A Rabid End in Sinkhole Cavern — Curtis Ippolito
A rustling outside woke me, but not my husband. I swatted the mattress between us, and he still didn’t stir. Cursing under my breath, I staggered out through the sliding glass door into our backyard.
Coyotes.
A week earlier, one stalked up the hill behind our mesa-topped home and snagged our pug through the wrought-iron bars of the backyard fence. Brad blamed me because I ran inside to take a leak and left him on potty patrol. But he was the one tweeting, neglecting our pup. Thankfully, I came back out right when the coyote pounced. I slugged the predator’s skull with a Maglite and pulled poor Biscuit to safety.
I believed a pro-active approach would prevent future attacks, and Brad left it up to me. So, of course, I was alone, stumbling down the steep hillside behind our house. I shouted, “Get! Stay away!” into the night as the beam from my flashlight dissected the overgrown scrub brush. I’ve never been the macho type, but something about wanting to protect my own had boosted my confidence more than usual.
The dried grass to my left rustled.
“GET!” I yelled, spinning to the area and waving the flashlight. “Get outta here!”
The blue beam captured a figure, so I fixed the light on it.
Branches broke and crunched with each of my slow, pressing steps forward. The minty aroma of native salvias filled my nostrils. I yelled again, chest puffed, hoping the coyote would heed my earned dominance.
“GET—”
The chaparral gave way under me, and I plummeted feet first. The sensation, like jumping into a pile of soggy fall leaves with no bottom.
I cried Brad’s name, then shits and fucks. My heart seized in my chest.
Then I landed in a crumpled heap on a pile of ash. Struggling to catch my breath through coughing fits, I staggered to one knee. I pulled my groin, and a rib or two felt cracked. My ears rang, and my eyes wouldn’t process a clear image. The pungent aroma of ammonia assaulted my nose and rushed tears to my eyes. When my head completed a dizzy orbit, I located the Maglite on the ground, illuminating a sandstone wall. I picked it up and swept at the void, and discovered I was in a cavern.
Through the fog consuming my head, a chorus of screeches cried out and built like a thunderstorm above me. I froze. Squeezed the flashlight with both hands and gritted my teeth. Despite my better judgment, I threw the beam skyward. Then quickly smothered the lens.
Bats. Thousands of them. Wriggling all over each other. Blanketing the ceiling. Gooseflesh rolled over me. My mind transferred the hoard onto my body and my skin turned ice cold. I feared being smothered—by anything—least of which vermin with wings. I couldn’t sleep under a comforter or even wear a heavy coat. It was probably from the time when I was three, and I stood in a fire ant hill. The little shits covered me from head to toe, their tiny jaws chomping me into anaphylactic shock.
The bats’ screeches got louder and pierced every cell in my body. A whooshing sound accompanied their cries.
Something in me snapped, and I ran. I made it a few steps through the ash—realizing then it was guano—when the first wave attacked. Their rubbery bodies riddled my back like buckets of birdshot. Their combined force shoved me to a hand and knee. Knocked the wind out of me. I coughed and spat and grunted. Then I saw a tunnel. But before I could stand, a second aerial assault unloaded on me in semi-automatic rhythm, slamming me face-down. My back burned, but so did my desire to live. I wiped the shit from my eyes. Fuck pain, I ran for the tunnel. The bats swooped with screeching force, but I somehow made it inside without being struck again.
I sprinted. Faster than I ever did on the cross-country team Brad and I ran for in high school. I kicked up dust. The flashlight beam bounced off the walls. The sounds of the bats trailed off the further I got down the long tunnel. My heart’s rhythm matched my stride but then leaped when a potential exit formed before my eyes.
My hope was short-lived, however.
I wailed, slamming my palms against an iron grate, the holes of which were too small for an adult fist to squeeze through.
Trapped.
Panic and fear be damned.
I welcomed despair.
I turned my head. A building breeze tickled my skin, and screeches pierced my senses. The cries intensified to a deafening pitch with my executioners’ advancing speed.
I hugged the grate, pushed my nose through, and drew in the sweet fungal scent of earth. I repeated my husband’s name in a whisper, wishing we hadn’t fought about Biscuit. Wishing I could have apologized to him for every fight—big and small. I squeezed my eyes shut. Anticipated the screeching cloud slamming into my back, bursting my lungs on impact. As I imagined the hoard of white larva destined to feast on my flesh after my death, a calm rushed over me. I wouldn’t be around when they completed their life cycle the next summer after mercifully devouring me to the bone.
And hopefully, Brad would interpret the swarm of metallic green beetles emerging out of the hillside behind our house as a message from me. Sense that I’m near. Maybe the beetles would lead him to this sinkhole cavern, to my skeleton. Only then could Brad find peace, knowing I didn’t abandon him or run off in the middle of the night.
Author’s Bio
Curtis Ippolito is the author of BURYING THE NEWSPAPER MAN, a crime novel coming in March, 2021, from Red Dog Press. His short fiction has been published with Shotgun Honey, Mystery Tribune, Bristol Noir, Yellow Mama, Ghost Parachute, Pulp Modern Flash, and forthcoming in others. He lives in San Diego, California, with his wife.
