The Demon's Cave

By Keith McArdle

Dan adjusted the leather skull cap. The hearing cups nestled more securely around his ears and the roar of the plane's engines immediately faded to a dull rumble. He reached into a pocket, fingers clamping onto a piece of paper. He dragged it clear and unfolded the note. The words were written by a neat hand, the letters beautiful, clean strokes of ink.

Mr. Dan Atwood, I am told you can help. I would like to add a Quinkin to my collection. If you accept the three gold guineas on offer, you will fly to a small airstrip 25 miles north of Melbourne and God willing capture one of these creatures. All expenses paid. Muribilli, a warrior and tracker from the Woi Wurrung people will meet you at the airstrip. He comes highly recommended. You won't succeed without him. Godspeed.

Graeme Baird

He folded the letter and slid it away, buttoning the pocket closed. He stretched his legs, staring at his pack and weapon secured on a seat opposite. The Lee Enfield .303 bolt action had served him well. He'd been issued it at the tender age of seventeen by the Australian Imperial Force in 1915. He closed his eyes, his chest expanding, an acrid fume-riddled breath filled his lungs. The rifle had been clutched firmly in his hands when he'd jumped clear of the boat onto the pebble-strewn beach of Gallipoli a few short months after setting sail from Australia. What a day that'd been. He felt the bump in his throat rise and fall and he let the air out in a rush, the interior of the aircraft coming into view as his eyelids parted. The Australian and New Zealand Army Corps had lost more than ten thousand soldiers during their eight-month struggle on the Turkish peninsula during the Great War.

The pressure in the cabin changed and he assumed the pilot had commenced his descent. A green blur came into view at the bottom edge of the windows, the upper canopy of trees sliding by. The rumble of the engines changed to an even less urgent tone. A powerful thud filled the aircraft, forcing him deeper into his seat for a fleeting moment and then a persistent rattle emanated through the floor and up his legs. The engines eased off to an idle and the lap belt held him secure as his body urged him to go sliding towards the front of the aircraft as it slowed.

Eventually, the pilot brought the DC-3 to a halt. Dan stood, unbuckled his pack and weapon. He slung the pack, took the rifle in one hand and made his way to the door that'd been swung open by the aircrew. He leapt clear, boots hitting the dirt surface of the airstrip. The dust they'd left in their wake as they landed, drifted across the small runway, blotting much from view. He coughed, shrugged the pack into a more comfortable position, nodded his thanks to the aircrew watching him and walked away.

“We'll wait here for ya!” one of them called.

“You might be waiting for a while,” he shouted over a shoulder.

“Being paid by the day.”

This Baird fella must be richer than sin!

He strode towards a small cluster of people standing to the side of the strip where a Bedford truck with a fuel tank attached to its tray began slowly grinding towards the waiting aircraft. One of the figures standing there caught his eye. He was a tall Aboriginal man, naked save for several kangaroo hides wrapped around his waist. As he closed the distance between them, Dan noticed horizontal scars descended on his chest. From memory each indicated a life event, the first being his initiation into manhood. The Aboriginal man's skin was darker than pitch, save for his pearly whites beaming as he offered Dan a wide smile.

“You must be, Muribilli? My name's Dan,” he held out his hand.

“Yes boss, but most call me Bill.” He had a firm shake.

Bill held a three-pronged spear in one hand and attached to the hide at his right hip was a boomerang.

Let's hope he can use them.

“We gonna go now, or later?”

“No time like the present, Bill.”

Bill turned and walked barefoot towards the nearby treeline.

“Do you need shoes, mate?”

Bill laughed.

Guess not.

A huge scar ran the length of Bill's back, from his left shoulder to his right hip. He'd seen battlefield scars before and knew the injury would have nearly killed the Aborigine. He reminded himself to ask about it later.

The cool shade provided by the forest engulfed them. Bird chatter pervaded the woodland and soon the distant rumble of the truck's engine, shouts and laughter of people faded away. A flock of cockatoos bickered in the upper branches of a tall eucalyptus. Dan shrugged the pack into a better position again and followed the Aboriginal tracker. Movement through the leaf litter drew his attention. A small lizard scuttled away, disappearing beneath a thick piece of fallen bark. Vines wrapping around a nearby trunk, ascending towards the canopy in search of sunlight.

A kangaroo grazing upon shoots of grass pushing clear of the blanket of dead leaves sat back on its haunches and fixed them with a glare. The animal stopped chewing, ears flicking towards them. Then it turned from them and bounded away. He almost walked into Bill, who was crouched, staring at the ground.

“You found something?”

“Look 'ere, boss,” Bill pointed at a patch of leaf litter in front of him.

Dan stepped around him and squatted. He couldn't see anything of interest.

The tracker looked at him and grinned. “You blind ay?”

He shrugged. “Must be, mate.”

Bill brushed aside the spent leaves with gentle strokes until eventually, only bare earth was visible. Dan leaned closer and thought he saw a faint outline of something imprinted into the dark dirt.

“Just 'ere.” Bill traced a finger lightly around the perimeter.

A cold chill descended his spine and speared his guts. It was a footprint, more than twice the size of an adult human, ending in three claws. “So this thing's real then? I had my doubts.”

“You after Quinkin?” Bill pointed in the direction they had been walking, “you found Quinkin. He's up 'ere a bit, boss.”

Bill stood and pointed at his back. “Over many years he's become a legend. This 'ere scar proves he's real.”

Dan unslung his pack, opened a pouch and withdrew three magazines of ammunition. The first he slid into the weapon's breach, the remaining two he pushed into a pocket. Nestling the pack into position once more, he loaded the .303, the click of the bolt loud amongst the quiet forest.

“Did you kill the thing, or take it captive?”

“Neither one. Lucky to get out alive, boss.”

“You hunt it down by yourself?”

“Six of us.”

“How'd the others fair?”

The Aborigine didn't answer, choosing instead to increase his pace.

Dan let it go, remembering that Aboriginal people did not like to mention or discuss the dead if that indeed was what happened to Bill's hunting party.

If six people couldn't bring this thing in, how are two of us going to fair?

He smiled, grim determination sweeping him. I've been through worse.

They pushed beyond a large, thick fern and stopped. A large cave sunk straight into the side of a sheer rock face, its dark, foreboding entrance yawning open like the mouth of some long forgotten mythical monster. Tendrils of moss hung from the cave ceiling. They entered slowly, a damp, musty smell enveloping them. The only sound a soft, constant dripping as water leaked from above.

Pitch black became dark grey and as his eyesight adjusted to the light change, the walls ascended thrice the height of a man, the roof of the cave obscured by blackness. Bill walked slow, his spear held at the ready as they advanced further into the darkness. Dan stepped on an animal bone, the loud crack reverberating off the walls and bouncing around the cave. He paused until silence greeted them and then continued.

“Be careful, boss.”

He nodded, placed a boot where the rocky ground should have been and almost tripped on an entire skeleton. Suppressing a curse, he stepped over it and slipped on what suspiciously felt like a human skull.

“Been walkin' long, boss?”

The only part of Bill visible were his white teeth, flashing in the darkness.

“Very funny, mate,” he whispered.

The Aborigine chuckled.

Dan paused and squinted, his gaze flicking over Bill's shoulder. Two red orbs, adjacent to one another, appeared from near ground level from deeper in the cave. The orbs seemed to ascend in the air until they stopped somewhere high above them. They disappeared for a fraction of a second before reappearing, for all the world looking like eyes blinking. Dan watched the strange light show in silence. The red orbs approached the pair, accompanied by a putrid stink.

A deep, guttural voice spoke in a harsh language Dan had never heard. Bill whirled away from him to face the approaching lights. “It's 'ere, boss!” he yelled.

The hairs on the nape of Dan's neck stood on end. He brought up the rifle, pulled the butt into his shoulder, aimed between the pair of large red blobs and fired. The noise was deafening in the enclosed space. The bullet ricocheted from the wall with a loud whine. The half-second muzzle flash illuminated a tall, black humanoid, dwarfing both men. The red orbs were eyes.

“Good Christ,” whispered Dan taking a step back. “GO!” he roared. “Go, Bill! Go!”

SEE NEXT EPISODE FOR CONTINUED STORY.

THIS STORY IS PART OF ADRENALINE SHOTS, THE NEW SCI-FI & HORROR ANTHOLOGY  https://tapas.io/dannyrichardwriter/series

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