Chthon (24 page)

Aton recognized it now. It was one of the jellyfish, grown to a shocking magnitude. It was, he strongly suspected, carnivorous. The animal bodies had disappeared down the river drain, so the evidence was not immediate.

Proof was not long in coming. The mouth gaped wider, disclosing a whitish internal runnel that frothed and gurgled and belched a noxious yellow stomach vapor. A tubular tongue snaked out. It cast about blindly, then slapped over the body of a woman in the water and hauled her shrieking into the maw.

Meanwhile the caterpillar was busy, too. The head commanded the water-exit, and the tail had projected itself across the entrance and was moving backwards along the opposite ledge, preventing any escape that way. Its mighty prong was, if anything, more frightening than the head itself.

The tail suddenly shot out, extending its length a good four feet. It neatly impaled the nearest man, who had been foolishly threatening it with a fragment of stone, stabbing through his middle and emerging behind his back. He brayed horribly and collapsed; but his body was held upright by the spike. This contracted, pulling him up against the concluding segment of the caterpillar.

What awful power! Aton thought. To ram through gut and muscle and backbone and come out cleanly.

Then, hideously, part of the corpse returned to life. The man’s head and arms hung slackly—but his legs picked up the same measured tempo of the segments. The other segments.

The tail shot out again, catching a woman as she tried to run. The force of it punched through her back and out her stomach.

She, like the first, sank into unconsciousness or death; like the first, she gave up her lower limbs to the marching rhythm, undead.

Aton understood at last the dreadful nature of this trap. What had appeared to be an innocent haven was in fact the mutual feeding ground of two of Chthon’s most predatory inhabitants. The victim could take his choice—but he could not escape.

And the entire party had walked into this parlor and made itself at home. Now there was no time to think, to plan, to explore. The caterpillar was incorporating new segments at will, backward, forward, sidewise, or doubled over—however they happened to meet the piercing tail. The jelly-whale clumsily sucked in all those who fell or dived or were pushed into the water. It could afford to be clumsy. The consumption would take time—but it was certain.

14

Bossman sprang into leadership, grasping his axe in both hands and using the handle to beat people back and out of the way. He cleared a space and stepped up to challenge the head of the caterpillar. Aton followed, suspecting his intent.

Bossman took his stance and swung, the muscles rippling beautifully across his back. The blade of his axe sliced into the rubber hide of the caterpillar-snout. Green goo welled out of the gash. The creature emitted an anguished hiss from a valve behind its flopping antenna and retreated, the motion of the front legs rippling backward into the rear pairs. He struck again, aiming for the bulging eyes, but the caterpillar blinked.

Blinked: shining bars of metallic bone arched over its eyes in a protective mask. It could not use its head to fight, but it could nevertheless protect itself from that prey that elected to stand and fight. An instrument as crude as the axe could only harass, not kill.

Bossman struck again and again, stinging the exposed fringes of the painted face, and it retreated farther. But as it did so, the tail advanced, and that was worse. The circle was nearly closed, as the long body expanded inexorably and limitlessly.

“We’ve got to kill it or drive it away,” Aton shouted. “Or push it into the water.”

That would be a fitting end to it. The caterpillar drowning and threshing the water with all its marching feet; the jelly-whale choking on an interminable morsel, one that it could never swallow entirely. Both might die.

It was unlikely. A concerted attack by the entire human group might dislodge the caterpillar. Men and women could skirt the jelly-whale and grasp the myriad legs from below, prying them off the ledge; or climb onto its back and wedge it away from the wall. Yes—it could be conquered. But not by a terrified mob. The necessary organization, in the face of the immediate panic, would be impossible. Direct, obvious escape—only this would mobilize the screaming people.

“The river!” Aton shouted, gesturing toward the swirling hole, Bossman heard him above the clamor and glanced about. Catching on, he backed up to that area and stood guard, ready to prevent the caterpillar’s advance.

“Through!” Bossman yelled, pointing down. “THROUGH!” A man in the crowd saw the sign and dived into the shallow water between the central hump of the jelly-whale and the rim of the pool. Half-swimming, half-walking on the spongy flesh, he splashed his way to that exit and plunged headfirst into it. The flowing water gathered behind him and helped him on.

A pause; then another man followed, popping out of sight before the water monster could find him. Then a woman, and the others queued up, gladly choosing the unknown avenue in preference to the visible horrors.

The sixth man into the hole was Hastings. He weighed two hundred and seventy pounds, by his own estimate. Too late, they discovered that his girth was too great for the exit. His head and shoulders disappeared; his kicking legs and feet did not.

“Get that bastard out of there!” the crazed creatures behind shouted. Both head and tail of the caterpillar were advancing, as it stretched out its body. The water monster was sliding its terrible tongue within range of the hole. If the obstruction was not cleared away quickly, the rest of them would perish.

Aton jumped into the water and grabbed the kicking feet. He braced his own feet against the stone fronting the hole and strained, but the water had backed up against the plump body and sealed it tight. He changed his tactic and tried to heave it through, but the size was prohibitive. It would not budge either way. The two legs continued to kick violently, hampering his efforts. There seemed to be no way to free the man.

Bossman looked down, his expression grim. The head of the caterpillar was almost back to the hole, now that it was not under siege. “Can’t take the time,” Bossman grunted. “Move out.”

Aton cleared out, keeping wary attention on the casting tongue behind him. Bossman was right—they had no time to spare.

Standing astride the hole, Bossman swung his axe down hard. It struck the exposed rear just above the bifurcation, cutting deeply into the spine. The fat legs ceased their motion. He swung again, chopping farther into the wound as though felling a tree. Blood sprang copiously, staining the water.

Is that your death I feel, old friend?

The thick tongue came at them, sensing the blood. Aton swam desperately to avoid it; the slimy cold length of it slapped against his leg, circled his thigh, but it was not after him. Locating the source of the flavor, it slipped over the lacerated body, coiled about it. Bossman, spying it, aimed a blow to sever the tongue itself.

“No!” Aton cried. “Hold up!”

Perplexed, Bossman hesitated. It had been his obvious intent to break the body into small chunks of meat that could squeeze through the exit individually, and thus reopen the passage. But if there were an alternative—

The great tongue tightened. The monster heaved. With a slushing noise the bloated red mass came out of the hole and splashed across the water toward the orifice. The dragging head flopped limply, openmouthed in the waves, seeming to nod to Aton.

The loosened water rushed through in a fierce whirlpool. The way was clear again. The jelly-whale had unwittingly saved them.

Aton was one of the last to go through. His turn came, and suddenly, irrationally, he was afraid. Where did this escape lead to? How could he be certain that this step was not more terrible than the awful alternatives behind? But Hastings had died to free this passage; it had to be taken.

He slipped into it with his eyes open, watching the passage as it sucked him down. The water pushed at his legs, urging him on as his breath ran low. The moment the walls began to spread, he stroked powerfully for the surface.

Too soon—for his head crashed against the low ceiling, and he drifted half-conscious in the turbulent stream. A moment later a strong hand gripped his hair and hauled his head into air so that he could breathe again. As his head cleared he understood how welcome that assistance was—for there was the roar of a waterfall ahead.

He struggled onto land, coughing to discharge the pink water from his throat. Only then did he recognize his savior: Garnet.

More were saved in like manner. Many of the others had already gone over the falls. When it was apparent that no more were coming through, they rose and climbed down the twisted formations leading to a larger pool twenty feet below the brink of the falls.

The pool was full of people. Some, undamaged, were already climbing out around the sides. Others, unable to swim, were thrashing wildly and uselessly. Some no longer thrashed.

Garnet pitched in first. She hooked a foot of the nearest flounderer and guided the woman to shallow water. Then she went after another. She was an excellent swimmer.

Those who were able followed her example. Soon all of the bodies had been recovered. But a terrible toll had been taken.

A hundred and sixty persons had entered the jelly-whale’s quiet dome; thirty-eight stood here now. Seven more were too badly injured to travel, and had to be euthanized—by the axe.

There was a cry from downstream. Weary heads turned to see what new danger threatened. But it was a cry of discovery.

On a flat section of rock a crude cairn had been erected—the work of intelligence. Beside it was scratched the letter B with an arrow pointing downstream.

Doc Bedside’s trail.

15

After that it was easier. Nineteen men and nineteen women survived, the fittest, by nature’s definition, of all the nether caverns. The size of the party was manageable and efficient, and game was increasingly plentiful and less vicious. The air was sweet, the water clear, the temperature cool.

Bedside’s signs appeared at regular intervals, always pointing down. How he had come this far alone they never expected to know; but he obviously had, with his wits still about him, and that was enough.

“What was he like?” Aton asked Garnet, as they climbed over damp stone sculptures.

“Highbrow,” she said. “Small and smart. Weak eyes, but underneath, a mind like a scalpel. He had this thing for escape—”

“But if he got this far, what could have driven him mad?”

“Maybe he saw the chimera.” Men were still disappearing—not women—without a trace. It was assumed that the chimera still stalked the party (how had it gotten past the dome?) and brought down the unwary. The steady sound of the river would drown out a distant scream.

The days of marching continued. The river grew, fed by tributaries that no longer interested them, and with it grew the surrounding caverns. The wind tunnels ceased. Instead the party traveled through carved formations, water deposits and erosions, treelike stalagmites, and caves of white crystal. At times the river split into several branches, winding through linked vaults with obscure ceilings and indefinite boundaries, only to regroup below.

At last it widened into a mighty, slow-moving lake. They paced the left bank. Fifty feet across, the water was terminated by a sheer cliff, arching into a three-dimensional labyrinth overhead. Their side was level, however, and by the shore was a beach of white sand. The lake itself was clear and cool, a swimmer’s delight—but one of Bedside’s signs labeled it with skull and crossbones. They took his word for it.

Once again the caverns of Chthon were showing their beauty and peace. But this time no one believed in paradise.

The open walkway gradually narrowed, as the wall closed in against the lake. The wall on the far side withdrew equivalently, making space for the beach on that side. The shores were exchanging characteristics—or, more properly, the river was simply shifting its channel to the near side.

At last they came to the sign that pointed to the water. It was time to cross.

But in the center they could see the white wake of a large marine creature. A wake that had paced them for several marches.

Bedside, with his ingenuity, might have prepared chemicals to repulse the thing. This party had to find other means.

Bossman did not take long to make up his mind. “The lots.”

Garnet approached. “I know what you want,” she said dully. “I’ll do it. I can swim good.”

Bossman brushed her aside. “I didn’t tell you to do nothing! The lots.”

She refused to move. “You can’t spare any more men. I can swim good. I want it.”

Bossman studied her for a long time. He turned away. “You stay here,” he told her over his shoulder. “Five—come with me.”

Aton accompanied him to a place away from the group, where the wall curved back briefly to make an open room bounded on one side by the river.

“I been meaning to talk to you, Five,” Bossman said, laying his axe down near the water and divesting himself of all other armament. Aton, knowing what was coming, discarded his own stone weapons.

“We’re all of us down here for our own reasons,” Bossman continued. “Ain’t none of us good enough to talk about none of the others. But we got to have a settlement, now.” He stood with hands on hips. The muscles, firmer now than they had been before the trek, shone with light sweat. “I don’t know what you done to get shipped down here, and I ain’t asking.” This was standard courtesy only; the word about Aton’s minionette had long since circulated. “But you been more trouble than any ten men since the mines were started. You’re slick, you’re tough—but I know you. I saw the sign long time ago.

“If I’d had my way, you’d’ve been tied decoy to that stone for the chimera, ‘stead of that scared little man who never had the guts to make real trouble. You’d’ve been the one stuck in that hole, waiting for the axe, ‘stead of the only man with brains enough to get us through. You’d be the one to take that lonely swim coming up.”

Bossman was not quite as ignorant as Aton had thought. How much did he suspect? “Are you accusing me of Framy’s crime?”