Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

Any human would be too slow. You can’t outrun bad luck.

And you can’t beat fear.

Bowie should have dived back into the water, hit the deeper current, and allowed himself to be swept downstream. The turgid water, if it didn’t kill him, would carry him to safety. If safety existed anywhere in these raw, remote mountains.

But that would mean failing another person. Even if she probably deserved it. And he still harbored some shred of chivalry, despite his casual abuse of Dove’s affection.

He fought his way back toward shore, the dark water lapping and licking at him, wanting to swallow him. His boot slipped once, and he was almost gone to the safety he’d considered, but then he was knee-deep and thrashing, then on sandy soil and rocks, then in the island mud.

As he ran, the gray creature flew past the stock-still Ace.

Why didn’t it attack him? What sort of predator passes up easy prey?

Maybe one that enjoyed the hunt.

Bowie didn’t like that idea, so as his legs worked and his lungs pumped, water falling from his head and shoulders, he latched onto a more soothing one: Because Ace had not moved, the creature’s primary sense hadn’t detected him. No doubt it could smell and taste and hear, as the flared nostrils, long tongue, and oversize, peaked ears would indicate, but it seemed to mostly operate by radar.

Theory confirmed, for all the good it would do them.

The creature was forty feet from the woman, and Bowie was twenty. The creature was three times as fast.

Just before it struck, the woman reached a bristle of rhododendron, fighting her way through the slick, reptilian branches.

Bowie remembered Dove’s trick from earlier. He stooped, slowing only a little, and came up with a rock the size of a cantaloupe. He hurled it through the air, not taking time to get his feet set for an accurate throw. He didn’t care if he hit the creature. He just wanted to distract it.

The rock did better than distract it. The creature changed course in midair, gliding toward the rock as if it were fast-moving prey. It closed on the rock, raising its claws as if to seize it and drag it to the ground for feeding; then other senses must have kicked in and warned the creature away.

By the time it wheeled and homed in again on the woman, she was nestled inside the protective branches. Bowie couldn’t see her in the gloom, only the thin beacon of her Maglite, but knew the creature would be able to smell her if it came near. Though she’d stopped moving, the rattling, rain-dripping leaves gave away her position. The creature lifted its head, ears standing erect, and sniffed.

“Shit fire,” Ace said. “I reckon she wasn’t good enough after all.”

The creature turned its ugly head in Ace’s direction, but didn’t attack.

Bowie, who thought the turbulent water might help disguise his scent and movements, crept along the shoreline toward Ace. He wanted to tell the crazed bomber to shoot the thing, but figured Ace would rather shoot him than a beast he thought was a messenger of God.

The creature rose in the half light, slick-scaled body repelling the soft rain. It hovered over the rhododendron thicket as if searching for a way through the tangled canopy. To her credit, Clara hadn’t screamed since the initial attack. Or maybe she was so frightened that the only sound she could make was mouselike squeaks.

Ace was mesmerized by the creature. His revolver dangled from one limp arm, touching his hip.

Stooped low to avoid the creature’s echolocation, Bowie eased toward the killer. No doubt Ace had seen him come out of the river, but he seemed to have lost interest.

The raft.

Ace must have released it after Bowie submerged. Bowie’s spirits fell. Even if he somehow managed to subdue Ace and take his gun away, kill or ward off the creature, and rescue Clara, they’d have no real means of escape. They’d either have to hike out or hole up and wait for rescue.

First things first.

The creature swooped over the thicket, nostrils flaring as it sought its prey. Bowie wondered why it was focused on the woman while two other pieces of warm-blooded meat were readily available. Maybe the creatures had senses beyond those near-supernatural ones the group had already attributed to them.

Or maybe the creatures functioned on a plane that was above that of simple feeding machines.

Maybe they were the product of intelligent design, the spawns of higher or lower powers.

Bullshit. If God existed, Connie would still be alive. So would McKay and Lane. And Dove…

He tried not to think about the fate of those left upstream, the ones for whom he bore responsibility.

Just as Agent Jim Castle had become single-minded in his pursuit of his subjects, just as the creature was intent on sucking the life from Clara, Bowie was determined to kill Ace.

Kill.

As he eased along the licking, lapping, muddy river, he collected a couple of fist-sized stones.

“You wasn’t good enough, Clara,” Ace shouted. “Not in the eyes of Him who sees all!”

Keep preaching, you son of a bitch. Bowie was within ten feet of the target now, but he didn’t want to throw the stones. Not because he feared missing and getting shot, but because he wanted his revenge warm and raw and red. He wanted to feel the pulse of Ace Goodall’s carotid artery fade beneath his fingers.

He wanted Skeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek.

The shriek came from above, in the shroud of mist. Another creature plummeted from the heavens.

The babe can dish it out, Farrengalli noted with admiration. Chief up there, stuck to the side of the mountain with one of the bloodsuckers on his back, didn’t have half the balls of Dove Krueger. Come to think of it, she was probably a dyke. Going around without a bra in the middle of a pack of men. Only a rug-muncher would tease them like that.

Lesbian or not, she could bring it. And right now she was bringing it against the head of the second bloodsucker. It had its arms around Farrengalli’s legs, trying to climb him like a monkey up a coconut tree. Its teeth ripped the fabric of his jeans, and he was glad he’d changed out of the SealSkinz before the climb, or he’d be catching vampire herpes and whatever other shit the things carried.

Farrengalli reached for the Buck knife in his thigh holster, but the thing’s ugly mouth was closing in. Farrengalli had avoided contact with the creatures so far, through luck and cunning, but now that the thing was staring him in the face (it was blind, but those balls of sour milk had a hypnotizing power all the same). It was butt-fucking-ugly, the nostrils flared, nose and forehead wrinkled, deep pouches of loose skin around the sightless eyes. The lips were a parody of those sported by geezer rock star Mick Jagger, bloated and sneering, punctuated by two long, slightly curving, and yellowed fangs.

The mouth was open, filled with blackness deeper than any night, and Farrengalli could imagine the bottomless void beyond, a belly that housed an endless hunger. But damned if you’re chomping into this Italian white boy.

He raised a boot and drove its rubber heel into the creature’s face. Something gave, bone or cartilage or whatever hid beneath that lizardlike skin. Dove whipped the doubled rope across its back, striking several times in quick succession. The creature didn’t seem to acknowledge the blows. Instead, its Jaggeresque lips, now drooling a slick strand of gray fluid, worked along Farrengalli’s thigh.

“Get it off me,” he yelled again. The thin but corded arms wrapped around his legs again. He couldn’t kick free.

The falling darkness, the rising mist, the stink of the river, all combined to confuse him. This is a hell of a way to get a book deal, but keep your eyes on the prize.