Dead Things (21 page)

**

As his friends escaped, Ian ran about the house, shouting at the demons in the yard, screaming at the monsters on the porch. They spun almost leisurely, gasping, ambling toward him, arms outstretched. There were yards, expanding yards, between him and the nearest creature.
This is going to be a breeze
, Ian thought. If he didn’t watch out, he would lose them and defeat the entire purpose of this excursion.

So, he stayed close, mere feet from the dead, tempting them like a professional baller playing keep-away with a group of small kids. He led them to the front walk, down the deer path, and past the spot where the attack occurred on the Hestons…

At that moment Ian grasped with equal parts horror and revulsion just why he hadn’t seen the doctor earlier. It was because there wasn’t much of Heston to be seen. There was no Dr. Heston, just the remainder of what was once him, limited to a head, a torso, and a single working arm. The rest of him no longer existed, chewed and devoured by ghouls whose digestive systems ceased to function decades before.

Heston loosed another piteous moan and inched toward Ian, his one arm dragging him forward through the dirt like a gondolier moving his vessel with a pole. His lone eye—the other was nothing more than a dark, empty socket—met Ian’s own and locked. It accused Ian of failing him and his wife. It betrayed his empty needs. It conveyed the pain of a lost soul that will never be relieved.

Ian’s face broke, tears streaming.
Shit, there’s no time for this
, he thought. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he mustered a weak, “I’m so sorry.” He wanted to put Heston out of his misery, but there were no tools, not enough time. He was losing valuable seconds, the droves of creatures almost upon him. Goodbye, Dr. Heston.

He decided to lose them in the woods, off the path. With that, he took off with a sprint, moving deep into the foliage.

The branches and the roots grabbed at him, slowing him as they tried to lay claim to his body. He ran blind, unable to shake the things behind him. They only needed a hint of his scent to propel them unflaggingly.

Ian panted hard, his lungs straining to capture oxygen. He was light-headed, losing his orientation. He was no longer sure he was heading south. In fact, he couldn’t discount the possibility he might be running in circles, about to lap the very monsters hot on his tail. God, what if he’s leading them back toward…he thought about slowing to gain his bearings, but then it was too late.

He bounced off the trunk of a thick cedar, its roots digging deeply into the soil of the forest. He spun for a glimpse of his pursuers and took three backwards steps. And then he disappeared.

Chapter Eighteen: The Accidental Spelunker

For thousands of years, the native trees channeled rain through the earth and into the slightly soluble bedrock below. The runoff percolated through the limestone, forming veins in the rock. Over time, these veins expanded, interconnecting and creating fissures, and those fissures expanded further. A channel the size of a small stream flowed thirty feet below Ian. Washed out bit by bit, the rock could not support the substrate. The cave collapsed inward, forming a sinkhole thirty feet wide that swallowed the forest floor and dragged several cedars down to the depths. They jutted out of the cavern like crazy tusks from a boar’s maw.

The sinkhole snatched Ian from the brink. The slope was steep, and Ian flipped end over end. As he bounced toward the cave’s mouth, his ribs struck something sharp—a rock or a cedar limb? The blow forced a voluble groan. Ian sailed over the lip, and into the jaws of the grotto. Suddenly, Ian was tumbling through the air in silence. He prepared for the impact. A dozen feet later, he hit. The stream that awaited him was shallow, perhaps a yard deep. The splash was closer to a “splat,” and it barely broke his fall.

The cold took his breath, and Ian sucked air. He shook and pulled his wet hair from his brow. He surveyed his predicament.

He was in a cave. He deduced this from subtle hints he gathered in the darkness. His breathing echoed against the cave walls. He thought he heard the flutter of bat wings flitting to and fro. Dampness hung in the air. A slow current dragged at his jeans.

As his eyes adjusted, further clues revealed themselves. The water reflected the stars of the night sky hanging above the cave’s circular mouth. As Ian shifted his weight, the water rippled and hundreds of points of light danced before him. The mirror-like surface was framed by a number of large cedars that had come to rest on the floor of the cavern. The downed trees were stacked like a bunch of giant and haphazard tiddlywinks.

He palmed the limestone walls. They were wet and smooth, and the wall’s angles too severe.

Then there was a stirring above him, at the edge of the sinkhole’s entrance. A shadow fell and plunged into the water just six feet from Ian.

One of them!

Quickly, Ian dove deeper into the cave. He submersed himself completely, swimming like a frog under water. Ten feet later, he stopped and squatted, just his head above the waterline. He opened his mouth wide to take a silent breath, then he sank a few inches so just his eyes and the top of his head were exposed.

The creature exploded from the underground stream, gurgling and writhing from side to side. It was slighter than Ian, maybe a woman.

It’s hunting me
, Ian thought.

But fortune was on Ian’s side. The monster could not find him. He was hidden in the darkness. The echoes of flapping wings of bats in flight disguised his breathing. The stream masked his scent. For now. It would be only temporary.

He needed to act.

He inched toward the creature on his hands and knees, careful not to stir the water. He stayed to the perimeter, well in the shadows. His left hand came across an oblong rock.
Better than a dirt clod
, he thought, grasping it. He would sneak up behind this thing. He would crush her skull.

No. Despite the creatures popping up and bobbing about him, something gave him pause. Something that took form in a single whispered word on his lips. Deathtrap.

A fiend surfaced near Ian, and he brought the rock down on its skull like a miner swinging a pick. Another burst forth, and he struck at it, too.

He swung the rock methodically. He swung it with precision and calm. He swung and swung and swung.

His body remembered this motion. “Muscle memory,” they call it. His nerves, tissue, and even bone recalled similar blows. He let his mind go blank, and his body harkened back to a summer fair. He had only been fifteen, and he had just met a girl. He had had a crush on her. He had seen a giant stuffed bear held high by a carnie. He had set out to win it, and spent every day for a week at the arcade for a week trying to collect enough tickets. Every day from morning to dusk. Every day playing whack-a-mole.

He finally had won the teddy bear. Whether or not he had given it to the girl didn’t really matter. At least not now. The female creature was about to pounce.

In spite of her wicked and torn face, Ian recognized her instantly. She was the mother from Flight 183. Ian dared not think of what had happened to her infant. He needed to focus on the task at hand. She pounced, and Ian did not hesitate.

He splintered her braincase. Then he was off, scaling the oldest of the felled trees.

They clamored after him.

The wood was soft, and it slid off in decaying chunks as he climbed. He could find no traction. Shit. This wasn’t going to work.

He spied a cedar trunk dangling above him. It ran at a 15-degree angle to the cave floor, extending beyond the cave’s mouth. He was going to have to go for it.

He threw his weapon with all of his might at the nearest ghoul. The rock struck the nearest of the things in the chest. It took a few steps back, then kept coming.

Ian leapt, grabbing hold of the decaying tree. It was slick, the top covered with a deep moss. He fought for a grip. His legs dangled before the creatures’ mouths. Ian resolved he would not go the way of Jessica, God rest her soul. Quickly, he swung his feet upward, a lunging demon just missing him. He wrapped his thighs around the base, locking his ankles together. His weight now distributed, his hold improved.

He hung there like a three-toed sloth, a sloth acutely aware of the groping claws and open maws beneath him.

What now?

What now?
Move your ass up! Get around to the top of this thing!

But that was much easier contemplated than accomplished. He loosened his legs’ clutch, and pulled them forward. Then he tightened it again, and advanced his hands. Then he drew his legs inward again. He moved like this, inch by inch, like a caterpillar, for nearly twenty minutes until his head struck the limestone rim of the sinkhole. Once there, he was able to wriggle around to the top of the shaft, his shoulder buttressed by the soil.

Birds were singing. Daylight was approaching.

Ian crawled, digging into the soil with his heels, clutching at bits of root with his nails, literally clawing his way out of the pit. Hand over hand, he used his elbows and forehead to anchor him. His face was low, just inches from the ground, and his vision limited to the patch of dirt directly before him. He pulled, tugged, and pulled some more. He thought he could feel the pitch of the earth changing, little by little becoming less sheer.

The showdown between a protagonist and his nemesis caps off an adventure, whether it be literature or cinema. Every moment, every movement, has been just a prelude designed to make the climax that much more powerful and visceral. It is classic good versus evil, and the scene promises to connect all the dots and tie together all the loose ends. It’s what the fans have been waiting for. They expect to be blown away.

Unfortunately, Ian is not an author, screenplay writer, or director. He doesn’t know the rules. If he had known, maybe this battle would have been a bit more elaborate. A bit more staged. Had Ian had foreknowledge, he would have fashioned a sword out of ash or ninja throwing stars from some old vinyl albums.

No. All Ian had was a passing knowledge of judo.

Defensive Tactics was a required course in the New Order, and judo, or the “soft method,” was a key component of that curriculum. Students were taught to use an opponent’s strength against him by applying force indirectly, to adapt to circumstances, and to use leverage and momentum to keep an attacker off-balance. Basically, use your opponent’s weight against him.

This climax was as boring as a math equation, really. The monster was leaning over Ian. (A) His center of gravity was too high, and (B) his weight was displaced forward. (C) His footing was poor, his shoes having little traction on the incline and (D) atrophied muscles compromised his balance. The monster was (E) either not cognizant of his surroundings or unable to process that information and modify his pursuit of Ian.

What do you get when you add A+B+C+D+E?

Ian grabbed the Fat Man by the wrist with his right hand. Tightly. He ignored the fact that it was greasy to the touch, that he felt the skin sloughing off. He pulled the creature toward him, careful not to jerk him too fast (thus possibly dislocating—or, yuck, detaching the arm from—the shoulder) or too slow (thus allowing the creature to roll back on its heels and find traction). Ian drew the monster in evenly. As he slowly pulled, he rolled to the left onto his back and tucked his elbow, quickening the pace and shifting the thing’s weight to a single foot.

The monster tumbled over Ian. He bounced, the earth punching his kidney with a grunt as gas belched forth. End over end he flipped. Ian watched him disappear into the chasm.