Нил Шустерман - Scorpion Shards

The creature’s sweet smell and the softness of its fur was enough to comfort his doubt. Enough to paralyze his fear.

Paralyze?

The creature’s mouth opened wider and its fangs drove deep into the back of Winston’s neck, settling in his spine. He felt his days slipping away again; his life moving back­ward, his body growing down. Winston roared with anger. He might have once longed for time to take a giant step backward, but not anymore! He grabbed the beast and flung it from him so hard that it hit the side of the rusty old ship with a clang that echoed inside the hollow hull.

The creature was advancing again, long sharp claws on its fingers, fangs in its mouth, but those longing, innocent eyes never changed.

It came at him through the sharp nettles that had grown in the shade of the behemoth boat, moving much faster than Winston.

What am I going to do, beat it with a corsage? The words came slinging back through his mind . . . and then he real­ized that he could do just that and more! Without an in­stant to lose, he grabbed the gnarled hardwood stem of the bush before him, painfully gripping the thorns, and pushed life into it.

The ground beneath him began to rumble and undu­late. Lines like mole tunnels pushed up the dirt, and shoots of thorn-laden branches sprouted from the ground. The furry creature found its fur caught in a sharp web of growth. It whined and cried and bleated like a lamb, as bright flowers sprung from branches, hiding the sharpness of the thorns.

Winston fought his way through the malevolent shrubs until he found a branch that was close to the creature. He touched that branch and immediately it sprouted new shoots that wove in and out of the dirt, winding around the creature until it was trapped in a prison of thorns.

The earth around them continued to undulate, as be­neath them the roots grew deeper and stronger. The lean­ing ship creaked on its precarious bed of sand.

The creature bleated and cried, writhing in agony, its fur shredding on the barbs of the new growth.

“Cry all you want,” Winston told it. “But I’m growing up!”

A heavy root the width of a tree trunk forced up the earth beneath the steamer. The great ship let out a ghostly metallic moan as it was shifted by the massive roots.

Winston began to scramble away, leaving the beast in its thorny prison. He pulled himself across the sand, through the nettles until he was out from the shadow of the ship.

Another ghastly moan and a heavy rattle.

Winston looked back to see the keel of the steamer fi­nally lose its battle with gravity. The entire ship began to fall to its side and, beneath it, the screaming, bleating beast fought to get free of the thorns until the mighty ship came down upon it. The ship shook the earth with a co­lossal rumble, crushing the small, deadly beast under a thousand tons of steel.

Dillon and Deanna heard the falling ship, and felt the shock wave shake the mountain beneath them moments later. Stones and pebbles, dislodged by the shaking of the earth, flew down the mountain toward them—but their only concerns now were the creatures climbing thirty yards ahead of them.

From behind, Dillon’s appeared half-human, but moved with powerful, otherworldly grace. Its skin was smooth, hairless leaden-gray over bulging muscles; both magnificent and repulsive at the same time—the very sight of it churned Dillon’s stomach. Deanna’s beast had no grace. It had no arms or legs either; it was a serpentine thing, flat and segmented like a giant worm.

They soon reached a plateau that was too smooth to be natural. It was, in fact, a grand stone court that led to the crumbling palace carved out of the stone, and the crea­tures disappeared into the dark recesses of this ancient acropolis. This was their home. Their lair.

“Don’t be scared,” said Deanna. “We’ll find them.”

Then she disappeared down a corridor that led to the left, and Dillon headed off to the right.

Deanna knew that she should have been frightened, but she was not. She kept her wits about her as she as­cended the stone stairs, passing the crumbling bones of ancient human skeletons as she stepped deeper into dark­ness. It could have been crouching in any dark corner she passed. It could have been waiting inches above her. She knew that somewhere nearby it was coiled like a cobra, ready to strike.

Her foot touched something. A stone? No—it moved. A rat? Were there rats in this forgotten place? She turned but was faced by more darkness. Webs that were too thick to be made by earth-born spiders brushed across her face.

She smelled it before she saw it—an acrid, dank odor of peat and fungus as it sprang at her from the left. She turned and it struck her shoulder, clamping on with tooth­less, powerful jaws like a bear trap. She felt its slippery scales coiling around her, its icy body constricting around her chest, cutting off her air and circulation. She lost her balance and rolled down a flight of stone stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs she was able to wrench her hand free, and she grabbed the thing by its neck, tearing its awful jaws from her shoulder. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and she could see it now as she held its flar­ing head away from her. Its breath was chill and foul, and its face was almost human . . . except that it had no eyes.

Then Deanna realized something. It was in the way it darted left, then right—the way it snapped sightlessly and frantically in the air. Deanna knew that feeling all too well.

You’re terrified, aren’t you?

The serpent coiled itself tighter around her.

You’re terrified that you’ll die!

Deanna could sense that although it had a stranglehold on her, it didn’t want to kill her. It wanted her to let it inside. To let it come . . . home.

Take me back, it seemed to plead. Please let me in. . . . I’m sooooo frightened. Don’t make me kill you!

Deanna, on the other hand, felt no fear at all within her. She calmly held its head away so it could not strike. She felt herself growing weak from the lack of air as its body coiled around her chest.

I am not your home. She told it silently. And I am not afraid of you. So I suppose you’ll have to kill me.

The serpent, more terrified than ever, squeezed her tighter, but Deanna forced herself to her feet and pressed her thumbs firmly against its neck. It, too, began to gasp for air, and as they staggered across the rough stone floor in a lethal dance, it became a simple matter of who was going to strangle whom first.

Dillon Cole, still feeling a mere shell of a human being, slowly stalked the halls of the ruined palace. Win­dow glass had long since crumbled to sand. Bones of the dead crumbled to dust beneath his feet. He wondered if, perhaps, he would join the minions of the dead in this godforsaken place.

The creature was easy to follow; its large feet left clear footprints on the dusty floor. Dillon followed the steps up, until he came to a great room.

There, between two pillars, sat a regal stone chair, and in that stone chair sat the crumbling remains of a man.

His clothes were still intact, but the threads had mildewed and decayed until it was barely recognizable as a tattered royal robe. This palace—this whole mountain—had fallen here from another world, and all that was left of its royal occupants were bones crumbling to dust.

On the other side of the room stood Dillon’s beast.

Dark gray flesh, rippling with strong muscles . . . and a familiar face.

Dillon’s face.

The creature made no effort to run. Instead it stalked closer, mirroring Dillon’s movements, until they stood five feet apart. It made no move to attack nor did Dillon. In­stead, Dillon stared into its eyes, trying to read some pat­tern there.