Brigitte and Delon use their knives to pry up the hinge pins. Brigitte knocks hers out first and it clinks to the floor. A minute later Delon’s pin pops out. With Vidocq and Traven’s help, they lift the door out of the frame. Delon shines his light into the darkness. There’s no floor. Nothing in there but a spiral stone staircase. It doesn’t even look like it was built but was carved like a gargoyle from a solid piece of stone. The steps are slick with dripping water. Strands of some kind of spongy green growth hang from the sides. Underneath the dirty water and lichen are images of dragons and sea monsters surrounded by strange writing.
“Can you read any of that, Father?”
Traven comes to the front and shines his flashlight over the stairs.
“No. But the symbol pattern looks like some kind of ritual magic. An incantation. Perhaps an invocation.”
“Of what?”
He shakes his head, still moving his light over the symbols.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know. But it’s possible that the stairs function in a similar way to a prayer wheel. Each turn along the path proclaims the prayer or offering.”
“You mean, by walking down these stairs, we might be calling up something and we don’t know what.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“We don’t seem to have much choice,” says Vidocq. “We can’t find our way back the way we came.”
“I saw something like this back home, in a cemetery outside of Ostrava,” says Brigitte. “I was helping friends kill a den of vampires that had been plaguing the city. There was only one way into their tomb, but everyone who tried to enter was attacked, as if the vampires knew they were coming.”
“Did they?” says Candy.
“Yes. There were runes carved into the paving stones leading to the crypt. Each step completed one part of a hex. There was only one path in, and by taking it, you were creating the spell that would lead to your death.”
“What did you do?”
“We approached slowly, walking in a random and confusing manner. Forward. Backward. We jumped over stones and touched others more than once. Whatever we could do to break up the pattern of the spell.”
We’re Gene Kelly dancing in the rain with monsters. I guess I’ve done stranger things in my life.
“Since you’re the one with experience, would you lead us?” says Traven.
Brigitte goes to the top of the stairs. She starts down, goes over the second step, then back from the third to the second, and down to the fourth. She repeats the pattern as she descends. Stepping over one or two stairs, going forward and then backward. It’s like a demented St. Vitus’s dance or a very odd torment for a soul in Hell, and definitely one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever seen. On the other hand, no sea monsters burble up from below and no dragons cook us from above. Her plan looks like it could work. Like Vidocq said, we don’t have any choice but to keep going. Traven goes next, slowly and methodically following Brigitte’s clumsy, stuttering steps. I nod for Delon, Vidocq, and Candy to go ahead of me. I have a feeling that clog dancing with stitches in my belly is going to be slow and painful.
We go down four floors. There are no more landings or doors, just wide, empty rooms stretching out from the staircase, each room a little rougher than the one before it. None of this can be part of the original plans for Kill City. Someone put this down here or built around something that was already in place. I don’t like either possibility. And I sure as shit want out of here as fast as possible.
Each floor we pass is like its own mini-kingdom. More tribes and federacies that call Kill City home. On the first is a mixed bunch of Lurkers, some Nahuals, Fiddlers, and some ragged Luderes. Fiddlers are psychics that can read objects by touching them. Like dice or a whole deck of cards. They often work with Luderes to scam civilian and Sub Rosa casinos. I’d say this bunch has lost its touch. They throw rocks and garbage at us as we go by. There’s nothing we can do but duck and dance faster down the stairs.
The next floor is a beautiful fever dream. It looks like another Sub Rosa family. An old one. Their clothes look nineteenth century, patched and stitched a hundred times. They’re eating fast-food garbage-can scraps from the piers on an elegant dining table set with bone china and lit by white tapers in silver candelabras. Probably the last of their fortune that they were able to save and bring down here. Who knows how many times they’ve had to drag this stuff from hovel to hovel over the last century.
The third floor is like a level of ghosts. We can’t see any forms, just their eyes in the darkness. They’re like cat eyes. Bright and reflective. With a whoop, they rush snarling at us like goddamn Drifters. Everyone ahead of me freezes on the stairs, bunching up. A bad idea.
“Move,” I yell.
Brigitte starts down again, keeping to the far side of the stairs.
The clan on this level is so filthy they shine with it. It’s like they’re covered in oil. They lean from their perch and reach for us with hands like filthy, ragged claws. We keep going but the stairs are slick and we’re walking funny. It’s hard to keep a safe, steady pace.
I hear something slide and someone lose their footing. Brigitte falls against the railing on the near side of the stairs. One of the clan gets hold of her hair and pulls. She beats on his arm with her fists but can’t get any footing to pull herself back onto the stairs. Traven leans over the rail and grabs the one holding on to Brigitte. Plants a kiss on his lips. The filthy guy lets go of Brigitte and screams as loud as he can through his plugged mouth. Traven holds on to him, clamping the Dolorosa on tight, spitting sin and damnation down the guy’s throat. Hands reach from the dark and get hold of the man, pulling him away from Traven. The guy sputters and wails. Brigitte grabs Traven and drags him back onto the stairs. They run and the rest of us follow. Fuck incantations and maybes.
When we hit the bottom of the stairs, everyone is ready. We have our guns out and Vidocq is all set with a potion. But there’s nothing down here except dull walls and a poured concrete floor. Brigitte hugs Traven. Wipes the filth from his mouth.
She says, “Děkuji.”
“Anytime,” says Traven.
We start out and only get a few yards before rubble threatens to fill the passage where some of the upper floors have fallen into this one. We play our flashlights around the room. Delon is the first one to spot the graffiti. On both sides of the passage there are big block letters, desperate messages in a bottle.
HELP US.
WE’RE ALIVE.
DON’T FORGET US.
“My God,” says Traven. “One of the construction crews must have been trapped down here.”
“They never recovered all the bodies,” Candy says.
I say, “Why didn’t they just walk up the stairs?”
“Perhaps something prevented them,” says Vidocq.
“If they got caught in a collapse this far down, it would be a bad way to go. Let’s not end up like that.”
“This is the only passage. Let’s get going,” says Delon.
It’s getting on my nerves, being led around by a talking slot machine. I wonder if Kasabian’s head would work on one of these mechanical bodies? Maybe I’ll have to gently remove Paul’s head when this is over and see.
Every few yards there’s more graffiti. Each collection gets less and less coherent. No more HELP US. It’s all FUCK YOUs and HOME HOME HOME. Then the words are gone and the graffiti gets completely Neanderthal. All skulls, Devil heads, and tumbling dice coming up snake eyes. Like scribblings of someone on a very bad acid trip. A few yards beyond that, the graffiti is just random streaks of color and smeared handprints. Either they had a lot of paint when they got trapped or by the end they were using other stuff on the walls. I’m going with the paint theory and ignoring the stuff that looks like teeth and skull fragments scattered in the rubble. Even that feeble lie goes south when we find the hanged men.
They’re suspended by ropes and electrical wires from an overhead beam. They’ve been dead a long time. Long e
nough that they’re dried out and unreal-looking, like scarecrows meant to keep anyone from getting too close. But who else is going to come down this far but rescuers and why would they want to scare them off?
“Any idea when we get out of this fucking place?”
“I’m just feeling my way along,” says Delon. “If there are location markers down here, they’re covered up by junk. We have to get keep going until we find another way down. A staircase or even an elevator shaft.”
Our shadows flash across the far wall as lights come on behind us. For a second I think I can smell the Shoggots. I reach for the Colt in my waistband when a voice echoes off the walls.
“Don’t go for your gun, Stark. We have more of them than you do.”
I know that voice. It’s Norris Quay. I think I would have preferred the Shoggots.
“Stay there. I’m coming to you.”
Candy grabs my arm and Vidocq circles in front of me.
“What are you doing?” he says.
“Listen. I’m the only one who knows this guy. I can talk to him. The most important thing is to keep an eye on Delon. Make sure he doesn’t come over.”
“Why?”
“That’s Victor Frankenstein out there.”
Candy says, “I’m coming with you.”
“Fine. Don’t go for your gun unless I do.”
“Okay.”
I hold my hands out by my sides so they can see I’m not armed.
“Get those fucking lights out of my eyes so I can see you.”
“Do it,” says Norris, and the lights swing away, lighting the cavern and not burning holes in my retinas.
Quay is in the middle of a group of twelve men. He’s dressed in padded overalls and wearing lightweight leg braces. An attendant on either side of him keeps hold of his elbows in case the braces aren’t enough to keep him upright. Down here Quay looks so frail it’s like his attendants are perp-walking a mummy. Quay’s two Titans are there, each armed with HK417s, rifles you don’t walk toward but flee from as fast as you can. If you have a choice about which way to go. Quay’s other goons are just as heavily armed. Probably a collection of ex-military and cops. They look at Candy and me like we’re a couple of baked hams with biscuits and beans. There’s someone behind Quay but I can’t quite make out who.
“Does the old folks’ home know you’re missing bingo night, Norris?”
He smiles.
“I couldn’t let you and Paul have all the fun, could I? Who’s the young lady? You two have seemed awfully close on the journey.”
“Candy, meet Norris Quay, the richest asshole in this time zone.”
Candy puts her hand up to shield her eyes from the glare of lights.
“Wow. He does look like Paul.”
“Paul looks like me, dear,” says Quay. “Get the lineage right.”
The man behind him pushes past the attendants and points at us.
“They’re the ones who destroyed my workshop. Them and some Mata Hari. Now I can’t make any more familiars.”
Candy waves to him.
“Hi, Mr. Rose. How are you?”
Quay holds up a hand.
“Calm down, Atticus. We’ll have you set up in a new space as soon as we get what we came for.”
“Which brings me to the sixty-four-dollar question. What the hell are you doing here, Norris? You already have Paul planted with us. Does he even know about you? What’s going to happen if he sees you?”
“I don’t give a tinker’s balls what happens to him. He’s an instrument. A pocket watch bought and paid for. As to why I’m here, I thought that would be obvious. Redundancy.”
“There’s plenty of assholes in Kill City already. We don’t need duplicates.”
“Did you know that when NASA sent the Apollo rockets into space, they each had three computers on board? Three, on the assumption that two would fail.”
“So Paul is the first two and you’re lucky number three?”
“No. Paul is one. You’re two. I know you’d move Heaven and earth to get what you set out for. But what if you both failed?”
“What if I succeeded and didn’t want to give the 8 Ball up?”
“That too. And now that we’re this close, I don’t know that a redundant system is all that necessary.”
“We’re not there yet.”
“When the Apollo Eleven lunar module, the one that first put men on the moon, was landing, all three computers failed. Neil Armstrong had to land on the moon manually. But he was an experienced pilot and they were so close that it was not only feasible but doable. And so man landed on the moon and returned safely. I believe that from here my little team can pilot ourselves down to Mare Tranquillitatis all on our own.”
Shadows move in the cavern behind Quay and his people. They’re so focused on Candy and me that they don’t notice.
“Do you really want the thing so bad that you’re prepared to fuck up the plan this close to the end?”
“Yes. And we won’t fuck it up.”
“And this is all because you’re an art lover and not some crazy old man who thinks the Qomrama can somehow make him live forever.”
“My reasons are no concern of yours.”
Whatever is moving in the dark is getting closer. I take a step toward Quay. His goons level their guns at me. I’m fast but there’s no way I can get to Quay without acquiring many, many new holes in my body. Am I strong enough to throw any hoodoo? Maybe. But if the door to the spiral staircase was any indication, nothing fancy. On the other hand, maybe I won’t have to do a thing.
“What if you’re wrong, Norris? Did you find the bridge? Did you see the spiral stairs back there? Did your master plan include any of those? What if there’s more of that ahead?”
“Of course we didn’t cross the bridge. Some idiot destroyed it. But another family showed us a safe way around. You’re not the only one who thought to bring trinkets to trade with the natives. As for the stairs, slippery as they were, we navigated them just fine.”
“You walked straight down the stairs?”
The shadows behind Quay’s men have spread out across the whole cavern. There are so many I can’t count them.
“Of course. Did you expect us to fly?”
From the dark comes a grunt.
“You’re not a stupid guy, Norris, but you’re one dumb son of a bitch.”
With another grunt the shadows behind Quay swarm over him and his men. I don’t wait to see who or what they are. I bark some Hellion and practically fall over. Candy grabs me as a smoke screen fills the cavern between Quay’s people and us. We head back to our group, Candy pulling me the whole way. By the time we get back I can breathe again.
Behind us it sounds like a bad night in the arena. Shrieks and curses. The crunch of bones cracked by kicks and rocks. Then gunfire. Rifle flashes explode through the smoke like stars going nova. More screams. Some human and some not. The shooting gets sloppier. More desperate. A few rounds hit the floor near us. Whatever is back there is winning and won’t go home quietly once they’ve finished off Quay’s Boy Scouts.
Candy holds out her hand. It’s covered in blood.
“I think I’m shot.”
Her T-shirt is ripped and there’s fresh blood on the side. I tear it open until I can see the wound. There are a dozen punctures. Ragged lacerations.
“It’s rocks or shrapnel. You’re okay.” To the others I shout, “Go, go, go.”
They take off. Candy still looks a little freaked by the blood. I grab her hand and we follow.
Soon the wide passage is clogged with wreckage on both sides, narrowing the way so only one person at a time can squeeze through. Ahead is a long section of scaffold closed on both sides with lumber. Paul freezes at the entrance looking back toward the noise. Brigitte goes around him, turns on her light, and goes inside to see if the way is clear.
“Shit!” she yells, and backs out into the open. The skin on both of her shoulders is ripped and bleeding. She moves her light aroun
d inside the scaffold. The wooden planks are studded with metal. Some are wedged in sideways and sharpened like razors. Others bend back on themselves like fishhooks.
“It’s very narrow inside,” says Vidocq, looking past her. “We’ll have to walk sideways and carefully. It will be slow.”
“Then get going.”
They head straight for us as the smoke screen dissipates. I can’t tell how many of them there are, but it sounds like a small army. As the others file into the scaffold I try one more bit of hoodoo. Something simple, blunt, and not very powerful. I recite some Hellion and try to move just a few small stones on the nearby rubble just a little shove. Every breath I take hurts. Pain builds behind my eyes like an ice pick. But it works, in its own lame way. A few keystones shift and jagged slabs of rock and concrete slip away from the wall and crash onto the floor, blocking the narrow passage. It’s not exactly the Great Wall of China, but it will slow the crazies down, and right now I’ll take anything.
Candy is waiting for me at the scaffold entrance.
“Come on,” she shouts.
I push her inside and get out the Colt. She starts down the metal-lined corridor trying to keep her eye on me. But she can’t see what’s coming and keeps cutting herself.
“Turn the hell around. I’m fine back here.”
She turns and starts moving faster. The pace through the scaffold is slow enough that I can actually keep up. Little curses and whispers of pain echo off the walls. Everyone is trying to keep quiet, but the corridor is long and the metal is sharp and every inch of this place fucking hurts. But we’re cooler than Steve McQueen and no one panics or rushes. Even Delon is keeping a steady, reasonable pace.
Concrete crashes to the ground behind us, followed by screams and running feet. The crazies are through and coming at us. Up ahead, Brigitte, Delon, and the others are out from under the scaffold. A second later, so is Candy. As I step out, the scaffold shakes like there’s an earthquake. The crazies pour in behind us and it’s not pretty.
They’re not going sideways and they’re not slowing down. They sprint at us full speed, teeth bared and eyes blank, ripping themselves to pieces on the blades and hooks. I try some arena hoodoo, a killing hex. I shout the words and almost throw up. It’s too little too late, I played myself out collapsing the rubble. I aim the Colt and pull the trigger. It clicks.
Kill City Blues: A Sandman Slim Novel Page 23
