Primal Fear (27 page)

The tupilaq’s entire body had been covered in a thick layer of ice, two centuries of complete stillness taking their toll on its body.  Frozen to the earth in this way, it was difficult to imagine what mobility the creature might have once possessed.

“All of it is real,” John said.  His voice was hushed, almost reverent.  He swallowed loudly, nervously.  “It’s all true.”

Harry stared at him in the dim light, seeing all of his own fear and confusion reflected in the younger man’s expression.  “So,” he asked, a shiver running through his voice, “how do we kill it?”

John held his hand out for the duffel bag, as if that in itself might provide a suitable answer.  His eyes were riveted to the tupilaq, completely spellbound by its awful appearance.

Tugging the bag off of his shoulder, Harry handed it over.  He hoped John knew what he was doing, that his studies of the ways of his people had been accurate.  Because if they’d come all the way here to face this horrible creature with no knowledge of how to truly stop it, they would never leave this place alive.

John knelt down with the open bag in front of him, his hands already rummaging around inside of it.  He removed half a dozen items, one by one, carefully laying them out in a row beside the duffel bag.  Harry watched him in silence, studying the articles as he set them down.

There was what appeared to be a small wooden figurine, obviously hand-carved, its shape vaguely feminine, its surface worn with age.  Directly beside it, John had laid out a circle made of feathers, joined at their stems by an intricate series of thin rawhide straps.  The feathers themselves were tattered and ragged, and Harry found himself hoping that whatever magical power had once coursed through them was still bound tightly within their circle.

The next item was even less comforting, and far more ambiguous.  It was a simple leather sack, roughly the size of a softball, its top fastened securely with a ragged piece of twine.  It seemed to shift when John laid it in place, as if whatever rested within its folds was trying to settle itself more comfortably upon the hard stone floor.  A fine bluish-gray powder ran out of a small tear in the side of the bag.

Harry was about to question the purpose of the strange selection of pieces, but a sound from the pit silenced him.  John froze as well, one hand still in the bag, his eyes flicking automatically towards the tupilaq’s grave.

The sound came again, a peculiar crackling noise that took several seconds to identify.  But when realization finally came to Harry, there could be no doubt at all about the source of the sound.

It was the sound of ice cracking, of frozen earth being slowly pushed aside.

Harry aimed his flashlight at the bottom of the pit, shedding as much light on the scene as he possibly could.  He shuddered, and heard John groan softly in fear beside him.

Fifteen feet below, the tupilaq’s body was beginning to move.  It began to lift one of its huge hands, its long fingers slowly flexing as it dragged them across the frozen ground beneath it.  The layers of ice that had held its body in place for more than two hundred years began to crack and split, falling aside as the great beast beneath it struggled to be free.

The huge head started to turn, its face moving slowly into a position to look up at them.  A feeling of pure terror coursed through Harry’s body and he tore his gaze away, positive that to look upon the tupilaq’s hideous features would be to take a headlong leap into madness.

He grasped John’s collar, pulling him violently away from the pit, forcing him to look away as well.  “Do whatever you have to do,” he ordered, not at all liking the high-pitched note of fear in his own voice.  “But do it fast.”

John nodded and went back to sorting through the mysterious objects he’d pulled from the bag.  The seconds ticked by, the sounds from the pit growing louder, the signs of activity coming more frequently.

“John?” Harry prompted.

“Almost there . . .” 

John rose to his feet, the circle of feathers held aloft in his hands.  He’d stripped off his gloves, as if actual contact with the tribal article was a vital part of the ritual.

Or maybe he was merely hoping the close contact would give him some much-needed strength.  To repeat the words and phrases he’d learned through his years of study was one thing; to apply them to the purpose for which they’d been meant to serve was quite another.  Harry wondered if John’s knowledge of the ancient rites would be enough.  Or was a long legacy of unwavering belief required to make the words weave their magic?

John raised the circle of feathers high above his head, stepping once more towards the edge of the pit.  Harry could see the fear in his eyes, could see that he was trying to avert his gaze from the beast that was slowly rousing itself below them.  But in the end, he had to look.  Either as part of the ritual, or through an indescribable need to see the face of his enemy, John let his eyes settle on the tupilaq’s rising form.

His eyes widened, and his entire body began to tremble involuntarily.  “Oh, my God . . .”

“John, what can I do?  How can I help you?”

John answered without turning.  “Untie the bag.  I’m going to need it soon.  Don’t drop it, whatever you do.”

A new sound rose from the earth, one that made Harry cringe in revulsion.  It was a sudden racket of bones cracking, of ancient joints flexing back into use after a long period of dormancy.  The sound spoke to him of ages past, of a time when magic and miracles were used to summon fear and vengeance, and man himself was little more than a go-between among the powers of the living and the dead.

He steeled his nerves, working at the knotted twine of the bag with fingers that had gone as cold as ice.

And it was at that moment that something struck him from behind, something he could feel on his back as it tore into his clothing with claws that felt like razors.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Harry turned sideways, letting his body roll with the force of the blow.  His hands clutched the leather bag, John’s warning against spilling its contents ringing in his ears.  He reached out and placed it on the ground, well away from his sprawled body.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the second creature already beginning to advance on him.  It was hideous, squat and emaciated like a deformed and leprous child, its eyes brimming with cunning and malice.  Its twin crawled across Harry’s back, making a move for his throat, but he twisted out of its grasp and pushed it away before it could sink its claws into him again.

John moved to help him, the words of the ritual still spilling from his mouth.  He held the feathers high above his head with one hand while helping Harry to his feet with the other.

“What are they?” Harry whispered.

“They’re called the Jhe-rhatta.  The essence of the dead.  I never believed that they existed.  Never.  I always thought they were a part of a fairy tale, something created to frighten the children.  But . . .”

“But here they are.”

John nodded.  “The story goes that the great spirits can capture the souls of those who died in innocence, that they can corrupt them into their own service.”

“The kids.”

“Yes.  These are their souls.  Wyh-heah Qui Waq has stolen them, given them form.”

Harry shuddered at the very idea of it, at the notion that such youthful innocence could be disrupted this way.  These things were hideous, abominations of humanity and spirituality.  And yet their cunning and strength was just as black and evil as the demon who’d given them life.

“How do we kill them?”

John shook his head.  “I don’t know.”

One glance at John’s frantic expression was all he needed to understand that the young man was doing his best to remember the intricacies of the ritual.  Perhaps it was supposed to go on uninterrupted, in strictly orchestrated sequence.  Or maybe John was in sudden doubt about his own ability to complete the rite. 

“Keep going,” Harry told him.  “There isn’t time for this.”

“But what about—”

“Let me worry about them.  If things get out of hand, I’ll let you know, believe me.”

He drew his gun as he watched the two creatures moving into position for their next assault.  They seemed to be sizing him up, coordinating their efforts against him.  Harry watched them, realizing that they seemed to be ignoring John, almost completely unaware of his presence.

Or maybe just unwilling to attack him. 

He glanced to his right, at the circle of feathers that John clutched in his hands, quickly returning his gaze to the ghastly forms as they crept steadily closer to him.  It took several seconds of close observation, but he finally caught one of the creatures casting a wary eye toward John, toward the circle of feathers.

“They’re afraid of it,” he whispered.  “As long as you’re holding it, they won’t come near you.”

John launched himself into the next stages of the ritual, his voice regaining some of the strength and confidence he’d displayed earlier.  But he still seemed wary of turning his back on the Jhe-rhatta completely.  Every few seconds he peered over his shoulder to gage the progress of their slow advance.

From the pit, Harry could hear the sounds of activity growing louder.  That could mean only one thing: Wyh-heah Qui Waq’s rebirth was well underway.

The creatures it had fashioned to protect it were serving their purpose, their attack providing the perfect distraction from the task he and John had come here to perform.

Harry clicked back the safety on his gun, taking careful aim at the nearest of the Jhe-rhatta.  Holding his breath, he squeezed the trigger.

But the thing had already begun to move, its solid form dissolving into a blur of white smoke, a glowing mist that streaked toward him in a sudden flurry of motion.  He fired again, dazed by what he was seeing, but a part of his mind still functioning toward self-preservation.  This time he was certain his aim had been true, and yet the bullet’s impact seemed to have no effect on the charging swirl of smoke.

It regained its form upon impact, slamming into his legs as a solid entity, its claws already tearing at his thighs and hip.  The collision threw him off balance, brought him down hard onto his chest, pinning the writhing creature beneath his legs.

His eyes flicked upward, coming to rest on the second creature.  It would surely attack soon, while the first one had his attention. 

Something Charlie had said over the radio surfaced in his mind, something about stopping the creatures before they moved.  Once they were in motion, they somehow became immune to physical harm, a defense mechanism that left them virtually indestructible.

If he couldn’t stop the second one before it sprang, he wouldn’t stand a chance.

He extended his arm towards it, the gun clenched tightly in his fist.  The first creature had given up its attack, at least for the moment, intent instead on freeing itself from the weight of his body.  It began to wriggle out from under him.

Harry lined up the second creature and fired.  The bullet punched a vicious hole through its right shoulder, flinging its squat body onto the floor.  A furious howl escaped its twisted mouth, an encouraging sign that the Jhe-rhatta could indeed be hurt.  And what could be hurt could also be killed.

It picked itself up slowly, in obvious pain, its slanted eyes regarding Harry with a newly discovered rage.  He shot it again, this time shearing off one of its legs in a shower of translucent white flesh.  The thing went down again, writhing in agony, apparently incapable of changing its form with such extreme injuries.

One more bullet would do the job.  He lined up the shot, his finger tense over the trigger.

The first creature scrambled across his back, free now and trying to claw at his exposed throat.  He hunched his shoulders, trying to limit its access.  He felt one of its claws digging into his chin, opening up a long gash along his jaw.

A moment later and it was off of him, gone in a sudden rush of movement.  He looked up to see John looming over him.

He’d kicked the creature onto the floor, placing one boot firmly in the side of its unprotected head.  Five feet away, it picked itself up, its hands closing into angry fists as it prepared to lunge.  Harry could see his own blood glistening on its claws.

He watched it come, knowing he would never be able to move in time, that it would surely reach him before he could lift his gun in its direction.  He watched its transformation in a sort of numb slow-motion, every detail etching itself into his thoughts.

It seemed to melt, its body giving way to smoke even as it moved, its limbs stretching into a blur of pale mist.  Form became formlessness in the time it took to draw a breath, and it came at him even more swiftly than that.

He was half aware of John crouching down beside him, his hands busily clutching for something, some kind of weapon.  Whatever it was, it would hardly matter; in this form, the creature was beyond harm.

His muscles tightened involuntarily, his body reflexively bracing for the impact.  The white smudge was scarcely two feet away now and closing fast.

A glittering spray of powder shot past him as John hurled a handful of the sand from the leather bag straight at the charging creature.  The cloud of dust and the Jhe-rhatta’s glowing essence merged in a sudden flash of sparkling light, a furious crackling sound rising from the collision.  The air was filled with a horrible stench, a foul, cloying odor that reminded Harry of rotting meat.

The creature shrieked, a high pitched squeal that pierced Harry’s eardrums, and tore through his mind like a steel drill.  He scrambled backwards, climbing to his feet in an attempt to distance himself from the horrible sound.

And then he watched in disgust as the creature burned to death.

Its flesh took on solid form once again, a metamorphosis the Jhe-rhatta tried to fight.  But despite its greatest efforts, it could not retain its ethereal state, and as swiftly as its body gained substance, it began to melt within the cloud of powder settling around it.  Its flesh coursed off of its body in rivulets, dripping like melted wax onto the cavern floor.

Within seconds it was dead, leaving behind a steaming pile of flesh that looked as though it couldn’t possibly have come from anything that had once been living.  Harry approached it carefully and prodded it with the tip of his boot.  There was no response.  This time, it was certainly dead.

“I thought you didn’t know how to kill them,” Harry whispered.

“I didn’t,” John answered.  “I took a chance, and we got lucky.”

“Jesus.”

Ten feet away, the second creature writhed on the floor, still pulling its mutilated body towards Harry, still bent on attack.  Harry leveled his gun.  Without so much as a single moment’s regret, he pumped two bullets into its skull, silencing it forever.

He turned back toward John, one hand rising to trace the fresh wound along his jaw.  His fingers came away wet, sticky with his own blood.  The wound was deep, but it would have to wait.  At the moment, they had much more pressing matters to contend with.

John snapped back into action, picking up the ritual where he’d left off.  The ancient words spilled from his mouth, his voice trembling, his entire body shaking as he swept his arms up in a gesture of defiance.

Harry watched expectantly, eager to see whether John’s efforts were having any effect on the stirring demon.  John’s language was little more than gibberish to him, words and phrases that were well beyond his understanding.

John lowered his hands, squatting to retrieve the wooden figurine.  It seemed to vibrate under his touch, as if its magic, long dormant, had now been rekindled.

“Earth Mother, help me,” he whispered.  “K’ja she lata li ch’adi.”

He raised the carved figure to his face, pressing it tight to his forehead and then repeating the same mysterious incantation once again.  The entire process went on three more times before he deposited the Earth Mother back onto the cavern floor.

“Something’s happening,” Harry whispered.

John nodded, not turning around.  “It’s starting to work.”

A thick mist had begun to form in the pit, concealing the tupilaq’s movements.  Harry stared intently into the fog, trying to pick out any sign of motion, any sign that the demon had completed its resurrection.  But he couldn’t see a thing, and finally gave up, concentrating instead on John.

The young man’s hands and arms were moving swiftly through a bizarre series of patterns, creating shapes and rhythms unlike any Harry had ever seen.  They were certainly nothing like the ones he’d performed in the grip of the trance the night before.  Instead, these motions were more violent, evoking a sense of destruction, of ejection, of forcing something away.

But the expression on John’s face was what truly held Harry’s attention.  John’s brow was furled into a tight line of concentration, his eyes fixed straight ahead, filled with determination.  His jaw squared, he mouthed the words that would hold the demon in place.  And beneath it all, underneath the strength and ambition, there seemed to be an enigmatic hint of detachment.

Clearly, the ritual itself held some unknown power over the one who performed it, as if the words, once begun, set themselves into motion.  Hopefully, they would not be stopped until the rite had been completed.

John retrieved the bag of gray powder, one hand curled over it as if its power could be physically manipulated.  He closed his eyes, a new litany rising from his lips.

From the pit, the beast began to emerge.  Its huge head rose into view first, its sunken eyes glaring at its enemies.  Its face was even more horrifying than Harry had feared, its features etched into the ancient wood like the image from his darkest nightmare.

Harry took a step back, his blood suddenly running cold, his breath freezing in his throat.  John seemed unaware of the tupilaq’s advance, his eyes still tightly closed.  He remained perfectly still, the bag of powder held reverently to his chest.

One of the beast’s huge hands rose out of the mist, its claws tearing at the frozen earth at the edge of the pit, digging deep furrows into the cavern floor as it tried to pull itself up, out of its grave.

John’s eyes opened, his gaze hard and unwavering.  He let the top of the bag fall open in his palm, digging into it with his free hand.  He withdrew a tight fistful of the glittering sand and held it out before him like a weapon.

“Kaja suh n’hola,” he muttered, his eyes rising to meet the fierce gaze of the reanimated tupilaq.  “Koja bolh malaqua jhe t’e.”

He raised his arm and flung the handful of powder towards the tupilaq, unleashing it in a blue-gray swirl of dust that seemed terribly inadequate in the shadow of Jha-Laman’s creation.

Harry took a second step backward, suddenly sure the handful of dust was going to fall far short of the tupilaq’s body.  He’d seen what the sand had done to the Jhe-rhatta; he couldn’t deny that its magic was real.  But if it didn’t reach the beast, what good could it do?

He was about to put voice to his fear, to tell John to try again, but the cloud of powder began to spread out upon the air, riding an unseen current directly towards the rising demon.  It whirled in the air like a living thing, settling over the tupilaq’s head and shoulders like the finest of snows.