by Rick Hautala
Kip stood and ducked back outside, squinting in the sudden brightness of direct sunlight. He ran to the stream, refilled the canteen, scooped a mouthful of water, and then returned. Watson suggested he carry a couple of the flares in his pants pocket in case he needed them in a hurry. Then he struck a match and touched it to the tip of his torch. Thick, flickering orange flame engulfed the ball of gasoline-soaked cloth.
“Let’s hope these things last long enough for us to get in there, do what we gotta do, ‘n get out,” Watson said. “We’ll save yours ‘case we need it later.”
The flames burned with a muffled roar as warm orange light filled the cave and cast their wavering shadows on the stone walls.
Watson gripped his shotgun in one hand and the torch in the other. As he entered the descending corridor, he saw something in the corner of the cave. Kip tensed and looked in the same direction, expecting—for one frozen moment—to see an on-rushing untcigahunk. He smiled when all he saw was a soiled, tattered sneaker.
“Check that out,” Watson said.
Kip went over to it, bent down, and picked it up. He held the sneaker up to the light for a moment, then with a sudden squeal let it drop to the cave floor. When it hit, something flaked off the rubber heel. It looked like old, black paint, but he knew what it was—
“It’s full of blood,” he said, gagging and almost puking. “Dried-up blood!”
Watson grunted. “You recognize it?”
Still gagging and afraid he was about to spew up his meager lunch, Kip shook his head.
“Could be nothing,” Watson said, turning back to the tunnel opening. “Then again, could be something the untcigahunk did.” He looked at Kip over his shoulder. The flickering torchlight caught his eyes, making them gleam wickedly. “I’d be willin’ to bet someone from town’s been missin’ for a few days now.” With a quick nod of the head at the opening in the wall, he said, “Com’on. Let’s go. ‘N make sure you keep that gas can away you’re the torch. I’d hate to burn you up ‘fore you get even one lick in on the untcigahunk.”
“The string,” Kip said, pulling the ball of thick white cord from his makeshift roller. “Hold this.” He handed Watson his flashlight and quickly tied a loop of string around the stone they had just moved.
“That ain’t gonna be too clumsy unwindin’ it as we go, is it?” Watson asked. “‘Cause if it gets in the way, it’s just gonna screw us up.”
“It’ll be fine,” Kip said. He positioned the string at his back, just below the pack, and unwound it a couple of turns. “Works just fine.”
“I’ll trust this,” Watson said, glancing at his compass and taking a quick reading, “‘n my own sense of direction. You wanna lead the way?”
He expected Kip to say no and was surprised when the boy approached the opening without hesitation. With one last look behind him at the V of daylight filtering through the cave door and with Watson at his heels, his torch flickering, Kip stepped into the tunnel that led—he hoped—down to the home of the untcigahunk. But the one image in his mind that just wouldn’t go away was of a tattered, blood-filled sneaker.
5
“Any calls?” Bill called out as he walked from the car to the back door. Through the open screen window, he could see Marty at the kitchen table.
Marty straightened up for a second and then slouched back down in his chair while he waited for his father to come into the kitchen. He jumped when the screen door slammed shut, sounding like a gunshot.
“Nope. The cops didn’t call.” Marty scratched the skin around the bandage, leaving thin red marks on his arm. “God, this itches unreal. Oh, yeah. Suzie LaBlanc called. She’s in the hospital in Portland.”
“Parkman told me she’d been in an accident last night. She must be doing okay if she’s calling. What’d she want?”
Marty shrugged, trying to appear casual, but Suzie’s phone call had only intensified the agitation he had been feeling. “She said something about wanting a—she wasn’t sure of the word, a ‘restraining order,’ I think she meant. She sounded funny, like there was something wrong with her mouth.”
Marty, of course, couldn’t tell his father that hearing from Suzie had made him think she—and Woody—knew exactly where the stolen pot was. And that made him wonder where Al and Jenny had gone. He hoped he didn’t look too shaken, but the idea of Woody coming after him was pretty much the worst thing he could imagine. Maybe Woody had already killed Al and was waiting for a chance to get him.
Bill nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll have to call her later today, but Parkman didn’t call?”
Marty shook his head and started to stand, but then he dropped back down into his chair. With his clenched fist pressed against his mouth, he stared out the window wondering if maybe he could get a restraining order for Woody to leave him alone, too.
“You know, Dad...the other day I—”
He stopped himself by pressing his fist tighter against his mouth. The last thing he needed was to say anything that would give away what he and Al had hidden out there in the Indian Caves. Then again, for the first time since his brother had gone “missing,” Marty actually started to worry—just a little—that something might have happened to him.
His father apparently wasn’t listening to him and had already picked up the telephone and was dialing the police station. Marty squirmed in his chair, avoiding eye contact with his father while he listened to him talk to the cops. His father used the name “Roy” a few times, so he knew he was talking with Holden, not Parkman.
The phone conversation seemed to last long, torturous minutes, but it was pretty clear the cops hadn’t done anything yet. Marty cringed when his father ’s voice got steadily louder and angrier.
Finally, Bill let fly a string of curses before slamming down the phone, making it ring once.
“Those lousy sons-of-bitches!” he shouted. He took a wild swing at empty air and, spinning on his heel, started pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor. “That’s the goddamned best they can do?”
“Still nothin’, huh?” Marty said dumbly.
His dad shook his head angrily and brought his fist down hard enough on the counter top to make everything jump. “Goddamned bastards!”
The back of Marty’s neck felt like it was on fire when he looked away from his father and back out the window. He was trying to think things through, but it always came back to one thing— What if he let something slip, and his father ended up finding out about the stolen marijuana?
Okay, so Al had stolen the pot from Woody, not him.
Big deal.
He had overheard enough to figure out there was some heavy shit going on between Woody and Suzie. By the sounds of things, Woody was also in some kind of trouble with the Portland cops. Marty was afraid if he got connected with the whole mess...well, a stretch in summer school would seem like a vacation compared to what might happen. He was beginning to think he should have told Al right from the start to take a hike with his stolen pot.
And still, Kip hadn’t come home last night like Marty had figured he would. No matter how much of a jerk-off he thought his little brother was, he was pretty sure he’d never pull a stunt like this on purpose. The truth was, he didn’t think Kip had the balls to do something like this, so that left just one possibility.
Something must have happened to Kip.
Marty had seen him, out by the caves two days ago.
Maybe that’s where he was. He cleared his throat. “Ahh, Dad. You know, I was thinking.” He turned to face his father, who stopped pacing back and forth and leaned against the refrigerator with his arms folded across his chest.
“What?”
“One place Kip always hangs out—at least he used to, anyway—is the Indian Caves.” On sudden inspiration, he added, “Yesterday afternoon when we got back from the doctor’s, I thought I saw him heading out that way.”
There—that was safe. No mention of his being out there. No mention of why he’d
be out there, either. He was safe...so far.
Bill’s temper suddenly flared. He turned on Marty.
“Why the Christ didn’t you say something before now?” When he took a threatening step toward Marty, Marty shielded himself with his bandaged arm. He was convinced his father was about to slug him.
Marty’s face flushed red, and his voice trembled when he spoke. “I—uh, I just remembered it,” he stammered. “Maybe you could go out there and have a look around.”
Bill backed off at the sight of his son cowering away from him. He turned and went quickly to the door, but then paused and looked back at Marty. “I’m surprised I didn’t think of it before,” he said, trying to sound calmer than he felt.
Marty pushed the chair back and stood up. “Want me to come with you?” he asked, wanting to sound helpful. Also, in the back of his mind, he was thinking, if he went with him, he could make sure his father didn’t find the pot they still had stashed out there.
Bill shook his head sharply. “No. I want you to stay here in case the police call. I don’t expect Parkman will do much, by the looks of things, but if he calls, I want you to tell him where I am. All right?”
Marty nodded numbly as he sat back down in his chair. Everything would be okay as long as when his father got out to the Indian Caves, Kip wasn’t sitting at the cave entrance, smiling as he held up the shopping bag full of marijuana and saying, “Hey! Look what I found! I found Marty’s drugs!”
Once again, when the screen door slammed shut with a bang, Marty jumped. His father’s head bobbed past the window. Marty got up and went to the window over the sink so he could watch as his father started out across the field at a run. He waited until his father was out of sight; then he sat back down in the chair and tried his best not to think about what might happen. If his father ever found out about the stolen pot, maybe even getting the shit kicked out of him by Woody wouldn’t seem so bad.
And at the bottom of it all—even though he tried to deny it to himself—he was worried about Kip.A lot. He was feeling something he hadn’t felt for a long time, not since after his mother died. The feeling of being bereft, of being absolutely alone swept through him like a cold, lonely wind. He felt like a complete jerk, and he was glad no one was around to see the tears that spilled from his eyes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Firefight”
1
The air in the cave was cool and moist, but it wasn’t long before Kip was bathed with sweat because of all the equipment he was carrying. He was sure the pack was giving him blisters in the small of his back. Each breath he took felt like tiny, wet threads clogging his nose and throat. Thin streams of perspiration tickled as they ran down his back and sides.
Watson’s torch flickered, casting weird, wavering shadows across the cave walls. Kip found it difficult to determine how steeply the dirt floor sloped down and how much was just an optical illusion. He walked slowly down the tunnel, keeping his left shoulder close to the cave wall. His jacket was tied loosely at his waist, and the ball of string unreeled smoothly behind him without getting snagged.
Watson was a step or two behind him, following the steady yellow circle of Kip’s flashlight. He was encumbered with equipment, and, like Kip, he was unwilling to leave anything behind. Just in case. The gasoline can rode uncomfortably on his hip, but he put up with this because above all else he wanted to have his shotgun handy. In order to avoid tripping over Kip’s unwinding string, he stayed close to the right hand side of the cave.
“Man, it stinks down here.” Kip glanced quickly over his shoulder. “Like something rotting.”
Watson grunted. His nostrils flared as he sucked in the thick cave air, trying to identify the smell. It reminded him of something familiar, but he couldn’t quite identify it.
The tunnel wound back and forth like a lazy snake, and their initial impression that it narrowed slightly and angled downward to the left proved correct. Overhead on the ceiling, a riot of cobwebs wafted gently in the rising heat of the torch. The walls were rough, with numerous shelves projecting outward in sharp juts. Underground water seeped out from the walls, leaving wide, black streaks that snaked down to the cave floor. Roots from the trees above ground thrust out into the openness and dangled like black, knotted hair.
Most unusual of all, Kip noticed, was that the cave floor was hard-packed earth that looked like it had been traveled over for uncountable years. It was worn as smooth and hard as the front part of the cave where town kids had been playing for years. When Kip pointed this out to Watson, the old man merely grunted.
“Don’t you think it’s kind of weird?” Kip asked.
Watson shook his head from side to side. “Ain’t weird a’tall,” he said gruffly. “Untcigahunk been using these caves for thousands of years. Look here, near the wall.”
Watson stopped, and Kip directed the beam of his flashlight down at the cave floor.
“See?” Watson said. “It ain’t hardly worn at all. Their feet have packed it solid over the—Look out!” he shouted.
Kip had turned to see what he was doing, and it was only by sheer luck that Watson happened to see the flicker of motion up ahead. With a sweep of his arm, he knocked Kip against the wall. He hit the stone hard enough so he dropped his light. There was a tinkling of glass as the lens shattered and went out.
“Here!” Watson snapped, passing the torch to Kip; but he dropped it, and it rolled, sputtering, across the floor.
Something dark and quick darted toward them out of the darkness. As it rushed past Kip, a sudden, searing pain shot up his arm from the elbow to the shoulder. In the guttering light of the torch, he tried to see what it was, but the shape streaked past him. Watson crouched to the ground and then, a split second later, a brilliant flash of light filled the cave along with the blasting concussion of the shotgun going off close to his ear.
What happened next was so weird and unnerving, Kip couldn’t believe it was happening. The dark figure snapped back, throwing its arms wildly over its head. An ear-piercing screech that made Kip think of someone raking fingernails over a chalkboard filled the cave, setting his teeth on edge.
His ears were ringing from the explosion as he watched, horrified, unable to move or make a sound. The figure kept squealing as it staggered back, its arms waving as it attempted both to protect itself and grab Kip at the same time. The long, pointed fingernails made wild chittering sounds as they snapped in a violent spasm, reaching in vain to block the flow of blood from the creature’s opened chest.
Cringing against the stone wall, Kip watched as Watson slowly got up from his crouch. He still cradled the shotgun against his shoulder and pointed it unwaveringly at the figure, which had now collapsed to the floor and lay there twitching. A thick thread of smoke wafted up from the barrel. The stench of spent gunpowder mixed with the stronger smell of decay in the cave.
“Stay back,” Watson shouted, not taking his eyes for a moment from the creature that lay quivering on the floor. Kip looked at the torch, but it was at least ten feet away from him, and in order to get it, he would have to stretch over the dying creature. The flame was burning low, and he trembled with fear at the thought of being in the dark without any light.
“Them bastards are tough,” Watson said with a grim laugh.
Kip was relieved when he realized the old man, at least, had things under control. If he tried to speak, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to make any kind of sound other than a strangled croak.
Watson snapped open the shotgun, ejecting the empty shell, which dropped to the cave floor. He slid a fresh shell into the chamber and, with a quick snap of his wrist, closed the gun, hen walked boldly up to the untcigahunk on the ground. Dark liquid pooled beneath its shattered rib cage.
The creature was still alive but, obviously, wasn’t going to stay that way for long. Its eyes, filled with pain and rage, glared at Watson as he slowly raised the gun and pressed the barrel against the creature’s head. The untcigahunk’s claws scraped against th
e hard-packed earth, leaving deep gouges. A low, whining noise that sounded oddly like pleading issued from its throat. One hand reached up and feebly tried to push the gun barrel away.
“You might not wanna look,” Watson said to Kip, but before he could turn away, the old man pulled the trigger. The explosion of the gun cut off the creature’s noises as cleanly as a knife. The last sign of life was the rapid trembling of the thin, brown legs as the creature’s nerves slowly registered death.
“Jesus Christ,” Kip said, his voice barely a whisper.
Watson stepped over the creature and picked up the torch. He waved it back and forth a few times to get it burning brightly again, then handed it to Kip.
“You okay?” he asked.
Biting his lower lip, Kip nodded.
“We was goddamned foolish to let that thing sneak up on us like that,” he said. “You ain’t hurt, are yah?”
Kip shook his head, but then, as he started to calm down, he realized his arm felt like a bee had stung him. He extended his arm and in the flickering torchlight, he saw that his jacket sleeve had been sliced open. The tear was as clean as if it had been done by a razor blade. Rolling up his sleeve, he saw three thin lines running almost the entire length of his forearm. Small dots of blood beaded up along the cuts.
Just like the cuts on Marty’s arm, he thought as fear prickled the flesh on the back of his neck.
“It’s nothing,” he said, but it felt forced. In fact, the sight of his blood almost made him faint. His throat felt parched, so he wedged the torch under his arm and fumbled to open the canteen.
“Go easy on that, now,” Watson said. “We ain’t gettin’ any more ‘til we’re outta here.”
“If we get out of here,” Kip said after taking a small sip. He sloshed the water around in his mouth before swallowing. It was still cool and fresh, and it reminded him of the swift, cold stream flowing somewhere above their heads, but it did little to relieve the dry knot in his throat.
