by Sahara Foley
“North to South, come in, John.”
“South to North. Say, Pete, we have a sewer junction here. Which way should we proceed?”
“We already crossed a junction, John, and we noticed that in the east/west sewer there were also holes leading to each house on those blocks. We decided to continue straight north so we do not get lost down here. I suggest you do the same there.”
“Roger, Pete, we'll keep moving south. Carter out.”
“What the hell is that?” Sagano asked, as he pointed down the sewer tunnel with his flashlight.
There was a pool of very dirty, slimy, smelly water about fifteen feet ahead, then the sewer tunnel began climbing uphill.
Before Carter could answer, Reames said, “We just passed Dorcas Street at that intersection, and, if I remember, the street begins climbing toward Martha Street. Does that sound correct, John?”
Carter nodded. “I think you're right, Mike. The water doesn't look deep, so let's keep moving, gang.”
When Pepper stepped into the eight-inch deep water in her tennis shoes, she said in disgust, “Oh yuck, John. There's a turd floating in this shit.” The men chuckled, then it dawned on her what she'd said, “I didn't mean it that way, you guys. But I guess if we're walking in shit, there should be turds floating around, huh? Oh God. I can't wait to get home, and take a hot shower. And I'm throwing these damn shoes in the trash.”
They checked eight more sets of holes in the sewer walls before they came to a section where the tunnel quit climbing and leveled out again. Sagano stopped his team with a raised arm, with his light pointing ahead: one opening, larger than the rest, located about three feet from the floor of the tunnel.
Sagano crept forward. Crouching, he shone his light into the opening in the redbrick wall, then stood and quickly walked back toward them, sweat running down his face. Carter noticed Sagano was shaking from the way his light beam jiggled all over.
“That's the den, John. The tunnel has a pretty steep incline, and there are scrape marks on the den floor where something crawled into, out of, or dragged something in there. What the hell am I doing here?”
Carter patted his shoulder, reassuring him, “You're doing just fine, Mark. This is what Alvarez told us to look for. Pepper, give it a listen, would you, dear? But be careful.”
She nodded and grabbed her dish, moving quietly in her wet shoes. She didn't bend over, but stayed to the side of the hole and placed the plastic dish over it. Her face was a mask of pure, intense concentration. Carter watched the sweat run off Pepper as she tried to listen, then she rushed back to them, whispering, “Mother of God. I hear breathing coming from the opening, John, clear as day. It almost sounds like someone is snoring, but very faintly. Call the other team. I think we have a Tescara right here.”
Carter moved back down the tunnel a few feet, and whispered into the radio, “South to North, we found one, Pete. Get down here, you guys, and hurry. We're about half a block south of Martha Street.”
No answer, so he tried again several times. Still no response.
Reames said, “We may be out of range, John. These radios aren't made for use in tunnels, you know. Should I go back for them? It wouldn't take me very long.”
Carter shook his head, “No, Mike. I don't want anyone alone down here. We'll retreat a few more feet, and try them again.”
The group moved as one back down the tunnel, Sagano keeping his light on that single opening in the wall.
Pepper took off back up the tunnel with her lantern, setting it close to the opening, then returning. “We don't know how far back we have to go, and soon, Mark's light won't be strong enough to show us the hole. You guys go on back, and try to reach the other team on the radio. I'll stay right here, and keep an eye on that hole. Go on, before I lose my nerve, guys.” She pulled her shotgun around and stood holding it, aimed at the hole, as the men moved back, Carter still repeatedly trying the radio.
At the Dorcas Street intersection, the men stopped. Carter said, “I don't want to go any further. I don't like leaving Pepper up there alone. Let's go back,”
“John, we're almost halfway to where we started,” Reames said, “You two go back to Pepper, and I'll go find the other team. Besides, we didn't bring anything to dig with, and that hole didn't look big enough for anyone to fit into. I'll get the other team, and we'll bring some shovels back with us.”
“Are you sure, Mike? Maybe we should all go back together.”
“Yes, I'm sure. We can't all leave and not have someone watching that hole. I didn't come all this way, wading through shit, to let the damn thing get away, because no one was watching the hole. I'll be back as fast as I can. Mark, try not to shoot us when we return, okay?”
The two men stood watching as Mike Reames walked north, his lantern swinging from his hand. When he was out of sight, they turned and waked back to where they had left Pepper … but she wasn't there!
Searching around in panic, Sagano pointed toward the sewer floor. On the redbrick floor were a riot shotgun, and a piece of the clear, plastic sound-dish. The plastic was covered with wet blood. Up the sewer tunnel, where Pepper had set the lantern, the area was darkness.
Carter and Sagano quickly shone their flashlights around, looking for Pepper, or some sign of what might have happened to her. In the redbrick wall, where Pepper had been standing, was one of the openings, with a matching hole on the opposite wall. They had both been checked when they had first passed through the area.
Sagano again shone his flashlight in the hole, then gasped. “Oh my God, John. Look at this.”
With both flashlights shining in the hole, they could see a trail of fresh blood on the hard dirt, and there were two strands of hair in different colors, one reddish brown, and the other long and curly black. Pepper had long, black, curly hair. There were also marks indicative of something heavy being dragged into the opening.
“I'm sure those marks weren't there before when I looked, John,” Sagano said in a whisper. “I'm positive. Oh God. One of those creatures was in that damn hole, but we never listened with the sound dish. Look there. Isn't that a—.” Sagano started reaching into the opening.
Carter snatched his hand, speaking in a forced whisper, “What the hell are you doing, Mark? Don't stick your damn arm in there, you idiot. I can see it. It's a part of the headphones Pepper was wearing. Jesus, Mark, don't ever do that again.”
Both men were crouched down when the booming, reverberating echo of a big shotgun, fired five times, reached them. So loud, both men jumped up, knocking each other over onto the redbrick sewer floor. Pellets of .00 buckshot screamed around the tunnel, ricocheting off the walls over their heads, as they quickly covered their heads with their arms, laying still, trying to become part of the smelly tunnel floor.
Before the echoes died away, Carter wondered out loud, “Who the hell did that? Those shotgun blasts were damned close. About back at the Dorcas Street crossing.”
Both flashlights had fallen to the floor. As Carter was reaching for one of the flashlights, Sagano gave out a loud bloodcurdling scream.
Carter jumped again, dropping his flashlight as he spun to where his brother-in-law was crouched on the floor. Grabbing up his flashlight, Carter shined it on Sagano, his eyes not believing what he was witnessing. The scream faded away, and John Carter stood frozen, staring down at his fishing, drinking buddy with blood squirting like a fountain from his right shoulder, where his arm used to be, but was no more.
Carter leaned down quickly, trying to find some way to save his friend, but knowing there was nothing he could do with a mortal wound like that.
“Oh, God, Mark. Oh, Jesus, man. What the hell happened?”
Sagano was pasty white, and his unfocused eyes would never again see the love of his life, but his lips moved, as he whispered, “Run, John. There are dozens of 'em down here. Tell Sharon I … love … her.”
Carter knelt there, staring at his dead brother-in-law, not believing what had happened, when he heard raspy breathing and
looked up.
Four Tescara were standing on their hind legs, watching him as he knelt watching them. One of the Tescara had Sagano's arm in his small, hairy hands, Mark's digital watch gleaming in the beam from the flashlight.
Carter could feel the riot shotgun under his left knee, and he flicked his eyes down momentarily to be sure. The four Tescara saw his eye movement.
Before Carter could drop his hand and grab the shotgun, they rushed forward. In a second, Carter was down on the brick floor, four Tescara on top of him, two pulling off his arms, one digging viciously into this stomach, and the fourth digging its long claws into his eyes.
His screams echoed down the dark, lonely sewer, then were replaced by grinding, crunching, tearing and chewing sounds.
* * *
The local paper covered the story in great, if totally inaccurate, detail. From the vehicles parked around the house on South 18th Street, and from the neighbors who had seen their arrival, they knew eight people, identified as Carter, Alvarez, Reames, Sagano, Kaslowski, Mickosky, Daniels, and Doctor Lewis, had entered the house, and sometime later, shotgun blasts were heard echoing throughout the neighborhood.
Theories abounded, from multiple suicides, to a group of renegade cops who became judge, jury and executioners. None of the theories could be proven by the investigators, as not one body had been found. After the discovery of the opening in the dirt room, the sewer system had been extensively searched. All the various holes found in the sewer walls were attributed to rats over the years.
The City of Omaha had eight people missing. Eight people who had been seen, by some of the neighbors, going into that house. The Police Department also had quite a bit of expensive equipment missing, and none of the equipment was ever recovered. No one had any answers. But they had plenty of questions. Cathy Carter and Sharon Sagano were hounded mercilessly by the press, but they had nothing to tell.
The police investigation did turn up the three videotapes and the big, overstuffed briefcase in Sergeant Alvarez's Blazer. They also found the stuffed model of the Tescara in his apartment. Since he already had a reputation for being eccentric, the Police Chief, backed by the Mayor of Omaha, was able to downplay the evidence, and write him off as a kook hunting for a mythical animal.
The Police Chief's claim was further substantiated by some of Dr. Lewis' colleagues, who stated she had been contacted by Capt. John Carter about some unknown creature they had found, but Dr. Lewis had scoffed at the idea of its truth. They had not taken the claim seriously.
Two months after the multiple disappearances, two women were in a car, parked in front of the house on 18th Street, at eleven-thirty at night.
They sat quiet for a while, then Sharon spoke up. “What was it John told you, Cathy?”
“Only that something terrible lives in the basement of this house, and to never sit on a toilet. I know, it doesn't make any sense, but John was very serious.” Taking a deep breath, she asked, “You ready?”
They got out of the car together, walking to the rear of the house in the dark. Sharon smashed the back-door window, and unlocked the door. Inside, by flashlight, they proceeded to the basement, where Cathy sat a small bundle on the floor in the dirt room. A few minutes later they were gone, driving quickly south, as the whole house on 18th Street seemed to expand, then became a rolling ball of flames.
At a traffic light, Cathy broke down in tears. “I hope we killed the bastard, whatever it was.”
The traffic light changed to green, but before Sharon drove on, she said, “Nothing could live through that fire, Cathy. Don't worry, honey, it's over now. Finally.”
Sirens sounded in the distance.
* * *
Enclosed is a free short story for your reading pleasure. This Christmas tale is included in a free anthology entitled Mistletoe Magic.
Silent Night
He snubbed out his cigarette with a grunt of disgust, as another rendition of Silent Night screeched through the worn speakers mounted on the wall behind him. Fifty years in space, and we're still being bombarded with damn Christmas songs, he thought as he rose to switch off the noise. Yes, but there was a time when you enjoyed them, a small part of his mind reminded. Yeah, well, that was before, he shot back. His nights weren't calm and bright anymore. They were full of regrets and guilt.
Picking up his overflowing black, plastic ash tray, he dumped the smashed butts in a large can under the bar. Through a haze of smoke, he looked at the nicotine-stained clock on the far wall. Shit. Not even eleven o'clock yet. Too bad. He didn't feel like putting up with these losers tonight. Peering down the bar, he saw his four regular hangers-on, sucking at their beers. The rest of his clientele had already left to prepare for Christmas tomorrow.
Starting at the far end of the bar, he picked up ash trays, dumping the butts into one, working his way to the four remaining patrons. “C'mon, guys, drink up. Time to go,” he ordered gruffly.
“What?” a man with white hair and slumped shoulders asked. He turned on his stool, peering with narrowed eyes at the clock behind him. “It ain't even eleven yet, Deak,” he whined. “We still got at least three more hours.” He took a drag off his cig, then started hacking with a deep rattle that shook his frail body. Pulling out a stained, red handkerchief, he spat up a wad of phlegm.
“Geez, Mike.” Deak turned away with disgust, feeling his chest ache with sympathy pains. “One day you're gonna hack up a lung. 'Bout time you quit, don't you think?”
With washed-out blue eyes, Mike squinted at Deak through a cloud of smoke. “I will when you do.”
“Yeah, well, at least I don't sound like I'm dying.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tall figure sneaking off into a dark area of the bar. “Tommy,” he yelled, “don't you dare light that stinking cigar in here. You know the rules. Get the hell outside, or go down into the tunnels.” Tommy was notorious for buying the foulest smelling cigars around. No one knew where he found them, but they always smelled like burning shit.
“Sorry, Deak,” Tommy said, ducking, his head, cigar clenched between his teeth. He slunk off like a whipped dog toward the steps leading to the tunnels for the miner's living quarters. Deak shook his head. This was a routine they went through several times during the day.
Striding from behind the bar, he gathered up Tommy's half-empty mug, then stopped at the front window to shut off the bar signs. Looking out the grime-streaked window, he saw debris scuttling down the deserted street. Normal for this time of night. The wind was blowing at a sustained rate of 45 MPH, making the plastic window bow in. Deak shivered from the cold radiating through the feeble barrier. Without protective weather gear, a person would freeze to death within twenty minutes.
Glancing up and down the street, Deak saw a few shuttered store fronts, all with red and green Christmas lights blazing away, looking eerie under the full, purple moon. A moon so big and close, it always made him feel like it was going to fall on him.
He grunted. Once again, his bar was the only storefront notably absent of any holiday cheer. It hadn't always been that way. When he first bought his bar on this godforsaken planet twelve years ago, he decorated every holiday season. That was before his heart died, nine Christmases ago.
With a grimace and a snort, Deak turned away and went back behind his bar. “Alright, guys. You got time for one more, then I'm closing the bar. I'm tired at looking at your ugly faces.”
“What's the rush?” asked Mike, sliding out his empty mug for a refill. “You ain't got nowheres to go.”
“And how do you know that?” snapped Deak, setting down a full mug. “For your information, I have plans.”
“Yeah, with who?” Mike wrapped his hands around his mug, taking a sip.
“Ain't none of your business, old man,” grumbled Deak. He stopped in front of a taller, younger man sitting next to Mike, appraising him. “Is Donny good for another one?” Donny was mentally damaged; a survivor of the same war Deak had fought in. Another war-to-end-all-wars, but it still hadn't done
the trick. Last Deak heard, Earth was fighting a different type of war, Islamic fanatics against everyone else.
Mike glanced at Donny, then gave a curt nod. Donny was his old ladies' son. He never said much, mostly talked about baseball or mumbled to himself. He could drink all day with hardly any visible effects, but when he hit the full mark, the next thing you knew, he was spewing beer all over the place. Afterwards he'd go back to drinking again. Mike sadly shook his head. He'd seen his days of war, too, several decades earlier. Each man handled the atrocities of war in different ways. As Deak stepped back with Donny's mug, Mike flipped a few coins out to pay for the beer.
Deak slid over to the last man, Joe. “You ready for another one?” He knew it was a rhetorical question, as Joe's nickname was 'One More Joe.' About the only words he ever spoke were 'one more.'
Joe nodded, grinning at him with his tobacco-stained teeth. Deak picked up the mug with a grimace of distaste. Joe was a chewer, but never spat out the juice, so his mug always had tobacco dripping down the sides.
As he filled Joe's mug, Mike peered at Deak from under his bushy, white eyebrows, worried. Mike had already been living here when Deak showed up, taking over this bar. He'd been good people, easy to talk to, ready to help where ever he could. But he'd changed over the years, withdrawing, not caring any longer. This bar used to be his pride and joy; floor swept clean, bottles gleaming under the bright lights. Now, it was turning into a dump. Mike shook his head, sighing. Bad things happened to good people.
Finished with refills, and the exchange of money, Deak returned to his seat. He knew he had less than half an hour before the men would be leaving. As he poured a shot of whiskey, he caught a reflection of himself in the smeared mirror. He stared at himself, running a hand across his scruffy, dark brown beard. Gray was already making an appearance. How long had it been since he shaved? He looked down at his rumpled jeans and shirt. When was the last time he'd put on fresh clothes? He shrugged, running his hand through his long, uncombed, brown, curly hair. After tonight, it didn't matter.