Subterranean

He shrugged, then whispered, "I don't think this is good."

The leader stamped his stick on the stone and turned away.

Just then a tottering figure with coarse silver hair emerged from a neighboring cave. He moved so slowly and carefully that Ashley was sure she could hear his bones creak. Like the leader, he carried a walking stick, but unlike the leader, he needed it, leaning heavily on the staff with each step. Also, rather than a ruby, his stick was topped by a pear-shaped diamond.

Ashley noticed as he approached that painted on his chest was a design in reds and yellows.

Ben started fidgeting beside her. "I gotta be going crazy."

"Shhh!" she said. "I don't think it's polite to talk."

The ancient one looked toward her. Though his body was obviously old and decrepit, there was a sharp intelligence in his eyes, revealing an agile mind. He turned to Ben and nodded toward him, then began talking to the leader.

Ben shifted back a step. "Ash, I've seen that design before. That painting on the ol' bloke's chest."

"What? Where?" she whispered.

He swallowed hard. A trace of fear frosted his voice. "In… a dream. Painted on… my dead grandfather."

She took his hand. "Listen, we'll figure that out later. Right now we need to find out what they intend to do with us."

While they had been whispering, the discussion between the old man and the leader had become heated. Voices were now raised, punctuated by the stamping of walking sticks. Finally, the leader bared his teeth and cracked his walking stick across his knee, snapping it in half, and stormed away.

"Now what?" Ben asked.

The ancient one turned to face them and pointed his stick in their direction. He uttered one word: "Death."

TWENTY-TWO

EXHAUSTION LULLED MICHAELSON FROM HIS SURVEILLANCE of the tu

He sighed. At least his ankle's throbbing had dulled to a mild protest. Eventually he'd have to adjust the ankle splint, but he was too tired for that now. He closed his eyes so he could concentrate with less distraction. Still, there was only silence and more silence.

A yawn escaped him, and his head sagged to his chest. He shook his head, knowing he must stay alert.

He checked the corridor. Still clear. After several minutes, like sinking suns, his eyelids began to droop downward again. His breathing deepened. He hung suspended in that fuzzy haze between dream and reality.

It was then something brushed across his hand.

His eyelids snapped open, and he threw his head back, almost cracking the back of his skull on the wall. He fumbled with his gun and pointed it at a man dressed in a ragged Marine uniform, the sleeves torn off at the shoulders. It was impossible. He blinked a few times. Must be dreaming, he thought. But the figure persisted, smiling down at him.

Michaelson stared up into the eyes of his long-lost brother. "Harry? My god! You're alive!"

His brother pushed the muzzle of Michaelson's gun away with a fingertip. "Not if you pull that trigger," Harry said, a tired grin on his face.

Michaelson threw his gun to the side and, ignoring the protest from his ankle, jumped and grabbed his brother in a bear hug. He squeezed back tears, praying he wasn't hallucinating, but his brother's amused chuckles were not those of his imagination. He was real. "Thank god thank god thank god," Michaelson chanted into Harry's shoulder.

"Brother, you gave us quite a chase," Harry said, breaking their hug and swiping a hand through his black hair, a familiar ma

Smiling, Michaelson realized he hadn't seen that gesture in ages. It had been decades since Harry's hair had been any longer than a tight military crewcut, but after the months down here, the gesture, like an old friend, had returned.

Michaelson's voice caught in his throat. He almost took his brother again in his arms, but then noticed the scar that ran the entire length of Harry's right arm. It was still pink and raised, something recent. He reached out and touched it. "What happened?"

Harry's expression sobered. Michaelson studied his brother's face closely and noticed the circles under his brother's blue eyes. A haunted look. Harry had lost weight; the remains of his uniform hung on his frame. "It's a long story," Harry said.

"Well, I think we have the time."

"No, not really. We need to hurry. The crak'an are close."

"The who?"

"Those monsters." Harry waved him to follow. "Gather your gear, soldier, we're bugging out."

Michaelson tossed him his gun and climbed into the alcove to collect his pack and canteen. As he crawled back out, he noticed his brother checking his gun with an appreciative smile.

Harry handed back the gun reluctantly. "Nice tool. I could have used that firepower when I was escorting those scientists. Maybe then…" He stopped talking, a fierce set to his lips.

Michaelson approached his brother's back, laying a hand on his shoulder, still half expecting him to vanish in a puff of smoke, like some trickster spirit, teasing him with his brother's image. He noticed his brother's hands were empty. How had he survived ru

"No need. I've got friends."

Friends? Michaelson searched the empty passageway, shifting his pack to his shoulder. Who was Harry talking about?

His brother then growled something that sent a chill up his back, half howl, half moan, inhuman. Low but penetrating.

Michaelson stared at his brother's back as he howled. Had his brother gone mad during his isolation?

Harry turned to him, dead serious. "Don't shoot at them."

"Who the hell are you talking-" There was movement along the walls farther down the passage. Small figures, camouflaged against the rock, stepped into the passage, knives and spears glistening in the greenish mold light.

Michaelson heard a pebble shift behind him. Glancing around, he saw more were approaching from the rear. "Harry?"

"They're friends. Saved my life."

One of the creatures separated from the others and approached. His eyes fixed on Michaelson as he edged toward Harry. Michaelson held his gun tightly. The creature, naked, stood only four feet high but was wiry with well-defined muscle. Its shaggy, sandy-colored hair was secured with a blood-red headband. Large eyes searched Michaelson from toe to head, while its prominent ears swiveled in all directions like radar dishes.

As the small figure approached, Michaelson judged the weaponry he carried. A long knife with a crude crystalline blade was belted around his bare waist, and in his four-fingered hand, he clutched a long spear.

As Michaelson watched, the creature crossed to Harry and handed him the spear. Then it backed away.

"Who are… No, what are they?"

"They call themselves mimi'swee."

One of them darted from behind, startling Michaelson, and slid past him to approach Harry. He pointed behind them. "Doda fer'ago," he said. "Doda crak'an!"

Harry glanced over to Michaelson. "He says we've got company. They've caught our scent and are closing in on us. Time to hightail it."

As if on cue, a roar erupted from behind them. A second and third answered it, coming from all around them. They were being boxed in.

Michaelson thought of Ashley and Ben, lost out in the maze of tu

"I know. A small team of my buddies were dispatched after them." He pointed a thumb forward. "Your friends have been herded to safety."