The Big Reap (13 page)

Ten paces down the tunnel, and I could no longer hear my companions. Twenty paces, and I felt alone as I had ever been, my fellow travelers a distant memory. Earth pressed in all around me. Dry dirt like cake crumbles left in an empty pan crunched beneath my feet. My tunnel smelled like a fresh grave. The air was stale and close and hard to breathe. A twinge of claustrophobia I didn't realize I suffered from until just this moment wound its way up my spine like a millipede with needle-legs. I wondered idly if I could blame Solares for the sensation, some phobias are strong enough for sense-memory to trigger physiological reactions even in the absence of the consciousness that created them. I've possessed dead meat-suits that still got woozy at the sight of blood, or skin-crawly at the sight of bugs. But Solares wasn't dead, and in an experience that proved a first for me I got the distinct impression he was laughing at me for trying to pass the buck at what apparently was my fear and mine alone.

I've had meat-suits wail and scream and cry and beg, but he's the first I've ever had one get cheeky.

I pressed onward. The quiet between footfalls was so very, I began to jump at nothing. The subtle shift of my gun strap against my shoulder. The brittle crunch of gravel beneath my feet. The burst of static from the radio as my reluctant scouts checked in – every ten light bulbs, just like we agreed. I made that distance out to be no more than fifty yards, though the twisting of the narrow wood-ribbed tunnels ensured you could never see more than two or three bulbs ahead at a time. They sounded off with just their names, two Alvarezes for every one Mendoza or Castillo. Kid was trying to get through and into open air as fast as he could manage, and I couldn't blame him. But his fear did more than make him quick. It made him sloppy, inattentive, which is to say I wasn't terribly surprised when he failed to check in.

At first, I confess, I thought nothing of it. I figured maybe he'd just slowed. But then Castillo checked in twice, and then Mendoza, but still no Alvarez. So I closed my eyes, stretched my consciousness, and felt nothing where he should have been.

So, okay: dead, you're thinking. And you damn sure aren't wrong. But that's only the half of it. I spend most of my time inhabiting the recent dead. Collector juju's strong enough to restart halted hearts, and to shake the meat of mortis, rigor and livor both. So when I say I reached out and felt nothing, that meant more than Alvarez just being dead.

That means something took him apart so thoroughly, he no longer registered as viable. And that something managed to do so in a span of minutes. Not to mention it was on him quick enough that, jumpy though he was, he never managed to so much as trigger a burst of static from his radio. I hadn't heard any gunfire, either, but I had no idea if down here the sound would carry.

Two minutes later I got my answer. It sounded like distant fireworks. The grand finale, seemed like, when they launch all the stuff they've got left at once. I figured that for Castillo – he of the two autos locked and loaded – a guess that was confirmed when Mendoza took to the radio, calling out to him in rapid-fire Spanish. Solares filled me in on the gist, which I could have guessed – Mendoza was demanding to know Castillo's position. Mendoza spoke with the breathlessness of a smoker suddenly exerting himself. I knew at once he was headed toward the artery Castillo had chosen as his own, either by backtracking, or through one of the secondary tunnels.

Lucky for me, I wasn't limited to such earthbound modes of transportation. Not when I had a meat-suit to lock onto, and an approximate location in which to look.

I closed Solares' eyes and probed the darkness for the spark of life that was Castillo. It took longer than if I'd had a better fix on his location. I hoped it hadn't taken too. I hurled my consciousness at him with all I had, and when my eyes next opened, they were no longer Solares's, but Castillo's.

The sharp reek of kerosene. My lantern, shattered beneath me, glass biting skin. I was on the ground, face pressed to dirt. A hard metal rod beneath my cheek, searing hot. Castillo's recently fired gun barrel, blistering a brand into his cheek that will last him until his dying day. Which may well be upon him, come to think.

I vomited – possession reflex. Then I rolled over, and blinked against the dark. It was near me. I could hear it breathing, low and wet and oh so patient. But as I cast about in search of my quarry – my prey turned predator – I could not see it. There was a faint glow behind me to the west, toward the bar, toward Mexico. Nothing but pure black headed east.

Something shuffled in the eastern darkness. I patted the ground around me, trying to arm myself. Castillo's handgun was nowhere to be found, nor was his second rifle. One borrowed shoulder was wet and burning, the corresponding arm cold and numb, my mind dull and slow to focus.

I grabbed the gun beneath me – the one that had seared Castillo's cheek – and checked it for ammo, or tried. Couldn't make my numb arm do anything I told it to. Pop the magazine, I said. Work the slide to check the chamber. But it wouldn't.

Spacey as I was, it took me a sec to realize why.

Working the slide was hard to do from twenty feet away.

Castillo's other arm lay in the faint half-light to the west. Palm down, and trailing gore at the shoulder, all wormy blood vessels and gleaming flat, white tendons. Still twitching, it seemed to me, but that could have been my vision jumping with every mutinous heartbeat, every pump hastening this meat-suit's death.

That's why the creature wasn't striking. It didn't have to. It could just wait out the clock and feast on food that wouldn't fight back.

“Coward,” I called into the darkness.

The darkness hissed. I heard a rustle, and caught a flash of movement, too fast to track. When I glanced once more back toward Castillo's severed arm, I discovered it was gone. Slurping noises filled the manmade cavern, like a hobo eating soup.

“I know what you are,” I said.

Another hiss, a voice like rusted hinges. “You know nothing.”

“I know you were once a Collector, just like me. I know you're an abomination who feasts on blood and brain and God knows what else to fuel your bastard half-existence. And most importantly, I know you can be killed.”

“You lie.” A nauseating pop as Castillo's elbow-joint separated, and then a sucking noise like a baby with a bottle. But this thing was no one's baby, and it sure as hell wasn't drinking mother's milk.

“I don't.”

“If I could be killed, I assure you my beloved mountain cousins would have found a way. They begrudge me my appetites, as if their method of procuring sustenance is any more humane. As if the very word humane applies to such misbegotten souls as we. They cast me out as they cast out poor Ricou so many centuries ago. Ever since, I've been forced to contend with the crushing loneliness of exile – and an endless diet of Mexican.”

“Yeah, I bet it's hell on the digestive system,” I said, gritting my teeth against the ice-cream-on-exposed-nerve ache that built with every heartbeat in my shoulder. “And anyway, I never said that
they
could kill you, but
I
sure as hell can. You could ask your brother Simon if you don't believe me, but you might find him a little hard to get a hold of at this point, seeing as he's dead and all.”

At the mention of Magnusson, the creature in the dark went silent, and its breathing quickened. I couldn't tell if it was fear, or merely anticipation of a meal. Woozy as I felt, this creature wasn't gonna have to wait long to run out the clock. Castillo was fading fast. But when I stretched my flickering consciousness back toward Solares, he wasn't where I left him, and weak as I was, I didn't have the mental energy to scan the tunnels for my next meat-suit.

Then I saw a golden wobble in the darkness, and just this once, thanked God for my good luck. Because that wobble was Mendoza emerging, lantern-lit, from one of the side-tunnels just east of there and, even as weak as I was, if I could see him, I could
be
him.

This time, my approach was less freight-train and more newborn kitten, all shaky and timid, which means Mendoza felt me coming. As I stumbled, clumsy, into his mind and fumbled for the controls, I heard him mutter, “
¡No otra vez!”
and clutch his stomach in anticipating of the coming barf-fest. But hey, at least he didn't fight me. Weak as I was, if he had, I would have wound up bounced back into rapidly cooling Castillo, which would have likely meant a one-way ticket back to Guam.

The creature misinterpreted Castillo's subsequent collapse as he and I both lapsing into unconsciousness, when in fact I had escaped mere seconds before. It descended on him in a fury of wet tearing sounds and low grunts of effort and animal desire, eager to feast before this new light – this new snack – was upon it.

Luckily, Mendoza's stomach was still empty, and my sudden peristaltic seizure did little more than spray the tunnel floor with spittle. He'd shouldered his rifle at some point, likely deciding he could travel faster with it on his back than in his hands, leaving him with the lit lantern in one hand, and his pistol, an outsized Magnum-knockoff, in the other. The lantern swung wildly on its hinged handle as together he and I closed the gap between us and poor, doomed Castillo, the world swaying like a boat in choppy seas by the arcing lamplight. And as its sphere of illumination blazed like sunrise up Castillo's legs, I got my first true glimpse at the creature I'd been sent to kill.

It was a lean, spindly thing, once human in form, no doubt, but warped somehow by its environment, by its predilections, by the dark mojo that created it and demanded constant sacrifice to sustain the very blasphemy of its existence, into something… less. Something terrifying. It was naked, sickly gray-brown, and emaciated, which, its vaguely humanoid form aside, gave it the appearance of a stick-insect. The creature crouched over Castillo's gaping chest – his ribcage split open at the middle like a clamshell – its hands buried deep inside the dead man's viscera, its ropy forearms purple with gore. Disproportionately long legs angled out on either side, famine-skinny and liver-spotted. Flesh stretched paper-thin across its ribs, and its stomach was bloated and swollen. Its head seemed outsized for the neck on which it sat, perhaps rendered so wide to accommodate the manic grin of needle-sharp teeth that gleamed, blood-streaked yellow, back at me. Gore dripped black off its pointed chin. Its skull had warped itself around two massive, bulbous eyes – the better to see you with, my dear – which swam a liquid red in the lamplight like twin IV bags of blood, no whites or pupils to be seen. Twin slits sliced two short lines between those eyes in a hasty suggestion of a nose. As the light hit the beast, it recoiled, its leathery lids clenching shut. Then it threw its arms wide in challenge, gnarled, clawed hands stretching from one wall of the tunnel to the other and flinging offal everywhere, and roared, its mouth hinging impossibly wide.

The sound shook the very ground around us, and loosed a flurry of dust and pebbles. The stench of rot and death was carried on its breath. Some fragile, child-me portion of my psyche wanted to crawl beneath the nearest set of bed sheets and hide. Adult-me damn near pissed himself at the sight, the sound, at the perfect, wordless threat. Mendoza, hardened drug-runner that he was, huddled penitent in the back of his own mind, and rattled off over and over a mantra in hushed Spanish that even I recognized as the Lord's Prayer.

Sure, now His name be hallowed, I thought at him. But how many times have you and your cohorts played the part of the evil from which innocent folks are begging to be delivered?

But Mendoza wasn't taking questions from the peanut gallery at the moment. And since I was pretty sure the Big Guy wasn't about to take his call, I figured it was up to me to take care of Captain Ugly here. It had a good three feet of reach on me, so my odds of getting past those claws to gain access to the withered lump of God-knows-what that passed as its soul weren't great. So, as it gathered on its haunches and launched itself at me, I did what any red-blooded American who wants to keep said red blood on the inside woulda done in my shoes: I shot that fucker in the face.

Well, the eye, to be precise. And had I not been terrified at the thought of imminent violent pointy-sharp death hurling toward me, I might have curled fetal at the world of gross doing so unleashed. Hot wet chunks of mottled tissue and vitreous eye-goo sprayed the cave like the devil's own ambrosia salad, but still the creature kept on coming. It hit me like two hundred pounds of razor-tipped clothes hangers, all knees and elbows and teeth and claws. We tumbled to the ground as one, my gun-hand aimed harmlessly away thanks to the creature's iron grip around my wrist, my lantern dropped as I kept the creature's snapping jaws away from the tender flesh of Mendoza's face with a palm to its misshapen forehead.

A
whoosh
of hot kerosene breath, too close for comfort, Mendoza's lantern setting the spilled fuel from Castillo's broken one alight as the former shattered against the hard-packed earth. Our world went briefly campfire-orange and choking hot. The creature's one good eye slammed shut against the bright, its jaw still snapping all the while. I held it away from my borrowed face as best I could, but my/Mendoza's best wasn't gonna cut it for long. Our smoker lungs seared, our vision went dim. Our elbow was on the verge of giving out.

Guam, here I come, I thought.

Then Solares – that beautiful, brave, stupid son of a bitch – came barreling around the corner, popping five shots into the beast quick as a drum machine. Chunks of flesh tore free of the creature, gouting green-black blood, and it howled in pain and animal fury. Then all the sudden, the goddamn thing was off of me. I watched in horror as it sailed through the air toward Solares with all the deadly grace of a jungle cat. He popped off three more shots before it tackled him. All three shots landed center-mass, but they didn't slow the monster down a bit. He and it bounced off the rusted honeycomb of chicken wire holding back the loose dirt of the tunnel wall, and wound up a tangle of limbs amidst the mess that was Castillo. When teeth and claw found flesh, Solares didn't even scream.