The Suicide Exhibition

by Justin Richards

  The eyes that stared back out of her face were those of the creature behind the glass, suddenly open. Black hollows within the oily, bulbous form. Empty and dark. Then the creature seemed to tense, legs drawing inward toward the center before shooting out again—smashing hard against the glass.

  Sarah screamed and stepped back, hand to her mouth as the jar shuddered. The liquid sloshed round inside. The creature stared out at her, its eyes dark pits of hatred.

  She took another step backward, eyes fixed on the contents of the jar. Flashlight wavering nervously. If she had looked down, if she had lowered the flashlight, Sarah might have seen another creature. Dark as a shadow, eyes glinting hungrily, the creature watched Sarah from several feet away.

  It seemed to compress down on its stick-like legs as she stepped back toward it. Two of the legs reached out, like tentacles. Small claws snapped at the ends of the tentacles as they edged closer to Sarah. As the creature prepared to leap.

  * * *

  Guy could barely make out the features of the figure lying inside the casket.

  “Can we take these off yet?” he asked, pointing at his gas mask.

  By way of answer, Davenport pulled his own gas mask off. “If the gas doesn’t get us, the lack of air certainly will,” he joked.

  Green and Guy took their masks off too. Together they looked down into the stone casket. The figure lying inside had its hands crossed over its chest. The last vestiges of decaying robes clung to it. The body itself was almost a skeleton. The hands were stripped of flesh, the face sunken with the skin stretched tight against the skull. There was no hair. Pale lips had receded from broken, discolored teeth. The hollows of the cheeks were lined and wrinkled.

  “Looks like he’d crumble to dust as soon as you touch him,” Guy said. “Is this the same as the one in France?” He reached down toward the hands. There was something on the figure’s wrist, obscured by the tattered remains of the sleeve.

  “I didn’t see the one in France, not the body. But the casket is very similar,” Davenport said.

  “Well he’s dead,” Green said. “That’s for sure.”

  Guy brushed away the material covering the wrist. It flaked into powder, like burned paper as he touched it, revealing an ornate bracelet. Lines of silver tracery gleamed in the light of their flashlights.

  “What do you make of this?” Guy asked. He looked round for Sarah, but she wasn’t there. “Sarah?”

  “I’ll see if I can find her,” Green said, stepping away from the casket.

  “A bracelet,” Davenport said. “I have seen something similar, I think…” He reached down into the casket.

  A scream echoed round the chamber. Distant, but loud—filled with both surprise and fear.

  “That’s Sarah!” Guy said.

  At the same moment, Davenport gasped in horror, his eyes fixed on the casket.

  Guy looked too.

  The eyes of the dead man blinked open. Dark, shadowy sockets stared up at them. The mouth twisted into a snarl of anger. The arms lashed out, smashing into the lid that lay at an angle across the lower half of the body, forcing it from the top of the casket. It fell to the floor and shattered with a deafening crash of stone on stone.

  Guy and Davenport leaped back from the casket.

  The nightmare figure inside sat up, dark eyes fixed on them as a skeletal hand gripped the side of the casket and the corpse hauled itself out.

  CHAPTER 28

  Eyes open, staring at the whitewashed ceiling. A hand scratching at the sheet.

  Kruger almost missed it. He was checking each of the dreamers, making sure they were sedated. He made a note that Number Seventeen needed turning—the man was getting bedsores.

  The girl’s eyes were open, wide but unfocused. She stared up at the ceiling.

  “Nurse!” Kruger called. The level of sedative must be wrong. Then he saw the hand, twitching and scratching on the plain sheet that covered her body.

  The nurse hurried up, pale with worry that she was in trouble.

  “Get pencil and paper,” Kruger ordered. “Quickly.”

  She hurried off, relief obvious in her step.

  “And someone find Hoffman,” Kruger shouted after her. “Tell him Number Fifteen is drawing.”

  By the time Hoffman arrived, they had the girl sitting on the side of her bed. A small table had been placed in front of her, with a pile of blank paper. As she completed each drawing, the nurse took it, turned it over, and moved it to a separate pile on the bed.

  Hoffman dismissed the nurse and Kruger took over from her. They watched as the girl drew the next picture, shading the sheet almost completely graphite gray. Just a triangular patch of white left across it.

  “Light,” Kruger said. “See—there is a progression.”

  He turned over the complete sketches and riffled through them. The first few were almost entirely gray. Then gradually, the patch of white grew.

  “How can she be drawing?” Hoffman demanded. “She has no bracelet. No link.”

  Kruger shook his head. “It happened before. With the first Ubermensch, you remember?”

  Hoffman did. “Like a bad connection. Indistinct.”

  “There obviously is a connection of sorts. If she is on exactly the right … frequency, wavelength, whatever it is—if she is tuned to the transmission then she is able to receive without a bracelet.”

  Hoffman looked at the drawing she was working on. Shapes in the white area now, but vague and indistinct.

  “We speculated about radio waves. She’s like a badly tuned receiver,” he said, thinking out loud. “She’s getting the impression, not the details. What about the others?” he asked suddenly as a thought occurred to him.

  Kruger shook his head. “She’s the only one.”

  “And Number Nine?”

  “No. I sent one of the nurses to check. He is still in London so far as we can tell. The bombed-out streets.”

  “Following people. Assessing and assimilating.”

  “If that’s what Nine’s Ubermensch is doing.”

  “And what is this one doing?”

  The girl pushed the paper aside and started on the next picture. Hoffman lifted the discarded sheet and inspected it.

  “These could be faces. People looking down at it.”

  “Light in the darkness,” Kruger murmured, leafing back through the previous sheets.

  Hoffman watched the next picture taking shape. Definitely figures—three of them. Head and shoulders in silhouette. On one shoulder three shallow “V” shapes—an insignia, perhaps? A uniform?

  One thing was certain though.

  “Another Ubermensch is waking.”

  * * *

  The dark, gnarled creature tensed on its bent legs.

  But before it could leap at its prey, the woman was already moving. The sound of shattering stone shocked Sarah back to reality. She turned and ran back down the narrow passageway.

  A shadowy form, bulbous like a huge spider, turned to watch her go. Small, deep-set eyes glinted malevolently before it scuttled back into the darkness.

  * * *

  The desiccated figure took a lurching step toward Guy and the others.

  “I don’t like the look of this,” Davenport said quietly.

  “What’s it going to do?” Green asked. “Should we talk to it?”

  “Do you speak Bronze Age?” Davenport asked.

  The figure stopped. The beams from the three flashlights picked out the emaciated features, the bare bone sticking through the decaying robes. The mouth moved awkwardly, head lolling sideways as the figure took another difficult step.

  “Possibly a good time to get out of here,” Davenport said.

  “Not until we know what’s happened to Sarah,” Guy told him, surprised at how calm his own voice sounded. He transferred the flashlight to his left hand, reached down with his right and carefully unbuttoned the flap over his holstered revolver.

  “Miss Diamond!” Green’s parade-ground shout
echoed round the chamber.

  “Here,” a nervous voice replied.

  Guy swung the flashlight. He saw Sarah standing on the other side of the casket, beside a dark area that must be a passageway. Her own flashlight was pointing at the ground, but he could see the horror and fear in her face.

  “Just come toward us—quickly but carefully,” Guy said.

  Davenport moved in the opposite direction, drawing the figure’s attention. It turned to follow his movement, and Sarah ran.

  At once the Ubermensch swung back, alerted by the sound of her running footsteps. A withered arm reached out. The grotesque figure moved quickly, the awkwardness of just moments earlier gone as it clutched at Sarah.

  She ducked and sidestepped. Bony fingers tangled in her hair, dragging her back. Another gnarled, ancient hand closed over Sarah’s face, cutting off her scream. She struggled wildly, trying to wrench herself free.

  Green stepped forward, swinging his fist at the Ubermensch. It connected with the creature’s face. Dust and fragments of brittle bone showered out from the point of impact. But the figure did not loosen its grip on Sarah. It lowered its hand from her mouth to her throat. Her cries were fading. Her eyes widening. Chest heaving as the breath was choked out of her.

  “Get her away from him,” Davenport shouted.

  Guy pulled out his revolver. But the Ubermensch was holding Sarah in front of itself, and Green stood in front of Guy.

  For a moment it looked as if Green was going to try another punch. But he feinted, then kicked out—not at the Ubermensch, but at Sarah.

  His foot curled behind Sarah’s calf, dragging her legs out from under her. She fell, her whole weight suddenly pulling her away from the ancient figure’s grasp. She sprawled on the ground with a cry of pain. Green grabbed her under the arms and pulled her clear.

  The Ubermensch stood watching, no discernible expression on its withered face. Strands of blond hair were caught in its hand.

  The gunshots echoed off the stone walls, floor and roof. The sound was incredibly loud in the enclosed space—two shots in rapid succession. They ripped into the grotesque figure’s chest, driving it backward, tearing holes through the remains of its robes and smashing into the bone and sinew below.

  In the light of his flashlight, braced against the gun so he could aim both together, Guy clearly saw the wounds. Tendrils of orange shimmered and rippled in the light, licking out of the holes torn by the bullets. As he watched, the thin filaments knitted and bound, stretching over the bullet holes and drawing the translucent skin back together. Pulsing, binding, repairing …

  The Ubermensch looked down at its chest, as if in surprise. Then it turned back toward Guy, the dark pits of its eyes seeking him out. It strode across the chamber toward him, snarling in rage.

  “Out!” Green yelled. “Everyone out of here. Back to the passageway.”

  Guy went last, backing away from the oncoming figure. He fired two more shots. The impact of the bullets drove the Ubermensch back. But it staggered to a halt, then started forward again.

  As soon as he was through the broken wall, out of the antechamber, Green shoved his flashlight in a pocket and put his shoulder to the metal door. The pale glow of the bare bulbs strung across the ceiling seemed bright after the flashlight-lit gloom of the inner chamber.

  The door swung ponderously back toward the frame. Then it stopped.

  Skeletal fingers curled round the edge of the door, forcing it open again.

  Davenport and Guy put their shoulders to the door beside Green. Sarah stood watching, knuckles pressed to her teeth.

  “My God that thing’s strong,” Guy gasped. There was no way they were going to get the door shut. Even if they did, how could they keep it closed?

  “Roof supports,” Green gasped. “We had to shore it up when we widened the passage.”

  Guy saw what he meant. Wooden struts were wedged against the wall, braced against wooden boards to hold the ceiling in place. The boards were fixed into the ancient stone roof of the original, narrower passageway.

  “Sledgehammer, or pickaxe,” he shouted to Sarah. “Anything!”

  His feet slipped on the muddy floor, skidding back as the door opened another inch. A rotting arm reached round the door, scrabbling and clutching—reaching for them.

  “This any good?” Sarah had a pickaxe.

  “Let’s hope so.” Guy nodded at the nearest support. “Knock that away, and the roof should come down. With luck it’ll jam this door shut.”

  “That does sound a bit risky,” Davenport said.

  “You got a better idea?” Green asked him, his teeth gritted with the effort of trying to force the door shut.

  “Not as such.”

  “On three, Sarah. Rest of us—be ready to jump out of the way.”

  “Oh, I’m ready,” Davenport assured them.

  Guy braced himself against the door, preparing to leap back as he counted out loud. “One … Two … Three!”

  He leaped back. Green was right beside him. Davenport jumped too, but without their efforts to keep it closed, the door sprang open, catching his leg as he leaped clear. Davenport fell, landing on his back. He stared up at the roof as Sarah’s pickaxe connected with the support.

  The wooden strut shifted. Dust and earth showered down on Davenport. But the strut didn’t give way.

  Davenport rolled aside as the door opened fully. The Ubermensch stood framed for a moment by the darkness of the chamber behind. It stared down at Davenport.

  At the same moment, Green grabbed the pickaxe from Sarah and swung again at the strut. It splintered under the blow. Another, and the strut was knocked sideways, out from under the wooden board it supported.

  The Ubermensch reached down for Davenport, who was frantically skidding himself backward. Guy fired another shot, driving the creature upright. He dropped his flashlight and reached down, grabbed Davenport’s arm with his free hand, dragging him back. Just one bullet left …

  Then the board gave way under the weight of the earth above, and the roof came down. Soil and rubble crashed over the Ubermensch. It staggered, and fell. More rock and soil cascaded over it, filling the area with dust and debris.

  Guy retrieved his flashlight. He shone it at the pile of earth and rubble. The top half of the doorway to the burial chamber was a dark silhouette above. A single hand, more skeleton than flesh, protruded from the mound.

  “Well, that’s that,” Green said, coughing away dust from his throat.

  “Don’t be too sure,” Davenport said quietly.

  Sarah gasped, grabbing Guy’s arm for support as she almost fell.

  The hand clenched and unclenched. Slowly the wrist and forearm emerged from the heap of fallen debris. Another hand punched through beside it. Rock and earth fell away as the Ubermensch forced its way out.

  * * *

  She couldn’t have been twenty yet. Hoffman watched her draw, staring into space, her life suddenly somewhere else. Her blonde hair was matted and dark with sweat, falling over her shoulders. The loose hospital smock clung to her body, damp with perspiration.

  Another sheet finished and pushed aside. Hoffman picked it up and examined it. One of the figures was definitely in uniform. A British sergeant’s stripes on the shoulder—but that didn’t mean the Ubermensch was in Britain. There were allied troops across the world. Even now, the British Empire still covered more territory than Hitler had managed to acquire.

  The next sheet was shaded gray again. Possibly some texture, but no detail. A single white strip left down one side. Light shining round a door, perhaps.

  Then another figure—seen from above. The Ubermensch looking down at a man sprawled on the floor. He didn’t seem to be in uniform, but the detail was vague.

  A closer view. The man’s face. The clearest image so far. Hoffman watched fascinated as the features were shaded in—a round face, with bushy eyebrows and dark eyes, hair slicked back. Early middle-aged, if Hoffman had to guess. He took the drawing as soon as
Number Seventeen had finished it.

  “The Reichsfuhrer is on his way,” Kruger announced breathlessly as he entered the room. “He will be here directly.”

  Number Seventeen was drawing again—shading the page completely. Total blackness.

  Kruger stared down at the paper. Hoffman turned away slightly, masking his actions. He folded the sheet he was holding, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  CHAPTER 29

  The grotesque figure forced its way out of the earth and rubble. Its robes were torn and muddy. Soil trickled from the hollow eye sockets like black tears. It took a lurching step forward, dragging itself free of the fallen debris.

  “Shoot it!” Davenport yelled.

  “I’ve tried that!” Guy was acutely aware he had only one shot left. There had to be a way to make it count.

  Green stepped in front of the Ubermensch, swinging the pickaxe he’d used to bring down the roof. The creature brought up a hand to parry the blow. But the heavy metal head of the tool knocked the hand aside. The end of the pickaxe slammed into the creature’s emaciated body, biting deep.

  The Ubermensch staggered back, pulling the tool from Green’s grasp. It stood for a moment, staring down at the pickaxe sticking out of its chest. Then it gripped the metal blade, and dragged it out. Thin tendrils licked out of the wound, twisting and rippling like grass in a breeze. The Ubermensch threw the pickaxe aside and advanced on Green.

  “How do we stop that thing?” Sarah demanded, her voice taut with fear.

  “Only one way,” Green said as he retreated. “Fire. Like at Shingle Bay.” He was back with the rest of them now. Together they were backing away as the Ubermensch walked slowly toward them.

  “Back down the tunnel?” Sarah said. “Maybe we can seal the end of it.”

  “He’d just dig his way out,” Guy said. He took another step backward, and his foot collided with a tin mug, sending it skittering away.