by C. J. Sears
* * *
Farspit Quarry had been mined for its limestone and coal as far back as the early 1900s. Pierce Maverlies organized the crews and assigned the work as part of his philanthropic efforts to improve the tri-county area as a tourist attraction. The campaign lasted a decade, but the lack of economic growth as a result of the dig proved to be the death knell. His scheme to enrich the local community with urban wealth failed. It closed for over sixty years, until his descendants reopened the mine, intent on utilizing new technologies to unearth both minerals and more profit. The mine closed again in 1995 before Thicket Excavations, an out of state mining company, purchased the rights. In 1997, one of the excavators stumbled upon the spores. When their hallucinogenic properties were discovered, they became a popular additive to the area’s moonshine trade. After that, the mine ceased all official operations for the final time.
The sheriff told him this in confidence. She warned that the townsfolk wouldn’t be fond of their drink becoming a hot topic of discussion. For years her father had worked with diligence to shut down the bootleggers in the woods while maintaining a healthy distance from any of the fallout. She explained that the force monitored which alcohol contained the spores. Repeat offenders were given hefty fines and protracted sentences. For their efforts, she claimed the moonshine hadn’t spread past Lone Oak.
Finch waved it off. “Sheriff, I’m here to investigate a murder case. I’m not the DEA and I’m not here to upset the applecart. If you say you’ve kept it local, I believe you.” He motioned for her to follow him down the wooden ladder that led to the bottom of the quarry. The sun was setting. “Now, if we could get in and out before nightfall, I would be ecstatic.” He didn’t relish wandering a cave in the dead of night with only a flashlight to guide him.
The electricity generators had run out of juice decades earlier. He held the light up with his right hand, kept his radio handy with the other. The tunnels were crude, misshapen openings. Having never been in a mine his whole life, he’d expected to see near perfect symmetry regarding the placement of foundations. What he found instead was a jagged and confused mess of architecture and stalagmites. This mining tunnel must have intersected with a cave. The paths were winding, labyrinthine in construction.
At a fork, Finch recommended they split up to cover more ground. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, reaching into the backpack she’d brought along. “But if we’re going to be suicidal, may as well have something to let the other person know where to find our body.” She produced a flare from within, handed it to him.
“Meet back here in…” he checked his watch, “twenty minutes. If we want to find our way back, I suggest we leave breadcrumbs.” He seized two sticks of chalk from his coat pocket, gave one to her. “Make an X or an arrow or something on the wall to let yourself know where you have been.”
“Okay, see you back here in twenty.” She winked at him. “Good luck.”
He winked back. “Same to you.”
Her light disappeared down the left tunnel. Her footsteps faded. She was gone. Steeling himself, Finch trekked through the right passage. Low ceilings and uneven footing made him question whether dwarves, not humans, carved out the path. He wheeled around a corner, smacked his elbow against a rock jutting from the side, and winced in pain. Clenching his teeth, he extended the chalk and marked an arrow on the wall pointing back the way he came.
Squeezing through a narrow archway, Finch caught a whiff of a peculiar odor. It was liquor; that much he could decipher from this distance. Inching closer, he breathed in the intoxicants: bourbon mixed with apple cider and the hint of something else. Had to be the spores. Shining the flashlight in the direction he’d smelled the alcohol, he happened upon a lone keg situated beside a workman’s table. On the container was an open flask, recently used. There was also a note dated two days prior. Angling the flashlight, he read:
October 12th
Jeb says that production is slowing down again. He wanted me to make sure that I wrote down the date for our records, but honestly, I just need to get this off my chest. We’re down in this rat-hole of a mine, busting up old fossils with our pickaxes, and for what? To get some kind of dust to put into the drink. I don’t get what’s so special about the stuff, but Jeb says the people in this godforsaken town go crazy for it. I asked him what it was, and he said it’s just a bit of flavor to spice up the good stuff. Call me crazy, but that sounds like bull. Ain't any moonshine worth all this work.
I noticed that we always shut down on Sunday afternoons. It’s like clockwork. I guess the guys have got to go back home to their families for church or something. Beats me why they bother. Ain’t nobody listening to their problems. That’s the drink’s job.
This job doesn’t pay enough. I asked Jeb for a better cut, but he just ignored me. We’ll see what he says when I’m not here come next Thursday.
Fossils? He’d assumed the spores were naturally occurring, like a cloud of dust floating in the air. The name of the man’s partner or employer was familiar. Jeb Haskins, maybe? He recalled a memo that had landed on desk back at the office pertaining to a known money launderer who was an ex-clergyman. The comparisons to McAlister couldn’t be ignored. Finch checked the reverse side for anything else the man had to say. Nothing.
Using a pair of tweezers, he extracted the bootlegger’s note and placed into a zip-lock bag. Might be worth dusting for prints. He did the same with the flask. Maneuvering the flashlight over the keg, he scanned for any sign of recent movement. There were tread marks leading away from the container in the direction of another corridor, this one wider than any he’d seen since the entrance. Based on the even spacing between the two lines, he guessed that a wheelbarrow had been the means of transport.
He radioed the sheriff with what he’d learned. Her voice came through bursts of static. “Good…not much…my end…bunch of rats…old miner’s uniform…heading back.” He still had to check out where the keg had come from. He let her know. “Okay,” she said, clearer now, “be careful. There’s been some collapses in my section. Place doesn’t seem too stable.”
He assured her he would be fine and signed off. He eyed the trail as he walked, kept his flashlight trained ahead of him. The chalk diminished as he went, denoting where he’d passed through. The passage continued to widen as he followed, ending in an enclosed, circular room the size of an amphitheater. His light danced across the surface of three white rocks leaned against aged mining equipment he didn’t know the name of. Discarded pickaxes were strewn about the cavern floor.
Covering his mouth with his shirt, Finch advanced toward the rocks. He could make out fossilized organisms, two feet long, bulging from the rough stone. They contorted in such a way he was reminded of the face-hugging monster from the Alien films. The creature had two forearms that resembled spikes and three sets of pointed legs. The tail accounted for half of its body and there was no sign of a skull.
One hand still clasping his mouth, he traced the specimen from top to bottom. A chill crept down his spine. He had to fight the urge to turn tail and back out of the room. These things were so foreign, so malformed, that he felt compelled to either retreat or burn them away. He imagined the skittering of tiny feet in the pitch-black recesses of the room, pale eyes watching, razor-like teeth waiting to feast. He shuddered. It was as if the cold air of the mine had become a tangible, malevolent force threatening to swallow him whole.
The rocks were too large to carry. Standing at a distance, he snapped photos of the fossils with his digital camera, one of the few bits of modern technology he was fond of using. The bright flash illuminated the room with a fury that could have induced an epileptic seizure. Funny, he thought he made out an oversized scorpion in the corner of his eye as he photographed the evidence.
Sucking in his breath, Finch grabbed the pickaxe and held it high. He counted to three, then struck the exterior of the fossil and jumped back as a fog of spores erupted from the rock. The note was validated.
In the farthest depths of the abyss, others joined in, a rhythm of sour notes and hateful screeching. He heard the pitter-patter of feet again.
Finch drew his gun. His heart beat fast in his chest. He crossed his flashlight underneath the Desert Eagle.
The creature snarled.
He took aim.
It charged, countless others of its kind in tow. He fired three times. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bullets impacted and bounced off of the cavern floor, missing the targets by inches.
The gunfire echoed in the chamber and for a moment the creatures appeared wary of him. They skulked toward him, not keen on attacking yet.
There was nowhere else to go but past them. At this distance, he could take out as many as four of them, but that wouldn’t make a dent.
A low rumble sounded somewhere in front of him. The ground trembled. Dust crumbled and fell on his shoulder. The sheriff was right.
The creatures grouped together, tight as a sailor’s knot.
He locked his eyes on them.
They sprinted again, spindly legs tapping against the rocky floor, would be on top of him in seconds.
Gathering energy, he sprang over them. They skidded past and collided with one of the wooden pillars in the tunnel.
Finch landed with a thud on the other side of the passage, rolling through to keep his momentum. He ran, regretted looking behind him to see the horde in hot pursuit, one of them centimeters from his heels. He turned and kicked at it hard, sending it careening into the wall with a sickening splatter. He swiveled back around, upped the pace.
Rocks rained down behind him, smashing the swarm to bits. Stragglers kept after him. He swept his flashlight over the walls, looking for his marks to know that he was going the correct way. Left. Left. Right. Left. Right. Right. Right.
He made it to the edge of the path where the note had been when a stalactite bit into his calf, knocking him down. He yelped as he hit the ground, his flashlight and gun bouncing away from him into the darkness ahead. Behind him, the remaining creatures were gaining on him.
Blinded, his leg throbbing, he tried to sit up. He propped himself against a wall. The hissing grew louder in anticipation of the kill. He fumbled for his side-pack.
The creatures were in sight, legs twitching, mouths gaping, tentacles flailing.
His fingers grasped the zipper, wrenched it open.
Alien masses extended, reaching for his limp body.
He ignited the flare and flung it.
A flash swathed the corridor in red as the flare alighted in the middle of the pack of creatures. They scattered, screeching their displeasure and receding back into the collapsing cavern. Bracing himself, Finch pushed off the floor, limped over to the flare. He plucked it off the ground, struggled down the path to his gun and flashlight.
He brandished the light as both a weapon and a tool. If they came back before it went out, he was ready.
The sheriff located him as he retrieved his gun, her face covered in grime and sweat. “I heard the commotion and ran like hell to get here. I thought the worst when I saw the flare. You alright? What happened?”
He bent and picked up the flashlight. “I’ll explain at the station. For now, I’d just like to get back to civilization.”
Noticing his limp, she wrapped his arm around her neck, helped him back to the entrance. They exited as the last rays of daylight dwindled. She guided him to his Jeep, at which point he convinced her he could handle the rest.
As she backed out of the parking lot, he stopped her. She rolled down the passenger’s side window, perplexed as to what he wanted.
“Sheriff, before we head back, I just want to know one thing: where can I find the best black coffee in town?”
COFFEE AND KILLERS
As it turned out, Sheriff Donahue brewed the finest black coffee he’d ever tasted. Finch drank deep from his mug, let the rich, sizzling liquid clear his throat of dust and dirt. The sheriff sat across from him twirling a spoon in her drink as she waited for him to finish.
The dining room, which doubled as a kitchen, was cozy, if lacking in panache. The table was modest, a white plastic top and metal supports, and the chairs were rigid, favoring function over flair. Bundles of orange flowers plastered the muted colors of the wallpaper. Cheap brand names made up the assembly of appliances in the other half of the room. Hands stuck between the hours of seven and eight, the most ornate object was the grandfather clock. The room had character.
The last drops hissed inside the cup as Finch set it down. He glanced over at Donahue, who took a sip from her own mug. Her disheveled hair tumbled down her shoulders, the red strands slicked with filth from the mine. She tapped her foot with impatience as he said, “Damn good coffee, sheriff, damn good.”
“It’s about the only thing I know how to cook. You don’t want to try my lasagna, trust me.” She shifted in her seat. “Now, you want to walk me through what you found out?”
“If you’re ready.” She nodded; he could see in her eyes how eager she was. He couldn’t put it off any longer. “Alright, let’s start with getting some of the more problematic items out of the way. Take a look at this note.” He handed her the small plastic bag containing the bootlegger’s words. “This was nearby,” he said, placing the flask beside the note. He watched the excitement leave her eyes, replaced with anger. “What do you think?” he asked.
She slid the note back over to him. “What I think is that we haven’t cracked down nearly hard enough on these moonshiners if they’ve got a sophisticated enough operation to be keeping records of it.” Pointing at lines on the note, she added, “It says here that they have been extracting the spores from fossils found in the mines. Did you get proof of this?”
He bent over in his seat, fished the camera out of his pack. “Turn it on and take a look,” he said. She did. He saw her anger turn to disbelief and then curiosity as she scrolled through the pictures he’d taken.
“This is ridiculous. Who thought it was a good idea to lace moonshine with this stuff? And these things you fought off, you say they looked just like the fossils?”
“Yes, though I don’t think they were fully grown. Worse, I’m pretty sure that they’re the same creature as the parasite the coroner found.” He’d made the connection right around the time they’d decided they wanted to be friendly with his body.
Donahue handed the camera to him, stood up, and walked over to the fridge. She returned with a bottle of wine, still corked. “Never been a fan of whiskey,” she explained.
He smiled sadly. “Neither am I. Actually, aside from caffeine, I’m straight edge, if that surprises you.”
“Given what you have been through? Hardly. Still, I reckon even you can appreciate the position we’re in right now. Times like this, girl’s got to drink.” She popped the cork, took a swig, and poured some into a glass. “I mean, it’s not every day that you learn that people in your town have been ingesting parasitic spores for the sake of a good time.” She drank from the glass. “Or that a cult has somehow infiltrated your community and murdered a woman without a single soul speaking up.” Another gulp of wine.
Finch tore the bottle from her hand. “I see where this is going. The worst thing you can do right now is get wasted and pass out. And it’s not as bad as you might think, at least not yet.”
He placed the wine out of her reach in the far corner of the table. Spreading out the evidence between them, he said, “Here’s what we do know: a man named Jeb contracted a number of workers to bootleg alcohol at Farspit Quarry. The moonshine is primarily bourbon mixed with parasitic spores and whatever other flavor they like. Said spores are mined from fossils and have hallucinogenic properties, at least according to what you have told me. With me so far?”
She
shrugged. He took that as a yes. “We don’t have a direct connection between the cult and the parasite or the spores, although the latter was found at the scene of the crime. We also have no idea how the spores have affected users other than enhancing their fix. There’s nothing to suggest that the spores themselves are dangerous, just the parasites. As of this moment, the cult and the parasite appear to be mutually exclusive threats.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said, scooting her chair closer to the table. “But that still leaves us with more questions than answers. Who is Jeb? What about PR? What is the cult trying to accomplish? How long does it take for a parasite to incubate from the time the spores are consumed? I mean, these people have been drinking this stuff since before I became sheriff, yet they couldn’t possibly be harboring a monster like that thing inside Jane Harley. You heard the coroner; she was a dead woman walking.”
The sheriff had a point, one he considered with a great deal of thought. Those fossils were chock full of spores, yet no one prior to the victim in this case had been infected with a parasite. If the town and outskirts were home to a bunch of moonshine-addicted, spore-ridden people, how had there not been an unparalleled swath of death?
This nameless creature theoretically lived outside of a host for years without need of sustenance, content to remain in spore form. These two parallel horrors, a cult and a parasite, had somehow mingled, intertwining into a tangled knot of insanity. He’d presumed that the parasite was part of the cult’s ritual, but given what he knew now, he wasn’t so sure.
“We’re going to have to unravel this with care,” she said, standing up and sliding the chair into place. She grabbed her coat, opened the back door.
He gathered the evidence off of the table and met with her outside. “Agreed. Jumping to the conclusions that we have so quickly hasn’t done anything but complicate the situation. We need to take a step back, start fresh. Once we have exhausted every possible line of inquiry, then we can start pursuing the more questionable ideas.”