The Doom Stone

by Paul Zindel

  The pilot turned at Jackson’s shout, looked at the screen. Next to the form of the leg was the image of a flexing hand with claws. Jackson was out of the chopper, running toward Rath.

  “It’s down there!” Jackson shouted.

  Tillman and Richards searched the last dark corner of the grinding room. The shriek of the turning water-wheel with its chipped axle and gear teeth cut through the air like nails being dragged across a blackboard. Over the din they heard a scuffling and a strange ticking sound.

  TICK TICK

  The soldiers halted, aware there was more than a dead body in the mill. Richards felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle. “What’s that?”

  Tillman shone the light onto the wall behind the tank. The ticking became faster, like the sounds from a Geiger counter. Puzzled, Tillman clipped the flashlight to his belt and started to circle the tank to the right. Richards moved counter to Tillman. He advanced slowly until the glow of Tillman’s light stripped the shadows from behind the tank.

  Richards scratched at his beard. “Where’d it go?”

  TICK TICK TICK

  The sounds were above them now.

  They glanced up slowly. There were fresh scrapings on a rusted metal ladder at the side of the water tank.

  “It’s gone up,” Tillman said.

  “Yeah,” Richards agreed. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, unclipped the revolver from his belt, and began climbing the ladder. Tillman stepped back, lifting the light beam up to the rim of the tank.

  Richards groaned, wiping his hands as he grasped rung after rung of the ladder.

  “What?”

  “Slime. Stinking slime.”

  Richards braced against each rung for balance. Near the top he drew himself into a crouch, then lifted his head above the rim.

  “What is it?” Tillman asked.

  Richards stared down at the surface of the stagnant water, its putrid smell burning in his nostrils. “I need more light.”

  Tillman moved back, bouncing the light off the ceiling.

  “Nothing,” Richards said.

  “You sure?”

  Richards leaned over the rim of the tank, trying to see below the surface of the foul water. He laughed. “Only a polar bear would stay underwater—”

  The eruption came quickly. Richards saw a shimmering bulk flying up through his own reflected image. The living mass rose at him like a battering ram, hitting into him before his brain could think to pull the trigger of his gun. In the next split second he glimpsed an enormous skull-like face with horrifying, deep, huge eye sockets. The impact ripped his legs from the ladder and hurled his body against the ceiling beams. He was aware of being turned by great clawed hands locked on him like pincers, and he was ashamed to find himself screaming. He stared helplessly down into the skull face, saw it open its mouth. A huge, gnashing spray of twisted, razor-sharp fangs spiraled upward and began to penetrate his throat. He felt a deep unspeakable pain, saw the burst of his own blood in front of him. In his last conscious moment on earth, he knew he was being devoured alive.

  At Richards’ first scream, Tillman had backed away, trying to get a clear shot at the ungodly nightmare rising from the tank. He saw the monster twisting, turning Richards’ body as though deliberately using it as a shield. The creature began biting with the power and speed of instinct until Richards’ severed head fell down at Tillman’s feet with a sickening thud.

  CRAAACK

  The side of the tank exploded. The beast and a wall of water flew at Tillman. He leaped out of the path of the creature, but the slats of the tank and the surge of water smashed him with the force of an ocean wave. He staggered to his feet in the midst of the blood and debris as the monster fled out the open door.

  Jackson heard the creature’s sounds before he saw it coming up the path heading straight for Rath. He backed toward the helicopter as Rath fired his pistol. A single shot passed through the creature’s neck, but it didn’t even slow it. With a swing from its powerful arms, it sent Rath flying against a tree, then kept coming straight for Jackson.

  “Yow!” Jackson cried out as he turned and ran for the open door of the chopper, the beast fast on his heels. The engines were still running. He saw the look of terror on the pilot’s face, heard the chilling sounds of the beast gaining on him.

  “Hurry!” the pilot shouted.

  Jackson leaped into the chopper and slammed the door shut. He spun around to see the monstrosity roaring at him from behind the slab of thick Plexiglas. He saw its skin, a transparent membrane pulled taut over a huge skull, and within the black sockets below its distended brow two narrow, red, murderous eyes. Where its nose should have been was a ragged, oozing hole. The monster cocked its head as if showing off its neck wound, glared at Jackson as it thrust its twisted fangs out at the window, and began to pound the aircraft with its insectlike extremities. The craft shook, listed. The creature’s pincers started to shear upward through the aluminum door.

  “Hold on,” the pilot shouted, thrusting the main throttle forward.

  The engines roared, kicking the rotors into high speed. Now the monster screamed with rage, looked upward to the large, coughing dual exhausts atop the chopper as the thrust of the rotors neared liftoff. The beast retracted its claws, cocked its shining, deformed head again, and sniffed at something in the night air. It started away from the chopper.

  “No!” Jackson cried out, knowing where the creature was heading. He looked for a wrench, a piece of pipe, anything for a weapon. He grabbed the fire extinguisher as he flung the door of the chopper open.

  “Stay inside!” the pilot shouted.

  “My aunt…” was all Jackson could gasp before he was out into the fog and running after the beast.

  Dr. Cawley had stayed much too long talking with the young girl—whose name, she had found out, was Alma. She was picking the girl’s brain about her living with her father at the cemetery and the strange sounds she had heard all week. It was the ticking sounds that had awakened her in her bed, drawn her out among the tombstones into the moonlight.

  Dr. Cawley was walking her toward a brick building landscaped with manicured rhododendrons and evergreens when the shots rang out.

  “Who’s shooting?” the girl asked.

  “Quick! Go inside!” Dr. Cawley ordered, turning her away.

  The girl called her dog. The wolfhound was barking again, holding its ground like a hunting dog locked on game. Dr. Cawley heard Rath’s cry and the surge of power to the chopper’s engines. She was afraid for her nephew—not certain at all about what was happening. The girl took the dog by its collar, hurried to lead it away.

  Sounds came out of the fog, a type of profound growling, deep and pulsing, then quickening as if a wild beast were smelling blood. Dr. Cawley saw the monstrous form coming toward them. At first she believed she was looking down an impossible corridor of time as the vision of rage loped toward her.

  “Run!” she screamed at the girl with the dog.

  Dr. Cawley ran from the gravestones out into the open plain, hoping she could at least draw it away long enough for the others to be safe. It was then she saw Jackson coming fast behind the creature. Jackson was alive.

  “Aunt Sarah!” Jackson shouted.

  “Stay away!” she screamed to Jackson as she fled from the monster. But she was out of breath, and it closed on her quickly. In a moment its teeth were digging into the back of her neck, a powerful grip near the base of her skull. She was aware of being lifted from the ground like a lion cub seized by its mother.

  Then she heard another, more familiar growl.

  A bulk of shaggy darkness flew out of the mist and leaped through the air snapping, making rapid bites about the creature’s legs and groin. The attack of the girl’s wolfhound was violent enough to hurt and confuse the monster. It dropped Dr. Cawley as it turned to hit the dog, sending it yelping and rolling across the mud.

  Dr. Cawley saw Jackson red faced, his trembling hands holding the fire extinguisher. Sh
e screamed as the beast spun toward him, at the same time that Jackson yanked the release pin and squeezed. A shrieking spray of white, blinding chemicals blasted out of its nozzle and into the eyes of the enraged skull face. The creature wiped at its eyes with the rapid motions of a huge mantis.

  CRAAACK!

  A gunshot.

  Dr. Cawley saw the bullet tear into the creature’s left shoulder. A slab of skin lifted from its body and a clear fluid burst from the wound. The creature turned, shrieked, and loped off into the night fog as Tillman ran toward them firing.

  5

  TOYS

  Jackson and Tillman managed to place a dry tarpaulin underneath Dr. Cawley, trying to keep her comfortable until the army medics could arrive. The adrenaline was still pumping in Jackson’s blood as he rolled up his jacket and stooped to gently place it under his aunt’s head.

  “I saw the wound in the creature’s neck,” Jackson told Tillman. “At the chopper it looked deep and pretty bad, like it should have stopped it. Then I saw it again, and it looked like it had healed—like it was healing fast!”

  Tillman said, “It took my shot to its shoulder like I’d hit it with a peashooter.”

  The young girl with the long blond hair, her hands still trembling, brought out a blanket from the brick building.

  “Thank you, Alma,” Dr. Cawley told the girl as Alma tucked the blanket around her.

  “I’d heard the ticking sounds,” the girl said, her voice strained. “God! I never knew it was anything so horrible!” She looked to Jackson, then stepped back holding the leash of her dog tight.

  “The teeth marks are deep,” the sergeant said, working on Dr. Cawley’s neck wound with a first aid kit from the chopper.

  “Is Richards dead?” Dr. Cawley asked.

  Tillman didn’t answer.

  The pilot had radioed the Mayday to the camp. Two massive troop helicopters descended from the sky and landed. A portable generator was set up, and its power delivered to several racks of amber field lights. Quickly, Lieutenant Rath appointed a crew to continue the air search. A green-and-brown army research van and an ambulance with its two-note siren braying pulled into the oval drive of the cemetery.

  A doctor in fatigues knelt beside Dr. Cawley. He took out a stethoscope and checked her vital signs and the condition of the neck wound. “Everything looks and sounds good,” Dr. Halperin said, “but you’re going to need tetanus and rabies shots. You’re mainly in shock.”

  “Look, all I need is to get home and have a good shot of scotch,” Dr. Cawley said.

  The doctor took her hand. “I’m afraid that’s going to have to be a scotch after the X rays and CAT scan to make sure there are no fractures,” he said. “We have to take you to Bristol. Kings Hospital.” He signaled the pair of attendants who stood by the ambulance. They brought out a collapsible gurney and lifted Dr. Cawley onto it. She grabbed the doctor’s sleeve. “How long am I going to be in the hospital, and don’t blow hot air up my skirt!”

  “One or two days.”

  “I’m going with you,” Jackson said.

  Dr. Cawley thought a moment as the attendants tightened the safety straps around her. “No, Jackson,” she said. “It’s better if Sergeant Tillman takes you back to the guest house. You catch some sleep. I’m going to need a few of my things—a robe, nightgown, toothbrush, and my slippers. Pack a bag for me. Tillman will deliver it to the hospital.”

  “You’re going to need me,” Jackson said. “You don’t like shots.”

  “I’m okay,” Dr. Cawley insisted. “You think it’s better if you go back to New York?”

  “No,” Jackson answered quickly.

  The attendants clicked the gurney wheels into position and began to roll Dr. Cawley past the gravestones, toward the ambulance. Jackson walked along beside her. Dr. Cawley motioned him closer to her. “They’re going to try to contain this. Don’t let anyone go through my things,” she whispered.

  A large van pulled up, and a trio of handlers got out with bloodhounds. Jackson turned to see Alma holding back her dog at the entrance to the brick building. Dr. Cawley noticed where Jackson was looking.

  “Alma’s nervous—but very pretty,” Dr. Cawley said, as the attendants lifted her gurney up into the ambulance.

  Jackson laughed.

  Lieutenant Rath’s braying cut over the din of the bloodhounds as he led the handlers to where Dr. Cawley had been attacked. The dogs spun in tight circles for a few moments, sniffing at the ground. Suddenly they shuddered, strained at their leashes. A baleful howling soared from their throats, and a group of armed soldiers with high-powered rifles joined the handlers. The search team fanned out north onto the plain.

  “Mrs. Langford’s very reliable. She’ll watch out for you,” Dr. Cawley said, as the attendants climbed in the rear doors of the ambulance. “There’s a lot of things to do in town—and you’ll be safe. Remember, don’t let anyone…” She noticed the attendants listening carefully to her every word, and decided to finish her sentence in pig Latin: “ear-nay y-may ork-way.”

  “Ight-ray,” Jackson said, enjoying the puzzled look on the attendants’ faces.

  The doors were locked, and the driver started the ambulance. It lurched forward into the fog with its siren sounding, and his aunt was gone.

  Jackson walked over to the building where Alma stood with the huge wolfhound, who began wagging his tail like a whip and sniffing at Jackson from head to toe.

  “Stop that, Coffin,” Alma scolded the dog.

  “Coffin?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “My father’s sense of humor. That beast tonight looked as if it could have put us all into coffins.”

  Jackson petted the dog’s massive gray hairy head. “You came through for us tonight, fellah,” he told the dog. “You live here?” he asked Alma.

  “With my dad.” She noticed him staring at her. “Why does that horrible thing… ?” she started to say, but then remembered she was wearing her nightgown. There was mud splattered on it, and she knew her hair had to look like it had been struck by lightning.

  “In this cemetery?” Jackson asked.

  Her voice cracked, but she decided to get the worst facts over with first. “My dad’s the gravedigger.

  The owner of the cemetery lets us live rent free in a flat above the crematorium.”

  Jackson stood up. Her eyes were riveted on him, watching for his reaction.

  “Cool,” he said.

  She shuddered. “You think living at a crematorium is cool?”

  “Sure,” he said, leaning against the brick building. “I’ve always wanted to visit a crematorium. What’s it like?”

  “Have you ever been to a Chirping Chicken takeout restaurant?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s got a big grill like that. I think the crematorium’s the main reason that horror comes around here.”

  “You’ve seen Skull Face before?”

  “I’ve heard the ticking sound. I thought it was some kind of insect or bird. Sometimes it sounds robotic. I heard it around here and at Stonehenge.”

  “How would you hear it there?”

  “I used to work weekends at the Stonehenge souvenir shop. Most of the kids around here work there at one time or another.”

  “Skull Face attacked somebody at Stonehenge tonight,” Jackson told her. “I think they found his body in the rafters of the mill.”

  Alma looked away. She’d felt enough dread for the night.

  Sergeant Tillman came toward them. Coffin started barking at him. Alma tightened the grip on his leash. “You’d better go inside now, young lady,” Tillman said.

  “All right,” Alma said. The mask of fright on her face faded enough for her to smile at Jackson. “Nice meeting you.”

  Jackson said, “See you.”

  She went inside just as several landrovers and trucks with military personnel arrived. A squad of soldiers began to lay down and secure thin sheets of plastic, as a pair of shiny black body bags was carried up t
he mill path toward a military coroner’s van.

  Sergeant Tillman commandeered a landrover to get Jackson back to Langford’s. Tillman waited until they turned down the narrow, potholed street that led to the guest house before he said what he had to. “What happened tonight,” he told Jackson, “is classified information until I notify you otherwise.”

  “The army doesn’t want me to tell anyone we were almost killed,” Jackson said, “because it might frighten the horses.”

  “We’ll have it taken care of by dawn.”

  “How are you going to take care of a monster that heals bullet wounds in a minute?”

  “You’re not to discuss this.”

  “Don’t forget that creature bit my aunt,” Jackson went on, noticing the growing sweat stains on Tillman’s shirt. “If you find it, you can check it for rabies.”

  Sergeant Tillman didn’t answer.

  So much for Mr. Nice Guy.

  Tillman pulled the landrover to a halt near the overhang of the guest house. He got out and followed Jackson inside.

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” Jackson said quickly as they entered the foyer. Tillman hesitated. He looked as if he were going to follow Jackson upstairs. Mrs. Langford appeared in a bathrobe at the top of the stairs. “Something wrong?”

  “Dr. Cawley was bitten by a badger,” Tillman lied loudly and clearly. “She’ll be staying the night at Kings Hospital in Bristol.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Langford said. Jackson passed her and headed for his aunt’s apartment. She sounded disbelieving, as if she were accustomed to weighing all information she received from the military. “Is she in much pain?”

  “No,” Tillman said. “She’ll be fine.”

  Jackson continued down the hallway past the paintings of dead game and up the narrow staircase to the wood-slat door. He went in, turned on the light. Pithecus and the other fossils were waiting for him. Quickly, he packed his aunt’s things into a small paisley suitcase. Before he zippered it up, he noticed a portable two-way radio on the table. It wasn’t much larger than a walkie-talkie, and had the number 101 crudely marked on it. He tossed it in and brought the bag downstairs.