No sound. No movement. Nothing but waiting.
Come on, come on, Steve thought, his thumb on the lighter’s flint wheel. Stick your big ugly head in here!
A shadow appeared, an indefinite shape along the upper reaches of the cavern wall. The dragon was breathing in amazingly slow, prolonged breaths, and then releasing them in a stream that seemed to last for minutes. From the sound it had to be just outside the entrance.
Come on!
The shadow on the cavern wall grew, descending downward, dropping like a veil over the rough surface.
A long, steady breath made the paper flag flutter.
Then the flag drooped, and the tunnel entrance went black.
Silence. No motion. No sound.
The big lizard was thinking about it, Steve thought. Perhaps he could smell a trap. Perhaps he knew what dynamite was.
The moonlight returned like a flash. The flag fluttered toward the entrance. Only one footstep fell hard enough to make a grating sound on some rocks, and then there was no sound at all.
The thing was gone.
Or was it? Steve remained where he was, waiting. He craned his neck around the corner to check the dynamite again.
Now for the biggest wait, the biggest gamble.
He stood motionless in the cold dark. It was so quiet he could hear the rumble of blood flowing through his ears. He allowed himself some slow, deep breaths and then waited some more, willing himself to remain there, watching the little paper flag in the moonlight. It stirred lazily, occasionally rippling as the air moved past it on its journey through the mountain.
Then the flag drooped.
Steve stopped breathing. He watched.
The flag hung motionless.
The dragon had reached the other entrance.
Now for the timing. How long to wait? Just how long would it take for that thing to sneak up from behind?
The flag began to wiggle slightly, but the direction of flow was uncertain.
Steve tried to count, to guess the number of seconds that had passed, were passing right now, should pass before he lit the fuse.
The flag began to drift toward the cavern entrance. Then it started to wave. Then it rose from the stick and began to flutter. Steve stepped out from the wall and could feel the air moving up out of the tunnel.
He’s on his way!
Steve flicked the lighter, wincing at the sudden light. He went to the fuse, set the flame to it, and the fuse erupted in red sparks and a plume of smoke.
He could feel wind at his back. He could sense a vibration, a quivering in the floor.
He dashed out the cavern entrance, zigzagged through the rock formations, and bounded across the meadow, counting silently, then in a whisper, then out loud, “ . . .twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three . . .”
Halfway across the meadow he looked over his shoulder and saw nothing happening.
“Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two . . .”
BOOM! The sound hit Steve’s ears like a thunderclap, then returned from across the valley and hit them again, then rumbled, rumbled, rumbled down the valley like a hundred bowling balls down a stairway.
He stopped, looked back, and saw a cloud of dust rising and rocks falling back to earth where the cavern entrance had been. All he could do now was wait, listen, and watch for the verdict as the rocks settled, the pebbles quit rolling, and the dust drifted slowly away.
Now there was nothing but torturous, taunting silence.
Steve crouched in the grass and remained still. Depending on where the dragon was at the time of the explosion, it could be trapped, or crushed and dying, or dead, or safely on its way out of the cavern by another route. Steve could only hope for the best result, but there was no way to know until—
A rock wiggled, scraped, then tumbled away from the entrance. Then another. Then several went tumbling aside as dust went up again and dirt hissed through the rubble.
Steve felt sick with disappointment. He’d trapped the dragon— for a few moments—but he hadn’t killed it. The game wasn’t over, and he doubted this little time-out would last very long.
Steve looked ahead. Jules Cryor’s cabin was over the rocky bluff, out of sight. If he ran, he could get there in just a few minutes, if he had a few minutes. But he couldn’t run, not yet. He had to let the dragon see where he was going.
It’s crazy, he heard himself thinking. Run now, you idiot! But he couldn’t do it. If he really expected to end this thing, he needed the dragon to follow him.
Against the terror that urged him to run, he stood in place and watched while the creature clawed and scraped his way out of the mountain, casting boulders away as if they weighed nothing.
Long claws appeared through the rocks, groping about. Now Steve could hear the thing huffing and chugging. He could see the dust blasted away in small clouds by the angry breath.
“Aw, you’re beautiful when you’re angry!” Steve taunted.
The head appeared, the silver horns glistening in the moonlight, as the creature stretched and strained to see over the rocks, scanning, searching. Then the golden eyes locked on Steve. The dragon’s head lunged in Steve’s direction like a rattlesnake trying to strike, but the body was still held fast in the fallen debris. The creature was incensed!
Steve took off, running for Cryor’s cabin as he heard the rocks flying and cascading from the cavern entrance, the huffing of that thing’s angry breath, the beating and bashing of its claws against the debris.
Steve ran over the rocks, along the cliff, up to the crevasse. He jumped it, landing on the precarious ledge on the other side. He lost his balance, fell forward to his hands, then got up again and ran. He could see the cabin below.
From far away he heard a sound like the world’s biggest parachute snapping open. The dragon was free and had taken to the air.
Just another few seconds now: down a trail, over and around a pile of mine waste, and he’d be at the cabin’s front door.
He heard the rushing and beating of the monstrous wings above him and looked up.
No camouflage this time. The dragon was a clear, silvery shadow in the sky, its eyes like the landing lights of an aircraft, locking onto him like lasers.
Steve ran, leaping over the rocks, stumbling over a boulder, bounding ahead. The cabin was close, but not close enough, not close enough!
The dragon swept its wings back and began to drop toward the earth, its image growing, stretching, filling more and more of the sky. Its shadow swept over the cabin as Steve reached the front door and clambered inside, slamming and bolting the door behind him.
CRASH! Three silver claws pierced through the ceiling, then twisted, yanked, and withdrew. Steve hit the floor against the rear wall, his body curled, his arms upraised for protection.
The golden eyes appeared at the window. They saw him. The claws crashed through the window and groped about the cabin, throwing the table against the wall like a toy, breaking out the opposite window, hooking the bed and flinging it across the room. Steve wriggled on his belly, rolled like a log, scurried this way, then that, too busy dodging death to fear it, the razor-tipped claws whistling over his head, impaling the log walls, wrenching free, then groping again.
One huge golden eye spotted him through a window. Steve leapt aside as the claws drove into the plank floor like spikes. The dragon pulled, yanked, wrenched all but one claw free. The last claw pulled up a floorboard, which remained impaled on it, and now the board flew and flipped about the room with the hand, smashing and shattering everything in sight. The shovels, picks, and drills went flying, the bookshelf disintegrated, the books and papers filled the room like feathers from a burst pillow.
The thing was huffing, in fierce anger. Steve expected to see flames any moment.
As the claws withdrew through the window, they pulled out the window frame.
CHUNG! The silvery claws punched like spears through the metal roofing again, jutted into the room, and then curled inward as the dragon crumpled the metal,
the planks, the plywood. The dragon tore at the cabin roof, ripping away the sheet metal, yanking the rafters loose and pulling them up like toothpicks.
Steve remained tightly curled in a corner of the cabin, watching his little fortress disappear in flying shreds and wondering how long he should wait.
Now the cabin was open to the sky, and the huge head punched through with scarcely room to turn and twist, the eyes like burning lamps, the nostrils flared, the teeth bared, snorting and snuffing after its prey.
It’s time, Steve thought. He ducked through the thick wooden door in the back of the cabin. One huge, golden eye was only inches from him when he slammed the door shut and bolted it. He hurried down the access tunnel to Cryor’s mine, hoping the dragon would try to tear the door open, hoping the beast wouldn’t notice the—
The dragon noticed an entire row of explosives set along the back wall of the cabin.
BOOM!
The mountainside erupted in a ball of fire as logs, furniture, roofing, blankets, canned food, planks, rafters, and picks and shovels soared into the sky, borne aloft on a plume of flame and smoke.
The dragon, limp and aflame, its wings shredded and burning, floated upward, then backward in a long, slow arc, then dropped like a flaming aircraft down, down, down the mountainside, until it landed on its back in the low, scrubby pines just above the treeline. It rolled one, two, and finally three slow turns down the hill before it came to rest against a stand of firs.
DEEP INSIDE the tunnel leading from Cryor’s cabin to his mine, Steve cowered in a tight corner, his fist wrapped in a death grip around the detonator.
TWENTY- ONE
HAVOC
LIEUTENANT BARNARD went into the central office area of the precinct and found Evelyn seated at the desk he’d offered her. She was just hanging up the telephone.
“Any word?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, Travis has been sitting by the phone all night, but Steve hasn’t called, and neither has Deputy Ellis.”
He pulled over a chair from the next desk and sat down. “When did you last hear from your brother-in-law?”
She was dismayed at how long it had been. “Last Sunday night, I think. Tracy—Deputy Ellis—was with him since then, but . . .” Her voice choked with emotion. “Sorry.”
Barnard leaned forward and spoke gently. “Listen, I just heard back from the county sheriff’s office.”
Then there was that tight little moment that could seem like an eternity as Evelyn waited to hear the news.
Barnard chose his words carefully. “Do you think you could stick around just a little longer? We might have a few more questions after our people have a look.”
Evelyn was instantly alert. “What have you heard?”
His eyes revealed a trust toward her he’d not shown before. “A sheriff’s deputy checked around the sheriff’s office, and . . . well, we’ve decided to look into it.”
She agreed to stay and called Travis to let him know.
And then she prayed. Oh Lord, have mercy on Steve—wherever he is.
THE TUNNEL to Jules Cryor’s cabin was blocked and useless now. Steve ran down the access tunnel to the mine itself, then ran up the main tunnel to the entrance, about a hundred feet below and to the side of where the cabin used to be.
The air outside the mine was still choked with dust. Burning embers and bits of cabin lay on the mine waste. Judging from the scattered logs, boards, and pieces of furniture he had to climb over to get out, he’d succeeded in wiping the cabin off the face of the earth. As for the dragon . . .
He carried Jules Cryor’s shotgun as he stole carefully down the ore-car tracks, stepping over fallen boulders and shreds of metal roofing, coming around the bend to the area immediately below the cabin site. Above, he saw only a crater with not a board left standing. Below, he saw smoke, dust, and small, flickering flames. The dust was still clearing away, drifting like a cloud down the mountainside, down the valley.
He maintained the same careful search pattern he’d always used, scanning the sky, then the surrounding terrain, looking for anything unusual or out of place, any broken lines, any—
Oh, no. Dared he believe it? He looked all around in case he was mistaken, and then looked far down the mountainside again.
There was the dragon, at least two hundred feet below, lying against the treeline like a long, twisted tree trunk, not moving, one wing sticking up like a broken and torn umbrella. A front leg, half blown away, poked into the sky like a dead snag, the jagged tip still smoldering. Here and there on its body, scales dimly flickered in green, red, white, brown, then blinked out, then blinked on again, with no pattern. The dragon’s entire body was sending up thin wisps of smoke.
Cautiously, Steve made sure the shotgun had a round in the chamber, then he started down the steep, rocky slope. If this thing wasn’t dead yet, he was going to finish it. He was going to make sure.
At least he could see it. At least he could walk in the open and not have to search everything around him in a constant, nerve-grinding struggle to stay alive. His mortal enemy was right there, right in front of him, clearly visible at last.
Finally! Finally, I got you!
He hurried. He had to get a final shot before that thing revived or recharged or whatever it did.
He looked down at the black stain on his chest. It seemed to be drying. He touched it. Nothing came off on his fingers. The slime had turned to a dry crust.
Ohhh, the feeling! After such darkness, such oppression and despair, he could feel hope returning. He didn’t want to get too optimistic too soon, but he felt such a release, such a lightness of spirit, that he couldn’t help laughing out loud.
“Gotcha!” he cried.
Maybe, he had to remind himself. Thirty feet above the fallen carcass, he slowed his pace, stepping carefully down over the rocks, drawing closer, the shotgun ready, his eyes glued on that beast, looking for the slightest stirring. Small fires flickered all around him, and the stench of smoke stung his nostrils and occasionally blocked his vision. He took each step only when he could see the dragon clearly. He couldn’t afford to get careless.
The monster’s tail extended up the mountainside to Steve’s right. The huge, scaled body stretched along the rocks and trees directly in front of him, the heavily plated belly toward the sky. The neck and head were out of sight in the trees lower down. Steve clicked on his flashlight and caught the right rear leg in the beam. The claws, now clutching at the air, shined silver in the light; some of the scales awakened and tried to mimic the terrain, one here, one there. Other than that, there was no movement.
Steve wanted to get closer. He wanted to find a vulnerable point somewhere to fire the finishing shot. Perhaps the belly, maybe the neck . . .
Then he hesitated. For some reason, without warning, he felt a sickening pain in his stomach, an anguish in his soul. This he didn’t need, not now. He took some deep breaths and even lowered his head a little, but it didn’t help.
He didn’t dare lose this opportunity. He prodded himself to keep approaching.
About ten feet away, he paralleled the dragon’s flank, surveying the thick scales, trying to locate the vital organs and some way to put a shot through them. Even as he did, it occurred to him that he didn’t feel good about it. The more he tried to find a point of vulnerability, the more ambivalent he became.
He shook away a cloud of doubt and forced himself to study the dragon’s anatomy as best he could. With effort, he located the rib cage and the most likely location of the heart and lungs. If he could get the shotgun barrel jammed between some scales somewhere—
He didn’t want to do it.
He focused on the shotgun in his hands. It was ready. All he needed was that final shot.
He couldn’t do it.
Stupid thought! He shook it off. He had to do it. This thing was a killer and would kill again if he didn’t kill it first. Steve forced himself to approach the chest cavity and rib cage, just below the shoulder
. The jagged stump of the right foreleg hung in the air above him, the bone and torn flesh smoldering and smoking.
All right. Now to get that shot through the heart and lungs. He had to find a chink, a crack, a gap.
He couldn’t do it.
He forced himself to aim the shotgun at the massive, scaled flank. The barrel began to waver; his hands were shaking. With a frustrated sigh, he let his arm go slack. The gun barrel sank toward the ground.
There was just something about this creature, about this whole situation. He couldn’t go through with it.
“Come on,” he told himself out loud, “let’s get this done. This monster’s out to kill you, to kill everybody!”
He tried to raise the shotgun again. His hands shook, the barrel wiggled crazily, and he lowered the gun. He couldn’t kill this thing. Against all logic, all common sense, he couldn’t kill it.
He couldn’t kill this thing because this thing was—this thing was—
He couldn’t explain it, and he couldn’t shake it, but as he looked at that long, serpentine body spread out before him, he felt he was looking at a part of his own body, no different from his arm, his leg, his hand.
Yes. That was it. As strange as it seemed, he felt like he’d be killing himself.
I can’t kill it. It’s mine. It’s me.
He teetered forward, put a foot out to regain his balance, then the other foot, then stepped again. He couldn’t stand still, and it was more than just the slope of the mountain: that huge, scaled body seemed to be drawing him. He wanted to touch the creature. He wanted to feel those cold scales under his fingers. He knew better. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew it would be dangerous.
But he just had to . . .
The shotgun dropped from his hands. He reached out toward the scales, and his hand came to rest on the thick belly plating. It felt like ceramic tile, cool, hard, and impenetrable. A marvelous creature! Unbelievable. Beautiful in design!
Oh, man, I hope I haven’t killed it.
He ran his hand along the scales. The power in this thing! The incredible strength and beauty! Like nothing else in the world!