Hellhole

by Jonathan Maberry

  Robbie and Washington both opened fire, rounds ripping into the pulsing center of whatever it was. Its scream was the bright pitch of a tea kettle, coming from its back, echoing into the glowing chamber behind it. Black sludge oozed from the holes. The claws spasmed and hooked at the air, and they both fired again.

  “Ah, shit!” Gaines fired at something behind them.

  The shrieking wall of claws was collapsing, folding forward. Robbie let off a burst at a handful of the winking eyes on its back as it slouched to the floor, then turned to see one of the “birds” flying at them. Gaines fired again and punched through one of its wings. Bloodless, shredded tatters trailed the thing’s erratic path. It hissed like a bucket of water on a roaring fire but didn’t slow down.

  Robbie fired but missed as the thing arrowed its body and dove at Gaines, still hissing. It slammed into his face, knocking him backwards, wrapping its dark wings around his head. Its tail curled like a scorpion’s stinger and needled into Gaines’ throat, fast, stinging again and again.

  Robbie swung the M4 down and tried to rake the creature off while Gaines flailed. He’d dropped his rifle, both hands pulling at the monster as the tail kept stinging, jabbing.

  Robbie jammed the barrel under its lean body, pushed up and fired. The burst knocked the thing off Gaines’ face, leaving scraps of web and some sticky, whitish liquid behind, like it had cum on him. The monster’s wings fluttered and twitched all over, and it went still.

  Gaines clapped his hands to his throat. Robbie could see the skin swelling beneath his fingers, going purple.

  “The altar,” Gaines gasped, and then he was choking, neck puffing into infected lumps, inflating like a handful of water balloons. Dark threads of poison raced beneath the skin of his face, his eyes turning red and then drifting. The swellings went shiny and then split, blood pouring from the rupturing flesh. Gaines was dead before the first streams of blood hit the tunnel floor.

  Washington was firing again.

  Robbie scooped up Gaines’ M4 and turned. Another of the coiling eel monsters had come out of the chamber and was slithering towards them, limbs curling and flexing. It had to be six feet at its girth, but its tentacles stretched to the ceiling.

  They both fired into it and dark fluids splashed, running down its limbs. Soundless, it came faster, coiling toward them like living, swirling smoke, like a bad fucking dream.

  “Die, bitch!” Washington screamed, and emptied his mag, rounds stitching through the undulating monster’s dancing limbs, shredding them, chunks of greenish flesh hitting the rocks.

  The thing stopped, collapsing. The gore smell was gagging, burnt meat and tangy metal. Washington was still trying to fire, finger white on the locked trigger.

  “Take it,” Robbie said, holding out Gaines’ M4, looking back up the tunnel. Weird dead bodies and blood smoke, Gaines and purple shadows. Nothing moved.

  The gator monster down in the room let out another guttural cry. Robbie could feel it more than he could hear it, his ears ringing too much for him to discern how close the army was getting. How many shots did he have left? Twelve? Nine?

  The lights that ran the roof of the tunnel went out, flickering and then dying. There was only the ugly purple now to light their way, a venomous light that the shadows embraced, plunging the tunnel to near blackness.

  “We gotta hurry!” Robbie called, and started running. Cursing, Washington ran after him. They steered around the mass of tentacles, Robbie in the lead, shooting glances back when he could, letting the slope carry him down. They had to get to the rock and have enough rounds to destroy it, that was what mattered. Maybe they could outrun whatever else had gotten out, but they had to close that door.

  The purple hole bounced closer in front of them, flickering as dark shapes moved in front of the light source. As they stumbled downward, Robbie saw that the light was coming from the altar itself, the whole thing glowing like a black-light lamp.

  A hulking creature tore out of the room and ran for them. It was built like an ape but was scaled with heavy spines running down its broad back, all of it a matte dun color. It let out a liquid shriek, a furious sound, from a head almost like a jackal’s, but with a shark’s dead black eyes, too big on its narrow, demonic face.

  Robbie fired into its scaled chest, Washington coming in a beat later. Where the rounds hit the scales turned dark, but there was no blood and it was fast, too fast—

  Robbie fell back a step and fired again, aiming for center mass and the thing leapt forward on thick, muscular legs, nearly halving the distance between them, landing on its overlong arms and bounding again, straight at Washington.

  Robbie emptied his mag into the monster, but it tackled Washington and bit into the screaming soldier’s throat, clawing at the tunnel and at Washington’s body with its hands and feet, ripping grooves into the rock and through Washington’s side, gutting him as it shook its head. Its teeth tore away the front half of Washington’s throat. It raised its head to swallow and then clamped down again.

  Washington had dropped Gaines’ M4. Robbie didn’t let himself think about it, he dropped his own empty rifle and stepped closer to the feeding demon to scoop up the weapon, the last weapon with rounds. He was close enough to the monster to hear the whistle of air through its slit nostrils, smell its musky, bitter scent.

  He pointed the barrel at its head and fired into one shining black eye, two rounds slamming into its long skull, exiting in a blast of scales from the back of its head.

  The thing collapsed onto Washington, shuddered, and died.

  Robbie ran ahead. He could see the glowing altar clearly, see part of the hulking, monstrous gator-creature on the chamber’s east side, dark and crouched—and he could see Gaines’ door, finally, straight ahead of him. A massive hole had opened up where that big divot had been, where he’d put the lantern only minutes ago. The hole was ten feet across and ten high and utterly black, but the edges of it weren’t steady. They flickered and wavered like an old movie out of frame.

  The monster roared, and turned toward Robbie just as he reached the broken rocks at the entrance. It had eight legs and a long, muscular body, like a big cat’s but heavy through the belly. The top of its head was almost bovine, horned and square, but instead of eyes there were a dozen random, empty-looking holes. Its jaw bulged outward like a hippo’s, and its bone-shaking cry revealed pointed, blood-stained teeth. There was no sign of the officers, only a slick of blood on the floor, and shreds of meat hanging from the creature’s lipless jaws.

  Robbie ran into the room, firing at the monster as it stomped toward him, aiming for its fugly head. It roared again, shaking its giant, screaming face, and Robbie put three rounds into its big mouth.

  The thing’s roar gurgled and it retreated a few steps, legs moving like a spider’s, shifting it quickly. It shook its head, watery dark blood streaming from its terrible mouth.

  Howls emerged from the black of the flickering-edged hole, screams and shrieks and sounds he couldn’t understand, all of it close, echoing into the glowing room, loud enough now to hear even over his busted ears.

  The altar.

  Robbie aimed at the glowing purple rock and fired, rounds skipping across the top of the stone, small chips of stone flying.

  The altar’s glow dimmed slightly. The portal flickered, and for a beat Robbie could see etched rock beneath it, but then it was back again, a yawning doorway to some black world of impossible monsters.

  The creature started for him again, bellowing, blood dripping from its huge jaws, breath like carrion on a hot day.

  Robbie dodged around the altar, fired again at the monster, getting two more rounds into its mouth. It swung away from him tripping sideways, stuttering another gurgling cry. It would have to be enough. They were coming; Robbie could feel the cold air rushing toward him through the door, smell the waves of stink, feel the ground trembling beneath his feet.

  Robbie emptied the rest of the mag across the surface of the glowing stone. The
rounds cracked the inscription, splinters of rock spinning off—

  —and the stone split in half with a rending crunch that shook the chamber, just as the trigger locked out. Both jagged sides fell to the floor and the purple light died, leaving Robbie in the dark, and he felt a second of pure triumph—

  —before he realized that he could still see, by the very dim light coming from the open portal. The open, solid portal, no longer flickering at the edges. The abyss was lit by an alien moon, perhaps; Robbie could see the first shadowy shapes running toward the black chamber, the faintest outlines of the opening ranks. Thankfully, he couldn’t hear much of anything anymore.

  A man of war will bring about the end by his ignorance. It appeared that destroying the altar had made things permanent.

  The first of the monstrosities swept through the door, drooling, covered in matted fur. A giant tentacle curled into the room after it, and a dozen stinging birds followed, diving into the cold black of the dead cavern, stingers whipping behind them.

  Fucking Gaines, Robbie thought, hating the dead nerd deeply for the rest of his life, which turned out to be not very long at all.

  THE OFFSPRING

  J.H. Moncrieff

  Russia, 1945

  EXCRUCIATING PAIN SEARED Grigory’s limbs, shocking him awake.

  Everything hurt. His lungs shrieked agony with each whistling gasp.

  Look.

  His eyes refused to obey his brain. The lids felt stuck, sealed. Enclosed in impenetrable, unavoidable night, Grigory’s pulse quickened until all he could hear was his blood swooshing through his body. Razor wire wound tighter and tighter around his chest with every breath.

  Panic.

  Not here, not now. There was no time. Though he had no idea where he was, it was obviously a life-or-death situation.

  Flexing his fingers, it was as if he had plunged them into flames.

  He stifled a scream, biting on his lip so hard he tasted copper.

  Perhaps death was preferable.

  How did I get here?

  The bar. The same one he frequented every Friday night. But something had been different, hadn’t it? Yes, something had been different.

  Think, Grigory, think.

  A man’s features forced through the fog encircling his brain. A man with a pleasant smile. A man with deep pockets and the highest tolerance for drink Grigory had ever seen.

  A new friend.

  The ’keep had recognized the stranger, and spoken to him with respect, and that had been enough for Grigory, especially when the man offered to buy the first round. Grigory, whose salary was stretched to the point of snapping, could only afford a single shot. He demurred, cheeks burning as he explained his predicament in a voice barely above a whisper. He could not accept his new friend’s gift, because he would never be able to reciprocate.

  The man had laughed, he remembered now, and something about the sharpness of it made his teeth ache. But not then. Then, all he’d cared about was the drinks the ’keep brought to their table. Doubles. When had he last been able to afford such luxury? He thought of Raisa, of their children, waiting for him at home, and drowned his guilt with the smoothness of the vodka.

  What had they talked about, he and this stranger, this new friend? He struggled to remember, to pry the reluctant memory from his aching brain. The man had asked the usual questions, inquired after his family, his work. Nothing to raise any alarms.

  With each new round, Grigory had mounted a feeble protest, a reminder that he could not reciprocate, even when his meager paycheck arrived.

  “Worry not, my friend,” the man had said. “I have plenty of money.”

  No one said such things in Moscow, especially now. No one had money, certainly not anyone Grigory knew. But by then, he was too drunk to care.

  “You are awake.” A light shone in Grigory’s eyes, making him squint. So his eyelids hadn’t been sealed after all. It was the darkness, the impenetrable darkness. “I told them you would survive. For a reporter, you are in impressive shape.”

  Reporter.

  Only Raisa knew the truth of what he did for a living. Everyone else, even his parents and their friends, believed the lie. It was safer that way.

  He hadn’t told this stranger. No matter how smooth, no vodka would ever lead him that far astray.

  “I’m not a reporter,” Grigory slurred, his mouth slipping as it tried to form the words. “I work at the factory; I told you.”

  “Oh, comrade, you need not to lie to me. After all, I am a fan of your writings. The way you speak the facts about our government; it is so courageous, so brave.”

  “Where am I?”

  Everywhere the light touched, he saw blinding white, shimmering.

  “You are in every journalist’s dream, Gregor. You are in the story of a lifetime. Too bad you will never write about it.”

  Confused though he was, Grigory realized the seriousness of his situation. It was what he’d always feared, what kept Raisa awake at night whenever he’d been late.

  You must be more careful, she’d warned, time and time again. You mustn’t drink at the bar anymore. One day they will find you, and you will be killed.

  Typical female hysteria. His wife’s feeble attempt to control him, or so he’d believed. Now he desperately wished he’d listened.

  “Many others would have perished from exposure by now, but not you. You are too strong. How did you get so strong, Gregor?”

  Exposure. In the light’s merciless glare, he caught a glimpse of his feet, bare and blue against the white. Then his legs, also bare. The fire, then, that burned his flesh was not of heat but of cold. They had stripped him of his clothes and brought him to this snow cave to die.

  Raisa.

  “Do not worry about your wife,” the man said, reading his mind. “She was not nearly so strong. She died hours ago.”

  His throat was too frozen to emit the scream.

  “And my children?”

  The stranger clicked his tongue, shook his head. “You already know the answer to that. You are an intelligent man, a smart reporter. You understand we cannot leave any witnesses, especially witnesses who will one day think they should avenge their mother’s terrible death. Oh, she was in such pain, Gregor. A pity to have to destroy one so beautiful, but you hardly left us any choice.”

  “Then kill me. You have surely brought me here to spill my blood, and you’ve destroyed everything that matters to me. End it.”

  “Oh, it will end, but not by my hand.” The man stroked his chin and smiled. “Left here much longer, you would freeze to death. However, that would be a waste of your considerable talents.”

  “Talents? I have no talents.” Still struggling to accept the death of his wife and sons, Grigory slumped to the ground, his stiff legs no longer willing to support him.

  “On the contrary. Our great leader has been quite impressed with your abilities. It is too bad such a fine mind has wasted it on drivel. Your brain and your physique is what we desire. And thanks to a little something I slipped in your drink, we will have it.”

  Deep in the darkness, farther than the man’s light could ever reach, came the sound of breathing. It was a grunting snuffle, like that of a large animal—perhaps a bear. Resigned to death only a moment before, Grigory’s muscles tensed for a fight. “What the hell is that?”

  The stranger chuckled. “That, my friend, is your new companion. I am sure she will be very pleased to make your acquaintance. She has been quite lonely, you understand.”

  As the snuffling grew louder, Grigory pushed himself off the ground, nerves twitching. Whatever this creature was, it wasn’t a bear. With every step it took, the walls of the cave shook, making snow spill onto his shoulders.

  “I will leave you two alone, Gregor. I trust you will find her affection worth dying for. Your body will be sacrificed for the greatness of our empire and the triumph of our people, and isn’t that what you always wanted?”

  Left alone with the creature, Grigory�
�s bladder let go, but any smell was lost in the fetid stench emanating from the thing’s breath. Towering over him, it was covered in matted greyish hair. Its eyes were a muddy yellow, shining like a cat’s.

  He turned his face away as it approached, squeezing his eyes shut. The stink of it made him dizzy, and he crouched against the wall of his prison, praying for consciousness to leave him.

  The horror as the creature took hold of him in the most personal of ways, touching him as no one but Raisa and the occasional late-night indiscretion had in years, brought new life surging into his veins. Now he understood what the man had meant about putting something in his drink. His erection was massive, swollen and throbbing, larger than it had been since his youth.

  As the reeking, slobbering thing threw him to the ground and mounted him, Grigory screamed.

  Russia, 1959

  THEY HAD BEGUN the day in deceptively high spirits, but as night descended, one of them fell silent. Like an infection, Sasha’s melancholy spread and festered, until everyone in the group could feel it looming over them.

  By unspoken agreement, Aleandra was the one to approach him. He was hunched before their meager fire, staring at an old photograph he clutched in his hands.

  “Is that him?” she asked, hoping he wouldn’t snap at her or otherwise push her away. She had been dating Sasha for over a year, and in the spring they planned to marry, but his ever-shifting moods worried her. Being around him was like balancing on an ice floe, never really sure when the fragile surface would give way beneath her feet, plunging her into freezing water.

  He nodded, passing her the picture, which had curled at the edges.