The Tomb

by F. Paul Wilson

  The door clanged behind them and locked. Someone or something must have been standing in the shadows behind it as they’d passed. And then the monsters were all around her, huge dark forms pressing close, reaching for her, baring their teeth, hissing. Vicky’s screams faded away, dying in her throat as an explosion of terror stole her voice. They were going to eat her—she could tell!

  But the one who carried her wouldn’t let the others touch her. It snapped and clawed at them until they finally backed away, but not before her nightie had been torn and her skin scratched in a couple of places. She was carried a ways down a short corridor and then dropped in a small room without any furniture. The door had closed and she’d been left alone in the dark, huddling and shivering in the farthest corner.

  “I want to go home!” she moaned.

  She sensed movement outside the door, and the things out there seemed to go away. At least she couldn’t hear them fighting and hissing and scraping against the door anymore. After a while she heard another sound, like a chant, but she couldn’t make out the words. And then more movement out in the corridor.

  The door opened. Whimpering with helpless terror, Vicky tried to press herself farther into the unyielding angles of the corner. There was a click and light suddenly filled the room, blazing from the ceiling, blinding her. She hadn’t even looked for a light switch. As her eyes adjusted to the glare, she made out a form standing in the doorway. Not a monster—smaller and lighter than a monster. Then her vision cleared.

  It was a man! He had a beard and was dressed funny—and she noticed that he only had one arm—but he was a man, not a monster! And he was smiling!

  Crying with joy, Vicky jumped up and ran to him.

  She was saved!

  32

  The child rushed up to him and grabbed his wrist with both of her little hands. She looked up into his eyes.

  “You’re gonna save me, aren’t you, mister? We gotta get out of here! It’s full of monsters!”

  Self-loathing engulfed Kusum as he looked down at her. This child, this tiny innocent with her salty-wet stringy hair and torn nightdress, her wide blue eyes, her eager, hopeful face looking to him for rescue—how could he feed her to the rakoshi?

  It was too much to ask.

  Must she die, too, Goddess?

  No answer came, for none was necessary. Kusum knew the answer—it was engraved on his soul. The vow would remain unfulfilled as long as a single Westphalen lived. Once the child was gone, he would be one step closer to purifying his karma.

  But she’s just a child!

  Perhaps he should wait. The Mother was not back yet and it was important that she be a part of the ceremony. It disturbed him that she hadn’t returned. The only explanation was that she’d had difficulty locating Jack. Kusum could wait for her …

  No—he had already delayed well over an hour. The rakoshi were assembled and waiting. The ceremony must begin.

  Just a child!

  Stilling the voice that cried out inside him, Kusum straightened up and smiled once again at the little girl.

  “Come with me,” he said, lifting her in his arm and carrying her out into the corridor.

  He would see that she died quickly and painlessly. He could do that much.

  33

  Jack let his raft butt softly against the hull of the ship as he ran through the various frequencies on his beeper. Finally he heard a click and a hum above. The gangway began to lower toward him. Jack maneuvered the raft under it, and as soon as it finished its descent, reached up and placed the crate of bombs on the bottom step. With a thin nylon cord between his teeth, he climbed up after it, then tied the raft to the gangway.

  He stood and watched the gunwale directly above him, his flamethrower held at ready. If Kusum had seen the gangway go down, he’d be on his way over to investigate. But no one appeared.

  Good. So far, surprise was on his side. He carried the crate to the top of the gangway and crouched there to survey the deck: deserted.

  To his left the entire aft superstructure was dark except for the running lights. Kusum could be standing unseen in the shadows behind the blank windows of the bridge at this very moment. Jack would be exposing himself to discovery by crossing the deck, but it was a risk he had to take. The aft compartments were the most critical areas of the ship. The engines were there, as were the fuel tanks. He wanted to be sure those areas were set for destruction before he moved into the more dangerous cargo holds—where the rakoshi lived.

  He hesitated. This was idiocy. This was comic book stuff. What if the rakoshi caught him before he set the bombs? That would let Kusum off free with his boat and his monsters. The sane thing to do was what Gia had said back on shore: Call in the Coast Guard. Or the harbor patrol.

  But Jack simply could not bring himself to do that. This was between Kusum and him. He could not allow outsiders into the fray. Gia wouldn’t understand it; neither would Abe. He could think of only one other person who would comprehend why it had to be this way. And that, for Jack, was the most frightening part of this whole thing.

  Only Kusum Bahkti, the man he’d come to destroy, would understand.

  Now or never, he told himself as he clipped four bombs to his belt. He stepped onto the deck and sprinted along the starboard gunwale until he reached the superstructure. He’d been along this route on his first trip aboard the ship. He knew the way and headed directly below.

  The engine room was hot and noisy, the big twin diesels idling. Their basso hum vibrated the fillings in his teeth. Jack set the timers on the bombs for 3:45 A.M.—that would give him a little over an hour to do his job and get away. He was familiar with the timers and had confidence in them, yet as he armed each one, he found himself holding his breath and turning his face away. A ridiculous gesture—if the bomb went off in his hands, the heat and force of the blast would incinerate him before he knew it. Yet he continued to turn his head.

  He placed the first two at the base of each engine, attached two more to the fuel tanks. When those four went, the entire stern of the freighter would be a memory.

  He stopped by the hatch that had taken him into the corridor that led to the rakoshi. That was where Vicky had died.

  A heaviness settled in his chest. He still couldn’t believe she was gone.

  He pressed his ear against the metal and thought he heard the Kaka-ji chant. Visions of what he’d seen Monday night—those monsters holding up pieces of torn flesh—swept through his mind, leaving barely controllable fury in their wake. He barely restrained himself from starting up his flamethrower and running into the hold, dowsing anything that moved with napalm.

  But no … he might not last a minute doing that. No room for emotion here. Had to lock away his feelings and be cool … cold. He had to follow his plan. Had to do this right. Had to make sure not a single rakosh—or its master—escaped alive.

  He headed back up toward fresh air and returned to the gangplank. Sure now that Kusum was in the main hold, doing whatever he did with the rakoshi, Jack hefted the somewhat lighter bomb crate onto his shoulder and made no attempt to hide as he strode toward the bow. When he reached the hatch over the forward hold, he lifted the entry port and peered below.

  The odor rose and rammed into his nostrils, but he controlled his gag reflex and looked below.

  This hold was identical to the other in size and design except that the elevator platform waiting a half-dozen feet below him was in the forward rather than the aft corner. He could hear noises like a litany drifting from the aft hold.

  In the dim light he saw that the floor of this hold was littered with debris, but saw no rakoshi down there, neither walking about nor lying on the floor.

  He had the forward hold entirely to himself.

  Jack lowered himself through the opening. A tight squeeze with the flamethrower on his back, and for one awful moment he thought he was trapped in the opening, unable to move up or down, helplessly wedged in place until Kusum found him or the bombs went off. But he pull
ed free, slipped through, and hauled his bomb crate after him.

  Once again he checked the floor of the hold. Finding no sign of rakoshi lurking about, he started the elevator down.

  A descent into hell. The noise from the other hold grew steadily louder. He could sense an excitement, a hunger in the guttural noises the rakoshi were making. Whatever ceremony was going on must be reaching its climax. After that they’d probably start returning to this hold. Jack wanted to have his bombs set and be on his way before then. But just in case they came in while he was still here …

  He reached back and opened the valves on his tanks. He heard a brief, faint hiss as the carbon dioxide propelled the napalm into the line, then all was silent. He attached three bombs to his belt and waited.

  When the platform stopped, Jack stepped off and looked around. The floor here was a mess. Like a garbage dump. He’d have no problem finding hiding places for the rest of his bombs among the debris. He wanted to create enough of an inferno in here to spread to the aft hold, trapping the rakoshi between the forward and stern explosions.

  He stifled a cough. The odor here was worse than anything he’d encountered before, even in the other hold. He tried mouth breathing, but the stench laid on his tongue. What made it so bad here?

  He looked down before taking his first step and saw that the floor was cluttered with the broken remains of countless rakoshi eggs. Among the shell fragments were bones and hair and shreds of clothing. He felt his foot against what he thought was an unhatched egg; he rolled it over with the tip of his sneaker and found himself staring into the empty eye sockets of a human skull.

  Repulsed, he looked around … and found he was not alone.

  Everywhere he looked he saw immature rakoshi in a variety of sizes … most of them curled on the floor, asleep. One near him was awake and active—leisurely teething on a human rib. He hadn’t noticed them on the way down because they were so small.

  … Kusum’s grandchildren …

  They seemed to be as unaware of him now as their parents in the other hold had been last night.

  Stepping carefully, he made his way toward the opposite corner. There he set and armed a bomb and shoved it beneath a pile of bones and shell fragments. Moving as swiftly and as carefully as possible, he picked his way toward the middle of the stern wall. Halfway there he heard a squeal and felt a sudden, knifing, tearing pain in his left calf. He spun and looked down, reflexively reaching toward the pain. Something was biting him—it had attached itself to his leg like a leech. He pulled at it but succeeded only in making the pain worse. Gritting his teeth, he tore it loose amid a blaze of pain: a walnut-size piece of his leg had come away with it.

  He had a squirming, writhing, fifteen-inch rakosh by the waist. Must have kicked it or accidentally stepped on it in passing and it had lashed out with its teeth. His pants leg was torn and soaked with blood from where the thing had bitten him. He held it at arm’s length while it kicked and clawed with its tiny talons, its little yellow eyes blazing fury at him. It held a piece of bloody flesh—Jack’s flesh—in its mouth. Before his eyes, the miniature horror stuffed the piece down its throat, then shrieked and snapped at his fingers.

  He hurled the squealing creature across the room. It landed in the debris on the floor among the other sleeping members of its kind.

  But they weren’t sleeping now. The baby rakosh’s screeching had awakened others in the vicinity. Like a wave spreading from a stone dropped in a still pool, the creatures began to rustle about him, the stirrings of one disturbing those around it, and so on.

  Within minutes Jack found himself facing a sea of immature rakoshi. They couldn’t see him, but the little one’s alarm had alerted them to the presence of an intruder … an edible intruder.

  The rakoshi milled about, searching. They moved toward where they’d heard the sound—toward Jack. Maybe a hundred of them, converging in his direction. Sooner or later they’d stumble upon him.

  The second bomb was in his hand. He quickly armed it and slid it across the floor toward the wall of the hold, hoping the noise would distract them and give him time to get the flamethrower’s discharge tube into position.

  Didn’t work. One of the smaller rakoshi blundered against his leg and squealed its discovery before biting into him. The rest took up the cry and surged toward him like a foul wave. They leaped at him, their razor-sharp teeth sinking into his thighs, his back, his flanks and arms, ripping, tearing at his flesh. He stumbled backward, losing his balance, and as he began to go down beneath the furious onslaught he saw a full-grown rakosh, probably alerted by the cries of the young, enter the hold through the starboard passage and race toward him.

  He was falling.

  Once down he’d be ripped to pieces in seconds. Fighting panic, he twisted and pulled the discharge tube from under his arm. As he landed on his knees he pointed it away from him, found the rear grip, and pulled the trigger.

  The world seemed to explode as a sheet of yellow flame fanned out from him. He twisted left, then right, spraying flaming napalm in a circle. Suddenly he was alone in that circle. He released the trigger.

  He’d forgotten to check the nozzle adjustment. Instead of a stream of flame, he’d released a wide spray. No matter—it had been disturbingly effective. The rakoshi attacking him had either fled screaming or been immolated; those out of range howled and scattered in all directions. The adult had caught the spray over the entire front of its body. A living mass of flame, it lunged away and fled back into the connecting passage, the little ones running before it.

  Groaning with the pain from countless lacerations, ignoring the blood that seeped from them, Jack struggled to his feet. He had no choice but to follow. The alarm had been raised.

  Ready or not, it was time to face Kusum.

  34

  Kusum quelled his frustration. The Ceremony of Offering was not going well. It was taking twice as long as usual. He needed the Mother here to lead her younglings.

  Where was she?

  The Westphalen child stood quietly, her upper arm trapped in the grip of his right hand, her big, frightened, questioning eyes staring up at him. He could not meet her gaze—she looked to him for succor and he had nothing to offer but death. She didn’t know what was going on between him and the rakoshi, did not comprehend the meaning of the ceremony in which the one about to die was offered up in the name of Kali on behalf of the beloved Ajit and Rupobati.

  Tonight’s ceremony was especially important. The last of its kind—forever. The Westphalen line would be extinct after tonight. Ajit and Rupobati would finally be avenged.

  As the ceremony finally approached its climax, Kusum sensed a disturbance in the forward hold—the nursery—off to his right. A female rakosh turned and moved down the passage. Good. He hadn’t wanted to interrupt the nearly stagnant flow of the ceremony at this point to send one of them to investigate.

  He tightened his grip on the child’s arm as he raised his voice for the final invocation. Almost over … almost over at last …

  Suddenly the eyes of the rakoshi were no longer on him. They began to hiss and roar as their attention shifted to his right. Kusum glanced over and watched in shock as a screaming horde of immature rakoshi poured into the hold from the nursery, followed by a fully grown rakosh, its body completely aflame. It tumbled in and collapsed on the floor near the elevator platform.

  And behind it, striding down the dark passage like the avatar of a vengeful god, came Jack.

  Kusum felt his world constrict around him, closing in on his throat, choking off his air.

  Jack … here … alive! Impossible!

  That could only mean that the Mother was dead! But how? How could a single puny human defeat the Mother? And how had Jack found him here? What sort of a man was this?

  Or was he a man at all? He seemed more like an irresistible preternatural force the gods had sent to test him.

  The child began struggling in his grasp, screaming, “Jack! Jack!”

  3
5

  Jack froze in disbelief at the sound of that familiar little voice crying his name. And then he saw her.

  “Vicky!”

  She was alive! Still alive!

  Jack felt tears pushing at his eyes. For a second he could see only Vicky. Then he saw that Kusum held her by the arm. As Jack moved forward, Kusum pulled the squirming child in front of him as a shield.

  “Stay calm, Vicks! I’ll get you home soon.”

  And he would. He swore to the god he’d long ago ceased to believe in that he would see Vicky to safety. If she’d stayed alive this long, he would take her the rest of the way. If he couldn’t fix this, then all his years as Repairman Jack had been for nothing.

  No customer here—this was for himself.

  Jack glanced into the hold. The crowded rakoshi were oblivious to him; their only concern was the burning rakosh on the floor and their master on the platform. Jack returned his attention to Vicky. As he stepped out of the passage, he failed to notice a rakosh pressed against the wall to his right until he brushed by him. The creature hissed and flailed wildly with its talons. Jack ducked and fired the flamethrower in a wide arc, catching the outflung arm of the attacking rakosh and moving the stream out into the crowd.

  Chaos. The rakoshi panicked, clawing at each other to escape the jet of fire and avoid those aflame from it.

  Jack heard Kusum’s voice shouting, “Stop it! Stop it or I’ll wring her neck!”

  He looked up and saw Kusum with his hand around Vicky’s throat. Vicky’s face reddened and her eyes widened as he lifted her half a foot off the ground to demonstrate.

  Jack released the trigger of the flamethrower. He now had a wide area of floor clear to him. Only one rakosh—one with a scarred and distorted lower lip—stayed near the platform. Black smoke rose from the prone forms of a dozen or so burning rakoshi. The air was getting thick.