The Chronicles of Riddick - Alan Dean Foster [68]
At the bottom of the cavern, a pair of sulfide scavengers vanished into a fissure so rank with the smell of sulfur-laden steam not even a hellhound would enter it. Not far away, a prisoner who had hatched the crazy idea of waiting in hiding in hopes of grabbing onto the bottom of the lift and finding himself hoisted to the half freedom of slam control found himself confronted by one of the remorseless creatures. He turned to run but wasn’t nearly fast enough. The sounds of human shrieks mixed with delighted snarl-hisses drifted upward through the cavern. Fortunately, the accompanying crunching sounds were too subdued to be heard more than one tier up.
Riddick had sequestered himself behind one of the geothermal cascades the prison population used for bathing. The steaming rush was loud enough to mute any sounds, the sulfurous stink strong enough to mask any body odor. Droplets of heavily mineralized water beaded up on his goggles as he stared silently into the surge.
They did not prevent him from seeing the approaching hellhound. He lifted his goggles in an attempt to obtain a clearer view. Head sweeping back and forth over the ground, the creature would occasionally lift its muzzle to sniff at the air, then drop its jaws to the surface again. As it strode past, Riddick had the opportunity to observe the muscles rippling along its flanks, the razor teeth that flashed in its jaws, the feral glint in its predatory alien eyes. Powerful and lightning fast, it was capable of easily overwhelming any human.
It continued past the cascade—and stopped. Maybe it sensed movement not generated by water. Maybe some smell lingered in the air. Whatever the reason, it turned sharply, growling deep in its throat, and approached the waterfall. Pushing through the aqueous veil, it nosed steadily deeper within. Rising up on its hind legs, it was even more impressive than it had been on all fours. As it probed, an identification tag jiggled against one ear. Number five. Piercing, animal eyes flashed menacingly.
And came face-to-face with Riddick. Eyeshine to eyeshine.
XI
The Guv’s chosen living quarters lay nearby. While the majority of prisoners preferred to live on one of the upper tiers, near the control center, he and the other, more wizened convicts had made their homes at or near the bottom of the cavern. There was no sky to be glimpsed from the upper levels, anyway, and the guards got to you sooner. Sure, the air was a little fresher, but for a lifer that was only a tease best avoided. It wasn’t really fresh air, anyway, a commodity that was sorely lacking on Crematoria. Down bottom, a man or woman had time to think. And to forget.
In his convoluted, troubled, difficult life, the Guv had seen it all. Or thought he had, until that moment. Moving to the bars of his self-sealed cell, he gaped in amazement at what he thought he was seeing. It was hard to tell, at a distance and with all that falling water. There was Riddick, that was for sure. And there was a hellhound—that was a surety also. It was the interaction that caused him to blink and rub several times at his sulfur-stained eyes. Because it could not be happening.
Riddick was petting the hellhound. Toying with it, slapping it playfully back and forth across its lethal muzzle. Once, the Guv could have sworn he saw the newcomer put his clenched fist inside the predator’s mouth. Instead of snapping off the morsel in one bite, the hellhound gnawed on it affectionately. The Guv would have doubted it all, attributed what he was seeing to age and delusion, except for one thing: as he stared, the hellhound’s flushed skin changed from an energized deep red to a neutral slate gray.
Within the mist-shrouded cascade, Riddick continued to play with the carnivore. As he did so, he noted the deep scars on its muzzle and