by Brian Hodge
Kip acted fast. He took three flares from his backpack and quickly lit one. The tunnel instantly filled with baleful red light, and the response from the gathered untcigahunk was immediate; they let out angry hisses and squeals as they shied back.
Watson looked over his shoulder at Kip, his face split by a wide grin. Kip had the impression that, for the first time in Watson's life, he felt truly alive. The ecstasy of battle made the old Indian's face positively beam with pleasure.
"Good move," he said as he slammed his shotgun shut, took aim, and cracked off two more shots. Two more black shapes curled up and dropped, their claws grasping futilely at the gaping holes in their chests.
"Lob one at 'em," Watson said. "See what happens."
Kip cocked his arm back and threw the flare at the mass of creatures. It spun end over end, then dropped into the middle of them. The effect was even better than Watson or Kip could have hoped for. Screeching with pain, the untcigahunk scurried away into the recesses of the cave. The wild, gibbering sounds of their hasty retreat echoed along the corridor and slowly faded.
Watson and Kip were left alone; and if it hadn't been for the stench of burned flesh, the smoke from the flares, and the bodies of seven dead untcigahunk on the floor, neither one of them would have been able to accept what they had just been through as real. The flickering red glow of the dying flare was the only remnant of their vision of hell... and hell, Kip thought, is where we are heading!
"Well," Watson said, using his shirt sleeve to wipe the sweat from his face, "what 'd yah think of that?"
Kip stood in the middle of the corridor, thoroughly exhausted. He shook his head from side to side, unable to get rid of the feeling that all of this was some elaborate nightmare—that maybe when he finally woke up, he'd find that everything... maybe all the way back to when his mother had died... had been a nightmare. He'd wake up, no longer twelve years old, but a trembling seven-year-old, being comforted in his bed by his mother.
Watson held out his hand to Kip. "A splash of water might not be such a bad idea now, huh?" he said. His fingers were trembling.
Afraid his knees were going to buckle, Kip leaned against the cave wall. Numbly he slung the canteen off his shoulder and handed it to Watson, who unscrewed the cap, tilted back his head, and took a generous swig. Smacking his lips, he closed his eyes, trying to imagine the fiery sting of whiskey as the lukewarm water trickled down his throat.
It took them several minutes to re-organize, but at last, with shotgun reloaded, the flashlight, knife and torch in hand, they started down the corridor. The flare Kip had tossed lay sputtering in the dirt. Its dull red light cast weird, twisted shadows on the wall as they went by it.
As he stepped over the dead creatures, Kip couldn't help but stare at their faces. They lay on the floor where they had fallen, their bodies twisted in awkward positions, their mouths wide open in silent death screams. The dull, angry glow had gone from their eyes, but there was still a... an evilness was the only word that came to his mind. He felt fear and revulsion twist in his gut like hot bile. He wanted to run, screaming, away from them; but at the same time, he wanted to pause and look closely at the faces of his mother's killers, to burn them into his memory so he could finish what he had set out to do.
The corridor was eerily silent as they made their way down the narrow, stone throat, deeper into the earth. They kept pausing and looking backward and forward, determined not to let the untcigahunk catch them the slightest bit off guard. At last, they came to a place where the corridor branched off.
"Well?" Kip said, craning his neck to look down each of the passageways.
Watson positioned himself with his back to the wall and then shined the flashlight down on his compass. He looked up at Kip and smiled weakly. "Your choice this time," he said.
Without hesitating, Kip nodded at the corridor to the right. "Let's try this one for a bit," he said, and, raising his torch high, led the way.
As they followed the twisting corridor, the cave sloped gradually upward for quite a distance, and there were no other corridors branching off. Kip and Watson both began to suspect this was one of the passageways to the surface, not the way to the underground "nest."
At last, Kip halted. "What do you think?" he asked.
Watson shrugged and took another glance at his compass. "In spite of all the turns in the tunnel, we're goin' basically in one direction, 'n by my figurin', this seems to be leadin' us to the cellar hole in your father's building."
Kip swallowed hard, trying to force down the dry lump that had formed in his throat, but the idea that he was in the same tunnel they had taken five years ago to get to the surface—the same tunnel they had come through when they killed his mother—was too much for him.
It might have just been the curved walls of the cave, but Kip was flooded by the sudden fear that the blackness was returning and closing in on his mind from all sides. He made a strangled, whimpering sound in his throat and had to catch himself from falling.
"Whoa, there. You all right?" Watson said. He darted forward and grabbed Kip by the arm.
The torchlight and the beam of Watson's flashlight shattered into spinning, watery circles as Kip's eyes widened with fear. His breath caught in his lungs like bubbling water, and a cry would have come tearing from his mouth if it hadn't been blocked in his constricted throat.
"Probably you're getting—what's the word for bein' scared of closed places?" Watson said. "Claustrophobia. Maybe that's what's gettin' to yah."
Kip regarded the old man, trying to find an anchor of security in his craggy face.
Maybe, he thought, this old man really is crazy—both of us are crazy for even thinking we could do this and get out of it alive.
And, he thought, his terror mounting until it felt like lava, about to bubble over the top, maybe that's the bottom line; I—and maybe Watson, too, for his own crazy reasons—want to die!
Tears welled up in his eyes, making the lights in the tunnel blur. It was all so goddamned crazy! No matter how many Dr. Fieldings or John Watsons he dealt with, and no matter how many little brothers they killed, he was never... never going to get rid of that swirling darkness that nibbled at the edges of his mind.
"Come on!" Watson said. He slung the shotgun in the crook of his arm and heartily clapped Kip on the shoulder. "This ain't the time to fall apart, you know. I'm dependin' on yah."
Kip tried to say something... anything. He opened his mouth, but nothing even came close to coming out.
Watson's face creased with concern, and—Kip wondered—was that love and respect written on his features? Could he really count on this man? Could he really call him his... friend?
That, after all, might be the craziest part of this whole thing—that when Kip needed a real friend, he hadn't turned to his buddies, or to his father, or even—as a last resort—to Marty; he had hooked up with a drunken, old Indian who was probably as dangerous as a rattlesnake.
"Come on, boy," Watson said, his grip on Kip's arms tightening until it hurt. "We're in it all the way now, 'n there's no sense fallin' apart."
"I... I know," Kip managed to say, but the words came out forced and feeble.
"Maybe, when this is all over, when we're outta here, we can both fall apart."
In his mind, he pictured himself falling back onto his couch, a pint of whiskey—hell, make it a fifth— gripped tightly in his hand.
"But not now," he added. "Not when there's a job to do."
The waves of darkness and fear began to subside... just a little; either that or, Kip thought, he was just plain old getting used to living with that blackness on the edge of his mind. He slowly nodded and took a deep, shuddering breath of the damp cave air.
"Yeah," he said, still fighting to control his voice. "Yeah... I'm okay... now."
"Good, then," Watson said as he let his hand fall away from the boy's shoulder. He gripped the shotgun and gave it a firm shake. "There's no sense following this tunnel 'cause I don't want to go bac
k above ground. Not yet, anyway. You with me?"
He turned and started back down the corridor the way they had come. The flames on the torch fluttered as Kip hurried to close the distance behind them.
When they got back to where the corridor divided, Kip's hands were still shaking as he lit another road flare and, kneeling, carefully planted it in the dirt in the center of the tunnel they had just left. Watson stood guard, watching the tunnel in both directions for any sign of the untcigahunk.
"It's too damned quiet," he said softly.
Kip looked up from where he crouched on the floor. "Maybe we scared them all away."
Watson snorted with laughter. "You keep forgettin' that these ain't animals we're dealin' with."
Kip almost said something about how neither one of them could be all that brilliant for coming down here in the first place, but he let it pass and instead just chuckled to himself to relieve his tension.
With the flare burning brightly behind them, they started down the corridor that branched off to the left. They had gone no more than fifty feet when the little brothers attacked again.
4
Bill was winded when he got back to the house, but he barely took time to catch his breath, get a quick drink of water, and tell Marty what he was doing before he grabbed a flashlight from the cupboard and then reached for the telephone. He hurriedly dialed the police station. On the second ring, Parkman picked up.
"Harry—this is Bill. I've been out and was just checking back to see if you—"
"No, I haven't," Parkman said, sounding impatient. "I haven't had a chance yet. You all right? You sound out of breath."
"I'm okay," Bill said after taking a slow, deep inhalation. "Been out to the Indian Caves."
"Uh-huh?"
"I'm not sure, but someone—I think it might have been Kip—moved the stone in the back and has gone into the tunnel. Do you know what I'm talking about?"
Parkman cleared his throat. "I haven't been out there in years, but yeah, there's a tunnel leading back from the front chamber. What makes you think it's Kip?"
"I just—" Bill looked up at the ceiling. "It seems like something he might do. Look, Harry, I know you've been busy, but I'm asking you now, as a friend, will you meet me at the house and come with me out to the caves?"
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Bill listened to Parkman's steady breathing.
"Someone's gone in there, and whoever it is, they might be in trouble."
"Right, and I told you, I'm still dealing with the trouble we had out on Limington Road last night."
"You also told me you'd have at least twenty men by noon," Bill said. He could tell Parkman was in no mood to be pushed, so he made an extra effort to be calm. "All I'm asking is that you come with me out to the Indian Caves and see what's going on out there."
Again, there was a long pause, and Bill waited tensely.
"Okay, look. I've got just a bit more to do on this accident report. Then I'll be over. Give me fifteen minutes, half an hour, tops. Can you wait that long?"
"Sure," Bill said, glancing anxiously at the kitchen clock and trying not to feel as though every minute counted.
"Okay," Parkman said, "I'll be over then. If I get tied up, I'll send Holden, okay?"
"Half an hour," Bill said.
"At the most," Parkman answered and, without another word, hung up.
Bill wished he could feel better about all of this, but he didn't. He couldn't stop thinking that someone—in all likelihood Kip—was down inside that cave and maybe in trouble. He turned to Marty, who was lingering in the doorway.
"Parkman on his way here. Tell him to meet me out at the Indian Caves, all right?"
"Sure," Marty said, nodding. From what he had overheard of the phone conversation, he had some idea what was happening. His concern for Kip deepened, but he tried not to let it show.
"Okay. Great," Bill said, and, gripping the flashlight tightly in one hand, he ran out the door and into the field. The knee-high grass swished at his legs as he ran toward the woods. Every now and then a thorn or thistle would snag his pant leg. The sun beat down on him with savage heat, and it wasn't long before his shirt was soaked with sweat. He kept telling himself that he'd get his second wind, but right now, his lungs ached like he was inhaling fire.
He followed the path back to the Indian Caves, and the cooler air of the woods quenched the fire in his lungs at least a little. Dodging low-hanging branches and leaping over rotting deadfalls, he quickened his pace until he saw the turn in the path that led to the caves. He slowed his pace until he arrived, panting, at the cave entrance.
Before entering, though, he stretched his legs to avoid cramping. With his hands on his knees and his head down, he took several deep, rasping breaths. Even the small amount of water he had drunk at home sloshed in his belly, sending out needle-sharp cramps.
He knew he should wait for Parkman to show up, but he also was anxious to get into the cave and find out what had happened. If Kip was in there—if Kip was hurt— every second could mean the difference between life and death. Finally—after a wait which, according to his watch, was just over four minutes—he snapped on his flashlight and entered the cave.
Inside, the air was chilly. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his back. Crouching low, he picked up the string and let it slide through his hands as he started down the passageway. His only thought was—what will I find at the end?
He got some idea when he found the first dead untcigahunk facedown in the dirt a short way inside the cave. At first, he thought it was a dead child.
Christ, no! Please don't let it be Kip!
But then he saw it for the grotesque thing it was.
Even stretched out, the creature was short, not more than four feet tall. The skin was a roughly textured brown that looked more like tree bark than flesh. The arms and legs, though thin, were well-muscled, and the clawed hands looked sharp enough and powerful enough to gut a cow with one swipe.
The creature's chest and one side of its face had been blown away, obviously by a shotgun blast. Bill looked around until he saw two empty shotgun shells in the dirt. Picking them up, he sniffed each. The smell of spent gun-powder was strong. He threw the casings down and turned back to the dead creature.
It was the one remaining eye—cold and dead—that fascinated him. It was too large for the creature's head. Then he realized that, if this creature lived underground, larger eyes made sense. Didn't fish and other creatures that lived deep within caves all have bulging eyes like this? He couldn't push aside the impression that when the creature had been alive, the eyes must have flashed with an intelligent evil.
He wished he could bring himself to touch the thing, if only to make sure it was dead. He might be able to determine how long it had been dead. Certainly the signs of the scuffle looked fresh. The blood that had puddled on the cave floor was barely congealed.
Worst of all, he couldn't help but be afraid that something like—if there were more of them—might harm Kip.
If he's in these caves, could he have killed this... this thing?
And if not him... who?
Bill spent several minutes studying the dead creature, feeling equally horrified and fascinated. In spite of its pointed, ratlike face and hooked claws, it had an almost human cast to its features. In many ways, it looked like what Bill would have imagined a goblin would look like, an odd distortion, almost a parody of humanity.
Even in death, the thing looked evil. The mouth was open, exposing a row of tiny, backward pointing, chisel-shaped teeth. Bill could imagine how teeth like that could grab hold as they worked their way through an arm or leg. And those claws...
But what in the name of Christ was this thing?
Cautiously Bill licked his fingertips and brought them close to the creature's nostrils to feel if there was any trace of breath. As his trembling fingers came closer to that savage, open mouth, he expected the creature to lurch up suddenly and bite his hand, swallowing it to
the wrist and grinding its teeth back and forth as muscle and bone ripped apart.
"You're dead meat," Bill muttered when he didn't feel even the faintest stirring of breath on his fingers. He sat back on his heels and let out a slow, whistling breath. Now more than ever, he wished he had waited for Parkman. If there were any more creatures like this one in the caves, Parkman, at least, would have a gun.
Balanced against his caution was his escalating fear that Kip was in the caves. Bill stood up and, holding the string loosely in his hand, continued down the corridor, now certain that Kip was down there and in serious trouble.
The string played loosely through his fingers as he followed it. When he came to the downward incline, he skittered down the slope and cautiously crossed the open chamber. He couldn't help but notice the bats, swirling around overhead, and the fresh tracks that led across the accumulated mat of rotting bat shit.
But the thought that Kip might be at the end of the string—and the deeper, scarier thought that he might be injured or worse—pushed aside any uneasiness he felt about bats or not waiting for Parkman or anything else he might encounter in the cave.
He had to find Kip.
He crossed the chamber without incident, pausing every now and then to direct his beam to one side or another when he thought he saw something wiggling in the thick mat of bat shit on the cave floor. Letting go of the string, which had grown taut in the center of the chamber, he scrambled up the slope where, from halfway across the chamber, he had noticed a dull red glow. He didn't know if he was relieved or not when he found a burning road flare flickering in one of the entrances.
He knew Kip didn't have a shotgun, and he was pretty sure he didn't have access to road flares, so if Kip was down here, he had to be with someone else. Judging by the footprints he saw in the bat shit, it looked like two people had passed through here recently—a kid and an adult.
When he turned to look back at the chamber, he saw for the first time the glow of another road flare in one of the branching tunnels behind him. He couldn't help but wonder what all of this was for, but he was encouraged when he realized that whoever had lit the flare had done so within the last half hour or so. Those things don't burn much longer than that.
