by Brian Hodge
"Christ on a cracker, look at 'em," Watson said breathlessly. He held the torch over the opening, but they couldn't begin to count how many there were.
Kip slung the backpack from his shoulders and dropped it to the ground. As he knelt down and began undoing the pouch straps to get out his gas can, a sudden panic rose in his gut. So far, the creatures down below hadn't moved, but if something set them off, if they decided to attack, they'd swarm out of that chamber like lava, a swirling mass of teeth and claws.
"Why haven't any of them moved?" Kip looked at Watson and tried to gauge if he was hanging in there or not. The old man's face was as pale as marble in the torchlight. His eyes had a distant, lifeless look.
"These ones look different," Watson said. "They're smaller. 'N did you see what they're doin?"
Kip was too frightened to reply, so he concentrated on getting the five-gallon can of gasoline out of the backpack.
There's no way this will be enough, he thought. All we'll do is stir them up, like a nest of hornets.
He regretted not forcing Watson to go back to the surface, but what could he do? Watson was the adult, and he was just a kid.
"Those ones down there are the females," Watson said. "It must've been males we was fighting in the cave. This is where they're having their young. Look close. Don't it look like they're sittin' in nests or somethin'?"
"Just what we need. More of them," Kip said.
"No fuckin' way," Watson said. With his nearly useless arm, he undid his belt and grabbed the gas can before it fell to the ground. He unscrewed the cap, prepared to splash the contents on the creatures below.
"These things are sittin' ducks. You ever hear the old expression, 'shootin' fish in a barrel?' Well, boy, this is gonna be easier 'n that."
They huddled together to figure out the details of their plan, but it really was quite simple. Watson gave Kip a quick nod, signaling he was ready. Kip lit a flare to mark the opening and planted it firmly in the ground. Then, when each of them had their gas can ready, they ran around the opening, splashing gasoline down onto the nesting untcigahunk.
The smell of gasoline rose above the fetid air of the chamber. Hundreds of the untcigahunk looked up as the foul-smelling liquid rained down on them. At first, they seemed confused, but then they suddenly moved as one gigantic, agitated mass. They started moving from side to side to avoid the gasoline, but Kip and Watson covered the perimeter quickly. When his can was empty, Kip lobbed it down into the chamber. As it clattered down the steep stone sides, the little brothers sent up a squealing response.
"Get back to the opening before we light it," Kip shouted to Watson. There were several more caves entering the chamber on their level, so on his way back, he lit a few more flares and tossed them down as far as he could, hoping the light would keep back any wandering little brothers who might come at them.
Watson was moving slowly. He was weakened from so much blood loss, but he got to the entryway before Kip. The red glow of flares filled the chamber with an eerie, flickering light.
"Toss your can down there, too," Kip called out, but Watson had a better idea. Handing Kip the torch, he tore off part of his tattered shirt and stuffed one end of it into the top of the gas can.
"Be ready with that torch," he said.
It took Kip a moment to realize what he was doing, but when Watson was ready, he held the loose flap of shirt projecting from the can top out to him. Kip touched it with the flame. As soon as the rag caught fire, he spun around and tossed the torch into the chamber at the same time Watson ran to the edge of the opening and threw the gas can down into the mass of untcigahunk below.
At first, nothing happened. After what seemed like an impossibly long time, a dull explosion and a loud whooshing sound thundered through the cave. Flames shot up out of the chamber opening, reaching almost all the way to the ceiling. The squealing of the little brothers when they attacked was a mere whisper compared to the tortured wailing sounds that now erupted from down in the chamber. Flames billowed higher and higher as the gasoline ignited, sucking in air with a roaring rush. A wicked orange glow filled the cave, and a wall of heat blasted into Kip's and Watson's faces.
"They're fuckin' fried!" Watson cried joyfully. He turned his flashlight beam on Kip, but he didn't need the light to see. The walls of the chamber were flickering with flames. This was as close to a vision of hell as Kip was ever likely or would ever want to get. All that dried bat shit down there must have ignited," Watson said. "Lots of gases, methane and stuff, are making it burn even better than I thought."
Kip nodded, amazed and frightened by the inferno they'd caused.
"Take the flashlight and shotgun," Watson shouted, "and have some more flares ready!"
Kip turned his back to the burning chamber, relieved not to be facing the searing heat. The rising flames behind him were sucking in the cool air from the caves so fast he felt like he was standing in a flood of cool water. He grabbed the spare torch from his backpack and handed it to Watson. Then he took out a handful of flares. Suddenly, he slapped his hand on the empty scabbard at his side.
"Oh, shit! Shit! I lost my knife!" He stared frantically at Watson. "I lost my brother's knife!"
"Don't worry about it. I'll get you a new one. A better one," Watson said as he watched the flames rising from the untcigahunk nest. He had noticed something Kip hadn't, something that sent shivers racing up his spine in spite of the heat. Several figures, crouching low, were clawing up over the edge of the chamber. The fire had driven them into a frenzy, and they squealed as they darted back and forth, seeking to escape the flames and heat.
"Behind you!" Watson shouted.
Kip turned just in time to see two little brothers charging toward him, their arms held high, their hooked claws exposed. He took aim with the shotgun and squeezed the trigger once... twice. The double blast sent both little brothers reeling backward, and they fell over the edge into the swirling flames below. By now, more creatures were scrambling up from the inferno, distorted black silhouettes against the flickering flames.
"Get that fucking torch lit!" Watson shouted, but he was holding the end of it too close to Kip's face. Kip backed away and hurriedly struck a match. When he touched it to the gasoline-soaked cloth, it blossomed into a globe of fire. He fumbled to get two new shells into the gun chamber.
"Let's get our asses movin'," Watson snapped.
All Kip knew as he snapped the gun closed and turned to start down the corridor was that he had a flash-light in one hand and a loaded gun in the other. Somewhere back there—
Who knows where?
—was Marty's hunting knife, lost forever.
Watson showed a surprising burst of energy. In spite of his mutilated arm, which was still seeping blood, he kept pace with Kip as they ran down the corridor, putting as much distance as they could between them and the untcigahunk's echoing cries of pain and rage. The shrill sound reverberated off the cave walls so loudly it hurt their ears, but it faded the farther away they got.
Kip thought it was only the wildest stroke of luck that they didn't get lost without his string to guide them. When they came to the carnage of their last fight with the little brothers, he knew they might stand a chance of getting out of there... as long as the little brothers didn't close the distance too fast. Surprisingly, they hadn't gotten lost in all the confusion.
Still, all Kip could think about was that he had lost Marty's knife. If he did survive this, his brother would kill him for taking it in the first place.
7
Bill's nervousness only increased as he raced down the corridor after hearing the gunshots. He hadn't known what to think when he found the dozens of dead creatures, but now he knew someone a human—was in trouble.
The more he thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed that Kip was involved. Where would he have gotten a gun? Then again, Bill hadn't checked at home to see if his gun was still in the closet where he kept it. Maybe Kip had taken it. But Bill's gun was a .22. He could t
ell by the way the creatures' faces and chests were blown away that someone had used a shotgun on them.
He followed the unspoiled string to a point, but he found to his disappointment that whoever had been unwinding it had dropped it. There was large amounts of blood on the cave floor and wall, but it looked too dark to be human blood. At least he hoped so. There was hope because he hadn't found a human body—Kip's or anyone else's.
Not yet, anyway.
Bill ran down the corridor, following his bobbing circle of light, but not very far along, the tunnel branched off in two direction. Without the string to guide him, he had to guess which way to go. He certainly couldn't tell from the gunshots he'd heard. He finally chose and went down the corridor to the right. He followed the tunnel for a distance, but at last, convinced he was heading the wrong way, he turned around and started back.
He was about a hundred feet from where the tunnels branched when he heard the heavy tread of feet and the labored sound of breathing. The cave echoed with the sounds of hurried flight, and it was getting closer. Deciding that whomever it was needed help, Bill was rushing to get back to the intersection when, up ahead, he saw a flickering orange glow.
He pulled to a halt at the cave mouth, surprised to see Kip and—it took him a second to recognize him—that crazy Indian, John Watson running toward him.
What the hell is Kip doing with him? he wondered, but before he could call out a greeting, he saw Kip look up, raise the shotgun he was carrying, and in a blinding instant, fire.
The thump of the shotgun blast filled the cave and punched his ears as the edge of rock beside his head exploded with dust and shotgun pellets. The roar of the shotgun reverberated in the cavern, but the last thing Bill was aware of as he fell backward was how wicked the glow of the flare made the cave walls look... as if they were splattered... with blood.
8
Kip was filled with fear and pumped with the adrenaline. Convinced the little brothers were closing the distance between them, he also was afraid they would suddenly appear in front of them. It would have taken ten times the amount of gasoline they had used to kill all of the creatures down there. His only hope was that, in the confusion of pain and fear, only a few—if any—would follow them back to the surface. In their retreat, he lit several flares and dropped them behind them, hoping the light would delay pursuit.
As they ran, their only thought was to avoid any more of these creatures. If they did meet any more, they would have to rush them so fast they would overwhelm them and get by without stopping to fight. Kip had no idea how Watson kept up with him. His own lungs were aching for fresh air, and a curious numbness was spreading through his arms and legs. His face was dripping with sweat, and the cool cave air sent chills racing through him. All he wanted to do was follow his line of string back to the entrance of the Indian Caves. From there, they would be safe... once they rolled the rock back into place... if they had time.
Up ahead, Kip's flashlight beam caught a sudden motion. He jerked to a stop, took quick aim, and fired before realizing it was a human face—not an untcigahunk—he had seen. The shotgun slammed back against his shoulder as Watson, who was looking behind them, ran smack into him. As he fell, Kip saw the rock wall explode from the buckshot.
"You see 'em? How many?" Watson asked, surprised by the sudden blast of the gun that had thrown him off balance.
Kip got up, shook his head, and ran to the entrance where a human hand protruded from the edge, lying on the ground. The fingertips were mere inches from the burning flare he had left to mark their way.
"There was a person there!" he shouted, and when he rounded the corner and trained his flashlight beam down at the floor, an icy fist slammed into his body. Lying on the floor with blood splattered across his forehead was his father.
"Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus!" he cried out as he knelt down beside his father and slid one hand under his father's head. Gently, he rocked his father's limp body from side to side.
"I killed him!" he shouted, looking frantically at Watson, who stood solemnly beside him. "I killed my father!"
Grimacing with pain, Watson braced his wounded arm and knelt beside Kip. He stuck the torch under his useless arm and leaned close to Bill. Then he reached out and placed his fingers on the side of the fallen man's throat
Tears carved tracks through the grime on Kip's face, and his shoulders shuddered with deep sobs.
After a moment, Watson let out a low chuckle and looked at Kip. At first, Kip thought the old man had finally snapped, that the terror of what they had been through finally had broken the old man's last grasp on sanity.
"Open that canteen and hand it to me, boy," Watson said. Kip slung the canteen from his shoulder, spun off the cover, and handed it to him. There wasn't much water left.
"The next time we do something like this," Watson said, wincing with pain as he moved his arm, "remind me not to let you carry a gun, all right?"
Anger and fear of what he had done filled Kip. As he stared at his father, his eyes felt like they were going to pop out of his head. He wanted to slap Watson for treating what he had done so casually.
Watson sprinkled some water onto Bill's face. The thin traces of blood washed away easily, but it took Kip a long time to realize that his father's face was intact. No gaping hole! No exposed bone! No splattered brains!
"The buckshot hit the side of the cave wall. Lucky for you I knocked your aim off when I bumped into you." Watson lightly dabbed the superficial wounds. "If he had been an untcigahunk, we'd probably both be dead now."
Kip cast a nervous glance back down the tunnel. His flashlight beam split the darkness, but it showed nothing but empty stone corridor. The blazing fire and enraged squeals of the untcigahunk were far behind them, lost in the twists and turns of the Indian Caves.
"We're safe... for now," Watson said, turning his attention back to Bill. After another sprinkling of water, Bill rolled his head from side to side. Low, pained moans escaped his throat.
Kip's tears of grief and terror now turned to tears of relief when his father's eyelids fluttered open. For a second or two, his gaze was unfocused, but then he recognized the two faces leaning over him and smiled weakly.
"What the hell—?" he muttered as he shifted around and tried to stand up. The effort proved too much, and he sank back down to the floor. "What the hell happened? I— Where are we?"
Watson cast a glance at Kip, who instantly read the message in his eyes.
"You followed us into the caves. You've only been out for a second or two. I—uh, I shot at you." Kip's voice was low and sullen. "When I came around the corner, I thought you were another untcigahunk."
"Untciga—what?" Bill mustered enough energy to prop himself up on his elbows. Shifting to one side, he used his shirtsleeve to wipe the blood and water from his face.
"Untcigahunk," Watson echoed. "The 'little brothers.'"
"You mean those things I saw dead back there in the corridor?"
Both Watson and Kip nodded.
"And you killed them? The two of you?"
Again, both Kip and Watson nodded.
"Well," he said, groaning as he shifted into a sitting position, "if there are any more of them, maybe we ought to get the hell out of here."
"That's just what we were doing," Watson said. He grunted as he stood up. The sudden shift made him wince as pain danced like fire along his nerves. For the first time, Bill noticed the old man's mutilated arm. That made him forget all about the stinging nicks on his own face. He wiped his face again and, refusing help, got to his feet on his own.
"What are you doing down here, anyway?" Kip asked as they hurried toward the cave opening.
Bill focused his flashlight on his son's face, surprised by what he saw. Even in this poor light, he looked somehow different... older.
"I could ask you the same thing," Bill said as he clapped his son on the back. He was so relieved to see him alive he knew it'd take weeks, maybe years for him to fully register it.
"The most important right thing now," Bill said, "is we have to get John to the hospital."
Both Kip and Watson caught the familiar use of his first name, and they exchanged smiles as they made for the opening of the Indian Caves and the sweet, pure light of day.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Exit Point"
1
Marty's orange-flavored Slushie was about half gone when he stepped out of the Big Apple into the warm afternoon sun. He had left the house early that morning, figuring he'd let Kip sleep after getting back from the hospital so late last night. He was relieved to know the little twerp was okay. Soon enough he'd pay for stealing his knife, but the longer Marty thought about it, the madder he got.
That only left one problem in his life—Where the hell were Al and Jenny?
Still, after a couple of days, no one had seen or heard from them.
He figured they had run off to Boston or someplace to sell the stolen marijuana, but after hearing his father and brother tell what had happened down in the Indian Caves, he wasn't so sure. His father was down at the police station with Parkman now, so maybe later today he'd get some answers.
A chill deeper than any Slushie could have given him raced up his back when a hand clamped down on his shoulder from behind. Turning, he saw Woody grinning a shark's grin at him.
"How's it goin', dickweed?" Woody said.
Marty caught a whiff of stale beer on Woody's breath and tried not to let what he felt show on his face.
"Hey, Wood-man," he said. He cast a longing glance up and down Main Street, but there wasn't anyone in sight. A lone car whisked past and turned onto Miller Street. Behind him, Marty could feel Mr. Ingalls, the manager of Big Apple, watching. The store was open twenty-four hours a day, and especially on late shifts, Mr. Ingalls had, as they say, "seen it all." Marty knew he wouldn't intervene unless things got very serious.