Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

He swung the paddle around just as the creature exploded from the trees. The shriek rose in intensity as it accelerated straight for Bowie. Dove had collected another rock and hurled it toward the creature, but it ignored whatever stimulus the missile had aroused. This one, larger than the first, appeared hell bent to take out Bowie, like a heat-seeking missile targeting an artillery post. Bowie slapped with the paddle, but the creature grabbed the shaft with one hand, wiry fingers ripping it from Bowie’s grasp.

The thing plowed into Bowie, striking him in the chest, and he went down hard, lungs dead for air.

The creature crawled along his torso, claws making painful tracks up his arms, the PFD ripping like a toilet-paper kite in a hurricane.

Up close, its eyes gave off a strange radiance, as if deep in the back of the orbs, muted kaleidoscopes spun and glimmered.

But the eyes didn’t get much of Bowie’s attention, because the teeth were closing in on his throat, and his arms were pinned to the ground. Though no wind of breath issued from the gaping mouth, a putrid stench rose from the thing’s inner workings.

Bowie bucked, trying to toss off the writhing burden like Raintree had once thrown his wrestling opponents. The creature was only half of Bowie’s weight, but clung with a desperation born of unholy hunger.

Failure.

The final one.

Bowie was about to close his eyes so he wouldn’t see the red proof of his own futility when, over the creature’s shoulder, he saw Dove, face straining, arms quivering, a large, jagged rock raised over her head. She brought the blunt point of the rock against the creature’s head just as it was countering Bowie’s evasive maneuver.

The contact made a moist sloosh, like the dropping of a watermelon on pavement.

This time, Bowie did close his eyes as gore squirted from the top of the wizened, bald skull. The viscid juice splattered across his face, mixing with the rain. The creature didn’t immediately release its grip, but gave a startled turn of its head. Bowie opened his eyes, hoping the obscene blood wasn’t infectious. Dove was lifting the rock for another blow, a thin strand of gray fluid stringing from its tip. Bowie saw the shattered back of the creature’s head, and the bloated, larvalike meat of its primitive brain.

Though the crenulated brain was violated with deep wounds, the creature’s physical responses were still quick and strong.

Because it thinks with its mouth.

And its thinking had turned from hunger to self-defense, because its talons slid from Bowie’s arms and, monkey-quick, it lifted toward Dove. Bowie flinched, waiting for the latest death of someone he loved.

The creature never reached her, because Raintree skewered it in midair. He must have retrieved his spear from the body of the first creature.

Raintree bore his full weight against the creature, twisting the spear and nailing the squirming form to the ground. It raked its claws at him, but Raintree stepped back and lowered his shoulders, a study in combat leverage. Dove moved within striking distance and slammed the rock down once more, this time full on the creature’s forehead. It quivered, more of its foul, gray blood leaking from the deadly mouth.

Bowie rolled to his feet, planning to join the attack, when he was hit by a wave of dizziness and nausea. By the time the mental fog lifted, the creature lay still, though its open eyes appeared to glare at Bowie with a smirk of victory. As if it knew the battle was just beginning, and it would somehow return.

In the heat of his near death, Bowie had forgotten all about Dove, Raintree, the trip, the long nightmare that lay ahead, and the two victims decaying upstream. His universe had been reduced to mud and fear, a primordial combination that had spawned the birth of the world and would no doubt be its ultimate, eternal condition.

“Take Haircut’s gun,” Ace Goodall said to the girl.

“That’s not a good idea,” Castle replied, wondering how fast he could pull his weapon. This wasn’t Quantico, where the quickest draw would win a beer, or a Western where the actors were firing blanks.

The short, unkempt man with the wild eyes had crept from the forest as the group reached the bottom of the falls. Castle, busy scanning the sky, noticed too late. He’d been listening for The Rook and his prey had found him instead. Another balls-up boondoggle.

“I don’t mind killing,” Goodall said. “I done it before.” He eyed each member of the group as if counting them, apparently not noticing Farrengalli’s absence. “Where’s your sidekick? Did my trip wire get him?”

“No, something else. That’s why you’d better let me keep my gun.”

Goodall laughed. “The angels, you mean?”

Total schism, The Rook said in his head. Goodall has lost all touch with reality. Delusions of religious grandeur. It fits the assessment.

The Rook hadn’t spoken in nearly an hour, long enough that Castle had thought it had all been in his head. In your head? Ha, that’s funny. Never figured you for a sense of humor.

“You’ve seen these creatures, too?” Bowie said.

“You the leader of this group?” Goodall asked.

“Looks like you are.”

“Smart-asses all up and down this river, I swear.”

“I don’t know how much you know, but those things have already killed two people.”

“Maybe more,” Castle added, remembering the New Jersey couple he’d sent into the woods.

Castle thought Goodall’s companion looked almost young enough to be his daughter, but her body was mature enough to be on its own. Though her face was etched with misery, she wasn’t being held against her will. If she had wanted, no doubt the night forest had afforded her many opportunities to flee.

Except, where could she go? Maybe she knew about the creatures, too, and figured Ace Goodall could protect her. After all, better the devil you knew.

Jim Castle didn’t blink as she approached him and lifted his Glock from its holster. She held the gun between two fingers as if it were a snake as she carried it back to Goodall, who took it from her with his left hand and stuffed it into the waistband of his dirty camouflage pants.

Goodall waved his gun, a little cocky now. “Who’s going to blow up this raft?”

“You’re the one with the explosives,” Castle said.

“Ha-ha,” Goodall said with a sour grin. “You want to put your lips on the valve, or you got a better way?”

“We have a portable air pump,” Bowie said.

“Fill ‘er up, then. What the hell you waiting for? Judgment Day?”

Raintree, standing beside Dove, hadn’t moved a muscle, as implacable as a stone pillar. Dove stooped for his backpack, but he stopped her, grabbing for it himself. He was unzipping a side pocket when Goodall said, “Easy there, Tonto. Don’t make no sudden moves.”

Castle eyed the distance between him and Goodall. Chances were a lot less than fifty-fifty. Maybe one in a hundred. But without a gun and without a raft, their chances were near zero anyway, assuming more of those creatures came pouring from the sky. At least the rain had let up a little, though the visibility was still poor. And getting worse as darkness set down its tent pegs.

As Raintree inflated the raft, Goodall appeared to consider something. His cold, reptilian eyes narrowed. “Clara, did you count how many there was up at the top of the falls? When the angel flew down and scattered them?”

Clara, arms folded, shivering a little, spoke for the first time. “I don’t remember. It was so foggy-”

“Five,” he said. “They was five, not counting the one that got took down.” He swung the pistol barrel back toward Castle. “You said your partner was dead?”