The Gorge

by Scott Nicholson

  Farrengalli skinned up Raintree’s devastated leg like a summer camper climbing a greased pole for a watermelon. Just before abandoning him and scaling the rope, Farrengalli reached for the belt, tugging at the fanny pack that held the cell phone.

  Raintree closed his eyes, focused the LSD chaos into a gleaming beacon of purpose, and jabbed his thumb into the back of Farrengalli’s hand. Farrengalli yelped and let go of the belt. Raintree laughed again.

  Two points for a reversal, but the ref was still counting him down and out.

  The rope wiggled, sending electric fire though his body. The oxy was letting him down when he needed it most.

  Letting him down.

  When he was all hung up.

  He laughed again, as Farrengalli’s weight was lifted from him. Then he heard Dove’s voice again.

  “Robert!”

  Robert. She said his name with affection and urgency. The way she might if they had made love “Help me pull the rope up,” she shouted.

  “Fuck, no! The crazy redskin tried to scalp my ass.”

  “Help me. I’m not strong enough-”

  “Sorry, babe. You’re a good lay and all that, but you’re on your own. Don’t you fucking get it? We’ve all been on our own all along.”

  Odd, Raintree thought, blood pooling in his head and making him dizzy even as it leaked down the granite wall. The river should be falling out of the sky any minute now.

  He thought of the two of them below him, naked as Adam and Eve, sharing the apple and the worm.

  “Help me, you bastard!”

  Raintree felt a dull, distant tugging on the rope. Dove was strong, but not strong enough. Just as well. Raintree’s only regret was that his fingers were too numb to dig into the medicine bag. A few Valiums would be the perfect topper for this bum trip.

  Bum trip. Skipping rope. Amateur technique.

  He stared out across the Unegama Gorge, dangling from the heights of Attacoa, the place his Cherokee forefathers had ascended in search of wisdom. He had come up short, that was all.

  The rain started again, though the moon still cut though the clouds enough to throw a strange gleam on the sacred stack of stones.

  One of the Raven Mockers flew from the cooling mists above, lost and late. It paused in the air, its hueless skin slick from rain or an unwholesome sweat. Then it altered course as if receiving a silent telegraph.

  Toward Raintree.

  As it closed the distance, Raintree realized this was what he had sought. This hideous, gray, knotty-limbed creature, this ancient evil spirit, was his animal guide.

  This was his totem, his medicine.

  The object of his vision quest.

  The Raven Mocker drew near, uncertain, as if sizing up a possible adversary. Or else having no idea where to sink its curved, yellow teeth.

  Good acid, Robert Raintree thought, as the flicker of stunted wings cast a soft, ill wind across his rain-spattered skin. Because my spirit guide is a white man gone gray. It has Jim Castle’s face.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Clara awoke in utter darkness, or maybe she wasn’t awake and this wasn’t darkness, but a new state of being.

  Maybe she hadn’t slept at all. Or maybe she’d always been asleep and the dream merely changed phases.

  Hands crawled the length of her belly, and she wondered if it was Ace, wanting some hurried, empty, dry intercourse. She slapped at the hands, though her arms felt heavy, full of sand. The grogginess of dreams infected her and slowed her movements. She felt as she had one night at Radford, when the philosophy professor had drugged her with Rohypnol, the date-rape drug, despite her being a willing partner in perversity. The drug had not been used to ease her pain, for the good doctor knew they both enjoyed the sensations too much to dull any of its sharp edges.

  No, the drug’s sole purpose had been to erase her subsequent memory of the event. To this day, she had never been certain of the doc’s exploits, only that she’d bled from her vagina and rectum for a week, bruises mottled her breasts, and her back and buttocks had been covered with welts. The doctor called a few weeks later and asked if she had enjoyed it. She answered in the affirmative, and even saw him on several other occasions, though the doctor must have used up his entire bag of tricks, because she quickly grew bored with him.

  Perhaps because he knew the limits and had observed them. Not just his own limits, whether moral or physical or legal. No, he’d been reined in by a social order that promised freedom, shouted it as a slogan, and sold it like a commodity, but when real freedom opened up the possibilities before its believers, they turned their cowardly faces away.

  She had known limits. Ace’s cold, slick hands could fondle and penetrate her, but they would never touch her. None of them had ever touched her, not even those who had punished her the most deeply or hit her the hardest.

  “Don’t, Ace, I’m sleepy.” Her tongue was thick, and the words slurred.

  Ace wasn’t giving up. You had to give it to the human cockroach, he was persistent. The Bama Bomber had a “never say die” attitude, a “can do” spirit, a “kill them all and let God sort them out” mentality.

  Even if he was a lousy lay.

  The hands moved over her belly, up to her swollen nipples. They pinched gently, and she felt her nipples grow larger. Shit. Ace had hit her weak points. She moaned, despite her discomfort.

  She was on her back, lying on something hard. She recalled Ace’s quick screw by the river, just before they’d hijacked the rafting expedition, how he’d derived pleasure in the slap of her bare flesh against unyielding granite.

  She laughed. She’d been hit harder by better. Her new motto.

  The hands- Jeez, had he grown an extra pair in the night? — now went along her legs, caressing the insides of her thighs. Gentle, soothing, arousing, the sharp fingernails tracing along her flesh, applying just enough pressure to mark the skin.

  As if Ace had found an instructional manual on foreplay.

  She moaned again, and Ace’s tongue flicked across her lips. Then at her belly button, then both at the same time.

  Two tongues?

  If not Ace, then who?

  The group of rafters?

  No, they were probably all dead by now.

  Dead by now…

  As full memory and awareness came flooding back, she tried to sit up, but the hands confined her. Besides, she was languid and exhausted. The hands were gentle, soothing.

  Not hands… claws.

  She remembered glimpse she’d had of their gray, knotty power, as one of them carried her into darkness. She was in their lair.

  She cringed, waiting for the hands to squeeze her, the teeth to sink in, the blood to flow.

  No.

  These creatures weren’t going to kill her, or they would have already done so.

  They wanted something.

  She fought for control, pushed at the claws that felt along her belly.

  They wanted Little Ace.

  A liquid flush erupted from deep in the bowels of the lair. The claws hesitated, and unseen wings flicked uneasily. The fluid rumble sounded again, and the stone vibrated beneath Clara’s back. Something heavy fell, followed by a splash.

  Splash?

  Another rumble, and the claws left her, the air filled with rustling and stirring, leathery tongues licking parched, swollen lips. She could feel the wind of their wings, and the air of the confined space had taken on a damp quality. The flushing sound was rivaled by a rushing hiss far away.

  Rain. Outside. Wherever “outside” was.

  She let her arm flop over the side of the stone. Her hand dipped into frigid liquid.

  The water was rising. The lair, or cave, or hole in the ground, wherever they had taken her, must be connected to the river. The creatures had gone to high ground like rats.

  Well, not like rats, because they’re flying.

  And when the waters receded, they would return and take her baby.

  With all the control she could
muster, summoning back all the parts of her soul she had given up over the last few years, she raised her arms and reached for her head.

  The helmet. She tugged at the restraint strap with fingers like cold snakes.

  Once the helmet was free, she laid it beside her on the stone. The air was alive with rustling wings and the skee, skee, skee of creatures soaring above her. She shifted and wriggled her sodden sandbag flesh until she was at the rim of the stone. She fumbled for the flashlight switch, flicked it on, and rolled off the stone and face-first into the shocking swirl of water.

  The chill revived her, shaking the lethargy inflicted by the creatures’ infectious hands and tongues. She drew air and submerged, her skin tightening, her limbs aching to the bone. But a golden warmth emanated from her center, in the place where promise was born.

  Ace was right. Unborn life was life after all, and still sacred.

  Maybe not worth killing for, but worth living for.

  Clara gripped the large stone, letting her feet dangle until they touched bottom. She lifted her head from the water, expecting one of the creatures to yank her out by the hair. The flashlight, its bulb weak, revealed little about the space, and offered only the slightest shifting of shadows above. She didn’t know in which direction to swim.

  Okay, Ace Jr., Mom’s going to have to pick a horse and ride it. Eeny-meeny-miney “Clara,” Ace called, causing the creatures to scurry in frantic arcs overhead.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Bowie checked the bullets in the revolver. Four left.

  Two for the creatures and, when worse came to worst, one for Clara. And one for himself.

  That would be okay. Finishing on a high note, the perfect ending to an American success story.

  Going out with a bang, all sins redeemed, all failures washed away in blood.

  Ace could fend for himself. Maybe God would reach a soft white hand down from heaven and scoop up the sociopathic killer. Sit the Bama Bomber on the left side of the golden throne, where they could laugh together about good times and share murderous memories until Kingdom Come.

  He followed Ace into the cave, hand sweating around the butt of the Python. He had to admit, religious mania had its good points. Ace had a cocksure strut, as if walking into the lion’s den was a stroll in the park. Ace held the backpack to his chest, a sacrament carried into a high temple. Bowie was pretty sure the man didn’t have an extra pistol stashed away. Maybe he’d finally gone off the deep end, thinking he was entering the hall of angels.

  The cave was inky black, the air damp and stifling, but Bowie could swear a glow emanated from the depths, like a match head flaring at the bottom of a rank well. Behind him, the sky drummed a million silver bullets into the world.

  He ducked low, though he doubted subterfuge would provide any deception against creatures whose senses had been honed in this sightless, cramped environment. Besides, Ace was giving away the game, marching with heavy feet, onward Christian soldier, hallelujah.

  Best-case scenario: the dozens of creatures swooping down on Ace and surrounding him like sharks hitting a chum slick, while Bowie danced in like Fred Astaire on steroids, located Clara in the dark, and carried her to safety.

  Well, relative safety. Once out of the cave, they’d still be exposed and vulnerable, sirloin on the hoof, walking bags of V-8.

  Plan A and Plan B were both a little melodramatic. He wished there were a Plan C, but the stink of the cave disrupted his concentration. He kicked over a clattering stack of something, knelt, and felt the roughened knobs and smooth lengths.

  Bones.

  Whether they had belonged to people or to animals, he couldn’t tell in the smothering darkness.

  Probably not people. They wouldn’t be so lucky.

  He shuddered, recalling the wizened, altered form of C.A. McKay floating, flocking, as mindless in its flight as the others. Just another creature. Now other, the beast inside finally revealed.

  Maybe they were all monsters inside.

  All that had risen from the cosmic spark that spawned this world, from bacteria to bugs to flippered fish determined to taste the mud.

  That’s crazy thinking. Leave those sorts of delusions to Ace.

  But Bowie wasn’t sure there was any kind of way to think except crazily. He was walking into a vampires’ den with the tactical equivalent of a squirt gun. He didn’t even have any holy water or garlic, much less a stake or silver cross. Hell, he couldn’t even cobble together a decent prayer.

  “Clara.” Ace said it with clear conviction, a command, the word echoing in the enclosure.

  Bowie flinched, expecting a flurry of fang and wing and claw.

  Instead, he heard only a soft rustling deeper in the cave. And a gurgle. Maybe his stomach was churning from fear.

  The glow deepened, and he saw it was coming from a point barely twenty feet in front of him. The blackness had distorted his depth perception. The cavern floor appeared to slope downward. Clara’s rafting helmet lay on a flat stone shelf, its attached Maglite dim from low batteries. Her clothes lay like rumpled pelts beside her.

  They must have killed her already. Would she be coming out of the darkness, back from the dead like McKay?

  He recalled what Ace had said about the demons wanting the baby. Why?

  The creatures had exhibited signs of intelligent behavior, a basic social order, a survival instinct that belied their fierce aggression. Were they smart enough to set a trap, expecting Ace and Bowie to walk right in and hop into the frying pan?

  No. The creatures could have easily taken both of them by the river. Something else was at work here.

  And I hope to hell it isn’t God. Not the God who killed Connie, who failed those who prayed to him, who put my people on a river and plucked them one by one like daisy petals in a sick game of they-love-me, they-love-me-not.

  A rumbling arouse from the hidden depths, a liquid burp. The cavern floor vibrated beneath Bowie’s feet.

  “I got one for you,” Ace said. “I got one for the baby-killers. Don’t you fuckers read the papers?”

  Movement in the shadows beyond the orange globe of the flashlight.

  Bowie lifted the Python, not knowing in which direction to point it. They were probably behind him now, cutting off their escape route. If he even managed to find Clara, the best he could hope for would be a clean mercy shot.

  Being dead don’t get you off the hook. A bit of Ace wisdom that made sense. Even if Bowie killed Clara and then turned the gun on himself, they would both end up shriveled and transformed, infected with whatever craving possessed these creatures. Whether of natural or supernatural origin, in the end there was no difference. Bottom line, being a vampire would suck.

  “Come on out and play,” Ace said. “I won’t bite.”

  More scurrying. Restless sighs, moist flutters.

  “I walked through the valley and, lo, it was righteous,” Ace said. He was near the flat stone now, and in the weak pumpkin-colored glow, Bowie could see him unzipping the knapsack. “Deliver us from evil, for Thine is the kingdom.”

  He pulled out a jangled heap of wires, cylinders, and shiny metal. It looked like an orgy of alarm clocks and telephone cable.

  “Clara, reckon your time ain’t come yet,” Ace said, calm, moving deeper into the cave and standing at the head of the flat stone. Like a heathen priest at an altar.

  Clara rose from darkness behind the stone, her hair wet. The dying light made an orange fright mask of her face.

  “This way,” Bowie whispered, throat dry. The cave was as cold as the river had been, as if the darkness and the thundering water sprang from the same source.

  “They want the baby, Ace. Our baby.” Clara’s voice was small and frightened. Bowie hadn’t realized just how young she was. Just a dumb kid making a bad choice. Bowie knew all about bad choices.

  “I know, honey,” Ace said, dropping the knapsack. “They don’t understand the mysterious ways of God. They got cast down from heaven way too early, and never learne
d about blood sacrifice. About getting washed free.”

  Bowie didn’t know why the creatures were waiting to strike. Maybe Ace really was a messenger. An untouchable. Whatever the reason, Bowie didn’t see any advantage in waiting. He burst from the concealing shadows, tripped over a hidden wedge of stone, and fell to his knees as the gun bounced away from him. He scrabbled for the Python, felt its cold, smooth barrel, and came up just as the air erupted with a cacophony of shrieks and movement.

  Clara dove into the darkness with a splash.

  Splash?

  Bowie fired once, blindly, the muzzle flashing blue-white. The bullet whizzed and made a meaty smack, but he couldn’t tell what it hit. A knobby tendon brushed his shoulder, and he threw out a panicked fist. The creature was already gone, joining its brethren.

  At the head of the table, where dinner was served.

  Ace.

  “Deliver us from evil,” Ace shouted as the creatures swarmed him.

  Bowie ran toward the place where he’d last seen Clara. The water surprised him, rising fast to his knees. She swam into him with panicked strokes. He yanked her to her feet and dragged the dripping, dazed woman toward the entrance. Water swirled around his feet, and he understood why the creatures had held back. They sensed the rising floodwaters, had probably dodged them countless times over the aeons.

  Bowie was afraid he’d lost direction, but the drilling hiss of the rain outside provided a compass point. One of the creatures clawed him, running a line of fiery red stripes down his neck, but Bowie didn’t slow down or fight back.

  He ran Connie! -

  — toward the roaring avalanche, into the blinding whiteness, and this time in the dream he reached her, pulled her to safety And they rolled together under the wet, cleansing rain as the cave screamed and vomited a geyser of fire and sulfuric smoke and steam, as the Earth rumbled, as boulders spun down from the hidden heights and crashed around them. Bowie tugged Clara toward the river, not because the churning rapids offered rescue, but because they offered a swifter escape, even if escape meant a suffocating death.

  At least, if God had any mercy at all, their corpses would be washed far from this gate of Hell.