Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

He approached. There was another Indian skull, some feathers and arrowheads and bones. But these were arranged in a very unusual pattern on the shelf of rock. It was disquieting, somehow, like nothing he’d seen in books or museum displays. There were non-Indian objects, too: strange little figures made of string and twine; a broken pencil; a rotting wooden alphabet block; the fragmented head of a porcelain doll.

Jesus Christ, the little arrangement gave him the creeps. He backed away. This wasn’t old. Somebody had taken the old bones and rearranged them with these other things. Raskovich felt a shiver convulse his back.

There was a grunt from the darkness over his shoulder.

Raskovich did not move. There were no more sounds: the silence that descended again was complete. A minute went by, then two, while Raskovich remained frozen, as the uncertainty and terror continued to mount within him.

And then the moment came when he was unable to stop himself from turning. Slowly—very slowly—he twisted around until he saw what had made the noise.

Raskovich fell still, paralyzed once again, not even a whisper of breath escaping his lips. It stood there, grotesque, misshapen, hideous. The sight was so terrible that every detail etched itself into his brain. Was that really a pair of handmade shorts and suspenders on those giant, twisted legs: suspenders decorated with rocking horses? Was that shirt, hanging in tatters from the roped and matted chest, really patterned with comets and rocket ships? And, above them, was that face really, really, so very . . .

The horrible figure took a step forward. Raskovich stared, unable to move. A meaty arm lashed out and swatted him. He fell to the cave floor, the night-vision goggles flying.

The blow broke the spell of terror, and now, finally, he was able to move his limbs. He scrambled backward, blind, a loud keening sound issuing from his throat. He could hear the monster shuffling toward him, making sucking noises with his mouth. He managed to get to his feet and retreated a few steps, the final step dropping into nothingness. He lost his balance and toppled backward, tensing, expecting to land heavily against the hard stone floor of the cave, but there was nothing, nothing at all, just a great rush of wind as he hurtled into a dark void, endlessly down, down—

Sixty-Five

H ank Larssen turned to face Cole and Brast. The troopers looked like goggle-eyed monsters in the reddish light.

“I really don’t think this is the way they went,” Larssen said.

The sentence fell away into silence.

“Well?” Larssen looked from Cole to Brast. The two state troopers almost looked like twins: fit, wiry, crew-cut, taut jawlines, steely eyes. Or rather, once-steely eyes. Now, even in the pale wash of the night-vision goggles they looked confused and uncertain. It had been a mistake, he realized, to leave the huge cavern of limestone pillars looking for Hazen. The barking of the dogs had gone suddenly silent, and they’d taken off down one of the countless side passages in what seemed like the direction of retreating footsteps. But the passage had divided, once, then twice, before turning into a confusing welter of crisscrossing tunnels. Once he thought he’d heard Hazen calling out his name. But there had been no more sounds for the last ten minutes, at least. It was going to be a real chore just to find their way back out.

He wondered how he’d become the de facto leader of this happy little picnic. Cole and Brast were both part of the much-vaunted “high-risk entry team” and had trained for special situations like this. At the state police HQ they had a gym, workout facilities, a pool, shooting range, special training seminars, and weekend retreats. Larssen sure hoped he wasn’t going to have to hand-hold these guys.

“Wake up, you two. Did you hear me? I said, I don’t think this is the way they went.”

“I don’t know,” said Brast. “It seems right to me.”

“It seems right to you,” Larssen repeated sarcastically. “And you, Cole?”

Cole just shook his head.

“All right, that settles it. We turn around and get out of here.”

“What about Hazen?” Cole said. “Weeks?”

“Sheriff Hazen and Officer Weeks are trained law enforcement personnel who can take care of themselves.”

The two troopers just looked at him.

“Are we all in agreement on this?” Larssen asked, raising his voice. Damned idiots.

“I’m with you,” Brast said with evident relief.

“Cole?”

“I don’t like leaving people down here,” said Cole.

A real hero, thought Larssen. “Sergeant Cole, it’s pointless to wander around down here any longer. We can go for backup. They could be anywhere in this maze. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were already on their way out.”

Cole licked his lips. “All right,” he said.

“Then let’s go.”

They had been circling their way back toward the limestone forest for five minutes and had reached an unfamiliar-looking crossroads when Larssen first heard the sound. The others must have heard it, too, because they spun around with him. It was faint, but unmistakable: the sound of running footsteps, approaching at high speed. But not human, no: the tattoo of heavy footfalls was too rapid for that.

It was something big.

“Weapons!” shouted Larssen, dropping to one knee and raising the riot gun to his shoulder. He took aim down the intersecting tunnel.

The running came closer, accompanied by a metallic clanking. And now a big reddish form materialized out of the darkness. Whatever it was, it was huge.

“Ready!”

The thing bore down on them with terrible speed. It tore through a shallow puddle, raising a curtain of droplets in its wake.

“Wait!” Larssen said abruptly. “Hold your fire!”

It was one of the dogs.

The animal hurtled toward them, utterly heedless of their presence, the wide wild eyes staring fixedly ahead. The only sound it made was the drumming of its huge paws against the stone. As it flashed past, Larssen saw that the animal was covered with blood, and that one of the ears was torn away, as well as part of the lower jaw. Big black lips and tongue flapped loosely, dripping foam and blood.

In another second it was gone, the sound of its flight fading away. Then silence returned. It had all happened so quickly that Larssen almost wondered if he’d imagined it. “What the fuck? ” Brast whispered. “Did you see—?”

Larssen swallowed, but no moisture came. His mouth felt dry as sawdust. “He must’ve slipped, fallen.”

“Bullshit,” said Cole, his voice unnaturally loud in the confined space. “You don’t lose half your jaw in a fall. Someone attacked that dog.”

“Or some thing, ” Brast muttered.

“For chrissakes, Brast,” said Larssen, “show some backbone.”

“Why was he running like that? That dog was scared shitless.”

Larssen said, “Let’s just get out of here.”

“No argument there.”

They turned back, Larssen keeping his eyes on the damp tracks of the dog. They could probably follow those with confidence; that would make things a whole lot easier.

Brast spoke into the silence. “I heard something.”

They paused once again.

“Something splashing through that puddle back there.”

“Don’t start again, Brast.”

Then Larssen heard it, too: the faint splash of a footfall in water, followed by another. He stared down the dark tunnel behind them, the cavern walls a red wash in his goggles. He could make out nothing.

“Just dripping water, probably.” He shrugged, turned back to follow the dog tracks.

Muh!

Brast gave a yell, and at the same time Larssen felt a sudden brutal shove from behind that sent him sprawling to the ground, his night-vision goggles flying. Brast was still yelling, and Cole gave a sudden, sharp scream.