Soul Retrievers: A Soul Retrievers Adventure

By David Burton

In Hell by mistake? Better hope your loved ones call a Soul Retriever.

When an innocent soul is accidentally sent to Hell, loved ones can hire a certain specialist to return the soul to Heaven Gate. However, if the specialist dies in Hell proper, his soul is trapped there for eternity. These specialists who risk damnation are known as Soul Retrievers.

Getter has begun an assignment he takes personally, perhaps too personally: retrieve the soul of Brittany, a ten-year old girl, the same age his own daughter would have been had she lived.
This time, however, a strange plot is brewing behind the normal dangers of Hell. Retrievers are disappearing, including Getter's brother-in-law, and an army is forming in secret. Teamed with Sneaker, a female Soul Retriever dealing with her new “Life” as a vampire, and an odd collection of retrievers, souls and demons, Getter only wants to finish his mission. But whispers of prophecy tell of a war between Satan and Mephisto, the Helland Security Chief, and name Getter as a man with a destiny he does not want.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Burton
• Release date: Nov 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370500185

David Burton

David Burton is an American writer living in sunny Southern California. He traveled by motorcycle through Mexico, US, Canada and Alaska. From motorcycles he turned to the ocean, building and sailing his own boats to Mexico, Tahiti, Hawaii, and through the Panama Canal to Florida. He spent a lot of time reading while on the water, so he decided to write books he would have wanted to read at sea.Having swallowed the anchor he now mops floors and collects trash for money, writes for a living, and has become a (temporarily?) unrequited sailor.

Book preview

Chapter One

The way to Hell is not straight. It twists and turns, goes up and down, is infinite in length, but finite in time. Sometimes you step through a shimmer that blocks the tunnel and know you’ve taken a giant step toward the eternally expanding and contracting Netherworld.

I stepped through one of those shimmers and, seeing what lay ahead, crouched down right there and took a big breath. In front of me stretched a long straight section of tunnel with a bulge about two thirds of the way to the next curve. This section occurred at a different location each time I went to Hell, and I knew what it was. I pulled the hood of my fireproof jumpsuit over my head, made sure the suit was sealed tight, and walked carefully on.

The bulge glistened with continuously moving facets — Jump Bugs, thousands of them. They covered the wall and ceiling, forming a gauntlet ten feet long and barely two feet wide. Each about an inch long, Jump Bugs scoured sections of the tunnel, cleaning it of the constantly oozing slime so that the walls were pristine black rock. They also ate anything that lived. So long as they weren’t touched, they left you alone. Touch even one, it jumped, followed in seconds by the rest of the colony. Their tiny mandibles can strip a man to the bone in minutes. I saw it happen.

A couple years ago somebody managed to follow me into the tunnel. I had turned the far corner when I heard the scream. I ran back within ten seconds, but it was already too late. All I saw was a whirring, churning mass of black on the floor. A bug covered arm pushed out, and was immediately sucked back into the frenzy. Not a single Jump Bug remained on the wall. I got as close as I dared, aimed my gun where I thought the head should be, and fired. Maybe I spared the man, or woman, a few seconds of pain and horror.

I hope so.

Just around the corner from the Jump Bugs are the Tongue Vines. If you’re lucky enough, and fast enough, and aren’t brought down by the sheer weight of the Bugs like a lion brings down an antelope, you might make it to the Vines. The Tongue Vines are whip fast vines with rough, flat pink leaves like cats’ tongues. They love Jump Bugs. If Bugs are on you, you must stand still and let the Vines scour them off. But don’t stand too long. The Vines will not stop when the Bugs are gone.

A few feet from the Bugs, I stopped and removed my small backpack. I breathed in slow and deep to get my chi flowing. Heart racing, I held the pack and my walking staff in front of me, turned my shoulders to make myself as thin as possible, and walked quickly through the gauntlet.

Ten feet on the other side I stopped and breathed again. One obstacle down, an infinite number to go.

I continued on. A half mouth, spiky tooth, cat-sized creature darted crookedly at me. I call it Wylie E Coyote because it always returns no matter what I do to it. It has seven unevenly distributed legs, so it has a hard time moving in a straight line. I flicked it away with my staff, but Wylie is a tenacious little beast and kept nipping at my boots. Though in a hurry, I couldn’t quite bring myself to shoot the little demon. Besides, easy in, easy out. Gunshots invite notice wherever you are. I kept flipping Wylie away until stepped through the next Shimmer. Ten minutes later, my time, the rosy glow of Hell proper appeared in the distance. Eager to be out of the tunnel, I nevertheless forced myself to slow down. There was always a Sling Spider ahead, somewhere.

The cool damp of the tunnel turned warm. The slime dried into razor sharp flakes that rippled with a blood-red glow over the uneven surface. This moving pattern hid a deep indentation ahead where a Sling Spider waited. The way looked clear. The unwary might stride confidently forward, glad to be out of the stifling corridor. They would never make it to Hell by doing that. Not the way they intended, anyway.

The spider waits in a deep fissure in the rock wall, camouflaged by a fine web that resembles the dried slime. A thicker, elastic web is hidden behind the fine one. The spider stretches the center of the web and attaches it to the back of its lair. Then it waits in the center.

The body of the spider spans about one foot wide by two feet long. It has thirteen legs, ten facing out, two to hold on to the web and one that, when the beast detects enough motion, cuts the anchoring strand, launching the spider at its prey. Its three-foot-long legs wrap around the unfortunate, the single red claws at the end pierce the victim’s flesh. Six-inch pincers administer a paralyzing poison. Then the spider stores the meal and sucks it dry at its leisure.

I stepped cautiously down the center of the six-foot-wide passage. It could be on either side. I took a step, scanned ahead, took another step. There, ahead on the right, the pattern seemed different. I moved slowly to the left, gun ready in case I had a chance to shoot. I kept my eyes to the right, continuing to move below the spider's movement threshold.

I took another step, close to the left side. A hot breeze blew into the tunnel. The razor scales on the right side rippled. I looked for the dull yellow eyes of the spider behind the scales. I saw only solid rock. There was only one other place it could be. I froze. The skin on my back crawled as I felt eyes on the back of my neck. I wanted to bolt. In my imagination I felt the thick, furry legs wrap around me. Felt the pincers close on my head. Saw my body hung in a corner, the spider slinking forward to suck me dry. I didn’t panic, but I damn sure wanted to.

I held still for two minutes. I visualized Tai Chi movements. Calm. Calm.

Slowly I turned my head to look behind me. Through the thin web I saw the spider, a big one, not five feet away, yellow eyes waiting with arachnid patience for me to move. If Sneaker had been there with her new super vamp speed, the big bug wouldn't have had a chance. I had to do the opposite.

My let my mind blank. Instinct took over. Calm. Calm. You’ve done this umpteen times before. Slow. Steady. Smooth. Pick up a foot. Easy! Move it forward. Set it down. Control the movement. Now the other. Again. Again.

A Blood Bee buzzed past my head. Startled, I jerked my head. That was enough. Snap! The spider cut the restraining strand. It came through the camouflage webbing like an ravenous nightmare. Ten reaching legs first, then the heavy body. It came too quickly for me to use my gun. I swung my staff an instant son enough.

The spider’s impact twisted me around and knocked the gun from my hand. The staff screwed up the spider’s trajectory, and it flew past me, leaving four small rips in my jumpsuit. It landed upside down. Ten thick, shaggy legs curled into a tight ball. The thing looked dead; then the two web holding legs snapped it upright. The spider crouched three feet away and was pissed off. My gun was five feet away. Logic said — go for the gun, instinct said — RUN, Soul Retriever survival instinct said — attack don’t react.

The Sling Spider didn’t care about that. It jumped. I jammed the end of the staff against the stone floor just in time to skewer the creature. It smashed into me. Knocked me down, all thirteen legs frantically scrabbled at me. Grabbing my staff, I threw it off me. I kept my distance as its death throws bounced it off the walls. Those terrible legs finally curled in on themselves and its soul floated off to whatever Heaven or Hell demon souls went to.

With the thing dead, I made myself walk, not run, to the end of the tunnel. I slumped against the wall, burned clean of slime by the dry heat of Hell, and let my body shake. Cool water from my pack unwound the knot in my stomach. There was another tale to tell my father.

It hadn’t been a very auspicious start. As I stared out at the barren boundary area spread out below me I hoped that Christine was wrong and that I was prepared.

* * *

Please don’t go to Hell now. You just got back, you’re not ready, Christine had said, pleading, though she knew it wouldn’t make any difference.

You know I have to, I said.

Well, you don’t. But you will. Because of the girl.

Yeah, was all I replied, not quite able to meet her gaze. What else was there to say? She knew that if my wife, her sister, hadn’t died in childbirth ten years ago, our daughter would be the same age as the girl’s soul I’d been hired to retrieve.

Be careful. You haven’t had time to prepare properly.

I’ll be fine. It’s not my first trip, you know.

It wasn’t Dimitri’s first trip either.

Despite my preoccupation I didn’t miss the catch in her voice. I held her broad shoulders and looked into her deep blue eyes, bright with impending tears.

Christine, I miss your brother as much as you do, and I don’t believe he’s dead, either. I’ll find him, you’ll see.

I know you will, she said, coming into my arms. I told him not to go. After he destroyed the demon that killed Dad, the others were after him, but he went anyway, damn it. The damsel in distress and Mr. Macho.

I held her and breathed in her sweet scent, her fine blonde hair soft against my cheek. It would be awhile before I smelled anything half that agreeable. After a minute she took my face in her strong hands and gave me a tender kiss and a matching smile. Hands on my chest, she sighed and said, The sooner you go, the sooner you get back. Let’s get you ready.

Christine knew the procedure. She’d been a Soul Retriever until she fell for some jerk who only understood that when she was gone she wasn’t there to be abused by him. A mundane job as an accountant followed after she got rid of the guy. Then her brother Dimitri disappeared. Dimitri was his Soul Retriever name. Retrieving souls is an intense business. We take the job seriously and tend to use our Soul Retriever name amongst ourselves, even when in the land of the Living. Christine made two trips to Hell with me to look for him, but she’d lost her edge and knew it. She moved into my house right after that.

A month later we both succumbed to desire and curiosity and spent an inflammatory night in bed. The sex was terrific, though most of the time I was feeling, tasting, or seeing Julie, my late wife. We never discussed it, but I think Christine was more interested in a familial connection. During that night, often at what most people might consider inappropriate times, she mentioned Dimitri, Julie, or her father rather than me. Christine always had a very strong sense of family. She stayed on, in her own bedroom.

She made sure the flameproof closures on my coveralls worked properly. She fussed with the neck seals. You need a haircut, she said, letting her fingers linger an affectionate second. While she filled the water bottles, replaced the flashlight batteries, and packed some food, for that trip as well as some to cache for future trips, I checked my gear.

The terrain in Hell is so varied and unpredictable that it’s impossible to carry equipment for every circumstance. If things go well you don’t need any of it anyway. I carry the basics and trust to field expedients for the rest — A survival knife with an eight-inch blade, a big Swiss Army knife, two Space Blankets, light-weight binoculars, gloves, two changes of underwear and two pairs of socks. Besides the underwear, I carry two other important items, a staff and a gun. The two piece, six-foot walking stick/bo-staff is rosewood with a gold connector in the middle. I can break it down to carry in a three-foot sheath attached to the backpack. The gun is a specialty revolver that shoots six 20-gauge shotgun shells loaded with shot mined in Hell. Most trips I’ve never had to use it, but when I need it, I need it.

I also carry one gold and one silver crucifix; sometimes they work. Hell is non-denominational. No matter what kind of Hell people believe in, there’s a place for them. If they don’t believe in Hell, there’s plenty of dark, empty space to wander around in forever. If a person deserves it, according to the Purgatory Assessors, they go to Hell; it’s that simple. Though they do make mistakes.

My heartbeat was rising fast, and my hands shook. Hell is a scary place. Without fear, survival is unlikely. Fear needs to be controlled, doled out in small amounts to keep your guard up. I hadn’t even left the house yet, and the fear already controlled me. It was the girl, I knew. She could have been my daughter. For her to be in Hell one minute longer than necessary was unacceptable.

For five years after my wife died I wouldn’t retrieve kids. I’d convinced myself I didn’t want anything to do with them. Finally I did one for a family whose concern for their eight year old son’s soul was matched only by their bank account. It went okay, so I kept my feelings in my back pocket and did a professional job when the work was offered.

While Christine finished inspecting and stowing my gear, I ran through a Tai Chi long form. The slow, controlled movements calmed me, helped me concentrate, focus. When my gear was ready, I was ready.

* * *

I needed to go. The longer it takes to get there the colder the trail can become, so to speak. The girl was ten. She’d been harassing her younger brother in the back seat. The mother turned to yell at her. Her eyes were off the road just long enough for the car to drift left into a dump truck riding the center line. The two kids died. I suppose, technically, the girl was at fault- no harassing, no accident. But come on, send her to Hell for that?

The girl’s mother had the vision, told her priest, Father Henry, and he recommended me. The local Catholics are big on Hell, and I’ve had some good referrals from Father Henry.

Before I backed out of the garage Christine asked, Will you meet up with, Sneaker?

I don't know what she's up to. Actually, I did. Christine didn't know what had happened to Sneaker, one of five female Retrievers. It was a full-time job for her, adapting to a new lifestyle, so to speak.

If you do, ask her to take care of you.

I kept all of several off-color replies to myself. I will.

If you’re not back in four days I’m coming after you.

Christine, no.

She placed a finger on my lips, stifling my protest.

Don’t bother arguing, she said, with finality.

I had to try anyway. Christine, it's been a long time since you’ve never been down, and never alone. Your dad didn’t let me go solo till after ten trips with him and ten with Dimitri. There are too many hidden dangers. It can get rough. You know that.

Her eyes told me the same thing her voice had.

I will assume you are in a hurry and didn’t really mean to say that you don’t think I can handle the rough stuff. I can if I have to. She gripped my arm with both hands and shook it. "Listen to me. You’re all the family I’ve got left. There’s nothing where you’re going that’s any rougher than waiting here,

alone, for you to return. It was a bitch when Dimitri didn’t come back. I won’t go through that again with you. Six days, and I’m coming after you."

I headed east, toward the hills. I passed the fancy developments, my good-old Ford pick-up conspicuous among the luxury cars. A lot of my clients come from the area. There seems to be more ambiguity about where the rich should go when they kick. Soul Retrieval isn’t cheap, so I let the rich clients subsidize the regular folks. It’s only fair.

I left the final golf course behind and began climbing into the hills. I kept an eye on the rearview mirror. There are some people who’d like to get to Hell for their own reasons, as long as they know how to get out again.

The pick-up’s tank was full so I didn’t stop in Nobell.

Nobell has about twenty buildings, half of them unoccupied. The first time I stopped at the gas station an old boy about fifty, going on seventy, wearing greasy mechanic’s coveralls and a John Deere hat, sauntered out to pump the gas. He asked me where I was going.

At the time, I was pretty new to the business and full of myself, so I said, I’m going to Hell.

He looked over my flame-proof suit, long hair, and diamond stud earring and said, Yep. You’re dressed for it. Check yer oil?

I said sure and then asked, How about you? Where you going, Heaven? I thought I was real cool back then.

He popped the hood. I’m already there, he said.

You’ve been to Heaven?

Am there. Look around you, son.

I walked out by the road and did a slow three-sixty. The town straddled the road as it came out of the hills into a high valley. Trees — evergreen and aspen, cottonwoods along the river at the base of the hill, surrounded it. On the other side of the valley, higher hills rose up to snow-capped mountains. The sun hung low, suffusing the valley with a golden glow. Even then, as a cocky young man, I could see why it might be considered Heaven by some.

I ambled back to the truck. Yeah, Heaven. I can dig it, I said. Hell doesn’t look like this.

The man held out a knobby hand for the gas money.

Look again, he said, ambling back to the office.

I looked around again. This time I saw a dying town out in the middle of nowhere. I saw the plywood covered windows of abandoned stores. Cars showed their rust. A woman in a faded dress too big for her scrawny frame called to a couple unsmiling kids with dirty faces.

I learned something that day about taking the time to look at both sides of a situation, about testing first assumptions. I’ve met many people since then who could benefit from a good long look from that gas station.

* * *

The station was still open as I passed by, but I noticed fresh plywood over the windows on a couple buildings. I left the town behind and raced across the valley. After the first rise I turned onto a dirt road that wound up through aspens over the next ridge. Nobody followed me.

I pulled off the road into a small clearing. Two deer stared at me with big doe eyes, then bolted into the trees. I activated my Find, a small, half electronic, half magic device that allows one to navigate through the netherworld, like a TV remote left on top of a hot oven.

The road to Hell was ahead, somewhere. The good intentions it was paved with changed constantly so the location kept moving. It’s hard to keep track. One year your good intentions might admit you straight to Heaven, the next year they get you a pitchfork up the ass.

The entrance shimmered into view a hundred yards ahead. Then the fear hit me like it always does. A rush of pure terror. I sat on the running board with my head between my knees and vomited up Christine’s good dinner, the last good meal I figured to have for a while. That ritual over with, I rinsed out my mouth, got in the truck, and drove through the entrance onto a road that’s not on any map.

My shoulders tensed as the land rose up around me. Instead of gold, the aspens were blood red. The pine needles rippled, searching for prey to skewer on their barbed tips. The light darkened to a sinister gloom almost palpable in its promise of Evil. I concentrated on the black rock above me. It doesn’t happen often, but things do escape occasionally. A warm, live body is a real treat for them.

The road ended abruptly in a dim, high rock cul-de-sac barely big enough to turn around in. I parked heading out. After checking that I was alone, I donned my small pack, locked the truck, and, Find firmly in hand, walked through a blank stone wall into the back way to Hell.

I’m not sure even The Big D knows about the tunnel. The walls are roughhewn, as if chewed out of the rock by some monster with a mouthful of blunt teeth. The sides quickly fade from a clean gray to a damp, slimy moss covered black. The tunnel has a faint putrid air about it, brimstone with a taste of rotting flesh mixed in. The odor grows stronger the closer to Hell proper you get, but it quickly disappears with familiarity; there are many more specific odors to take its place.

In Hell, Soul Retrievers rarely use their real names. You never know what might be listening and have a connection to the Lifer world. My name in Hell is Getter, and I’m proud of it. I’ve gotten every soul I went after, except one. And everyone acknowledges that that one wasn’t my fault.

After fifteen minutes rest I was pumped and ready. I donned my gear, flipped my middle finger at the dead spider, and stepped out into the boundless variety of Hell itself.

Chapter Two

Hell’s a hell of a big place, to use an earthly phrase. I could spend eternity searching for the girl and come away with nothing but hot feet. So, as usual, I went to see Rack the Hack.

The millennia-old trail descended easily from the tunnel exit to the sizzling flat below. I wondered what the pioneer Soul Retriever thought as he descended into Hell for the first time.

Legends are based on facts it’s said. Soul Retriever legend is based on a few more facts than are generally available in ancient history or mythology texts. The first known Soul Retriever was Ninshubur, the vizier of the Sumerian Inanna. The stories say he petitioned the gods to rescue Inanna when she went to the underworld to visit her sister, Ereshkigal. He didn’t petition; he just went and got her. Odysseus really did go deep into Hell, not take a quick look and then split. The Roman poet Virgil used his own adventures as a model for Aeneas, the hero of his Aeneid. It was an easy leap from seeking advice from the souls of the dead to rescuing misplaced souls and guiding them to Heaven. Dante’s description of Hell may have been accurate when he wrote it, but the ever shifting geography has rendered his maps obsolete. Someday a Soul Retriever scholar will write our history. Though it’s fact, it will probably be shelved next to books on UFOs and alien abduction.

As the Lifer population increases, so do deaths. Purgatorial bookkeeping mistakes also increase (rumors of demon manipulation abound) and so does the need for Soul Retrievers. There are about a hundred of us alive and scattered throughout the Lifer world. Recruitment is an oft discussed topic when two or three gather together.

The Spire Grove begins somewhere on the baking flat ground below the tunnel exit. I’ve never seen where it begins. Suddenly they appear from a mist you don’t know you’re in. The Find is essential; without it a person is lost, and lost in the Spire Grove means, whether by critter or by thirst, an unpleasant death.

The Spires, like crooked stacks of red donuts, can reach hundreds of feet above the hard packed orange dirt. They feel like solid rock, but they’re hollow. They have to be to contain the millions of Spire Mites that live inside. The Mites build the structures with material they gather from the miles of tunnels dug underneath the spires. The tunnels sometimes come close to the surface. Fall through the crust into one when Mites are present, and the chances of surviving are none to none.

I used the Find to guide me through the Spires, some of them twenty feet in diameter, and toward the Info River where Rack the Hack lives, so to speak. I tapped the ground ahead with the staff. I had no desire to fall into a tunnel filled with hungry Mites. Their jagged rock crushing jaws would make quick work of my bones. But they weren’t what I was the most worried about.

Marauding Sticky Lips were the real danger.

I didn’t see any till I began to notice the babble coming from the Info River. The ground sounded hollow under the staff, so I rounded a small spire with my eyes on the ground instead of above me where they should have been. Out of the corner of my eye I spied a dark shape.

A young and thirsty Sticky Lips crouched above me. These flat, hairy, cartoon creatures have huge lips they can shoot out like a frog’s tongue. They scratch holes in the thinner upper reaches of the spires and use their lips to sweep up the mites. The lips stick to anything. They can rip the skin right off the ass end of a Rockarino. This one was young and aggressive; all three eye stalks were trained on me. It wasn’t so much interested in me as much as the liquid I represented. If it got a hold on me it’d suck me dry in fifteen painful minutes.

My face was well within its lip range. I took a step back, and it took a step forward. My staff saved me. I swung it between us just as the Sticky Lips attacked. The lips hit the staff, instead of my face, giving me a chance to jump back.

We tug-of-warred with the staff. They’re strong little sons-of-bitches; this one dug in its claws and dragged me around the spire — where two more were waiting. I was about to let go of the staff and grab my gun when the other two attacked the first one.

The original little demon let go, and I stumbled backwards. The ground gave way, and my heart leaped into my throat when my legs fell into a Spire Mite tunnel. The staff spanned the hole as I went through. A fetid odor engulfed me. My eyes teared up and my stomach convulsed even as I recognized the chittering click-clack sound of the Mites’ jaws over the screech of the fighting Sticky Lips.

I clutched the staff, sucked in a deep breath through my mouth, and heaved myself up and rolled to the right, hoping for solid ground. The dirt gave way under the staff, but momentum allowed me to scramble to safety. Mites covered my legs. I brushed them off, suffering only a few pinches. I regained my feet just in time, because the Sticky Lips had settled their differences and joined forces. They must have decided I contained enough moisture for all of them.

They rarely leave the spires, but liquid is where you find it. Their broad flat bodies flowed off the spire, thick claws ticking on the hard dirt. I had my gun ready, but I didn’t need it. The hole in the ground distracted them long enough for me to haul my ass out of there.

In sight of the bridge over the Info River, I stopped in the shelter of some rocks and regrouped my mind which hadn’t really been on the job at hand. For a few minutes I engaged in a common Soul Retriever pastime, wondering how the hell I came to be in Hell.

* * *

I’d met the Thanos family twelve years ago. I was a rookie policeman, twenty-four years old, scared and unsure, and too cocky to admit it. I hung out with other young cops. Our youthful machismo far outstripped our experience. Me and another rookie were off duty when we ran smack into a robbery in progress. Our belief in our own immortality, and a few beers, got us in way too deep. He died. I spent a week in the hospital. The last thing he said to me was, I didn’t really think I’d die. Did you?

No, I didn’t. The incident messed my head up pretty good. Julie Thanos was the night nurse. We talked, a lot, and when I got out I met her family. Six months later we got married. A year later I was a Soul Retriever, going down to Hell with her dad and brother, Dimitri. We wanted kids from the beginning. Our daughter would have been ten in a month and three days.

***

That idea of the impending imaginary birthday was getting to me, though, and if I didn’t get a professional, impartial attitude real quick I was going to end up dead for real.

While I thought, I scanned the air for Skyhooks, ubiquitous gray and brown birds with fifteen-foot wingspans and bony hooks hanging down they used to snag their prey. They have long necks and sharp beaks so they can feed on the souls they impale while flying.

On a bluff across the river I could see Rack the Hack’s house and the thick wires running into the river that supplied him with the information from Life he craved.

What passed for sky in that boundary sector, number 281, looked clear. I jogged over and crouched by the foot of the stone bridge. Skyhooks aren’t the only danger going over the bridge. Squidlings live on the underside, and they don’t like to be disturbed by beings clumping over their bridge.

Bones of the ancient damned imbedded in the rock provided a grip for my boots. I walked steadily across, treading lightly on the skull faces staring eternally toward Heaven, my staff and gun ready. Two trips before I had had to shoot one of the Squidlings. They were intelligent creatures and would remember my smell, although how they could pick it out of the pervasive stench I had no idea.

Two thirds of the way across I heard a Skyhook cry. I stopped and scanned the haze. Nothing. Then, gently, almost like a caress, I felt something slip around my ankle. From behind me a two inch thick, smooth, mottled gray tentacle with an oval tip covered by teeth rimmed suckers wrapped around my leg. Resistance was futile. The tentacle urged me toward a single softball-sized eye peering from the edge. I placed the gun muzzle on the gray flesh where it flared into the tip.