The Gorge

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

SkeeEEEEeeek.

Bowie released the grab loop when he heard the shriek, diving into the shallow water. Even though the current was weak, it pushed him downstream. He didn’t fight it, but instead let his body go limp, exhaling so he didn’t float immediately to the surface, grateful now that he wasn’t wearing a PFD.

The choice between getting shot and being eaten alive had been no choice at all. Like most choices in his life, the real decision had been yanked out of his grasp. Or so he’d always believed.

This time, as the actor Ed Harris once said, failure was not an option.

Which is odd, he thought, as his lungs burned with emptiness. Because there’s nobody left for me to fail. They’re all either dead or abandoned.

Maybe this time, he was kicking for himself.

Bowie scraped his elbow on a rock, igniting one of the wounds he’d suffered in the earlier attack. The pain allowed him a little extra stamina, as if fear wasn’t enough. Fear had never been enough. Bowie had swallowed it and swallowed it over the years, and instead of getting fat, he’d wasted away. On the inside. No chance to break the diet now, but maybe he’d sample the wares a little before the buffet table closed.

He broke surface thirty feet downstream from the raft, rising from the water just in time to see the creature swooping toward Clara. The Bama Bomber stood transfixed, in ankle-deep water, his gun held out like a lollipop he was offering a child.

Bowie should have shouted a warning, but the creature’s clarion call had done the job. Clara ran for the cover of the dense vegetation that sprouted from the black mud of the island. But she was too slow.

Any human would be too slow. You can’t outrun bad luck.

And you can’t beat fear.

Bowie should have dived back into the water, hit the deeper current, and allowed himself to be swept downstream. The turgid water, if it didn’t kill him, would carry him to safety. If safety existed anywhere in these raw, remote mountains.

But that would mean failing another person. Even if she probably deserved it. And he still harbored some shred of chivalry, despite his casual abuse of Dove’s affection.

He fought his way back toward shore, the dark water lapping and licking at him, wanting to swallow him. His boot slipped once, and he was almost gone to the safety he’d considered, but then he was knee-deep and thrashing, then on sandy soil and rocks, then in the island mud.

As he ran, the gray creature flew past the stock-still Ace.

Why didn’t it attack him? What sort of predator passes up easy prey?

Maybe one that enjoyed the hunt.

Bowie didn’t like that idea, so as his legs worked and his lungs pumped, water falling from his head and shoulders, he latched onto a more soothing one: Because Ace had not moved, the creature’s primary sense hadn’t detected him. No doubt it could smell and taste and hear, as the flared nostrils, long tongue, and oversize, peaked ears would indicate, but it seemed to mostly operate by radar.

Theory confirmed, for all the good it would do them.

The creature was forty feet from the woman, and Bowie was twenty. The creature was three times as fast.

Just before it struck, the woman reached a bristle of rhododendron, fighting her way through the slick, reptilian branches.

Bowie remembered Dove’s trick from earlier. He stooped, slowing only a little, and came up with a rock the size of a cantaloupe. He hurled it through the air, not taking time to get his feet set for an accurate throw. He didn’t care if he hit the creature. He just wanted to distract it.

The rock did better than distract it. The creature changed course in midair, gliding toward the rock as if it were fast-moving prey. It closed on the rock, raising its claws as if to seize it and drag it to the ground for feeding; then other senses must have kicked in and warned the creature away.

By the time it wheeled and homed in again on the woman, she was nestled inside the protective branches. Bowie couldn’t see her in the gloom, only the thin beacon of her Maglite, but knew the creature would be able to smell her if it came near. Though she’d stopped moving, the rattling, rain-dripping leaves gave away her position. The creature lifted its head, ears standing erect, and sniffed.

“Shit fire,” Ace said. “I reckon she wasn’t good enough after all.”

The creature turned its ugly head in Ace’s direction, but didn’t attack.

Bowie, who thought the turbulent water might help disguise his scent and movements, crept along the shoreline toward Ace. He wanted to tell the crazed bomber to shoot the thing, but figured Ace would rather shoot him than a beast he thought was a messenger of God.

The creature rose in the half light, slick-scaled body repelling the soft rain. It hovered over the rhododendron thicket as if searching for a way through the tangled canopy. To her credit, Clara hadn’t screamed since the initial attack. Or maybe she was so frightened that the only sound she could make was mouselike squeaks.

Ace was mesmerized by the creature. His revolver dangled from one limp arm, touching his hip.

Stooped low to avoid the creature’s echolocation, Bowie eased toward the killer. No doubt Ace had seen him come out of the river, but he seemed to have lost interest.

The raft.

Ace must have released it after Bowie submerged. Bowie’s spirits fell. Even if he somehow managed to subdue Ace and take his gun away, kill or ward off the creature, and rescue Clara, they’d have no real means of escape. They’d either have to hike out or hole up and wait for rescue.

First things first.

The creature swooped over the thicket, nostrils flaring as it sought its prey. Bowie wondered why it was focused on the woman while two other pieces of warm-blooded meat were readily available. Maybe the creatures had senses beyond those near-supernatural ones the group had already attributed to them.

Or maybe the creatures functioned on a plane that was above that of simple feeding machines.

Maybe they were the product of intelligent design, the spawns of higher or lower powers.

Bullshit. If God existed, Connie would still be alive. So would McKay and Lane. And Dove…

He tried not to think about the fate of those left upstream, the ones for whom he bore responsibility.

Just as Agent Jim Castle had become single-minded in his pursuit of his subjects, just as the creature was intent on sucking the life from Clara, Bowie was determined to kill Ace.

Kill.

As he eased along the licking, lapping, muddy river, he collected a couple of fist-sized stones.

“You wasn’t good enough, Clara,” Ace shouted. “Not in the eyes of Him who sees all!”

Keep preaching, you son of a bitch. Bowie was within ten feet of the target now, but he didn’t want to throw the stones. Not because he feared missing and getting shot, but because he wanted his revenge warm and raw and red. He wanted to feel the pulse of Ace Goodall’s carotid artery fade beneath his fingers.

He wanted Skeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek.

The shriek came from above, in the shroud of mist. Another creature plummeted from the heavens.