“Just a minute! If you pull me in we’re both fucked. I’m going to go and find something to tie it to.”
And Jason was gone again. Mark resisted the urge to call out for his friend not to take too long, because he wouldn’t, would he? He wouldn’t leave Mark down here any longer than was necessary. Even though Mark had put dog shit in Jason’s bag that time for a laugh? Or that he’d made that snide remark about Jason not having a mum when he knew she’d died when Jason was born? He wouldn’t leave Mark there because of any of that, would he?
Would he?
The mist that coated the site was creeping down the sides of the trench now. Its steady progress was probably because Mark had stopped moving, but he was exhausted and couldn’t bring himself to sweep it away. All he could do was sit and shiver, the involuntary spasms of his tired and aching muscles doing their best to keep his body above freezing as white tendrils of ice-cold moisture poured over the sides of the trench and snaked their way toward him.
Mark hugged his knees. He could feel his freezing fingers through the mud-smeared denim. Oh God Jason, hurry the fuck up!
A snake hit him in the face.
No, not a snake.
A rope.
“Jason?” The outline of a head appeared over the lip of the trench. “Did you find something to tie it to?”
“Scaffolding,” came the reply. “I was worried it wouldn’t reach, but it should be all right.”
Mark gripped the rope with both hands. “It’s fine!” He pulled hard and levered himself into a standing position. The mud was so slippery that as soon as he tried to move his feet went from under him and he was flat on his back again. There was a clanking sound from far away as he hit the ground.
“Be careful!”
“I’m trying!”
Mark pulled on the rope again, getting himself into a kneeling position first this time, then a crouch, and finally into an upright stance.
“I’m standing up!”
“Great. Can you climb out?”
Mark pulled on the rope and tried to put his right foot against the wall of the trench. It sank in halfway up to his calf. He tried to pull it out but with only his left foot to balance on he was soon on his back once more.
“It’s too slippery! You’ll have to help pull me out!”
“Okay.” Jason was standing at the edge of the trench again. “Stand up and we’ll do it on three.”
It took what felt like hours for Mark to get on his feet again. This time he clung to the rope even more tightly. If his mum wanted to know why he was picking fibers out of his hands for the next week he would have to make something up that wouldn’t be as ludicrous as the real reason.
“Ready!”
“Okay, but you’re going to have to help me.”
Mark wasn’t sure how he could, but he braced himself as he felt the rope go taut.
Then it went slack again.
“You’re not helping.” Jason sounded out of breath.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Try and climb while I pull.”
“I can’t!” Suddenly the whole thing seemed hopeless. “I’ve already tried!”
“Well you’re going to have to try again. Otherwise you’re going to be stuck in there all night until the builders come in the morning.”
Whether it was the fear of being found by the workmen, or the sheer terror of what his mum would say when he failed to come home all night again, the next time the rope went taut Mark threw himself at the trench wall, plunging both feet into the crumbling mud and levering himself upward. Each time he had to take another step, his foot came free with a sucking sound, and each time a few more gobbets of wet mud and a few more clusters of tiny wriggling creatures found their way up his trouser leg. He closed his eyes and kept going. When he opened them again, Jason’s silhouette was much closer.
“Come on, mate.” The other boy seemed to be looking behind Mark for some reason. “Not much further.”
Mark gave another tug on the rope. There was that clanking sound again, closer this time. Mark could feel his feet slipping. But he was so close! With a Herculean effort he pulled himself up another few inches.
Which is when everything went wrong.
First, there was a crash that was like the clanking sound only ten times worse. This coincided with the rope going loose and Mark falling backward to land once more in the slime and horror of the pit.
Then Jason landed on top of him.
Then the loose scaffolding poles Jason had tied the rope to landed on top of both of them.
For a moment, all was silent.
“Jason?”
The flashlight had fallen into the trench as well. Now its beam was outlining the bulk of the taller, heavier boy, who groaned.
“Get off me!”
But Jason wasn’t moving, not without some encouragement, anyway. Mark curled his fingers into fists and beat his friend on the back. When that didn’t work, he reached out to his right to grab some of the stinking mud he had been trying to stay away from. He meant to rub it in the other boy’s face.
What he actually found himself holding, in the cold glow of the flashlight, was a thigh bone.
A human thigh bone.
Mark didn’t know that for sure, of course, but it was just the right size and shape, and after all he’d been through already this evening it was enough to make him yell at the top of his voice.
That woke Jason up.
“What the fuck are you screaming about?” the boy mumbled, pushing himself off his friend and sliding into the muck adjacent to him.
Mark grabbed the flashlight and shone it on the bone.
“Where did you find that?”
Still incapable of speech, Mark pointed to the hole he had tried to gouge in the mud.
“Maybe there’s more!”
Jason leaned over and pushed his hand deeper into the muddy sludge. “Yes,” he said, feeling around and ignoring Mark’s petrified gaze, “there’s something else in here, but it’s stuck. Give me a hand.”
Mark shook his head.
“You are so useless.” Jason was leaning right over Mark now and had both his hands in the hole. “At least shine the flashlight over here so I can see.” With a final effort Jason pulled hard on whatever it was he had a hold of. It came free, but was so slippery that it fell from his grasp and tumbled into the pit, coming to rest close to Mark’s face.
“Go on then,” said Jason. “Shine the flashlight on it.”
When Mark finally plucked up the courage to do so, two hollow sockets stared back at him.
That was when both boys screamed.
“A skull!” Jason had forgotten all about them keeping their voices down. “We’re in a grave with a fucking skull!”
The hole he had widened in the side of the trench suddenly collapsed in on itself, covering Mark’s right arm in more mud, more crawling things, and more bones.
There was something else there too.
Something wrapped in sacking.
“What’s that?” Jason was already reaching over to pick it up.
“I don’t care,” said Mark, finally finding his voice again and pushing himself into a sitting position. “I’m going home.”
The smaller boy grabbed hold of the nearest pieces of scaffolding and pushed down on them as hard as he could. Wedged at an angle inside the open pit, the poles sank into the soil a little and then held, enough for him to get onto his hands and knees and try them with his full weight. Satisfied that they weren’t going to budge any farther, Mark used the metal shafts to clamber up and out of the trench.
“Don’t you want to find out what it is?” Jason was still down in the pit. He was unwrapping the sacking and revealing what looked like a large clay urn.
“Fuck that.” Mark wiped a mud-smeared hand across his face. “We’ve made so much bloody noise, if we stay here any longer we’re going to get caught.”
That was when the dark figure standing behind him laid a hea
vy hand on his shoulder.
Mark took in the security patrol uniform and the flashlight that was about to be shone in his face and realized they just had been.
The Bromley Times, Wednesday, October 19, 1994
SUPERMARKET SHIVERS!
Two young boys playing on a building site on monday night got more than they bargained for when their mischievous antics unearthed the skull and bones of an ancient corpse
Building work for a new branch of Sainsbury’s has been stopped while the police investigate what has already been suggested as a crime that might date back hundreds of years.
Chief Inspector Raymond Partington of the Metropolitan Police gave a press conference earlier today and had this to say: “It has already been confirmed that these bones are just a few fragments, and that they are very old. Any crime that may have caused them to end up here is probably more a case for the British Museum than the local constabulary.”
A spokesman for Everett Construction said, “Building sites are not playgrounds, and these boys should not have been there. Needless to say we are making every effort to examine our security arrangements to determine how they got in.”
The two boys were taken to Farnborough Hospital. Neither they nor their parents were available for comment, but we understand that apart from some cuts and bruises they were unhurt.
The demolition site where the boys were discovered is part of plans by the Council to modernize the High Street and included the building where the famous author H. G. Wells, known for his science fiction novel War of the Worlds, was born in 1866. A plaque commemorating his birthplace is due to be included in the new supermarket that will be erected on the site.
TWO
Friday, October 21, 1994. 1:33 P.M.
THERE WERE THIRTEEN DEAD flies on the windowsill.
Bob Chambers knew this because he’d already counted them twice. He was considering counting them again when his friend finally returned from the bar carrying two pints of brown bitter. Once he had put those down, the man opened his mouth. The packet of peanuts clenched between his teeth dropped to the polished cherry wood surface of the small circular tabletop, narrowly missing both glasses.
“Glad you could come, Bob.” The other man took a seat while Chambers sipped at his pint and allowed his taste buds to adjust. British beer always came as a bit of a shock after what he was used to back in Washington. “You’ve no idea how much you’re helping me out with this.”
“I haven’t said I will help yet, Malcolm.” Chambers put down his glass. “Whatever it is, it can’t be too important if you’re only willing to buy me beer and nuts.”
Malcolm Turner gave him an uneasy grin. “The British Museum’s on a budget too, you know. If you were a visiting dignitary, or we were negotiating you letting me have three hundred terracotta warriors for the Summer Exhibition, I might have taken you to the Italian place down the road.”
“But not an old university friend you haven’t seen in years? One who’s just got off a crappy seven-hour flight where he spent the entire time crammed into coach? I just get some nuts?”
Malcolm tore open the packet. “Want one?”
Chambers shook his head. “I ate on the flight.” He hadn’t but he could wait.
It was just after lunch, and the Princess Louise pub was emptying out. Those who had chosen to dine there, or just pop in for a swift half-pint, presumably all had jobs in Holborn they needed to get back to.
Turner shook a few nuts into his cupped right hand and then gulped them down, aiding their passage with a swallow from his glass. Then he sat up straight, attempting to tidy himself up by tugging at the folds of his crumpled brown corduroy jacket and smoothing down what little hair he had on either side of his otherwise bald head. He leaned forward as if what he was about to say was not for the ears of those still on the point of leaving.
“I might have something of interest to your . . . department.”
Chambers nodded. Even though he was far from home, it was still best that no mention was made in public of the Human Protection League, nor of the specific scientific department he worked for. The Cthulhu Investigation Division had researched cases worldwide, and the enemy could be listening in anywhere. It had been some time since there had been an incursion in Britain, but they all knew it was only a matter of time before something unspeakable was raised again, given this tiny island’s eldritch history.
From what his friend had told Chambers over the telephone, that time could be now.
Turner reached into his bag and pulled out a battered tabloid. He handed it over.
“Local newspaper,” Chambers noted. “How did you come across this?”
“I live in that part of London,” the other man replied, taking another mouthful of beer. “I was reading it on the bus coming in to work yesterday morning when I noticed the report tucked away on page six.”
Chambers turned to the relevant section. “I’m guessing you don’t want me to read about the closing of the local library?”
Turner sniffed. “At the bottom.” He waited while Chambers read. “I think you ought to take a look at them.”
Chambers handed the paper back. “You’ve asked me to come all the way over here to look at a few moldy old bones? I know my field is forensic pathology, but surely the British Museum must have their own expert for something like that?”
“He’s on leave.” Turner looked embarrassed. “Permanently.”
Chambers shook his head. “What happened?”
“I’ll get to that.” Turner shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It wasn’t pleasant.”
“But surely you must be getting a replacement?”
“Doesn’t start for another month.”
“And let me guess, you need the lab space these old bones are taking up for some other major project that the Museum desperately needs to get going on?”
“Something like that.” Turner took another sip of his pint. “I really hate having to exploit our college friendship like this, but I’m in a jam, and when someone said the bones could be hundreds of years old, I thought of you.”
Chambers raised an eyebrow. “This doesn’t sound worth me coming nearly four thousand miles, Malcolm.”
Turner leaned forward, his voice almost a whisper. “That’s because I haven’t yet mentioned the most interesting part.”
Chambers sighed, took another gulp of beer, and grimaced. Next time he’d ask for a bottle of Budweiser. “Go on then, I really can’t take the suspense any longer.”
“It’s possible these bones have some sort of effect on the mind. Have you ever heard of anything like that?”
“No.” But this was more like it. “Tell me more.”
Turner shrugged. “There’s not much else to say. The boys who found them are apparently both nervous wrecks. They keep going on about slime and wriggling things coming to get them. Mind you, the security guard who found the boys handled the bones and he’s been fine, and so has almost everyone else who has come into contact with them since. I only looked into it because of what happened to Dr. Trent on Tuesday night . . .”
“Your forensic pathologist?”
Turner nodded. “He will never examine bones, or anything else, again. When we found him he’d stabbed out his eyes and was trying to cut his own throat with a scalpel. But the worst thing was what he kept screaming, over and over again, about how his self-mutilation hadn’t made any difference. He could still see them, could still feel them plucking at him.” He took another swig of his beer. “Like I said, not pretty.”
“What do you think he meant by ‘them’?” asked Chambers intently, his interest now piqued.
“I have absolutely no idea.” The other man put his glass down heavily on the table. “He was barely coherent when we found him.”
“Did he have any prior psychiatric history?”
“He did, as a matter of fact.” Turner looked uneasy. “Problems with depression and alcohol. Sorry, it’s certainly possible I brought you here on a wi
ld-goose chase, but I thought I should be careful.”
“You did the right thing.” Even if the bones turned out to be harmless, Chambers was grateful for his friend’s caution. If more people were like Malcolm Turner, that whole problem with the shoggoths at the Chilean Museum of Anthropology in Santiago could have been avoided.
There was a pause as both men considered their pints. Eventually Turner looked up.
“I’ve had everything sealed away. It’s all being hushed up at the moment, and to be honest nobody wants the matter taken any further. The bones were found beneath the house where H. G. Wells used to live, and as a result the British Museum is stuck with them. Which means I’m stuck with them. And I need your help. Ideally I’d like you to take the damned things away with you, although I know that might be difficult.”
Chambers nodded. It might also be the right thing to do. But still, he was here now, and if the British Museum had its own laboratory . . .
“Let me make a call to my Division in Washington and see how they want me to proceed, and then I’ll get back to you. Probably after I’ve gotten some sleep.”
Malcolm Turner visibly relaxed. “Thanks Bob. I knew I could rely on you. So if I tell the journalist you’ll have something for her by Monday, will that be all right?”
Chambers put his pint down. “What journalist?”
Turner was unfazed. “The one who’s covering the story, of course. She wanted me to tell her when we had any more information.” He sucked up another nut with a sound that made Chambers glad he hadn’t bothered with lunch. “You’ve no idea how relieved I’ll be to get her off my back.”
“I don’t want to talk to any goddamned journalist, Malcolm.” Chambers got up to leave, half the dark liquid in his glass untouched. “I’ve had enough run-ins with their type in my line of work to know to steer well clear.”
That got a reaction. Turner was on his feet in a second, a pleading look on his face.
“You just have to give her your findings. Just a line or two for her story. If it makes you feel any better I’ll call her to say you’re busy and won’t be able to talk to her for more than five minutes.”
The Lovecraft Squad Page 2
