by Paul Zindel
“The guides tell everyone at Stonehenge how the moon is on a nineteen-year cycle,” Alma said. “That the moon doesn’t rise in the same positions every year like the sun does. It has a wobbly, elliptical orbit. It repeats its exact path only every nineteen years.”
TICK
Alma heard the sound and stopped breathing.
TICK TICK
“I hear ticking,” Alma said. She looked at a big-faced timer on the wall. “It’s the timer.”
“The timer’s electric,” Jackson said. “It doesn’t tick.”
TICK TICK TICK
Alma felt fingers of ice crawl around her heart.
TICK
The sound came from the wall behind them.
“Probably a steam pipe behind the wall,” Jackson said.
“There’s no wall or pipes there,” Alma said. “This is a half cellar—there’s just the cinder block and a small window. They covered it with plywood to make the darkroom.”
The timer sounded. Jackson unscrewed the circular canister.
“What are you doing?” Alma said.
“The film has to be washed with water and fixed or it’ll overdevelop.”
“You’re making noise.”
“I have to.”
“Skull Face is outside. Maybe he can see the red light. It could be leaking through the cracks of the top window. Or it could be the soldiers with guns.”
TICK TICK TICK
The sounds were loud and clear now, like a Geiger counter hitting a vein of uranium. Alma put out the light.
“Hey, I can’t see,” Jackson said. He clutched the strip of negatives. Skull Face or no Skull Face, he had to rinse the chemicals off. He reached out in the dark, found the cold handle of the sink’s faucet, and turned it on. He felt the cold rush of water hit the strip of negatives and hoped it would be enough to save the pictures. “Give me the goggles.”
“I won’t be able to see.”
“I need them.”
She held his arm as she took off the goggles. As he put them on, the ticking sounds from behind the wall came faster, louder. Seen through the night-vision goggles, everything in the darkroom was an eerie green. He held the film against the porcelain of the sink, saw the negatives of the shots Alma had taken of the soldiers canvassing the cemetery. Next on the strip was the shot of him and the dune buggy.
“We got something,” he said. “It still needs a fixing bath.”
“Shhhhhhh.”
Something was captured in the flash shots of the cave. Negative images of snakes, and stones—and the smiling faces of little hominids.
CRASH
The sounds of breaking glass broke the silence of the darkroom. A split second later the plywood wall itself shattered, and a monstrous, gnarled arm flew in at them. The claws of the huge hand swept in a wide arc, straining to hook into its prey.
Alma screamed in the darkness. She knew from the sounds what was happening, felt Jackson grab her hand and pull her toward the door of the darkroom. In a moment he had the door unlocked and open, and was traveling fast toward the cellar doors.
Jackson looked over his shoulder, saw the creature bursting into the darkroom like a leviathan being born from an immense exploding egg.
Jackson hit his shoulder against the cellar doors. They wouldn’t budge. Alma understood what he was doing, and pushed with him. Instantly she understood something chilling. “It’s locked the doors!” she screamed. “Skull Face locked us in!”
“Stop screaming.”
“It’s smarter than us!”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It’s going to get us!”
She reached out desperately for Jackson. He put his arm around her, pulled her back into the cremation room.
TICK TICK
Jackson faded left with Alma, putting the cage of the furnace between them and the monstrosity as it emerged from the destroyed darkroom.
“What’s happening?” Alma screamed.
Jackson couldn’t speak. The creature moved slowly toward them. Alma reached out, felt the metal of the furnace cage as they and the monstrosity circled it. Jackson kept one eye on Skull Face, another searching for a weapon—anything. “How do they get the ashes out of the furnace?” he asked Alma.
“There’s a gate,” she said. She realized what he was thinking. “You can open it.”
“Where is it?”
“Facing the far wall.”
The creature kept to Jackson’s pace, its burning eyes staring out from the shadowed sockets of its skull. Its head was tilted and alert. Jackson knew its brain was on full reconnoiter, with dark, glistening fluids leaking from the crater that was its nose. Its twisted fangs stretched its lips wide.
“Can you see the gate?” Alma asked.
Jackson glanced left for a split second. The creature’s head twitched as it picked up on Jackson scanning the obstacle between them.
“How does it open?” Jackson asked quickly.
“It opens in—there’s no lock.”
A shovel leaned against the furnace cage. Jackson waited until he was in position.
TICK TICK
“Go!” Jackson yelled, pushing Alma in through the gate. He pressed her head low, guiding it under the gas jets. Skull Face roared at the sudden move, came hurtling down the length of the cage. Jackson grabbed the shovel and dove inside after Alma. He jammed the latch with the shovel, and the latch held.
The goggles had slipped from Jackson’s eyes, and he worked fast to set them straight. He saw that he and Alma were lying in a long metal tray beneath the gas jets.
“Are we safe?” Alma asked.
Jackson pulled her toward him, centering them both where the creature’s claws couldn’t reach them. “We’re safe.” He saw the specks on their clothes. “Is this tray used for what I think it’s used for?”
Alma flattened her hand beneath her and felt the cold metal. “Yes.”
Jackson felt nauseous.
All sounds stopped.
“What’s going on?” Alma asked from her darkness.
Jackson surveyed the perimeter of the cage. “I can’t see the creature.”
TICK
The sound was above them now. An odor like rotting flesh wafted down, and Jackson laid his head back against the cold trough. He focused past the bed of gas jets. Skull Face was looking at him. The monster lay still on top of the furnace cage, staring intently, mucus from its nose dripping down upon Jackson’s neck. From within the deathly glare of the monster’s eyes small black pupils glared with a gruesome cunning.
“Skull Face is on top of the cage,” Jackson said.
“What’s he doing?”
“I think he’s memorizing us.”
The monstrosity turned to glare at Alma. Jackson was thankful she couldn’t see. Drippings from the creature hit her arm, and she rubbed at the liquid, thinking it was condensation from the metal cage. The membrane covering Skull Face’s head sparkled like a ghastly veil, a horrid, transparent mask binding the huge skull.
“Where are the soldiers?” Alma asked. “They must have heard the noise—heard me screaming.”
“They could have thought the sounds came from the mill,” Jackson said. “They’ll come—don’t worry.”
TICK TICK
The hands of the creature crept like spiders along the sides of the cage. Its claws dug around the welded joints, seeking out any weak spots.
“How do you turn on the gas jets?” Jackson asked.
“Why?”
“Just tell me.”
“There’s a floor valve outside the gate.”
Jackson turned onto his side. He could see the valve, with its flat chrome handle.
“What lights the gas?”
“A pilot light. It’s automatic. Oh, God, you’re going to cook us, aren’t you?” said Alma.
As Jackson reached out toward the valve, Skull Face returned its stare to him. Its fetid breath burned in Jackson’s nostrils as the reach of his arm and fingertips fell sh
ort of the valve handle. He saw a thin, metal rod, like those used to reinforce cement. He managed to grasp it with his left hand. Quietly he told Alma, “I’m turning on the furnace. Heat rises, right?”
“How do I know?” Alma said. “I’ve never been at the bottom of a barbecue before!” She turned to shield her head but moved too near the cage wall.
ROAR
Skull Face thrust its right arm into the top side of the cage. A series of welding joints gave way, and the monster’s claws hooked into Alma’s jacket. She screamed as the creature began to lift her entire body into the air and drag her closer.
“No!” Jackson cried out. He gave a last thrust at the gas valve with the metal rod, then swung the rod fast and hard at the creature’s grisly arm. Its claws were locked on Alma’s jacket as Jackson managed to pull her arms out of the sleeves. The beast shrieked, shredding the jacket like paper.
There were growls from another animal
Alma recognized the sounds. “Coffin!” she cried out in the dark.
Jackson saw the huge, shaggy dog. Coffin had entered through the demolished window and plywood of the half-cellar wall, and lay crouched in the darkroom doorway. Teeth bared, he remembered his last encounter with the beast.
Alma heard the hiss and smelled the sickening sweetness of the gas as it discharged from the cluster of furnace jets.
“Scat, Coffin,” Alma cried. The flames would light the windows, and even through the fog the soldiers would see the burst of light. They would come running and save them with their guns.
But something was wrong.
“The gas isn’t lighting!” Jackson shouted.
“The pilot light must be out. You need a match.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Then shut the valve off—or we’ll all die!”
Jackson rolled onto his stomach, inched closer to the gate. He heard Skull Face scrambling on the cage above, saw the hideous arms and lethal claws hovering about the sides of the cage. Jackson looked for a discarded wood match on the floor, an old cigarette lighter—anything. The smell of the gas was stronger. He reached for the valve.
ROAR
Skull Face’s hand swooped down, and Jackson recoiled. He felt a pain in his leg as though he had rolled onto a pen.
The piece of flint in his pocket.
The monster raged above him, both its arms now digging into the cage. A strip of welding gave way as Jackson grasped the triangle of flint. He pulled it from his pocket and struck up toward the rough metal of the gas jets. The stone hit and hit again, but there was no spark. He pulled Alma toward him as the creature’s arms crashed down through the cage, scraping frantically.
Jackson thrust out the flint a third time.
There was a spark and a rapid whooshing sound. He saw the cloud of gas ignite, a dance of light that circled like a ghost, then settled onto the gas jets with the roar of a monstrous acetylene torch. Jackson saw the shock on the monster’s face as the white heat whirled upward. Like a tick on a burning match cover, the monster sprang whole from the cage, landing against the far wall. It shrieked, its flesh on fire as it fled for the cellar door. With a single motion it burst the doors from their hinges.
Alma had felt the searing heat on her face and seen the burning. The rage of the fire was above them. She heard Coffin barking, saw him race after Skull Face. “Come back, Coffin!” she screamed. “Comeback!”
Jackson pulled the goggles from his face and was the first one out of the furnace cage. He shut off the gas valve, then turned, reached out to Alma’s grasping hands, and pulled her out after him.
Shadows and excited voices flew by the cellar windows. The soldiers were running, closing in. Soldiers with guns, Alma reminded herself. She ran to the cellar doors, scrambling up the steps. Jackson was fast behind her.
“Don’t shoot!” Alma yelled, hoping the soldiers would hear. She wanted them to understand everything instantly, magically. That it was only she and Jackson. That it was Coffin chasing after the beast in the fog.
CRAAACK CRAAACK.
Two rifle shots.
Then silence.
Alma shuddered at the sight beyond the handful of young soldiers rushing to surround her. “No!” she cried as she pushed past them, running toward the heap of shaggy gray fur lying on the plain.
11
ESCAPE
Dr. Cawley awoke from the heavy sedatives Dr. Nielsen and Sister Thornton-Sherwood had injected into her. She had been trapped in a nightmare, a horrid dream in which squirming, unearthly larvae were threatening to break out of a box no matter how tightly she held the lid shut.
When she opened her eyes, she realized she was in her hospital room. Her throat was dry and she was aware of a painful, raw sensation deep in her jaws. She tried to lift her hands to her face but couldn’t. It took several moments more before she realized she was in a restraining harness.
“Nurse,” she said. Her first words were an effort, but her mind seemed free of Ramid. Thoughts soon came clearly, seemed so completely her own that she considered the possibility that the army might have killed the monster. She raised her head and looked around the room, half expecting to see a guard.
She was alone.
An ugly green plastic pitcher of water sat on her bedstand. She tried to reach it, but her hands had only a few inches of leeway in the white cloth harnesses. She pulled gently to test the straps around the aluminum bed sides. They held.
The cord of the emergency signal had been pinned to a fold in the sheet near her hand. She pressed the button.
“What do you want?” came Sister Thornton-Sherwood’s irritated voice over the room speaker.
“Water,” Dr. Cawley said. “Please, may I have a drink of water?”
“When we have time.”
“Please help me!”
“Shouting won’t get us there any faster,” Sister Thornton-Sherwood assured her.
“Please!”
Dr. Cawley heard the hum of the open speaker click off. She knew no one was listening any longer, that it was Sister Thornton-Sherwood’s revenge. She thought about threatening the nurse, telling her she’d report her to Tillman and Rath, but logic told her the army must have given its approval for the harness. She pulled again on the bindings, knowing they were strong enough to restrain a gorilla.
There was a tearing sound.
At first Dr. Cawley thought she had torn the fragile material of her hospital gown. She glanced down to her left wrist and saw it was one of the straps that had torn. She tugged again, this time pulling both hands toward her chest.
The metal restrainers bent. Before they broke, the bindings ripped free.
Dr. Cawley realized she had become strong.
Very strong.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Sitting up, she grabbed the water pitcher and drank. Too fast, she thought, as she felt cold drippings on her legs. Her mouth hurt as if she’d had major gum surgery. She raised her hands to her face and felt a painful swelling.
What is going on? she thought as she slid into her slippers and shuffled into the bathroom.
The image in the mirror took her breath away. Her lips and mouth were puffed up, as though someone had punched her. She moved closer, where the light from a fluorescent bulb was cruelly bright. If she’d fallen on her face, she’d stick it to Thornton-Sherwood and the hospital until they cried blood. She lifted her upper lip.
Her teeth looked okay.
She felt a rawness beneath her gums, and stretched her lip higher. The gums were bleeding. She remembered her shouting. The invading thoughts intermittently controlling her were so powerful, they thrust her lower jaw forward as if straining to reshape her face into a muzzle.
“What are you doing out of bed?” came Sister Thornton-Sherwood’s reprimanding voice behind her. “How did you get out of your harness?”
Dr. Cawley turned from the mirror to see a hypodermic needle poised. Reflexively, her lips stretched wide, grotesquely. Her jaws trembled with a
new power, and she let out a rumbling growl.
Sister Thornton-Sherwood’s mouth opened, tried to form a cry.
With instinctive speed and power Dr. Cawley clamped one hand over the nurse’s mouth. With her other hand she relieved the nurse of the hypodermic and plunged its needle into her scraggly thin neck like a dart. Sister Thornton-Sherwood struggled violently in Dr. Cawley’s grip, a silent, shaking bird, until she was asleep.
Dr. Cawley lifted Sister Thornton-Sherwood gently into her bed, quickly removed the white shoes and cap, and got her own coat from a tall metal cabinet. She put her makeup kit and radio into a shopping bag, left the room, and started down a set of fire stairs.
Nine flights down.
She found her paisley scarf in the coat pocket, wrapped it around her neck, and pulled it high to cloak her face. When she emerged from the stairwell, a guard held a paper cup at a coffee machine.
“Good night,” Dr. Cawley said.
“Night,” the guard said without looking up.
The wind was chilling as Dr. Cawley came out the main entrance. A solitary cab waited beneath the streetlight of a taxi stand. She headed for it. A young mustachioed driver wearing an earring interrupted his tea and cake, got out, and opened the door for her.
“Thank you,” Dr. Cawley said, as she got into the backseat as ladylike as she could muster.
The driver got back behind the wheel, grunted, and threw open the glass partition. “Where to?”
“Salisbury,” Dr. Cawley said. “As quickly as possible.”
The driver laughed when he heard the accent. “You’re from the States?”
“Yes,” Dr. Cawley said.
“Well,” he said, “it’s different over here. Taxis don’t take you a hundred kilometers whenever you feel like it. We say, ‘Take the train.’”
Her thoughts began to fade and churn. The hostile power was taking control of her mind again and her jaw ached. Ramid’s thinking of me, she told herself. Ramid’s come back into my head.
“Take me… to Salisbury,” she repeated.
“You need a bus, lady.” The driver took a bite of his cake.
