(1995) The Oath (57 page)

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.

With his left hand holding the lighter high and his right hand feeling along the wall, he resumed his intermittent use of the lighter, first seeing, then feeling his way along the tunnel.

I must have some kind of advantage, he thought. After all, I’m still alive. The dragon hasn’t found me yet. He was out looking for me—I saw him—but he hasn’t found me.

He flicked the lighter. Another tunnel, big enough for a dragon, branched off to the right, heading down into the mountain. But Steve decided to continue following the main tunnel. He could feel air moving down through it. He might not be too far from the entrance.

Just ahead, the tunnel narrowed, and Steve noticed the century-old marks of picks and drills.

It was a typical mine tunnel, only big enough for miners and ore cars. Steve took a moment to note the tunnel’s dimensions against his memory of the dragon’s size. The dragon might be able to slither through, but turning around would be next to impossible.

He could feel cool fresh air moving down the tunnel from the outside, and he quickened his pace.

Another four hundred feet and he was looking at the stars again. After the darkness of the cavern, the bright, almost-full moon just rising was as good as daylight. After the cold, heavy, stench-laden air of the cavern, the crisp mountain air was nearly intoxicating. After being in the lair of death itself, he had never felt so alive.

I came through! I made it!

He looked behind him. Even from this short distance away, the cavern/mine entrance was hard to see. The cliff walls and surrounding rocks were laid out in sharp bends directly in front of it, forming an effective blind. You’d have to be right in front of it to know it was there.

But now where was he? Those mountain peaks across the valley were familiar. As a matter of fact . . .

He took off across the mountain face, leaping from rock to rock, feeling a remarkable new surge of energy. He could see, he could breathe, he could climb and jump. He was alive!

He leapt from the rocks to a field of green meadow, then dashed across the expanse, exhilarated because he could do so. He even laughed. He was back from the grave, back from hell, free to run.

I beat him! I was right there, right in his lair and he didn’t know it! He’s away, he’s after someone else. Sure. Why not Harold Bly, or that Doug character? There are plenty of people in that town who deserve it more than I do. Maybe Tracy was right: maybe the mark will fade if I only get away from here. He looked down to check.

There was a black stain on his shirt. He touched it, and the black slime came off on his fingers. There was no pain.

The moonlight went out. A shadow passed over him like a cloud, and he dropped to the ground, rolling to a frantic stop then lying perfectly still in the grass as a gust of wind swept over the meadow. Scanning the sky, he could discern the stars wiggling in succession over the crest of Saddlehorse.

No, I’m not out of the woods. I’m still in trouble, but I let myself forget. Just like Tracy.

The wound began to ache again and strangely, he felt relieved.

A long, black shadow swept across the face of the mountain. The dragon was circling, searching. It had come so close it had to have seen him.

With a heart stained black and the memory of a sea of bones still fresh in his mind, Steve found it all too easy to believe that monster was tethered to his soul.

He also knew he didn’t have much time.

JEFF NELSON
, a good miner the company should have kept, knew what was happening. He’d heard the yelling out in the streets, he’d made some calls, he’d loaded his guns, and he was ready to protect his home and his family. Andy Schuller didn’t even have to bang on his door before Jeff threw it open and aimed his hunting rifle right in Andy’s face. “Back up, Andy!” Andy had five armed men behind him, and Jeff hesitated. “I said back up!”

“Jeff,” Andy started to say, “listen—”

A gunshot made them all duck.

The shot had come from Abel Hoffmeier, one of Andy’s group, a stubble-faced idler who had borrowed the
.45
he held in his hand. Abel was wide-eyed at what he’d just done, but then he started to grin.

Jeff had flinched with the rest of them and didn’t realize he’d been shot before his legs buckled under him and he slid down the doorframe to the landing, still clinging to his rifle. The slug that had torn through his heart had left a bloody groove in the doorjamb behind him. His wife Becky started to scream.

Andy and his mob all looked at Abel, then at Jeff, each man sorting out the justice of it.

John Tyler, a trucker, offered a verdict. “He was gonna kill you, Andy.”

Andy recovered from his shock, bolstered himself, and ordered, “Okay, boys, clear it out.”

With a whoop, they stormed into the house as Becky screamed for mercy and the four children started crying.

DOUG AND KYLE
had moved the roadblock, and they watched as the Carlsons and Malones drove through with whatever they could carry in two pickups and a car. They’d left quite a bit behind, hoping to come back for it when it was safe to do so.

“Doug!” yelled Bruce Dilly, a miner on welfare who preferred not to mine. “What about all that stuff they left behind?”

“What about it?”

“Well, are they coming back for it?”

Doug gave him a knowing look. “You see something you want, help yourself.”

There was just a moment’s hesitation. “What about Harold?”

“What about him?”

Bruce and several friends thought that over, arrived at a conclusion as a body, and with whoops and hollers raced each other to get there first.