Reliquary

by Douglas Preston

  “Donovan?” Snow had to ask. “What’s a chunk boy?”

  A long slow grin spread across the SEAL’S painted face. “No harm in telling, I guess. It’s the unlucky stiff who catches hi-mag duty for the operation.”

  “Hi-mag duty?” Snow was as much in the dark as he’d been before.

  “White magnesium flares. Mandatory issue for all night ops, even stealth runs like this. Stupid-ass regulation, but that’s the way it is. They’re ultra, ultra bright. Twist off the top to arm the detonator, toss one a safe distance, and you’ve got half a million candlepower on impact. But they’re not too stable, if you know what I mean. All it takes is one bullet in that bag, even something small like a .22, and boom! Chunk boy. If you know what I mean.” He chuckled, then wandered off again.

  Snow shifted position, trying to hold the bag as far from his torso as possible. Except for the fitful sputtering of the flare, there was silence for several minutes. Then Snow heard Donovan’s low chuckle again. “Man, take a look at this! Can you believe some crazy bastard’s been wandering around here? In bare feet, no less.”

  Putting the rifle aside, Snow stood up and came over for a look. A set of bare footprints tracked through the mud. Fresh, too: the mud around the edges was damp, not dry.

  “Big mother,” Donovan murmured. “Must be a size fourteen triple-E, at least.” He laughed again.

  Snow stared at the strangely broad footprint, the feeling of menace increasing. As Donovan’s laughter subsided, Snow heard a distant rumble. “What was that?” he asked.

  “What?” Donovan asked, kneeling and adjusting his H-harness.

  “Isn’t it too early to set off the charges?” Snow asked.

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “I did.” Suddenly, Snow’s heart was hammering in his rib-cage.

  Donovan listened, but there was only silence. “Chill, sport,” he said. “You’re starting to hear things.”

  “I think we should check it with the Patrol Leader.”

  Donovan shook his head. “Yeah, and piss him off good.” He glanced at his watch. “Strict noise discipline, remember? The op site isn’t even a click away from here. They’ll be back in ten minutes. Then we can get the hell out of this toilet.” He spat fervently into the stagnant mud.

  The flare guttered and died, plunging the vault into darkness.

  “Shit,” Donovan muttered. “Snow, hand me another from that ditty bag near your feet.”

  There was another rumble, which slowly resolved into the faint muffled staccato of gunfire. It seemed to shiver through the ancient walls, rising and falling like a distant storm.

  In the dark, Snow could hear Donovan rise quickly to his feet, finger punching the comm set. “Team Alpha, Patrol Leader, do you read?” he hissed.

  A mass of static came crackling over the frequency.

  There was a rolling shudder in the ground. “That was a damn grenade,” Donovan said. “Alpha! Beta! Come in!”

  The ground shuddered again.

  “Snow, get your weapon.” Snow heard the long rattle of a well-oiled bolt being drawn back. “What a cluster-hump this is turning into. Alpha, do you read?”

  “Five by five.” Rachlin’s voice came crackling over the comm set. “We’ve lost communications with Gamma. Stand by.”

  “Roger that,” Donovan said.

  There was a brief, tense silence, then the Commander’s voice returned.

  “Delta, Gamma must-have run into difficulties setting their charges. Handle the redundancy. We’ve already set our charges and will check Beta’s status.”

  “Aye-aye.” A light snapped on, and Donovan looked at Snow. “Let’s move,” he said. “We’ll have to set Gamma’s charges.” Twisting the light into his shoulder snap, he set off at a lope, running low, his rifle held perpendicular to his chest. Taking a deep breath, Snow followed him into the tunnel. Glancing down, he noticed footprints in the flickering illumination—more prints here, crossing and crisscrossing in a crazed welter, too numerous to pick out the SEAL booties of Gamma team. He swallowed hard.

  Within minutes, Donovan slowed at what looked like an old siding, surrounded by a mass of pylons. “Shouldn’t be much farther,” he muttered, switching off his light and listening carefully.

  “Where are they?” Snow heard himself asking. He wasn’t surprised when Donovan didn’t bother to answer.

  “We’re back at the rally point,” came the voice of Rachlin in his comm set. “I repeat: charges successfully set. Going to check on Beta now.”

  “Come on,” Donovan said, moving forward again. Suddenly, he stopped.

  “You smell that?” he whispered.

  Snow opened his mouth, then closed it again as the stench hit him. He turned away instinctively. It was an overripe, earthy smell, its pungency overwhelming the stink of the drainage tunnel. And there was something else: the strangely sweet smell of a butcher’s shop.

  Donovan shook his head as if to clear it, then tensed to move forward again. At that moment, the comm unit buzzed in Snow’s ear. There was a hiss, then Rachlin’s voice suddenly came through: “... attack. Drop flares…”

  Snow wondered if he’d heard right. Rachlin had spoken with abnormal calmness. Then there was a burst of static from the comm unit, and a rattle that sounded like gunfire.

  “Alpha!” Donovan yelled. “You reading? Over.”

  “That’s a rog,” came Rachlin’s voice. “We’re under attack. Couldn’t reach Beta. We’re setting their charges now. Beecham, there!”

  There was a whump, then a terrific explosion. Emerging from the electronic snow were unintelligible sounds: shouting, perhaps a scream, yet somehow too deep and hoarse to be human. Again, the low rumble of gunfire came through the walls.

  “Delta…” came Rachlin’s voice over the roar of static, “...surrounded…”

  “Surrounded?” Donovan shouted. “Surrounded by what? You need backup?”

  There was more gunfire, then a massive roar.

  “Alpha!” Donovan called. “Do you need backup?”

  “My God, so many… Beecham, what the hell is that…” Rachlin’s voice died in a roar of static. All at once, the sound stopped, and Snow—rooted in place in the close darkness—thought that perhaps his comm unit had gone dead. Then it emitted a hideous, coughing scream, so loud it seemed to come from beside him, followed by the rubbery noise of neoprene being torn.

  “Alpha, come in!” Donovan turned to Snow. “This channel’s still live. Commander, this is Delta, reply!”

  There was a burble of static, followed by what to Snow seemed the sound of sucking mud, and then more static.

  Donovan adjusted his comm unit unsuccessfully. He glanced at Snow. “Come on,” he said, readying his weapon.

  “Where?” Snow asked, shock and horror turning his mouth to sandpaper.

  “We still have to set Gamma’s charges.”

  “Are you crazy?” Snow whispered fiercely. “Didn’t you hear that? We’ve got to get out of here now.”

  Donovan turned to look at him, his face hard. “We set Gamma team’s charges, my friend.” His voice was quiet, but it held unshakable determination, perhaps even an implicit threat. “We finish the op.”

  Snow swallowed. “But what about the Commander?”

  Donovan was still looking at him. “First, we finish the op,” he said.

  Snow realized there-was no room for argument. Gripping the M-16 tightly, he followed the SEAL into the darkness. He could make out a fitful illumination ahead of them: light from around a bend in the tunnel, dancing off the brickwork of the far wall.

  “Keep your weapon at the ready,” came the murmured warning.

  Snow moved cautiously around the curve, then stopped short. Ahead of him, the tunnel came to a sudden end. Iron rungs in the far wall led to the mouth of a large pipe set in the ceiling.

  “Oh, Christ,” Donovan groaned.

  A single flare, sizzling in the muck of a far corner, cast a dim light over the scene. Sno
w looked around wildly, taking in the frightful details. The walls of the tunnel were scarred and raked with bullet marks. A deep bite had been taken out of one wall, its edges burned and sooty. Two dark forms lay sprawled about the mud beside the flare, packs and weapons strewn beside them in wild disarray. Feathers of cordite drifted through the dead air.

  Donovan had already leapt toward the closest of the figures, as if to rouse it. Then he stepped back again quickly, and Snow caught a glimpse of a neoprene suit torn from neck to waist, a bloody stump where the head should have been.

  “Campion, too,” Donovan said grimly, looking at the other SEAL. “Jesus, what would do this?”

  Snow shut his eyes a moment, taking short choppy breaths, trying to keep a hold on the thin edge of his control.

  “Whoever they are, they must have gone up that way,” Donovan said, indicating the pipe above their heads. “Snow, grab that magazine pouch.”

  Doing as he was told, Snow leaned forward and snatched the pouch. It almost slipped out of his hands, and looking down he saw it was slick with blood and matter.

  “I’ll set the charges here,” Donovan said, pulling bricks of C-4 out of his own haversack. “Cover our exit.”

  Snow raised his weapon and turned his back on the SEAL, staring down toward the bend in the tunnel, flickering crazily in and out of sight in the lambent glow of the flare. His comm unit hissed briefly with the sound of static—or was it the sound of something heavy, dragging through the mud? Was that a soft, moist gibbering beneath the electrical cracklings and spittings?

  The unit dropped into silence again. From the corner of his eye, he saw Donovan plunging the timer into the explosive, punching up a time. “Twenty-three fifty-five,” he said. “That gives us almost half an hour to find the PL and get the hell out of here.” He stooped, pulling the tags from the headless necks of his fallen comrades. “Move out,” he said, picking up his weapon and shoving the dog tags inside his rubber vest.

  As they began to move forward again, Snow heard a sudden scrabbling from behind, and a sound like a cough. He turned to see the forms of several figures clambering down from the pipe and dropping into the muck by the fallen SEALs. Snow saw, with a sense of eerie unreality, that they were cloaked and hooded.

  “Let’s go!” Donovan cried, racing toward the bend in the tunnel.

  Snow followed him, panic driving his legs. They clattered down the ancient brick passage, racing from the horrible scene. As they rounded the curve, Donovan slipped in the mud and fell, tumbling head over heels in the murky gloom.

  “Make a stand!” he shouted, grabbing for his weapon and snapping on a flare at the same time.

  Snow turned to see the figures heading toward them, running low with a kind of sure-footedness. The brilliant flare light seemed to give them a momentary pause. Then they surged forward. There was something bestial about their scuttling that turned his blood to ice. His index finger eased forward, feeling for the trigger guard. A huge roar sounded beside him, and he realized Donovan had fired his grenade launcher. There was a flash of light, then the tunnel shook with the concussion. The weapon jerked and bucked in his hands and Snow realized that he was firing his own M-16 wildly, scattering bullets across the tunnel before them. He quickly took his finger off the trigger. Another figure rounded the bend, emerging from the smoke of the grenade into Snow’s field of fire. He aimed and touched the trigger. Its head jerked back, and for a split second Snow had the image of an impossibly wrinkled and knobby face, features hidden within great folds of skin. Then there was another roar, and the horror disappeared in the flame and smoke of Donovan’s grenade.

  His gun was firing on an empty clip. Snow released his finger, ejected the clip, dug into his pocket for another, and slammed it home. They waited, poised to fire again, as the echoes gradually faded. No more figures came loping out of the smoke and the darkness.

  Donovan took a deep breath. “Back to the rally point,” he said.

  They turned back down the tunnel, Donovan reaching up to snap on his flashlight. A thin red beam shot into the murk ahead of them. Snow followed, breathing hard. Ahead lay Three Points, and their gear, and the way out. He found he was thinking from moment to moment now, concentrating only on getting out, getting to the surface, because anything else would mean thinking of the horrors that had scuttled out toward them, and to think of those would mean…

  He suddenly ploughed into Donovan’s back. Staggering for a moment, he glanced around, trying to determine what had caused the SEAL to stop so suddenly.

  Then he saw, in the beam of Donovan’s light, a group of the creatures ahead of them: ten, perhaps a dozen, standing motionless in the thick atmosphere of the outflow tunnel. Several of them were holding things, things that dangled by what looked to Snow like dense threads. He peered more closely, in mingled fascination and horror. Then he looked away quickly.

  “Mother of God,” he breathed. “What do we do now?”

  “We blow our way out,” Donovan said quietly, raising his weapon.

  = 59 =

  MARGO TOOK A deep drag from the oxygen mask, then passed it to Smithback. The oxygen cleared her head immediately, and she glanced around. At the head of the group, Pendergast was placing bricks of plastic explosive around the base of an open hatchway. Each time he pulled another charge from his pack and dropped it in place, clouds of dust and fungus spore billowed up from the ground, obscuring his face momentarily. Behind her stood D’Agosta, weapon at the ready. Mephisto stood to one side, silent and motionless, his eyes red embers in the dark.

  Pendergast shoved the detonators into the C-4, then set the time carefully, checking it against his own Patek Philippe. Then he retrieved his pack and rose silently, signaling it was time to move on to the next position. From the circles of his night-vision goggles to the base of his chin, Pendergast was a mask of light gray dust. His normally immaculate black suit was torn and muddied. Under other circumstances, he would have looked ridiculous. But Margo was in no mood to laugh.

  The air was so bad she realized she had placed a hand protectively over her nose and mouth. She gave up and took another pull from the mask.

  “Don’t Bogart that oxygen,” Smithback whispered. He smiled weakly, but his eyes remained grim and distant.

  They moved down the narrow corridor, Margo now helping Smithback through the darkness. Huge iron rivets, spaced about ten feet apart, hung from the ceiling. After a couple of minutes, they stopped again while Pendergast consulted his plans, then took the charges from Margo’s pack and placed them in a niche near the roof.

  “Very good,” he said. “One more series and we can head for the surface. We’ll need to move quickly.”

  He started down the passage, then stopped abruptly.

  “What is it?” Margo whispered, but Pendergast held up his hand for silence.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked at last in a low tone.

  Margo listened, but could hear nothing. The close, fetid atmosphere was like cotton wool, muffling all sound. But now she heard something: a dull thump, then another, like rolling thunder far beneath their feet.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Pendergast murmured.

  “It’s not the SEALs, setting off their explosions?”

  Pendergast shook his head. “Doesn’t sound powerful enough to be plastique. Besides, it’s too early.” He listened a moment, frowning, then motioned them forward again. Margo followed close behind, leading Smithback as the passage rose, then fell, tracing a crazy course through the bedrock. She found herself wondering who could have constructed this passage, perhaps three dozen stories beneath the streets of Manhattan. She saw herself as in a vision, walking along Park Avenue, but the road appeared as just a thin skin of asphalt, covering a vast network of shafts, tunnels, galleries, and corridors, plunging deep into the earth, crawling like a wasp’s nest with the activity of…

  She gave her head a vicious shake and took another hit of the oxygen. As her thought
s cleared again, she realized that the muffled sound was still coming from somewhere beneath her feet. Now, however, it was different: it had a cadence, like the sound of a throbbing engine, rising and falling and rising again.

  Pendergast stopped again. “Nobody speak above a whisper. Understood? Vincent, ready the flash.”

  Ahead of them, the tunnel ended in a large sheet of iron punctuated with more rivets. A single door stood open in the middle of the metal wall, and Pendergast glided through, flamethrower at the ready. The flaming tip darted from side to side, leaving a scribble of glowing tracks on Margo’s goggles. In a moment, he turned and motioned the group to follow him.

  As she stepped carefully into the enclosed space, Margo realized that the sound beneath her feet was the beating of drums, mingled with what sounded like a low, murmuring chant.

  D’Agosta jostled her from behind as he stepped into the compartment, and she jumped forward with a sharp intake of air. She could see ancient brass levers and gears lining one wall, their broken dials encrusted with verdigris and dirt. A massive winch and several rusted generators stood in the far corner.

  Pendergast moved swiftly to the center of the room and knelt by a large metal plate. “This was the central switching room for the Astor Tunnels. If I’m correct, we’re directly above the Crystal Pavilion. It was the private waiting room below the old Knickerbocker Hotel. We should be able to see into the Pavilion below.”

  He waited until an absolute silence had descended on the group, then he slipped the corroded brackets from the plate and slid it carefully to one side. As Margo watched, a flickering light came streaming up, and the goatish odor—the old, familiar scent of nightmare—grew stronger. The sound of drumming and muffled chanting swelled. Pendergast peered down, the lambent glow from the Crystal Pavilion moving fitfully across his face. He stared for a long time, then stepped back slowly. “Vincent,” he said, “I think perhaps you should take a look.”

  D’Agosta stepped forward, tilted up his goggles, and peered into the hole. Margo could see beads of sweat popping out on his brow in the faint light, and his hand unconsciously settled on the butt of his gun. He stepped back wordlessly.