Ritual Chill. James Axler
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His eyes snapped open instantly and he looked directly at her.
“I had hoped that you would have vanished and my terrible dreams would be at an end, but I can see that I am to be further tried by whatever agency deigns to—”
“Can it, Doc,” she snapped, glad to see him less catatonic but in no mood to listen to one of his soliloquies. “Whatever you think I am, just know that you’ve got to defend yourself.”
“I see, I—” This time he cut himself off, aware of the baying and skitter of claws on rock that began to reach the companions from deep in the tunnel. Because of the low roof, there was little echo to the sound and it was hard to tell if the animals were a few yards or a few hundred yards away. The only thing for sure was that the stench of their musk began to grow stronger, permeating their nostrils, lodging in their clothes and that they had to be prepared to fight within seconds.
Doc clammed up as though someone had clamped his jaw shut. Somewhere within his mind, an instinct for defense took over. Whatever space his head was inhabiting at this point in time, it had been pushed to one side by the will to survive.
While Doc was having no trouble adapting, Ryan was experiencing the opposite. Jak shook him hard, pounded at him, but the one-eyed man woke slowly. He had exhausted himself to such an extent that his aching limbs and weary muscles demanded respite, and the warm embrace of sleep refused to unclasp from around his mind. He opened his eye and saw Jak, lit from beneath by the flashlight he was holding so that his pale face looked all the more ghostly, but could not take in what the albino was saying. The words came as a jumble, even though they were sparing. Jak repeated himself, more urgently, but Ryan’s attention was wandering and his eye roamed around the dark cavern, taking in that there was a lot of sudden movement, but not taking in why until he caught a flash of movement beyond the light, shapes shifting in the darkness that made the black move as a sentient beast. That and the smell that filled his lungs, the viscous smell of warm fur and sweating muscle.
That was when the instincts kicked in, the adrenaline flooded through him and, despite the fatigue that had been winning the battle only a few moments before, he scrambled to his feet, pushing Jak aside, reaching for the panga sheathed on his thigh. He had only one thing on his mind now—the shifting black was resolving itself into the shapes, sounds and smells of an attacking pack of wild dogs. Why now, why them? No time to think, only to act.
Ironic, then, that his sudden reaction to danger was to plunge them even further into trouble.
Not fully functioning, Ryan had moved too quickly, too rashly. As he came to his feet, fumbling for the panga sheath, he knocked Jak backward. The albino had excellent balance under usual circumstances, but the speed of Ryan’s reaction, coming from a man who had been almost comatose only a few moments before, had taken him off guard. Jak slipped on the carpet of moss, only for a fraction of a second, but enough for him to shift his grip on the flashlight as he adjusted his balance. His thumb glanced over the switch and the flashlight was extinguished. The cavern was plunged into darkness.
The dogs were now upon them. Crazed with fear by whatever had driven them from the depths of the tunnels, they had no other desire than to escape and would rip to pieces anything that got in their way. Theirs wasn’t the mien of creatures who were on the hunt. Deep within the tunnels and caves, where they had retreated for warmth and shelter, something was happening that had served to terrify them and to drive them out into the cold of the outside world. The sudden increase in the intensity of the air flow and the corresponding rise in heat from deep within the tunnel system suggested that the volcano had begun to spark into life.
The dogs were crazed with fear, every animal awareness telling them to flee. And now they were faced with a pack of hostile humans who blocked their way. Humans who were, for the most part, handicapped by the sudden loss of light.
The slavering dogs, dripping at the jaws from panic and the exertion of their flight, were guided more by their olfactory sense than by vision. They could smell the companions as they clustered in the center of the cavern, attempting to find their bearings by touch and smell alone, the sudden descent of the black curtain of darkness leaving them no time to adjust to any kind of wan light or moving shapes within the dark.
These creatures were in the way of the wild pack. They reeked of fear and confusion. They were easy meat.
Snarling and yelping, the dogs flew at the companions. Ryan had by now unsheathed his panga and J.B.’s hand had snaked toward his Tekna knife as soon as the light was extinguished. There was no way that anyone could risk blasterfire in this confined space, and with this lack of light, hand-to-hand combat was the only option…if hand-to-jaw fighting could be called as such.
Ryan and J.B. had weapons and Jak was quick to palm a leaf-bladed knife into each hand so that he could attack on two fronts. But Mildred, Krysty and Doc had no weapons to hand and their only chance was to make defensive moves, to try to prevent the animals from taking chunks from their flesh. Hard enough at the best of times, but made more difficult by the lack of any illumination. Only Jak had any degree of vision, his pigmentless red eyes better suited to the dark. But even he was no match for the wild dogs, guided by their noses rather than eyes.
The pack tore into the middle of the companions, scattering them across the floor of the cave, forcing them back against the walls. In a sense, this worked to their advantage, as their backs were now covered. But for those with weapons, it made it harder to thrust when their elbows were constricted by a sheer rock face, any force to their thrust and parry noticeably curtailed.
With no light, there were only the vaguest outlines of shapes, appearing and disappearing from their restricted lines of vision. A dark bulk would appear from nowhere, slamming into them or rising up above, the sudden flash of a wild yellow eye followed by fetid breath and sprays of rancid saliva. There was little or no indication from where the next shape would loom, and the snapping jaws and sharp claws gouged at any part of the body within reach, scratching and biting at exposed flesh, tearing cloth where the weaponless companions attempted to use their heavy clothing to block the attack.
For those with weapons, the indicator of a hit wasn’t visual, but the jarring at the elbow when a blade stuck in flesh, grated against bone. The warm, sickly sweet smell of blood mixed with the musk of dog glands, yelping noises and cries of pain mixing with the exultation of the yowling attack, tempering the pack as some of their number slumped to the moss-covered floor. Underfoot, blood and urine—the ammonia stench mixing nauseously with the sweetness of the blood—swamped the moss and rock, making it treacherous. To move was to risk slipping, falling beneath the wild animals and leaving yourself open to a chilling attack.
Ryan and J.B. were hitting with roughly every third strike, feeling skin rip and flesh score beneath their blades, smelling the blood flow. Jak was more efficient, almost every strike hitting home, helped by the fact that his vision was slightly better, his aim unimpeded by the lack of light. But was it making the creatures wilder and angrier, feeding a ravenous desire to attack more? Or was it keeping them at bay? It was a difficult call, and there was little the companions could do except to keep striking out.
Ryan cursed heavily when he heard a human scream in among the animals. It was Doc. The voice was unmistakable. One of the creatures had got through the old man’s guard and taken a chunk from him. Would he be able to stay on his feet or would the wound cause him to stumble and fall? There was nothing the one-eyed man could do to expedite the situation. He just had to hope for the best, hope that the spreading pools of blood and urine, the stench of this mixed with fear and confusion in the wounded animals, would persuade the pack to retreat.
In the end, it was something else that forced their hand. From deep within the caves, there was a low rumble and a violent blast of hot air that singed hair and skin, the force of it almost knocking the companions from their feet. Volcanic activity, perhaps the precursor to the main stack blowing.
It was decisive. The heat and noise spread panic among the pack, distracting them from their task. Yelping in fear, the dogs retreated from the fray, heading for the mouth of the cave and the relative safety of the outside world.
So hard was it for the companions to keep upright and overcome heat so strong that none realized,