Catacombs of Terror!

by Stanley Donwood

  I might have nodded. I might have just stood there. I don’t remember.

  “Okay. It’s your big moment. Come on.”

  The chanting suddenly stopped. I was led further. There was more of the light. Suddenly there was no more tunnel. Kafka stepped out of the way and I stood, blinking, trying to see what was in front of me. I was in a huge chamber. There was a stink of something clean and sweet, a nastily pungent odour. There were people in the chamber. People. Lots of them. Looking at me. The chamber was immense, shaped like the one under Charlcombe. Round the walls, fixed to the rock, were banks of flickering TV monitors, hundreds of them, ranged all the way around the vastness of the chambers. All showing CCTV footage from the city above, or scanning through thousands of faces, scanning, scanning . . . until they stopped. On my face. My face, at different times, in different places. But all me. All me.

  I stopped looking at the monitors. Evenly spaced around the cavernous chamber were five huge glass vats filled with fluid, lit from beneath, with millions of tiny bubbles rising through them. That was the chloroethylene, I guessed. I looked at the people.

  Oh, fuck. There were several I didn’t recognise. But among them were Mario Murnau and Robinson from the CCTV control room. And the smartly dressed thugs who’d driven me out to the motorway and kicked my head in. The creeps Kafka had been interviewing in the Lud Club. The security guard we’d left trussed up at the edge of the Charlcombe dig. But not just one of them. More than one. It was too horrible. But there were two Murnaus. Two Robinsons. Two security guards. Two. Two of all of them. Identical twins? Not a fucking chance. These bastards were fucking cloned.

  And facing me, glaring but grinning sadistically—Barry Eliot. The clones were in a circle around something in the centre of the chamber. Stonehenge’s gun prodded at my back. I took a few steps forward, and the circle parted. The people on either side of Barry moved away from him. There was something behind him, but he obscured it.

  “Welcome,” he said. His voice echoed in the silence. None of the other mutant maniacs said a word. And then he moved away so I could see what was behind him. An altar, dead centre, underneath the highest point of the chamber. It was deeply carved with some pretty repellent stuff. Twisted limbs. Demonic faces. It looked very old, and very, very evil. Strapped down to it, bound and gagged, was Karen.

  Chapter 22

  Alive with Corruption

  My powers of recollection aren’t a top-class operation at the best of times, but exactly what happened next is nowhere to be found in my memory. I think I may have freaked out a little. Called some people some names. Made some sort of violent attempt to hurt people. Like I say, it’s all kind of vague. Whatever happened ended up with me being restrained from doing whatever it was I wanted to do.

  The only thing I knew was that Karen was straining against the straps that held her down and I was straining against the arms that held me back. Some of the people made some of their own violent attempts to hurt me, but I didn’t notice. I was more angry about my stupid, stupid belief in their lies than anything else. They’d played me for a sucker, and they’d fed me lies. And I’d believed them. I’d believed them.

  I made a desperate attempt to break the grasp of whoever it was that was holding me. I wanted to get to Karen. But there were too many of them. I felt like a wild beast, shackled and brought down. I was kneeling on the flagstones, my arms held halfway up my back. They could do anything they liked. Anything. I was helpless. And very, very unhappy. But this wasn’t the time to complain. Yeah, well.

  Kafka and Stonehenge grabbed me around my upper arms. Murnau and Robinson helped them in some way. All of them were laughing. Fuck it, I didn’t see anything funny about anything. I guess that’s how the butt of any joke feels. They dragged me out of the chamber into some other room. The decor didn’t surprise me. Rock and clay walls, flagstone floor, mould, damp. No doors or exits apart from the one I’d been dragged through. No escape. Nothing new there.

  They put me in some kind of stone chair with straps that did up tight. They left the room. Still having a laugh. The situation was hilarious. Oh, for sure. Then Barry came in.

  Barry was a fat-faced, thick-lipped, well-fed looking bastard. Facial muscles crunched over his eyebrows. He had a terse mouth. A receding hairline that made his forehead look like it was aiming for the ceiling. I was kind of dazed, but he didn’t care about that. He stared at me in a way that I didn’t care for at all.

  “Who are you?” he spat. I wasn’t prepared for that question. I didn’t know what to say. The fucker knew exactly who I was. He’d threatened to kill me a couple of weeks ago, a threat that now looked maybe less empty than it had at the time.

  “Who—are—you?” he said again. Slower. But the same words. I thought that I’d better answer.

  “Martin Valpolicella. Licensed private investigator. As if you didn’t know.”

  “Martin . . . Valpolicella . . . .” He seemed to be chewing my name, tasting it, trying to fit it into something. His eyeballs went for a wander, then came home. He looked as if he was fucked up on some strange drug. He stared at me again.

  “And . . . why are you here . . . Martin Valpolicella . . . ?”

  “Kind of a long story, Mister Barry Eliot . . . . But I guess you know all about that, seeing as you were the bastard who fucking well set me up in the first place! For sleeping with your wife, who you’ve got tied to a fucking table out there! You crazy . . . .”

  My voice died away. I gave up. I couldn’t think of anything to call him. I had some words, sure. But they weren’t enough. Anyway, even if they had been enough they wouldn’t have done any good. Barry was smiling, leering, his pupils huge.

  “Your words mean nothing in this place. But you are here. And you are here for a reason. And I know that reason. You do not. Whatever you think, whatever you have constructed in your mind, whatever history you have invented for yourself—is irrelevant. There is only one thing that you need to know. One thing only. Do you understand?”

  I shrugged, then nodded, or something. Whatever.

  “What happens to you here is forever.”

  He turned and walked towards the opening that led to the chamber. I wanted to say something, but no words would come. He was gone. I was alone, strapped to the stone chair. What the hell was he on about? I didn’t understand. But I knew I was in trouble. A whole lot of trouble.

  I tested the bonds that held me to the chair. Maybe there’d be some slack. No dice. I wasn’t going anywhere. When I stopped struggling the enormity of the horror that faced me came rushing through my mind. Pigs. Clones. And Karen, out in the chamber, strapped to that infernal altar as securely as I was strapped to this goddamn chair.

  I started to sweat—a freezing cold sweat that pricked my skin and ran down my forehead and burned like frost in my eyes. I fought with the fear, and I almost lost. But not quite. Okay, so this was the tightest spot I’d ever been in. But I wasn’t ready to give in. Not yet, anyway. Feverishly I tried to come up with some sort of plan.

  Then Stonehenge sauntered in. Looking pretty goddamn pleased with himself. He walked around me a couple of times. Then he stopped behind me. It was irritating, but I didn’t try to turn my head. No point.

  “I hope you’re feeling fit and strong,” he said quietly. “Full of beans. Ready for anything.”

  I didn’t bother to say anything. There were a lot of things I could have said, and the choicest words were bubbling up in my throat, but I kept it all back. I figured that the more energy I kept hold of the better chance I had of getting out of this situation.

  “And I hope you’re not squeamish.”

  It was getting harder to keep silent. Squeamish?

  “Oh, and that you’re not bothered by the sight of blood. The smell of blood.”

  Not liking the sound of something had become second nature to me. Normal, even. But I definitely didn’t like the sound of this at all. But I still didn’t say anything. Stonehenge made a dismissive kind of noise thr
ough his nose, and walked out. So. I was alone again. The chanting continued out in the chamber. Nothing was making any kind of sense. I decided to wait until it did. I didn’t have to wait long.

  Stonehenge had only been gone a couple of minutes before Kafka, one of the Murnau creatures, and a Robinson came in. Behind them were two versions of the sleazebags who’d left me face down in a field by the motorway. I wondered idly if there was a clone of Kafka somewhere. Whatever. Kafka seemed to be in charge. He was, well, swaggering, or at least attempting to. But he was potentially my only ally in this mess. I couldn’t figure this out. Was he acting? Or, playing a double game, double-acting? I was going to have to get him alone, to engineer the situation so that the clones would leave us alone. It was time to break my silence.

  “Nice place, Colin,” I said. “What’s the word? Salubrious? Very salubrious. I like the way the ceiling drips so much. Ever thought of supplying your friends with umbrellas? Or maybe raincoats.” Not rapier-sharp, but the best I could do.

  “Funny. I’m laughing. Ha. Ha. You’ve got a very important role here, Valpolicella. You’re very important. I realise that you’re not used to being important, but we’ll let that slide.”

  “What are you saying, Colin?”

  “You’re going to perform the sacrifice.”

  I closed my eyes. This was bad. Very bad. This was not cool. And nor was I.

  "They want me to kill Karen?"

  Kafka nodded, slowly. And smiled. Not a pretty sight. His mouth made a smiling shape, but his eyes bored straight into mine. The other creeps were—what were they doing? They were making a low humming noise. Hmmmmmmmmm . . . . Expressionless. Mouths closed. Very nearly imperceptible. And, given the situation, pretty sinister. Pretty fucking spooky.

  “Colin, for fuck’s sake tell those bastards to stop humming. It’s starting to annoy me. Tell them to get out. I want to talk to you about this. Alone.” My voice sounded kind of strange to me. Like I was trying not to cry or something.

  Kafka seemed to think for a couple of seconds. He looked a bit more human. Maybe. Then he turned and muttered something to the others. They nodded slightly, and left the room.

  Neither of us spoke for a while. I sat there, strapped on to my cold chair. I looked at Colin. And he looked at me. I was running scripts through my head, super fast. Trying to figure an angle that might work. Trying to figure out whose side Kafka was on. Their side? Or maybe—maybe, just maybe mine. Maybe.

  “Colin, what’s the deal? What the hell is going on?” He looked back at the entrance to the chamber. No one there. We had been left alone. As he spoke, he kept darting his eyes back towards the main chamber, where the chanting droned on and on.

  “Bad shit, Martin. Everything Stonehenge told you—it’s true. Except about Barry and Karen. She’s the sacrifice. The idea is, you do it. You perform the rite. You—you kill her. With a saw. It’s horrible. Barry chose you, because Karen was having an affair with you. It’s not that he cares about her, because he doesn’t. She’s expendable. Well, she is now. He’s been taking her eggs from her ovaries since just after they were married. He used to be a surgeon—but the stuff Stonehenge told you about her storing his sperm, well, she’s not been using him . . . he’s been using her. They use the eggs to make clones. Take an egg, add a couple of chromosomes, and bingo. They accelerate development, and within a year . . . more AFFA disciples, who never question anything, who believe in the ultimate power of AFFA—which really does mean ‘nothing,’ by the way. But something about the process he’s been using has gone wrong. She’s become infertile. No more eggs. And then, at the same time, AFFA need a sacrifice. Karen’s not productive any more, and . . . well. AFFA need more eggs. Barry needs a new wife. You can guess how They’ll play it. His present wife, Karen, is found brutally murdered. Barry gets loads of sympathy, gets married again after a decent interval. AFFA really need eggs. They’re all men, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  I sat there for a minute, taking it all in. But I still didn’t know what I needed to know.

  “Colin. Are you on my side?”

  “You kill Karen. Her body is found, Barry informs his friends in the police top brass, you’re arrested, everything goes to plan. AFFA really are controlling the world, Martin. More and more.”

  “Whatever. Are you avoiding the fucking question? Are you on my side?”

  “I’ve lied to you so much, about so much . . . . I pretended to be freaked out down here, pretending that I didn’t know what was going on . . . . I’ve been involved with this for quite a while. I was just researching weird stuff, occult stuff, hidden local history about the city, and then—well, I was approached. I admit I was scared. But they played it as if—as if I could either be with them or not. And if not, I’d lose my job. For starters. I might have an accident, you know? But it’s disgusting. I’m supposed to go out there and watch while you butcher Karen with a power saw. Saw her up, alive. It’s foul, depraved fucking shit, Martin.”

  “We can get out of this, Colin. We can. You’ve got a gun. You know the layout of these tunnels. We can do it. We’ve got to get out. That’s all I want to do. We can worry about AFFA later. I just want to see the sky. Even if it’s pouring with rain. Did you say power saw? Shit.”

  Kafka was looking down at the ground. He’d been looking at it for a while. He was scraping the toe of his shoe across the black slime on the flagstones, making shiny arcs on it. I waited for him to respond. I got a little hypnotised by the movement of his toe and what it did to the mould.

  “I wanted to help you. In the café. I tried to warn you off.”

  I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t. Did he? “Yeah, Colin. You did. I was a fucking idiot. You tried, but you can try again. Now. Right now. Have you got the gun on you?”

  “I tried to help you. I tried to stop you.”

  “Cool. I know. But you’ve got to help me again. For the last time, I promise.”

  “But you walked into it. Because you wanted to. Because your life was so ordinary. You wanted to be exciting. A private investigator, for fuck’s sake. As if that job hasn’t always been a load of crap. Chasing errant husbands for neurotic wives, or errant wives for neurotic husbands. Hassling debtors and defaulters. You really are a low-rent Philip Marlowe. Trying to live in a fiction. Trying to romanticise an overdraft. We wrote you the script. It landed on your doormat. And you fucking loved it. You stupid, stupid, mindless fuckwit.”

  This wasn’t sounding too great. Kafka had a point, for sure, but I wasn’t sure it was strictly relevant right now. I knew he was my only chance. But I was losing him. I needed to bring him back.

  “Colin! I don’t care if you’ve lied, or if you tried to warn me out of this mess and I ignored you. It doesn’t fucking matter. Look at me, Colin. I’m strapped to a freezing cold stone chair in a little cave sixty feet under the ground, and a gang of maniac cloned freaks are about to make me kill the woman I love. Help me. Do me a favour. Please.”

  “You really love her?” muttered Kafka to the flagstones. Then he said it again, louder.

  “You really love her?”

  I nodded. I really did love Karen, even if I hadn’t admitted it to myself until that moment. I looked at Kafka. Imploringly. I hate to say it, but that’s the way I looked at him. He lifted his head. And he laughed at me. He laughed in my face. Then Barry walked in, smiling his sick sadistic smile, his words like poison in my ears.

  “I’m so glad you love her. Very glad. Tonight, you will sacrifice her on the altar of AFFA. Your love will make the sacrifice more powerful. For lovers to kill . . . for one lover to murder the other, that is perfect. Most powerful. You are lovers. You are the killer. She is your victim.”

  Frantic, I looked at Kafka. He made some sort of sick attempt at a smile, raised his eyebrows, and shook his head sadly.

  “You are the killer. She is your victim,” he repeated, before turning round and walking out. He didn’t look back.

  “I’ve been listening to your conversati
on with Colin Kafka,” said Barry. His voice was silky smooth, his eyes staring, his presence seeping into my soul. Listening to him was like being smothered by a satin pillow soaked with cold sweat. “I so enjoyed your struggling attempts to persuade him to help you. Hopeless. There is no chance of escape. You will perform the sacrifice. If you decide not to, you will be thrown into the oubliette. Do you know what an oubliette is? It’s a hole. A very deep, very deep hole. Like a well. We will break your limbs, every one. We will throw you into the oubliette below the altar. You’ll be alive. But you won’t be alone. There are others down there. They are no longer ‘alive’ in the traditional sense, but . . . alive with maggots. Alive with corruption. Heaving with parasitic life. And you will lie there, in unbearable pain, waiting for the Fleet Pigs to come from the tunnels that radiate from the bottom of the oubliette. They will start to eat you alive. But they won’t kill you. Oh no, they’re very well trained. They’ll leave you there on the heap of rotting bodies. You’ll be alive. But not for very long, I shouldn’t think. But long enough. Long enough for you to be very, very sorry that you weren’t more obedient. It is your choice. You perform the sacrifice, or . . . . What happens to you here is forever. Everything is by fate ordained. And now it is time.”

  He made a sort of gesture in the air and a couple of Robinsons came in. And a pair of each of the kidnap-motorway-kicking guys followed them. The Robinsons moved towards me. I struggled in the chair, but it was hopeless. They walked right up and started unbuckling the straps that held me down. They came loose but there was no time to fight, or even to start to fight. I was helpless. Six men were taking care of any inclination to resist that I might have had. They started dragging me out of the room, into the chamber. I felt very sad, all of a sudden. Very sad. But I didn’t cry. It wouldn’t have done any good. I didn’t have a plan any more. I didn’t have anything. They dragged me out into the chamber, where the CCTV monitors flickered and the huge vats of dry-cleaning fluid bubbled. Where Karen lay strapped to the altar.