Primal Fear

by Boucher, Brad

  He stopped, but the sudden fear in his voice had been unmistakable.

  A moment later, Charlie’s voice came back over the speaker, muted and vigilant. “I just saw the other ones. They just climbed up through the hole. I tried to stop them all for you, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry . . . I’m heading back out now, and I’ll see you at my Jeep. I’m sorry. Shit, Harry, they’re headed your way.”

  * * * * *

  Dr. Morris lowered his head. “That’s it,” he announced, stepping back from the old man’s bedside. “I’m calling it, people: the patient expired at—” He consulted the clock in the corner of the room. “—nine-oh-nine AM.”

  He stared at Mahuk’s still form, wishing there was something else he could have done, some final medical miracle he might have performed. But there was nothing. And now a man was dead, his body already beginning to cool no more than five feet away.

  Morris turned away, pulling off his gloves with a sharp snap of latex. He could hear the whine of the cardiac monitor, the ongoing electronic bleep that served as a warning that the patient had flat-lined. It droned on, a high-pitched reminder that they’d lost the old man for good. A final reminder of his own failure . . .

  He turned to Nurse Pratcher, about to tell her to shut the damn thing off, that it was no longer necessary. But she was no longer at the bedside. She was backing slowly away from it, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging open in shock.

  Morris followed her gaze and felt his own jaw drop open.

  “No,” she stammered, “this isn’t . . .”

  The old man’s arms had risen from his sides, his hands curling into the same elaborate patterns that he’d performed in his sleep throughout the week. They moved smoothly now, as if the restraint of the old man’s living will couldn’t hinder them any longer.

  The patterns came faster, the movements more complex. And all the while the monitors beside the bed continued to broadcast the same clear message: the old man was dead. No activity showed on any of the monitors, and a full three minutes had passed since Dr. Morris had officially pronounced the patient dead.

  And yet his hands and arms continued to move, a contradiction to every law of nature and science that Morris had ever learned.

  A long ten minutes passed before Harry caught up with John again. When he finally found the young Aleut, John was standing at a fork in the tunnel, shining his flashlight along each path, obviously debating about which one to take.

  He returned to John’s side as quickly as he could, moving through the darkness with new fear gnawing at his belly.

  He could hear the things following along behind him, his ear detecting an odd scratching sound, like metal on stone. Something else, too, something he couldn’t identify at first but then came to associate with the knocking of bones against one another.

  “There’s something coming,” he whispered. “I don’t know what they are, but they’re definitely coming this way. They came out of the kids, and they’re vicious little bastards.” Harry held up his hands, showing John the cuts and scratches he’d suffered during the creature’s attack. “What the hell are we dealing with here?”

  John shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d have to see them first.”

  “You don’t want to see these guys, believe me.”

  “Then let’s go,” John pressed. “If we can stop Wyh-heah Qui Waq, we can stop whatever it is that’s coming for us.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I think the demon managed to bring something through the gateway even before it could come back itself. I don’t know how and I don’t know what, but I’m willing to bet it’s something designed to stop us.”

  Harry peered carefully into the dark mouth of each tunnel. “Which way?”

  John pointed towards the left. “I think it’s down this way. Not much further.”

  He started to move away, making his way along the cavern’s curving wall. Harry followed him in silence, casting a nervous eye over his shoulder every few minutes in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the two creatures he knew were coming after them.

  Twice he thought he saw something, a flash of movement or perhaps just a trick of the shadows. But each time, as he swung the lantern in that direction, he found nothing.

  So far, at least, they were still alone.

  “Almost there,” John said. “Oh, my God . . . can you feel it?”

  Harry didn’t answer, didn’t have to. Because there was something in the air here, something that set his nerves on fire, his teeth on edge. He could feel the tiny hairs on his neck rising to attention. But all of it was without meaning to him; it more than fear, of course, but still something well beyond identification.

  And from behind them now, he could once again hear the dry rattle of bones, and the sound of what could only be claws raking across the stone floor of the cavern.

  He turned in time to see a blur of white in the middle distance, a fleeting motion just at the edge of the lantern’s power. In another second it was gone, but this time he was certain that what he’d glimpsed was quite real.

  “It’s here,” he whispered, softly nudging John in the back.

  John had come to a complete stop in front of him. “I know,” he said. His voice was filled with awe, and Harry knew instinctively that they were talking about two different things.

  He turned, peering over John’s shoulder.

  John was staring downward, his flashlight trained on the edge of a jagged pit in the cavern’s floor. It almost looked as if the ground had been split wide open here, as though it had allowed itself to collapse in the hope of someday swallowing some future adversary.

  Harry stepped up to John’s side, his eyes following the beam of the flashlight as it carved a path through the darkness of the pit. He felt his knees weaken, and his gaze wavered for a moment, his senses reeling as if he’d been punched square in the face. His mind tried to retreat from what he was seeing, to shut out the vision of what logic dictated could not be possible.

  But there it was.

  And he couldn’t look away.

  It lay in a crumpled heap, fifteen feet below them, stretched across the bottom of the pit. It was the tupilaq’s body, just as John had told him. Even at this distance, Harry could see that it was indeed fashioned from wood and bone, and just as had been the case with the artifact the night before, he could detect no sign of a seam between either material. The wood melded perfectly into the bones, as if—as John had said—one had begun to transform into the other.

  Harry let his eyes roam carefully over its form. It was monstrous, its limbs long and thin, like the branches of some diseased tree, its body bent and twisted and black as pitch. Its face was turned away, but Harry managed to get a clear look at the back and side of its huge, disfigured head. It was horrible, easily three times the size of any normal man’s skull.

  “Look,” John whispered, pointing to one of its hands, a giant, gnarled fist at the end of one long, spindly arm.

  One of its fingers had been chopped off at a point just above the second joint. This was where Mahuk’s ancestor, the legendary shaman Jha-Laman, had claimed his prize. Whether driven by pride or by a fervent wish to prove his success in destroying the tupilaq, they would never know. But there was no contradicting the truth that faced them, no turning away from what had once only been a myth, but was now clearly a part of history.

  The tupilaq’s entire body had been covered in a thick layer of ice, two centuries of complete stillness taking their toll on its body. Frozen to the earth in this way, it was difficult to imagine what mobility the creature might have once possessed.

  “All of it is real,” John said. His voice was hushed, almost reverent. He swallowed loudly, nervously. “It’s all true.”

  Harry stared at him in the dim light, seeing all of his own fear and confusion reflected in the younger man’s expression. “So,” he asked, a shiver running through his voice, “how do we kill it?”

  John held his hand out for the duffel bag,
as if that in itself might provide a suitable answer. His eyes were riveted to the tupilaq, completely spellbound by its awful appearance.

  Tugging the bag off of his shoulder, Harry handed it over. He hoped John knew what he was doing, that his studies of the ways of his people had been accurate. Because if they’d come all the way here to face this horrible creature with no knowledge of how to truly stop it, they would never leave this place alive.

  John knelt down with the open bag in front of him, his hands already rummaging around inside of it. He removed half a dozen items, one by one, carefully laying them out in a row beside the duffel bag. Harry watched him in silence, studying the articles as he set them down.

  There was what appeared to be a small wooden figurine, obviously hand-carved, its shape vaguely feminine, its surface worn with age. Directly beside it, John had laid out a circle made of feathers, joined at their stems by an intricate series of thin rawhide straps. The feathers themselves were tattered and ragged, and Harry found himself hoping that whatever magical power had once coursed through them was still bound tightly within their circle.

  The next item was even less comforting, and far more ambiguous. It was a simple leather sack, roughly the size of a softball, its top fastened securely with a ragged piece of twine. It seemed to shift when John laid it in place, as if whatever rested within its folds was trying to settle itself more comfortably upon the hard stone floor. A fine bluish-gray powder ran out of a small tear in the side of the bag.

  Harry was about to question the purpose of the strange selection of pieces, but a sound from the pit silenced him. John froze as well, one hand still in the bag, his eyes flicking automatically towards the tupilaq’s grave.

  The sound came again, a peculiar crackling noise that took several seconds to identify. But when realization finally came to Harry, there could be no doubt at all about the source of the sound.

  It was the sound of ice cracking, of frozen earth being slowly pushed aside.

  Harry aimed his flashlight at the bottom of the pit, shedding as much light on the scene as he possibly could. He shuddered, and heard John groan softly in fear beside him.

  Fifteen feet below, the tupilaq’s body was beginning to move. It began to lift one of its huge hands, its long fingers slowly flexing as it dragged them across the frozen ground beneath it. The layers of ice that had held its body in place for more than two hundred years began to crack and split, falling aside as the great beast beneath it struggled to be free.

  The huge head started to turn, its face moving slowly into a position to look up at them. A feeling of pure terror coursed through Harry’s body and he tore his gaze away, positive that to look upon the tupilaq’s hideous features would be to take a headlong leap into madness.

  He grasped John’s collar, pulling him violently away from the pit, forcing him to look away as well. “Do whatever you have to do,” he ordered, not at all liking the high-pitched note of fear in his own voice. “But do it fast.”

  John nodded and went back to sorting through the mysterious objects he’d pulled from the bag. The seconds ticked by, the sounds from the pit growing louder, the signs of activity coming more frequently.

  “John?” Harry prompted.

  “Almost there . . .”

  John rose to his feet, the circle of feathers held aloft in his hands. He’d stripped off his gloves, as if actual contact with the tribal article was a vital part of the ritual.

  Or maybe he was merely hoping the close contact would give him some much-needed strength. To repeat the words and phrases he’d learned through his years of study was one thing; to apply them to the purpose for which they’d been meant to serve was quite another. Harry wondered if John’s knowledge of the ancient rites would be enough. Or was a long legacy of unwavering belief required to make the words weave their magic?

  John raised the circle of feathers high above his head, stepping once more towards the edge of the pit. Harry could see the fear in his eyes, could see that he was trying to avert his gaze from the beast that was slowly rousing itself below them. But in the end, he had to look. Either as part of the ritual, or through an indescribable need to see the face of his enemy, John let his eyes settle on the tupilaq’s rising form.

  His eyes widened, and his entire body began to tremble involuntarily. “Oh, my God . . .”

  “John, what can I do? How can I help you?”

  John answered without turning. “Untie the bag. I’m going to need it soon. Don’t drop it, whatever you do.”

  A new sound rose from the earth, one that made Harry cringe in revulsion. It was a sudden racket of bones cracking, of ancient joints flexing back into use after a long period of dormancy. The sound spoke to him of ages past, of a time when magic and miracles were used to summon fear and vengeance, and man himself was little more than a go-between among the powers of the living and the dead.

  He steeled his nerves, working at the knotted twine of the bag with fingers that had gone as cold as ice.

  And it was at that moment that something struck him from behind, something he could feel on his back as it tore into his clothing with claws that felt like razors.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Harry turned sideways, letting his body roll with the force of the blow. His hands clutched the leather bag, John’s warning against spilling its contents ringing in his ears. He reached out and placed it on the ground, well away from his sprawled body.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the second creature already beginning to advance on him. It was hideous, squat and emaciated like a deformed and leprous child, its eyes brimming with cunning and malice. Its twin crawled across Harry’s back, making a move for his throat, but he twisted out of its grasp and pushed it away before it could sink its claws into him again.

  John moved to help him, the words of the ritual still spilling from his mouth. He held the feathers high above his head with one hand while helping Harry to his feet with the other.

  “What are they?” Harry whispered.

  “They’re called the Jhe-rhatta. The essence of the dead. I never believed that they existed. Never. I always thought they were a part of a fairy tale, something created to frighten the children. But . . .”

  “But here they are.”

  John nodded. “The story goes that the great spirits can capture the souls of those who died in innocence, that they can corrupt them into their own service.”

  “The kids.”

  “Yes. These are their souls. Wyh-heah Qui Waq has stolen them, given them form.”

  Harry shuddered at the very idea of it, at the notion that such youthful innocence could be disrupted this way. These things were hideous, abominations of humanity and spirituality. And yet their cunning and strength was just as black and evil as the demon who’d given them life.

  “How do we kill them?”

  John shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  One glance at John’s frantic expression was all he needed to understand that the young man was doing his best to remember the intricacies of the ritual. Perhaps it was supposed to go on uninterrupted, in strictly orchestrated sequence. Or maybe John was in sudden doubt about his own ability to complete the rite.

  “Keep going,” Harry told him. “There isn’t time for this.”

  “But what about—”

  “Let me worry about them. If things get out of hand, I’ll let you know, believe me.”

  He drew his gun as he watched the two creatures moving into position for their next assault. They seemed to be sizing him up, coordinating their efforts against him. Harry watched them, realizing that they seemed to be ignoring John, almost completely unaware of his presence.

  Or maybe just unwilling to attack him.

  He glanced to his right, at the circle of feathers that John clutched in his hands, quickly returning his gaze to the ghastly forms as they crept steadily closer to him. It took several seconds of close observation, but he finally caught one of the creatures casting a wary
eye toward John, toward the circle of feathers.

  “They’re afraid of it,” he whispered. “As long as you’re holding it, they won’t come near you.”

  John launched himself into the next stages of the ritual, his voice regaining some of the strength and confidence he’d displayed earlier. But he still seemed wary of turning his back on the Jhe-rhatta completely. Every few seconds he peered over his shoulder to gage the progress of their slow advance.

  From the pit, Harry could hear the sounds of activity growing louder. That could mean only one thing: Wyh-heah Qui Waq’s rebirth was well underway.

  The creatures it had fashioned to protect it were serving their purpose, their attack providing the perfect distraction from the task he and John had come here to perform.

  Harry clicked back the safety on his gun, taking careful aim at the nearest of the Jhe-rhatta. Holding his breath, he squeezed the trigger.

  But the thing had already begun to move, its solid form dissolving into a blur of white smoke, a glowing mist that streaked toward him in a sudden flurry of motion. He fired again, dazed by what he was seeing, but a part of his mind still functioning toward self-preservation. This time he was certain his aim had been true, and yet the bullet’s impact seemed to have no effect on the charging swirl of smoke.

  It regained its form upon impact, slamming into his legs as a solid entity, its claws already tearing at his thighs and hip. The collision threw him off balance, brought him down hard onto his chest, pinning the writhing creature beneath his legs.

  His eyes flicked upward, coming to rest on the second creature. It would surely attack soon, while the first one had his attention.

  Something Charlie had said over the radio surfaced in his mind, something about stopping the creatures before they moved. Once they were in motion, they somehow became immune to physical harm, a defense mechanism that left them virtually indestructible.

  If he couldn’t stop the second one before it sprang, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

  He extended his arm towards it, the gun clenched tightly in his fist. The first creature had given up its attack, at least for the moment, intent instead on freeing itself from the weight of his body. It began to wriggle out from under him.