The Source - Michael Cordy [111]
'Stop screwing about, Ross,' said Bazin. 'Drop the crystal, put your hands up and walk over here. Those things can't protect you.' There were at least thirty nymphs surrounding Ross now and they were forcing him into the shadows. 'Come on, Ross. I don't want to shoot you, but I will.'
Ross had a decision to make. To have any chance of escape he had to drop to a crouch, use the nymphs as cover and make a dash for the other exit. Or he had to give himself up and try to escape another time – if there was another time. Either way, he had to decide now.
In that split second, however, the decision was made for him. The nymphs surged with such force that he slipped on the damp rock floor. And as he fell Bazin fired. The shot echoed round the caves but the sound didn't concern Ross. His only concern was the bullet throwing him on to his back.
And the pain.
Lying there on the hard rock, each breath more agonizing than the last, he looked up at the nymphs and clutched his chest. He raised his hand and saw it was dripping with blood – his blood. Despite the intense pain, or because of it, his mind was eerily devoid of panic. With chilling clarity he knew he was dying. He thought of Lauren and their unborn child and a heavy sadness descended on him. He wasn't supposed to die. He was supposed to save them.
He reached out for the crystal shard he had dropped beside him and tried to raise it to his mouth. If he could bite it and ingest some of its power, he might stave off death. But his arms had no strength.
'We warned you, Ross,' he heard Torino call, from some distant place. 'We warned you.'
Yes, thought Ross, you warned me.
The nymphs crowded round him. The smell of stale sex and mustard seed was overpowering. Cool, clammy skin touched his arms. Small hands gripped him – he had no idea how many. He was Gulliver, but these Lilliputians weren't tying him down, they were reaching under him, lifting him, carrying him.
Where?
He was dimly aware of Bazin trying to reach him and being thwarted by the nymphs. Lying on his back, he looked towards his feet and saw light ahead: the tunnel. They were taking him up the tunnel of blood. As he entered it, the light was so bright that his dying mind saw the nymphs as angels bearing him aloft to Heaven. The thought amused him as he lay back, on the cusp of consciousness, staring up at the shimmering patterns and colours of the tunnel's crystal-encrusted ceiling. His vision was dimming and the pain was fading, replaced by a warm glow. Death wasn't so bad. Perhaps there was a God, Heaven too. Perhaps, in time, he would be reunited with Lauren and their child.
A familiar chant pierced his fractured thoughts, and he knew instantly where they were taking him: to his funeral. He'd read once that fallen Vikings were burnt on a funeral pyre, but as he listened to the nymphs' two-note incantation he knew his pyre would be different. He heard the waterfall and felt them carry him up the steps towards the dark chamber with its pock-marked walls infested with rock worms. He felt a cold shaft of fear.
He glimpsed the friendly nymph with the red flowers. Was it some kind of honour to be consumed by the worms?
He closed his eyes, grateful suddenly for the imminence of death, willing its dark embrace to claim him before the creatures did. He didn't want any more pain. He just wanted sleep. As his mind folded in on itself, he listened, waiting for the pacifying chants to stop and the worms to attack.
Moments earlier
The shot had been a reflex. Bazin had pulled the trigger as soon as Ross had made his sudden move. His experience told him it had been a death-shot but when he tried to move closer and confirm it, the nymphs hissed and bared their teeth. Sharp teeth. There were too many and he wished he had brought the flame-thrower with him. As he hung back with the Superior General, and watched them carry Ross up the tunnel, something nagged at him. It took him a moment to recognize it as guilt. He