Pitch Black

by Frank Lauria

They all turned. She was pointing at Riddick.

  Fry mixed her cutter for maximum flame. Cracking open the main door, she pushed the cutter outside and swept it around. Satisfied it was clear, she stepped through the crack. One by one the others followed.

  They moved like some multilegged insect, huddled together inside a protective halo of light, as they slowly crossed open ground. All around them the primal sounds grew louder, more insistent, as if the hatchlings were massed just beyond the glow, waiting ravenously for them to falter.

  Fry tried not to listen. When they neared the main cabin, she glanced back.

  “Riddick.”

  Without hesitation Riddick separated from the group and stepped into the blackness. Removing his goggles, he peered inside the cabin. Lots of wreckage, but no sign of life.

  “Looks clear,” he muttered.

  Impatiently, Johns shouldered him aside and crawled into the cabin. The moment his handlight beamed in, a shadow fluttered to life and buzz-sawed over his head. Squealing in panic, the creature shot through the door, into the darkness.

  “Fuck me!” Johns shouted. “You said ‘clear’!”

  “Said, ‘looks clear,’ ” Riddick corrected.

  Johns remained pressed against the wall, ready to blast anything that moved.

  “Well, what’s it look like now?”

  Riddick made a few tongue-clicks in the dark. “Looks clear.”

  He could feel Johns’ anger flaring. So could Fry. She stepped inside before he boiled over. “Just get the goddamn lights on.”

  Riddick found the switch. The others scrambled aboard as the main lights flickered on. As they went about their tasks with renewed energy, Imam was reminded of what fire meant to the cavemen. How desolate and wretched existence had been before some bright ape found the spark.

  The cabin’s illumination seemed to recharge the survivors’ spirits. Rashad came up with a clever improvement on Paris’ misting umbrellas, and made the adjustments. Audrey helped, filling the reservoirs with high-octane cognac. Meanwhile, Riddick powered up the system lights, then yanked a cell from a battery bay.

  The tricky part was loading up the sled outside. The moment Riddick stepped into the darkness he felt them closing around him. He heaved the cell aboard then hurried back for another.

  Imam dumped the dead O2 canisters and made sure all the breathers carried fresh units. He handed one to Riddick who nodded thanks, sucked in some fresh oxygen, then swung a power cell onto his shoulder and headed outside.

  Finally it was time to yank the last cell. Time to run the gauntlet, Johns brooded. Reluctantly he moved to the exit. An icy shudder stopped him in his tracks. Johns fumbled with a pocket, and found a red morphine shell. Just the feel of it in his hand dispelled the sickness scratching at his belly. He stroked it lovingly with his thumb.

  “Ready, Johns,” Fry said, behind him.

  He palmed the morphine shell and turned. “He’ll lead you over the first cliff. You know that, don’t you?”

  Fry was fed up with Johns’ paranoid obsession with Riddick. “We’re just burnin’ light here,” she said impatiently.

  Johns stood his ground, “You give him the cells and the ship and he will leave you all out there to die.”

  His harsh whine was like a broken record, digging into her brain. Fry snapped. “I don’t get it, Johns. What is so goddamn valuable in your life that you’re worried about losing? Huh? Is there anything else at all you think about? Besides your next spike?”

  She pushed past him and left the cabin. Seconds later the lights faded out.

  Still fuming, Johns stood in the dark and loaded his shotgun. We’re all going on a death march, bitch, he ranted silently, shoving a shell in the chamber. And Riddick is the Pied Piper.

  A fiery cloud blossomed like a blue flower in the darkness.

  Rashad grinned in delight. His little invention worked. He’d placed a large burning wick in the center of Paris’s misting umbrella. When the cloud of alcohol blew over the wick it burst into flame, creating a fireball.

  Now the caravan had two umbrella torches, their fabric already burned away by the fireballs belching up into the endless night.

  Quickly they saddled up. Imam chained himself into the first harness of the sled. Beside him Johns fumbled with the second harness. Riddick came up to help Johns with his chains. As the goggled outlaw locked Johns into the harness both men recognized the irony of the prisoner chaining his captor.

  “Keep the light going,” Fry instructed the group. “That’s all we have to do to live through this. Just keep your light burn—”

  Suddenly a multi-colored spray of holiday lights blinked on like a fat Christmas tree. Fry made out the pasty white face inside. Paris. He had swaddled himself in vintage Christmas lights powered by a belt-pack battery.

  Ingenious . . . but pathetic, Fry thought.

  Paris read her expression. “What?” he said indignantly. “You said the more light the better, so . . .” He glared at the others defensively. “Well, someone can stand real close to me if they want.”

  His offer was met by stony silence. Paris stamped his foot in exasperation.

  “What?” he demanded, turning to Fry. “You think I should give them up, so someone else can . . .”

  Fry shrugged. “Keep ’em. You’ll need every watt back there.”

  “Back there?” Paris repeated, eyes blinking rapidly. “Back where?”

  “You’re the the tail-gunner,” Fry said with a tight smile. She hefted John’s shotgun and shoved Paris behind the sled. “Thanks for volunteering.”

  Actually this ridiculous fop and Johns are a lot alike, Fry reflected, moving to the head of the pack. Both self-obsessed assholes. Then there was Riddick. Despite everything, she kept remembering Johns’s warning.

  Riddick stood at the front of the caravan. He had looped a handlight over his neck and down his back, so it shone as a beacon. He nodded at Fry as she approached.

  “Be runnin’ about ten paces ahead,” he told her tersely. “I want light on my back—but not in my eyes. And check your cuts. Those things know our blood scent now.”

  Fry glanced down and saw Audrey nearby. The little girl’s face was wooden with fright. Fry prayed she had made the right decision.

  “Riddick,” she said hurriedly. “I was thinking we should make some kind of deal. Just in case, you know, this actually . . .”

  “Had it with deals.”

  The four words rang in Fry’s skull like alarm bells. “But I just wanted to say—”

  “Nobody’s gonna turn a murderer loose,” he said flatly. “I fuckin’ know better.”

  Fry was worried. If he doesn’t expect to go free, she speculated darkly, why save us?

  “Been a long time since anyone’s trusted me,” Riddick said. He lowered his voice and leaned very close. “That’s somethin’ right there.”

  Fry could feel his animal heat. “We can, can’t we?” she asked, voice husky. “Trust you?”

  Riddick smiled and lifted his goggles. “Actually—that’s what I’ve been asking myself.”

  For a terrible moment Fry stared into his shimmering jaguar eyes. Then he turned away. Fry watched him stride into the blackness, still wondering if she’d made a fatal mistake.

  Running point, goggles off, eyes flashing through the darkness, Riddick felt almost free. But his tuned senses were acutely aware of the restless shapes just at the edge of his vision. They hovered close, waiting for the slightest mistake.

  The procession resembled an illuminated circus train. Imam and Johns pulled the sled, their handlights sweeping ahead. Rashad manned the first side-guard position, carrying an umbrella torch. Fry and Audrey took second side-guard, their umbrella spewing fireballs.

  Swathed in colored lights like some electric clown, Paris stumbled along at rear point, jabbing his cutting torch at every shadow.

  Fry was reassured by the Sand Cat tracks underfoot. Riddick was retracing their mad flight to beat the darkness. But sh
e couldn’t help being unnerved by the relentless sounds all around them, like thousands of snapping teeth.

  They had marched about two kilometers when Fry noticed that the Sand Cat tracks had vanished. With a sinking feeling she moved ahead, searching for the familiar waffle tracks that led to the skiff.

  “So you noticed, too?”

  Fry turned and saw Johns’ knowing smirk. She paused and scanned the darkness ahead. “Riddick,” she called anxiously. “Riddick!”

  The caravan ground to a halt. Everyone sucked hard on their breathers, like pacifiers, as they clustered inside the light.

  Suddenly Riddick emerged from the blackness.

  “Where are the Sand Cat tracks?” Fry demanded. “Why aren’t we still following them?”

  Riddick squinted past her. “Saw something I didn’t like.”

  “Such as?”

  “Hard to tell sometimes, even for me . . . but looked like a bunch of those big boys chewing each other’s gonads off.” He smiled at her, eyes flashing like knives. “Thought we’d give it the swerve.”

  Paris approached them, mouth open in frightened disbelief. “Swerve . . . around what?”

  The clicking sounds swirled closer, ending the discussion.

  “Let’s move!” Fry shouted. She glanced at Audrey. “Just a detour,” she assured. “He’ll get us there.”

  Audrey shrugged. She trusted Riddick. It was the others that worried her.

  “Can we switch?” Paris whined.

  Distracted, Fry didn’t understand. “What? Switch what?”

  “I think I twisted my ankle running backward like that,” he said accusingly. “And now I’m not sure I can . . .” Aware that everyone was giving him disgusted looks, Paris paused and appealed to Fry. “Okay, that’s a lie. I just don’t want to be alone back there anymore. If you could just give me a few minutes up front here . . .”

  Johns didn’t like it. Bad luck, like changing seats in a poker game. “She’s the pilot,” he growled at Paris. “She should stay close to the cells.”

  Paris drew himself up. “Oh? So I’m disposable?”

  “I’ll switch. I’ll switch!” Fry said quickly, alarmed by the shadows gliding past their circle of light. “Christ, just get this train moving!”

  The illuminated caravan trundled on through the rustling blackness.

  Walking side-guard Paris actually started to relax a bit. At least there’s only one exposed side, he noted smugly. Unfortunately the infernal clicking was never out of earshot. The sound grated on his nerves. He swilled some cognac and looked up. A weak fireball coughed from his umbrella torch. Paris checked his reservoir. Almost empty.

  “Reloading,” Paris called out, “reloading.”

  Audrey moved to fetch a fresh bottle from the sled. Without thinking she strayed from the light of Fry’s fireball. The moment she stepped into shadow a high-velocity clicking pierced the darkness like an incoming missile.

  The sound jolted Imam’s instincts. He ducked his harness and dove for the little girl. As Imam pulled her down, bony talons slashed like white scythes—and shattered his light.

  Fry lifted the gun, but Johns was faster. He grabbed the shotgun from her hand and blasted the shadows above Audrey’s head. Rashad’s light darted through the darkness around Imam. Holding the torch aloft, Fry beamed her own handlight at them.

  “Please . . . have we been cut?” Imam asked, checking his hands and feet. “Can somebody bring a light and tell me . . .”

  On the other side of the sled, Paris found himself momentarily isolated. Abruptly his torch went out. He still had the Christmas lights, but the smothering darkness made him nervous. As he shuffled to the sled for an alcohol refill, he tripped over his own wires.

  And suddenly he was in total darkness. The Christmas lights had gone out.

  Frantically his pudgy fingers went over the warm bulbs trying to track down the loose one. “Oh shit . . . ohshitohshitohshit . . .”

  A heavy shape bumped his leg. Reflexively Paris grabbed the spot and felt something warm and sticky. Blood, he realized numbly. Then his heartbeat froze.

  The clicking had stopped.

  “Sweet Jesus!” Paris shrieked. “WILL YOU GET ME SOME LIGHT OVER HERE!”

  Fry whipped her light toward his voice.

  “OVER HERE!” Paris screamed, crawling awkwardly toward the sled. All around him the night had claws, tearing pieces from his living flesh. Light swept the ground a few feet away, but as he cried out a talon ripped his throat open. Gurgling blood, Paris tumbled into a boiling cauldron of red-hot razor blades.

  Fry caught a glimpse of a shredded leg before it was snatched away by a swooping blur. Their light beams lanced fitfully through the darkness, but it was too late. Paris had vanished.

  The only one who could still see Paris was Riddick. He ran back to the sled when he heard the shotgun blast, and arrived in time to see a horde of predators fighting over the ravaged body. Within seconds they gutted him open like a fat white turkey and devoured him from the inside out.

  Riddick saw a female flap down with a youngling on its back.

  He watched in disbelief as the female, unable to find any scraps, whipped the youngling into its jaws, and began to chew it down. Other creatures turned on each other, caught up in a horrific feeding frenzy.

  Then his night-vision eyes saw something even more ominous. A flock of predators were circling Audrey. The creatures hovered intently, as if the little girl exuded some powerful scent.

  Fry saw nothing, but she could hear savage feeding sounds in the blackness. She turned and saw Riddick moving closer, gleaming eyes fixed on Audrey.

  “What do you see, Riddick?”

  “Hunger,” he said quietly.

  The train moved slowly across the thick darkness. Like crossing a crocodile swamp, Fry reflected, holding her light aloft. After what happened to Paris, she’d benched the umbrella torch in favor of an industrial flare. At least she’d have more warning when it started to burn out. She checked the remaining bottles. Down to four.

  Johns and Imam were back in harness, their handlights beaming a path, while Audrey and Rashad walked side-guard, both carrying bottle torches.

  Up ahead, Riddick’s light bobbed like a distant buoy.

  Audrey looked back at Fry. “We getting close?”

  It was a good question. But only Riddick knew the answer. They’d all been blindly following the light on his back.

  “Can we pick up the pace?” Fry called.

  Sweating like a mule, Johns bristled at her prodding. “If you think you can do better . . .”

  Imam’s arm swatted his chest. Johns stopped and looked where Imam was pointing. A sled track waffled the ground in front of them. They’d been walking in circles.

  Johns lifted his shotgun and flicked the laser sight. The red pencil beam found Riddick about ten yards ahead. He had stopped, and seemed to be waiting for them.

  Riddick sensed the shotgun’s laser on his back. He could always count on Johns to do the expected. He heard the others shuffling closer, but didn’t turn around.

  “Never could walk a straight line, huh?” Johns growled, behind him.

  “Stay in the light, everyone!” Imam warned. “Rashad, everyone!”

  Audrey came to Riddick’s side. “What?” she whispered urgently. “What’s going on?”

  “Listen.”

  “We crossed our own tracks,” Fry said accusingly.

  “Why have we circled?” Imam put in. “Are we lost?”

  “Oh, he ain’t lost,” Johns smirked knowingly. “But he’d love to lose a few of us and still get those cells back to—”

  “Listen.”

  An electric chittering crackled through the darkness, like static from a million speakers—or the scratching of a million claws. The sound swirled across the cold night wind in rising gusts.

  “Canyon ahead,” Riddick explained. “Circled to buy some time. Gotta think.”

  Imam looked at Fry. “I think we must
go. Now!”

  “Dunno if it’s wise,” Riddick drawled. “That your local Death Row up there . . . Especially with the girl bleedin’.”

  Scowling, Johns gave Fry a quick once-over. “What’re you jaw-jackin’ about? She ain’t cut.”

  “Not her.” Riddick donned his goggles and looked back at Audrey. “Her.”

  Seconds later it hit them like a club. The little girl was having her period.

  “Oh God, honey,” Fry muttered, “you should have told us if . . . Is he right? Are you bleeding?”

  Audrey set her jaw defiantly. “You mighta left me there alone . . . back at the ship. That’s how come I didn’t say anything . . .”

  It’s true, Fry thought, suddenly alarmed. The others exchanged worried glances.

  “Aw, this can’t be happening to me,” Johns moaned.

  Riddick ignored him. “They been nose-open for her ever since she left,” he said softly. “They go off blood.”

  Imam put an arm around the little girl’s shoulder. “We must keep her close, then. She’ll be safe if we put her between—”

  Riddick slowly shook his head. “There is no safe.”

  A howling chatter floated up from the canyon like a challenge.

  The universe was collapsing on Fry.

  She stood in a fragile bubble of light, listening to the mad symphony squealing in the canyon ahead. Above her, the blackness seethed with clickering death. Behind them the constant wail of wind-swept bones. And around her, the desperate sucking wheeze of their breathers swelled the monstrous cacophony squeezing in on her.

  The terrible sounds, the leaden blackness, the pitiless horror devouring them one by one, crushed what remained of Fry’s spirit.

  “It’s not gonna work,” she rasped. “We gotta go back.”

  Johns pounced. His expression twisted into a triumphant smirk. “Hey, you’re the one who got me out here, turned me into a goddamn sled dog. And now you expect me to go back like a whipped dog?”

  “I was wrong,” Fry said patiently. “I admit it. My fault okay? Now let’s just go back to the ship.”

  “I dunno,” Johns mused. “Nice breeze, wide open spaces—you know, I’m startin’ to enjoy myself out here.”