Dull Drops of Water Like the Ringing of a Bell

He reaches for Roman’s hand, which lies motionless in the shaft of cold daylight. The only illumination in the vast cavern, it streams through the narrow opening overhead, the hole through which they fell. Like a hundred spectral swords, bone-white stalactites and stalagmites emerge from the gray light, with hundreds more disappearing into the black. Like dragon teeth. Like the wet dripping maw of a gigantic beast. Inching closer.

If only I could touch Roman’s skin. Feel his warmth, he thinks.

      But he cannot reach. The tips of his fingers barely touch the light. His boots scrape the ground, and he groans in pain at the effort. The sounds reverberate around the cave in echoes, only to die as ghosts of themselves, replaced by endless dripping.

       He collapses in exhaustion. “Roman,” he whispers.

Roman does not answer.

His eyes adjust to the faint light, and along the nearby rock wall, he sees the deep red handprints, pressed a thousand times against the rough stone. Large like adults, small like children—the palms of hundreds of people. But not. They’re wrong.

Then the sound, low, thrumming, comes deep below from the far reaches of the cave, but also suffocatingly close because it activates something in his brain. Run, it says. Hide.

It sounds like a clock. Clicking, mechanical and repetitive. But no, not like a clock. Like cracking joints. Like chattering teeth. Like the rubbing of hard carapace.

Roman’s hand moves. It is slowly dragged into the dark. Roman moans, and he wants to yell out Roman’s name, but then Roman screams. The clicking grows into a frenzy, and Roman chokes.

On blood, he thinks.

Roman’s choke is overpowered by the wet mashing, gnawing, tearing. Then quiet. Just the steady drip of water.

The clicking returns, inching closer. And closer.