Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

“Let’s see the first segment.”

A hesitation. “Okay.”

Rivera folded his arms and watched the monitor. At first there was nothing to see, just a fish-eye view of the empty sidewalk, the edge of the storefront, and the street. The town was in blackout and there were no streetlights, but the camera had recorded a grainy, reddish image that was surprisingly clear. Suddenly, there was a movement and a figure strode across the monitor. It took less than a second — but that was enough.

“What the fuck ?” Rivera said.

Silence.

“It’s a guy in a mask and suit,” Rivera said.

No one responded until Gil, in a weak voice, said, “I’ll go through it frame by frame.”

Rivera stared as the feed was rerun and replayed, this time at one frame per second. The perp — if it could be called that — came into view again, walking in a fast shamble down the sidewalk toward town.

“Freeze it!” Rivera barked.

Gil froze the image.

“I don’t believe this. Go one frame back.”

The operator complied.

“I don’t fucking believe it. Can you magnify that face?”

The face was magnified.

Rivera squinted, looking close. “That’s no mask.”

“No,” Gil said.

No one else spoke.

Rivera licked dry lips. “Continue.”

He watched the frame-by-frame in deepening shock and disbelief. It was pretty much as the witnesses had said — a deformed monster with a tail. No, he said to himself, not a monster: this was a human being, a freakishly deformed man. The view was from diagonally and above, which accentuated the doglike, bucktoothed snout. But instead of a dog’s nose it had a human nose, squashed like a prizefighter’s. The man’s face was splattered with blood and gore, slowly being washed away by the rain. Its expression positively glowed with hatred, the eyes like slits, the mouth open, showing a swollen pink tongue from which hung a rope of drool. It strode along with a sense of purpose that chilled Rivera to the bone simply because it was so intentional. There was no insanity here, nothing random: this was a brute with a plan. And there they were — those gigantic, splayed bare feet with the three-inch toenails, the tracks of which they’d found everywhere.

Gil cleared his throat. “I’ll advance it to the next segment, with him coming back after the massacre—”

Rivera straightened up. “I don’t need to see any more. I want dogs. Tracking dogs. The son of a bitch went into the salt marshes and we’re going after him.”

“Lieutenant?”

He turned in time to see a striking, dark-skinned individual — who’d been in a far corner, giving a statement to one of Rivera’s men — step forward.

“Who are you?” Rivera asked.

“Paul Silas. Live out past Dill Town. I couldn’t help overhear what you just said. If you’re going into the marshlands, you better have someone who knows his way around or you aren’t ever gonna come out.”

Rivera looked at the man. He had an air of quiet competence about him. “You telling me you know these marshes?”

“A bit. Nobody knows it all.”

“You see that thing on the screen?”

“I did.”

“And you still want to help us?”

Silas cast an eye out the command center, over the darkness of town, then turned back to Rivera. “I surely do.”

In the perfect dark, Constance listened to the sounds of the struggle. As intently as she listened, she couldn’t determine who the demon was fighting, only that it must be someone tenacious and powerful. But as the clash of battle progressed, as the demon roared in what sounded like increasing triumph, she sensed the monster’s foe was losing — and when the sounds died away and silence returned, it was only the demon’s loud snuffling she heard. The other one was evidently dead, which did not surprise her.

Constance reviewed her situation. She had spent many of her younger years in a dark basement not unlike this one, and had once possessed an exquisite sense of hearing and smell, as well as keen night vision. She knew how to move in total silence. Those senses, dulled more than she’d expected by normal living, quickened somewhat in the dark and looming danger of the tunnels. She could not see — there was no light at all — but she could hear.

The creature was snuffling again, loudly, like a dog with its nose in the air, trying to catch a scent — her scent. But the air was dead, with no movement at all; that was to her advantage.

With extreme care she moved away from the sound, one hand sliding lightly along the wall as she went, feet probing gently ahead so as to make no noise. The wall of the tunnel made a turn, and another turn, and yet another; soon she came to a dead end and had to retrace her steps. At another point, she came to a heap of old bones that quietly crumbled under her touch while she worked her way past them.

She sensed she had entered an underground maze of crisscrossing tunnels, alcoves, and culs-de-sac. Again, the air was completely dead, the atmosphere one of staleness and desuetude. There was a lot of old refuse on the ground, and the walls were crawling with centipedes, spiders, and pill bugs. It seemed these were long-abandoned tunnels that, perhaps, the creature might be less familiar with. What she needed to do was maneuver past it, somehow, and then get out — with all possible speed.

As she listened, she heard more snuffling and labored breathing, and it occurred to her that the demon might be injured. She felt increasingly certain that it was looking for her.

She began moving again, not knowing where she was going, her aim now merely to keep away from the creature. But even as she moved, the sounds ceased. She continued down one long tunnel segment, then froze: she could hear him moving, breathing hard, ahead of her and headed in her direction. Pressing herself against the wall, she waited, holding her breath. The sounds came closer, along with a grotesque and now-familiar stench that seemed to envelop her... a shuffling of feet on the sandy floor... and then he had passed by, following the path of an intersecting tunnel.

She exhaled. The demon didn’t seem to have as keen a sense of smell as she had feared. Or had it deliberately passed her by? Either way, this was her chance. If she moved in the direction opposite to the demon, perhaps it would lead her out. At the very least, it would distance her from him. She started forward, faster now — only to suddenly feel a cold, cold hand clamp down over her face and mouth.

Rivera stood near Chief Mourdock’s squad car, watching the handler work the dogs. The man had arrived in record time, accompanied by two powerful redbone coonhounds, which, he claimed, were especially suited for work in swamps and water. Rivera sure hoped so; even from here, he could see that the tide was coming in fast.

The enigmatic Paul Silas stood off to one side, tall and silent. Rivera wondered if he’d made the right choice in accepting his help. True, the man did have a faint air of the military about him. And as he looked out again over the dark salt marshes — thrashing in the wind, tatters of mist whisked along in the dying storm — he realized he had no desire to venture into that hell without guidance.

As he’d waited for the dog handler, he’d worked out the basic sequence. The killer, after first wreaking havoc in the town, had gone on to kill Chief Mourdock here on Dune Road, and then disappeared southward. With much loud baying the dogs had picked up the trail from the squad car and were even now beginning to follow it into the marsh.

Silas began following the dogs and Rivera hurried to catch up to him, Rivera with a flashlight, Silas with a headlamp. They were preceded by five heavily armed members of the SWAT team and an officer carrying a powerful beacon that shot a brilliant beam of light a hundred yards ahead.