by Frank Lauria
Riddick’s finger jabbed Imam’s chest. “Got it all wrong. I absolutely believe in God. And I absolutely hate the fucker.”
“He will be with us nonetheless,” the monk reminded gently.
Riddick slipped into his harness and latched it tight. “Give my blessing to the girl. She’ll need a spare.”
They saddled up reluctantly, torches maxed out, burning non-stop as they sucked down O2 for the final race.
Imam and Fry took the sled chains, Audrey rolled beneath the sled shield between the runners, and Rashad took point, his handlight boring a trail through the blackness. Riddick pulled the goggles over his eyes, having no desire to see the unspeakable horrors waiting for them.
Only one path anyway, he thought grimly. Straight down the belly of the beast.
Riddick raised his hand. “As fast as you can!” he shouted.
Fry looked at the enormous leaden weight strapped to his back. “You sure you can keep . . . ?”
“As fast as you can,” Riddick repeated. Then he dropped his hand and they began their death-run.
In the hellish glare of their white-hot torches, the small band of survivors raced for their lives, knowing there was no going back. Set at maximum burn, their torches would flame out in a short time. Pulled by Imam and Fry, the sled moved easily on its runners as Audrey speed-crawled beneath. Rashad sprinted ahead, thick legs pumping while Riddick struggled after them, his face already tortured with severe oxygen depletion—and the sheer agony of hauling 200 pounds of stubborn mule-cargo. But somehow he managed to keep pace with the ghostly caravan.
The wind stretched their torch flames like burning wings as they entered the canyon running. Immediately predators began launching themselves from the rim. First came the hatchlings, smaller, shriller and faster—who streamed right into their faces, veering aside at the last moment, repulsed by the light.
Next came the feral squeals of killing, feeding and squabbling that filled the darkness overhead. Thin blue liquid spattered down on the survivors as they trotted doggedly through the clickering, shrieking nightmare.
“Don’t look up,” Riddick yelled hoarsely.
More blue liquid showered down on them, trailing the unmistakable stench of blood. Fry felt something brush her hair.
“Do not look up!” Riddick warned.
Too late. Fry’s brain reeled as she glimpsed the monstrous cloud writhing overhead. A ceiling of clicking predators encircled the cusp of light; diving, sliding, weaving, darting—slashing each other in their eagerness to sound out the human prey below.
It was like looking into a sky of angry snakes.
Fry stumbled, overcome by the enormity of the horror.
“Keep going, keep going, keep going, keep going!”
Riddick’s cry whipped her on like the devil’s coxswain. Spurred by terror, she dropped her head and moved faster. More blue blood drizzled down followed by oozing chunks of entrails as the creatures cannibalized each other even as they stalked their human prey. Could this be hell? Fry wondered dazedly. It didn’t really matter.
Then she heard Imam’s voice floating through the insanity. “So dark the clouds around my way—I cannot see,” the monk chanted. “But through the darkness I believe Allah leadeth me. I gladly place my hand in His when all is dim . . . And closing my weary eyes, lean on Him . . .”
Just the fact that he was still able to pray bolstered Fry’s sagging energy. And she needed anything she could hold on to. The blood frenzy overhead had reached a mad crescendo and whole corpses were crashing down around them with sickening wet sounds, victims of mass slaughter.
Fry and Imam were forced to slalom through steaming piles of shredded flesh, like some grotesque obstacle course. Up ahead Rashad veered too close to a fallen creature and its head blade sliced his leg . . . drawing blood. Silently, the pilgrim pushed forward.
Up ahead the canyon narrowed into a choke point. Fry saw it first.
“Riddick?” She screamed. “RIDDICK?”
Blocking the choke point was a twitching mound of flesh—dead predators, slimy with blood and entrails.
“What?” Audrey yelled, alerted by Fry’s panic. “What is it?”
“It’s a fucking staircase!” Riddick roared. “Go over it! GO OVER IT!”
A fetid stench enveloped them like some thick, noxious fog. The stink of diseased, rotting corpses pulled the air from Fry’s lungs. Acid bile burned her throat as she abandoned all hope and attacked the blood-greased wall of gutted predators.
Seeing Fry push forward gave Rashad courage. Twisted with nausea he moved to Imam’s side. The monk gave him a small smile. “Allah . . .” was all he said, but it was enough to rally what was left of Rashad’s energy.
“Allah!” The pilgrim cried, moving up to light the way.
Picking their way over the slimy pile of death was treacherous. Each bloody corpse was barbed with sharp talons and razor-edged skull blades. The stench, the squishing rot beneath their feet, and the relentless clicking chaos overhead walled them inside a hideous cocoon. Reeling and stumbling, they fought for each step.
All except for Riddick. Pain, exhaustion, horror, foul odors from the bowels of despair were old acquaintances. Years in prison had taught him how to lift mind from body and fly free. His consciousness hovered above his straining body like a miner’s lamp. He was pure animal survival in hell’s own slaughterhouse.
The worst of it was reserved for Audrey. On all fours beneath the sled-shield, the little girl found herself face-to-entrails with gutted corpses. It was like crawling through a steaming blood-swamp of rotting slime laced with barbed wire. But the rhythm of Riddick’s pounding footsteps behind her merged with her ragged heartbeat, urging her on. Ignoring her revulsion she slid her hands over the stinking corpses, and kept pace with the sled. Until her palm pressed down on a hatchling—and it squirmed to life!
Instinctively she recoiled to avoid the snapping teeth and flapping talons—and rolled through the runners. Suddenly she was exposed, tumbling down the mound of rotting flesh.
At the same instant a dozen rabid shapes dove for the struggling girl. Rashad glimpsed what was happening and swung his light around.
“Audrey!” Fry cried.
As Rashad moved to help, he slipped and lost his handlight. The beam spun and stopped again on Audrey like a game pointer.
The little girl blindly scrambled for Rashad’s light and slid under the sled-shield. At the same time a predator kamikazied into the shield, its skull blade piercing the metal and nearly skewering the little girl beneath. Caught in torchlight, the creature began to sizzle, howling as it tried to rip free of the shield. Trapped, Audrey was battered by the steel runners as the burning predator trashed wildly.
As Riddick neared, the creature tore free. Enraged with pain the predator spun and blindly pounced.
Poised at light’s edge Riddick caught the creature beneath its wing talons, blunting the attack. The predator’s head reared back, coiling to bisect Riddick with its skull blade.
But Riddick had learned watching Johns die. With switchblade speed he yanked his shiv and swept across the creature’s belly, spilling blood and intestines. Shrieking the creature dropped and slid away, trailing its own bowels.
Gasping for breath Riddick turned and saw Imam and Fry gaping at him, pale faces reflecting stunned disbelief. Riddick shrugged. “Didn’t know who he was fuckin’ with.”
Imam’s mouth fell open. They were one person short!
The monk’s composure disintegrated like a fractured mirror. He slogged through the sea of oily flesh, his head swiveling back and forth. “Rashad!” he screamed. “RASHAD!”
“Get the girl back under!” Riddick ordered. “Keep going!”
Calling frantically, the monk staggered in circles. “RASHAD!”
“KEEP GOING OR I WILL!” Riddick warned, shouldering the power cells.
Suddenly Rashad floated into the light like a bloodstained angel, his torn, ravaged body held aloft by unseen forces
.
With shocked amazement Imam realized the shredded remnants of flesh still clung to life. Imam stretched out his arms, fingers reaching desperately. Eyes bulging with effort, Rashad feebly lifted a bloody hand.
Then he was gone, jerked out of the light . . . out of existence.
At the moment Imam’s faith teetered. The monk took a deep breath. Abandon Allah’s trust and my pilgrims died for nothing, he reflected. He turned and took his place in front of the sled.
Four little Indians, Fry noted grimly as they flailed on through the frenzied chaos. After they crested the festering flesh heap, the canyon widened like the portals to paradise. The constant screeching grew fainter, falling behind them in the hellish slaughter pit.
Their footing also became more secure as they passed fewer and fewer gutted corpses until the ground was clear. Fry and Imam exchanged relieved glances. Audrey managed a deep breath as the stench faded. For the first time they shared the faintest hope that the nightmare might end.
Except for Riddick. His etched features remained as impassive as marble beneath the black goggles as he marched through the darkness.
The torches began to spit and sputter as they ran out of fuel. With a sinking feeling, Audrey listened to a fresh hail of blood drumming on the metal shield.
Less light, more blood, fresh kill zone ahead, she thought, trying to steel herself against the renewed assault. It never came.
Instead the drumming spatters of blood grew louder.
Abruptly, one torch died. Fry frantically yanked the lever and somehow it flared up again.
Noticing the sudden lack of smell, Imam cupped his hand to catch some of the blood drizzling from above. Fry did the same. She peered closely at the liquid in her palm and realized it had no color.
“Oh no,” Fry moaned as she recognized the new danger pouring down on them. “No, no, no . . .”
“Rain . . .” Imam said, voice hushed with disbelief.
Caught in the downpour, the caravan slogged to a stop. One torch went out and would not relight. Their protective halo was being extinguished by the driving rain.
It was the final irony, but only Riddick was laughing.
“So where the hell’s God now, huh?” he rasped, turning to Imam.
Already wrestling with his faith, the Muslim shook his head.
“I’ll tell you where!” Riddick cried, shaking his fist at the sky. “He’s up there PISSING ON ME!”
Fry wasn’t impressed. This ain’t about you! she thought, with a surge of rage.
“Riddick?” she said tersely. “How close?”
His ugly grin melted into an impassive mask as he slowly lifted his goggles. For long moments he stared into the rain-swept darkness as if gazing into a black crystal.
Fry’s nerves were too frayed for patience and her future was fading with the torchlight.
“Tell me the settlement is right there!” she cried, clenched fists weakly pounding his chest. “RIDDICK! PLEASE!”
It was like flailing at the Sphinx. Unmoved by her outburst, Riddick continued to scan ahead, liquid eyes revealing nothing. Finally he turned and shrugged.
“We can’t make it,” he told her, face as blank as stone.
Fry sagged and felt Imam’s arm around her shoulder. Too stunned to speak, she swayed in the dying torchlight, as the terrible squeals behind them swelled louder.
Prodded by the horrific sound, Riddick took Audrey by the hand, pulling her to a cavelike crevice in the canyon wall. “Here!” he shouted, waving at Imam and Fry. “Hide here!”
Imam half-carried Fry to the crevice as the clickering hordes circled overhead, swooping closer to their prey.
“Inside, inside! Riddick hissed, pushing Imam after Fry. As they crawled into the narrow fissure, the second torch died behind them.
Now there was only one light left—the one on Riddick’s back.
Numbly, Fry watched the light bobbing as Riddick muscled the sled-shield over to the crevice—and slid it over the opening.
All light gone, they crouched in the fissure, listening to the fiercely chattering sounds outside. Finally Audrey voiced the question they were all afraid to ask.
“Why is he still out there?”
Fry couldn’t answer. He might be protecting us, she thought. Or burying us.
The mud made the footing difficult. Especially dragging two hundred pounds of dead weight, Riddick noted as he strained to reach the top of a steep rise. The rain had intensified, making it difficult to see. His eyes had been customized to see in the dark, not through water.
Like some futuristic Sisyphus, doomed to an eternity of pushing a boulder up a mountain, only to have it roll back to the bottom, Riddick hauled the power cells up the soggy, crumbling hill. Every few feet he slid on the rain-soaked mud, the heavy cells pulling him down like an anchor. Each time he managed to dig in and begin again, until he reached the crest.
Half-expecting to meet another obstacle he stood on the hill peering through the hard rain and saw it.
The Promised Land, Riddick exulted, looking down at the settlement. From here it’s all downhill.
As he strode over the rise, the cells followed, slithering through the mud like a serpent’s tail.
It didn’t take long to reach the skiff. The predators followed every inch of he way, hovering just beyond the faint circle of light as Riddick boarded the dark craft.
The creatures began hammering the frail shell as he connected the power cells to the battery bay. Suddenly the interior lights blinked on.
As the ship came to life, the hammering stopped. There was only the drumming rain and the warm brightness inside. Free at last, Riddick exulted, slipping the goggles over his eyes.
He began a pre-flight integrity check. But as his fingers ran over the instruments, his mind kept going back to the people he’d left in the canyon. Don’t be sucked in, he told himself. Good intentions kill faster than bullets.
Prison philosophy didn’t help. A gnawing sense of urgency drew him to the hatch. He stood there, staring at the rain-drenched chaos beyond the skiff’s cozy arc of light. Torn between survival and redemption.
He tried to blot out the images of the little girl being torn from her burrow like a field mouse and ripped open by relentless talons. Nothing worked. At last, like some hard-core addict losing his war against drugs, Riddick made certain he would never return to the canyon.
Very deliberately Riddick lifted the handlight, and smashed it against the hull. Then he stepped inside and shut the hatch behind him.
“He’s not coming back, is he?”
Again Audrey voiced their deepest fear. Crouched down in the bleak sanctuary Fry tried to figure it out. If he wants us dead, why lead us here? She looked at Imam, checking his face.
“Did Riddick say anything to you?”
Imam shook his head.
A shock of recognition bolted through Fry’s brain. She could see Imam’s face.
“There’s light in here,” she said in a hushed voice.
Imam looked up and spotted a soft glow above them. He stood and climbed the canyon wall. There were tiny blue-white lights clinging to the rocks like phosphorescent coral. Imam plucked a few. As he examined the glowing nodules they began to writhe in his palm. They were alive.
“What are they?” Fry asked, voice strained.
Imam came down and held out his hand. “Larva.”
“Glow worms,” Audrey corrected, eyes gleaming in the dim light.
Call it what you will, Imam thought. He knew it was a miracle. A sign from Allah that his prayers had been heard. His faith flooded back, reviving his parched spirit.
A spark of realization shot through Fry’s brain. “How many bottles we got?” she asked, rummaging hurriedly. “Empty ones . . . as many as we can scrounge.”
It was a good idea, but it took a long time. Even half-full of glow worms, the liquor bottle emitted a weak illumination, barely enough to ward off the predators.
“More, more,” Audrey said
in a whispered chant, “we need more.”
The pile of worms climbed higher. Inch by inch the phosphorescent larvae brightened their cramped world. Finally they managed to fill two bottles. One to travel with, Fry thought. She rigged a secure harness for the bottle and strung it around her neck.
Imam understood. So did Audrey, but she didn’t like it. She started to beg Fry to stay, then stopped, knowing it was useless.
Fry patted the little girl’s shoulder and moved to the entrance. Cautiously, Fry pushed aside the sled-shield and extended the bottle. Immediately the relentless clicking receded. Without looking back, Fry slipped outside.
The rain drummed down, making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. Which was just as well, Fry decided, aware of the clicking predators swooping around her protective bubble of light.
Beyond hope, Fry’s anger maintained her will as she pushed up the dark rise. The sled tracks were long gone, washed out by the deluge. The only direction she could follow was up.
After what seemed hours of sliding and clawing through the mud, Fry stood on the crest. Drenched and exhausted, her breath coming in rapid gasps, she saw a distant light. She made out the outline of the settlement and knew the light came from the skiff.
Jolted by a sudden rage, Fry began to jog recklessly down the hill.
Back in the narrow cave, Imam and Audrey huddled together, bent over the bottle of glow worms. Imam murmured his prayers as the little girl dozed fitfully, dreams and reality appearing in violent fragments. She was awakened by a rapid knocking on the shield.
At first she thought it was Fry, knocking to get back in. But the scrabble of clicking squeals pressing around the entrance bolted through her belly like electricity. Paralyzed with terror, Audrey watched Imam crawl to the shield to make sure it was wedged shut.
She saw Imam put his face to a slit in the shield and peer out into the darkness. Audrey shouted a warning—but as she opened her mouth the shield cracked open.
A talon pierced the shield a few inches from Imam’s head. As he jerked back a second crashed through the shield. He snatched the glowing bottle and brandished the light at the frantic flurry of blades, sawing at the edges of the shield.