Because kids don't believe in death. They have to be taught in order
to believe- and the teacher is always disease or gaping holes in the
flesh. Wounds. Pain. That usually comes later in life, but it comes
eventually.
All the heroes are children.
So we two, playing with makeshift bats and sharp objects, went
inside.
Just a little at first. In that first passageway there was only room
to go one at a time, so I led the way, pitchfork always leading me a
little, flashlight in my other hand. I could always feel Steven right
behind me, crawling up over my ankles half the time, in fact, keeping
contact. It felt really good having him there too.
When we turned the corner the passage opened up a bit. But there still
wasn't room to gu two abreast. So when he started to move up on me I
waved him back again. I didn't want to feel cramped in there any more
than I had to.
Casey's flashlight was up ahead. I knew when Steven saw it because I
heard him groan a little. It sounded very loud in there.
The wind was colder but not so forceful as before. The stink was still
bad, though. I wondered what Steve was thinking, encountering it full
blast for the first time. I wondered if it was making him sick. You
think weird things at times like that, irrelevant things really, as
though your concentration can't handle the sudden strain. I found
myself wondering how his whites were holding up. Actually thinking
about laundry. It was stunning to me.
one
kne mis; awa
I put my flashlight down and tried Casey's. It was dead. I put it in
front of my own beam and saw that the clear plastic head was broken,
splintered with tiny webbings. Just behind the plastic the aluminum
backing was deeply dented in two places roughly opposite one another.
As though gripped by a powerful hand or pair of jaws.
I handed it back to Steve. There wasn't any need to speak. I knew
he'd find the same things I had- the dents were impossible to miss. So
was their meaning. Somebody had taken the flashlight away from her.
And they did not do it gently.
I heard him put it down beside him. I picked up my flashlight and
started to move on. Just ahead a seam of lighter-colored rock
IDE AND SEEK
caught my eye. Most of what we were crawling through was a grayish
black. But this was white. Sandstone or something. Flecked with red.
Tiny dots of red no bigger than the head of a pin.
Glistening.
I put my finger to it and it scraped away. It was thick and moist and
cold. Blood. I looked closer at the area directly ahead of and to the
sides of me.
The wall was sprayed with it. A fine dusting of Casey's blood. Of the
life in her.
On the ground, about an inch from my left hand, I saw a small pool of
it the size of a quarter.
From now on, I thought, we'd have a trail to follow. We'd be crawling
through Casey's blood. Abstract it.
Get it away from you. That's it. Let only the coldness in, the
anger.
'What is it?' 'Blood here.' 'Oh my god.'
'Only a little. Not too bad.'
I wouldn't have bought it myself. And neither did he.
'We'll get him, Steve. I'm going to put this pitchfork right up his
ass.'
We weren't careless. We moved slowly along those fifteen feet or so to
that second blind turning, slowly and carefully, under control.
I kept wondering why none of us had heard her scream. It must have
happened very quickly. Either that or for some reason it had been
impossible to scream. But there should have been something, some
warning. I scanned the walls, looking for more blood. There hadn't
been enough of it to indicate a neck wound. So what had silenced
her?
Why did you come here, Casey? You must have smelled the death inside.
I did. How could you have done this to yourself, to me, to all of
us?
Nothing you've told me can explain this thing to me. No rape, no
seduction, no death, no guilt. You must have known. Suspected at
least. Why fling your life around like a pocketful of change? It
makes no sense. It never has. It must run very deep, as deep as
blood and bone, much deeper than even you knew.
We watched and listened. Even tasted the air I think for some scent of
him. But I didn't think I'd be taken unawares. There had been too
much connection between us before. In that black war of nerves I had
absorbed too deep a sense of him. I'd know when he was near. And this
time he'd know I'd come to kill him.
Still I was careful. I knew enough not to trust sixth senses. I was
trusting to care and brains and muscle- and sharp contact. And to
Steven too, my backup. Moving along with a will for it behind me.
Look out, I thought.
You've made both of us damned unhappy.
I refused to look for more blood along that track. I tried to push
back all thoughts of Casey. I didn't want them weakening me.
I thought I was being very strong and clever.
By the time we reached the end of that section the palms of my hands
were dappled red.
The walls opened up into a cavern.
The room was circular, roughly, about twelve feet in diameter. Its
