by Nick Cutter
“I love you, Daddy” was all she said.
“Blow me a kiss, darling.”
She did. He watched it float through the dark air, then reached out and snatched it. Micah put his daughter’s last kiss in his pocket. “Thank you, baby. I will need it.” They left him, Petty trembling, still disbelieving, her body limp as a wrung dishrag. Minerva followed her, stunned and softly weeping. Ebenezer was last; he departed with a terse but compassionate nod. The three of them crawled into the tunnel. The Big Thing followed them out, leaving Micah with its daddy.
Micah exhaled. He pulled himself together. He unbuttoned his shirt in the flickering glow of the lantern. The baby made gluttonous sucking sounds. His hand trembled as he stretched the skin of his stomach taut. Old flesh, wasn’t it? It had felt a lot, carried him through so much. It bore the nicks and scrapes of its service.
It is not an easy thing, stabbing oneself. Micah had scarcely considered how it ought to be done, never having harbored those thoughts. Fast and declarative seemed best. Cut fast, cut deep.
Micah heard the rope ladder banging against the rock as Petty and the other two climbed up it. Go on, baby. Keep going. Never look back.
He hissed through his teeth as the knife slid into his belly. He jerked the blade across in a straight and bitter line; his flesh readily opened up. He dropped to his knees, swooning as blood soaked into his waistband. Deep enough? He sensed the thing would have its own methods of opening him up.
A delicate touch on his shoulder. A red rope had descended from the ceiling to alight upon him. It wasn’t painful. The warmest kiss. He batted it away. That couldn’t happen yet. He had one final task to complete.
He dragged his bleeding body over to his backpack and rooted inside. His hands closed around the bricklike object he’d carried many miles. He pulled it out. The baby issued a quizzical burble.
Micah had purchased it from an acquaintance from his sad old, bad old days. He had purchased it before heading off to find Ebenezer, meeting the man in a parking garage and paying in cash. Such transactions should carry no trace. The man he had bought it from asked no questions regarding its usage—men like the seller made it their business to proffer product without moral consequence. He only told Micah that it was enough to do the trick, which had sounded about right to Micah.
He turned to the baby. Showed it what he was holding.
“I hope,” he said laboredly, “you are not afraid of enclosed spaces.”
“DADDY!” the Long Walker shrieked.
Petty—who was up the ladder by then, although her progress had been slowed by her tears—looked down at the thing, which stood at the bottom of the basin watching as they ascended. Pet was startled by the childish pitch of its voice. Its huge moonface was split in a rictus of rage—the expression of something that had been tricked most awfully.
It turned and fled back into the tunnel, its huge legs sawing through the dark air.
“Move,” Minny said to Petty. “As fast as you can, little girl.”
SEVEN STICKS OF TNT wired together in a bundle.
“How many seconds do you want me to rig the timer?”
This was the question the man Micah had bought it from had asked. A cheap plastic egg timer, the kind you’d find in kitchens all across America, was wired to the fuses and strapped to the dynamite with duct tape.
“Three seconds,” Micah told him.
“Three? Jesus, man. That’s not nearly enough time to run clear of the explosion. That’s barely enough time to blow your nose.”
“Three,” Micah said again.
Micah twisted the knob on the egg timer as the baby-thing watched him. He could sense its worry—though perhaps it was faking again? It began to hiss menacingly as it crawled toward him. In the lantern’s glow, Micah at last got a sense of its true shape: the light shone through its fatty covering to display a network of brachial and spiny limbs. It moved quickly, its nails clickety-clacking on the rock. Its voice filled his skull.
Oh no no don’t you dare do not DARE—
Micah could hear the other thing coming now, too. He pictured its mouth opened in a tortured leer as it raced through the tunnel to protect its precious father. It was getting closer, steaming toward him—
You had to be calm in the cut. That was the key. You had to hold your mud for that extra half second, even with the hammers of hell pounding down on you. Everything hubbed on that. It really did. If you acted too soon, you could lose it all.
The Big Thing tore into the chamber, its body billowing up and out to blot the lantern’s light. Micah waited until it was fully inside; then he hurled the TNT down the tunnel it had just vacated. He turned to face them. The baby’s fleshy face twisted in rage. The Big Thing stood rooted, momentarily perplexed. Micah opened his hands to them as blood sheeted down his stomach.
Sorry, fellas, but it had to be done.
Micah wore a blissful smile. He looked less threatening when he smiled. So much less the badass. Ellen always said he ought to smile more often. And right now he did. For her.
THE EXPLOSION ROARED out of the cavern. A hail of black dust and rock splinters shotgunned from the cleft to spray the sand in a wide radius.
Minerva and Eb and Petty were clear of the blast zone by then. They stood three abreast, staring gape-jawed as more dust and rubble sifted from the cavern. They could hear the rock giving way as the interior began to cave in.
“No,” Minerva whispered. “Micah, oh, Micah, what did you do?”
MICAH CAME TO some time later. He was still alive. It came as a shock. Not an entirely welcome one, under the circumstances.
The lantern continued to burn. Squinting, he could see it was partially covered in a coating of black, coal-like dust. Someone had scraped some of the dust off and relit it.
He saw chunks of stone on the floor, their jagged contours swimming in the light of the lantern. A fine haze of soot hung in the air. He looked down at himself. The edges of his gaping stomach wound were crusted with the same black soot. The ragged, bumpy edges looked like a dog’s gums. The smell of explosives was sharp in his nose.
But he was still alive. The chamber was still here. It had not caved in.
Naughty boy.
The voice sent a spike of panic through him.
You must be punished.
He rolled onto his side. The tunnel was gone—in its place a solid fall of rock, a few chunks of which had rolled across the chamber’s floor. So it had worked. He was dimly amazed that the cavern hadn’t collapsed around him. But this thing had immense power, so it was not absurd to think it had found a way to protect its lair from the blast. At least Micah had sealed them all inside.
He stood dazedly. He couldn’t see anything past the apathetic light shed by the lantern. He flinched as something touched his shoulder. A red rope had descended from the ceiling to lick at his flesh. He did not fight it this time. It felt too good. The ropes spooled down in great multitudes, all with shining inner cores. They attached to his flesh and gently lifted him up. He almost laughed—even as the blood sheeted down him. Such a delightful sensation. They held him in a loving embrace. He could not move. In that moment, he didn’t want to.
The lantern light fell upon the Big Thing, which had moved into a corner. It produced a flute, which it raised to its lips. The flute made no sound, but the Big Thing danced anyway, legs kicking and feet shuffling, happy in whatever way it could be.
The baby mewled somewhere behind Micah. It, too, had survived the blast. Of course it had. Micah heard it slapping closer to him, though he could not chart its approach.
A chill raced through his body when a cold tongue brushed his calf. He flinched, unable to help it. No, he thought. Do not get weak-kneed already. It will get worse. His eyes fell upon the Reverend’s body covered in a dusting of black soot. So much worse.
The Big Thing had stopped playing its flute. It seemed to bear Micah no ill will for the explosion that had trapped it here. Perhaps it could get out easily enou
gh. Perhaps a few tons of blown-apart rock and a lack of breathable air meant nothing to it. The thing stared at him in the fluttering light.
“It must be said, you are strong,” it said in obvious appreciation. “Stronger than any of your kind we have encountered.”
The baby made a gargling rasp—a note of agreement? Something coiled around Micah’s ankle and constricted mercilessly.
“That does not matter, does it?” Micah asked.
The Big Thing shook its head almost sadly. “Time and pressure will split the strongest rock,” it said distantly. “In fact, time alone is sufficient.”
The baby slid between Micah’s spread legs. In the lantern’s light—which was now dying out, Micah noted with worry—it didn’t resemble a baby at all. It was much older and more unspeakable. His eyes couldn’t grasp the true shape of it, or didn’t want to; his gaze skated off its awfulness, shying from it like a nervous horse. It began to mount him. Micah moaned. He couldn’t help himself. The Big Thing retreated to the far side of the chamber. A chalice had been grooved into the rock. It folded its enormous body into that indentation, tucking its legs up to its chin. It closed its eyes and went still: a toy in a cupboard waiting for its owner to take it out and play with it again.
The lantern’s flame blew sideways, frayed by an unfelt wind. It would go out soon. Micah was terrified at the thought of being alone in the dark with this thing. The light made it slightly less maddening. Would he die when the air ran out? He hoped to God it would be so.
The thing had reached his knee now. Its body was wet and hard like a naked tendon. It made a snuffling noise that a dog might make rooting for scraps under a dinner table. This, too, almost made Micah laugh. Instead he cried. He realized he’d actually been doing this on and off for some time. It was of no matter. He could cry all he liked.
The flame whumphed and spluttered, the kerosene nearly gone. The thing was slipping inside of him now. It didn’t hurt so bad. The red ropes might have something to do with that. He didn’t dare look, but he could hear his insides shifting with a soft squelch. He took a few hiccuping inhales, the sort a boy makes before he dunks his head underwater to see how long he can hold his breath.
Oh God, he thought wildly. Please let them be safe. Please let them live without wondering, without too much burden, without without without—
The lantern’s light winked out. Darkness overtook him.
In that darkness, a voice:
Shall we begin?
1
ELLEN SHUGHRUE reentered her own body at five minutes past ten on the morning her daughter returned home.
She would never remember the dream she was roused from. All that remained was a sense of darkness and the incessant fluttering of wings. And inside that swirling turbulence, her husband’s calm and ever-present voice:
Without without without . . .
She did not crack her eyelids. As usual, her eyes were already open. Ellen simply fled back into consciousness like a person flung out of a mine shaft. The sunlight streaming through the window was so powerful that she let out a pained hiss. She blinked—Mother of Christ, that hurt! Her eyelids grated against her eyeballs like fine-grit sandpaper, causing tears to flood down her cheeks. When was the last time she’d slept in late enough to have the sun wake her? It was her habit to be up before dawn. Had she had a few drinks with Micah last night? Her head throbbed like an abscessed tooth.
A wave of guilt swept over her: here she was lying in bed with a hangover while Petty was up and no doubt wondering why her mother was still lollygagging in bed. Didn’t they have something this morning? Ellen struggled to recall. A piano lesson, soccer practice, or—?
Her sister came into the bedroom. Sherri’s hands fluttered up to her mouth. Her eyes were wide with shock.
Something was wrong. Ellen realized this all at once. Her sister shouldn’t look that damn old. Sherri, she . . . Lord, she was an old biddy. Her sister’s hands were bony, the skin stretched tight over the bones. The fine lines at the edges of Sherri’s eyes had become deeply trenched crow’s-feet.
“Are you . . . ,” Sherri said, awestruck. “Ellen, are you awake?”
Why the hell wouldn’t I be awake? I know I slept in a bit, but let’s not make a capital case out of it.
This was what Ellen was going to say. But when she tried to speak, her voice was a papery rasp. Her mouth was dry as dust. Her vocal cords felt rusty, a bit like an engine in a junkyard that had seized up from disuse.
She groaned and rolled onto her back. Oh! That hurt, too. Fuck a duck. She tried to sit up. Couldn’t. She nearly laughed—how weird. Her muscles were slack. She managed to lift her arm off the coverlet. She would have screamed, were she capable. Her arm was a fleshless stick—Christ, what the hell had happened to her? Who had stolen her life, her body?
“Calm down,” she heard Sherri saying. “It’s going to be okay.”
Hands shaking, Sherri picked up the phone on the dresser and worked the rotary dial.
“Doctor? It’s Sherri Bellhaven. She’s awake.” Shaking, nodding her head violently. “I don’t know—I just came in and she’s up. Okay, okay, okay-yup-yup-yup.”
She hung up. “The doctor’s going to be here soon. You need to keep your eyes open, El. Please, just keep your eyes open. Stay awake.”
What are you so worked up about? Ellen wanted to ask, resisting the urge to panic. I don’t feel the least bit tired. I’ve had a full night’s rest. The sleep of the damned, it feels like.
A twentysomething man came into the bedroom. Ellen wanted to snatch the covers up, feeling somehow naked, but her arms wouldn’t obey. The boy was handsome and trim with sandy hair. He was staring at her in disbelief.
“Aunt Ellen?”
No. It couldn’t be. Nate? Nate wasn’t old enough to drive a car or smoke cigarettes. This couldn’t be her nephew. It was someone else. An imposter. Someone was playing a filthy, mean-spirited trick on—
Ellen experienced a sickening whiplash sensation. Just how the hell long had she been asleep?
“The doctor wants you to sit up,” Sherri said. “Nate and me are going to help you up, okay? Now, this might hurt a little.”
Ellen managed to nod. Fear was crawling over her scalp now. Not fear of falling asleep—she wasn’t sure she’d ever fall asleep again—but fear at how much time was gone from her, this terrible sense of loss, of her life having been snatched away from her.
“What time is it?” she rasped at her sister. Then, suddenly terrified: “What day is it?”
Where’s Petty? Where’s Micah? Why weren’t they here?
Sherri gripped her right arm and shoulder; Nate gripped her left. As gently as they could, they sat her up and rested her against the headboard. The pain was monstrous. Her muscles were atrophied, her body horribly shrunken. She became aware of a fungal, unwashed smell; it took a few moments before she recognized it as her own. She boggled at the wrecked canvas of her body, the lower half of it mercifully hidden under the sheets.
Propped up, she could see out the window. The front yard with its barren flower beds. The sun glinted off the mailbox at the base of the long graveled drive. Squinting, she watched a car approach. A big bastard. Cadillac. Her chest jogged as she tried to laugh again. Had Micah bought himself a Caddy? That wasn’t like him at all. Next he’d be stepping out in rhinestone cowboy boots.
The car pulled into the driveway. Her heart took a funny hop as a vision flashed through her mind, impossible to grip—a premonition, the tarot card readers would call it.
Oh please, she thought as the car doors swung open. Oh please please . . .
MINERVA THREW THE TRANSMISSION into park. Petty remained asleep in the backseat. Her face was wrenched in a troubled expression, as if the girl was suffering through a night terror.
“Hey,” Minerva said, reaching back to give her a gentle shake. “Thanks for giving us directions. We’re home now, honey.”
The girl woke up. Her face smoothed out, serene. She rubbed her
eyes and sat up.
“I was dreaming.”
“Oh yes?” Ebenezer said. “Not a pleasant dream?”
She stared at him in confusion. “I don’t remember.”
“Could be that’s your good fortune, my dear.”
The three of them sat in the car with the engine ticking down.
“Thank you,” Petty said finally. “For coming to get me.”
They opened the doors and stepped out. The day was warm, considering the season. Petty walked toward the house in bare feet, the hem of her nightgown swishing around her ankles.
“Are you coming?”
Ebenezer said, “In a minute, dear. You go on in. You have been missed.”
Petty turned back to the house. “Hey,” Minerva called to her. “You know how much your father loves you, don’t you?”
The girl turned again, and nodded. “Where is he?”
Minerva wondered if she was already forgetting, the same way Minerva had heard the survivors of Little Heaven had forgotten. Could be so. Maybe that was the best and only way of soldiering on.
“He’s coming, I’m sure,” Minerva said, meeting Petty’s questioning gaze directly. Was it a lie or a hopeful truth? She had no idea.
Minerva and Ebenezer walked toward the house in tandem.
She said, “You figure that was his intention all along?”
“Micah, you mean?” said Eb. “To have it just be him?”
She nodded. Ebenezer kicked a pebble.
“I have no idea. His aims weren’t always easy to assess.”
“He did save us.”
“Yes.”
“You figure we’re worth saving?”
Eb smiled. “Not really. But maybe he thought so. And his daughter was at stake, too.”
He was limping badly. Minerva slowed down to let him keep pace. “Do you think he’s dead?” she asked.
“After all that? I can’t see how it could be otherwise.” Ebenezer went silent a moment. “I hope so. I . . . I’ll pray it was so.”