Resurrection Pass

by Kurt Anderson

  Jake got to his feet. She was already too far down to reach, and he felt panic seize him, a full paralysis of mind and body. For a moment his mind was blank as she was pulled deeper into the darkness. Then he heard a beep in his mind, the sound of a pulse echoing on a hospital monitor, the sound of slow, drawn-out death, and his paralysis broke. He dove straight down into the chasm, arms spread wide like a linebacker, and hit Rachel’s midsection with his chest. He still had the arrow in his right hand, and he kept it far out to the side, wrapping up Rachel with his left arm. The tendrils around her snapped under the sudden force of the impact, and she and Jake plummeted down deeper into the hole, bouncing against the sides of the sodden earth. There were more tendrils farther down that slowed their descent, but these seemed to be inanimate, simple obstructions rather than the seeking, clutching lengths of the tendrils above. Finally they came to a halt at the bottom of the chasm, prostrate and entangled with each other, but for the moment free of growths sprouting from the sides of the chasm. Far above them was a wedge of gray sky, framed by a latticework of writhing tendrils. The large, dark tendril was slumped over, damaged by Jake’s crashing entrance into its world.

  Jake spat out a mouthful of mud. One of the tendrils above them twisted toward them, the tip cocked at a slight angle.

  “No,” he whispered, then punched through the waxy flesh with his arrow. The tendril withdrew. He got to his feet, his knees braced against the sidewall, and jabbed the broadhead into another tendril. It slithered back into the earth. The tendrils seemed less aggressive down here. Or perhaps they were momentarily confused, as any animal would be when the prey turned around and charged instead of fleeing. Whatever the source of the hesitation, Jake was certain it wouldn’t last.

  Rachel got to her feet. She was scratched and bloody, her fingernails splintered. She kicked off a section of torn tendril from one foot, then got the other foot free. She looked up at the sky, then kicked a toehold into the soft earth two feet up. “Come on, Jake,” she said. “Let’s go up.”

  Chapter 14

  Billy pulled himself onto the rock pad, kicking at the tendrils on his calves, his ankles. The last fifty yards had been a nightmare sprint, the ground simultaneously dissolving and coming alive, the cracks and holes opening up wider and wider, the narrow bridges of drier ground between them turning softer with each step. The rest of his group had watched him zig and zag, Darius and Weasel leaning down to help him onto the pad. Each man had his knife out, and after they pulled him onto the rock pad they turned back to back, watching all sides of their sanctuary.

  “You lost your rifle,” Darius said.

  Billy ignored him and crawled over to Henry, who was on his back, wheezing and clutching his left arm. Billy shook Henry’s shoulder. “Is this what you were talking about?”

  Henry turned his eyes to Billy. “Just,” he said. “Just need . . . a . . . second.”

  “Look at that,” Darius said. “I don’t believe it.”

  Rachel was climbing out of the fissure, mud-streaked, her forearms crossed by red welts. She paused at the lip, then turned to pull Jake up. They stood on wobbly legs and regarded Darius and the others, less than fifty yards away. Jake had an arrow clenched in his hand. There was movement in the chasm behind them, but for the moment none of the tendrils were going after them. They, like Darius, seemed to be uncertain how to react to this development, to two people who had literally climbed out of their graves.

  Darius reached down and yanked Henry’s Walther from his belt. Other than their knives, it was the only weapon they had left; Garney’s bow had disappeared along with him into the chasm.

  “No,” Henry wheezed. “No killing. It will . . . make it . . . worse.”

  Darius brought the pistol up. “Get over here,” he called out, “or I’ll shoot both of you, right where you stand.”

  Jake said something to Rachel, then held up his hand not holding the arrow and extended his middle finger. After a moment Rachel joined him, her arm thrust high into the sky. The blood had mixed with the mud on their bodies and it looked a bit like war paint. Their eyes and teeth—they were smiling, grinning actually—were very bright.

  “They think I’m bluffing,” Darius said. He pulled the trigger, the gun bucking in his hand. A spray of mud and rocks exploded just to the left of Jake. Jake and Rachel turned and ran, running crossways, Jake in the lead as they skirted the edge of the fissure. Darius tracked Jake with the Walther, his finger pressing against the trigger. The fissure curved toward Darius before tapering off enough for them to jump across it. Their current route would bring them closer, within thirty yards, a much better range for the short-barreled Walther.

  The sights of the pistol were a foot in front of Jake as he ran. Darius’s finger depressed slowly, making sure he kept the lead in front of Jake’s chest.

  “No!” Henry pushed himself up and staggered toward Darius. Weasel stuck out a leg and Henry pitched forward, but the momentary distraction was enough to cause Darius to squeeze the trigger before he was ready. The gun bucked and Jake paused, staggering a little, then continued on. Darius fired and fired again, too furious to aim correctly, sending slugs screaming into the air around them. Jake leapt across the chasm, then turned to catch Rachel. His chest was broadside now, twice the target it had been.

  “There we go,” Darius said, and squeezed the trigger. This time, instead of firing, the Walther gave a small click.

  He spun back to Henry. “Where are the bullets?”

  Henry looked up through a skein of long, graying hair. “It’s too late, Darius.”

  Darius stepped forward and kicked Henry in the jaw. Henry’s head snapped back and he turned over on the rock, his eyes glazed. “ ‘Bring the old man,’ she said.” Darius spat out the words, his nostrils flaring. “‘He’ll bring you wisdom.’ ” He kicked Henry in the ribs, rolling him over.

  Darius set the Walther down on the rock and ripped open Henry’s backpack. He dug through the coils of rope, a small tarp, all the other crap Henry had brought with him. At the bottom was a ziplock bag holding two cloth bundles. Darius tore it open, spilling out a handful of 30-30 cartridges. He opened the other bundle, plucking out several small, short rounds.

  Jake and Rachel’s progress through the fissures was slow, and the tendrils that lay along the ground slowed them even more. They hadn’t gained much distance and were still within range for a few more seconds. Darius slapped at the stony surface for the pistol, not letting them out of his sight.

  The rock was bare. He looked down, then up.

  “No,” Darius said.

  Henry had pushed himself into a sitting position, and he held the Walther in his right hand. His left was curled like it was broken, the fingers like claws. “Don’t spill blood here, Darius.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Henry drew his arm back. His face was ashen. “It took a sacrifice to put it to sleep, Darius. It wants another sacrifice to wake up, to consolidate. It needs something intentional. Can’t you feel it?”

  “I don’t feel anything,” Darius said. “Give me the pistol!”

  Henry’s eyes locked on Darius, suddenly fierce. He flung the pistol into the distance, the little Walther spinning in the air and then skipping across the ground. It came to rest thirty yards away in a seam of mud. Within seconds a large tendril crawled to it, testing it for warmth, for movement, pressing it deeper into the ground.

  Henry climbed to his feet. “You want to do something,” he said, “you do it with your own gun.”

  Darius pulled his knife from his sheath. “You’re going to go get that.”

  “It’s gone,” Henry said. “Just like your rifle is gone. Stolen from you while you were sleeping.” He paused, looking into the gray sky. When he turned back to Darius his eyes were calm. “Sleeping like a baby. A stupid little baby.”

  Darius crossed the rock pad and seized Henry by the arm, bringing the knife to Henry’s stomach. “You know why we make babies, old man?” He plunged
the knife into Henry’s belly all the way to the hilt, then ripped it crossways. A torrent of blood splashed onto their feet. Henry looked downward at the pool of blood spreading across the lichen-crusted rock. “To replace old men,” Darius said, shoving Henry off the edge of the rock pad.

  Henry landed with a splat. Dozens of tendrils swarmed out of the soil, weaving around his bloody torso. Several more crawled over Henry’s face, touching and pressing, moving lightly, almost tenderly. The ground was suddenly hidden beneath a mat of intertwining serpentine shapes that formed into a loose cocoon around Henry, pressing over his stomach wound.

  Something rippled underground, a massive heaving that reverberated through the rock. The tendrils contracted around Henry, pulling him tighter to the earth. Everything went very still.

  Across the river, Jake and Rachel paused, dripping river water from their clothes at the base of the cliff. The only movement was a solitary yellow aspen leaf, floating down the river they had just crossed.

  The ground opened slowly, dilating around Henry’s body. Several rocks popped free at the edges and tumbled into the darkness. Henry Redsky followed, not so much falling as being handed down from one set of shifting tendrils to another. A low sound came out of the earth, something that could have been human, could have been animal. Or it could have been the earth itself, a gravelly whisper of rock sliding across rock.

  Billy stood at the edge of the rock pad. Henry’s lips were still moving under his shroud of tendrils, the pupils of his eyes expanding as the light grew dimmer. The earth rumbled again, the tendrils coming out of the sidewalls interlaced with their counterparts on the far side. Very slowly, the earth came back together.

  This time, the earth stayed still. Most of the remaining tendrils retreated back into the ground, until the valley looked as it had a half hour earlier.

  After ten minutes of silence, Billy stepped off the rock pad, pausing at the mudpot where Henry had flung the Walther. He inserted his hand into the mud, wincing, but nothing happened. The tendrils had all retreated. But the ground was not entirely still, not entirely dormant. It was rocking slightly, a gentle back and forth, like a jaw chewing.

  “I can’t find it,” he said. He looked up. Rachel and Jake were already a quarter of the way up the spine of rock. Jake had paused to watch Billy, one of his hands grasping an outcropping. Then he turned and continued to climb.

  “The gun is gone, Darius,” Billy said.

  “We don’t need it,” Darius said. There was still a lone tendril atop the ground, limp and motionless. Darius walked toward it and it slowly slithered back into the earth.

  Billy watched it disappear, thinking of Henry down there, somewhere. “It’s not hunting anymore,” he said.

  “No,” Darius said. He was still holding his bloody knife, and he wiped it on the side of his pants, one side and then the other, leaving a scarlet chevron on the denim. He sheathed the knife, took one last distrustful glance at the ground, and then nodded toward Jake and Rachel, who had started to climb again. “But we are.”

  Chapter 15

  The time for running was over.

  His feet were bleeding badly. His joint pain was escalating, the flare-ups in his hips and shoulders pulsing with pain. Everything he had done to his body over the past week had been just begging for this kind of reaction. He placed one foot ahead of him, grimacing as the rock pressed against the battered flesh. Behind him were a series of bloody footprints on the hogback.

  Don’t think about Lyme’s, he thought. Don’t think about your feet. Then what? The girl, maybe. The one ahead of you, the one who keeps looking back to make sure you’re okay. What about the thing that’s in the ground, the thing that seemed to not only swallow Henry, but seemed to . . . savor . . . him? Try not to think about that, either. That’s all, just try not to. That part is behind us.

  He dug his fingers into a small concavity and leveraged himself a few more feet up the bluff. A dislodged stone bounced down the side, coming to rest on the gravel beach far below them. He had unscrewed the broadhead from the arrow and could feel it lying flat against his leg. If he twisted or flexed wrong, the blade would cut him, but there didn’t seem to be any better storage options.

  “Okay?” Rachel asked. He couldn’t make out her features; the gray sky was getting darker by the moment, and her face was lost in the shadows.

  “I’m fine,” Jake said. “Keep going.”

  She looked out behind them. “They’re crossing the river.”

  “I know,” he said. “We need to get to the top.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we rest. Come on, Rachel.”

  Ten minutes later they reached the top. She helped pull him over the edge, and they lay there panting, muscles shaking. It was cold, and he could feel the heat of her very distinctly as they lay side by side. After a moment, she got up and knelt next to his feet, squinting. “Don’t,” he said when she started to tear of a section of her shirt for a bandage. “It’s going to get cold tonight.”

  “We have to do something,” she said. “You’re bleeding like crazy.”

  He withdrew the broadhead from his pocket and handed it to her, then motioned towards the cuff of his jeans. “Slice off the bottoms, about a foot long.” She bent to the work, carefully cutting through the thick denim and then sliding the sections down and over his battered feet. She paused to inspect the bandages-slash-moccasins, frowning. “We need to tie them on,” she said. She cut a long strip from her shirt, then cut that into four smaller strips and tied the bundles of denim into place, cinching them tightly. “How bad does it hurt?”

  “Not bad,” he lied. He got on all fours and climbed to the edge of the cliff and carefully poked his head over the side.

  They had made it to the base of the cliff and were staring up at them. Darius saw Jake immediately and turned and said something to Weasel, who looked up and nodded.

  Jake pried a fist-sized rock from the ground and let it tumble down the cliff. The men at the bottom scrambled out of the way, the rock smashing into the gravel beach a few feet away from them and sending out a spray of smaller rocks. Jake pulled another stone out of the ground and hefted it in his hand, letting them see it. Rachel brought a couple more rocks over and set them by him, including a larger rock, almost the size of Jake’s head. He considered sending it down to make a point, then decided to save it. If they were stupid enough to begin climbing, he would make the big rock his first drop. No more warnings.

  “A stalemate,” Rachel said.

  “For now.” He looked up at her. At some point she had taken a moment to wipe away the worst of the blood and the mud, but her lip was swollen and there was a large bruise on one side of her face. He supposed he didn’t look very good himself, but he liked the look in her eyes, the set of her mouth. “They’re going to try to kill us, Rachel. Maybe not today or tonight, but tomorrow for sure.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’ve made up their mind to do it,” he said. “They’ve already lost two of their men. They won’t let it go.”

  “It wasn’t our fault.”

  “No,” he said. “But we’re the reason they came out here. The reason why all of this”—he gestured below them—“happened.”

  “Jake,” she said, “I had no idea there could be this kind of reaction. You have to believe me. I saw trials in the lab, but it was with algae and bacteria. The promethium affected them, yes, transferred some properties. Like a virus using the DNA of its host, the kind of methods we use for genetic therapy, but enhanced. Still, it was nothing like this, nothing to suggest—”

  He held up a hand. “Rachel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Calm down. I believe you.”

  She swallowed, searching his face. “You knew there was something strange about this place, too.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Legends.” He paused, a small smile creasing his lips. “But nothing like this.”

  From somewhere below them, the earth shuddered. It w
as not the steady rumbling of earlier. These were a series of convulsions spaced a few seconds apart, as if the earth were retching, trying to dispel something caught in its throat. They crawled to the edge of the bluff and peered out over the darkening valley, the river a pale ribbon of light. On the far side, something was moving, a writhing mass of shadows next to the rock pad. It grew larger, seemed to contract, then grew again.

  Not retching, Jake thought. More like giving birth.

  Below them, Weasel’s voice drifted up, angry and frightened. Jake dropped another rock over the edge in case they were having second thoughts, sending it careening toward them. It landed between the men and the river, but they hardly seemed to notice. All eyes were locked on the far side of the water, the epicenter of the convulsing earth.

  “Rachel?”

  “Yes.”

  “It could move before.”

  “Yes.”

  “But it was tethered to something, wasn’t it?”

  She looked at him. “There would have been a central mass,” she said. “The tendrils are just the fruiting bodies. I can’t be sure.”

  “It could move, but it couldn’t . . . travel.”

  “No,” she said.

  His eyes remained locked on the cluster of twisting shadows, the vague details becoming less distinct as the last of the light faded. In seconds it was not much more than a darker shape in the blackness covering the valley bottom, easy to lose sight of. “Those legends about this place, the ones I heard when I was a kid?” he said. “They were about the great wanderer. The Whitigo, the old man of the woods. Not really a man.”

  She was silent. The earth shuddered again, and then again, sending pebbles cascading down the bluff.