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fredbassettTitle : The Devil’s Crowll, Part 10
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Characters : Stephen, Ryan, Abby, Connor, Cutter, Claudia, Lester, Lyle & others
Rating : 18
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Lyle), no money made, don’t sue
Spoilers : None.
Summary : Just when you think things can’t get any worse ……….
Warning : Just a teeny weeny bit of het, specially for Rodlox, who commented on a possible pairing several parts ago.
Tags : fic, slash, Stephen, Ryan, Lester, Cutter, Connor, Abby, Claudia
Many thanks, as ever, to Deinonychus_1 for help and for not objecting to me taking her username in vain!
Theis is the last part of this particular series. A short Author’s Note will appear at my LJ.
You can’t always save them all.
Ryan’s words came back at her like an echo in the dark.
And it doesn’t look like you’re even gonna manage to save yourself, my girl, Mary Mitchell thought, stubbornly shoving her last magazine into the pistol.
Thirteen bullets. Unlucky for some. Hopefully, not her.
One of the creatures had already got past Stringer and Abby and had come for her from behind, out of a short low side passage, grabbing her foot as she’d been crawling through a low section of the mine. Razor sharp teeth had bitten straight through her Wellington boot and clamped round her ankle like a nail studded vice.
She’d tried to twist round, to use her gun, but the thing had started to drag her backwards. She’d screamed and a second later, Ryan’s unnaturally calm voice had told her to drop her head as low as she could, and then he’d fired down the length of her body, quite literally blowing the sodding thing off her leg and nearly deafening her in the process, but at that point the state of her eardrums had been the least of her worries.
She was propped up against the wall now, her left leg suspiciously numb from the knee downwards, blood pooling in the mud around the tattered remains of her boot.
She could see both ways down the passage, and if she didn’t pass out, the chances were she’d manage to shoot anything coming at her. Or so she hoped.
If she didn’t pass out.
* * *
Ryan hit the floor of the chamber with one shoulder and rolled. He succeeded in knocking one deinonychus straight off its feet, its head connecting with the rock wall in a satisfactorily wet combination.
Firing an assault rifle from the hip, whilst trying to keep his balance on a treacherously muddy, rock strewn floor and hurling himself at a pack of prehistoric predators did not come under the heading of Sensible Textbook Moves.
It was actually more like something straight out of the Boy’s Own Book of Suicidal Stunts, but it did serve its intended purpose, which had simply been to distract the little fuckers while Hart grabbed the last kid.
The boy had been cowering in a corner of a large chamber.
This was the final big churn in this area of the cave. Below this, the passages got progressively smaller and more torturous. They’d come into the chamber about two metres up one wall and had immediately seen a large group of deinonychus over by the far wall.
Abby was right, they did seem smaller that the ones they’d first encountered, but they were indisputably the same creatures. Maybe slightly more mottled in colour, but it was difficult to tell, as the beasts were liberally coated in mud which blurred their freckled dun colour with darker red patches.
The pack were grouped around the boy. Heads lowered, tails sticking out as a continuation of their bodies, held stiffly, tapering from a strong base to a thin, whip-like point.
The thing that creeped Ryan out the most were their noises. A sort of high pitched, keening chirrup, sounding something like a flock of carnivorous parakeets. It made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
And to one side of the churn, they saw another group, bigger sods, a couple almost twice the size of those in the main pack. Clearly adults. Watching. Approvingly? Watching while their offspring finished herding their prey and then moved in for the kill.
The lad hadn’t been going down without a fight. He’d already grabbed any nearby rocks, throwing them with as much force as he could muster at his attackers, but the boy was hopelessly outnumbered. One arm hung limply at his side, blood dripping from the small hand. Brave kid.
One of the closer deinonychus’ had made a quick dart at the boy, jaws snapping. Ryan had fired high, over their heads, not daring to risk a shot too close to the boy. As one, the pack had turned, but didn’t give ground. A second shot had accounted for one of the adults, taking the creature high in the shoulder.
The chirruping from the survivors had only intensified.
Using himself as a human bowling ball to break up the main pack had been a crude but effective tactic, and it certainly had the element of surprise. It had also succeeded in nearly blinding his brain with pain. He re-lived the fierce strike of that fucking claw embedding itself in his thigh and for a dangerously long moment his senses swam and his mind fought for dominance over the pain. And won, but only by a narrow margin.
Stephen slithered down the rock face after him, feeling desperately naked with his gun holstered, but without both hands free, he didn’t stand a chance. The floor of the chamber was slippery with wet, clinging mud. He lost his footing, went down heavily on one knee and only narrowly avoided a strike from a clawed foot which came dangerously close to ham-stringing him.
He grabbed the boy’s good hand and hauled him up, dragging him back towards to the climb. A cry of pain from Ryan froze his blood and he half turned, reaching automatically for the Browning.
“Get out of here! Now! Shift your pretty ass and don’t look back, Hart!” If he was going to get ripped to shreds he’d rather his lover didn’t have to watch.
At the moment, Ryan was focused on one thing and one thing alone and that was taking as many of the buggers down with him as he could contrive. Every one he killed was one that wasn’t going to be snapping at Hart’s heels as he did his best to shove the terrified kid up the two metre climb and scramble after him.
With Hart and the boy finally out of his line of fire, he could at last switch from single shot to full auto. His finger started to squeeze the trigger. One decent burst would even the odds in his favour, he was certain of that ……..
The silence that greeted him was more deafening than any burst of automatic fire.
Ryan’s rifle had finally succumbed to the red mud of the ancient iron mine and had jammed.
The chirruping got louder.
* * *
Stephen Hart knew he should be hearing rifle shots by now, but the loudest noise around him was still the sound of his own panting as he half dragged, half carried the terrified boy along the passage.
Then the sound of gunfire started again and just for a second he almost relaxed, until he realized that the noise was coming from in front of him, not from behind.
God, don’t let him die, not here, not like this, not underground ………
He would have given anything just to turn round and go back. Back to whatever horror the chamber might hold, as long as it meant that going back to the man who’d become his lover, then his friend. The trouble was, if he did that and the deinonychus didn’t kill him then his boyfriend almost certainly would.
It would take a braver man than him to disobey Captain Ryan after he’d used that tone of voice.
* * *
Mary had fired six of her remaining thirteen rounds.
And the good news was that the body of the last deinonychus seemed to have blocked the passage behind her. She allowed herself a small smile of relief. She just hoped it wasn’t going to be too premature.
A few, scant moments later, she heard the noise of movement in the narrow passage behind the body. Then she heard a sucking, glooping noise as something started to come free of the heavy mud, and she felt the draught in the narrow passage start up again.
Something was moving the blockage. To be precise, something was moving the body of the deinonychus.
“Abby? Stringer?”
Silence. Followed by another dragging noise.
“Anyone?”
Then she heard the chirruping.
* * *
“Stringer?” Abby shook the soldier’s shoulder, none too gently either. “Joel? Don’t bloody well pass out on me!”
“Sorry,” muttered Stringer, trying, and failing, to get into a position where his injured side wasn’t sending him half mad with pain. The last burst of automatic fire he’d attempted hadn’t helped. And even worse, he’d missed the fuckers.
“Show me how to use the rifle.”
“It’s nearly as big as you are,” he countered, attempting a grin.
“If you weren’t already ripped up and bleeding, I’d make you regret that remark,” she replied, but her large blue eyes were warm and her expression gave the lie to the words.
“Give me a kiss and I’ll show you how to use the rifle.”
“Do you make a habit of making improper suggestions to civilians, Captain?”
“Never done it before in my life, ma’am. I blame blood loss and imminent death for making me unusually bold.” In spite of the pain, Stringer managed to make his accent sound even more public school than usual.
Entirely to his surprise, Abby leaned over and kissed him. Gentle, teasing, with just a hint of tongue and cave mud.
“Now show me how to use the fucking rifle, Captain.”
* * *
They came at him so fast that Ryan didn’t have time to try and draw the Browning. In sheer desperation, he reversed his hold on the jammed rifle and started to swing it like a club.
He was fast, but the deinonychus were faster. As one, they jumped backwards.
But one of them slipped and he could have sworn that the noises the adults were making sounded kind of disapproving.
He pressed the advantage before it could regain its feet and stamped down hard with his uninjured leg on the little fucker’s head. Its skull crunched under his boot in a most satisfactory way.
Got you!
Ryan’s elation was short lived. A unnaturally fast strike from one of the others laid his right calf open to the bone and then needle sharp teeth fastened around his ankle.
He slammed the rifle butt down as hard as he could. Missed the head, but connected with its backbone and something snapped. He hoped it wasn’t the rifle.
He tried to swing the weapon again. A high strike from a wickedly flashing claw narrowly missed his arm, but the teeth of another of the bastards that closely followed it didn’t.
And then the rest of them closed in and started to drag him down.
He’d watched wildlife films. He knew what came next.
* * *
“Situation report!” Kermit’s voice echoed round the chamber.
“Watch yourself, mate, Merry’s got my rifle!” replied Stringer, failing to keep the relief out of his voice.
“You are so in trouble,” hissed Abby. “That’s going to cost you a very expensive dinner.” As an afterthought, she added, “What did you just call me?”
Stringer raised his voice again, answering Kermit, not her, “Two of us. Vermin still on the loose. Don’t take any chances and don’t make a move down here without being covered! Who’s with you?”
“The Professor and Jim.”
“Send one of them in to act as decoy, kill anything that moves, then get ready to shoot the next little fucker that arrives as well. They like using combined tactics.”
Without being asked, Abby handed the rifle back to him. With a human decoy in the chamber, she couldn’t risk her own inexperience with the weapon. If she survived this, she was taking lessons, whatever Cutter had to say about it.
“If you faint, can I slap your face?” she asked, calmly. Judging by what had happened last time, it was a very real possibility that the pain from the rifle’s recoil would be too much for him.
“As long as you kiss it better afterwards. By the way, men don’t faint, we pass out. Far more manly.”
Her eyes were as wide and round as a bush-baby’s and the grin she gave him made him even more determined to get out of here alive.
“I’ll try and remember that, Captain. OK, it’s a deal. But what about my expensive dinner?”
“Did I forget to say yes? How remiss of me. Kermit, on the count of three, send someone in!”
* * *
The noise of a single pistol shot, coming from some distance away, echoed quietly round the chamber, almost lost in the last two bursts of automatic fire.
The bodies of three deinonychus had been almost torn apart by the hail of bullets from two different directions.
Jim Mitchell opened his eyes, surprised to find he was still alive. Kermit had told him to close his eyes on the count of five, no matter what happened or where he’d reached, to avoid being blinded by the muzzle flashes.
It was a measure of the trust he was prepared to place in the Special Forces soldiers that he’d obeyed the instruction. But he prayed to any god that would listen that he never had to stand blind in the middle of a storm of bullets again with a pack of killers from the past trying to stab him with their un-manicured toe-nails.
He opened his eyes just as the pistol shot sounded.
“Stringer, where’s my wife!”
It was Abby who answered. “She went down the passage straight ahead of you, Jim. And none of them have come back yet. I think that’s where the last shot came from.”
Then she turned her attention to Joel Stringer, who, as expected, had just passed out. She couldn’t decide whether he looked manly or just very, very wrecked. But she slapped him anyway.
He was better with the rifle than she was. So they needed him conscious, even if he didn’t stay that way for long.
He groaned and she slapped him again, although more gently, this time.
And in case it helped, she kissed him as well.
* * *
Mary had fired six shots. Only seven left now. The numbers ran round in her head like worry beads. She was certain that she’d wasted at least three of the last few bullets, doing more damage to the passage walls than to anything attempting to approach her.
She was now finding it almost impossible to hold the heavy pistol straight, even two handed. If she fired again too quickly, the recoil meant her next shot blasted a hole in the roof, nothing more. She’d now started making that mistake too often.
A noise behind her, claimed her attention. If they started to come at her from both sides, she didn’t stand a chance.
A small boy came lurching down the passage at an ungainly run.
Closely followed by Stephen Hart. And she really didn’t want to know what had caused the look on his face.
Before she had chance to ask the obvious question, a burst of gun-fire ripped through the air from another direction and much-loved voice yelled, “Clear! We’re coming through!”
It very much looked like the cavalry had arrived from two different directions at once.
Mary Mitchell had never been more pleased to see her husband in her entire life. She just hoped that the blood dripping down his face wasn’t his own.
* * *
“Run out of bullets, sir?” asked Lyle, kicking one of the carcasses off Ryan and bending down to try and get a grip on a second one.
“Fucking rifle jammed,” muttered Ryan, wondering if there was any part of him that wasn’t screaming out in agony.
He managed to lift himself up on one elbow just in time to see Sir James Lester blow a small deinonychus’ head apart at point blank range. Lyle had clearly decided to let the other man get some firearms practice.
“Knew you’d get the hang of this shooting lark eventually, honey,” said Lyle approvingly to the civil servant.
Lester smiled, and calmly fired straight past Lyle, his shot taking the last remaining adult deinonychus in the chest. He held the Browning down hard with both hands and put the next bullet straight between its open jaws.
Lyle grinned broadly, heaved another body off Ryan, and remarked, “I taught him everything he knows about guns.” Then he straightened up, cast a quick and very professional eye round the carnage in the small chamber and when he was satisfied that nothing was moving, he sauntered over to Lester and planted an open-mouthed kiss on the other man’s muddy lips. “As you know, I don’t go for men, but that was a fucking good shot, so I’ll make an exception in your case.”
The surprised look on Lester’s face was so good he almost considered doing it again. And probably would have if a bloodied Ryan hadn’t claimed his attention by trying, and failing, to get himself upright by leaning on his rifle.
Lyle made a disapproving noise. “You’re meant to use the butt on the ground when they’re in walking-stick mode, Ryan, not the muzzle. Didn’t you learn anything at
“Yes, but I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of asking how you got here, Jon.”
“Good, because if I told you, I might have to kill you.”
“And the story will be easier to believe when you’re outside of a shit-load of beer,” remarked Lester, holstering the pistol and helping Lyle drag the Special Forces leader to his feet. Although on second thoughts, perhaps they’d just tell lies. It’d be easier that way.
Christ, Ryan was heavy!
It was going to be a long time before they all got out of here if the rest of the casualties weighed as much as the injured captain.
It took three hours and three trips back into Clearwell to evacuate every casualty, and by the end of it, Sir James Lester was more knackered than he’d ever been in his entire life.
And he wasn’t the only one.
Ryan leant against the side wall of the ticket office, only upright by reason of the support he was getting from Stephen Hart’s encircling arms.
“Ambulance coming for you in another five minutes, Ryan!” yelled Lyle’s still cheerful voice from out of sight around the corner. “If you’re gonna shag or something, you’d best make it quick! Ditzy’s betting you’ll never get it up in your state, but my money’s on you, mate.”
Stephen’s blue eyes opened wide with incredulity. “They’re serious, aren’t they?”
He wasn’t sure whether the noise Ryan made in answer was a laugh or a groan but he found himself pulled in closer, up against the mud-covered, blood-drenched tac vest and there was no mistaking the hardness between the soldier’s legs.
“No sodding way, you’re covered in pints of your own blood! You don’t have enough to spare for an erection. Be sensible, Ryan!”
The soldier sighed. “Hart, it’s the only part of me that’s left intact and I’d just like to remind you that several hours ago, you promised me the best blow-job of my life, at a time and place of my choosing. Well, I’m still alive and I’ve got the worst post-combat hard-on I’ve ever hard, so get on with it. If I know my lads, there’s some serious money riding on this, and I want my cut.”
Torn between laughter and exasperation, Stephen compromised and kissed him. At least Ryan had opted for the blow-job and not a shag. His arse hadn’t recovered enough for that yet.
Ryan kissed back, hard, almost desperate. Trying to swamp memory with sensation.
Moments later, Hart was down on his knees and a warm, wet and very skilful mouth was dragging Ryan inexorably towards what was probably the most spectacularly painful orgasm of his life. And almost certainly the most intense.
Stephen’s tongue was still lapping gently at him when Ryan cleared his throat and called out, “Lyle, what do you want by way of proof, and what’s my share of the take?”
The Hotel. 10.30pm.
The casualties from Clearwell had been evacuated to a military hospital near
Mary and some of those with more minor injuries had arrived back at the hotel an hour ago. Her lower leg was heavily bandaged. Several of the others looked like extras from an old horror movie.
Two who didn’t return were Fiver and Stringer. Both had taken very deep strikes from adult deinonychus’. They would survive, but it had come close, particularly for Stringer, who’d lost a nearly fatal amount of blood by the time they’d brought him to the surface.
Terrible Claw was generally reckoned to have been an under-stated description.
With the exception of Lyle, not one of the Special Forces soldiers who had entered Clearwell had emerged unscathed.
Blade, Finn and Dave Shaw had made it out of the Crowll at almost exactly the same time as the last casualty had come to the surface at Clearwell.
That had caused Lyle to remark happily that the Devil’s Crowll was clearly the easier of the two trips. Down there, you only had to contend with over-grown crocodiles, rather than psychopathic raptors.
Connor had then promptly treated everyone to a detailed lecture on exactly where
Of the civilians, the worst injured was one of the little girls. The surgeons hadn’t been able to save her arm. But eight of the nine children had survived.
In spite of his numerous injuries, Ryan had insisted on being discharged, and much to Stephen’s amazement, he’d been allowed back to the Hotel, which was now bearing a close resemblance to an Out Patient’s Ward but with added alcohol and more guns.
Abby had insisted on staying at the hospital with Stringer.
Ditzy was wandering around dispensing painkillers and threatening to stick a thermometer up the arse of anyone who refused the pills.
Jim Mitchell was following in his wake, the dispensing alcohol. No-one refused anything from his version of the pill-trolley.
Lyle was lounging on the rug in front of a large log fire, steadily feeding wood to the flames. He’d spent too long out of the last two days freezing cold and was making up for it now. No-one objected, even though the room was getting so hot that most people were shedding clothes with startling rapidity.
Ryan lay sprawled out on a sofa, his head on Stephen’s lap. The soldier was wearing a loose tee shirt and track-suit bottoms, the only clothing options compatible with the bandages swathing various limbs. He hadn’t quite resorted to demanding grapes. Not yet.
Sir James Lester had compromised his usual sartorial standards by not wearing a tie. He hadn’t shaved either, which had caused Claudia to take Ditzy aside and ask the medic whether the man had any undisclosed injuries.
“There’s something you two aren’t telling us,” said Cutter, fixing Lester and Lyle with a faintly disapproving stare.
Well, we haven’t mentioned the way Lyle dislocated your wife’s finger, but somehow I don’t think that’s what you mean. “What makes you say that, Professor?”
“Lyle kept giving you sideways looks during parts of the story.”
You’re a perceptive bastard, thought Lester, apart from where your wife’s concerned. The civil servant sent the Special Forces lieutenant a hard stare.
Lyle gave a shamefaced grin. He also shot another sideways glance at Lester, which Connor seized on and pointed out gleefully, in case anyone had missed it. He did love a good conspiracy particularly one involving the Government and the Military.
When an answer wasn’t immediately forthcoming, the student went back to tapping out notes on his laptop for a paper on Pedagogic Behaviour Amongst Dromaeosaurs (with special reference to Deinonychus).
“You’ve always stressed the importance of full reporting, James,” said Claudia, curled up next to Cutter, their shoulders touching comfortably.
The look Lester directed at her was knife sharp.
“You know the importance of data,” added Cutter. “How can we hope to analyse the anomalies if you hold things back?”
“They got shifty at two points,” Connor said, his dark eyes shining with interest. “Once when they were talking about digging their way out of the chamber, and again later when Lyle mentioned the CO2.”
“Can’t we talk about why your wife carries a lump of iron-ore around in her rucksack, Cutter?” said Lester, trying introduce a distraction.
“It’s a lodestone, she’s had it for years. She brought it back from
Well, you have mentioned it at least ten times in the last two hours, so yes, I do know that.
“Miss Brown will deal with it in the morning, won’t you, Miss Brown?”
Claudia sighed. “You’re avoiding the question, James.”
Bloody woman. Why can’t she just take Cutter off to bed?
Lester leant back in the chair and took a long swallow of beer. “You got us into this mess, Lyle, you explain.”
The soldier promptly elevated the art of looking uncomfortable to new heights.
Connor equally promptly leant forward, radiating eagerness.
“Well, like I told your wife, Professor, we saw a ghost,” said Lyle, chucking another log on the fire and poking at it, hoping the heat would explain the flush on his face.
Cutter’s expression bore a remarkable similarity to one of Helen’s disdainful looks.
Jim Mitchell, on the other hand, gave a quiet laugh. “You saw Mr. Smith?”
Lyle nodded.
Lester raised his eyebrows. It worked better when they weren’t covered in mud. “You know him, Jim?”
“Not personally, but I’ve been told he’s a helpful old chap, well at least he is around here, so they say. He last turned up a few years ago, when they were putting some new lighting into the show-cave. The electricians were running out of cable, and an old chap appeared, showed them a short-cut, and when they turned round to thank him, he was gone.”
Connor’s eyes widened with delight. “A ghost? A real live ghost?”
“I think ghosts are meant to be dead, Con,” Stephen offered helpfully, one hand gently stroking Ryan’s hair.
“Ghosts don’t exist,” said Cutter, flatly. “You were delusional. Probably a mixture of oxygen deprivation and stress.”
“Smith isn’t a ghost.” To everyone’s surprise, it was Lester who spoke. “More a sort of embodiment of the spirit of the mines. THE miner, if you like.” The silence that greeted his words was as deep as any the subterranean world had to offer. Lyle, I am going to make you regret dropping me in this one. “My brother is a Consultant Geologist who specializes in mines, Cutter. Talk to him about this sometime. All miners know about the Old Man. Sometimes it just feels like there’s someone following you down a level, but when you look over your shoulder, no-one’s there. Sometimes he’s more solid than that.”
“He turns up in caves as well,” added Lyle. “There’s a place called Smith’s Armory in Ogof Ffynnon Ddu in
Cutter shook his head. “There is no such things as ghosts,” he said, slowly and clearly in the voice he reserved for his tutorial groups when they were being particularly obtuse. “Repeat after me, both of you ………”
“And there’s no such thing as freakin’ monsters,” muttered Ryan, “so what just ripped me to shit, then?”
“You know you like it rough, darling,” muttered Stephen, carefully tilting the beer bottle to his lover’s mouth.
Lester walked over to the bar counter for another drink and then used the opportunity to escape the ensuing debate and slip quietly away, leaving Lyle to take the flak.
Serves the sod right.
The Hotel. 11pm.
The knock on the bedroom door made him jump, even though he hadn’t been asleep.
Sir James Lester slid carefully off the bed, every single muscle and tendon in his body screaming in a loudly orchestrated chorus of protest.
The door swung open before he got to it, revealing Lyle, carrying beer, several bottles of the stuff.
“It was locked,” remarked Lester.
“They teach us all sorts of useful things at
Lester hadn’t felt inclined towards more company or more drink but the flush from the firelight still warmed Lyle’s face, and more alcohol suddenly didn’t seem like a bad idea either.
“Beer comes fairly high up the list of things I might like,” said Lester, carefully.
Lyle slid into the room, and lounged against the closed door, his hazel eyes holding the promise of more than just beer. “What comes higher on the list, sir?”
Not being on my own when the fucking nightmares come and I start screaming.
Lester allowed his habitual distain to slide away from the angles and planes of his sharp face. He looked younger, even with the heavy stubble shading his jaw.
He didn’t answer the question aloud. He suspected he didn't need to.
