Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(87)
Pavel continued to back up, slowly, one step at a time.
“Jesus,” murmured Gannon. “Oh, Jesus…”
She could see, through the monitor, that Moller was still standing a few paces ahead, frozen in place. But it lasted only a second. Moller spun around, dropping the camera, an expression of unadulterated horror on his face, his eyes literally protruding from his skull. He opened his mouth and a scream tore through the mephitic air; a hideous, gargling, wet scream as he tried to run, the muck tripping him up. He went down out of the camera’s field of vision, the great dark thing covering his back. Betts, ten feet behind Moller, whirled in an effort to get away—but he, too, lost his balance in the mud, falling forward while grunting like a terrified sow. Pavel also turned and ran, the Steadicam swinging wildly on its harness.
With a gasp of fear, Gannon stumbled backward, trying frantically to unbuckle the monitor from its harness, desperate to rid herself of the deadweight. Everyone around her was scrambling to get away, dumping their equipment, and turning to flee—as a great gust of dank, oily air issued from the mouth of the tunnel and a huge shape came beating out, rushing toward them, demon wings spreading like a cape, voices screaming in terror and agony.
60
WELLSTONE, HIDING BEHIND THE crypt at the entrance to the tomb’s lower level, was growing concerned. Moller and Betts, followed by a camera operator, had entered the tunnel, but because it seemed to both descend and make a turn, they were soon out of sight. There was no way he could get closer without revealing himself, so he had to be content with filming the crew that was left behind. That included the DP, who had refused to go in the tunnel—and no wonder, considering the foul mud that puddled its floor and the stench it emitted. But that was no impediment to Betts and Moller; they were like bloodhounds on a scent.
It looked like he wasn’t going to be able to record the final act of whatever it was Moller had planned. It clearly involved the phony camera, which Moller had been clutching as he went in. Wellstone already had enough footage to prove this was all a staged bit of hocus-pocus. But missing the chance to record the finale was annoying.
As he watched the three disappear around the curve of the tunnel, he paused, finger on the shutter release. Even if he wanted to document more, his second memory card was just about maxed out. As he crouched in his hiding place, he felt a mixture of emotions—excitement, disbelief, and fear. No: fear was too strong a word. He was growing uneasy. And no wonder. He couldn’t wait to get the hell out of this dark and desecrated vault. Maybe he already had enough footage. It wouldn’t be a disaster to get caught now, and possibly searched or even abused by that muscle-bound goon. Although, he had to admit, the guy was looking pretty sweaty and nervous at the moment. It was always the tough guys who cracked first.
He heard a muffled sound from the tunnel, like a wheezing bagpipe. He quickly readied his camera: maybe he’d get a chance for a decent shot after all. The noise was quickly followed by another, much louder—a scream and a powerful beating sound that shook the tomb. What was going on? But then his fear, which had spiked, settled as he understood: Moller’s show was beginning. He heard another scream. Now the DP at the mouth of the tunnel was backing up in fear. Suddenly, she turned and tore off her monitor and harness, while the rest of the crew scattered to a chorus of shouts and screams, running pell-mell for the steps.
What the hell?
At that moment a dark shape exploded out of the tunnel mouth with a great rush of foul air, so large that its leathery wings scraped the walls. It lit upon the scrambling muscleman, grabbing him and forcing him to the floor of the tomb with an unfolding of those monstrous wings.
Wellstone couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe; he felt exactly as if he were in a nightmare, his limbs paralyzed, his body frozen. The creature’s huge, rugose body was topped with a tiny head, which looked like a mosquito’s, with bulbous compound eyes. A tube covered in bristles protruded outward from the head, sliding in and out, its point stabbing spasmodically this way and that.
The creature held the muscleman in place with crablike, hairy pincers attached to bristly pads. The roving tube—spasming in and out—homed in on a spot on the man’s leg. Suddenly, it buried itself deep in the man’s upper thigh. As his awful screeching echoed through the tomb, there was a wet sucking sound, deep and rhythmic. The creature’s wings settled down over the body, covering it like a blanket, and the screaming abruptly ceased.
Seconds later—although time no longer mattered to Wellstone—the sucking noise stopped and the creature was up again, leaving the desiccated remains of the muscleman behind. With a burst of speed, it snatched another member of the crew, ripping her in two pieces as easily as twisting a loaf of bread, blood and viscera spewing out like a bursting tomato.
Wellstone’s vision grew obscured. After a moment, he realized it was his own hand, held out protectively before his face. Some atavistic impulse took over, his muscles relaxed, and he sank down behind the broken crypt, curling up like a fetus, trying to make no noise, motionless, his body on autopilot. He heard the screams, the heavy beating of those awful wings, the sounds of tearing meat, of alien suction; he smelled the humid, burning-rubber stench of rushing wind as it passed over him.
And then the beating faded; the sounds died away; there was silence. And absolute darkness.
Time passed.
Then Wellstone found that he was crawling on his hands and knees in the darkness, tears running from his eyes and snot from his nose. He encountered something wet and sticky and, with no guidance from himself, his body slipped around it. One hand found a worn stone step and, unbidden, his body pulled itself closer: up the step, then the next, then the next. A faint gleam of light now was visible above, and his body moved toward it.