form. Becoming something right in front of his eyes; right inside his mind. A hulking mass that seemed to absorb the light from his headlamp, swallowing it up.
Becoming .
The river became a twisted abomination, a shifting, shimmering monstrosity that bleached Steve’s thoughts, dipping them in acid. Making them burn.
It reached out for him with liquid arms.
With fingers that ended in talons as long as kitchen knives and—
*
Crash!
Dusty staggered backward in surprise at the sound of glass breaking. He had been trying to tear his eyes away from the river, trying to persuade himself that it didn’t actually want him to move closer; to lean down and run his fingers through it, when the noise broke the strange stupefaction that had gripped his mind. When he looked toward the spot where his brother had been standing, his eyes found only darkness.
The broken glass had to have belonged to Steve’s headlamp. He must have fallen.
“Steve? Bro?”
No response.
Panicked, Dusty rushed along the bank of the river, sweeping the light mounted on his helmet left and right, seeing only empty space.
“Steve? Shit, bro, this ain’t fun—”
The word died in Dusty’s mouth. He had reached the wall of the cavern; the source of the strange black river.
And he had found Steve.
Bobbing along like flotsam.
Face down.
His head separated from his torso, pulled away by the dark current, making its own profane journey. For a moment, Dusty stared dumbly at the obscenity that only seconds earlier had been his big brother. No matter how hard he blinked, he couldn’t get his eyes to erase the image, couldn’t get his mind to put it together in a way that made sense.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
It was a hallucination of some sort. Had to be.
Opened them.
Steve’s head was farther from his body now, twisting slowly in the current. Dusty’s light fell briefly on his brother’s face, and his nerves howled. Steve had died with pure, unadulterated terror in his eyes.
Not a hallucination.
There’s something else in this cavern with us.
With me.
The sudden realisation that he was alone—and not alone —jolted something loose in Dusty’s head, breaking him from the stunned paralysis that the sight of his dead brother had plunged him into. He turned away from the strange, sickening river; from the hideous sight of Steve’s torn body, and started to run, stumbling over the uneven ground, the light from his headlamp swinging crazily, illuminating rocks that seemed determined to make him fall.
When inevitably he did fall, the darkness and the panic conspired to prevent him from realising he had lost his balance until it was too late: he crashed face-first into the unforgiving ground without so much as lifting an arm to protect himself.
The pain, as his nose cracked across his face—spilling a gout of warm, thick blood into his mouth—was terrible, but far worse was the breaking of that other thing; more vital, in this place, than any bone.
Dusty’s headlamp gave up with a single, apologetic crack , and the darkness around him became absolute. Delirious with fear, he scrambled for the flashlight he was certain was attached to his belt.
Couldn’t find it.
He had a spare headlamp somewhere in his backpack. Flashlights. Glow sticks. Matches.
No time .
His thoughts began to shriek.
Dusty lurched to his feet, spinning wildly.
And saw pale green salvation.
In the distance, the fast-dimming light of the glow stick Steve had dropped by the entrance was an oasis in a sea of black insanity. He focused only on the faint light, ignoring the unfamiliar ground that wanted to trip his feet, ignoring the inescapable certainty that something terrible was following him, closing in on him in the dark.
Just get to the glow stick . Get to the rope and climb.
RUN —
Ahead of him, perhaps thirty yards away, the green light suddenly winked out, plunging the cavern into an endless, empty darkness.
Dusty froze.
No. Not empty
Becoming .
The river became a twisted abomination, a shifting, shimmering monstrosity that bleached Steve’s thoughts, dipping them in acid. Making them burn.
It reached out for him with liquid arms.
With fingers that ended in talons as long as kitchen knives and—
*
Crash!
Dusty staggered backward in surprise at the sound of glass breaking. He had been trying to tear his eyes away from the river, trying to persuade himself that it didn’t actually want him to move closer; to lean down and run his fingers through it, when the noise broke the strange stupefaction that had gripped his mind. When he looked toward the spot where his brother had been standing, his eyes found only darkness.
The broken glass had to have belonged to Steve’s headlamp. He must have fallen.
“Steve? Bro?”
No response.
Panicked, Dusty rushed along the bank of the river, sweeping the light mounted on his helmet left and right, seeing only empty space.
“Steve? Shit, bro, this ain’t fun—”
The word died in Dusty’s mouth. He had reached the wall of the cavern; the source of the strange black river.
And he had found Steve.
Bobbing along like flotsam.
Face down.
His head separated from his torso, pulled away by the dark current, making its own profane journey. For a moment, Dusty stared dumbly at the obscenity that only seconds earlier had been his big brother. No matter how hard he blinked, he couldn’t get his eyes to erase the image, couldn’t get his mind to put it together in a way that made sense.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
It was a hallucination of some sort. Had to be.
Opened them.
Steve’s head was farther from his body now, twisting slowly in the current. Dusty’s light fell briefly on his brother’s face, and his nerves howled. Steve had died with pure, unadulterated terror in his eyes.
Not a hallucination.
There’s something else in this cavern with us.
With me.
The sudden realisation that he was alone—and not alone —jolted something loose in Dusty’s head, breaking him from the stunned paralysis that the sight of his dead brother had plunged him into. He turned away from the strange, sickening river; from the hideous sight of Steve’s torn body, and started to run, stumbling over the uneven ground, the light from his headlamp swinging crazily, illuminating rocks that seemed determined to make him fall.
When inevitably he did fall, the darkness and the panic conspired to prevent him from realising he had lost his balance until it was too late: he crashed face-first into the unforgiving ground without so much as lifting an arm to protect himself.
The pain, as his nose cracked across his face—spilling a gout of warm, thick blood into his mouth—was terrible, but far worse was the breaking of that other thing; more vital, in this place, than any bone.
Dusty’s headlamp gave up with a single, apologetic crack , and the darkness around him became absolute. Delirious with fear, he scrambled for the flashlight he was certain was attached to his belt.
Couldn’t find it.
He had a spare headlamp somewhere in his backpack. Flashlights. Glow sticks. Matches.
No time .
His thoughts began to shriek.
Dusty lurched to his feet, spinning wildly.
And saw pale green salvation.
In the distance, the fast-dimming light of the glow stick Steve had dropped by the entrance was an oasis in a sea of black insanity. He focused only on the faint light, ignoring the unfamiliar ground that wanted to trip his feet, ignoring the inescapable certainty that something terrible was following him, closing in on him in the dark.
Just get to the glow stick . Get to the rope and climb.
RUN —
Ahead of him, perhaps thirty yards away, the green light suddenly winked out, plunging the cavern into an endless, empty darkness.
Dusty froze.
No. Not empty
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