by Brian Hodge
He followed the string down the corridor to the right and then, after a few paces, jolted to a stop. He stood there, staring straight ahead, his mouth gaping in amazement. Sprawled on the floor were more bodies—a lot more bodies—of those things. All around, the cave floor was stained deep brown with their blood. There were deep scuff marks in the dirt, signs that whatever struggle had occurred here had been ferocious.
So there are more of them, Bill thought, tensing as he knelt down, taking a little time to study the corpses.
At least all of them were dead, and there were no human bodies.
Still, he had no idea how this had happened or who might have done it. If there were— How many? Bill glanced around and counted the bodies sprawled on the cave floor. Seven dead creatures. That certainly didn't mean it was all of them. There could be dozens or hundreds of these things down here.
The hairs at the nape of his neck stirred as he considered that he might run headlong into one or more of these things. Without some kind of weapon, he might end up like these things, dead and forgotten in the depths of the earth. He thought longingly of the rifle he had in the closet back home and of the service revolver riding on Parkman's hip.
If only he had waited.
But he couldn't wait. If Kip was down here, he was in real danger.
When Bill stood up, the ligaments in his knees snapped, sounding like crackling ice underfoot. He had to decide which way to go now. If he went ahead unarmed and encountered any of these creatures alive, he was as good as dead. But if Kip was down here—and from what Marty had said and from what he had seen, he had every reason to think he was—then he had to find his son and get him out.
His empty hand clenched and unclenched as he directed the flashlight beam forward, then back the way he had come. A rapid pulse throbbed in his neck, and the hammering in his ears sounded like muffled drums booming deep within the cave. His thoughts churned like fetid swamp water, but he knew he had reached the only decision possible.
Armed or unarmed, if he didn't find out for sure if Kip was down here, he wouldn't want to survive the day.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he stepped over the bodies of the dead creatures and kept following the string—Kip's string, he was sure—deeper into the caves. He proceeded as slowly and as silently as possible, every nerve alive and tingling as he waited for some indication that the creatures were near. He had just turned a corner where the floor slanted downward when double thump of distant gunfire echoed in the tunnel.
5
Parkman left the station in a hurry to go back out to the accident site on the Limington Road. On his way there, he told Holden to go over to Bill Howard's house and help him check something out. He didn't say what, and it wasn't until the station door slammed shut behind Parkman that Holden realized something. He wasn't sure if the police chief meant Bill Howard's old house or the new one he was building out on Kaulback Road.
He strapped his service revolver onto his hip and went out to the cruiser, but when he tried to raise Parkman on the radio to clear up the confusion, he couldn't get him. Frustrated and angry because he would much rather have been out at the accident site instead of dicking around with Bill Howard, he started up the cruiser and headed out of town, figuring he'd check out the new house first.
A plume of dust spun high in the air as he pulled into the driveway and killed his engine. Hefting his gun belt, he stepped out of the car. He tilted his hat against the sun and looked up at the foundation site.
"Yo! Anyone here?" he shouted.
His voice bounced back from the surrounding woods with an oddly distorted echo. Wind hissed in the branches overhead, but other than that, there was no answer.
Holden swung the cruiser door shut, locked it, and pocketed the keys. As he started up the driveway toward the foundation, his shoes kicked up puffs of yellow dust. His polished leather belt was making loud squeaking sounds that reminded him of an old door hinge in need of oil. As much as he didn't want to admit it, the stillness that engulfed him was getting on his nerves.
"Howard! You here?" he called out. The echo from the woods made him think someone was hiding there, mimicking him.
Halfway to the foundation, he paused and scanned the area.
No car.
No Bill Howard.
No nothing.
He figured he must have guessed wrong and come to the wrong place, and was just about to turn to leave when a loud, sharp cracking sound, like a piece of wood breaking, drew his attention.
"You up there, Bill?" Holden yelled, cupping his hands to his mouth.
The sound had been real. He knew it wasn't just his imagination playing tricks on him. It had come from the foundation hole. He unsnapped his revolver and, resting his hand lightly on the gun butt, started slowly up the hill.
Again, louder, he heard the sound of wood splintering, and he looked up at the foundation just in time to see a small board, broken off at each end, fly up out of the foundation hole and land in the brush.
"Who's there?" Holden shouted as he eased the revolver from his holster. Crouching low, he continued up the hill until he could look down into the foundation hole. Deep shadows stained the ground floor.
"What the—?" he muttered, seeing no one there. The ground was marred, looking like someone had been down there recently. Probably Howard, he figured. But now it was empty. He wondered if maybe he had been hearing things, but when he glanced over at the brush, he could still see the splintered piece of wood lying there.
No, this is real, all right.
There was no way a piece of wood could fly up into the air on its own. There had to be someone down there, hiding, but where? Then he noticed what looked like a boarded-over doorway at the far end of the foundation. It was dark down there, even at this time of day, but as he stared at the doorway, he saw a ripple of motion behind the boards blocking it.
Someone's definitely hiding down there, he thought. Maybe someone was playing a practical joke... or maybe it was that missing kid.
Holden straightened up and jumped down into the foundation hole. With his revolver drawn, he approached the doorway, step by cautious step, straining to see if someone was boarded in behind the doorway. He backed up a quick step when the boards suddenly sagged outward. The loud cracking sound of rusty nails cried out as weight pressed against the boards.
"What the fuck is going on here?" Holden shouted, his voice low and commanding. "This is a police officer, and if you're—"
But he said no more. He didn't have the chance. His voice changed into a horrible, rising scream as the gray boards suddenly exploded outward in a shower of splinters. Holden stood there in disbelief as a mass of animals with snarling mouths and raking claws poured out of the doorway and bore down on him. They moved like a freight train, and Holden was frozen. He never had a chance to raise his revolver and shoot. In an instant, he was buried, crushed beneath a tangled mass of limbs. Claws slashed like razors through clothes and flesh, laying bare bones and spilling organs to the ground. Blood spurted in a wide arc from the gash in his throat. As he fell, his hand holding the revolver clenched involuntarily. The loud report of the gun cut through the angry squeals, silencing them, but only for an instant. The bullet lodged in one of the creatures' brains, but Holden never knew it. He was already dead and half-eaten by the time his body hit the ground.
6
The little brothers came at them from the front this time, and it was only the narrow corridor that saved Watson and Kip from being overwhelmed. After a quick glance backward, to make sure they were secure from the rear, they braced themselves for the attack. Kip didn't notice when his ball of string fell to the floor and bounced off into the darkness. He stood next to Watson, ready to fight side by side.
"Lots of 'em this time," Watson said. He never took his eyes off the oncoming untcigahunk. "I'm kinda wonderin' why they don't just swoop down on us."
"Maybe they've learned a bit of respect." Kip replied with a grim smile.
&nb
sp; Watson nodded. "Maybe they have..."
The corridor filled with the creatures' high-pitched squealing, but they suddenly fell silent when Watson took aim with his shotgun and cracked off two quick shots. Two untcigahunk in the front squealed as they crumpled to the floor. Brown-tinged blood poured from the holes in their chests.
"Too bad it ain't an automatic," Watson said as he snapped the breach open, letting the two spent shells drop out. He fished two fresh shells from his pants pocket.
Kip didn't have time to answer. Suddenly, three more untcigahunk leaped over the two dead ones and, shoulder to shoulder, charged. Kip swung at them with his torch like it was a baseball bat. Sparks exploded when he connected. One of the creatures spun away, clutching the seared flesh of its shoulder, but the other two pressed their charge, forcing Kip the move backwards.
With a second, wild swing, Kip connected with the head of another creature. This one dropped to the floor with a dull thud. Kip knew it wasn't dead. It glared up at him with hate-filled eyes. It was just too stunned to move for the moment. On pure reflex, he swung the torch down and jabbed it into the creature's up-turned face. With a horrible screech and a splattering deep-fry sound, it died.
"Keep your head down," Watson shouted, and once again, the shotgun blasted once... twice. Two more untcigahunk dropped to the floor, twitched, and died.
Kip glanced at Watson and saw the smile on his face.
Christ, he thought, turning to swing again as more little brothers moved toward them. He's actually enjoying this!
Using the torch like a sword, Kip lunged and thrust, forcing the little brothers to give ground. But as they pulled back, he held back, too, figuring they might be trying to lure him into a more open area where they could overwhelm them with their numbers. Like Watson had told him, these weren't dumb animals.
Kip was pressing his attack, but his blood suddenly froze when Watson let out a long, pained shout. He turned just in time to see that, somehow, at least one little brother had gotten behind them. He wasn't sure if it was the one whose face he had burned and left for dead or if it was another one that had come from one of the tunnels behinds them. The creature had landed squarely on Watson's back and was tearing at his hands. It looked like it was trying to take the shotgun away.
"Fuck you!" Kip yelled, the sound almost splitting his lungs. He spun around and charged, waving the torch at the little brother but careful not to burn Watson.
The old man's knees buckled beneath the weight of the creature as he lurched from side to side, slamming against the walls of the cave. In the flickering light, Watson's face looked like a vision from hell. His mouth was wide open, and his eyes glazed with pain as the creature's claws tore away shirtsleeve, muscle, and flesh. Blood sprayed everywhere.
At last, Watson positioned himself with his back to the wall and then, with a sudden, violent thrust back, smashed the untcigahunk into a projecting ledge. Now it was the creature's turn to squeal. Its eyes widened with pain and surprise, and a sudden hot wash of blood and vomit spewed from its mouth. Twitching, it dropped to the floor, dead, but as it fell, one of its claws snagged the torn flesh of Watson's arm, ripping the wound wider.
"Behind you," Watson said weakly as he, too, staggered and then fell to the floor, his body draped over the dead untcigahunk. The one-gallon can of gasoline hanging from his belt was dented out of shape, and it looked like it might be leaking.
Crouching defensively, Kip wheeled around, swinging his torch in as wide an arc as the narrow cave would allow. It connected with the head of a charging creature that fell, its skull crushed, its flesh singed. Kip swung and hit the creature again, but a loud crack sounded as the top of the torch splintered. Flames sputtered and fell to the cave floor as pieces of burning rag dropped.
"Here," Watson said, holding the shotgun out to Kip with one hand.
Kip grabbed the gun and, holding his torch high with one hand, tried to see how many little brothers were left.
Dark shapes—
Those same black shapes from my nightmares!
—loomed out of the darkness. As far back as he could see, pairs of eerily glowing eyes stared at him as they closed in.
Brandishing the shotgun, Kip backed up to where Watson was huddled on the fallen.
"Just shoot the fuckers," Watson groaned. "I'll reload if you can hold 'em off."
"How bad are you hurt?" Kip asked. His throat was raw, and he didn't dare take his eyes off the pairs of lamp-like eyes that were slowly approaching them.
"My arm," Watson said with a gasp. "It's purty bad, though."
Kip saw that Watson's right arm was hanging uselessly at his side. With one hand, he braced the shotgun on his hip, aimed, and, pulled the trigger. Pain shot up his back when the gunstock slammed into his leg, but he smiled with satisfaction when another one of the creatures dropped dead, half of its face missing.
"That's it, boy," Watson croaked. "Make every shot count."
Kip cracked off another shot and then, holding the torch straight out to keep the creatures at bay, passed the shotgun back to Watson to reload. After a few tense seconds, as the creatures snarled and hissed at them, Watson tapped him gently on the leg and handed him the reloaded shotgun. Kip fired two more times, and two more little brothers died with howls of pain.
Kip wasn't sure if it was the flaming torch or the sound of the gunshots, but something was keeping the untcigahunk back. After several more double rounds and reloads, the corridor fell silent. A few survivors, some of them wounded, skittered off into the darkness, leaving their dead behind. The carcasses of dead creatures littered the cave floor. With the shotgun loaded and ready, Kip cautiously approached them to make sure none of them were faking death.
Most of them were stone cold, but a few had some life left in them. They snarled and hissed, exposing their sharp teeth as they clawed at the ground, still trying as death approached to grab and hold.
As he edged close to the wounded creatures, Kip drew his knife and then, with quick slashes, slit the throats of all of them, dead and still living. His stomach heaved, and he almost puked as blood gushed from the wounds. As they died, the untcigahunk uttered faint, angry squeals that sounded almost like words. The baleful light in their eyes gradually dimmed as they died, leaving the cave in total silence. It didn't make Kip feel any better, knowing that he had put them out of their misery. After all, he and Watson had caused the misery in the first place, and if he had his way, he'd inflict a lot more misery on them.
When he went back to Watson to inspect his wound, his stomach tightened even more, and again he almost vomited. Watson's shirtsleeve had been torn away, and the untcigahunk's claws had laid open his arm from shoulder to elbow. Loose flaps of skin hung in pink chunks, and blood was gushing down Watson's side down to his pant's cuff. In the center of the wound, Kip could see a pearly knob of elbow bone.
But it was the glazed look in the old man's eyes that really worried him. He didn't know much about medicine, but he would bet Watson was close to being in shock if he wasn't already.
"We got enough of them," Kip said. "I got to get you out of here and to a doctor." He opened the canteen and splashed water over the wound. In the torchlight, the blood ran in thin pink streams down Watson's side. The old man's fingers twitched uncontrollably.
Propped up against the cave wall, Watson rolled his head from side to side. "No way, Jose," he said, gasping to take a breath. With his good hand, he grabbed the canteen and chug-a-lugged some water. The last mouthful, he swished in his mouth and spat onto the ground.
"Don't be stupid," Kip said.
"Who you callin' stupid, boy?"
"We don't have to keep going. We taught these bastards a lesson, and if you really want to kill more of them, we can wait until your arm's better and come back."
Again, Watson shook his head. "That place—" His voice choked off with a bubbly sound, and he took another sip of water before continuing. "That place back there was where they used to breed. We gotta find t
heir new nest. We gotta use the gasoline we got to burn 'em out. Otherwise, they're gonna be some pissed off, 'n if they're pissed, all of 'em are gonna come out of the caves. Maybe tonight! I don't wanna think about what could happen to the town if they did that."
Kip was shaking his head the whole time Watson was talking.
"We've done what we came to do," he said. "Let's get out of here while we still can. Hurt like you are, we'll be lucky to get out alive."
"Come on," Watson said. Bracing himself, he pushed his back against the wall and slid to a standing position. His blood-soaked shirt left a wide smear of blood on the rock wall. "You carry the shotgun from now on. Don't worry 'bout me. I'll cover your ass."
Kip winced as he looked at the tangle of meat that had been Watson's right arm. "You sure you can hang in there?"
Watson forced a tight smile. "Does a frog have a water-tight asshole?" he said gruffly. It was obvious his right arm was useless, but he gripped the flashlight tightly with his good hand. The can of gasoline sloshed at his side.
"Let's go," he said. He walked unsteadily, stepping over the dead untcigahunk, and proceeded down the corridor looking like something out of Night of the Living Dead.
At the first turn in the cave, Kip realized his ball of string was missing. He swore softly to himself as he looked back the way they'd come, but he didn't see it. He decided not to mention it to Watson. Let him trust to his compass from now on.
They followed what looked like the most well-trodden trail and, about a half mile farther along, came to where the cave suddenly sloped down into another wide open area.
"Holy mother of God," Kip whispered as he stared into the chamber. This one was different from the one they had previously discovered. Narrower at the top, it spiraled down in a series of tight, concentric rings with exposed ledges. Kip took the flashlight from Watson and directed it into the hole, shocked by what he saw. Perched on the sides of the chamber in tightly-packed groups were, literally, thousands of untcigahunk. Blinking their eyes in the sudden burst of light, they looked up. Their eyes reflected back a shimmering yellow glow as they started chattering angrily. The sound was like dry, rattling bones, but—at least so far—none of them moved to attack.
