cautiously.

  Skip’s grip tightened on the shotgun. His eyes opened wider in an effort to penetrate the darkness beyond the flashlight’s glow. He heard it again. Something had definitely moved. Along with the muffled sound came a feeling of electricity in the air. He’d experienced a similar sensation the night the Crota attacked him.

  The hair on Skip’s arms stood straight up as a tingle of terror walked up his spine on spider legs.

  Sss-scrape.

  His palms beginning to sweat, he rested the shotgun tightly against his thigh to keep his hands from shaking. The floating blue mists had vanished, leaving only the empty courtyard and the darkness beyond. In that darkness something moved, came closer....

  Sss-scrape.

  A tiny sprinkling of dust and pebbles rained down upon him. He brushed it away with his left hand....

  Skip’s bowels turned to ice. Slowly, very slowly, not making any sudden movements, he raised his head and looked up.

  Sighting along the wall his back rested against, he looked straight above him. More pebbles sprinkled down. A head appeared, peeking over the wall, watching him. An enormous head with eyes of yellow fire. The Crota!

  Skip screamed and pushed himself away from the wall. Stumbling, off balance, he turned and fired. He missed. The Crota roared in rage and sprang from the roof.

  The air sparked and popped in a thousand different places as the Crota landed in the courtyard. Gusts of wind appeared from nowhere, stirring up miniature dust devils.

  “Sheriff, get back!” Little Hawk yelled. He notched an arrow to his bow, pulled the string back, and released it.

  Whoosh...

  The arrow burst into a bolt of searing blue flame as it streaked toward the Crota. A flame so bright it left its image permanently etched on the back of Skip’s brain.

  For an instant the battle stood out in sharp contrast as darkness was turned into day. But Hawk fired too quickly, not taking time to aim. The arrow went wide, missed, bounced off the far wall and shattered. The blue fire vanished. Little Hawk fumbled madly to refit a second arrow to his bowstring. The Crota roared in anger at the shaman but turned its attention back to Skip.

  Still partially blinded by the arrow, Skip stumbled backward and fired. The Crota kept coming. He worked the shotgun’s slide, fired again...and again.

  Claws lashed out, sliced through the air. Skip tried to get out of the way, but he wasn’t quick enough. Pain ripped through his right thigh, spread like fire up and down his leg. He fell against the wall, the Crota towering over him.

  Little Hawk’s face was a mask of determination as he drew back the bow’s string. His arms quivering, he took careful aim and then released the wooden shaft. The arrow exploded into a flash of blue.

  The Crota sensed it coming. The monster turned its head at the exact moment the arrow was launched, twisted its body as the bolt of blue streaked across the courtyard. But the Crota didn’t move fast enough. The arrow hit home, its flint head burning deep into the monster’s shoulder. For the second time when facing the sheriff, the Crota felt pain.

  Skip rolled just in time, escaping the heavy, clawed foot that lashed out to end his life. His back against the wall, he got slowly to his feet. There was a dark wet patch where the Crota’s claws had sliced through his jeans, and he could feel blood running down his leg and into his boot. Using the wall for support, he edged away from the enraged monster.

  Hawk notched the last arrow and took careful aim. He couldn’t afford to miss, but the Crota refused to cooperate and stand still. The creature roared and shrieked, striking blindly at the area around it. Before Hawk could fire the monster turned and bolted for the open end of the courtyard. With a final wailing cry, it disappeared into the darkness.

  Skip watched the Crota’s departure with passing interest. His leg burned in agony, pushing all other thoughts from his mind. The sudden loss of blood also made him lightheaded, causing him to fall back against the wall. Seeing him slump into a sitting position, Hawk raced to his side.

  “Nice shot,” Skip said as the Indian reached him.

  “It was luck,” Hawk replied. Setting his flashlight on the ground beside him, he pulled his knife from its sheath and cut the seam of Skip’s pants leg. “Ahhh...that doesn’t look so bad,” he said, pulling the fabric away from the wound.

  Skip disagreed. The wound looked plenty bad to him. A deep gash ran from mid-thigh to knee, blood covering his leg.

  Hawk reached into the medicine bag tied to his belt and pulled out what looked like a plug of green chewing tobacco. He broke the plug into two pieces, giving half to Skip. “Chew this, only don’t swallow and don’t spit.”

  The sheriff coughed, nearly gagging, as he put the plug into his mouth and started chewing. Whatever it was, it damn sure wasn’t tobacco. The stuff tasted like dogshit--peppery dogshit. Hawk grinned at Skip’s discomfort, then popped the other half of the plug into his own mouth.

  Hawk chewed for a few seconds, then spat the wad back into his hands. Much to Skip’s surprise, the shaman began spreading the chewed mush over the wound. Almost instantly, the pain began to fade as a cold numbness seeped into his thigh.

  He held his hands in front of Skip’s mouth. “Spit.”

  Skip spit the wad into the waiting hand
s. “Hey, that stuff works pretty fast. What is it?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Hawk said.

  Skip frowned but didn’t press the issue. Maybe it was best he didn’t know. Truthfully, he didn’t care what it was as long as it worked.

  After covering the wound with the greenish goo, Hawk wrapped the injured leg with pieces of cloth torn from his white undershirt. “You got off lucky,” he said, putting his work shirt back on. “The wound isn’t deep, no muscles are cut. You should be as good as new in a day or two. At least you’re not going to bleed to death.” He started gathering his things together. “I’ll change the dressing when I get back.”

  “Whoa...hold on a minute,” Skip said. “What do you mean when you get back?”

  “The Crota is only wounded. I have to finish the job I set out to do. I have to kill it.”

  “You mean the job we set out to do. I’m going with you.”

  Little Hawk clicked his tongue. “You can’t walk on that leg.”

  “The hell I can’t. You just watch me.”

  “Sheriff, this is no longer your fight.”

  Skip sneered. “Listen to me, you thickheaded son of a bitch. This is still my fight, always has been, always will be. That thing murdered my men...my friends. It nearly got me. Twice. I owe it. You’re not leaving me here. I’ll follow you if I have to.”

  Hawk stared at him for a moment. “Very well, you can come. But do not expect me to carry you or help you to walk. If you fall behind, I will leave you.”

  “Agreed,” Skip said.

  Chapter 32

  Skip’s right leg sent an endless succession of dull throbs to his brain, but still he kept up. He would have kept up even if it killed him. Little Hawk cut him no slack; his pace was fast. The Indian looked neither left nor right as he followed the broad avenue bisecting the ancient city. The sheriff didn’t possess the confidence Hawk did. He continued to watch the shadows on each side of the road, as well as throwing occasional glances behind.

  “What makes you think the Crota has left the city?” Skip asked as they neared the last of the buildings.

  “I just know it.”

  “So how come in the courtyard you didn’t know it was sneaking up on us?”

  Hawk wheeled on him. “I didn’t know it was sneaking up on us because it didn’t want me to know. It knew I could feel its presence, so it was being careful to guard its thoughts. The Crota blocked its mind the same way someone would lock a door.”

  “So how come its mind isn’t guarded now?”

  “Because it’s in pain, that's why. The pain has maddened it, made it careless. The creature is apt to make mistakes now, mistakes that might work to our advantage. We must hurry; we cannot afford to let it get away.”

  Skip looked at the tunnel entrance they were heading for. “So why is it going this way? Why not go the other way, the way we came in?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps there is more than one way in or out of the tunnels. Perhaps it panicked and made a mistake.”

  “Maybe it’s leading us into a trap.”

  “You don’t have to come with me.”

  “Just try leaving me behind and see what happens,” Skip scowled.

  A smile touched the corners of Hawk’s mouth. “I don’t know which is the hardest to deal with--you or the Crota.”

  Skip returned the smile. “I am. The Crota’s a piece of cake.”

  The tunnel they followed appeared to have once been a natural passageway, widened over the years by the inhabitants of the city. After walking for an hour, Skip was having serious doubts about Hawk’s tracking abilities. Still, he said nothing. Which was a good thing, because a few minutes later they came across a small puddle of blood.

  Hawk knelt and put his finger into the puddle. “It’s fresh.”

  “The Crota?” asked Skip.

  Hawk nodded, wiping his fingers off on his pants. “It must have stopped here to rest. Stay alert and keep your eyes open.”

  “Believe me, I plan to do just that.”

  About half an hour later, there was a noticeable change in the tunnel. The temperature was suddenly much cooler, and damp. Water dripped from the rocky ceiling and collected in puddles, while patches of fungus grew along the walls. Curious, Skip walked over and placed a hand against the rock wall.

  “It feels wet,” he said.

  Hawk touched the opposite wall. “Cold, too. Maybe we’re under the river.”

  Skip was shocked. Though they had been walking for some time, he never dreamed they’d come far enough north to reach the river. There was something a little discomforting about the sudden realization that he was standing directly underneath the Missouri River.

  “Damn, a tunnel under the river,” he said. “Can you imagine what this could have meant to the early pioneers?”

  Hawk nodded. “It would have been a great discovery to pioneers or Indians. But with the bridges of today it’s worthless, except maybe as a conversation piece.”

  Avoiding the bigger puddles, they continued on, passing two smaller tunnels that branched off from the one they followed. There was a noticeable boundary as the rock wall went from wet back to dry again. Though the smell of dampness still lingered, the puddles and moisture were gone. They had crossed under the river.

  They’d gone no more than twenty yards beyond the river’s edge when Skip spotted a carving etched upon the wall to his left. He stopped, unable to believe his eyes. The carving was of a large bird, its wings spread in flight--a bird with four eyes.

  It’s the bird from my vision.

  Little Hawk had stopped too, but he wasn’t interested in the carving. Instead, he was looking around, a look of concern on his face.

  “What’s the matter?” Skip asked.

  Hawk quickly explained that all through the tunnel he had been able to detect the Crota’s presence in front of them, but he had lost contact with the creature back at the river and was no longer sure where it was.

  The river...beware the river.

  Skip remembered his vision and the message that had been given to him. There were other tunnels back at the river, places to hide. Little Hawk was right: the monster was no longer in front of them. It was behind them.

  He turned around to yell a warning to Hawk, but it was too late. The Crota crashed into the shaman like a runaway freight train.

  Hawk went down, his bow and arrow flying from his hand. He ducked, skidded and rolled, desperately trying to keep himself behind the Crota’s hind legs, the only place where the creature couldn’t get to him easily. Skip rapidly fired his shotgun, pumping five rounds into the monster.

  The Crota roared and turned toward Skip. Seizing the opportunity, Hawk jumped up and tried to make it to his fallen bow and arrow. He’d taken only two steps, however, when the monster spun around and slapped him across the back, knocking him headfirst into the wall.

  Skip discarded the empty shotgun. He thought about drawing his .357 but doubted if the revolver would have any effect on the Crota. Instead, he pulled the flare gun from his belt, sighted quickly and fired.

  There was a loud pop as a brilliant ball of red fire exited the barrel of the flare gun. The burning ball streaked across the tunnel, striking the Crota high on the back. The monster spun around and hissed, its lips curled back to reveal deadly fangs.

  Oh shit! Now you’ve done it.

  Hands shaking with fear, Skip snatched the spent cartridge out of the gun and reloaded. In one movement, he raised and fired the pistol.

  Pop.

  The second flare hit the Crota on the end of the nose and traveled upward, the ball of burning fire exploding into brilliance between the monster’s hideous amber eyes. The flare’s brightness left Skip temporarily blinded, but it was far worse for the Crota.

  While he could no longer see the monster, he could clearly hear its scream of rage. The Crota screamed a wail to end all wails, a cry of pain and anguish to chill the bones.

  Skip jumped back out of the way and tried to
stay clear of the thrashing monster in a tunnel grown terribly small. He almost made it, but the Crota lashed out with a foot, catching him just below the calves, sweeping his legs out from under him. He landed on his back at the creature’s feet, staring straight up into the eyes of death.

  He had no time to reload the flare gun, no chance to roll free. Skip’s jaws clenched as he waited for death to claim him. He was determined to die like a man; he would not scream, would not give the thing towering above him the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

  There was a sudden rush of movement from his left. Shots rang out, white flashes framing the scene in the tunnel like the negatives of a photograph.

  The Crota roared and turned to face a new challenger. Skip seized the opportunity and scurried backwards until he collided against the wall. There he stopped, his chest hitching in pain, watching the events unfolding a few feet from him.

  Lloyd watched with satisfaction as Skip crawled to safety. Had he arrived a few seconds later, the sheriff would have been dead.

  After ending his conversation with Skip, Lloyd had spent hours wandering through the city in search of the Crota. Unable to find the monster, he’d succumbed to fatigue and despair, curling up to sleep in a tiny alcove near where the tunnel passed beneath the river. He would have been there still if the blast of a shotgun hadn’t awakened him.

  “All right, you ugly son of a bitch,” he said, ignoring the sweat rolling into his eyes. “Let’s see how fucking bad you really are.”

  He pulled a fresh clip out of his pants pocket, ejecting the empty one from his .45. He was surprised the creature hadn’t already attacked him. Maybe his sudden appearance had left it a little confused, or leery. Lloyd had another theory: he felt the thing recognized him from their previous encounter. Perhaps it was wondering what he was doing here; perhaps it knew exactly what he was doing here.

  The Crota dropped to all fours and lowered its head, watching him with eyes that never blinked. A deep rumbling came from the back of the creature’s throat, a growl so low it was barely audible. Lloyd was reminded of the sound a Doberman makes right before it rips your fucking leg off. There was a wet metallic click as he released the slide of his .45, sending a bullet into the chamber.