Then it started forward, coming down the hall toward them with a strange, terrifying lope.
“Now!” cried Pendergast.
Margo reached up and fumbled for the miner’s helmet, and the hall was suddenly bathed in light. Almost immediately she heard a deafening WHANG! as Pendergast’s powerful handgun barked next to her. The creature stopped briefly, and Margo could see it squinting, shaking its head against the light. It bent back as if to bite its haunch where the bullet had passed. Margo felt her mind receding from the reality: the low, pale head, horribly elongated, the crease of Pendergast’s bullet a white stripe above the eyes; the powerful forequarters, covered with dense fur and ending in long, rending talons; the lower rear haunches, wrinkled skin descending to five-clawed toes. Its fur was matted with crusted blood, and fresh blood shone on the scales of the hindquarters.
WHANG! The creature’s right foreleg was yanked behind it, and Margo heard a terrible roar of rage. It spun back to face them and sprang forward, ropes of saliva swinging madly from its jaws.
WHANG! went the gun—a miss—and the creature kept coming, accelerating with horrible deliberation.
WHANG!
She saw, as if in slow motion, the left hind leg jerk back, and the creature falter slightly. But it recovered, and, with a renewed howl, coarse hair bristling high on its haunches, it came for them again.
WHANG! went the gun, but the creature did not slow, and at that point Margo realized with great clarity that [436] their plan had failed, that there was time for only one more shot and that the creature’s charge could not be stopped. “Pendergast!” she cried, stumbling backward, her miner’s light tilting crazily upward, scrambling away from the red eyes that stared straight into her own with a terrifyingly comprehensible blend of rage, lust, and triumph.
Garcia sat on the floor, ears straining, wondering if the voice he’d heard was real—if there was somebody else out there, trapped in this nightmare—or whether it had just been a trick of his overheated brain.
Suddenly, a very different sound boomed outside the door; then there was another, and another.
He scrambled to his feet. It couldn’t be true. He fumbled with the radio.
“Do you hear that?” a voice behind him said.
Then the sound came again, twice; then, a short silence; then again.
“I swear to God, somebody’s shooting in the hall!” Garcia cried.
There was a long, dreadful silence. “It’s stopped,” said Garcia in a whisper.
“Did they get it? Did they get it?” Waters whimpered.
The silence stretched on. Garcia clutched the shotgun, its pump and trigger guard slick from sweat. Five or six shots, that’s all he’d heard. And the creature had killed a heavily armed SWAT team.
“Did they get it?” Waters asked again.
Garcia listened intently, but could hear nothing from the hall. This was the worst of alclass="underline" the brief raising, then sudden dashing, of his hopes. He waited.
There was a rattling at the door. “No,” whispered Garcia. “It’s back.”
= 61 =
“Hand me that lighter!” D’Agosta barked. Smithback, falling blindly backward, saw the sudden spark of the flint and instinctively covered his eyes.
“Oh, Christ—” he heard D’Agosta groan. Then Smithback jerked as he felt something clutch his shoulder and drag him to his feet.
“Listen, Smithback,” the voice of D’Agosta hissed in his ear, “you can’t crap out on me now. I need you to help me keep these people together.”
Smithback gagged as he forced his eyes open. The dirt floor ahead of him was awash in bones: small, large, some broken and brittle, others with gristle still clinging to their knobby ends.
“Not twigs,” Smithback said, over and over again under his breath. “No, no, not twigs.” The light flicked out again, D’Agosta conserving its flame.
Another yellow flash, and Smithback looked wildly around. What he had kicked aside was the remains of a dog—a terrier, by the looks of it—glassy, staring eyes, [438] light fur, small brown teats descending in ordered rows to the torn-out belly. Scattered around the floor were other carcasses: cats, rats, other creatures too thoroughly mauled or too long dead to be recognizable. Behind him, someone was screaming relentlessly.
The light went out, then reappeared, farther ahead now as D’Agosta moved forward. “Smithback, come with me,” came his voice. “Everybody, stare straight ahead. Let’s go.” As Smithback slowly placed one foot in front of the other, looking down just enough to avoid stepping on the loathesomeness beneath, something registered in his peripheral vision. He turned his head toward the wall to his right.
A pipe or duct had once run along the wall at shoulder height, but it had long since collapsed, its remains lying broken on the floor, half buried in offal. The heavy metal supports for the ductwork remained bolted to the wall, projecting outward like tines. Hung on the supports were a variety of human corpses, their forms seeming to waver in the dull glow of the flame. Smithback saw, but did not immediately comprehend, that all of the corpses had been decapitated. Scattered on the floor along the wall beneath were small ruined objects that he knew must be heads.
The bodies farthest from him had hung there the longest; they seemed more skeleton than flesh. He turned away, but not before his brain processed the final horror: on the meaty wrist of the nearest corpse was an unusual watch in the shape of a sundial. Moriarty’s watch.
“Oh, my God ... oh, my God,” Smithback repeated over and over. “Poor George.”
“You knew that guy?” D’Agosta said grimly. “Shit, this thing gets hot!”
The lighter flicked out again and Smithback immediately stopped moving.
“What kind of a place is this?” somebody behind them cried.
“I haven’t the faintest,” D’Agosta muttered.
[439] “I do,” Smithback said woodenly. “It’s a larder.”
The light came back on and he started forward again, more quickly now. Behind him, Smithback could hear the Mayor urging the people to keep moving in a dead, mechanical voice.
Suddenly, the light flicked out again, and the journalist froze in position. “We’re at the far wall,” he heard D’Agosta say in the darkness. “One of the passages here slopes down, the other slopes up. We’re taking the high road.”
D’Agosta flicked on the lighter again and continued forward, Smithback following. After several moments, the smell began to dissipate. The ground grew damp and soft beneath his feet. Smithback felt, or imagined he felt, the faintest hint of a cool breeze on his cheek.
D’Agosta laughed. “Christ, that feels fine.”
The tunnel grew damp underfoot, then ended abruptly in another ladder. D’Agosta stepped towards it, reaching up with the lighter. Smithback moved forward eagerly, sniffing the freshening breeze. There was a sudden rushing sound and then a thud-thud! above, and a bright light passed quickly above them, followed by a splash of viscous water.
“A manhole!” D’Agosta cried. “We made it, I can’t believe it, we fucking made it!”
He scrambled up the ladder and heaved against the round plate.
“It’s fastened down,” he grunted. “Twenty men couldn’t lift this. Help!” he started calling, clambering up the ladder and placing his mouth close to one of the pry-holes, “Somebody help us, for Chrissake!” And then he started to laugh, sinking against the metal ladder and dropping the lighter, and Smithback also collapsed to the floor of the passage, laughing, crying, unable to control himself.
“We made it,” D’Agosta said through his laughter. “Smithback! We made it! Kiss me, Smithback—you [440] fucking journalist, I love you and I hope you make a million on this.”