Chapter Two

“No!” Sam shouted. Without thinking, he splayed his arms, grasped both sides of the opening, and heaved forward. He saw it all in the moment before he fell twelve feet to the ground.

The cavern, about twenty feet high and twice that wide. The river bisecting it, which he suspected was ordinarily narrow and placid, because of the storms now having breached its banks, a swirling maelstrom.

And just what the hell was that creature? He’d gotten a glimpse of the hideous thing when the Maglite strafed it, and what he’d seen had jived with Charly’s account down to the last detail.

He plummeted from the tube and was able to tuck his head enough so that when his shoulders and back struck the rock floor, his body went immediately into a kind of roll. It wasn’t perfect, and he’d be sore for days—if he lived that long, of course—but he thought he’d escaped major injury.

Sam completed his roll and found himself five feet from Charly and the beast. The emaciated white creature had dragged Charly to the edge of the river, just before a bend where the turbid water spumed and frothed.

The creature bent. Sam imagined it diving into the water, its subdued quarry trailing after it like a kind of streamer, disappearing into the whitewater and lowering until it reached some hidden lair, a spot where it could dine on Charly at its leisure.

Sam dropped the Maglite and dove for Charly’s ankles. Grasping them, he dug his heels into the slippery rock as well as he could and hauled Charly back toward the wall. The creature uttered a raspy cry of dismay. In the faint glow cast by the downed Maglite, he saw a monstrous, almost-hairless head whirl and snarl at him. Rather than playing tug-of-war for her, the creature lashed out at him, clouted the side of his head. Sam didn’t mean to let go of Charly, but he must have because he collapsed against the wall. It gave the base of his skull an awful knock. The creature pivoted as if it were finished with him and again prepared to enter the river. Sam pushed to his feet, the cavern listing deliriously, and extended his arms toward the pair on the bank.

Sam launched himself at the creature, but it was too late.

The creature rose into the air, Charly’s body rising with it. Sam struck the ground, but he could not take his eyes off the two bodies, which rose and rose, halfway across the river now, descending, the white feet landing deftly on the other side, Charly’s body thudding dully beside the creature.

“Let her go!” Sam shouted.

Though the stygian darkness engulfing most of the cavern precluded a clear view, Sam thought he made out an arched opening a few feet beyond the creature. It dragged Charly in that direction.

If it gets her in there, she’s gone. You know that, right?

Sam shoved to his knees, glanced impotently about for something to hurl at the receding white figure. He could dive into the water, but the current would propel him right past Charly.

You’re running out of time.

I know that!

Then do something.

Sam scrabbled forward to the river where his fingers closed on a good-sized rock. He couldn’t hurt the son of a bitch, but maybe he could piss it off enough to draw it into a fight. After that, who knew what he’d do, but there wasn’t time to think beyond the next step. He cocked his arm, sighting the base of the creature’s skull.

White light swam over the creature. It spun and let loose with a spine-tingling growl.

Sam whirled, thinking he’d somehow toed the Maglite into just the right position; then the cavern was aglare with the strobe of gunfire, the concussions impossibly loud in the enclosed space. Clapping his hands over his ears, Sam peered up and saw Larry Robertson leaning clumsily out of the tunnel and firing his Sig Sauer at the creature. The sheriff seemed to defy gravity; one hand held the pistol, the other aimed the flashlight. There’s no way he’ll hit it, was Sam’s first thought, but it evaporated when a howl of pain escaped the snarling lips, the creature dropping Charly and striding toward the river. Sam thought, Yes. Get angry. Get back over here so we can give Charly a chance.

A bullet opened the creature’s right shoulder, the blood spluttering up in a black fountain. Another shot punched a hole in the thing’s throat. Evidently convinced it stood no chance against the Sig Sauer—which had to be nearly empty—it spun with a frustrated growl and reached down for Charly’s hair again.

A shot exploded, and all but one of the creature’s fingers disappeared.

Squalling, the thing clutched the jetting stump of its hand and gaped at it with bared teeth. Then its eyes shifted to Robertson and narrowed to hateful slits.

Sam turned and peered up at the sheriff. Behind the pointed flashlight beam, Robertson’s face had gone slack with terror, the expression of a man who realizes he’s just pushed a superior fighter too far and is about to suffer the consequences.

“Fuck a duck,” Robertson said.

“Fall,” Sam said.

“Huh?” Robertson stared down at him like he was crazy.

“That thing’s going to—”

But he never finished because he saw in Robertson’s dumbstruck expression it was coming.

Robertson glanced behind him, and Sam realized how the sheriff had been able to hang in the opening that way. Eric Florence had ahold of his legs. “Push me out,” Robertson said.

A muffled response.

Sam whirled in time to see the creature crouch down for its leap back across the water.

Robertson saw it too. “Now, goddammit! Push me out!”

Then the sheriff’s plump body squeezed forward like a turd from an asshole, his eyes never leaving the creature. Sam heard but did not see it spring. Robertson’s hips cleared the opening, his thighs. He fell, and Sam cursed himself for not relieving the man of his flashlight and gun, which were both skittering through the air too. Sam hustled toward Robertson’s falling body to catch him. The gun and flashlight smacked the scummy floor with wet, cracking noises. Robertson landed nose-first, his lower body swinging down in an ungraceful swoop. The sheriff hardly made a sound, which Sam took as a very bad sign. The flashlight flickered but stayed on.

Ten feet away from Robertson, Sam suffered an endless moment of indecision. Fetch one of the flashlights so he could see his adversary better? Make a grab for the gun? He knew the general area of where it fell, but beyond that it was guesswork.

Sam went for the gun.

Something behind him whistled through the air. Sam hit the ground on his knees and swept his fingers over the gritty wet floor to locate the gun.

The creature landed.

An unwholesome glow backlighted the creature as it straightened and stalked toward Robertson. For the moment, it had decided to ignore Sam.

Keep ignoring me, he thought. Ignore me long enough to let me find this goddamn gun.

Robertson lay immobile—was he paralyzed or simply stunned from the fall?—and didn’t look up as the creature towered over him, reached down with a clawed hand.

Sam turned back to the ground and thrust his hands every which way. Where was the gun? If he could retrieve it, and if there were bullets left—

“Where did Charly go?” a voice from above asked.

Sam shot a glance up and saw Eric Florence gaping down at them, an expression of comical disbelief stretching his eyes. Unhesitatingly, the creature reached up and seized Florence by the front of the shirt. Bellowing, Florence tumbled forward. Rather than slamming him on the ground and breaking his back, the creature actually prevented Florence from landing, holding him aloft the entire way. Sam knew he should be searching for the gun, but there was something spellbinding about the scene before him, the creature drawing Florence slowly closer, the coach’s legs dangling several feet off the ground. The creature sneered at Florence, their noses only inches apart. Florence batted at its face, flailed his limbs, but it drew him closer, closer.

Unconsciously, Sam’s hands had commenced their search, tapping the floor in nerveless circles.

Sam froze. His fingers had touched steel.

The creature brought its face closer to Eric Florence’s, and for one wild moment, Sam was sure it would kiss him.

Then its mangled hand came up and the one remaining finger dug a trench down the side of Florence’s face, the skin of his cheek gathering in a pinkish, bloody curl. Florence howled and drummed his feet against the creature.

A quick, meaty sound arrested the creature’s movements. It shot a glance down.

Though it was dark, Sam could see very well the antler-handled buck knife embedded in the creature’s ankle. Robertson had shoved it in to the hilt, the tip of the blade tenting the skin on the other side of the creature’s ankle but not quite puncturing it.

The beast dropped Eric Florence, who landed in an ungainly heap a couple feet from where Larry Robertson lay. Either Robertson was paralyzed from the waist down or injured so badly he couldn’t do anything but stab that pallid ankle and wait for the thing’s retribution.

Sam brought up the pistol. Fired.

The creature’s left nipple became a messy divot, the torso snapping sideways. It came right back toward Larry Robertson, who was awaiting his end with quiet dignity. The creature hunkered down over the sheriff’s body.

Sam squeezed the trigger again, but this time there was a click that made his balls shrink.

Methodically, almost lovingly, the creature hooked an index finger into the meat of Robertson’s left shoulder and tore a steady line down his back, opening fabric and flesh, the ripping sound turning Sam’s stomach and making his gorge rise into his mouth.

Sam took a step forward, but he knew it was already too late. Robertson’s eyes were darting behind him in terror, his arms thrashing around trying to disengage the creature sitting on him. Like a diner savoring a particularly well-prepared cut of steak, the creature set to work, this time spreading the torn fabric of Robertson’s blue shirt and exposing the glistening incision it had made.

Sam took another step toward them. “Don’t—” he started to say, but the rest of it cut off in a choking gasp. With that same hideously thoughtful expression on its face, the creature sank a hand into the gash, just inside Robertson’s shoulder blade, and seemed to probe the body within for some hidden treasure. The sheriff bucked with convulsions, weird, gurgling rattles issuing from his lips, which were now spewing gouts of blood.

Sam closed the distance to the creature—who was now fishing something maroon out of Robertson’s gore-streaked back—bent and grasped the buck knife. The creature froze, shot a withering look back at Sam.

Sam yanked on the knife. It came free of the creature’s ankle with a slurping sound that would have made him gag if he weren’t so damned scared.

Sam rose, the buck knife dripping at his side.

The creature rose too, and as it did its wormy arm pulled free of Robertson’s back with a protracted sucking sound. Sam glanced at the creature’s freakish hand and saw why. It clutched Robertson’s heart.

It grinned, brought the heart to its fanged maw, and began to chew.

A voice above them said, “Um, what the hell is that thing doing?”

The creature glanced up in surprise, but Sam didn’t need to see Melanie Macomber up there, gaping at the gruesome scene like she had a box seat at an underground Grand Guignol.

Sam rushed toward the beast, pumped the knife into its belly.

The body doubled onto him, the hand that clutched Robertson’s heart smashing into his shoulder. The other arm, the one missing fingers, cracked Sam a glancing blow on the side of the head.

Sam knew this was it. If he failed to drop the creature now, they were all as dead as Larry Robertson. He muscled the buck knife deeper, twisted, jerked across his body as hard as he could. The creature squalled, its belly opening in a noxious black flood. Sam got both hands on the slick handle, ripped down. Now the flap of the creature’s skin yawned very wide, something that felt like the thing’s intestines spilling over Sam’s wrists and forearms. It reminded him disgustingly of the time he’d helped deliver a newborn lamb, the afterbirth feeling very much like this. Hot and slimy and broadcasting a coppery stench.

Talons pawed at his neck, and before the thing could rip his head off, Sam wrenched out the knife, raised it and hammered at the creature’s chest. The talons dropped away from his neck, batted at the knife. The quivering fingers closed over the blade, so Sam jerked it away, watched in grim satisfaction as another walking-stick finger was severed cleanly at the knuckle. In a frenzy now, he hacked at the creature’s abdomen, and when it doubled over again, he set to shanking it in the side like an inmate gone berserk. Five times, ten, the black substance pouring from everywhere. Dimly, he heard someone screaming, assumed it was Eric Florence, then realized it was himself. The creature was leaning now, its struggles lessening.

Sam moved with it, glad of the newfound access to its throat, and shook the buck knife loose. The creature snapped at Sam’s face, but it was a half-hearted lunge, like it already knew what the outcome of this struggle would be. Grimly, he raised the knife and slashed the creature just below the chin. It opened its lips as if to wail, but the only sound that escaped was a deep gurgling. The slit ranged from one side of its underjaw to the other, and to help it along, Sam reached up with his free hand, grasped the pulsing flap of skin, and yanked down. The slit became a clownish black grin, the thing’s lifeblood spurting like a rancid waterfall. Sam was drenched with the ichorous fluid, but he hardly noticed. He released the flap of skin, grasped the knife with palsied hands and slammed it into the side of the creature’s head. Whatever sentience had still been present in the dying creature winked out, the spidery body flopping on the floor and convulsing in a messy whir of limbs. Sam stepped over and kicked the thrashing head for good measure. When the convulsions slackened, he stepped on the hateful face, got as good a hold on the antler handle as he could, and reared back. The knife made a sound like a zipper being jerked rapidly up. He straightened and wiped the blade clean on the leg of his jeans.

Then he remembered the others.

Eric Florence hadn’t moved, was now watching Sam with a species of something that might have been betrayal.

Melanie was watching Sam too. Her freckled cheeks were absolutely motionless in the tunnel exit. She still looked cute if a little simple that way, but he knew he had to snap her out of her fugue if they were gonna get Charly.

“Can you turn around enough to slide down feet first?” he asked her.

She frowned at him. He assumed she didn’t hear him—the rush of the river behind him was loud enough to produce a good-sized headache, and Sam was developing a whopper of one himself—but then he realized it wasn’t a lack of hearing him that had induced her expression, but rather an unformed suspicion. She was scared of him now, even if she didn’t realize it herself. He imagined what a figure he must cut down here in the scarce light filtering from the flashlight beams. Bedraggled beyond description, probably bleeding himself, the creature’s obsidian fluid befouling him and making him look like some medieval convict swabbed in pitch.

“Melanie,” he said, “I need you to listen to me.”

“Uh-uh,” she answered. “I’m not listening to anything you say. I’ll only come if Eric tells me too. Otherwise, I’m going back up.”

Sam kept his voice level. “You won’t make it.”

She nodded at the corpse of the creature. “That thing is dead.”

“You see a baby?” he asked as patiently as he could. “This…thing isn’t the one that’s got the child.”

She began to shake her head.

“Which means,” Sam went on, “that there’s at least one more of these creatures running around down here. My guess is that there’s a whole lot of them running around down here. You really want to be alone when you run into one of them?”

Sam avoided referencing Larry Robertson, but when Melanie’s eyes flitted to the sheriff’s facedown corpse, he realized he didn’t need to. He was thankful she didn’t have a flashlight of her own because he certainly had no desire to see the sheriff’s exposed spine and half-eaten entrails again. Not in this lifetime.

When Melanie still hesitated, Sam glanced at Eric Florence. “You tell her.”

“Tell her what?”

“To get her ass down here before one of those things bites it off.”

Heat flared in Florence’s eyes. “What if I don’t want to?”

Jesus, Sam thought. After all the crap that had just gone down, here was the big bad basketball coach still trying to prove whose dick was bigger.

Sam heaved a sigh. “You two do what you want.” He made his way to the water’s edge.

“Where’re you going?” Florence demanded.

Without looking back, Sam said, “We’ve got to cross. Charly’s over there.”