If it dead-ended, they were screwed.
A turn. Another turn, to the right this time.
And then a solid wall, slightly slick with moisture seeping from above. Wade shone the weak light around, felt the walls for hidden gaps.
Nothing.
Dead end.
“Byrd—”
Byrd had already sized things up. “Fuckin’ A, dude.”
“Now what?”
Byrd’s response was so immediate, his plan must already have been formulated. “Tell you what,” he said. “You keep Molly safe in here, and I’ll lead him on a wild-goose chase. He’ll never even see this passage.”
“But, Byrd—” Molly began.
He cut her off. “It’s the best way, Molly. One person can make better time than three, and he’ll never get near me.”
Wade put his right hand on the Molly’s shoulder. She was trembling, but she managed to keep the fear mostly out of her voice. “Okay,” she said.
Because Byrd said so, Wade thought. This girl will do anything her big brother tells her to.
“That’s a good girl, Molly.” He sounded like he was addressing a dog, but Molly’s tremors calmed slightly.
“I gotta go,” Byrd said. “Before he gets too far in.”
Wade was already concerned about this. He wanted to argue, didn’t want to see Byrd play hero, but arguing would take time they didn’t have. Instead, he handed Byrd the flashlight.
Anyway, Byrd wasn’t playing hero. He was a hero. It was as much a part of him as his brown hair or his crooked teeth or his raw vocabulary. Without another word, he slipped back out into the main tunnel—an action Wade would have found terrifying beyond belief.
Byrd probably did, too. But he did it anyway. To Wade, that was the definition of the word hero.
Wade stood in the dark, his right hand remaining on Molly’s shoulder in a way he hoped was comforting. The blackness surrounding them felt greasy and alive somehow, as if it contained a billion infinitesimal fingers and all of them brushed across Wade’s bare arms, neck, and face.
Beyond the narrow walls of this passage he heard Byrd’s voice. “Hey, you old fucker! You want a rematch? That what you’re lookin’ for?”
Wade tensed, expecting his father to answer with his gun. Instead, the old man said, “You’ll find out what I’m after when I take it out of your useless, dead hide.”
“Sounds kinky!” Byrd shot back.
Wade’s dad gave a low, unintelligible growl. From the sound of his footsteps, he was just passing their hiding place.
* * *
The rest of it, Wade only found out about later.
Byrd was willing to talk about it—desperate, in fact, to discuss it at length—for a few days. After that, he clammed up. No amount of prodding or prompting could get him to revisit the events of the next twenty minutes. Wade knew the story by then, so he didn’t need to hear it again, but there had been times over the years he had thought about some aspect of it and wanted to talk it over. Byrd was adamant, though.
Wade tried not to push him on it. Byrd proved himself that day. He had earned the right to reveal as much or as little as he wanted.
He had gone back into the main tunnel and waited near the next bend until he heard Wade’s father getting close. That was when he’d shouted out the taunt and started to run. Dad had increased his pace, too, dashing right past the side tunnel, flashlight bobbing as he ran, casting mad shadows down the tunnel.
Byrd used what little remained of the flashlight’s juice to keep from smashing face-first into one of the walls. He stuck to the big corridor at first, counting on its twists and bends to protect himself from Dad’s gun. He could hear the old man’s labored breathing, grunting as he raced through the unfamiliar tunnel, banging into the occasional wall.
Finally, Byrd came to a stretch he remembered being long and straight, with another extremely tight passage at the end of it. He didn’t want to be wedged in there trying to get through and have Wade’s father taking easy, carefully aimed shots at him. So when he reached the last side tunnel, he veered into it. Byrd figured it wouldn’t be hard for Dad to figure out where he had gone, so he shouted a curse as he made the turn, letting it trail off slowly.
He heard the old man pass the side tunnel, then quickly double back.
Now Byrd knew he was in a potentially tricky spot. He had no idea where he was going, or how long this side tunnel would continue. He had no weapon except a piece-of-shit flashlight that kept blinking out on him.
And behind him, coming up fast, was an insane, armed man who he was convinced had already murdered several boys around his age.
He did all that he could do, which was to keep going. The tunnel hardly had any straight parts at all, just one bend after another, dizzying at the speed he was trying to move, with bad light. He kept throwing out his left arm to fend off the walls.
Bouncing like a pinball, he discovered that this passage went on longer than he had dared hope, always sloping down, down beneath the earth, and angling toward the river. For all he knew, he had already passed under the river and was beneath Mexico now. He had definitely crossed a boundary and entered a frontier, although not the kind found on any map. Wade’s dad kept coming, but Byrd thought he had put a little more space between them on the tight turns. He started to feel better about his chances of evading the man. Sooner or later, the guy would tire of the chase, right? He’d turn around, wanting to get out of the caves before he was completely lost. He would realize that Wade would have to come home sometime, and he could take care of him then. He knew where Byrd and Molly lived, too.
It was, no doubt, wishful thinking.
Because the guy kept on coming, and Byrd was starting to feel winded, worn out, not sure he could go much longer.
And then the light finally went out altogether.
Byrd slapped it against his palm. When that didn’t work, he slapped it against the nearest rock wall. Shards of plastic and bits of light bulb sprayed all over the floor, crunching loudly when he stepped on them. He hung on to what remained of the shaft for some reason, and continued into the dark.
Except, he realized, the darkness wasn’t as total as he thought.
The last thing he saw before the light died was a wall blocking his path, a wall that would probably put an end to the whole chase. He hoped that Molly and Wade had already left the caves and were on their way—ideally, in Wade’s father’s truck—to get help.
Because he was up against it, for real and for good.
But after the light died and he smashed it into the wall, he discovered that he could see a little. There was something, some kind of glow, illuminating the tunnel ever so faintly.
Byrd hoped it wasn’t the gleam of Brent Scheiner’s light, filtering down to him.
He didn’t think so. Looking around for the source, he found a slender gap in what he had thought was a solid wall. The glow came from that, or more precisely through that.
He peered in, but couldn’t see anything through the narrow slice.
He didn’t know if he could make it through. There was light there, though, and he had run out of options on this side. He turned sideways, facing front so if Wade’s dad caught up to him, he wouldn’t have to see the bullet coming, and started in.
He scraped his temples and cheeks on the wall as he passed, leaving remnants of his skin behind. But the gap was slightly wider at the bottom, so he had room to move his legs, room to slide his hips and his chest and shoulders through.
The farther he went, the brighter the glow became.
He could hear Wade’s father getting closer so he quickened his pace, forcing himself through the crack, but it was going to take as long as it took—rushing it would only get him stuck.
Which would get him dead.
Imagining himself as a slice of toast buttered on both sides, he continued easing through the gap, into the slowly brightening glow.
And then he was out…
He felt like he had di
ed and gone to heaven, or maybe hit his head harder than he thought and had begun to hallucinate.
He had entered a kind of chamber. The ceiling and far walls were lost in shadow. What he could see, and in considerable detail, were dozens of stalactites and stalagmites, although he couldn’t remember which was which. Some joined to form solid columns from the floor up beyond where the glow reached. There were also much skinnier tubes, hundreds of them, and other formations—big flattened surfaces and swirls and a bewildering array of colors.
Everything was illuminated by a pool of water, maybe ten or twelve feet in diameter, almost perfectly circular, which glowed with some freakish internal light. The stench—something like ammonia mixed with methane and sulfur that burned his nose when he breathed it in too deeply—came from the water.
“Water” might not have been the right term. It was white, milky, if milk had been irradiated and become its own light source. But it was pooled inside a cave, close to the Rio Grande—for all Byrd knew, under the Rio Grande.
Staring in amazement at the chamber, he almost forgot why he had reenacted his own birth and forced himself through that tiny crevice. The racket of old man Scheiner duplicating his feat, with more swearing and grumbling, reminded him.
He could hardly believe the man could do it. He had just barely made it, and he was thinner than Wade’s father. But as he watched, a foot swung into view, reaching out, probing for its next step. Then a hand showed, gripping a flashlight. Byrd hid before Wade’s dad spotted him.
He started casting about for someplace he could duck down when another thought dashed that one to bits. Hide? Why bother? When Brent Scheiner emerged, he would be just as spellbound as Byrd had been. He wouldn’t be human if he didn’t gawk for a few seconds.
Instead of hiding, Byrd flattened himself against the wall the gap opened out of. He waited, keeping his breathing shallow and silent, still clutching the stupid, busted flashlight.
Wade’s father came out of the squeeze and into the chamber, carrying a small revolver in his other fist, Byrd thought the man would hear his heart slamming around in his chest like a tennis ball in a dryer. He stared, however, at the pool and the rock formations, just as Byrd had, his gaze drawn by the glow of the pale liquid. Finally, remembering his quest, he swiveled toward Byrd.
Byrd drove the broken flashlight’s shaft into his pursuer’s face. Jagged plastic sliced flesh, and leftover shards of bulb filled his right eye socket. Wade’s father screeched in pain and reeled back, throwing his hands into the air. His flashlight fell to the ground and the gun slammed into Byrd’s left eyebrow, before hitting the rocks and bouncing into the pool. Old man Scheiner grunted wordlessly and stumbled after it, splashing into glowing water up to his knees. Byrd thought he was safe for a second or two…before Wade’s dad reached out, snagged his T-shirt, and yanked him toward the pool.
THIRTY-TWO
The water Brent Scheiner splashed onto Byrd’s chest burned his flesh. Byrd tried to wrench free, but Wade’s father had a fistful of T-shirt and wasn’t letting go. His mouth opened in a soundless howl, his bloody face twisted in pain and rage, and with his other hand, instead of hitting Byrd or using it to pull him in, he made a fist and punched at empty air.
But Scheiner had splashed milky water onto the rock floor, and Byrd’s feet slid, unable to get enough traction to resist the man’s pull. He grabbed Scheiner’s wrist and hand, trying to break his grip. It was like trying to smash concrete with a cotton ball. In another few seconds he would be in the pool, too, and judging from Wade’s dad’s reaction, it wasn’t exactly a spa.
The once-still pool churned and spat, burning the man’s flesh where it landed, bubbling and adhering to his skin. Smoke rose from those spots, and Byrd realized that must be the source of the man’s agony.
He’d still only felt secondhand water, transferred to his shirt by the man’s fist, and that was bad enough, as if he had leaned onto a hot burner. He didn’t want the full-on dunking.
It looked, however, like he didn’t have much of a choice.
Then Wade’s father let out a shrill scream and his back arched abruptly. For a brief instant, Byrd thought he would let go. Instead, he held on tighter and jerked Byrd several inches closer to the pool. Struggling for balance, Byrd caught a glimpse of his skin where the liquid—it wasn’t water after all, no water could do this—had started to eat away his flesh. Byrd saw exposed fat and muscle, splotchy red and white and pink stuff he couldn’t identify. Wade’s dad’s flesh started to fall off his body in chunks, splashing into the roiling pool. Byrd’s gut heaved, but if he were to puke, old man Scheiner would haul him in for sure.
Instead, he took what he thought would be his last shot.
The man’s face, purple with fury and pain, had started to disintegrate. Touching it seemed like a bad idea, but it was close enough to reach and he still couldn’t break the grip Scheiner had on him, or get out of his shirt.
He slammed his fist into the man’s bleeding eye.
Wade’s dad shrieked again and released Byrd’s T-shirt, clapping his hand over his injured eye. He reeled backward, losing his own balance and landing on his ass in the pool. There he twitched and writhed and batted at himself like wasps were swarming him.
Byrd didn’t hesitate. He snatched Scheiner’s still-working flashlight off the ground and squeezed back into the tiny gap through which he had entered this chamber of horrors. He had to fight to control his own panic, knowing it would only make things worse to try to rush it. A few desperate minutes passed, and then he was out. With the light, finding his way back to the main tunnel was easy. From there it was just a matter of covering the distance to the entrance, with one brief detour to make sure Wade and Molly had left.
* * *
Byrd burst from beneath the slab that overhung their cave’s entrance like he’d been shot out by a cannon. In another context, it would have been comical—his frantic emergence, hands pawing at the ground, mouth open, eyes blazing like a crazy person’s. To Wade, though, watching from behind a large boulder close by, it was terrifying. Byrd was the bravest person he had ever known, so anything that scared him that much had to be beyond awful.
He held Molly back for a few seconds, until he was sure that Byrd had come out alone. Then he released her, and rushed with her to Byrd’s side. “Byrd!” he called as he ran. “We’re over here!”
Byrd looked at them—through them, it seemed, like he couldn’t focus on anything directly in front of his eyes, and his mouth worked silently. Wade reached Byrd first, throwing his arms around his friend and helping him to his feet. By then Molly had joined them. Tears ran down her pudgy cheeks, tracking the dirt that caked them. Byrd’s shirt was soaked, dampening Wade and Molly when they hugged him, and blood dripped from an ugly gash above his left eye.
“You okay, Byrd?” Wade asked.
Byrd nodded a few times and then finally spoke. “I guess.”
“What happened in there? Where’s my dad?”
“He…the pool…” He started to speak again, swallowed, couldn’t get anything out.
“It’s okay now,” Wade said. “Whatever you did, it’s okay.”
“Not me,” Byrd managed. “The pool…it glows. Burns.”
Wade didn’t understand what he was talking about. Pool? They had never seen any kind of pool in there. “Slow down, man,” he said. “One step at a time. What pool? Where’s my dad?”
Byrd looked right into Wade’s eyes, finally, and Wade could tell that his friend had been through something horrible, something that would leave scars for the rest of his life. “I don’t think he’s comin’ out, Wade.”
“What do you mean?” Wade asked. He was getting the picture already, though. Byrd had killed him, somehow. That would explain Byrd’s awful, haunted stare. Not only had Byrd become a killer, but the person he had killed was Wade’s father. “It’s okay, Byrd,” he said again. “You did what you had to.”
Byrd shook his head impatiently, flinging blood from
his cut everywhere. “No, no, no. Wade, it was—”
Suddenly they heard a low snarl, like a rabid dog, coming from the direction of the cave. “Oh fuck me fuck me no no no!” Byrd said. Panicked, he tried to run, but Wade held him. He didn’t know what was coming out of the cave, but he would want Byrd’s help to deal with it.
Although Wade didn’t think it was possible, whatever was emerging from the cave actually budged the stone slab that had leaned there as long as anyone knew, maybe for thousands of years. Not a lot, but enough to be visible, shifting it just enough to change its angle of lean by a degree or two. What was in that cave with them? he wondered. A bear? A big cat? What had that kind of strength?
The growl came again, and his dad crawled out from under the leaning rock. The man pawed at the ground, his fingers cutting deep furrows in the hard-packed earth there. When he shook his head, foam and spittle flew in every direction. He stared at them with one eye—the other eye had been brutalized, liquefied somehow, a hellish soup of blood and eye goop and sweat mixing on what remained of his cheek. And although Wade could tell it was his father, he looked more like a wild thing, a monster, than anything human. The clothing that had been perfectly fine an hour ago had turned into rags and ribbons, barely concealing his skin.
And he was strong. He had not only moved the big leaning rock, but his fists closed around smaller stones and pulverized them. He crept toward them on all fours, as if he had forgotten how to walk upright.
Finally, for the first time, he spoke words that Wade could understand. “Wade,” he said. “Help…”
He might have said more, but his lower jaw fell away from his face, dangled there by a few strings of flesh, and then he swatted it angrily with his left hand and it tore off altogether, flying into the rocks. Blood drained from his head, pattering to the dirt and making a trail as he kept crawling toward them.
River Runs Red (The Border Trilogy) Page 21