Chapter 14
Billy pulled himself onto the rock pad, kicking at the tendrils on his calves, his ankles. The last fifty yards had been a nightmare sprint, the ground simultaneously dissolving and coming alive, the cracks and holes opening up wider and wider, the narrow bridges of drier ground between them turning softer with each step. The rest of his group had watched him zig and zag, Darius and Weasel leaning down to help him onto the pad. Each man had his knife out, and after they pulled him onto the rock pad they turned back to back, watching all sides of their sanctuary.
“You lost your rifle,” Darius said.
Billy ignored him and crawled over to Henry, who was on his back, wheezing and clutching his left arm. Billy shook Henry’s shoulder. “Is this what you were talking about?”
Henry turned his eyes to Billy. “Just,” he said. “Just need . . . a . . . second.”
“Look at that,” Darius said. “I don’t believe it.”
Rachel was climbing out of the fissure, mud-streaked, her forearms crossed by red welts. She paused at the lip, then turned to pull Jake up. They stood on wobbly legs and regarded Darius and the others, less than fifty yards away. Jake had an arrow clenched in his hand. There was movement in the chasm behind them, but for the moment none of the tendrils were going after them. They, like Darius, seemed to be uncertain how to react to this development, to two people who had literally climbed out of their graves.
Darius reached down and yanked Henry’s Walther from his belt. Other than their knives, it was the only weapon they had left; Garney’s bow had disappeared along with him into the chasm.
“No,” Henry wheezed. “No killing. It will . . . make it . . . worse.”
Darius brought the pistol up. “Get over here,” he called out, “or I’ll shoot both of you, right where you stand.”
Jake said something to Rachel, then held up his hand not holding the arrow and extended his middle finger. After a moment Rachel joined him, her arm thrust high into the sky. The blood had mixed with the mud on their bodies and it looked a bit like war paint. Their eyes and teeth—they were smiling, grinning actually—were very bright.
“They think I’m bluffing,” Darius said. He pulled the trigger, the gun bucking in his hand. A spray of mud and rocks exploded just to the left of Jake. Jake and Rachel turned and ran, running crossways, Jake in the lead as they skirted the edge of the fissure. Darius tracked Jake with the Walther, his finger pressing against the trigger. The fissure curved toward Darius before tapering off enough for them to jump across it. Their current route would bring them closer, within thirty yards, a much better range for the short-barreled Walther.
The sights of the pistol were a foot in front of Jake as he ran. Darius’s finger depressed slowly, making sure he kept the lead in front of Jake’s chest.
“No!” Henry pushed himself up and staggered toward Darius. Weasel stuck out a leg and Henry pitched forward, but the momentary distraction was enough to cause Darius to squeeze the trigger before he was ready. The gun bucked and Jake paused, staggering a little, then continued on. Darius fired and fired again, too furious to aim correctly, sending slugs screaming into the air around them. Jake leapt across the chasm, then turned to catch Rachel. His chest was broadside now, twice the target it had been.
“There we go,” Darius said, and squeezed the trigger. This time, instead of firing, the Walther gave a small click.
He spun back to Henry. “Where are the bullets?”
Henry looked up through a skein of long, graying hair. “It’s too late, Darius.”
Darius stepped forward and kicked Henry in the jaw. Henry’s head snapped back and he turned over on the rock, his eyes glazed. “ ‘Bring the old man,’ she said.” Darius spat out the words, his nostrils flaring. “‘He’ll bring you wisdom.’ ” He kicked Henry in the ribs, rolling him over.
Darius set the Walther down on the rock and ripped open Henry’s backpack. He dug through the coils of rope, a small tarp, all the other crap Henry had brought with him. At the bottom was a ziplock bag holding two cloth bundles. Darius tore it open, spilling out a handful of 30-30 cartridges. He opened the other bundle, plucking out several small, short rounds.
Jake and Rachel’s progress through the fissures was slow, and the tendrils that lay along the ground slowed them even more. They hadn’t gained much distance and were still within range for a few more seconds. Darius slapped at the stony surface for the pistol, not letting them out of his sight.
The rock was bare. He looked down, then up.
“No,” Darius said.
Henry had pushed himself into a sitting position, and he held the Walther in his right hand. His left was curled like it was broken, the fingers like claws. “Don’t spill blood here, Darius.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Henry drew his arm back. His face was ashen. “It took a sacrifice to put it to sleep, Darius. It wants another sacrifice to wake up, to consolidate. It needs something intentional. Can’t you feel it?”
“I don’t feel anything,” Darius said. “Give me the pistol!”
Henry’s eyes locked on Darius, suddenly fierce. He flung the pistol into the distance, the little Walther spinning in the air and then skipping across the ground. It came to rest thirty yards away in a seam of mud. Within seconds a large tendril crawled to it, testing it for warmth, for movement, pressing it deeper into the ground.
Henry climbed to his feet. “You want to do something,” he said, “you do it with your own gun.”
Darius pulled his knife from his sheath. “You’re going to go get that.”
“It’s gone,” Henry said. “Just like your rifle is gone. Stolen from you while you were sleeping.” He paused, looking into the gray sky. When he turned back to Darius his eyes were calm. “Sleeping like a baby. A stupid little baby.”
Darius crossed the rock pad and seized Henry by the arm, bringing the knife to Henry’s stomach. “You know why we make babies, old man?” He plunged the knife into Henry’s belly all the way to the hilt, then ripped it crossways. A torrent of blood splashed onto their feet. Henry looked downward at the pool of blood spreading across the lichen-crusted rock. “To replace old men,” Darius said, shoving Henry off the edge of the rock pad.
Henry landed with a splat. Dozens of tendrils swarmed out of the soil, weaving around his bloody torso. Several more crawled over Henry’s face, touching and pressing, moving lightly, almost tenderly. The ground was suddenly hidden beneath a mat of intertwining serpentine shapes that formed into a loose cocoon around Henry, pressing over his stomach wound.
Something rippled underground, a massive heaving that reverberated through the rock. The tendrils contracted around Henry, pulling him tighter to the earth. Everything went very still.
Across the river, Jake and Rachel paused, dripping river water from their clothes at the base of the cliff. The only movement was a solitary yellow aspen leaf, floating down the river they had just crossed.
The ground opened slowly, dilating around Henry’s body. Several rocks popped free at the edges and tumbled into the darkness. Henry Redsky followed, not so much falling as being handed down from one set of shifting tendrils to another. A low sound came out of the earth, something that could have been human, could have been animal. Or it could have been the earth itself, a gravelly whisper of rock sliding across rock.
Billy stood at the edge of the rock pad. Henry’s lips were still moving under his shroud of tendrils, the pupils of his eyes expanding as the light grew dimmer. The earth rumbled again, the tendrils coming out of the sidewalls interlaced with their counterparts on the far side. Very slowly, the earth came back together.
This time, the earth stayed still. Most of the remaining tendrils retreated back into the ground, until the valley looked as it had a half hour earlier.
After ten minutes of silence, Billy stepped off the rock pad, pausing at the mudpot where Henry had flung the Walther. He inserted his hand into the mud, wincing, but nothing happened. The tendrils had all retreated. But the ground was not entirely still, not entirely dormant. It was rocking slightly, a gentle back and forth, like a jaw chewing.
“I can’t find it,” he said. He looked up. Rachel and Jake were already a quarter of the way up the spine of rock. Jake had paused to watch Billy, one of his hands grasping an outcropping. Then he turned and continued to climb.
“The gun is gone, Darius,” Billy said.
“We don’t need it,” Darius said. There was still a lone tendril atop the ground, limp and motionless. Darius walked toward it and it slowly slithered back into the earth.
Billy watched it disappear, thinking of Henry down there, somewhere. “It’s not hunting anymore,” he said.
“No,” Darius said. He was still holding his bloody knife, and he wiped it on the side of his pants, one side and then the other, leaving a scarlet chevron on the denim. He sheathed the knife, took one last distrustful glance at the ground, and then nodded toward Jake and Rachel, who had started to climb again. “But we are.”