The Lower Deep (38 page)

Then all at once there were seaborne creatures that were not fish, although they, too, glided all about him, apparently curious and eager to inspect him. Those who swam up close to his face were unbelievably ugly and frightening. Their round, unblinking eyes were lenses through which he felt he was a specimen being examined. Their mouth openings were smaller versions of the awesome tiger-shark jaws he had encountered earlier. And even at this depth, where colors should be neutralized to shades of gray, these marine monsters were an unreal, hideous green all over.

The sea here, just above this eerie underwater jungle of coral formations, was their home, it seemed. The water was full of them wherever he looked. There must be hundreds of them. His hope of escape fled, with terror rushing in to fill the void. And now the creatures were herding him along like a captive being led to slaughter.

Vaguely, despite his fear, he was aware that the two naked human shapes ahead of him had turned toward a black opening in the coral. Was it the cave Mendoza had talked about? The end of the journey?

He turned his head and saw that Dannie, too, was surrounded by an escort of horrors. With her a few yards behind him, he was forced to follow Mendoza and Alice into the opening. And, yes, it was a huge undersea room or hall or tunnel. And he remembered spending a Sunday once with some of his St. Joe fishermen friends, exploring a wild labyrinth of caves at a place called Terre Noir.

He remembered how the fishermen had begun the adventure in high spirits, laughing and joking as they pushed on with torches and flashlights into that eerie underworld. And then as time passed, their jokes had dried up and their high spirits succumbed to an onslaught of gut-wrenching terror. Something about that mysterious underworld had been too much for them, even though as St. Joe fishermen they risked their lives daily in flimsy boats and thought nothing of it.

He, George Benson, had not been afraid that day, at least not to that degree. Apprehensive at times, yes, thinking how easy it would be to become lost or suffer an injury. But certainly not terrified.

Now, though, he was. Now while swimming deeper and deeper into this awesome undersea
cavern, with a ceiling above him and twisted walls of coral on both sides, and an escort of nonhuman horrors all around him . . . now he was so full of raw fear he could taste it, as though the contents of his stomach had gone rancid and were erupting into his mouth.

Yes, he was afraid. For himself, and even more for the woman he saw close behind him when he turned his head.

Neither of them would ever make it back, he knew now. Not as normal human beings, anyway. Certainly not as lovers. This was a one-way journey for them both. A journey to oblivion, perhaps in some hideous form. Empty of hope, he faced forward again and mechanically followed his captors on into the submarine darkness, aware that he was deep in the cave now and the walls of the passage were closing in on him. The ceiling was lower, too.

Suddenly in his helplessness he felt like a child again, first wanting to cry, then to pray. Almost frantically he tried to recall some of the prayers he had learned at the Mississippi church to which his mother had dragged him every Sunday while his father sat at home and drank beer. How long was this seemingly endless passage, anyway? Would it lead to a series of chambers as tunnels in ordinary caves usually did? Mendoza had said a whole colony of uglies dwelt here, hadn't he? So there would have to be more than just a passage.

Yes . . . it was widening again. The ceiling was rising. He could see some sort of chamber ahead, apparently a big one . . .

Suddenly at his side appeared another naked shape, matching strokes with his. And with less than a foot of water between them, this one turned its face toward him and sent him a message.

Surely and quietly its voice said to George's mind, "Go back up, George Benson. Turn around, take your lady, and try for the boat up there!"

G
eorge stopped dead in the water and watched
in amazement as the swimmer went on by. Recognition was instantaneous: the new-comer, was Paul Henninger from the alcoholics' place, not now an out-of-shape fat man but surely the Henninger of other days who had won acclaim as an athlete.

In a kind of harness or sheath on the Belgian's broad back was a tool or weapon of some kind, but he did not draw it. As he propelled himself toward Juan Mendoza, something seemed to happen to him. A kind of madness appeared to possess him. All at once he was blood brother to the tiger shark that had rushed at George earlier.

Mendoza whirled to face him, and the two came together in a fury of exploding water. But the Cu
ban, too, was an athlete, with resources yet untested. His loyalty to his sea-dwelling masters obviously gave him super strength.

Twisting in Henninger's grip, he raked the older man's face with a slashing hand, then tore himself free and streaked back through the tunnel's gloom toward George.

Too late George realized the man's intent and tried to escape. Shark-quick, the Cuban shot past to cut him off. The maneuver left George floundering, and the other was quick to take advantage of his confusion. An arm strong as a wire cable encircled George's neck. Another wrapped itself around his waist, turning him to form a living shield as Henninger at last substituted sense for the madness of moral outrage and reached for the harness on his back.

Held in a vise of two arms, George saw the weapon as the Belgian uncased it. A spear gun? He knew little about such devices. For him, fishing had always been a way to make a living, not a sporting event. But it was an underwater spear gun of some sort, obviously, and the missile was a sharp-pointed shaft.

Henninger took aim with it, and George felt himself cringe, fearing the spear would bury itself in him and not in the man who held him.

He saw something else, then. Behind Henninger the dark water of the cave was in motion, or things were moving in it—more of the same green horrors that had met Mendoza and Alice and Dannie and himself at the cavern's mouth and escorted them into this fantastic undersea world. His mind screamed out a warning to Henninger, and the latter turned briefly to cast a backward glance. Then the Belgian hurled a thought at George.

"Never mind those things! You and your lady can escape them, George. Don't be afraid. I'm not alone here—Agoué is with me, giving me strength. I'm going to start counting. When I reach three, spin yourself around with all your might and put Mendoza between us. Ready?"

So far as George could make out, the creatures in the horde advancing on Henninger were the same as the others—they might have been human once, at least in form, but had evolved into monstrosities. Oh, good Christ, he thought, they're going to take him. He can't get away this time; there are too many of them.

And behind those were others, perhaps hundreds more, pouring out of the cavern's inner recesses to recapture or destroy the man who had earlier escaped from them.

"Ready?" Henninger projected.

"Yes. I'll try."

"One! I'm counting, George. Use all your strength; you've got to turn him. Two! With Agoué's help we can do it, George. I called on him before I came down here. Have faith, George! You must have faith!"

The drums, George thought. The drums he had heard earlier tonight while being led to Anse Douce by Alice. Of course. A service to Agoué in Henninger's behalf.

"Three!"

The sea creatures themselves must have been responsible in part for what happened. Watching them as they closed in on the man with the gun,
Juan Mendoza must have thought his moment of peril was past. His stranglehold on George relaxed a little just as George, calling on all his physical and mental strength, spun himself around like a drill-bit in the water.

The spear streaked from the gun. Fired high because George pulled the Cuban down in turning him, it buried itself not in the broad target of Mendoza's back but in the back of his neck. As he lost his grip on George and doubled up in agony, twisting and turning in the water-filled tunnel, George saw his mouth open wide in a shriek. When the sea gushed out again after its inward rush through his throat, it was scarlet.

Down the Cuban went in his last bizarre imitation of a ballet dancer, looping and twisting while George watched in a paralysis of fascination. Then came a command from Paul Henninger to jar him back to the urgency of the moment.

"Get out of here, George, for God's sake! Go up to the boat!"

George looked toward his rescuer again and saw not a man with a spear gun but a figure hopelessly trapped. The former soccer player struggled to defend himself against uncountable green horrors whose already frightful faces had become masks of fury. But there were too many of them. He had no chance at all.

Frantic to offer help even while knowing he could not, George stroked toward the turmoil, only to be stopped again by the doomed man's thoughts.

"You can't help me, George! Not even Agoué can help me now! Take your lady and go!"

George stopped, torn between loyalties.

"Go!" Henninger screamed. "The moment they've subdued me, they'll be after you. Go, I tell you!"

With a weeping inside him, George turned away and looked for Dannie. And for Alice. In the past five minutes of nightmare that seemed to have lasted a lifetime, he had forgotten about Alice!

But she had not been inactive. Ten yards distant she held Dannie helpless by a wrist, and as he looked toward them his wife snarled a thought at him.

"You may get away, George, though I doubt it. But you won't be taking her with you! She stays here in the cave!"

"Let her go," George fumed.

"Just try to make me, George. This is my world, not yours. Watch." She did something to Dannie's wrist—twisted it with abnormal strength, apparently—and as her victim writhed in pain, Alice's projected thought took on a note of derision.

"You see, George? Come and try me!"

George sent a desperate message. "Dannie, can you hear me?"

Faintly, as from far away, came a reply. "Yes . . ."

"One chance." He turned his head to look back at the eerie struggle still going on behind him where Paul Henninger fought the horde of uglies. "She can't stand anyone touching her breasts, Dannie. Never could. Get hold of her there when I come in. Use all your strength. You hear?"

"Yes, George, I hear."

"It's our only chance. Make the most of it!"

"Oh, God, George, yes. I'll do my best!"

He sent his next thought to Alice in a snarling challenge that had to startle her, had to make her relax her grip on Dannie for a moment. "All right, Alice, I
will
try you, God damn you! Maybe you've already noticed your power over me is fading now that Mendoza is dead. Have you noticed that, you bitch? Have you?"

Yes, her power was waning. He had sensed it. And no doubt it was because the source of that power, her mentor, was now dead. But she was his mentor, George suddenly realized—his and Dannie's—and he could feel his own resources draining away as Alice weakened. How much time had he?

And Dannie—what about Dannie? Would she have enough strength left to do her part?

He found he could pray, after all. Dear God, give us just a few seconds more . . . please

With the prayer he called on the last of his waning energy and flung himself forward. "Now, Dannie, now! Do it!"

Dannie twisted herself in the water and grabbed with her free hand at a naked breast. Her nails dug deep and drew blood. The grip on her captured wrist went limp as the woman who hated to have her breasts even touched tried frantically to break away.

Dannie let go of the breast and pushed herself clear. Like an attacking shark, George shot past her to his target.

The edge of his right hand took his wife across the front of her arching neck as she struggled to regain her balance. He struck again and felt some
thing crack in her throat. Her mouth jerked open and a look of surprise showed briefly on her face as she stopped struggling.

Slowly, feet first, with the expression of surprise turning to one of agony, Alice sank toward the tunnel floor.

Reaching for Dannie's hand, George again looked back at Henninger and the green horrors. That battle continued, but the outcome was certain. There were even more of the uglies now, and still others arriving. The water seethed with them.

The soccer player's voice, reaching George, was now barely audible. "Hurry, George Benson. For God's sake, hurry. I can't keep these things occupied much longer . . ."

Was Henninger, too, becoming weaker? It seemed so. Mendoza had been his mentor, too, hadn't he? And with the Cuban dead, perhaps the sea creatures' whole plan was now collapsing. George sent only one more message before turning away for the last time. It was a simple, heartfelt, "Thank you, Paul." Then, side by side, Dannie and he made for the cave mouth, with George praying they might reach it before their strength deserted them altogether.