Nightcrawlers

40

Chipney had been stumbling through the underground maze for so long now he couldn’t be sure where he was.

The creatures had entered the tomb and dragged him back below, down one passage and into another. They could have killed him, but that hadn’t seemed to be their primary motivation. It was like they just wanted to keep him down there, good and lost.

But why? What could the possible point of that be?

Somehow, he still clutched the riot gun but the flashlight was dimming. It wouldn’t last long now. The passage he was in twisted and turned, offered endless offshoots and, Jesus, he was moving in circles for all he knew. He had trouble remembering where he was and how it was he had gotten to be there.

He had to dig himself out, but he feared that was impossible now.

This place was a stagnant, compressed, opaque envelope of filth and decay and pestilence. It was all over his skin, in his hair, up his nose, on his tongue, running from his eyes like dirty tears.

But for all that, he could feel a small, weak breeze on him.

So he kept following it, hoping, praying it would lead him out of this madhouse. He could hear rustlings and squeakings and chitterings and now and again a leathery wing brushed his face. Bats. Rats. How harmless they seemed when you were faced with worse things.

Sounds now.

Them? Was it them? Had they tracked him down and were, even now, slinking forward to claim him? Was that it?

No, listen, dammit, listen!

Yes, a rushing noise. Like water. Like a waterfall, in fact. Loud and getting louder. Maybe a subterranean river or steam. And maybe, possibly a way out or just a way deeper into this stygian hell.

He began moving quicker through the tunnel now, the water splashing around his ankles. The breeze was much stronger and, Christ, how sweet it indeed smelled. How wonderful. He had forgotten what fresh air felt like against his face, in his lungs, the cool whisk of it against his teeth. It was a joyous thing really, but it only served to amplify the atrophied, stagnant reel of the tunnel system.

He kept moving, the fresh air pulling him along like a thread of hope. Maybe this is why he had seen none of the creatures for so long now. Fresh air and, possibly, sunshine would have been unthinkable to them, abhorrent. They would have avoided it like fumes from a septic tank—unclean, tainted even.

The sound of water was very loud now and the tunnel was still unwinding before him and when would it ever end? His feet moved faster, his breath rasped in his lungs, his heart pounded fitfully. And the flashlight dimmed and dimmed, began to flicker and, oh, dear Christ, not now, not now! He slapped its cylinder against his leg and it came back brighter and dimmed just as fast. He found that if he kept whacking it against his thigh, it would brighten for a moment or two.

Goddammit!

And then the passage veered off to the right and there was a chamber ahead. The air was still fresh… but he smelled something stale and noisome and, without thinking, he stepped into the chamber… and dropped fifteen feet in a slimy, viscous pool. And all around him, squeaking and rustling and clawing and snapping. He thrashed and fought and pulled himself up out of the festering muck and it smelled just about worse than anything. It was all over his face and down his shirt and up his nose. He still had the riot gun in his hand and the drop had jarred the flashlight and now the beam flickered and exploded with life.

And that’s when he saw them—the rats.

With a deathly realization, he looked upon them and they looked upon him. Ranks of them crowding for space in a grim, verminous circle that tightened and tightened. Huge, fat, with greasy pelts and trembling tails, eyes leering with rabies. They were grinding yellowed teeth and making ready.

He started to scream and couldn’t stop.

He pulled himself to his feet and realized what he’d fallen into was a collected pool of dung, waste material from the meals of the creatures. A vile, diseased stew of bacteria and filth. A sewer.

He started shooting with his Colt 9mm and got off maybe two rounds that echoed like rolling thunder in the chamber and the rats were in motion. He could never be sure if they were attacking or just stampeding out of fear, but they were everywhere. He could feel their dirty, furry bodies pressing against his legs and their teeth nipping at his waders and feel them clawing at his legs, but by then he was running, stumbling, and he fell into the filth again and little fangs ripped at his face and hands and he kicked and slapped them away.

The flashlight went out for good and a darkness thick as coal dust descended on him.

He plowed drunkenly through the rats, guided only now by sheer instinct that told him to run, run. And he felt the fresh air again and climbed out of that pit and the rats had retreated and, dear God, he probably had rabies. And then he was crawling down another passage on his hands and knees and he saw light. Filmy and gray, but light all the same.

A few pallid fingers of it issuing from a cleft in the rock ahead and he dove straight at, slamming into rocks and laughing as he cut and bruised himself, but not caring, not caring—

And then the floor disappeared beneath him and he was falling, falling, end over end towards the sound of rushing water.