Taine sprinted back along the tunnel. He didn’t make it as far as the cavern, the night vision goggles revealing a mass of crabs pouring through into the tunnel in a sea of movement. In places, the wave of creepy-crawlies was as high as his knees. The grenade launcher was out. There was no way of getting back to the retrieve it. He’d have to use the M67s. Is that why Alcouffe had given him the grenades? To make it easy to pin all this on the crazed Kiwi and keep the paperwork clean.
You have done some crazy shit lately, McKenna.
Taine ran his eyes over the ceiling, checking for the spot most likely to bring the roof down. La Ferté-Bernard was built above this labyrinth. What if he destroyed the entire town? He’d have to risk it. There was no other option. That seething mass could not be allowed to leave the caves. Taine spied a deep crack in the stones. That should do the trick.
He pulled the pin on the grenade, hurled it, then threw himself into an adjacent layby.
The explosion roared through the tunnels, rattling his bones. Debris and rocks collapsed, filling the tunnel with dust and noise. Taine held his breath waiting for the crush that would break his back and bury him alive. It didn’t come.
When the rumble subsided, Taine raised his head. He’d sealed the tunnel and the town hadn’t caved in on top of him!
He got up and checked the cave-in for cracks. Nothing. The wall of boulders was solid, and apart from a half dozen crabs which he crushed underfoot, the legend of the peluda was buried behind it. Blowing out hard, Taine turned to make the climb back to the surface. Hopefully, the way out wasn’t blocked.
Out of nowhere, a crab dropped from the ceiling, landing on his gloveless hand.
Damn it. Missed one.
Quickly, Taine brushed the creature off, stomping on it with his boot.
No, no, no.
He checked his skin, feeling the blood drain from his face. A tiny spine was stuck in his wrist.
Taine’s heart scudded. Fuck.
He concentrated, slowing his heartbeat as he slid his knife from its sheath and scraped the barb away. It lifted off as if it was nothing more than a bee-sting.
Don’t die, don’t die. You promised Jules.
He dug into his wrist with the knife, slicing away a layer of flesh. There was nothing else he could do. If the spine had done its work, he’d be dead in minutes.
Taine slumped to the ground, his back against the rock wall, and watched his wrist begin to swell, resisting the urge to itch it. How could such a small thing be so lethal?
He thought of Benoit’s mother, of Le Cannu, Tatou, and Bruno. The peluda had caused some cruel deaths, and Taine’s would be next. He couldn’t let his body be eaten by the maggots already setting up camp inside him. If he did that, the peluda would be unleashed and the whole unnatural life cycle would start over…
Taine unclipped a grenade and juggled it gently from hand to hand. Fire killed them. It was the last thing Jules had said to him. Taine’s heart contracted when he thought of her. He’d promised her he’d be careful. He’d promised himself so much more. Their life together had barely started. After this holiday, he’d hoped… it didn’t matter now.
Hang on.
Jules had said acid calmed them. That the acid put the crawlies into some sort of hibernation. Taine had pocketed a drink when he’d kitted up earlier. Maybe there was enough acid in it to dull the maggots? Enough to get him to the surface before they consumed him? If he could reach the canal, maybe Jules or someone could get eggs and the grubs out, possibly without having to amputate his hand…
And wouldn’t that piss off Alcouffe?
Taine gripped the knife, slicing a wider chunk out of his wrist where the barb had entered. He poured the drink into the wound. Slowly. Drenching it. In his night goggles, the liquid ran black, seeping into the grit.
Was the itching slowing? Or was that wishful thinking? Maybe it was, but Taine had always liked long odds. Gave you something to play for.
Splashing his field bandage with the remainder of the liquid, Taine wrapped it around his wrist. Then he got to his feet, and ran.
A HOLE IN THE WORLD
Tim Lebbon & Christopher Golden
Vasily Glazkov was warm. He reveled in the feeling, because he had not been truly warm for a long time. His fingers and toes tingled with returning circulation, and he could feel a pleasant stinging sensation across his nose and cheeks. Beyond the open doorway Anna held a steaming mug out to him. She was grinning. Around her was the paraphernalia of their mission – sample cases, laboratory equipment, tools and implements for excavating, survival equipment and clothing. As he entered the room the door slammed shut behind him, the window shades lowered, and they were alone in the luxurious warmth. Nothing mattered except the two of them. He took the mug and sipped, the coffee's heat coursing through him and reaching even those deepest, coldest parts that he'd believed would never be warm again.
Anna started unclipping her belt and straps, popping her buttons. She dropped her rifle and pistol, her knife, shrugging out of her uniform to reveal her toned, muscled body. He felt the heat of her. He craved her familiar warmth and scent, her safety, but he still took time to finish the coffee. Anticipation was the greatest comforter.
"Vasily!" A hand grasped his arm and turned him around. He frowned, stretching to look back at his almost-naked lover. But however far he turned she remained out of sight.
"Vasily, wake up!"
Glazkov's eyes snapped open. His breath misted the air before him, and he sat up quickly, gasping in shock as his dream froze and shattered beneath gray reality.
"Amanda?"
Amanda Hart stood in his small room, bulked out in her heavy coat. There was ice on her eyelashes and excitement in her eyes.
"Vasily, you've got to come."
"Where?"
"Down into the valley. It's stopped snowing, the sun's out, and you have to come. Hans is getting ready."
Glazkov looked around and tried to deny the sinking feeling in his gut. His room was small and sparse, containing his small supply of grubby clothing, a few books, and a single window heavily iced on the inside.
"You've been out alone again?" he asked. They had all been warned about venturing beyond the camp boundary on their own. It was dangerous and irresponsible, and put all of them at risk. But Amanda was headstrong and confident, not a woman used to obeying orders. He wondered if all Americans were like that.
"That doesn't matter!" She waved away his concerns.
"So what's down in the valley?" Glazkov asked. The cold was already creeping across his skin and seeping into his bones. He wondered whether he would ever be warm again, even when he and Anna were together once more. It was only twelve weeks since they'd last seen each other, but the inimical landscape stretched time and distance, and the sense of isolation was intense. In this damned place the cold was a living, breathing thing.
"Come and see," Hart said, and she grinned again. "Something's happened."
Outside, the great white silence was a weight he could almost feel. It always took Glazkov's breath away – not only the cold, but the staggering landscape, and the sense that they might be the only people alive in the whole world. There were no airplane trails to prove otherwise, no other columns of smoke from fires or chimneys. No evidence at all that anyone else had ever been there. Old footprints and snowcat trails were buried beneath the recent blizzard. The three interconnected buildings that formed their camp – living quarters, lab and equipment hall, and garage – were half-buried, roofs and upper windows protruding valiantly above the white snowscape.