The Gorge

CHAPTER SIXTY

Bowie checked the bullets in the revolver. Four left.

Two for the creatures and, when worse came to worst, one for Clara. And one for himself.

That would be okay. Finishing on a high note, the perfect ending to an American success story.

Going out with a bang, all sins redeemed, all failures washed away in blood.

Ace could fend for himself. Maybe God would reach a soft white hand down from heaven and scoop up the sociopathic killer. Sit the Bama Bomber on the left side of the golden throne, where they could laugh together about good times and share murderous memories until Kingdom Come.

He followed Ace into the cave, hand sweating around the butt of the Python. He had to admit, religious mania had its good points. Ace had a cocksure strut, as if walking into the lion’s den was a stroll in the park. Ace held the backpack to his chest, a sacrament carried into a high temple. Bowie was pretty sure the man didn’t have an extra pistol stashed away. Maybe he’d finally gone off the deep end, thinking he was entering the hall of angels.

The cave was inky black, the air damp and stifling, but Bowie could swear a glow emanated from the depths, like a match head flaring at the bottom of a rank well. Behind him, the sky drummed a million silver bullets into the world.

He ducked low, though he doubted subterfuge would provide any deception against creatures whose senses had been honed in this sightless, cramped environment. Besides, Ace was giving away the game, marching with heavy feet, onward Christian soldier, hallelujah.

Best-case scenario: the dozens of creatures swooping down on Ace and surrounding him like sharks hitting a chum slick, while Bowie danced in like Fred Astaire on steroids, located Clara in the dark, and carried her to safety.

Well, relative safety. Once out of the cave, they’d still be exposed and vulnerable, sirloin on the hoof, walking bags of V-8.

Plan A and Plan B were both a little melodramatic. He wished there were a Plan C, but the stink of the cave disrupted his concentration. He kicked over a clattering stack of something, knelt, and felt the roughened knobs and smooth lengths.

Bones.

Whether they had belonged to people or to animals, he couldn’t tell in the smothering darkness.

Probably not people. They wouldn’t be so lucky.

He shuddered, recalling the wizened, altered form of C.A. McKay floating, flocking, as mindless in its flight as the others. Just another creature. Now other, the beast inside finally revealed.

Maybe they were all monsters inside.

All that had risen from the cosmic spark that spawned this world, from bacteria to bugs to flippered fish determined to taste the mud.

That’s crazy thinking. Leave those sorts of delusions to Ace.

But Bowie wasn’t sure there was any kind of way to think except crazily. He was walking into a vampires’ den with the tactical equivalent of a squirt gun. He didn’t even have any holy water or garlic, much less a stake or silver cross. Hell, he couldn’t even cobble together a decent prayer.

“Clara.” Ace said it with clear conviction, a command, the word echoing in the enclosure.

Bowie flinched, expecting a flurry of fang and wing and claw.

Instead, he heard only a soft rustling deeper in the cave. And a gurgle. Maybe his stomach was churning from fear.

The glow deepened, and he saw it was coming from a point barely twenty feet in front of him. The blackness had distorted his depth perception. The cavern floor appeared to slope downward. Clara’s rafting helmet lay on a flat stone shelf, its attached Maglite dim from low batteries. Her clothes lay like rumpled pelts beside her.

They must have killed her already. Would she be coming out of the darkness, back from the dead like McKay?

He recalled what Ace had said about the demons wanting the baby. Why?

The creatures had exhibited signs of intelligent behavior, a basic social order, a survival instinct that belied their fierce aggression. Were they smart enough to set a trap, expecting Ace and Bowie to walk right in and hop into the frying pan?

No. The creatures could have easily taken both of them by the river. Something else was at work here.

And I hope to hell it isn’t God. Not the God who killed Connie, who failed those who prayed to him, who put my people on a river and plucked them one by one like daisy petals in a sick game of they-love-me, they-love-me-not.

A rumbling arouse from the hidden depths, a liquid burp. The cavern floor vibrated beneath Bowie’s feet.

“I got one for you,” Ace said. “I got one for the baby-killers. Don’t you fuckers read the papers?”

Movement in the shadows beyond the orange globe of the flashlight.

Bowie lifted the Python, not knowing in which direction to point it. They were probably behind him now, cutting off their escape route. If he even managed to find Clara, the best he could hope for would be a clean mercy shot.

Being dead don’t get you off the hook. A bit of Ace wisdom that made sense. Even if Bowie killed Clara and then turned the gun on himself, they would both end up shriveled and transformed, infected with whatever craving possessed these creatures. Whether of natural or supernatural origin, in the end there was no difference. Bottom line, being a vampire would suck.

“Come on out and play,” Ace said. “I won’t bite.”

More scurrying. Restless sighs, moist flutters.

“I walked through the valley and, lo, it was righteous,” Ace said. He was near the flat stone now, and in the weak pumpkin-colored glow, Bowie could see him unzipping the knapsack. “Deliver us from evil, for Thine is the kingdom.”

He pulled out a jangled heap of wires, cylinders, and shiny metal. It looked like an orgy of alarm clocks and telephone cable.

“Clara, reckon your time ain’t come yet,” Ace said, calm, moving deeper into the cave and standing at the head of the flat stone. Like a heathen priest at an altar.

Clara rose from darkness behind the stone, her hair wet. The dying light made an orange fright mask of her face.

“This way,” Bowie whispered, throat dry. The cave was as cold as the river had been, as if the darkness and the thundering water sprang from the same source.

“They want the baby, Ace. Our baby.” Clara’s voice was small and frightened. Bowie hadn’t realized just how young she was. Just a dumb kid making a bad choice. Bowie knew all about bad choices.

“I know, honey,” Ace said, dropping the knapsack. “They don’t understand the mysterious ways of God. They got cast down from heaven way too early, and never learned about blood sacrifice. About getting washed free.”

Bowie didn’t know why the creatures were waiting to strike. Maybe Ace really was a messenger. An untouchable. Whatever the reason, Bowie didn’t see any advantage in waiting. He burst from the concealing shadows, tripped over a hidden wedge of stone, and fell to his knees as the gun bounced away from him. He scrabbled for the Python, felt its cold, smooth barrel, and came up just as the air erupted with a cacophony of shrieks and movement.

Clara dove into the darkness with a splash.

Splash?

Bowie fired once, blindly, the muzzle flashing blue-white. The bullet whizzed and made a meaty smack, but he couldn’t tell what it hit. A knobby tendon brushed his shoulder, and he threw out a panicked fist. The creature was already gone, joining its brethren.

At the head of the table, where dinner was served.

Ace.

“Deliver us from evil,” Ace shouted as the creatures swarmed him.

Bowie ran toward the place where he’d last seen Clara. The water surprised him, rising fast to his knees. She swam into him with panicked strokes. He yanked her to her feet and dragged the dripping, dazed woman toward the entrance. Water swirled around his feet, and he understood why the creatures had held back. They sensed the rising floodwaters, had probably dodged them countless times over the aeons.

Bowie was afraid he’d lost direction, but the drilling hiss of the rain outside provided a compass point. One of the creatures clawed him, running a line of fiery red stripes down his neck, but Bowie didn’t slow down or fight back.

He ran Connie! -

— toward the roaring avalanche, into the blinding whiteness, and this time in the dream he reached her, pulled her to safety And they rolled together under the wet, cleansing rain as the cave screamed and vomited a geyser of fire and sulfuric smoke and steam, as the Earth rumbled, as boulders spun down from the hidden heights and crashed around them. Bowie tugged Clara toward the river, not because the churning rapids offered rescue, but because they offered a swifter escape, even if escape meant a suffocating death.

At least, if God had any mercy at all, their corpses would be washed far from this gate of Hell.

Bowie had Clara’s hand, dragging her as the rocks tumbled down from the cliffs above. He lost his grip, reached again, and made contact in the darkness. Daggers raked his forearm and the white noise of the deafening blast gave way to a piercing

Skeek skeek skeek.

One of them, free of the cave, or else late to Ace’s party. Its foul, blood-drenched mouth was near his ear, seeking his jugular, and beneath that corrupt odor was a soft and familiar trace of chamomile and mint.

Dove.

Except the earthiness of her scent had given way to the sepulchre stench of grave dirt. And she wanted him more fiercely than she had the previous morning. He ran his hand along her body, which was slick and nude, limbs twining against him in a mockery of their lovemaking. Any kiss she would plant now would be final. No more good-byes.

“Run!” he shouted at Clara, realizing Fate had provided him yet one more chance to fail. A stone the size of his fist bounced off the Dove-creature’s shoulder.

In the blackness and thick precipitation, Bowie couldn’t make out the creature’s face, but his mind painted it in vivid and sordid shades. And he pictured the teeth that wanted to punch their way into him and drink from the fountain of his heart.

The creature’s demonic strength pinned him back against a long, moist sheet of rock. He ran his left hand along her hips, looking for a crevice to attack. He rammed his fist between her legs but Dove was no longer a woman. He was drawing back for another blow when his fingers touched the rope coiled around its leg. He yanked the slack line, hearing a metallic clatter against stone. Thrusting his elbow under the creature’s chin, Bowie felt gray pressure rising against the back of his eyelids. He was losing consciousness.

Another shriek erupted, and Bowie thought a second creature had joined the attack. At least the end would be quick.

Instead, the Dove-creature shook, its oily, wet hair slapping against Bowie’s cheek. “Go back to Hell!” Clara screamed, banging a stone against the creature’s head.

Bowie couldn’t see Clara, but judging by the location of her voice, she had launched herself onto the creature’s back and slowed its assault. Bowie pulled the rope until his fingers felt the knot, then the piton. He rammed upward with all his strength, spearing his former lover in the gut. A viscous substance colder than the rain oozed over his fist.

He withdrew the steel spike and rammed again, this time toward the leathery lips that nipped at his cheek. The metal shattered teeth and bone.

Skeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

The thing that had loved him in human form now wailed in the agony of a second death. The talons lost their grip on Bowie and went toward the source of the wound, the sinister throat emitting a sick, deflating wind.

Bowie ran his hands along the creature’s repulsive hide until he touched Clara’s skin. He grabbed the woman and pulled her free.

“That was no angel,” Clara shouted against the downpour.

“Nobody’s perfect,” he replied.

He wrapped one arm around Clara’s slick, naked body and slid into the edge of the frothing current. The rain was so thick, he could barely tell where it ended and the river began.