© Copyright 2017 Douglas Christian Larsen. Rood Der.
Rood Der — Episode Sixteen: Rock Lobster
Daylight
reflected off the towering salt pillars in rainbow halos, creating shimmering
mirages about the steaming pools. The very air seemed to scintillate and
percolate as the sparkling warm waters constantly pumped moist air up into the
domes of the crystal caves. Light ricocheted so viscerally that people
generally stayed away from the Hot Springs, glimpsing what appeared to be spirits
whooshing through the vapors—plus there were legends of the liquid in the pools
suddenly heating, enraged by deep volcanic combustion, cooking people in the
clear, churning and roiling waters. Even from a distance, the entire
surroundings seemed entirely unnatural, as well as utterly...magical.
All about the rocky clearing at the mouth of
the caves, everything was pristine. Animals did not come here for the waters.
People did not come here for these waters unless they were hoping for a
miracle. Supposedly, this was the bathing retreat of angels, as many witnesses
had observed both the descent and ascent of the ephemeral creatures,
translucent and flashing.
High above, a rocky tower pierced the sky,
coated in crystalline ice and snow, spewing forth a magnificent torrent of
fresh waters that crashed and sprayed down in a wide sheet of falls, feeding
fresh, purest waters into the cave system below. Seen from below, looking up,
the tower seemed to have been sculpted in the shape of a great white eagle,
with the waters pluming from the naturally formed statue’s gaping beak.
The mouth of the cave and springs network was
situated in a wide and deep stone bowl of massive boulders and solid rock walls
crafted and sculpted through eons of washing waters, heavy snows, whipping
winds, and minor volcanic eruptions. The stone possessed an extremely odd
dappling of white and black patterns, and very little soil had accumulated
through the years, but there were minor patches of loamy grasses, and hillocks
of knotty mushrooms that looked more like stone than anything living; however,
all about the stone bowl the ivy gathered and bunched, with cold-weather
wisteria forming impenetrable tangles, and albino honeysuckle offering up a
year-round scent that drew bees from miles away.
There was one narrow cleft cut in the bowl,
which provided a narrow entrance in the stone, about four feet wide and twenty
feet in height, whereas the stone bowl that cupped the cave network and Hot
Springs climbed fifty or more feet in height, in sheer cliffs, providing no
foothold for the clever wisteria and ivy, except for a cabling of ancient vines
high above that had wound twenty feet thick through the ages, and bristled with
honeysuckle blossoms the size of a large man’s hand, spanning the solitary gap
up high upon the cliffs.
The stillness of the quiet stone glade
suddenly echoed with screams and hollers, as a strange pair of humans bearing a
third came racing up the final climb to the rocky plateau where began the
cliffs of the Hot Springs.
The larger of the two running people was a
muscular man with a naked chest, carrying a prone figure that seemed very
slight in his arms. This strange, large man was topped by a plume of absurd red
hair, which seemed to grow from his very head.
The smaller figure, a woman, looked extremely
haggard, and lost ground to the large running man, despite his burden.
And then, shuffling and scuttling behind
these three people, came the horror, something that did not seem quite animal,
nor insect, but something of a mix of the two. The chimerical beast had many
legs, which looked like hard, crunchy cockroach appendages, perhaps as many as
thirty-two, and a tangle of large antennae sprouting from its leading edge—a comparatively
smallish head with a mouth far too large, bristling with what appeared to be
shark teeth, except that the teeth continued in a spiraling ring down into the
monster’s long, long throat. Anything swallowed in that maw would arrive in pieces
at the creatures bubbling, crawling belly, which was alive with rioting bugs
the size of bowling balls, scuttling on wet, chitinous legs, and chittering
between razor-sharp mandibles, with pinching crab claws clacking so loud as to
be heard outside the belly. It was certainly an alien creature, not of this
beautiful world of High Vale.
The lumbering, slithering creature sounded
like a clockwork engine, with all parts failing. It ratcheted and wheezed,
bellowed and whistled, growled and purred, all at once. The beast was long,
stretching, and ripping and bleeding in its frantic pursuit, its many legs
scratching and slashing the rocky ground.
The last climb had apparently slowed the
pursuing horror, which had lost ground on the woman, and was now fifty yards
behind her, and she was this same distance behind the racing man bearing the
sleeper.
The man achieved the slot-opening in the
stone bowl, and he deftly entered, steering his burden, ever careful of the
sleeping man’s head, but the big man barely slowed as he pounded into the stone
channel that lead up in a series of natural steps to the ten-foot wide and
eight-foot high entrance to the Hot Springs. A ring of open ground spread out
just before the cave entrance, which was a much smaller opening in the rock.
The big man did not hesitate, but dashed into the cave, which seemed absurdly
lit with light. His foot slapped in a warm puddle of water that seemed thick as
soup, but only as high as his ankles.
The roof of this immense cavern was formed of
ages of crystal building upon crystal, vapors clinging and hardening,
depositing special minerals, until long ago the roof completed itself, and now
provided a glittering ceiling that not only provided light, but magnified it,
reflected and contracted and reflected and contracted, until the entire
chamber, a veritable valley of shining crystal, burned with colored lights
almost too bright to look at fully.
The big man skirted a wide, shallow pool, and
followed a stone path that lead up onto a short bridge between many pools of
varied depths. He paused a moment in the center of the bridge, looking about in
wonder at the colored lights and the glittering ceiling high above. The great
domed roof was fully a hundred feet above, and he could not know it now, but he
was looking up inside the stone and crystal eagle tower, which extended another
two hundred feet above the crystal ceiling, all of it capturing the bright
morning sun and channeling down into the Hot Springs.
On the other side of the stone bridge, which
did not appear crafted by human hands, the big barbarian located a shallow
pool, and testing the waters with his bare foot, he determined the temperature
warm enough to keep the sleeper from chilling, and yet cool enough so that it
did not burn the flesh. He could tell, just glancing about, that there were
pools here that no human could survive, not even for moments, while others
appeared cold, and still, sending up no steam. The air in here was stifling,
moist, and searing to the lungs.
Rooster knelt in the waters and gently lowered
his burden into a corner of the shallow pool. He arranged Frederic’s arms out
of the pool so that he looked like nothing so much as a hot-tub fanatic, dozing
in the comfortable waters.
Behind him, Frances entered the crystal cathedral
and paused just inside the entrance, gasping in awe at all the magnified waves
of light.
“Is there any way to turn down the lights?”
she called, gasping.
“Quick!” Rooster shouted, hardly out of
breath, “get over here, Frances. Sit here with Frederic. Keep him from sliding
into the water. I’ll stand in the entrance and do my best to keep that filthy
parasite from entering.”
She splashed through the pools, crying out,
and she splashed, completely ignoring the stone bridge, and she ducked under and
plunged into the next pool and swam the seven feet beneath the walkway, in icy
cold waters. The first pool had burned her, and this one was shockingly icy.
She came up sputtering and climbed over a short rock abutment into the next
pool, which was again too hot. Still, it did come as a relief after that icy
plunge. She swam through a pool that must be very deep, because her feet never
touched bottom.
Drenched, half-frozen and half-boiled, she
climbed out of the pool to crawl ten feet to the shallow pool in which Rooster
had arranged poor Frederic, who was already sweating, his eyelids fluttering.
“Stay here with him, and defend him if it
gets past me,” Rooster commanded, removing the backpack and ax from his back,
setting them in an array close to the pool. “I’m leaving you with my ax. Here,
let me take your pole—it’s not big enough, not by half, but we don’t have
anything else better.”
“Try throwing rocks at it before it gets
here,” Frances sputtered, breathless, she was now worn out, through and
through. That last climb up to the Hot Springs was brutally steep. She was
surprised the lumbering creature had been able to heave its bulk up the
incline. “Maybe bash it with a boulder, you’re certainly strong enough.”
“Good idea, I’m going now, Frances,” he said,
loping back over the stone bridge.
“Don’t let it eat you!” Frances called out
after him.
As Rooster dashed along the stone corridor
leading out toward the creature, he cast about for any useable stones, but the
corridor was as clean, as if swept on a regular schedule. The stones were
pristine. Someone must have dusted, readying the cathedral for its first
visitors in years, perhaps in a thousand years.
Rooster cried out, jerking to the side. He
glanced about him. It seemed that something made all of light had plunged at
him. He only saw it on his periphery, and now, his eyes moving restlessly, he
could see nothing other than afterimages of spotted colors. It must be his
imagination, a symptom of absorbing all that light.
He could hear the snorting, shuffling
monstrosity, somewhere up ahead, not too far away, but it had not yet made the cleft
in the cliff. At the entrance, he paused again, but could still not see the
approaching monster, although it was certainly louder now.
He did see a vast wash of rocks, fit together
so nicely that it appeared almost a cobbled mound, some ancient grave, and
rushing forward, he tested a few of the larger rocks, discovering several that
came away neatly. These seemed to have some slick matter on the bottom sides,
like slime or algae, but he juggled four into the crook of his left arm,
Frances’ pole jutting under his arm, and took up a fifth rock, this one almost
too big to hold in his big right hand, and he hurried forward on his bare feet.
And then he saw it coming to meet him as he
crested a slight rise, with the monster only twenty yards away and as soon as
it caught sight of him—or smelled him, the thing didn’t seem to have any eyes
save for the waving antennae—it redoubled its speed, and it roared. It sounded
like a lion, or a lion with its jaws full of water, for it was a garbled,
bubbling roar, and Rooster thought he could smell the stench of the thing as
its body came writhing up and down and from side to side like a Chinese dragon
in a parade. A slug the size of a rhinoceros, leaving mucous behind it in its
rush toward him, its meal.
Rooster cried out, releasing his gathered
rocks save for the one in his right hand and he did a neat windup like a pitcher
and fired off the rock in a mighty fastball, and was vastly pleased that the
missile flew straight and true, striking the monster just above its horrific
spiral of teeth.
The monster issued another gargling roar, but
at least it paused in its furious charge, skidding across the stone a full ten
feet as Rooster bent and took up two more of his large rocks. He hurled again,
aiming at the horrible maw, and again his aim was surprisingly true—this High
Vale body of his was wonderful! He threw his third rock after the first two,
this time clipping one of the nightmare stalks of its antennae, and knew he had
hurt the parasite. The globe at the tip of the stalk splatted, and it thrilled
Rooster to his core.
But his thrill instantly transformed into
horror as the thing, rearing up like a cobra, slammed the ground with its body,
and came undulating forward, hardly slowed at all by his three dead-on strikes.
Come on! Not fair, after three pitches like
that! The batter should be out! Those were three perfect pitches, all right on
target, and it did not appear that he had even wounded the monster, save for
that one damaged, bleeding antenna.
He snatched up the last two rocks and hurled
them, one after the other, and took a little satisfaction in that the rocks
disappeared into the monster’s gullet, and at least silenced the building roar,
but still, it came on.
The monster wanted him, and it wasn’t going
to let a few stones discourage it from such a meaty meal.
Rooster bent and snatched up the pole and
retreated, backing away slowly from the monster as it came on, now only ten
feet removed from him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the notch in
the cliff was only ten feet behind him. He scrambled backward as the monster
came forward suddenly in a snapping gesture, like a snake going for a direct
poisoning strike. Its head came for him and he leapt, jumping backward and
simultaneously stabbing at the monster with the pole, and the shock of their meeting
knocked Rooster off his feet.
Their meeting was about to become a meating,
and Rooster screamed out as he surged onto his back, keeping the pole up before
him to fend off the monster’s next, fatal strike.
But then something came down between them,
Rooster and the monster, something black and gold and emitting a terrible
buzzing blare of noise.
It was Frances’ bumblebee, Mister Bumbles.
Rooster cried out again, scrambling backward
on his elbows and feet as the monster lashed out at the bumblebee.
The bumblebee danced in the air, hovering and
buzzing. Rooster had never heard a noise like the bee was making, it was some
kind of trumpeting cry, almost like a bugle, but much deeper. This was a large
bee, one of the largest Rooster had ever seen, but in comparative size it
looked like an eagle attacking an elephant.
Rooster gained his feet and took up a
defensive position in the high cleft of the cliff with two feet of space
between him and the stone channel on either side. The monster was now at the
mouth of the cleft and was working its horrible hooves or pincer-feet up along
the stone corridor, snapping at the bumblebee with its round tooth-filled maw.
The bumblebee knew what it was about, and
rose like a helicopter above the deadly teeth, and flew back over the monster’s
head, alighting for a moment on the undulating body, and Rooster saw Mister Bumbles
stab in a deep sting before alighting and flitting away from the thrashing
monster.
Rooster dove in, stabbing with all his might
with his pole, catching the parasite under its mouth. He was thrilled again
when the force of his stab plunged in through its skin a full two feet. But his
moment of exultation was dashed as the monster surged toward him, knocking him
backward a full five feet. He did manage to hold onto to the pole and it came
away oozing with some brackish green blood. He felt like his arms were broken,
so savage was the rush of the monster, but he landed on his feet, and barely
noticed the twisting of his left ankle. He danced backward, spinning his pole
like a spear before him.
The monster climbed a full ten feet high in
the channel of stone, and now came down in a horrible mewing rush, sounding
like an eager kitten after a mouse.
But the bumblebee came down between them
again and flashed forward with its stinger, and the monster roared, snapping at
the bee, connecting loudly, knocking the king-sized insect backward forcefully,
and poor Mister Bumbles tumbled over Rooster, who felt the furry body brush
past.
He hoped the bee wasn’t killed, but it had
been a terrific blow. And he had witnessed the bee use its stinger twice—he was
a little confused, because he thought bees could only wield that weapon once.
But he charged forward again, bellowing,
stabbing up at the monster, catching it in the maw as it snapped down. The
force of their blows meeting tumbled Rooster backward, end over end, his head
and face thudding the stone ground, his only weapon tumbling from his hands,
going end over end behind him. Damn it all, this was it, this was the end—he
had barely managed to slow the beast.
The monster surged upon him again as he got
to his knees, and he managed to seize it just below its jaws, pushing his hands
up and holding its face away from his own for a terrible few seconds, exerting
all his massive strength against the monster parasite as it drooled and bled onto
him. Two of the antenna bent down upon him, and the creature seemed to be
studying him in those terrible seconds of contested strength, figuring out what
exactly what this stubborn prey, and what it was all about, and then the
monster knocked him backward yet again, sending him skidding on his back,
tearing his skin, but Rooster refused to release his hold on the brute. He
barely managed to hold off the snapping teeth as they ground the air inches
removed from his head.
And then he sensed the others, his pollen
sense feeling the three wandering bumblebees drawn forward by Mister Bumbles
bugling call; he felt it as they descended upon the long body of the parasite
and stabbed in their stingers, pumping poison into the monster.
Suddenly the monster withdrew, lifting
Rooster from the ground, turning back on itself to go after the tormentors
behind its head, and it snapped down and seized one of the bumblebees, tearing
the brave creature in half, as Rooster was flipped up high and came down with
all his weight, flipping onto the monster’s underbelly—if only he had a knife!
He could unzip the monster, pouring out its guts in a wash of ichor and slime.
As it was, he managed to get his feet up onto
the stone and pushing, surged his heavy body downward, pressing himself into
the monster’s underjaw, weighing it down. It thrashed up against him, tangled
and knotted upon itself in the narrow corridor of stone, clawing out with its
sharp hooves, cutting at him with the claw appendages, but the other two bees
were repeatedly stinging the creature, dosing it liberally with their bee venom.
It was a titanic struggle, and Rooster felt he was riding an enraged bull while
doing a handstand.
The monster surged, roaring louder than any
lion, and again it threw Rooster away from itself, and he tumbled down into the
stone corridor, slamming repeatedly as his body ricocheted between the walls.
He landed in a clump, and he lay there, expended, his mind scrambled as the
creature roared and roared.
The parasite monster snapped up its
hindquarters, dislodging the two warrior bees from its body, and then it turned
again, unfolding itself, and came down upon Rooster.
A lithe figure leapt over Rooster’s body,
swinging the retrieved pole, and slammed the parasite across its antennae, and
then Frances ducked down, beneath the glistening maw with all those teeth, and
she knelt in the stone corridor with the pole braced against her body, and
wedged the butt end of the pole against a rivulet in the stone ground, and she
braced herself, screaming, as the monster crashed down into her. She was
flattened, squashed in a second, but the pole held true, and it was the
creature’s body that gave, as its full weight impaled itself upon the wedged
pole, puncturing up through its underbody, through its gullet, and out through
its head behind the damaged antennae.
The creature roared and thrashed, crushing
Frances down, slamming her repeatedly into the stone ground. She had one
comical image of one of those cartoons that gets itself flattened by a
steamroller, that’s how she imagined her body looking now, but other than that
thought, it was all stars, stars and flashing comets.
Then the monster attempted to pull itself
away from the damaging pole, dragging it back along the corridor—the heavy-duty
pole squealing against the rocks—leaving Frances for the moment, crushed and breathless
upon the ground, a few seconds to collect herself. She wanted to get up and
walk it off, as her whole body cried out, but she found she could barely move.
One of the warrior bees, damaged and dying,
managed to crawl back up onto the parasite, and now skittered the length of the
long body, driving in its stinger, over and over again, expending all its
venom, until the parasite thrashed into a rolling paroxysm, jerking over,
rolling onto the warrior bee, crushing the life out of the insect.
Frances, bloodied and breathless, pushed
herself to a kneeling position. She glanced back at Rooster, who appeared
broken and dead. It wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot. The creature continued
to squall and scream, wheezing and snorfling, first pulling itself backward in
its attempt to dislodge the debilitating pole through its body, then surging
forward, maddened by the scent of Frances’ and Rooster’s mingled blood, but the
pole slowed its progress, and then suddenly it was wedged by the pole between
two inward jutting protuberances of the rock wall, where the passage was a full
foot narrower. For a moment the parasite remained still, screaming its
frustration, its wounded antenna swiveling down to examine Frances, who
wrenched backward and away, and managed to crawl toward Rooster.
The parasitical monster released pathetic
mewing noises, almost as if in entreaty to Frances, pleading with her to come
back and release it from its pinioning captivity, but the sickly sounds were
almost more unnerving than the previous roaring.
She crawled to Rooster’s body and fell atop
him, her mind going black, and many moments passed before she opened her eyes
again. At least Rooster was warm, she felt, and placing her fingertips to his
throat, she discerned his pulse, still throbbing.
“Rooster,” she said, and then tried: “Hank,
Hank, wake up. Rooster!”
He did not react to her entreaties, but
breathed shallowly. She could barely move, herself, but did a visual scan of
both her body, and his, and neither of them seemed to have any kind of
significant fracturing of bones, but you never could tell. They both were
probably doing all kinds of internal bleeding. Rooster was bleeding from many
places, abrasions and cuts, but there did not seem to be a whole lot of his
blood spread out upon the stone.
As bad as thy both were, she had to get back
to Frederic, whom she had drawn up out of the water and left lying next to the
shallow pool, but even this was dangerous, as he might roll into the pool and
drown. They had gone to such extravagant lengths to get the sick man here, and
now they might all perish, after their endeavors, and there was no forgetting
the creature, wedged now in the stone corridor, but it might break free at any
moment, and right now there was only about thirty feet separating them from it.
She knew Mister Bumbles was still alive,
although he was hurt just as much as they, but she could still feel him, and in
actuality, had observed most of the battle through the bumblebee’s presence, as
her connection to Rooster was not as strong when they were separated by more
than a few dozen feet.
Movement at the end of the stone corridor
caught her eye, and she glanced to see Mister Bumbles crouched there, watching.
For a disorienting moment she saw herself as if in a mosaic of pieces, and had
to switch her consciousness away from the insect’s perspective. But she soothed
him, assuring him that she would survive, and that she must get the Protector
of the Wee Folk away from the monster behind them, and almost as if in answer,
she sensed the approach of a few more warrior bees, out in nectar duties, and
realized that they would be here soon.
Then she remembered. The pistol in her
pocket. What had she been thinking. Damn the thing. The stupid parasite. She
pushed herself to her feet, and stalked toward the monster. It watched her, and
ceased its thrashing.
She walked up close, only two feet away, and
the two undamaged antennae were trained upon her. She aimed the pistol between
the antenna, at what seemed to be the head, right at the base of the antenna,
and she squeezed off the trigger.
The pistol bucked in her hand, spraining her
wrist, and smoke billowed out like an old-fashioned cannon at Waterloo. But it
punched a gory hole in the head of the monster, which set in thrashing again,
its body surging toward her, but yet held fast by the stout pole.
But it was weird, the pistol was growing very
hot in her hand. She stared at the weapon, dumbly. She had paid a pretty penny
for this little killing machine, and what? It was going to explode in her hand.
She winced as the pistol continued to grow in heat, and finally she cranked
back her hand and tossed the pistol at the monster, aiming for its stupidly
chomping mouth, and she sighed with relief when the pistol went right in,
swish, that had to be a three-pointer!
She winced away from the brute as the
explosion, muffled by the slug body, was still hellishly loud, and Frances was
even splattered by some of the gore and gristle as she stumbled away, back
toward Rooster.
The creature in the stone corridor kept
thrashing, kept attempting to push forward toward them, and she feared that
faithful pole of hers might snap at any moment, and then she and Rooster and
Mister Bumbles as well would become meat for the parasite. She looked at the
thing in amazement, not even an explosion inside its body had killed it!
It was ironic that the most dangerous thing
in this world that she had met thus far had come over with them, hiding in
Frederic’s body, the very illness that had brought him here, was now
personified, out in the world, seeking to consume them all.
Would she then become a parasite inside its
body, if she were to be consumed? Alive, and feeding off the creature that had
so shortly before consumed Frederic from within?
She got herself back to Rooster’s body and
she groaned. Her whole body ached. It felt as if she had been compacted into
the back of a garbage truck, squeezed in until she nearly burst. It was likely
she had been struck by some of the flying shrapnel when the pistol exploded.
Her whole face was numb, but her teeth hurt, and feeling was only now coming
back into the tips of her fingers and toes in electric tingles. She sighed, and
stumbled over Rooster, then seized his hands in hers and began tugging him
toward the Hot Springs.
“Oh you are heavy,” she muttered to Rooster,
managing to budge him three feet across the stone. She gritted her teeth, found
footholds for her feet, and pulled on his arms, sweat breaking out on her
forehead. With a great deal of effort, she moved him another six inches, and
then she collapsed again, wheezing.
Then Mister Bumbles was beside her, rubbing
his furry body against her. She was not shocked or disgusted, but really, very
comforted, and she snuggled against the bumblebee for a few moments, and then
recollecting her plight, she prepared to pull again, but before she could exert
her muscles, Mister Mumbles had gone to Rooster’s waist level, and had seized
up a bunch of the pants in his mandibles, and as she tugged for all she was
worth, the bumblebee, slashed and bleeding, scrambled upon the stone, pulling
for all it was worth, seeking to aid her in rescuing the red barbarian.
Damn it, she had to put in more effort for
the sake of poor Mister Bumbles, that faithful bee. She could use the weight of
her own body, all one hundred and fifteen pounds of it, and work against the
static two hundred pounds of all Rooster’s glorious muscle mass.
Mister Bumbles buzzed at her.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but they probably won’t
get here in time,” she said, and then remembered to send it in her thoughts so
that the bee could understand her meaning. She had to move, now, get up on her
feet, and get the job done. Thank you Mister Bumbles, she sent him, thank you,
oh thank you, thank you for not leaving, thank you for not dying, thank you
Mister Bumbles.
She readied herself, standing on her feet and
leaning against Rooster’s weight a few moments, bent at the waist, her hands on
her knees, and then after a few more seconds she squatted down and surged upon
Rooster’s wrists, leaning back, grunting, straining, and finally got him
moving, Mister Bumbles scrambling along tugging at Rooster’s waist, and very
slowly at first, and then a little faster, they got him moving and kept moving,
forward, onward.
If she could only keep moving, she could get
the job done. She only had to get him to that cold water, which she could then
splash in his face, and hopefully, please oh please hopefully, Hank might wake
up, and stop being such a lazy loafer, and get up and do some of this work
himself.
Poor Hank, she had actually felt his near
death, as he struggled against the monster, actually face to face with death
itself, up close and very personal, his hands up under the parasite’s terrible
snapping ring of death as all that weight pressed down for the kill, and the
man had held it off with sheer stubbornness and grit. Thinking of this leant
her more strength, and she got his dragging body moving faster, and then
faster, and leaning back almost to the tipping point, she kept him going well
past the entrance to the cave, Mister Bumbles lending all the strength he might
muster.
Gasping, she released his hands and went for
some water. The nearest water, just past the entrance, a standing two inches of
water, was lukewarm. It would have to do.
Mister Bumbles followed her and soaked up
water, slaking his great thirst.
First, she splashed her own face, and soaked
her raw hands in the wetness. Her flesh was shredded bloody on her palms where
she had held the pole when the parasite had come down upon her. She remembered
the pressures exerted upon her flesh and bones as she was slammed with all that
unnatural weight—her tenacity had proved far stronger than the sheer
monstrosity of the parasite.
The stupid greedy creature had done most of
the work in piercing itself, but her body had certainly paid a heavy toll for
the heroism.
She cupped water in her hands and staggered
back to the prone barbarian, and splashed what remained in his face. He did not
stir. So she repeated the laborious process, managing to dash a bit more water
upon him.
He moaned, softly.
Thank God, at least he wasn’t at death’s
door. Maybe he was, but he wasn’t getting off that easily without a whole lot
of fight on her part.
Finally, she had enough of this process,
which didn’t seem to be working like she hoped it would. So she staggered up to
that icy cold pool by the bridge and cast herself face-first into the water. It
was shocking. She floated like a dead body for many moments, her body
submerged, and then she surfaced, spluttering. Ah, that actually felt good.
This water was colder than refrigerated water. She was surprised there wasn’t
ice floating about on the surface.
Then she started guzzling the cold water,
internalizing the tantalizing coldness, and finally made her way to the side of
the pool and found what appeared to be chippings in the stone, which aided in
climbing out. Now someone had to have made those gashes, at some point, long
ago. She collapsed at the edge of the icy pool and just—was. Just let me be, she
sighed.
Ah, it felt wonderful,
With a start she climbed to her feet, and
going up on her toes she could just see Frederic’s body, lying fifty feet away.
He was fine then, and hadn’t rolled into the waters to drown. She bent and
cupped up some of the cold waters and made her way back to Hank, and splashed
him with what amounted to perhaps a shot glass of cold water (but damn it all,
it was warmed by her own bloody hands).
She sighed. She could still hear the squeal
of the pole scraping the stones so figured that the creature had not advanced,
at least not much.
There was nothing for it but to go back to
Frederic’s side and retrieve the water bottle, fill it with the icy water, and
then bring it back to dash in Rooster’s face. Well, she didn’t intend to rudely
dash the entire bottle in his face, but just enough to revive him, and then
give him the rest to drink. And this is what she did, staggering step after
laborious step, until she got the bottle clipped to the side of the backpack,
and then in one drought she emptied the contents down her own throat—this was
the fresh spring water from near where they camped last night.
Feeling somewhat waterlogged, she staggered
and stumbled back to the icy pool, and submerged the water bottle. This full
twenty-eight ounces she brought back to Hank, and kneeling at his side she
slowly poured the icy water on his forehead and into his eyes, and on his
absurd Mohawk.
Although Rooster did not react the way she
wished—he didn’t jump up and start disco dancing, doing cartwheels across the
floor—Rooster did blink his eyes, and inhale loudly, and cough once or twice.
And so, while she had his mouth open, she poured some of the water into his big
mouth.
He swallowed, thank God!
“Oh Hank,” she breathed.
“Rooster,” he corrected, feebly.
“That is really a dumb name, I’m sorry, I
much prefer Hank,” she said, lifting his head and scooting beneath him, holding
his head in her lap.
“Yeah, well, it’s probably a lot better than
what the Wee Folk call me,” he said, shrugging, and then wincing.
“You do have a point there, and if you want
me to call you Rooster, I’ll call you Rooster,” she said.
“So I guess I’m not dead?” he whispered, eyes
all woozy.
“If you are, then you have great company,
because I’m dead too,” she whispered.
“That would be good company, but I did my
best to keep you alive,” he said.
“And I did my best to keep you alive,” she
said, and then felt a little guilty, because it might seem that she was getting
a little bit competitive with him, and she really ought not be competing with a
guy bigger than Conan the Barbarian.
Yes, she knew she had that competitive streak, but hey, they did their parts in
this horrifying drama.
“Where is that thing, did you kill it?” he
grated, as he put a hand to his ribs.
“I really don’t think we can kill that thing,”
she said. “I’m going to give Frederic the third degree when he wakes up. I
think that idiot actually got the flu shot, no matter how many times I’ve told
him, and I’m a nurse.”
“Your bee really saved my life,” he said, “I
think a couple of times, and I see you got into the mix, as well.”
“Yeah, that’s my story, always charging in
against the bad guy, always twice my size,” she said. “But we really should get
you deeper into this cave, just in case that parasite works its way loose. More
bees are on the way, but none were close, and it might get here before they do.”
“I think I can get up,” he said, “although it
feels like several of my ribs are busted, or at least they got ripped between
the ribs, whatever that stuff is called.”
“Intercostal muscles,” she said,
automatically, “and yeah, you probably have stretched those to the limits,
which will mean trouble breathing, but I wouldn’t doubt that you have a few
fractured ribs. Either way, I think you may live. Just no disco dancing.”
He gave her a strange look, then grinned.
“Thanks, but let’s get me up and back toward
Frederic—you’re right, we might need to go deeper into the caves, and the
parasite might not be able to track us through all these chemical smells.”
“Here, drink the rest of this water,” she
said, putting the bottle to his lips.
He guzzled, and when she went to withdraw the
bottle, he caught her wrist in a surprisingly firm grip, and steered the bottle
back to his lips. He drank like a horse, and finished off the whole bottle.
“Okay, wow,” he said, burping loudly, “that
stuff is incredible, kind of like the honey. This High Vale water is real
water, that much I can tell you.”
“We could set up a business transporting this
through the Red Door,” she said, “we’d change peoples’ lives, cure baldness,
erectile dysfunction, and maybe even acne...”
“—not to mention the flu and cancer,” Rooster
chuckled.
“Then they’d really be after us, ruining
their entire racket like that, the nerve, with water no less,” she scoffed.
“Oh they’d still have their suckers, I think
their business would do just fine,” Rooster said, rolling onto his side out of
her lap and getting onto his hands and knees.
“Right, you can’t cure stupid,” she
concluded. Then she noticed the terrible chaffing on his back, where rivulets
of blood soaked down from multiple abrasions. “Oh Hank, we need to get you
cleaned up, your back is a mess.”
“First,” he said, “to Frederic, then we’ll
worry about the rest. Take the bridge this time, no, it’s okay, I can make it,”
he finished, shaking off her proffered hand. He began along the stone walk,
hobbling, one of his knees bad, and suffering the first pangs of his twisted
ankle. “That bug really kicked my ass.”
She snorted. “I think you gave about as good
as you got. I hope you don’t have to, but you really should see the other guy!”
He snorted laughter but cut off almost
immediately, hugging his ribs with his arms. His chest seemed battered on both
sides, equally, and his spine was shrieking out that it wasn’t in the best
working order, and probably never would be again.
They waded through the necessary pools,
hardly noticing the extreme temperature changes, and were with Frederic in
about a minute. Hank climbed down into the warm pool, and then aided by
Frances, he helped bring Frederic into the water, and soon Frances was cuddled
up next to Frederic on the other side. They sighed, leaning back against the
smooth stone sides.
“I feel like a lobster,” Rooster said, “and I
don’t mind cooking for a while.”
“You are a real rock lobster,” Frances said, sighing, holding Frederic’s hand.
“I wish we could order drinks,” Frederic
said, “ah, a Corona with a slice of lime, that would make this place an awful
lot more like heaven.”
They looked at him in astonishment, and when
Frederic grinned, they both couldn’t help but burst into laughter, Frances with
tears of joy and relief pouring down her face.
“Can we turn the temperature down on this Jacuzzi? It’s a bit warm,” Frederic
said. “I am sweating like a pig.”
“Good, that’s good,” Rooster sad, hugging
Frederic around the neck. “You keep sweating, it’s just what you need.”
Frederic blinked at the huge man. It was
amazing, when you noticed such a thing, but Rooster took up more than twice the
space of Frederic and Frances, combined.
“I thought I dreamed you,” Frederic said. “That
is you, Hank?”
“Yeah, it’s Hank, but I go by Rooster now,”
Rooster replied, smiling sheepishly, his big wet Mohawk bobbing moisture from
above.
“Nice look, really,” said Frederic, closing
his eyes and snuggling between his two friends. “If you were more musical, you
could join Kiss. You look like a true
bad ass.”
“Tell him about the Mighty Red Cock,”
sniggered Frances.
“Please, they don’t have a word for rooster
or chicken, plus Mighty Red Chicken wouldn’t sound quite as awesome,” Rooster
said, unable to suppress a little crowing.
“I gotta say, we all wondered, Hank, you
seemed, um, rather large, even in the other place,” Frederic said, shaking his
head.
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Rooster said, relaxing in
the heat. “Very funny, but just think Rooster
Cogburn, and then it makes more sense.”
“He has grit, I’ll give him that,” Frances
said, who remembered Rooster’s explanation.
“I’ll get you an eyepatch,” Frederic said.
“Frederic?” Frances said, softly.
“Yes?”
“Did you get a flu shot?”
Silence.
“Frederic?”
Rooster coughed. “He’s been asleep for a
while, Frances, maybe—”
“Would you please not butt in?” Frances
snapped. “Frederic, answer, you did
get a flu shot, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Frances, I did. I was doing Barney a
favor. He was afraid to get a shot, and he’d lose his job, so he asked me to
come along, and then when we got there he told me to go first, and then he’d be
able to get one, and I’d be helping him save his job,” Frederic said in a
resigned voice. “I know, I know Frances, you told me, and I’d never gotten one
before. But I figured it must be safe, so yes, okay, I did get a flu shot.”
Frances didn’t reply.
“You shouldn’t have gotten a flu shot,”
Rooster said. “I know I’ve told you all this before, but if the Government is
insisting that you get one, and all the media is telling you it is safe, and
all the doctors say yes while most of the nurses say no, you should pretty much
have a clue. Mercury never has been and never will be any kind of cure-all.”
“I will never get another one, I promise,”
Frederic said.
“Frederic,” Frances said, “I doubt we could
find another world where they promote such a thing. When they start referring
to the population as a herd, most people know what they’re dealing with.
Sheesh. Living Looney Tunes, I swear.”
“You’re both right, I knew all that. I knew
it was a mistake the instant I got it. I felt sick for weeks afterward, and
that just gradually transformed into my colitis, and well, everything else,”
Frederic said, wearily.
“I bet numbnuts didn’t go through with it,
did he?” Frances snapped.
“No, he didn’t, then I heard later he pulled
the same stunt with Rodney. I didn’t think he’d do that, but none of the other
guys would ever go through with it, because they don’t like Barney.”
“With your
IQ,” mused Frances, shaking her head, not opening her eyes to look at him.
“Hey, the larger the IQ, the dumber the
mistakes, but you know, I never make the same mistake a second time,” Frederic
said. “And it’s amazing, but I feel much better. I mean clean. I doubt I’ve
felt this incredible since I was a kid.”
“I really am glad that you feel better, and
that you’re awake,” Frances said, “but the consequences of your flu shot are
still out there, trying to get in here, and eat us.”
“You’d think, ah, never mind,” Frederic
murmured.
“What?” Rooster said, stretching out his
limbs and luxuriating in the water, “You’d think that a Government wouldn’t
pull such a thing on its own people? Come up with a whole scam where people are
sick and require drugs that cause side effects, which require more drugs to
cure those side effects, which in turn cause more side effects, then more
drugs, forever?”
“No, I was more thinking about how easily we
are to trick,” Frederic said wearily.
“They invest a whole lot of time and effort
into pulling the trick,” Rooster said. “But this water, and the honey here, the
grasses, and some of these pools—I think we’re all going to be a whole lot
better, F&F.”
“F&F?” queried Frances, giving Rooster a
look.
“Oh, yeah, that’s how we all refer to you
two, all of us guys, as F&F—Freddy and Franny,” Rooster said, releasing an unexpected
giggle.
“You ever call me Franny, hey, I kill you,”
Frances said, giving Rooster a hard look.
“I promise, I promise,” Rooster said,
suddenly pushing away from F&F, gliding out into the pool. “I think I’m
going to try that ice-cold pool beneath the bridge, my head is getting queasy.”
Frances snuggled in close to Frederic. “It is
so good that you are back, Freddybear,” she crooned in close to his ear.
He turned his head and kissed her, just once,
and lightly. Then he pulled back and stared deeply into her eyes.
“Don’t call me Freddybear, ever, where anyone
can hear,” he said, “or you’ll kill me.”
“I won’t, I promise,” she swore, holding up a
bruised hand in pledge. But when she moved in to kiss him again he withdrew,
still staring into her eyes.
“Maybe you better not kiss me, just in case
anything else is lurking in me,” he said, seriously.
“No, don’t worry on that score, this place
cleans us all out. With me, it’s just been diarrhea, but Rooster and I have
both been watching for any signs. We’ve been eating the grasses, feeding them
to you—and the water, too, it seems to kill the evil little bastards. I think
you’re clean. We got you off your flu juice, and let me tell you, you better
not fall off that particular goon wagon, ever again.”
“You’ve convinced me,” Frederic said, and he
leaned in and kissed her, much more fully, and truly enjoying it for the first
time—when you’re sick, about to soil your pants, and near death, kissing around
a mouthful of vomit just doesn’t seem quite as romantic.
“Hey, guys,” said Rooster, climbing out of
the water, standing on a large rock, “I’ve been going from one little pool to
the next, and I can taste and smell the different chemicals. Salty as the sea
in one, full of sulfur and brimstone in another, and another that smells and
tastes like—ginger, if you can believe it. Another smells like oregano. And
just this little swim away from you two, I feel completely better, my ribs aren’t
even hurting! I don’t think my ankle is even sprained any more, glory
hallelujah, it’s a miracle!”
“We’ll join you,” said Frederic, weakly, “I
need out of this hot water, anyway. Plus I think I want to guzzle some of the
sulfur water.”
“You sure you’re able? You’ve been asleep for
more than two whole days,” cautioned Frances, ever the nurse.
“I have to tell you about the dreams, I’m
still not certain if they were real places I was visiting,” he said,
stretching, washing his face in the water, rinsing his mouth.
“If any one of your dreams were to a Golden
City, then yes, that one was real,” Frances stated.
He gave her such a look, she knew he’d been
there. She was surprised they had not run into each other. They switched pools,
this next pool was decidedly lukewarm, and quite a relief after all that heat.
“Oh that light,” said Frederic.
“Kind of bright, isn’t it?” said Frances, who
was already beginning to feel more energized, after they switched pools, going
from the hot water into the lukewarm pool, to the warm pool, then into the cold
water. She gasped. Wow, this really was icy. How could the temperatures run
such a gamut, so close together, separated only by rock walls?
“Bright, but I think it is healing us every
bit as much as the waters, I keep seeing shapes zipping across,” he said in
wonder. His gaze traveled along the ceiling and walls. You didn’t think of
caves being bright like this, and the light, wow, it felt good.
“I’ve been seeing them as well, and I thought
they looked like angels,” she replied, swimming close behind him where they
could just touch bottom. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. Then she
moved her hands lower.
“Not in front of the angels,” he whispered,
and she swam around him, luxuriating in the incredible waters.
There was decidedly a chemical smell
throughout the air, which was thick in and of itself, heavy with water vapors,
swirling mists, and fresh water dripping down in places from the crystal
ceiling far above.
“Oh boy,” Hank called, “I’m sure it’s not the
case, but this pool smells like...um, urine. Maybe it’s apple juice? Or beer?”
“It just smells healthy,” she said softly, to
Frederic.
“Frances, honestly, we just might have to go
someplace, on the private side, and soon,” he whispered confidentially, “because
all of this is really doing things to my circulation.”
“It’s
about time,”
she whispered, “you’ve been making me wait for years and years and years.”
“I bet it has been much harder on me,” he
said, with complete and utter innocence.
She snorted laughter, and then coughed, and
then splashed him. He laughed and splashed back, and soon they were enjoying a
truly light moment together, splashing each other silly.
Through the splashing, Frances turned her
head and she happened to catch sight of Rooster, standing near the entrance. He
was standing oddly, and at first she thought he might be feeling weakness, but
then she saw that he was in a defensive crouch, hands up with fingers spread,
ready for battle. She raised her hand for Frederic to stop splashing and he
caught sight of where she was looking.
They saw the strange looking worm-like
creature come through the front entrance, the parasite, the monster that seemed
the size of a Chinese dragon in a parade. It was wounded, terribly, with a
terrific gash where the pole had finally ripped through its flesh, nearly
slicing the monster in half, but it was holding together now, flapping, with
purpose although wobbly like Jell-O, but it was advancing on Rooster, and it
was coming on cautiously.
It knew that this was one of the audacious
creatures that had brought it such pain, and now it was seeking more than just
a meal—it was seeking pain, and pleasure, and most of all, revenge.
“Ah you gotta be kidding, that thing came out
of me? And pregnant women thought they had it bad,” muttered Frederic, going
ghastly pale.
© Copyright 2017 Douglas Christian Larsen. Rood Der.
Rood Der — Episode Sixteen: Rock Lobster
If you like Rood Der, try
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© Copyright 2017 Douglas Christian Larsen. Rood Der. All Rights Reserved by the Author, Douglas Christian Larsen. No part of this serial fiction may be reproduced (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews) or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher, Wolftales UNlimited, but please feel free to share the story with anyone, only not for sale or resale. This work is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental (wink, wink).
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