“We tryin’ to get out!” the pickup’s driver said, his voice on the edge of panic. “My wife and childrens! We gotta get out!”
“Not by this road.” Curt scanned east and west. The grid was unbroken in both directions. “Might as well head back to town.”
“No! We gotta get out!”
“That used to be my car.” Curt jerked a thumb toward the flaming ruin. “It hit this damned cage.” He bent down, picked up a fist-sized rock, and tossed it into the grid. There was a quick popping noise and the stone exploded into fiery particles. “I don’t think you want your family endin’ up in a grease spot, do you?”
The man hesitated, his seamed face stricken. Looked at his wife and son, then back at the grid. “No,” he said at last. “I don’ want that.”
Curt glanced at the air-force officers. Buckner was still holding up the clipboard, and Curt made an okay sign with his hand. “I’d appreciate a ride to town,” he told the Mexican. “Ain’t nobody gettin’ out by this road tonight.”
“Sí.” The man stood for a moment, not knowing what to do, then went to tell his wife they would not be going to Odessa after all.
Curt walked to where the burned creature lay in the sand. It still wasn’t moving. He gathered bloody saliva in his mouth and spat it out. The spit sizzled when it hit the thing’s leg. Curt retreated to the pickup and climbed into the truck’s bed, wedging himself between the crates and a cane table. The little boy, dark eyes as big as walnuts, sat cross-legged on the other side and regarded him studiously. Four chickens in a cage cackled and fretted, and the truck vibrated on the verge of breakdown as the Mexican reversed it away from the grid. He cranked the wheel around, turned the truck, and headed for Inferno. Curt watched the rotating trooper lights until the road curved and they were lost to sight, and then he rested his chin on his skinned knees and tried to keep his mind from going back to the Bob Wire Club, where five men lay mutilated. It was an impossible task. A fit of shivering hit him, and tears came to his eyes. He felt himself cracking to pieces. Got to find Cody, he thought. Got to find my boy.
Something tugged at the cuff of his trousers. The little boy had slid forward, and he said, “Be okay, mister. Be okay.” The child reached into a pocket of his dirty blue jeans and brought out a half-gone pack of peppermint Life-Savers. He offered the next ring of candy to Curt, and Curt saw a tie rack in his son’s hand and his heart almost broke.
He lowered his head, and the child removed a Life-Saver and laid it beside the man.
* * *
40
The Hole
Cody’s arms had gone dead. All the blood had run out of them, and his legs felt like they each were hundred-pound sacks of concrete. Maybe it had been ten minutes since Daufin had gone, at the most fifteen, but his strength was giving out fast. All he could do was hang, as sweat slipped down his face and his hands cramped into claws around the pipe.
“Help me, somebody!” he shouted, and instantly regretted it. The pipe swayed again, and a rush of dirt cascaded into the hole. She left me, he thought. She’s not comin’ back. Hell, she probably didn’t even understand I was in trouble! No, no, he corrected himself as the panic gnawed his guts again. She went to get help. Sure. She’ll be back. He had no choice but to hold on, as the chill of shocked nerves and blood-drained muscles began to spread through his shoulders.
And then he heard something that made the hairs stir at the nape of his neck.
It was a quiet sound, and at first he thought it must be dirt falling to the bottom—but the longer he listened the more he was sure it was not. This was a furtive, scuttling sound, a moist sound.
Cody held his breath. It was the noise of something moving in the darkness below.
“Lockett! You down there?”
The shout had almost jolted Cody’s fingers loose. He peered up, could make out someone leaning over the hole. “Yeah! I’m here!” A flashlight came on, the beam probing down.
“Man, you got yourself in a deep hole this time, didn’t you?”
The voice had a Mexican accent. He knew that voice, heard its taunts in his sleep. But he said, “Who is that?”
“Rick Jurado, su buen amigo,” came the sarcastic reply. Your good friend. “We’ve got a rope. Hang on.”
“Who’s up there with you?”
“Your other good friend,” Rick told him, and Cody knew who he meant.
Rick laid the .38 down on the porch. Daufin reached for it, out of curiosity, but Rick said, “Better leave that alone. Thing’ll blow a hole right through you,” and she nodded and pulled her arm back. He looked for a place to anchor the rope, had to settle for the white wrought-iron railing that went around the porch.
“The tether is not going to be long enough,” Daufin said as she visually measured the distance from where Rick was knotting the rope to the doorway and the hole. “There will be a shortage of three feet.”
“Can’t help that. We’ll have to do with what we’ve got.” He uncoiled the rope and went back to the doorway, standing on the threshold. “Rope’s coming down!” he called, and dropped it in. He aimed the flashlight down, and saw that Daufin was right: the rope’s end dangled three feet above the pipe where Lockett’s fingers gripped.
Cody looked up at the rope, and three feet had never seemed so far. He tried to hoist himself up on the pipe, but again pain shot through his bruised ribs and the pipe swayed and creaked. “I can’t make it!” he shouted. He let himself hang once more, and his arms felt as if they were about to tear loose from the sockets. By the flashlight’s beam, he saw rivulets of gray ooze sliding down the hole’s walls and dripping into the darkness below.
Rick knew what had to be done. He said quietly, “Damn it to hell,” and then he gave the light to Daufin. “Hold this. Keep it aimed at him. Understand?” She nodded, and Rick gripped the rope, eased himself over the side, and started down.
He hung a few inches over the pipe, unwilling to put his weight on it. The way that thing shimmied, he figured a few more pounds of pressure might snap it loose from the walls. “Lockett!” he said. “This is as close as I can get! You’ll have to reach up and grab my legs!”
“No way, man. I’m tired. Can’t do it.” It was all he could do to hang on without moving. Any more swaying and his slippery palms might betray him, or the pipe might break. “Oh Jesus, my arms…”
“Don’t give me that jive! Just reach up and grab my legs!”
The soles of Rick’s shoes were about five inches above Cody’s grip on the pipe. Cody knew the only way out of here was to do as the Rattler said, but his strength was draining fast and the effort seemed enormous. The muscles of his shoulders were cold chunks of agony, a stabbing pain spreading across his rib cage. Reach up, he told himself. Just reach up. One hand at a time. He started to, but his willpower collapsed like wet cardboard. His fingers clenched harder, and just that little movement made the pipe moan and tremble. His guts clutched and writhed. I’m scared shitless, he thought, and he said, “I can’t do it.”
Rick’s biceps bulged, his arms ready for the shock of Lockett’s weight. “Come on, tough gringo!” he mocked. “You gonna start cryin’ for your mama?” Lockett didn’t reply. Rick sensed he had given up. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you, fuckhead! Answer me!”
A few seconds’ pause. Then: “Get bent.”
“I’ll bend your redneck ass, you shitkicker! Maybe I ought to leave you down here and forget it, huh?”
“Maybe you ought to.” Cody heard it again: a scuttling from below. His heart was racing as he tried to get his muscles revved up for another effort, but his mind told him the pipe would collapse if he moved.
“Man, my sister’s got more guts than you! So does my grandmother!” Taunting might get him mad enough to reach up, Rick figured. “If I’d known you were such a pussy, I would’ve whipped your tail a long time ago!”
“Shut up,” Cody croaked.
He’s almost through, Rick thought. He said the first thing that came to him: “I to
ld my sister you weren’t worth lizard crap.”
“Huh? What about your sister?”
That had perked him up. “Yeah, Miranda was askin’ me all about you. Who you were and everythin’. She thought you were okay. Just okay.”
“She said that?”
“Yeah.” He figured it was a necessary lie. “Don’t let it go to your head, man. She needs glasses.”
“She’s pretty,” Cody said. “A smash fox.”
Any other time, that remark would have called for a punch to the teeth. Now, though, Rick saw it as a way to get Cody off that pipe. “You like my sister, huh?”
“Yeah. I guess I do.”
“You want to see her again, you’ve gotta get out of here. Only way to do that is reach up.”
“I can’t, man. I’m done.”
“What I’m gonna do,” Rick said, “is let myself down a little more. I’m gonna put my feet on that pipe, and I figure it’ll probably break in two. Either you go down or you grab hold. Understand?”
“No. Wait, man. I’m not ready.”
“Yeah you are,” Rick told him, and he lowered himself another hand grip down the rope and placed his right foot on the pipe first.
There was a squall of stressed metal. The pipe shook violently and began to bend inward, and Rick shouted, “Grab hold!”
Cody’s face sparkled with sweat in the flashlight’s beam. He gritted his teeth, felt the swaying pipe about to collapse. It was now or never. His fingers wouldn’t open. A bead of sweat dropped into his eye and seared it shut.
Rick placed his left foot on the pipe and let his weight settle. “Do it!” he urged as the pipe began to rip loose from the wall and dirt and rocks streamed down.
“You sonofabitch!” Cody shouted, and the fingers of his right hand let go. His shoulder muscles screamed as he dangled by one arm, his right hand reaching up for Rick Jurado’s ankle. He gripped it, clenched his fingers tight—and suddenly the pipe buckled, ripped loose in a shower of dirt, and fell.
Rick’s hands scorched along the rope to the bitter end before they locked shut. Now all the pressure was on Rick’s arms and shoulders as Cody held on by one ankle and tried to snag the other. They swung between the slimy walls, and there was a muffled crash as the pipe hit bottom another fifteen feet below.
Cody caught Rick’s left leg. Pulled himself up to the other boy’s waist. Rick heard the rope groan with their weight, and if that railing up there gave way, they were both in for a long fall. He hauled them up a couple of feet, the muscles and veins standing out in his arms and the blood roaring in his head, and then Cody grabbed hold of the rope’s end and took some of his weight off Rick.
“Come up!” Daufin called. “Come up!”
Rick started climbing, hand over hand, his shoes slipping off the oozing wall. Cody tried to follow, got about four feet nearer the top before his arms gave out. He hung while Rick clambered up and hauled himself through the doorway.
“Pull him up!” Daufin said, and she made an effort at reeling the rope up with her free hand while the other fixed Cody in the flashlight’s beam. “Hurry!” The urgency in her voice roused Rick off his belly and made him look over the hole’s edge.
Something was coming up the wall about six feet below Cody. It was a human figure with white hair, but its face was averted from the light. Its hands were plunged into the slime and dirt, and the thing was pulling itself smoothly up like a mountaineer.
Cody hadn’t seen it. He squinted in the dusty beam. “Come on, man! Help me up!”
Rick placed his feet against the doorframe, grasped the rope with both hands, and started pulling. His own strength was almost gone, and Lockett felt like dead weight.
Cody came up another fourteen inches and tried to find traction against the wall, but the slime was too thick.
A hand closed around his left ankle, and he looked down into the Cat Lady’s grinning face.
Except now she had a mouthful of silver needles, and her skin was a mottled grayish yellow like a dead snake that had begun to rot in the sun. She was trying to keep Cody between herself and the light, her belly pressed against the wall. Her eyes were full of cold fire.
She spoke, in a voice like a rush of steam through a ruptured pipe: “Sloowww dowwwnnn, youuu gerrrmmmm…”
He was frozen for about three seconds, and in that space of time he knew the meaning of terror. She was pulling him toward her, the cold fingers drawing tighter, her free hand clawed into the ooze and dirt. Rick’s frantic tug on the rope thawed his senses, and he acted on instinct: he kicked her in the face with his right foot. It was like kicking a brick but a spray of broken needles flew from the mouth and her nose burst like a snail.
He jerked his ankle free, felt a blaze of pain as her nails scraped through the boot to flesh, and then he was climbing that rope hand over hand like a born monkey. Rick reeled him up, and Cody came out of the hole so fast he barreled into Daufin and knocked her flat. The flashlight rolled across the porch.
Cody scurried away from the hole on his hands and knees, and Rick let go of the rope and pushed himself back from the doorway. He could hear the wet squishing of the white-haired thing coming up. “The light!” he shouted. “Get the light!”
Daufin, her head ringing, saw the flashlight lying on the edge of the porch. She crawled after it.
A hand and arm emerged from the hole. Metallic nails dug into the wooden doorframe, and the monster began to pull itself out. The other hand flailed up, reaching for Rick’s legs, and he kicked frantically at it.
Daufin picked up the flashlight and aimed it at the doorway. The beam hit the creature’s wrinkled, glistening face, and it gave a gurgling cry of what might have been mingled rage and pain and threw a hand up over its eyes. But it was almost free of the hole now, and with a muscular lurch the body flopped out onto the porch and squirmed toward Rick.
It was almost upon him when Cody stepped forward and thrust his hand into the Cat Lady’s face. The hand had an extra finger of metal: the barrel of the .38 he’d picked up from the porch. He fired, point-blank, and part of Mrs. Stellenberg’s jaw caved in. The second bullet plowed into an eye, the third shell took away a hunk of white hair and flesh and exposed not bone but a knotty, grayish-blue metallic surface that writhed like a bagful of snakes.
The mouth stretched open; the sinewy neck elongated and the head came up to snap at Cody’s gunhand. He fired into the mouth, showering silver needles and punching a hole that splattered gray liquid from the back of the head. A hand flashed at him, narrowly missed his knees as he retreated. Rick got his legs out of the monster’s reach, rolling away to the porch’s edge. Daufin stood where she was beside Cody, holding the light steady with both hands.
The Cat Lady’s body shivered. The arms and legs began to lengthen with brittle cracking sounds. Dark, scaly pigment rose through the yellowish skin. The spine bowed, humped up, and the flesh split along the backbone. Daufin grasped Cody’s arm and pulled him back as the thing’s tail uncoiled and hammered upward into the porch’s ceiling. Now the Cat Lady’s limbs were muscular, insectile stalks streaked with bands of leathery scales, and the grotesque body lifted off its belly and shambled forward, leaving a trail of slime.
Cody extended the pistol and fired twice. One bullet hit the center of the thing’s face and caved it in, rocking the head back. The second knocked out more needles and broke the lower jaw loose from its hinges. And then Cody squeezed the trigger and the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
The thing flailed at the flashlight’s beam, fingers trying to grip hold of it as if it were solid. The tail thrashed out, the bony spikes whipping back and forth through the light in a vicious frenzy. The single eye in the ruined, dripping face twitched in its socket. Rick had already jumped over the porch railing, and Daufin and Cody backed down the steps away from the tail.
The creature made a high, hissing sound that was a weird combination of human shriek and insectile droning, and then the body retreated to the doorway and scuttled
into the hole. The darkness took it. A long way down there was the solid thump of the body hitting, then a skittering noise like a crab burrowing back to its nest.
“Gone,” Daufin said. Her throat had constricted. “Stinger is gone.”
“Jesus,” Cody rasped. Oily sweat was leaking down his face, and he felt close to a faint. “That was Stinger?”
“Stinger’s creation. All the creations are Stinger.”
Rick walked away and bent over the gutter. His stomach seethed, but nothing would come up. Cody said, “You all right?”
Rick spat out saliva that tasted like battery acid. “Oh yeah,” he managed. “I see freaks like that every day, man. Don’t you?” He straightened up, drew in air that reeked of burning rubber, and held out his hand toward Cody. “The gun. Give it here.”
Cody gave it to him, and Rick broke open the extra box of bullets in his pocket and reloaded the chambers. Daufin aimed the flashlight at her face and looked into the light until her eyes were dazzled, then she waved her hand through the beam. “It’s a flashlight,” Cody told her. “Works on a battery, like my motor’s headlamp.”
“I understand the principle. A portable power source, yes?”
“That’s right.”
She nodded and returned her attention to the light. She was used to the harsh illumination by now, but when she’d first seen it—in the house of Jessie, Tom, and Ray—the light had had a startlingly ugly underglow that lit the human faces in nightmare colors. This hard incandescence was very much different from the soft light in the abode of ritual. She placed her fingers close to the bulb and could feel a prickly heat sliding into her skin—a sensation the human beings probably paid little attention to. “This drove Stinger away,” she said. “Not the percussion-cap weapon.”
“What?” Cody asked.
“This power source drove Stinger away,” she repeated. “The flashlight.”
“It’s just a light, that’s all.” Rick pushed the last bullet in and snapped the cylinder shut. “It can’t hurt anybody.”
1988 - Stinger Page 36
