There was a rap on the rear door. “Come in,” he barked, switching off the radio.
An agent stepped inside and crouched beside Coffey, the glow of the monitors throwing his face into sharp relief. “Sir, I just got word that the Deputy Mayor is on his way over now. And the Governor’s office is on the phone. They want an update.”
Coffey closed his eyes.
Smithback looked up at the ladder, its rusty lower rung hanging a good four feet above his head. Maybe if there was no water he could have jumped it, but with the current nearing his chest it was impossible.
“See anything up there?” D’Agosta asked.
“Nope,” replied Smithback. “This light’s weak. I can’t tell how far the thing extends.”
“Turn off the light, then,” D’Agosta gasped. “Give me a minute to think.”
There was a long silence. Smithback felt another surge against his waist. The water was still rising fast. Another [432] foot, and they would all be floating downstream toward—Smithback shook his head, angrily dispelling the thought.
“Where the hell is all this water coming from?” he moaned to no one in particular.
“This subbasement is built below the Hudson River water table,” D’Agosta replied. “It leaks whenever there’s a heavy rain.”
“Leaks, sure—maybe it even floods a foot or two,” Smithback panted. “But we’re being inundated. They must be building arks out there.”
D’Agosta didn’t answer.
“The hell with this,” a voice said. “Someone get on my shoulders. We’ll go up one by one.”
“Stow it!” D’Agosta snapped. “It’s too damn high for that.”
Smithback coughed, cleared his throat. “I’ve got an idea!” he said.
There was a silence.
“Look, that steel ladder appears to be pretty strong,” he urged. “If we can fasten our belts together and loop them over that ladder, we can wait for the water to rise enough so we can grab the lower rung.”
“I can’t wait that long!” someone cried.
D’Agosta glared. “Smithback, that’s the fucking worst idea I ever heard,” he growled. “Besides, half the men here are wearing cummerbunds.”
“I noticed you have a belt on,” Smithback retorted.
“So I do,” D’Agosta replied defensively. “But what makes you think the water will rise enough for us to reach the rung?”
“Look up there,” Smithback said, shining his flashlight along the wall near the bottom of the metal ladder. “See that band of discoloration? It looks like a highwater mark to me. At least once in the past, the water has risen that high. If this is half the storm you think it is, we ought to get fairly close.”
D’Agosta shook his head. “Well, I still think it’s [424] crazy,” he said, “but I suppose it’s better than waiting here to die. You men back there!” he shouted. “Belts! Pass your belts up to me!”
As the belts reached D’Agosta, he knotted them together, buckle to end, starting with the widest buckle. Then he passed them to Smithback, who looped them over his shoulders. Swinging the heavier end, he braced himself against the current, leaned back, and tossed it up toward the lowest rung. The twelve feet of leather fell back into the water, missing by several feet. He tried again, missed again.
“Here, give me that,” D’Agosta said. “Let a man do a man’s job.”
“The hell with that,” Smithback said, rearing back dangerously and giving another toss. This time Smithback ducked as the heavy buckle came swinging down; then he slid the far end through and pulled the improvised rope tight around the lower ring.
“Okay, everyone,” D’Agosta said. “This is it. I want you all to link arms. Don’t let go. As the water rises, it’ll carry us toward the ladder. We’ll play this back to you in sections as we rise. I hope the son of a bitch holds,” he muttered, eyeing the linked belts dubiously.
“And the water rises far enough,” said Smithback.
“If it doesn’t, you’ll hear about it from me, mister.” Smithback turned to respond, but decided to save his breath. The current crept up around his chest, tugging at his armpits, and he felt a slow, inexorable pressure from below as his feet started to lose their hold on the smooth stone floor of the tunnel.
= 59 =
Garcia watched as the pool of light from Allen’s flashlight moved slowly across a bank of dead controls, then back again. Nesbitt, the guard on monitoring duty, slouched at the coffee-stained “panic desk” in the middle of Security Command. Next to him sat Waters and the skinny, gawky-looking programmer from the Computer Room. They had knocked on the door of Security Command ten minutes earlier, scaring the three men inside half to death. Now the programmer was sitting quietly in the dark, chewing his cuticles and sniffling. Waters had placed his service revolver on the table and was nervously spinning it.
“What was that?” Waters said suddenly, stopping his pistol in mid-spin.
“What was what?” Garcia asked morosely.
“I thought I heard a noise in the hall just now,” Waters said, swallowing hard. “Like feet going by.”
“You’re always hearing noises, Waters,” Garcia said. “That’s what got us here in the first place.”
[426] There was a brief, uncomfortable silence.
“Are you sure you read Coffey right?” Waters spoke up again. “If that thing destroyed a SWAT team, it could easily get to us.”
“Stop thinking about it,” said Garcia. “Stop talking about it. It happened three floors above us.”
“I can’t believe Coffey, just leaving us here to rot—”
“Waters? If you don’t shut up I’m going to send you back to the Computer Room.”
Waters fell silent.
“Radio Coffey again,” Allen told Garcia. “We need to get the hell out of here, now.”
Garcia slowly shook his head. “It ain’t gonna work. Sounded to me like he was about five beers short of a six-pack. Maybe he’s bent a bit under the pressure. We’re stuck here for the duration.”
“Who’s his boss?” Allen insisted. “Give me the radio.”
“No way. The emergency batteries are almost dead.” Allen started to protest, then stopped abruptly. “I smell something,” he said.
Garcia sat up. “So do I.” Then he picked up his shotgun, slowly, like a sleeper caught in a bad dream.
“It’s the killer beast!” Waters cried loudly. All the men were on their feet in an instant. Chairs were thrown back, smashing against the floor. There was a thump and a curse as somebody struck the side of a desk, then a splintering crash as a monitor fell to the floor. Garcia grabbed the radio.
“Coffey! It’s here!”
There was a scratching, then a low rattling at the doorknob. Garcia felt a gush of warmth on his legs and realized his bladder had given way. Suddenly, the door bent inward, wood cracking under a savage blow. In the close, listening darkness, he heard somebody behind him start to pray.
¯
[427] “Did you hear that?” whispered Pendergast.
Margo played the flashlight down the hall. “I heard something.”
From down the hall and around the corner came the sound of splintering wood.
“It’s breaking through one of the doors!” said Pendergast. “We need to attract its attention. Hey!” he shouted.
Margo grabbed Pendergast’s arm. “Don’t say anything you wouldn’t want it to understand,” she hissed.
“Ms. Green, this is no time for jokes,” Pendergast snapped. “Surely it doesn’t understand English.”
“I don’t know. We’re taking a chance, anyway, just trusting the Extrapolator’s data. But the thing has a highly developed brain, and it may well have been in the Museum for years, listening from dark places. It might understand certain words. We can’t take the chance.”
“As you wish,” Pendergast whispered. Then, he said loudly: “Where are you? Can you hear me?”
“Yes!” Margo shouted. “But I’m lost! Help! Can anyone hea
r us?”
Pendergast lowered his voice. “It must have heard that. Now we can only wait.” He dropped to one knee, right hand aiming the .45, left hand bracing right wrist. “Keep playing the light toward the bend in the hallway, move it around as if you’re lost. When I see the creature, I’ll give you the word. Turn on the miner’s light, and keep it aimed on the creature, no matter what. If it’s angry—if it’s just hunting for revenge now—we have to use any means possible to slow it down. We only have a hundred feet of corridor in which to kill it. If it can run as quickly as you think it can, the beast can cover that distance in a couple of seconds. You can’t hesitate, and you can’t panic.”
“A couple of seconds,” Margo said. “I understand.”
¯
[428] Garcia kneeled in front of the monitor bank, the butt of his shotgun snug against his cheek, the barrel pointing into the gloom. Before him, the outline of the door was faintly visible. Behind him stood Waters in a combat stance. “When it comes through, just start firing, and don’t stop.” Garcia said. “I’ve only got eight rounds. I’ll try to space my shots so you can reload at least once before it reaches us. And turn off that flashlight. You trying to give us away?”
The others in Security Command—Allen, the programmer, and Nesbitt the guard—had retreated to the far wall and were crouched beneath the darkened schematic of the Museum’s security grid.
Waters was shaking. “It blew away a SWAT team,” he said, his voice breaking.
There was another crash, and the door groaned, its hinges popping. Waters screamed, jumped up and scrambled backward into the dark, his gun lying forgotten on the floor.
“Waters, you prick, get back here!”
Garcia heard the sickening thud of bone against metal as Waters stumbled under the desks toward the far wall, banging his skull. “Don’t let it get me!” he screamed.
Garcia forced himself to turn back toward the door. He tried to steady the shotgun. The foul reek of the creature filled his nostrils as the door shuddered under another heavy blow. More than anything, he did not want to see what was about to force its way into the room. He cursed and wiped his forehead with the back of a hand. Except for Waters’s sobbing, there was silence.
Margo shined the flashlight down the hall, trying to imitate the random motions of somebody searching for a way out. The light licked across the walls and floor, giving dim illumination to the display cabinets. Her heart was hammering, her breath coming in short gasps.
“Help!” she cried again. “We’re lost!” Her voice sounded unnaturally hoarse in her ears.
[429] There were no more sounds from around the corner. The creature was listening.
“Hello?” she called, willing herself to speak again. “Is anybody there?”
The voice echoed and died in the corridor. She waited, staring into the gloom, straining to see any movement.
A dark shape began to resolve itself against the far darkness, at a distance where the flashlight beam failed. The movement stopped. It seemed to have its head up. A strange, liquid snuffling sound came toward them.
“Not yet,” Pendergast whispered.
It moved a little farther around the corner. The snuffling noise grew louder, and then the stench, wafting down the hall, violated her nostrils.
The beast took another step.
“Not yet,” Pendergast whispered.
Garcia’s hand was shaking so violently he could hardly press the transmit button.
“Coffey!” he hissed. “Coffey, for God’s sake! Do you copy?”
“This is Agent Slade from the Forward Command Post. Who’s speaking, please?”
“This is Security Command,” Garcia said, breathing thick and fast. “Where’s Coffey? Where’s Coffey?”
“Special Agent Coffey is temporarily indisposed. As of now, I’m taking command of the operation, pending the arrival of the regional director. What’s your status?”
“What’s our status?” Garcia laughed raggedly. “Our status is, we’re fucked. It’s outside the door. It’s breaking in. I’m begging you, send a team in.”
“Hell!” came the voice of Slade. “Why wasn’t I informed?” Garcia heard some muffled talk. “Garcia? Do you have your weapon?”
“What good’s a shotgun?” Garcia whispered, almost in tears. “You need to get in here with a fucking bazooka. Help us, please.”
“Garcia, we’re trying to pick up the pieces here. [430] Command-and-control is all screwed up. Just hold tight a moment. It can’t get through the Security Command door, right? It’s metal, isn’t it?”
“It’s wood, Slade, it’s just a goddamn institutional door!” Garcia said, the tears running freely down his face.
“Wood? What kind of place is this? Garcia, listen to me now. Even if we sent someone in, it’d take them twenty minutes to get to you.”
“Please ...”
“You’ve got to handle it yourself. I don’t know what you’re up against, Garcia, but get a grip on yourself. We’ll be in as soon as we can. Just keep cool and aim—”
Garcia sank to the floor, his finger slipping from the button in despair. It was hopeless, they were all dead men.
= 60 =
Smithback gripped the belt, playing a few more inches back toward the group. If anything, he thought, the water was rising even faster than before; there were surges every few minutes now, and although the current didn’t seem to be getting stronger, the roar at the end of the tunnel had grown deafening. The oldest, the weakest, and the poorest swimmers were directly behind Smithback, clutching to the rope of belts; behind them the others were clinging together, treading water desperately. Everyone was silent now; there was no energy left to weep, moan, or even speak. Smithback looked up: two more feet, and he’d be able to grab the ladder.
“Must be a mother of a storm out there,” said D’Agosta. He was next to Smithback, supporting an older woman. “Sure rained on the Museum’s party,” he added with a weak laugh.
Smithback merely looked up, snapping on the light. Eighteen more inches.
“Smithback, quit switching the light on and off, all [432] right?” D’Agosta said irritably. “I’ll tell you when to check.”
Smithback felt another surge, which buffeted him against the brick walls of the tunnel. There were some gasps among the group but no one cut loose. If the belt rope gave way, they’d all be drowned in thirty seconds. Smithback tried not to think about it.
In a shaky but determined voice, the Mayor started telling a story to the group. It involved several well-known people in City Hall. Smithback, despite scenting a scoop, felt sleepier and sleepier—a sign, he remembered, of hypothermia.
“Okay, Smithback. Check the ladder.” The gruff voice of D’Agosta jerked him awake.
He shined the light upward, rattling it into life. In the past fifteen minutes the water had risen another foot, bringing the end of the ladder almost within reach. With a croak of delight, Smithback played more of the belts back to the group.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” said D’Agosta. “You’re gonna go up first. I’ll help from down here, then I’ll follow last. Okay?”
“Okay,” Smithback said, shaking himself into consciousness.
D’Agosta pulled the belt taut, then grabbed Smithback by the waistband and heaved him upward. Smithback reached over his head, grabbing the lowest rung with his free hand.
“Give me the light,” said D’Agosta.
Smithback handed it down, then grabbed the rung with the other hand. He pulled himself up a little, then fell back, the muscles in his arms and back jerking spasmodically. With a deep breath, he pulled himself up again, this time reaching the second rung.
“Now you grab the rung,” D’Agosta said to someone. Smithback leaned against the rungs, gasping for breath. Then, looking upward again, he grasped the third rung, [433] then the fourth. He felt around lightly with his feet to secure them on the first rung.
“Don’t step on anyone’s hands!” D’Agosta warne
d from below.
He felt a hand guide his foot, and he was able to put his weight on the lowest rung. The firmness felt like heaven. He reached down with one hand and helped the elderly woman. Then he turned back, feeling his strength returning, and moved upward.
The ladder ended at the mouth of a large pipe jutting out horizontally where the curved vault of the roof met the tunnel wall. Gingerly, he moved to the pipe and began crawling into the darkness.
Immediately, a putrid odor assaulted his nostrils. Sewer, he thought. He stopped involuntarily for a moment, then moved forward again.
The pipe ended, opening into blackness. Gingerly, he brought his feet outward and downward. A hard, firm dirt floor met his shoes a foot or so beneath the mouth of the pipe. He could hardly believe their luck: a chamber of unknown size, hung suspended here between the basement and subbasement. Probably some architectural palimpsest, a long-forgotten by-product of one of the Museum’s many reconstructions. He clambered out and moved a few inches forward, then another few inches, sweeping his feet over the blackness of the floor. The stench around him was abominable, but it was not the smell of the beast, and for that he was profoundly grateful. Dry things—twigs?—crunched beneath his feet. Behind him, he could hear grunting, and the sound of others moving down the pipe toward him. The feeble light from D’Agosta’s flashlight in the subbasement beyond could not penetrate the blackness.
He turned around, knelt down by the mouth of the pipe, and began helping the bedraggled group out, directing them off to the side, warning them not to stray too far into the dark.
One at a time, people emerged and spread out against [434] the wall, feeling their way gingerly, collapsing in exhaustion. The room was quiet except for the sound of ragged breathing.
Relic Page 36
