disappeared!
She was never seen again after the slaughter of 79.
Had she been wearing prescription sunglasses in the photo? Could these be her regular glasses? Had she been dragged away by a surviving beast and lost them here in the tunnel? Or maybe lost them while escaping through here?
Difficult to picture a cute little blonde like Sandy -who’d looked a lot like Jodie Foster at that age -wearing such a hideous pair of tortoise-shell eyeglasses.
Besides, she’d vanished almost twenty years ago. These glasses couldn’t have been in the dirt of the tunnel for that long.
If they’re not Sandy’s…
They could’ve ended up in the tunnel in all sorts of ways, mark told himself. But they obviously suggested that a woman had been down here not terribly long ago. And that she hadn’t been able to retrieve them after they fell—or were knocked—off her face. Meaning she was probably a victim of foul play.
Someone must’ve dragged her through this very tunnel.
Someone, something.
A beast?
They’re all dead, he reminded himself. They were killed off in 79.
Says who?
Chapter Twelve
Mark lifted his head off his arms and gazed into the blackness.
What if they’re wrong? he thought. What if one of the beasts survived and it’s in here with me? Just up ahead. Maybe it knows I’m here and it’s just waiting for the right moment to come and get me?
Quit it, he told himself. There isn’t a beast in here.
Besides, even if there is, the things are nocturnal. They sleep all day.
Says who?
The books. The movies.
That doesn’t make it true.
Into the darkness, he murmured, ‘Shit.
And he almost expected an answer.
None came, but the feat of it raised gooseflesh all over his body.
I’ve gotta get out of here.
Can’t. I can’t leave now. Not after all this. Just a few more hours…
In his fear, however, he decided to turn himself around. No harm in that. He would need to do it anyway, sooner or later, unless he intended to crawl all the way back to the cellar feet-first.
He took hold of his pack.
Is everything in it?
He thought so, but he didn’t want to leave anything behind.
Just a quick look.
He unzipped his pack and found the matchbook. Open it. Plucked out a match. Pressed its head against the friction surface.
Then thought about how it would light him up.
And saw himself as if through the eyes deeper in the tunnel… eyes that hadn’t seen him before… belonging to a man or beast who hadn’t known he was here. But knows now.
Don’t be a wuss, he told himself. Nobody’s down here but me.
Who says?
Anyway, I’ve got everything. I don’t have to light any match to know that.
We don’t need no steenkin’ matches!
He lowered the zipper of his windbreaker, then slipped the matchbook and the unlit match into his shirt pocket.
Now?
He shut the pack, pulled it in against his chest and began to struggle to reverse his direction. The walls of the tunnel were so close to his sides that he couldn’t simply turn around. He didn’t even try. Instead, he got to his knees in hopes of rolling backward.
The tunnel ceiling seemed to low. The back of his head pushed at it. His neck hurt. His chin dug into his chest.
As he fought to bring his legs forward, he almost panicked with the thought that he might become stuck. Then he forced one leg out from under him. Then the other. Both legs forward, he dropped a few inches. His rump met the tunnel floor and the pressure went away from his head and neck and he flopped onto his back. He lay there gasping.
Did it!
Would’ve been a lot easier, he supposed, just to crawl backward. But he’d succeeded. It was over now.
What if I’d gotten stuck?
Didn’t happen. Don’t think about it.
He still needed to roll over, but he didn’t feel like doing it just yet. Lying on his back felt good.
If I’d brought my Walkman, he thought, I could listen to some music and…
My headphones!
He touched his head, his neck.
The headphones were
She was never seen again after the slaughter of 79.
Had she been wearing prescription sunglasses in the photo? Could these be her regular glasses? Had she been dragged away by a surviving beast and lost them here in the tunnel? Or maybe lost them while escaping through here?
Difficult to picture a cute little blonde like Sandy -who’d looked a lot like Jodie Foster at that age -wearing such a hideous pair of tortoise-shell eyeglasses.
Besides, she’d vanished almost twenty years ago. These glasses couldn’t have been in the dirt of the tunnel for that long.
If they’re not Sandy’s…
They could’ve ended up in the tunnel in all sorts of ways, mark told himself. But they obviously suggested that a woman had been down here not terribly long ago. And that she hadn’t been able to retrieve them after they fell—or were knocked—off her face. Meaning she was probably a victim of foul play.
Someone must’ve dragged her through this very tunnel.
Someone, something.
A beast?
They’re all dead, he reminded himself. They were killed off in 79.
Says who?
Chapter Twelve
Mark lifted his head off his arms and gazed into the blackness.
What if they’re wrong? he thought. What if one of the beasts survived and it’s in here with me? Just up ahead. Maybe it knows I’m here and it’s just waiting for the right moment to come and get me?
Quit it, he told himself. There isn’t a beast in here.
Besides, even if there is, the things are nocturnal. They sleep all day.
Says who?
The books. The movies.
That doesn’t make it true.
Into the darkness, he murmured, ‘Shit.
And he almost expected an answer.
None came, but the feat of it raised gooseflesh all over his body.
I’ve gotta get out of here.
Can’t. I can’t leave now. Not after all this. Just a few more hours…
In his fear, however, he decided to turn himself around. No harm in that. He would need to do it anyway, sooner or later, unless he intended to crawl all the way back to the cellar feet-first.
He took hold of his pack.
Is everything in it?
He thought so, but he didn’t want to leave anything behind.
Just a quick look.
He unzipped his pack and found the matchbook. Open it. Plucked out a match. Pressed its head against the friction surface.
Then thought about how it would light him up.
And saw himself as if through the eyes deeper in the tunnel… eyes that hadn’t seen him before… belonging to a man or beast who hadn’t known he was here. But knows now.
Don’t be a wuss, he told himself. Nobody’s down here but me.
Who says?
Anyway, I’ve got everything. I don’t have to light any match to know that.
We don’t need no steenkin’ matches!
He lowered the zipper of his windbreaker, then slipped the matchbook and the unlit match into his shirt pocket.
Now?
He shut the pack, pulled it in against his chest and began to struggle to reverse his direction. The walls of the tunnel were so close to his sides that he couldn’t simply turn around. He didn’t even try. Instead, he got to his knees in hopes of rolling backward.
The tunnel ceiling seemed to low. The back of his head pushed at it. His neck hurt. His chin dug into his chest.
As he fought to bring his legs forward, he almost panicked with the thought that he might become stuck. Then he forced one leg out from under him. Then the other. Both legs forward, he dropped a few inches. His rump met the tunnel floor and the pressure went away from his head and neck and he flopped onto his back. He lay there gasping.
Did it!
Would’ve been a lot easier, he supposed, just to crawl backward. But he’d succeeded. It was over now.
What if I’d gotten stuck?
Didn’t happen. Don’t think about it.
He still needed to roll over, but he didn’t feel like doing it just yet. Lying on his back felt good.
If I’d brought my Walkman, he thought, I could listen to some music and…
My headphones!
He touched his head, his neck.
The headphones were
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