The Gorge

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Castle recognized the shriek instantly.

It was the same sound that had accompanied the swooping attack on The Rook. One of them, the flying things, monsters that had once lived under his bed but now inhabited the granite cliffs above the Unegama. The high-pitched noise was the combination of a bat’s squeak, a dying woman’s wail, and the death gargle of a hanging victim.

The sound swelled and then the raft rocked. Lane, the man behind him, slammed into his back, causing him to topple like a fleshy domino, and likewise he bumped into Bowie. The sudden impact was accompanied by a wet spray as the raft was pushed into the water by the force of the blow.

At the rear of the raft, the blond man screamed.

“What the fuck?” Farrengalli shouted from the other raft.

“Bowie!” the lone woman in the group shouted.

Castle turned to see the creature latched onto the blond man’s back, bony fingers grappling against the man’s dry suit. Unlike the one that had carried off The Rook, this one had a gray, leathery hide and thin arms that bore the suggestion of loose skin. The face was humanoid, but the bald, blunt dome of skull descended to a sharp, bony chin. The eyes were large and milky, with no pupils, as if the creature had no use for vision. All those features made only fleeting impressions on Castle, because his attention was drawn to the two glistening incisors that dug into the blond’s neck above the collar of his life jacket.

Castle struggled for his Glock, trying to push Lane out of the way. Lane crawled onto the inflated bulge of the bow, arms flailing, moaning as if he were the one being attacked. “Oh, Jesus, dear sweet oh-my-Christ Jesus, dear goddamned Jesus,” he muttered in a loose and profane litany.

Bowie jumped out of the raft and let it glide past him; then he raised his paddle and swung the end against the creature. The flat end of the paddle thwacked against the creature’s hunched back, but it didn’t pause in its assault. It lifted its head, and twin drops of blood dangled at the end of the incisors. The lips were parted in a frenzied sneer. Castle raised the Glock, but with the rocking of the boat and the blond’s jerking attempts to throw the thing off his back, he couldn’t get a clear shot.

“Get it off me,” McKay shouted, reaching behind to grab at the oblate, wizened head. No doubt he hadn’t seen his attacker, or he would have been even more frantic to escape.

Lane was now sprawled fully across the bow, his legs in the air, and Castle tipped him face-first into the river to get him out of the line of fire. Bowie chopped again with the paddle, and the vinyl blade broke against the creature’s neck. It turned its head in Bowie’s direction and sniffed the air with cavernous nostrils.

It can’t see. Castle tried once more to draw a bead on the creature, figuring the kill shot would have to go to the skull, because its limbs were entwined around the blond’s body as if they were fiercely fornicating lovers.

The raft spun slowly, leaving a drenched Lane splashing upstream. Bowie waded after the raft, jabbing the broken end of his paddle at the creature, penetrating a few inches through the wrinkled flesh. The creature’s mouth opened, but no sound issued forth, only the strained rasp of its flapping tongue. Its head swiveled wildly, as if not understanding the source of its pain- if it even felt pain, Castle thought-but then its lips settled once more onto the wound in the man’s neck. Blood spotted the front of the blond’s life jacket.

Castle decided the safest shot would be from a stationary position. “Grab the line,” he shouted at Bowie before rolling over the bow into the river.

He kept the Glock above water. The river was colder than he’d realized, the chill shocking him and causing his breath to hesitate in his lungs. The water was knee-deep in the shoals, which allowed him to quickly regain his balance. Bowie gripped the thin nylon rope that girdled the raft’s bow, holding it in place, though it still bobbed up and down with the current.

“Shoot the fucker,” Farrengalli yelled as the second raft hurried toward the carnage.

Bowie lifted his paddle handle like a Zulu warrior chucking a spear. The jagged tip was covered with a viscous substance the color of used motor oil, the same liquid that oozed from the gash in the creature’s back.

Give ‘em hell, cowboy. Castle wasn’t sure whether the man in the raft had yelled the words or whether The Rook was still indulging in his Brokeback Mountain fantasies from beyond the grave.

“Hold still,” Castle shouted, his words meant for the blond. However, Bowie also froze, the line clenched in his right fist, his back arched as he fought to hold the raft in place.

This is for you, Rook. Castle leveled his arms in a two-handed grip, sighting down the barrel. The blond’s head slumped forward, the man either unconscious or dead. The movement gave Castle the moment of opportunity and he gently squeezed the trigger. The top of the creature’s gray skull exploded in a shower of ochre bone, black grue, and bits of ash-gray meat that might have been the thing’s brain.

The roar of ignited powder raced up the gorge and echoed off the cliffs, the sound like a cannon volley in the otherwise hushed wilderness.

Bowie released the raft, and it floated a few silent feet before bumping against a fallen tree. The boat gave a slow, full turn, and the two tangled bodies appeared unaffected at first. The creature’s mouth was still locked on the blond’s neck. The blond’s head lolled forward, his eyes closed, mouth parted in an unvoiced scream.

Castle was readying for a second shot when the thing’s fingersclaws, Castle thought, though he wasn’t sure whether the observation was his or the disembodied Rook’s-slackened and released their grip on its victim’s life jacket.

The creature’s arms dropped and it fell backward into the river, leaking a greasy, dark chum across the silvery surface of the river.

The blond pitched forward. The raft wheeled along the length of the half-submerged tree before the grab line caught on gnarled, exposed roots.

Bowie hurried past Castle, who checked the sky and listened past the gentle and constant wash of running water for a descending, primitive shriek.

“McKay!” Bowie shouted, flopping onto the raft and lifting the man’s head. The injured man’s face was pale and bloodless, but his eyes blinked. He was still alive, though he appeared to be in shock.

Twenty feet away, the river erupted in thrashing foam. The gray, skeletal creature lifted from the shallows, beads of water cascading from its flesh. The ivory rim of its skull was jagged, still oozing a putrid fluid.

You should be dead, Castle thought. You don’t have a fucking brain anymore.

But, like the creature under the bed that never went away even when the sun was out, this thing was stubborn.

The creature twitched and whirled in crazy loops like a kite in a hurricane. The circuits of its airborne path became more erratic. Then it steadied in mid-flight, like a wingless hummingbird. It hung weightless for a moment, and then made a beeline for the forest, crashing into the high pine branches.