She was....
...but something was different now.
Deep in his bones he felt as though the tide had turned, as though their positions had suddenly been reversed and he should be the one looking to escape.
Nonsense, he thought angrily as he realized she was now grinning at him. She must think it’s funny that I fell on my ass.
He started to grin back to put her at ease. Just as quickly his smile faded and he sobered. The child’s grin wasn’t the good humored smile of an innocent. It was a malicious grin saying she hoped he’d hurt himself – hurt himself bad!
She shuddered, then spasmed in seeming ecstasy and her eyes rolled back in her head to become white orbs; a low growl came from her wide open mouth.
Quite suddenly Clay felt afraid.
He looked down at a steaming puddle of urine at her feet as another low, nasal, half-growl escaped from her lips. Leaving steaming wet footprints on the tiled floor, she moved towards him.
He tried to scramble to his feet but he didn’t make it in time.
The waif reached up and grabbed him by his biceps and squeezed until the pain drove tears from the corners of his eyes and made him cry out. Her grip was like an iron vise, tightening, squeezing his arms until he thought his bones would snap. Paralyzed with pain, he suddenly felt himself being turned sideways. He struggled to escape but now her grip had changed as one hand lifted him from under his arm and the other grabbed him by the flesh of his hip. He was being hoisted horizontally and bodily off the floor, balance maintained by hands that grown in size, that had become vicious pinchers scissoring into his flesh.
It was impossible!
No child could have this much strength...!
The pain washed over him in red waves and the sound of his heart pounded like thunder in his ears. Her holds shifted, and suddenly one hand was now clutching his neck while the other grabbed his thigh in an iron grip. She seemed to have grown larger.
But his right arm was free!
He stared wildly down at the child, suddenly becoming aware of a putrescent odor, an unforgettable stench he’d only encountered once before....
...PANAMA!
He’d smelled it the night he’d seen something hunched over the dying soldier in the field. Suddenly he knew he was in more danger than he’d ever been at any time in his life. Jesus help me, he thought, and used his free hand to claw desperately for his holstered weapon.
~ 4 ~
Hitch slogged his way through the snow around the side of the house. He looked at the gathering twilight and shook his head. He wanted to get home just as much as Clay, maybe more so since he was pretty sure this was all a wild-goose chase.
Reaching the back garden he paused and surveyed the swimming pool. It had been left half-filled and froze, he surmised. Yard litter and dead branches poked up through the snow.
Decapitated stone statues of ancient Greek gods, victims of wanton vandalism, stood as grim guards at the four corners of the pool flanked by a broken Italian marble balustrade ringing the entire back yard. Hitch was well versed in Italian marbles having explored them at an import company when building a new kitchen a few years back. The fence alone must have cost a fortune he realized moving up some stone steps towards the patio.
Four marble benches, also hammered by vandals until they snapped in two, littered the raised, marble-floored patio. The entire surface, swept clean of snow, revealed cracked and chipped tiles sporting a thin sheen of ice, a serious invitation to break a leg or hip.
This must have been some place in its heyday, Hitch thought. Of course, he could never have hoped for an invitation to the place; deputy sheriffs earning $35-thousand a year weren’t exactly in the right financial bracket to hobnob with the Bakers.
He snorted and stepped gingerly onto the first level of the patio. He crossed to another set of steps, mounted them and peered through a window in one of the dirty, weather-proof, multi-paned doors. Strangely the panes remained unbroken, a rather fickle display of respect for property. The deputy cupped his hands to shut out the reflection of the silver clouds in the twilight sky and peered inside.
He could barely make out a table, chairs and a blob of white in the far corner of the room. It must be the kitchen, he decided, unable to see much detail through the grime. Hitch slung the Winchester over his shoulder and stepped back off the patio. He carefully checked the snow for footprints at the perimeter of the property. Other than his own, now rapidly filling with snow, there were none. Well, somebody butchered that goat, he thought. Looking back at the house, he noticed a set of wooden doors set at a forty-five degree angle into a frame on a raised pile of earth near the right corner of the building. He plowed his way towards it.
It must be the entrance to an old root cellar, he thought, spotting the heavy, timbered doors and the rusted iron hinges. Probably hasn’t been opened in years. Still, if it connected to the house underground, it could be a way in – and therefore a way out. If there were vandals hiding about and they tried to escape from Clay through here, they’d be in for a surprise.
Leaning the Winchester carefully against a pile of snow, Hitch leaned down and tugged at one of the iron handles. The door moved slightly but the rusted hinges creaked in protest.
He set one foot flat on the left door to brace himself and put all his weight into pulling the right door upward and open. If he put his back out again doing something deliberately stupid, Martha wouldn’t be exactly overflowing with compassion. He’d have to return to work to get sympathy.
Rust bits flaked off the hinges as they shrieked with the intensity of someone drawing a dozen nails over a chalk board, and Hitch felt his teeth being set on edge.
“C’mon you son-of-a-gun,” he grunted. “Open or I’ll come back here with some WD-40 and really put you in your place.”
Veins swelled on his forehead. Gritting his teeth, Hitch slowly gained ground as, inch-by-inch, as the rusted hinges gave way. The door finally yawned open. It stood fully upright, balanced precariously on its edge and held fast by the rusted hinges. Winded, he gasped for air, straightened and rubbed his aching back.
The door was made of four-inch thick oak boards, formidable and heavy as sin. Probably meant to discourage thievery by animals or humans. He deciding not to pull the door past the point in the arc where it would crash wide open; he’d just be setting himself up for the challenge of closing it. He looked admiringly at his handiwork.
“There my man,” he said, happily. “Now I can close you with one finger.”
He peered into the black opening. Rickety stairs led down to what appeared to be an earthen floor gloomily soaking up the glow of the vanishing light.
Hitch tested the steps with one foot. Assured they’d take his weight, he grabbed the carbine and made his way down until he stood safely on the dirt floor. It was packed hard and he could make out frozen puddles of water off to his left and right. The air was stale, smelling mostly of mold and dampness, but also containing another underlying smell of something foul. An animal must have crawled down here and died, he mused, looking around in the dim light.
At least, being out of the wind made him feel warmer–!
Suddenly the light vanished plunging him into total blackness as a deafening crash made him leap in fright. The heavy door above slammed shut sending clouds of dust whirling into the air to rapidly fill his nostrils and mouth. Caught unaware, Hitch rendered two explosive sneezes and then coughed into his hand.
Something tugged at his pant leg!
“Christ!” he yelled, stumbling back. His foot caught in the cellar steps and down he went in an awkward heap, the Winchester spinning from his grasp. Unable to see the ground coming up, he grunted in surprise when he hit.
“Damn...damn...damn,” he cursed, half in anger, half in frustration. Hitch sat there taking stock of himself, making sure there were no broken bones. Finally, satisfied he hadn’t done any great damage, he put a hand down on the dirt floor to help himself up.
Somet
hing small and furry scampered across it.
“Whoa!” he yelped, pulling his hand back. He laughed out loud. Rats! This whole adventure was turning out to be a black comedy and he had landed the starring role. He chuckled again, took a deep breath, got to his feet and bent down to begin feeling about for the carbine. The darkness was absolute; black as pitch and not a glimmer of light from anywhere. At that moment he thought he heard someone call his name, but it was a far-off sound, distant and muffled to the point where he wasn’t sure if he actually heard or imagined it.
In case it was Clay, Hitch decided to answer: “Clay! I’m down here...I’m in the root cellar.”
He waited for a response.
Nothing. Only the deadened call of the wind whispered from above. Either he couldn’t be heard or he was replying to some wishful thinking. He shrugged and went back to looking for the Winchester.
So this is how it feels to be blind, he thought getting down on his hands and knees. He travelled his hands over the floor in ever-increasing circles. The weapon couldn’t have gotten that far away. He hoped there were no rats in his path; he wasn’t crazy about getting his fingers nipped.
Suddenly he became aware of a foul odor growing in intensity. It was all-encompassing and invaded his lungs. He wretched at its rankness and gasped aloud, “What the hell is THAT?”
He gave voice to his alarm because something made him want to hear the sound of his own voice, to bring a semblance of normalcy to a situation rapidly declining into dark surrealism. He knew that speaking out was akin to the false bravado of whistling in a graveyard to stave off imaginary spirits. Still, he didn’t care.
Trying to ignore the smell by breathing mainly through his mouth, Hitch decided to explore slightly to his right. If I don’t didn’t find the rifle, perhaps I can find the stairs and get the hell out of here, he thought. Turning slightly, his fingers encountered something solid on the ground.
At last – the carbine.
He breathed a sigh of relief even as a momentary suspicion flitted across his consciousness; he was sure he’d checked the area moments before.
Still, as his fingers probed, trying to find the familiarity of the stock or barrel, he realized with dreadful certainty that what he was touching wasn’t the carbine.
It was flat, cold and mucky!
His fingers instinctively recoiled and he stared desperately towards the floor. He was on his knees but couldn’t make out any contrast whatsoever in the perfect darkness.
He was virtually blind down here.
Slowly he drew back, repulsed by the presence of some invader who had entered his psychic space – that few feet or so out from the body that most people mentally claim as their own.
Hitch swallowed and berated himself.
He was acting like a child.
What the hell was it?
Since he couldn’t see, there was only one way to find out. Tentatively he put out his hand again and touched the cool object. It was about five inches wide, and angled slightly upwards. It felt fleshy and Hitch imagined a giant, fat slug, its pink body undulating towards him as he steeled himself against pulling his hand back. Through sheer force of will, he kept exploring and felt a skeletal-like structure supporting a clammy, slimy covering.
A dead and decaying animal, he ventured in disgust, drawing back. That would account for the smell.
Hitch tensed, ready to retreat at the slightest movement. He could imagine the sudden angry growl, the snapping of razor-sharp teeth slicing into his hand and the needles of pain. He didn’t relish trying to snatch his hand from the mouth of some wild creature.
But the thing was as still as death.
Moving his fingers upwards, Hitch came to a sudden and horrific realization: he was touching a foot! A human foot!
He reached up with his other hand and felt the hem of a coarsely-woven, grit-encrusted cloth garment hanging from above. Someone was standing silently over him, a great brooding shadow, blacker than the night and less than a foot away.
Hitch was a brave man, a man who routinely faced the possibility of mortal danger in his job, and a man who did not flinch from even the meanest of aggressors. But right now, his primal consciousness, the area whereas that spark, that predominant instinct for survival resides, was flooded by an unreasonable and extreme sense of terror. The amygdale portion of his brain, much quicker than his cognitive awareness, was in high gear driving an animal-instinctual reaction geared to self preservation.
In fact, as his consciousness caught up to his quick & dirty gut reaction, he literally tasted peril! Not that he hadn’t before but there was something ominously different in this danger; something alien, dark and threatening. Something insurmountable.
He began to tremble. Goose bumps rose over his entire body. He tried to speak but his throat had constricted as an inner sense warned him that he’d made a fatal mistake in coming into the cellar, one that would cost him dearly.
He closed his eyes and wished to be on the way home to the warmth of an open fire and his cozy log bungalow; to be snuggling up to Martha as she stirred a pot of stew; or to be fly-fishing in a clear mountain stream with the comfort of the summer sunlight on his face. In short, he wanted to continue living.
But, with a certainty reserved for the terminally-ill, or for those miserable prison-bound souls walking the last mile, he knew he was going to die.
Hitch opened his eyes wide, still expecting the blackness to be complete.
Instead he saw a greenish glow suffusing the earthen cellar. Afraid to look up, he felt a momentary shame as tears squeezed from his eyes. He began to tremble violently.
As a final act of free will, he summoned the last ounce of courage in his body and raised his head.
Moments before he died, Bob Hitchcock knew that there must be a God. After all, if you believed in God, you believed in the devil. And conversely, if the devil existed, then God must also exist.
Right now Hitch believed in the devil.
It wasn’t hard when a refugee from hell was standing directly over him! Two huge clawed hands cupped his head and squeezed his skull until something popped and shattered; intense, paralytic pain seared his face and neck, radiating into the rest of his body.
Desperately he tried to pull away, to escape, to claim a few more seconds of precious life. But it was not to be as the thousands of nerves in his brain stem were slowly crushed into a pulpy mass.
His dying scream was swallowed up by the dark earth....
And then, he was no more.
~ 5 ~
The child seized Clay by his inner thigh and neck and hoisted him bodily over her head. Without hesitation, she bounded towards the front door, her small hand impossibly encircling most of his neck, thumb and forefinger placing pressure directly on his carotid arteries.
For a split second Clay’s mind refused to accept what was happening. This was a child for God’s sake!
BUT SHE HAD THE STRENGTH OF A GOLIATH...!
“Wait!” Clay tried to yell but his voice was strangled, his throat squeezed closed by the tremendous, vice-like grip tightening about his neck.
He tried again to reach his pistol.
His hand flailed the air....
Clay would later play and replay the events over and over in his thoughts as though the entire event took hours. In fact, it took seconds.
His disbelief rapidly gave way to panic. Her grip had tightened on his throat choking off the blood and life-giving oxygen flowing to his brain. In moments he would be rendered unconscious and totally at her mercy.
Aloft, his body swayed and jerked as they crossed the foyer. He fought desperately to keep from passing out. He couldn’t breath. The flap of his parka was somehow tangled in his holster preventing him from reaching his sidearm. Using his right fist, he pounded frantically at the small wrist and hand gripping his throat. It was like assaulting a cast-iron pipe.
Clay gasped for air, his mind whirling, searching desperately, seeking any means of escape.
<
br /> HE HAD TO GET AIR...!
Pinwheels of light exploded before his face; a film of red bleared his sight.
His vision was fading from red to black....
HE WAS DYING....
By now, all rational analysis of what was happening had ceased, replaced by a gut-level battle for survival. He was no longer a sane, calm individual, a police officer in full control of the situation; rather he was a gagging, convulsing victim, helplessly caught up in a net of terror and the dreadful conviction that he was being murdered.
They were still a few feet from the front door, when she hurled his body through the air. He exploded through the doorway, double impacts sending shock waves of pain through his body as his legs caught one side of the doorjamb and his skull bounced off the other. His legs folded driving his knees into the pit of his stomach, and his head snapped forward as his body tore the screen door from its hinges, and he hit the porch in a mad roll, tumbling down the stairs.
Blood spewed in a bright red plume from his mouth and nose as he continued rolling insanely shoulder-over-shoulder on the densely packed snow. The mad ride finally ceased and he wound up spread-eagled on his back, gasping fitfully for air, and a good forty feet from the steps.
Dazed and in pain, he gazed blankly up into the sky.
Snowflakes whirled softly down from the heavens, gently settling on his face and eyelashes as the chill of the snow on the back of his neck slowly began to penetrate and awaken his senses. Deep in the recesses of his mind, he suspected that this couldn’t be happening, that he was home asleep in his bed in the throes of a terrible nightmare from which he would soon awaken. Jody would be by the bedside, a freshly brewed cup of coffee in hand and a smile on her lips as she gently welcomed him back to the real world.
He indulged in the fantasy for a moment, at peace with his situation. Then, very slowly, hot, mind-numbing pain began to seep into almost every part of his body.
The Plan Page 12
