The October Selected Writer is Wayne C. Rogers

You can email Wayne at: Ivbookman@aol.com

THE PIT
by Wayne C. Rogers

The elevator dropped from the basement of the Blue Bayou Hotel and Casino to the Pit in less than ten seconds, coming to a sudden halt beneath the hard bedrock of Las Vegas. Its single door slid quietly open, revealing a black void to the two men inside the tiny cubicle that was lit by a dim light bulb in the ceiling. 

Frank Peterson, the new Director of Engineering for the hotel, eyed the darkness before him as he kept his arm on the door so it wouldn’t close. He found himself hesitant in stepping out into it. His instinct was sounding off big time that something was wrong with the whole situation. Glancing at his swing-shift manager, Dutch Atkins, he nodded a silent message to him.

“I’ll go first,” Peterson said in a low voice.

Atkins didn’t say anything.

Instead, he watched with wide eyes as his boss stepped out into the thick blackness of the corridor with his hands crisscrossed in front of him like the policeman he’d once had been in another life. A heavy-duty Maglite was in one hand and a Springfield XD .40 caliber pistol in the other. With the flashlight illuminating the way, Peterson walked carefully to the opening of the tunnel system fifteen feet down and checked it out, turning the Maglite this way and that. Once he was satisfied there weren’t any unpleasant surprises waiting, he went back to the elevator and motioned for Atkins to step out. 

“It’s clear,” he said.

Both engineers were tall and stocky. They were dressed in orange utility suits, rubber boots, and had oxygen tanks strapped to their back with a clear plastic mask dangling at the end of a thin tube like something long forgotten. 

Atkins headed over to the breaker box on the right wall with his own flashlight guiding the way. While Peterson sniffed the air for toxic fumes, Atkins opened the metal box and stared at the inside of it for a few seconds. He started tinkering around with the breakers and switches to see if he could figure out why the lights in the Pit weren’t working. He didn’t like the idea of searching for two missing engineers in the darkness with nothing more than a couple of flashlights.  

“I don’t smell anything,” Peterson said.

Atkins closed the box and said, “Neither do I, but we have to be careful. In one of Rodriguez’ last messages, he said part of the wall between the Pit and the sewage line had caved in. That means methane gas. You breathe that stuff for a while and you’re dead.”

“What about the breaker box?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with the lights, Frank. I’ll have an electrician come down later and take a look at it.”

“Where exactly were Rodriguez and Hensley when they last radioed in?” Peterson asked.

“They were near the interceptor for the main kitchen.”

“Let’s go see if they’re still there.”

With Atkins staying close behind, Peterson led the way down the tunnel, keeping the flashlight and handgun out in front of his body. They walked for a few minutes, sweeping their lights from side-to-side. They eventually rounded a corner and saw a five-hundred-gallon interceptor with pipes running up into the ceiling toward Gallagher’s Tavern. There was also a pipe leading into the side wall where the grey water flowed into the city’s wastewater system. Both men shined their flashlights around, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.  

“This place is fucking spooky,” Peterson said. 

“It’s not so bad when the lights are working.”

“What do you think made them go out?”

“For some reason it happens a lot during bad rainstorms. The Pit usually gets flooded by the wash underneath the hotel. The flooding also causes some of the drains in the restaurants to back up. That’s why I sent Rodriguez and Hensley down here. We were getting complaints from the manager of the coffee shop.”

“Tell me again what Rodriguez said to you in his last message.”

Atkins stopped, ran his fingers through his white hair, and looked at Peterson. He hesitated a moment before speaking. 

“Rodriguez thought something was following them,” he said.

“And he didn’t know what it was?”

“It was just a feeling he and Hensley had.  When you’re in the Pit and the lights aren’t working, this place can make you see things that aren’t there.”

That was when Peterson heard something peculiar behind them. He turned around and shined his flashlight back the way they’d come. He thought he saw something low on the floor, scampering from one side to the other. 

“What the hell was that?” he said.

“Damn if I know.” 

“Maybe Rodriguez and Hensley were being followed.”

The tension in the air was palpable as they continued to the next tunnel. When they reached the five-thousand-gallon tank for the Creole Buffet room, both men checked for any signs of the missing men. Finding none, they walked over to where the tanks were kept for the hotel’s gourmet steak house, Italian restaurant, and seafood bar. 

Everything looked normal. 

It wasn’t until they reached the interceptor below the Garden District Café that they noticed the wetness of the floor.

“It’s the wash,” Atkins said. 

He went over to an iron manhole cover located at the far end of the room. There was a crowbar fastened to the top of it by a metal clip.

“The wash is directly below us,” he said. 

Atkins handed Peterson his flashlight, and then pried the crowbar loose. Sticking the flat end of it into the cover’s groove, he lifted the plate up and over to the side. He retrieved his flashlight, and then pointed it down into the dark cavity. Both men saw the water seven feet below, moving swiftly in an easterly direction. 

“It must’ve stopped raining outside,” Atkins said. “That’s why the water has receded.”

“What’s that odor?”

“It’s probably the sewage line.”

They aimed their flashlights further down the tunnel to where the entrance to the next chamber was at. The two lights swept over something that appeared to be a large pile of rags lying haphazardly on the floor. 

“Is that whatI think it is?” Atkins asked.

Both men kept their lights trained on the object as they drew closer, trying not to inhale the putrid air through their noses. They were within ten feet of the corpse when two bizarre-looking things huddled on top of it suddenly became agitated, dropped to the floor, and scurried away like crabs on a sandy beach. 

Peterson stopped in his tracks and said, “Jesus H. Christ!”

Atkins glanced nervously around.

“Three more are behindus,” he said in a near whisper. 

Twisting around, Peterson hit the creatures with the brightness of his flashlight. He saw them ten feet away, scattering quickly into the surrounding shadows. From what he could tell, they were the size of dinner plates but thick in body mass, covered in short, black, fur-like hair, with narrow red eyes, sharp-curved pincers jutting from their mouths, and four legs that were bent at the joints. 

One of the creatures was lagging behind the others so he shot it. 

Peterson watched as black gooey stuff splattered across the cement floor. That didn’t bother him as much as the horrendous odor emanating from the dead body. It was rancid and made him want to throw up.

“That smells worse than the sewage,” he said.

Atkins and Peterson stared at each other for moment, and then made their way over to the pile of rags and torn-apart flesh. They stared down at the bottom half of a man’s body, not bothering to hide their shock at the discovery. 

“Where’s the rest of him?” 

“Look around,” Peterson said, “but be careful.  I’ll check the next tunnel.”

While the swing-shift manager made his way to the interceptor, Peterson moved further down the corridor.

“Over here!” Atkins called out a few seconds later. 

Peterson rushed back to where the old man was kneeling.

“Can you tell who it is?” he asked, staring down at the upper half of a body.

“It’s Hensley. I checked the ID badge on his work shirt.”

“Where’s his fucking head?”  

Atkins didn’t say anything. 

“Man, it looks like something bigtore him in half,” Peterson said.

“So the babies could feed?”

“Maybe.” 

Standing back up, Atkins trailed after his boss as they made their way deeper into the dark tunnel system. The odor was fouler as they drew close to the ten-thousand-gallon interceptor a few yards away. Worse was the sound of the creatures behind them. Four of them were now following in their footsteps, making strange clicking-type noises. Whenever the men would spin around and shine the flashlights to the rear, the creatures would dart into the nearby blackness of the Pit. 

“Those little guys are sure fast,” Atkins said.

“They’re also getting more aggressive. They don’t seem to be as scared of us.  Only the light seems to bother them. ”

When the two men made their way around another corner, their eyes fell upon the tank that was connected to the employee cafeteria. It was on the left side of the chamber, across from a water pump that rested on a two-wheeled, portable trailer. The pump had six-inch outlet and inlet valves with thick hoses attached. One of the hoses was fastened to a pipe that disappeared into the opposite wall, while the other lay on the floor like a snake, waiting for its prey to come within reach. 

“Is the pump submersible?”

“Yes,” Atkins said, “but when it floods, the water never gets higher than an inch or two.” 

They both saw the rubber boot lying twelve feet away. 

“I’m starting to get a headache,” Peterson said. “I bet it’s the methane gas. We’d better put our mask on.”  

Atkins turned on his oxygen tank, and slipped the plastic mask over his nose and mouth. He watched as Peterson did the same thing. Breathing in the air from the tanks, they walked to the main kitchen’s interceptor and saw a massive hole in the cinderblock wall. 

The opening was fifteen feet wide and nearly eight feet in height.

Peterson motioned for Atkins to check it out. He then went over to the boot and examined it. He could see the white bone of a leg protruding from the top. There was also a thin trail of blood leading further down into the adjacent tunnel. 

He aimed the light along the wide hall and debated whether or not to follow the trail by himself. Looking back at Atkins, he saw the man leaning into the hole and shining his own flashlight down toward the sewage. 

Peterson decided to push on forward. 

Taking his time, he moved at a slow pace into the darkness ahead of him, alert for any nasty surprises that might be waiting. He’d gone less than fifteen feet when he saw the second boot lying on the floor like a left-over snack. What unnerved him was the loud crunching sound coming from somewhere further up. 

It made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

Keeping his finger on the trigger of his handgun, Peterson continued his journey and soon discovered the body of Rodriguez positioned on the floor like a special effects prop in a horror movie. It was headless like the other corpse and covered with two of the black, furry creatures. They were busy nibbling away at the fresh meat and paid little attention to his quiet approach. When the light hit them, however, they took off like a bunch of frightened cockroaches.   

Peterson stood there in indecision.

Then, an unexpected scream caused him to turn around. Though he searched the rear area with his eyes, Atkins was nowhere to be seen. There was only a lone flashlight lying on the floor near the caved-in wall, rocking from side to side.

Jerking the oxygen mask off, Peterson shouted out for his manager and heard nothing but the nerve-wracking sound coming from behind. Not knowing what else to do, he replaced the mask over his face. As Peterson started back to where he’d left Atkins, he unexpectedly heard a loud high-pitched shrill. He threw a glance over his shoulder and witnessed a hideous shape of giant proportions rising slowly up from the floor with its red eyes zeroing in on him like two pencil-thin, laser beams. 

No, Peterson thought.

There wasn’t a moment to waste. He started running down the corridor to find Atkins, and then to get the hell out of this place as fast as they could move. 

The large creature followed steadily after him.

When Peterson reached the main kitchen’s interceptor, he heard a similar crunching noise coming from the other side of the busted wall. It made him grimace at the thought of what the thing was eating.  He stepped over to the wall and shined his light into the darkness. What he saw caused him to unconsciously scream into his mask.  In fact, he barely had time to get the mask off before puking all over the creature below. 

He could see the second adult with Atkins’ body gripped firmly within its sharp pincers. It was biting into the dead man’s skull like it was piece of peanut brittle. Brain tissue and blood were seeping out everywhere.

Another sound behind him jarred Peterson back to his present situation. He shifted his flashlight and saw the other creature standing there at the edge of the corner, staring at him with obvious interest. It seemed hesitant on stepping into the light. He could hear the thing making those strange clicking sounds that were reminiscent of the babies. 

He knew he didn’t have much time. He fired three fast rounds at the monstrosity, chipping away at the corner with each blast. Then he ran back to where the water pump was. Once he reached it, he unscrewed the top of the tank to see how much gasoline was still inside the container.

The tank appeared to be three-quarters full. 

He laid the Maglite on the floor so its bright beam highlighted the pump.

Then, making his way quickly back to the entrance of the chamber, Peterson stopped and lined up the pistol on the pump. He held the handgun steady with both hands and set the sight on the gas tank. Cocking the hammer back, he fired one round through the thin metal plating. The .40 caliber hollow-point bullet went straight through it and tore into the adjacent wall, but there was no explosion. Instead, a stream of fluid began to flow out from the tank and onto the surrounding floor. Within seconds a big puddle had formed, and the gasoline was meandering its way toward the flashlight.  

Firing another shot directly at the puddle, Peterson attempted to create a spark big enough to ignite the fuel, but nothing happened. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the manhole less than twenty feet away. There were also a half-dozen baby creatures blocking his escape route, focusing on him as if they hadn’t eaten in a week.  

He fired four shots at them, hitting three. 

Turning around, Peterson fired another round at the gasoline, but still no spark. 

Taking another deep breath, he pulled the trigger again and finally saw a spark from the ricochet ignite the puddle of fluid. Dancing flames began to swiftly make their way up to the tank. He knew it was going to blow and that the explosion would set off the methane gas. 

Peterson didn’t want to be around when that happened. 

He unhooked the waist strap of the oxygen tank on his back and dropped the canister to the floor, along with the plastic mask. 

The ex-cop ran to the manhole, charging the baby creatures still alive. Two of them sprang upward at his legs and attached themselves to the utility suit. He didn’t have time to knock them away as he jumped through the opening and plunged into the fast current of the water below. 

The massive explosion came a second later.

It ruptured the floor of the tunnel and part of the complex, sending heavy blocks of wire-meshed concrete tumbling down into the underground river. One chunk splashed near Peterson as the current slammed him hard against a hotel piling, breaking his left shoulder, busting his right knee, and causing him to lose his grip on the pistol. He was then swept further down the wash, passing beneath the main parking lot on the east side of the hotel. Peterson couldn’t see a damn thing as he struggled to keep his head above water, sucking in air every chance he got. He passed below Arville Street and emerged from the underground water system. 

The river was much slower on the other side of the street.

Using his good arm, he managed to swim to the shoreline, wincing in pain with each powerful stroke. 

Once Peterson had crawled out of the water, he flopped down on the rocky bank and sucked in air, happy to be alive. He saw that the baby creatures had disappeared from his legs during the wild journey down the underground wash.

A few minutes passed as he slowly got his energy back. 

Rising to his feet, he began to limp to the top of the small hill of dirt and rocks. He fell down once, landing on his broken shoulder and crying out in pain. He cursed everything he could think of until the agony ebbed to a dull throb. When Peterson made it to the embankment, he knelt carefully down on the ground, trying not to trigger the pain in his knee, and politely threw up.  That was when he swore never to eat spaghetti and meat balls again for dinner. Between the fits of heaving, he found himself laughing hysterically at how close he’d come to dying tonight. 

Wiping his mouth with the back of his shaking hand, he rose hesitantly to his feet and stared at the lights of the Blue Bayou Hotel and Casino in the near distance. He was soaked to the bone, in pain with his shoulder and knee, but none of that mattered. 

He was alive.

He could hear loud sirens approaching from West Tropicana Avenue and knew the local fire department was on its way to the hotel. 

Metro’s S.W.A.T. would have to be called, too. 

He wasn’t foolish enough to think the explosion had killed all the creatures. The subterranean basement would have to be searched thoroughly from one end to the other. He’d lost three men tonight due to things right out of a goddamn Stephen Kingnovel. He couldn’t allow that to happen again. Peterson knew he wouldn’t have a job for much longer once it was discovered he’d brought a handgun onto the property. He didn’t care. He’d do whatever he could to insure the safety of everyone at the hotel while he was still Director of Engineering.  

Heading back to the hotel with a noticeable limp in his slow gait, he happened to glance up at the sky and saw the full moon attempting to break out through the thick cloud coverage. It brought a strange smile to his face. The night sky also made him think about the underground water table that ran throughout southern Nevada, the atomic bomb site a hundred miles away, and the sewage system underneath the hotel.

Something had created those mutant creatures, and he had a pretty good idea what it was.

As Peterson drew closer to the Blue Bayou, he knew the night was far from being over. It would be interesting to see what tomorrow brought and what kind of story the place would spin to keep its doors open and the tourists flocking back. Maybe the General Manager would even offer him some money to keep his mouth shut about what he’d seen inside the Pit.

There was nothing like having a few extra bucks in the bank and being able to tell the world to go fuck itself. Then—

I should have stayed a cop in North Las Vegas, he thought. It was safer. 

Wayne C. Rogers sold his first horror story, “The Hitchhiker,” to Cavalier Magazine in March of 1986 (Stephen King’s old stomping ground). It was twenty-five years later before he sold another.

Dividing his time between short fiction, book reviews, and screenplays, Wayne has seen some of his fiction published in anthologies and ezines during the past two years. His story, “A Step in the Shadows,” can be found in the paperback anthology I’ll Never Go Away. Another short story, “Shanghai Ed,” is in the anthology, Grindhouse, while “The House of Pain” can found in Paul Fry’s Peep Show: Volume 2.