A cave entrance was accidentally discovered in a small Missouri town during the Civil War. To be honest, says author Judith Sonnet, it wasn’t exactly a cave. At the time it was just a burrow, no more than a rabbit’s hole. 

One hundred years later, the rabbit hole had been expanded into a deep, circuitous chain of caverns that sprawled underneath southwestern Missouri. At some point, an ambitious developer spent a ton of cash to turn the area into a popular tourist destination. The Rabbit Cave Resort was built at the cave’s entrance and offered “an experience unlike any other—dining dancing and spelunking.” The resort also featured a Playboy Club-like lounge called the Rabbit Den. 

Things were going well until the spring of 1974. That’s when everything went pear-shaped. The resort was overrun by a horde of giant prehistoric creatures emerging from the cavern’s deepest recesses. Giant newts with saw-blade skulls, a millipede the size of a school bus and a couple of bats the size of German Shepherds. Ironically, there were no rabbits down the rabbit’s hole. 

The two giant bats provided one of my favorite moments in Sonnet’s book. Descending upon a vulnerable group of hotel guests, the bats were hoping to score a quick snack. Things turned absurd when the bats found themselves in a fist fight. Even now, the image of a man punching a bat truly makes me laugh out loud. 

Easily the most aggressive creatures to emerge from the cave were the snails. There were snails the size of baseballs and snails the size of doormats. There was even a snail that was the size of a small automobile. Writes Sonnet: “They came in a wave of mucus and roiling slime—an orgy of tendrils, flickering proboscis and wavering eyestalks. A malignant amalgamation of gunge and stink.”

In one memorable scene, a giant snail was seen swallowing an unlucky bastard. It lifted its head, opened its mouth and sucked up its prey with a mighty slurp. Afterward all that could be seen was a mangled hand hanging from the creature’s quivering throat. It reminded me of the iconic poster for the 1972 movie Frogs.  

The snail invasion was terrific. Who knew that gastropods could be so compelling? They were unlike any snail you’d ever seen. “They were more like living tumors,” writes Sonnet, “huge bubbles that waggled obscenely.” 

Snails had one fatal weakness, however. They didn’t work in concert with a hive mind or under any instructions from a queen. I’m not even sure snails had brains. There was no strategy to their attack. They simply pursued food as it was presented to them. 

Nonetheless, at some point during the invasion a snail the size of a lion tried to establish some sort of alpha status. It crept atop a stalagmite, raised its lumpy head toward its peers and released a triumphant snotty sneeze.

Here was the moment (perhaps) when the snails would coalesce around a charismatic leader and destroy the human race. But it wasn’t to be. Only a few snails swiveled their eyestalks toward the elevated one. The wannabe alpha snail quickly fell in with its peers and was swallowed by the crowd. It was over. The moment was gone. 

[ Deep Dark / By Judith Sonnet / First Printing: May 2023 / ISBN: 9781959778417 ]