Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

He’d tried to speak a couple of times, wondering if the creatures were intelligent. As far as he could tell, he’d been conscious the entire time, though parts of the last few hours had taken on a surreal quality that pushed aside the initial shock. Perhaps, he was simply losing his mind, the most likely and most acceptable conclusion. During his master’s program in behavioral psychology at Stanford, he’d arrived at a personal rule: If you wondered if you were insane, then you were insane. All that remained was the elimination of any lingering doubts.

In the program, his specialty had been aberrant behavior. Like any kid growing up with Stephen King and bad horror movies, he knew all about vampire myths, with the living dead arising from their graves at night to suck the blood of innocents, in turn changing the victims into like-minded, eternally thirsty monsters. And like most sane (or formerly sane) people, he found them a bit laughable, though the psychology behind the public’s attraction to the myth was fascinating. It seemed anybody could stamp a pale, pointy-toothed European bisexual on a paperback novel cover or a movie poster and the product would achieve success, however little deserved.

Even more fascinating than the eternal appeal of these fictional tropes were the actual, flesh-and-blood people who believed themselves vampires. They drank blood as a ritual and slept during the day, fearing they might turn to ashes upon exposure to the sun. Some even managed to induce a conversion reaction that caused them to break out in hives or boils if presented with the Christian cross, garlic, or sterling silver, all weapons used against the vampires of popular lore. To Derek Samford’s trained and modern mind, such behavior was as explainable and legitimate as the religious hysteric who spontaneously bled from palms and feet in a sympathetic imitation of Jesus Christ. Aberrant, certainly, but not necessarily harmful.

So vampires were out of the question, and these cold-blooded creatures that were using him as a sacrament couldn’t be aberrant humans, given their lack of breath. But rational explanations had failed him long ago, shortly after he had been dangled upside down like a side of beef on a slaughterhouse hook and whisked away to this hidden hole in the world.

Samford’s exposure to the so-called “hard sciences” was limited. He’d been through basic chemistry and physics, but preferred a realm where the rules were more flexible, thus ensuring that no theory or opinion could ever be completely wrong. Or at least not proven wrong.

But he doubted if even a PhD in biology would have allowed him to stamp a name or genus on these creatures. Through the long night of susurrant licks and soft scratching sounds, Samford had attempted to distract himself with speculative ruminations.

Anything to keep himself from thinking about — the blood on his shoulder, wounds still wet and oozing, wounds that weren’t allowed to crust and dry because moist tongues kept at them -

— the probability that he was dying, a fuel tank being drained to the dregs, liquid sand pouring through the tight tube of an hourglass, hours shrinking to minutes and eventually seconds and finally to a full forever.

Samford, an agnostic since the age of seven, wished he had a potential afterlife from which to draw comfort. Heaven, purgatory, or reincarnation held no special appeal to him, but at the moment, he would prefer even the most fiery and punishing Baptist hell over the possibility that he might return from the dead, as depraved and unnatural as the beasts that now took turns with his flesh.

If he could have belatedly summoned faith, he would have prayed hardest of all for some higher power to wipe the rigid smile from his lips.

Instead, he waited, and he served.

One of them pulled away from his shoulder, and despite the general numbness that infected his entire body with the exception of his penis and the open sores on his torso and neck, he was glad for the respite, because for the space of a heartbeat (and a tiny gush of blood that pulsed out along with it), he could pretend the whole encounter had been a bad dream caused by the hard ground beneath his sleeping bag, that he’d soon awaken, make coffee, and discuss with Jim Castle whether or not they were really going to capture Robert Wayne Goodall and what it might mean for their careers.

Then another tongue laid into him, with gentle teeth around it, and he knew there was no more career, no bad dream, nothing but the juice of his soul seeping away into the everlasting night.

“Maytagged their asses,” Farrengalli said, looming over Raintree a s he and Dove checked Travis Lane’s condition. “Put the fuckers throug h the spin cycle.”

Raintree gave the idiot a cold look, but Farrengalli kept on. “Hey, where’s Whitlock and the Golden Boy? Making out under the waterfall? ”

“If you don’t want to help, at least shut up and stay out of the w ay,” Dove said. Farrengalli glowered and shoved his boot against the b eached raft, sending it skidding across the mud. Then he went to the w ater’s edge and squatted, waiting for the foundered second raft to mak e its way downriver.

“How is he?” Raintree asked Dove. Lane had been unconscious when t hey’d pulled him from the water. He appeared to be breathing regularly, though when Dove peeled back his eyelids, his pupils were tiny dots of ink against the gray irises.

“I don’t think it’s a concussion. Pupils are the same size. Pulse is normal. No shock.” Dove moved with knowledge and experience, checki ng Lane’s scalp for trauma.

“Should I get the first-aid kit?”

“Want my armchair diagnosis?”

“Sure.”

“He passed out from fright.”

Raintree was glad Farrengalli hadn’t overheard, or he would have r idden Lane for the duration of the trip. “Well, if he wet his pants, a t least it won’t show.”

Dove grinned, but only for a second before her eyebrows arched wit h concern. She looked upriver at the waterfall that had dumped the raf t. “Bowie, where are you?” she said, half to herself.

She’s worried about him. And not just as a team leader.

Raintree felt a twinge of jealousy, and it annoyed him. He touched her wrist, and was about to tell her not to worry when Bowie emerged from the rock shelf and gave out a shout. “Get the raft!”

Farrengalli waded in until the water was above his knees, and then swam toward the half-submerged raft with smooth strokes. He caught it fifty yards downstream and guided it toward shore, pushing it before him, hanging onto the grab loop with one hand.

Bowie and McKay climbed the rock face beside the waterfall, findin g a natural shelf and edging along it until they reached the shore. By the time they reached Lane, the man was sitting up, spitting brackish phlegm and cussing.

“Passed with flying colors,” Bowie said.

“It didn’t burst,” Lane said.

“Took on water too easy.”

“It’s a field test.” Lane gave a wet hack. “We can take all the in formation back to the lab. ProVentures wants us to reach takeout in on e piece, and we’re still in one piece.”

“Another incident like that and we’re walking out, bonus or no bon us.”

“Don’t worry about it, Bowie,” Dove said. “We could use a break an yway. Early lunch?”

Raintree was impressed with the way Dove Krueger handled both Whit lock and Farrengalli, as well as her calm approach in treating Lane. H e knew little about her, only that she was a highly regarded journalis t known for her coverage of extreme sports and outdoor adventures. She and Bowie exhibited a familiarity with one another that made it seem like they’d worked together before. None of his business, though. His spirit was already troubled enough without speculating on the affairs of others. He touched the medicine bag for comfort.