If he could make it back toward the mines he’d investigated yesterday—it seemed so long ago!—perhaps he could locate the cavern Jules Cryor had mentioned, the one with the tunnels and passages that went on for miles.
An ideal home for a dragon, one would think.
He had a good idea where the cavern wasn’t, which would narrow his search. The last place the dragon would look for him would be in its own lair—or so he hoped. The last thing that old lizard would be expecting was a victim on the offense.
That stoked Steve’s fires. Sure. Why be only the hunted? I’ll do some hunting myself!
He breathed one more little prayer—boy, it could get to be a habit—and carefully wriggled out from under the debris. He looked up at the ceiling of stars stretched between the mountain ridges. The stars were clear and bright, seeming so much closer in the clean mountain air. He looked for the Big Dipper, and from there found the North Star. From that he verified the most direct route to the summit of Saddlehorse.
But . . . hey, what was this?
Now here was luck. Over on the west side of the starry canopy, the stars were jiggling to one side in sequence as if an unseen object were giving each a little nudge as it passed by. Steve kept watching, training his eyes as the phenomenon continued. He could imagine the sky as a star-patterned blanket with a small animal crawling under it, creating a hump that moved along under the stars, making them rise and then subside. Incredible!
Soon he was able to discern the dragon’s flying shape, like a huge circling buzzard, high above the draw, gliding, circling, following the ridge on one side and then the ridge on the other.
Reconnaissance, no doubt. Wide sweeps.
He had to smile. That thing had lost him and didn’t know his intentions.
Well! I’m one up on him! Now if I can just keep it that way . . .
DOUG ELLIS strode over to Elmer McCoy’s big flatbed truck and yanked the driver’s door open; Kyle Figgin, passionately embracing Carlotta Nelson, almost fell out. “What do you think you’re doing? You’re supposed to be watching this roadblock!”
Kyle grabbed the steering wheel to steady himself. “I’m watching it!”
“Get down out of there, both of you!”
Kyle clambered down from the cab under Doug’s glaring eye. Carlotta followed.
Doug shook his head and pointed at Kyle’s chest. “Man, look at you!”
Kyle glanced down and saw the slick, black stain on the front of his shirt. He immediately turned to Carlotta. “Look what you did to me!”
She touched the front of her blouse, now stained black, and the slime came off on her fingers. Now it was her turn to be outraged. “Look what you did to me!”
“I didn’t do it!”
“You did too!”
Doug broke in and grabbed Kyle’s arm. “Come on. We’ve got to move this roadblock. Some people are getting out of here.”
Kyle jerked his arm away. “Don’t you push me around!”
“Then get moving!”
“I’ll move when I feel like it!”
Doug grabbed him again and helped him move whether he felt like it or not. Kyle came back swinging. Doug only had to swing once.
Now Kyle glared up at him from the ground. “You’re dead meat, Ellis!”
“You smell like dead meat!” Doug retorted.
Kyle immediately glared at Carlotta, blame in his eyes.
“Don’t look at me!” she yelled.
Doug yanked Kyle to his feet. “Come on. You move the bus. I’ll move the truck.”
MRS. DORNING, the widow on the south end of town, hardly had time to mourn her broken birdbath and painted animals before Carl Ingfeldt and four other men showed up at her door.
“What is it?” she asked, standing at her door in her bathrobe.
Carl managed to sound informed. “Ma’am, the company has determined your home to be in violation of the new, retroactive setback laws. You’ll have to vacate the premises so we can tear it down.”
UP THE STREET, Andy Schuller and his buddies were going through Levi Cobb’s garage and also his apartment upstairs, looking for anything they could salvage before somebody else did. Levi’s tools vanished quickly enough. A binder left on the workbench drew little interest. It was tossed into a big waste can in the search for more useful items.
IN THE TAVERN, Harold Bly had scribbled out a list of names, then added more names as they came to mind.
“Dorning’s packing,” Bernie reported.
He crossed her name off. “All right, now. Who else? Who else? What about the Nelsons?”
“Andy was wondering what excuse to use.”
“He doesn’t need an excuse!” Bly said angrily. “I own that house, and I want them out! Simple enough!”
“Okay, okay.”
“Anybody else?”
Paul offered, “I think the Hazeletts ought to go.”
Bly drew a blank. “Hazeletts, Hazeletts . . . Who are they?”
“New family. They make jewelry and polish rocks, stuff like that.”
Bly looked at Paul questioningly, waiting for more information.
“Uh—their business card has a little fish symbol on it,” Paul said.
Bly nodded, writing down their name. “If they aren’t trouble now, they will be. Take them out.”
Paul went out to pass the word.
BELOW SADDLEHORSE, along a secluded stretch of the Hyde River, a breeze kicked up. It bent the tall grass along the riverbank and made the birch leaves tremble; it wrinkled the surface of the placid water with a thousand little ridges.
Then it ceased, and there was calm again.
On a gravel spit in the middle of the river, the dragon crouched, its belly, neck, and tail resting on the rocks, its weight so distributed and its touch so light it would not leave behind a discernible mark. It folded its wings, then relaxed its scales. The camouflage flickered out, and it became fully visible, a long, serpentine lizard stretched out flat on the sand and stone in the dim starlight.
It lay still, licking the air with slow, deliberate strokes of its tongue, quietly sniffing at the cool currents of air moving down the slopes and down the river valley. The golden eyes studied the surrounding mountain slopes, down one side and then up the far-reaching flanks of Saddlehorse.
Then the dragon settled into the gravel and became as gravel.
It could no longer feel the soiled spirit of its quarry, so it waited, continually listening, sampling for scents, listening for sounds, watching with eyes that now had the dull brown look of boulders.
MAYBE THERE really was a God, Steve thought. If there was, He was getting a prayer of thanks from Steve Benson right now.
All the way up the slopes of Saddlehorse, Steve had tried to move as the dragon would move, staying close to the ground and carefully sneaking through the forest. Apparently it had worked, for he reached the south crest of the mountain alive and, as far as he knew, undetected. He’d gotten his bearings from his previous exploration and, figuring the dragon would never lure him to its actual home, pushed farther in the opposite direction from that first cave, down and around the south slope, around the base of a cliff—and straight to pay dirt.
As he dropped to his belly in the meadow grass among the rocks, a peculiar sense of relief trickled through the terror. At last, something had gone right.
The opening was only a few yards above him, hidden by shadows, rock outcroppings and fallen boulders. It was small—too small to be the cavern’s main entrance, but the smell drifting down the slope was as good as a signpost.
He’d found the dragon’s lair.
Twenty
THE DRAGON’S LAIR
STEVE TRIED to act like the dragon again as he moved stealthily up the slope, through the meadow grass and the scattered rock outcroppings toward the ominous little portal in the rock. He paused at the threshold to gather any information his nose and ears might bring him. There was no sound, but he could smell the distinct odor of death drifti
ng up from the black depths. His hand went to the left breast pocket of his shirt. He unbuttoned the flap and dug out his trusty disposable lighter, his tool for lighting campfires and just about the only piece of camping gear he still had with him. Maybe this was God again; he didn’t know. He had no food, no firearms, no coat, not even a compass, but he still had his lighter!
He extended his arm inside the opening before flicking the lighter and took his first look down a jagged, angular passage that dropped gradually and then turned a corner about ten feet down. This was obviously not the main entrance to the cavern, for it was too small, just a breach in the rock, or perhaps an old lava vent. It was big enough to accommodate him, however, so he slipped inside.
The lighter’s fuel supply was limited, so he flicked the lighter intermittently, just enough to give him an idea of what was below, then groped his way down, feeling with hands, feet, and backside. Flick, see, crawl. Flick, see, crawl.
The tunnel steepened. He extended his feet and arms to the sides of the walls to hold himself in place and not slip downward.
He progressed a few more feet. The air was cool and dank now. His clothing, wet from the creek and most recently from sweat, was beginning to chill him. He was breathing hard, either from the exertion or from sheer anxiety. He couldn’t avoid the sensation that he was going down the dragon’s throat.
With both hands and his left foot anchored, he reached down with his right foot. He could not find a foothold.
Flick. He could see his foot below him in the yellow light, but nothing beyond it. He moved the lighter closer, bending almost double in the tunnel to see what was below.
The shaft was nearly vertical from this point downward, like a crooked chimney. He would have to inch his way down, foothold by foothold, spanning the shaft with his arms and legs.
He groped about in empty space with his right foot until it finally came to rest on a one-inch lip of rock. Then with his left foot he located another lip. He lowered his body down, inch by precious inch, pushing against the opposite wall with his arms to keep his back tight against the rocks.
Flick. A few more inches, a few more footholds. Sometimes he had to span the shaft with a foot on either side; sometimes he planted his behind on an available ledge, holding himself there with his feet planted against the opposite wall.
The shaft stretched into blackness above him now, curling and zigzagging out of sight. He’d descended about forty feet—not far for an elevator or a flight of stairs, but more than far enough under the circumstances, Steve thought. When he found a good combination of foothold on one side and ledge for his fanny on the other, he stopped to rest, feel, and listen.
The smell of death was stronger now; the air felt thick, heavy, and unmoving. He could sense an open expanse below him. Perhaps the shaft opened into a room.
Flick. He looked down past his feet.
Something was looking up at him.
He thought he’d been scared so often that terror had become a given, but this sight made him jump anyway, and he almost dropped the lighter. He stiffened his legs, clamping himself in the narrow passage, then sat there in total darkness again, shaking, heart racing, the lighter clenched in his fist.
What he had seen was a human skull.
After a minute or two, he calmed down enough to have another look. Flicking on the lighter, he was able to confirm it was a human skull, about ten feet below him, jaw slack so the face seemed to be laughing. It lay among other bones, scattered about on the cave floor like driftwood on a beach.
Steve continued his downward trek. The shaft was opening up, curving sideways into a larger room. Now some fallen rocks provided footing, and Steve stepped carefully from one down to the next, gaining a wider perspective of the cave floor the lower he went.
He could see that skull, still laughing . . .
Then he could see another just a few feet away, on its side with no jawbone . . .
Steve’s feet finally came to rest on the sandy floor. He held the lighter above his head and kept the flame burning.
He’d landed in hell.
As far as the feeble flame could cast its light, he saw human bones and skulls. They littered the rock shelves, the ledges, the crevices. They lay among the broken stones, they clustered in the recesses and hollows, they piled layer upon layer upon the floor. Most were dry, aged, fading to the color of the sand. But some were fresh and white, picked clean but for a few blackening shreds of sinew and tendon.
Like trophies. A century of them.
Steve released the little lever, and the lighter went out. He welcomed the darkness. It veiled, at least for a moment, the horror stretched out before him. He felt he could hide in it, as a child hides under his bed covers, and for a long moment he stayed right there, regrouping, trying to comprehend the scene.
So this is where they end up, he thought. Charlie’s here someplace. And Maggie. And Vic.
And Cliff.
Their final destination.
An eerie vision broke into his mind as he stood there in the dark. He could imagine Charlie’s Tavern and Mercantile in Hyde River, full of townspeople. Harold Bly was there in his usual spot, Andy and his buddies were shooting pool, some teens were hammering away at the video games, Bernie was hustling the steaks, Melinda was taking orders, Paul was watching the television over the bar . . .
Then they were skeletons. Even while they ate the food, drank the beer, played the games, laughed it up, and talked about anything and everything, they were dead. Nothing but bones.
Soon they would be in this place. They would be like these people. Then again, weren’t they like these people even now? Dead while they lived? What was the difference, other than time?
For the people now lying at Steve’s feet, the time had run out.
For the people of Hyde River, who could say? Maybe today, maybe tomorrow . . .
But all were bound for the same end: dry bones and dragon manure.
Steve felt a particular chill. Before the night was over, Tracy would be here. In time, so would he.
He could hear the murmur of the bones: As you are, we once were; as we are, you soon will be.
His hand went to his heart. The welt had widened and was raw to the touch. It was his ticket to this place.
I’m standing in hell. I’m seeing my future, and it’s not that different from my present. I’m doomed even as I live, which means there’s no point to living, so why live, why struggle, why prolong my existence?
He clamped his hands around his head, afraid his mind would vaporize through his skull. Get a grip, Steve! Come on! Control!
There had to be a way out of here—in terms of destiny and in immediate terms. He had to remind himself, rather forcefully, that he was here because he was on the offense, looking for a way, any way, to turn this thing around. He had to press on.
He built up his determination, braced himself, and then flicked the lighter. “Come on, Benson, let’s go,” he told himself.
He set out, walking upon the bones because there was no other surface to walk upon. Each step he took was unsure. The bones twisted, rolled, and crunched under his feet. Several times he thought he would lose his balance and go down. To his right, the bones were spread evenly like bedding on a wide ledge. The dragon’s bed, he figured. It made sense. That lizard was death; it loved death; therefore, it slept with death.
The light began to reach the far wall of the room, and he thought he could make out a vast, dark passage beyond that. Putting one foot carefully in front of the other, he headed that direction.
He saw a glint of metal and held the flame lower. A gold necklace. He began to spot other such relics of the past: watches, jewelry, buttons, gold coins, even an old derringer.
Information: The dragon digested any flesh, muscle, and probably some clothing. He was unable to digest bones and metallic objects, which he apparently regurgitated in this room.
That meant he’d be back to this spot before long with one more skeleton to unload. It
could have been two.
Don’t dwell on it! Just keep moving!
Steve tried to hurry. He had to know where the cavern went, where the entrance was. He was almost across the room now. He could see a sizable tunnel leading up and out.
Another metallic glint caught his eye.
Eyeglasses. He stooped to pick them up and recognized the same, thick lenses, the cockeyed misalignment of the temples. These glasses had belonged to Charlie Mack.
He looked around the area, hoping he would not see a skull he could recognize. He didn’t, and he was glad, but he knew Charlie’s bones had to be here among the others.
There were other items around: belt buckles, earrings . . .
And an old hat. It was weathered, with a wide, drooping brim. He recognized it. He picked it up and examined it closely. There was no doubt.
The hat had belonged to Jules Cryor.
Steve thought he could hold steady, but his strength failed him; he teetered, and then fell among the bones, the hat in his hand. The lighter went out, and the darkness closed in around him.
Live and let live, Cryor had said. Leave the dragon alone and he’ll leave you alone. I never bother him so he never bothers me. It sounded like a nice philosophy, but now Cryor was here with the others.
If there was a rational way to process all this, he could not find it. The pragmatic mind of the university professor refused to function down here. He wasn’t just close to death, he was surrounded by it, immersed in it, and as loudly as his heart cried for an answer, his mind could not provide one. He was in hell. There was no other word for it.
“Oh, Lord,” he prayed, “there’s got to be a way out of here.” His eyes were burning with tears. “You can’t let this happen!”
He flicked the lighter and saw that he wasn’t far from the tunnel. It just might be his way out of there.
He tossed Jules Cryor’s hat back among the bones, got his bearings, and started out again, taking one teetering step after another, from bone to bone. Finally, he stepped from bones to soft sand, the actual floor of the cavern. He was to the other side of the “trophy room” and could see into the far tunnel. The dragon’s footprints and the groove left by its dragging tail were evident. He should be able to follow them to the main entrance. It would be a gradual climb, with plenty of headroom, a welcome change.