Darklings, p.28
Darklings, page 28
Collinson went on, but Hunt tuned him out for a moment because Julie was pulling on the collar of his coat, pleading with him, “Martin, for the love of Gaaawwwd, let’s get out of here!”
A woman pushed them aside as she plowed through the group, one hand clawing at her face as she screamed, “It’s in me! It’s inside me!”
Hunt took Julie’s elbow and turned her around toward the exit, but the exit was no longer there. Just people. A wave of people. They had been swallowed by the crowd.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Hunt grunted as he started pushing his way through, shouldering people out of the way, but it seemed to do no good because they were not moving themselves across the floor, they were being moved, the crowd was moving them, had them swept up in its center, clutching them like a giant hand, and Hunt clenched his teeth and grunted, determined to kick and bite his way through if need be, and he was raising his fist to move a fat man out of the way when there was a loud pop-and-sizzle sound and the lights in the auditorium flickered and dimmed, brightened, dimmed, then flashed out, leaving them in darkness.
It was then that a hoarse, pained voice somewhere in the blackened building screamed, “Fiiirrre!”
* * *
Jeffery Collinson’s grave was located near the back edge of Redwood Hill Cemetery, and once Tom found it he had to lug all of his equipment there from the car. But it didn’t seem a chore. His veins were buzzing with energy; adrenaline flowed through his body like electricity. Clanking noisily, he carried the pick and shovel, the light, and the gas can in his gloved hands across the field to Collinson’s grave and set it all down nearby.
There had been a moon earlier, but it was now hidden by the clouds that were rolling in, big and black, like giant mutations of the black crawlers that had burst into his life just a little over a week ago. The cemetery was surrounded by trees in the distance and the wind whispered through them softly, making the trees seem to talk among themselves about Tom in low tones so he couldn’t quite hear.
Sometimes the wind would pick up. And it would seem to laugh at him.
Tom pushed the gnawing thoughts and images from his mind as he looked the grave over, deciding that he would need only his shovel. He picked it up, hefted it, then plunged it into the still-soft mound of earth over the grave, put his foot on the edge of the shovel and pushed it in deeper, then scooped up some of the dirt, tossed it aside, dug the shovel in again, and—
—he froze. Something had moved. He stepped off the grave and looked around at his feet. Something had moved. He bent down and switched the light on, cursing himself for not doing so earlier, then stood and looked around some more. He could see nothing.
He realized his breath was coming in heavy spurts. He tried to slow it down, took in some deep, relaxed breaths. But they weren’t really relaxed, because he wasn’t relaxed. Swiping a hand over his sweaty face, he moved back over to the grave and continued digging.
Another scoop of dirt. Another. It began to pile up beside him.
He stopped. Took a few more deep breaths. Plunged the shovel in again.
And then the earth beneath his feet moved.
* * *
“Don’t fret, brothers and sisters! We’re all in the hands of the powers and their will shall be done tonight! Their will, not ours!”
Reverend Collinson’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers above the screams and the laughter and above the frenzied cries of “Fire! There’s a fire!”
Hunt could smell it now, the smoke, and from somewhere in the dark he could hear the barely detectable roar that a growing fire made. And he saw the glow.
“Jesus, Martin, we’ve got to get out!” Julie cried. She was clutching his arms desperately.
“There’s no way we can get to the exits!” he shouted to her above the noise. “It’ll be easier to make our way to the front.”
“The front? Are you crazy?”
“I’ve been here before. I think I know a way out!”
Not bothering to explain, Hunt tried to turn them toward the sound of Collinson’s voice, toward the podium. The last time Hunt had been to Torrance Auditorium, for the Al Stewart concert, he’d gotten lost trying to find the bathroom. He’d followed the directions of someone who didn’t know the building any more than he did, and he’d ended up downstairs in what seemed to be the basement. He remembered seeing a few small windows that led outside. If they could get down there, maybe they could get out the windows and go get help.
Help! Why wasn’t anyone coming? Where were the police? Hadn’t anyone noticed the mayhem going on in the auditorium?
Hunt concentrated on getting through the crowd and, still attached tightly to Julie, he began pushing aside the bodies that were moving blindly around him.
Suddenly there was light up front. It was shining below the cross and deepened the creases and the hollow spots on the body of the old man who now hung quietly from the wooden structure, moving only slightly, seeming now to welcome death. The light caught on the blood that was streaming down his long face and over his lips, that was pouring from his wrists and feet, and made it glisten as it ran downward in streaks.
“There’s no need to scream, friends,” Collinson droned on loudly. “We’re in the hands of the powers now, all the powers.” He stood on the podium, his arms stretched upward in a fat parody of the man hanging on the cross, the microphone now perched on a stand. “Let’s sing, brothers and sisters,” Collinson said. “Let’s sing an old song, one that has given us comfort and strength over the years. Sing with me, friends.”
Still pushing through the crowd toward the front, Hunt heard Collinson begin the song, his voice in no particular key, barely following a tune—
On a hiiiillll far awaaaayyy stood an oooold rugged craaawwwsss
—and much to his shock, he heard other voices in the crowd join in, pick up the words, all clashing with one another, some sounding happy, others in pain, others screaming the words of the song, all pouring together in a dark, nightmarish harmony—
the eeeeemblem of suffering and shaaaame
—Hunt glanced up at Collinson, who was closer now, close enough for the deep smile lines in his fat red cheeks to be well defined, close enough to see the drops of sweat that clung to his fleshy chin, and he saw that the reverend was happily conducting the song, swinging a hand back and forth, out of rhythm, spit spraying onto the microphone as he sang along—
and I loooove that old craaawwwsss where the deeeaaarest and beeest
—they were close enough to see the edge of the podium now, close enough to see the light that shined beneath the cross while the fire grew and raged behind them like an angry beast, and Hunt could not help feeling that those flames had them in mind and were burning their way through the crowd straight toward Martin Hunt and Julie Calahan—
for a woooorrld of lost siiiiinners was slaaaiiin
—he could see it off to their left, that door he had taken over a year ago in search of a bathroom, and he pulled Julie in that direction, maneuvering them through the undulating crowd, through the singers and the screamers, trying to assure Julie that they were going to be fine, they were almost there, but all the while knowing how easy it would be to trip—if one of them tripped they’d both go down—and be trampled by the terrified crowd—
so I’ll cherish the oooold rugged craaaawwwsss
—Hunt felt one of the creatures on his leg, just beneath the edge of his pantleg, and he screamed a high, childlike shriek as he began to kick his leg madly, stabbing his toe into someone’s shin, kicking again and again, burying his foot in the back of a man who was groping over the floor, until he could feel the little creature no more and they could press on, hearing the screams of the burning, smelling the reek of burning flesh—
till my trooophies at last I lay dooowwwn
—the door was just feet away from them when a hand reached out of the crowd and grabbed Julie by the hair, jerking her head back, pulling her away from Hunt, and Hunt became wild with anger and turned to lash out at the hand, hitting the wrist as hard as he could, hitting and kicking outward blindly, until Julie’s screams stopped and he felt her holding on to him again for safety—
I will cliiing to the old rugged craaawwwss
—Hunt reached out and tried the knob, turned it, pushed on the door, but it wouldn’t open, and he pushed again and again, finally letting go of Julie long enough to throw himself into the door with all his weight, breaking it open with a loud grunt, then pulling Julie in with him—
and exchaaaange it somedaaay for a crooowwwn
—and just before he could slam the door shut behind him, he heard the high-pitched death cry of the old man on the cross, gurgling and scraping its way up from a dry, closing throat.
“Where are we?” Julie asked through her gasps and sobs.
“Just off the stage. There’s a basement downstairs. Windows. C’mon.”
The corridor was dark, but their eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Hunt pressed a palm to the wall and followed it until he felt a doorway.
“Down here. Stairs,” he said breathlessly.
They clattered down the wooden stairs until they hit the floor. Then they stopped and stared into the dark. Hunt found a wall and groped for a light switch, but found none.
“Goddammit!” he hissed, slapping his pockets until he found his cigarette lighter. He pulled it out. Flicked it. A flame stood high. A small, dancing halo of light glowed around it. He held it out before him.
The room was scattered with boxes, some made of cardboard, others of wooden slats. A table stood in the corner with more boxes on it. An empty light socket hung from the ceiling.
The windows were directly across from them. Three of them in a row. The pane in one was broken. It would be a struggle, but they could get through the small rectangular spaces, Hunt was sure.
“There,” he said, moving forward.
They stopped.
Parts of the floor had moved.
A dark spot on the wall shifted.
Something scurried out from under a wooden box.
“Oooh deeeaaar Gaaawwwd,” Julie moaned, leaning limply on Hunt.
The dark basement was thick with small black crawlers …
* * *
The mound of dirt beneath Tom’s feet lurched a second time and he dropped the shovel and threw himself away from it, almost losing his balance and falling. The white light from the lantern washed over the grave, bathing it in a sort of lightly tinted electric blue. The dirt moved, rose, lowered, seemed to breathe, then became still again.
Tom stared at the mound for long moments, waiting for it to move again, but it didn’t. He bent down, retrieved the shovel, and cautiously began to dig again, tossing the dirt aside. He was just lowering the shovel to the mound again for another scoop of dirt when a spot of the soil over the grave opened up and something shot out and disappeared into the night.
Tom was not going to let that stop him. He’d expected it. He’d been sure of it. He had to do what he’d come here for. He began digging again. After three more scoops, he was thrown to the ground and the shovel flew from his hand, landing loudly a few feet away.
The dirt rolled aside, opened up like a womb, and something rose from the grave, something long and black and writhing, and Tom knew—he immediately knew—that it could see him or sense him somehow because it curled around and reached directly for him and wrapped itself around his leg, making a soft slushy sound as it tightened its grip and began to pull him toward the grave and he found himself sliding over the ground helplessly because it was strong, much stronger than he, he could tell, and with a frightened sound, he reached around frantically for the gas can and his hand slapped down on the cold metal, groping for the handle, trying to pull it toward him before it was out of his reach, but his hand slid smoothly over the side of the can and his fingers missed the handle even though they continued to open and close open and close and he cried out because the thing was lifting him up, it wasn’t just dragging him now, it was lifting him off the ground and in an instant he was hanging upside down, dangling like a pendant on a chain, his arms flailing, his hair swishing back and forth, he swung pendulously to the right, then the left, toward the gas can, away from it, his hands grabbing, reaching, and then he was whipped up even higher with a sudden jerk, then slapped to the ground hard and, for a moment, the lights went out, there was nothing, no sound, no feeling, and then it all came back and he was gasping for breath, trying to get his wind back after the shock, trying to move away, but the thing still held his leg tightly, pulling him back once again toward the grave and he saw the gas can getting farther and farther away and he tried to dive forward, tried to throw his arms onto the can, but his fingers merely scraped the side of it again as he was lifted up and thrown down a second time, thunder clapping sharply in his skull when he hit the ground this time, a horrible white flash exploding behind his eyes, but he held on, held on to his consciousness and swung his arms for the can, his mouth opening, his throat releasing a strangled cry of effort, but his hands missed and he twisted his head around to look over his shoulder and he saw another one, another long black tentacle, glistening wetly, rising from the grave, curling around threateningly like a cobra, reaching down and wrapping itself around his waist, and when he looked down at the grave, he saw that the dirt was being pushed up and aside by something larger, something much larger, something round and strong, and he heard the snapping and cracking of the casket as it was broken by the force of the thing inside it, and when it was pushed almost entirely out of the grave, Tom realized that it was one of them but it was bigger, it was huge because it had been growing here, growing from the time of Jeffery Collinson’s burial, releasing bits of itself to spread like a disease, and now it had been found out and it was determined to protect itself and a third tentacle rose from the dirt and curled over to wrap itself around Tom’s throat and it was then that Tom realized he was bleeding from the cuts the tentacles were making, they were slicing into his flesh like gelatinous razor blades and his clothes were rapidly becoming soaked with his blood as it lifted him in the air again, the third tentacle cutting off his air as it tightened around his throat, swinging him back and forth, but he did not let the lack of air deter him and he still groped for the can until his fingers suddenly and quite unexpectedly hooked underneath the handle of the gas can and it was lifted up with him and he slapped his other hand down on the lid and frantically began trying to unscrew it as he swept back and forth, as the flesh around his throat began to sting and then burn and then bleed and in seconds he could taste his own blood rising in his throat and he gagged as he was slapped to the ground again and the gas can, the lid not quite unscrewed, dropped from his grip …
* * *
Hunt released the pressure of his thumb on the lighter and the flame disappeared.
“Martin, the light!” Julie rasped.
“Shh! Don’t move. C’mere.” Hunt put his arm around her and placed her hand over her face, covering her nose with his fingers. “Breathe through your mouth,” he said quietly. “We’re gonna try to get to those windows. Don’t make any sudden moves and stay quiet. Slooowly,” he breathed as they began, taking one step forward, stopping, another step, stopping …
Something moved, skittered across the dirty cement floor, scraping over the hard surface toward them. Julie made a muffled cry into Hunt’s palm, but he just held her closer and kicked his foot out at the thing, sending it rolling away.
“Shh!” The sound Hunt made was soothing, almost motherly, but he was scared to death. He could see them in great lumps covering boxes in the corner, surrounding a leg of the table, shifting now and then, waiting, readying themselves for sudden attack.
Two more shot forward, both from different directions, but not toward Hunt and Julie—instead, to the sides of them, as if to divert their attention, to put a dent in their guard.
As if to surround them.
They continued, one slow, torturous step at a time, Hunt’s head constantly turning this way and that.
The singing continued above, muffled now so that the words were indefinable. The roar of the fire was just as loud as the crowd now and the screams were all screams of pain and death.
The windows were closer now, almost close enough to reach out and touch, just a few feet away. They were more closed in now, too, surrounded by the things, moving in little black clumps.
Closing in.
Slowly.
Until, all at once, in the same lightning instant, they all surged forward and they were on their feet, shooting up their legs and over their arms and Hunt could feel them cutting his skin now and he knew Julie could feel the same thing because she was screaming into his palm, her breath hot, the vibration of her voice making the bones of his hand tremble and Hunt knew it was over.
He knew …
* * *
It was totally silent, that’s what made Tom want to be sick, that the goddamned thing was totally silent as it swung him back and forth and cut his throat and made him bleed, and now the blood was gushing from his mouth and he was strangling on that as much as on the grip of the thing that cut off his air, and the other tentacle was cutting into his abdomen, slowly, toying with him, wanting him to go slowly, he was sure, but he couldn’t give up, not now, because the can was still so close, still so close, on its side with the aqua regia trickling out of the loosely attached cap and he reached for it again, but missed, again, missed, and then he was slammed onto the earth for what he knew would be the last time because one more time would knock the life right out of him, it would kill him, and that would be all she wrote, so he had to get it this time, no question, no doubt, it had to be this time, and when he made that final reach, he thought perhaps his arms were jerking themselves from their sockets when he felt the can’s welcome cold on his flesh and felt the liquid sloshing around inside as it was lifted with him, the life-saving liquid, although the life it saved would not be his own, because this was the end, he knew that the last thing he would ever hold was that gas can and he held it tightly, he hugged it in his arms as a lonely man might hug a lover, and his numbing fingers fumbled with the cap, unscrewing, unscrewing, unscrewing, until it finally came off and the can was open and he lifted it up as far as he could and let the liquid rain down hard, pour down like a summer cloudburst and he was suddenly lifted high, straight up, straight over the creature, and he poured the liquid out, over the black thing below him but unable to avoid pouring it on himself, too, and he knew that some of the fumes rising into the night were from his own burning flesh as well as the creature’s, but he was numb now, numb and relieved, because he’d done it, he’d done it; the only thing left to do was pray that it would work, and he did, he prayed that it would work.
