“You’re always hearing noises, Waters,” Garcia said. “That’s what got us here in the first place.”
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence.
“Are you sure you read Coffey right?” Waters spoke up again. “If that thing destroyed a SWAT team, it could easily get to us.”
“Stop thinking about it,” said Garcia. “Stop talking about it. It happened three floors above us.”
“I can’t believe Coffey, just leaving us here to rot—”
“Waters? If you don’t shut up I’m going to send you back to the Computer Room.”
Waters fell silent.
“Radio Coffey again,” Allen told Garcia. “We need to get the hell out of here, now.”
Garcia slowly shook his head. “It ain’t gonna work. Sounded to me like he was about five beers short of a six-pack. Maybe he’s bent a bit under the pressure. We’re stuck here for the duration.”
“Who’s his boss?” Allen insisted. “Give me the radio.”
“No way. The emergency batteries are almost dead.”
Allen started to protest, then stopped abruptly. “I smell something,” he said.
Garcia sat up. “So do I.” Then he picked up his shotgun, slowly, like a sleeper caught in a bad dream.
“It’s the killer beast!” Waters cried loudly. All the men were on their feet in an instant. Chairs were thrown back, smashing against the floor. There was a thump and a curse as somebody struck the side of a desk, then a splintering crash as a monitor fell to the floor. Garcia grabbed the radio.
“Coffey! It’s here!”
There was a scratching, then a low rattling at the doorknob. Garcia felt a gush of warmth on his legs and realized his bladder had given way. Suddenly, the door bent inward, wood cracking under a savage blow. In the close, listening darkness, he heard somebody behind him start to pray.
* * *
“Did you hear that?” whispered Pendergast.
Margo played the flashlight down the hall. “I heard something.”
From down the hall and around the corner came the sound of splintering wood.
“It’s breaking through one of the doors!” said Pendergast. “We need to attract its attention. Hey!” he shouted.
Margo grabbed Pendergast’s arm. “Don’t say anything you wouldn’t want it to understand,” she hissed.
“Ms. Green, this is no time for jokes,” Pendergast snapped. “Surely it doesn’t understand English.”
“I don’t know. We’re taking a chance, anyway, just trusting the Extrapolator’s data. But the thing has a highly developed brain, and it may well have been in the Museum for years, listening from dark places. It might understand certain words. We can’t take the chance.”
“As you wish,” Pendergast whispered. Then, he said loudly: “Where are you? Can you hear me?”
“Yes!” Margo shouted. “But I’m lost! Help! Can anyone hear us?”
Pendergast lowered his voice. “It must have heard that. Now we can only wait.” He dropped to one knee, right hand aiming the .45, left hand bracing right wrist. “Keep playing the light toward the bend in the hallway, move it around as if you’re lost. When I see the creature, I’ll give you the word. Turn on the miner’s light, and keep it aimed on the creature, no matter what. If it’s angry—if it’s just hunting for revenge now—we have to use any means possible to slow it down. We only have a hundred feet of corridor in which to kill it. If it can run as quickly as you think it can, the beast can cover that distance in a couple of seconds. You can’t hesitate, and you can’t panic.”
“A couple of seconds,” Margo said. “I understand.”
* * *
Garcia kneeled in front of the monitor bank, the butt of his shotgun snug against his cheek, the barrel pointing into the gloom. Before him, the outline of the door was faintly visible. Behind him stood Waters in a combat stance. “When it comes through, just start firing, and don’t stop.” Garcia said. “I’ve only got eight rounds. I’ll try to space my shots so you can reload at least once before it reaches us. And turn off that flashlight. You trying to give us away?”
The others in Security Command—Allen, the programmer, and Nesbitt the guard—had retreated to the far wall and were crouched beneath the darkened schematic of the Museum’s security grid.
Waters was shaking. “It blew away a SWAT team,” he said, his voice breaking.
There was another crash, and the door groaned, its hinges popping. Waters screamed, jumped up and scrambled backward into the dark, his gun lying forgotten on the floor.
“Waters, you prick, get back here!”
Garcia heard the sickening thud of bone against metal as Waters stumbled under the desks toward the far wall, banging his skull. “Don’t let it get me!” he screamed.
Garcia forced himself to turn back toward the door. He tried to steady the shotgun. The foul reek of the creature filled his nostrils as the door shuddered under another heavy blow. More than anything, he did not want to see what was about to force its way into the room. He cursed and wiped his forehead with the back of a hand. Except for Waters’s sobbing, there was silence.
* * *
Margo shined the flashlight down the hall, trying to imitate the random motions of somebody searching for a way out. The light licked across the walls and floor, giving dim illumination to the display cabinets. Her heart was hammering, her breath coming in short gasps.
“Help!” she cried again. “We’re lost!” Her voice sounded unnaturally hoarse in her ears.
There were no more sounds from around the corner. The creature was listening.
“Hello?” she called, willing herself to speak again. “Is anybody there?”
The voice echoed and died in the corridor. She waited, staring into the gloom, straining to see any movement.
A dark shape began to resolve itself against the far darkness, at a distance where the flashlight beam failed. The movement stopped. It seemed to have its head up. A strange, liquid snuffling sound came toward them.
“Not yet,” Pendergast whispered.
It moved a little farther around the corner. The snuffling noise grew louder, and then the stench, wafting down the hall, violated her nostrils.
The beast took another step.
“Not yet,” Pendergast whispered.
* * *
Garcia’s hand was shaking so violently he could hardly press the transmit button.
“Coffey!” he hissed. “Coffey, for God’s sake! Do you copy?”
“This is Agent Slade from the Forward Command Post. Who’s speaking, please?”
“This is Security Command,” Garcia said, breathing thick and fast. “Where’s Coffey? Where’s Coffey?”
“Special Agent Coffey is temporarily indisposed. As of now, I’m taking command of the operation, pending the arrival of the regional director. What’s your status?”
“What’s our status?” Garcia laughed raggedly. “Our status is, we’re fucked. It’s outside the door. It’s breaking in. I’m begging you, send a team in.”
“Hell!” came the voice of Slade. “Why wasn’t I informed?” Garcia heard some muffled talk. “Garcia? Do you have your weapon?”
“What good’s a shotgun?” Garcia whispered, almost in tears. “You need to get in here with a fucking bazooka. Help us, please.”
“Garcia, we’re trying to pick up the pieces here. Command-and-control is all screwed up. Just hold tight a moment. It can’t get through the Security Command door, right? It’s metal, isn’t it?”
“It’s wood, Slade, it’s just a goddamn institutional door!” Garcia said, the tears running freely down his face.
“Wood? What kind of place is this? Garcia, listen to me now. Even if we sent someone in, it’d take them twenty minutes to get to you.”
“Please…”
“You’ve got to handle it yourself. I don’t know what you’re up against, Garcia, but get a grip on yourself. We’ll be in as soon as we can. Just keep cool and aim—”
Garcia sank t
o the floor, his finger slipping from the button in despair. It was hopeless, they were all dead men.
60
Smithback gripped the belt, playing a few more inches back toward the group. If anything, he thought, the water was rising even faster than before; there were surges every few minutes now, and although the current didn’t seem to be getting stronger, the roar at the end of the tunnel had grown deafening. The oldest, the weakest, and the poorest swimmers were directly behind Smithback, clutching to the rope of belts; behind them the others were clinging together, treading water desperately. Everyone was silent now; there was no energy left to weep, moan, or even speak. Smithback looked up: two more feet, and he’d be able to grab the ladder.
“Must be a mother of a storm out there,” said D’Agosta. He was next to Smithback, supporting an older woman. “Sure rained on the Museum’s party,” he added with a weak laugh.
Smithback merely looked up, snapping on the light. Eighteen more inches.
“Smithback, quit switching the light on and off, all right?” D’Agosta said irritably. “I’ll tell you when to check.”
Smithback felt another surge, which buffeted him against the brick walls of the tunnel. There were some gasps among the group but no one cut loose. If the belt rope gave way, they’d all be drowned in thirty seconds. Smithback tried not to think about it.
In a shaky but determined voice, the Mayor started telling a story to the group. It involved several well-known people in City Hall. Smithback, despite scenting a scoop, felt sleepier and sleepier—a sign, he remembered, of hypothermia.
“Okay, Smithback. Check the ladder.” The gruff voice of D’Agosta jerked him awake.
He shined the light upward, rattling it into life. In the past fifteen minutes the water had risen another foot, bringing the end of the ladder almost within reach. With a croak of delight, Smithback played more of the belts back to the group.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” said D’Agosta. “You’re gonna go up first. I’ll help from down here, then I’ll follow last. Okay?”
“Okay,” Smithback said, shaking himself into consciousness.
D’Agosta pulled the belt taut, then grabbed Smithback by the waistband and heaved him upward. Smithback reached over his head, grabbing the lowest rung with his free hand.
“Give me the light,” said D’Agosta.
Smithback handed it down, then grabbed the rung with the other hand. He pulled himself up a little, then fell back, the muscles in his arms and back jerking spasmodically. With a deep breath, he pulled himself up again, this time reaching the second rung.
“Now you grab the rung,” D’Agosta said to someone. Smithback leaned against the rungs, gasping for breath. Then, looking upward again, he grasped the third rung, then the fourth. He felt around lightly with his feet to secure them on the first rung.
“Don’t step on anyone’s hands!” D’Agosta warned from below.
He felt a hand guide his foot, and he was able to put his weight on the lowest rung. The firmness felt like heaven. He reached down with one hand and helped the elderly woman. Then he turned back, feeling his strength returning, and moved upward.
The ladder ended at the mouth of a large pipe jutting out horizontally where the curved vault of the roof met the tunnel wall. Gingerly, he moved to the pipe and began crawling into the darkness.
Immediately, a putrid odor assaulted his nostrils. Sewer, he thought. He stopped involuntarily for a moment, then moved forward again.
The pipe ended, opening into blackness. Gingerly, he brought his feet outward and downward. A hard, firm dirt floor met his shoes a foot or so beneath the mouth of the pipe. He could hardly believe their luck: a chamber of unknown size, hung suspended here between the basement and subbasement. Probably some architectural palimpsest, a long-forgotten by-product of one of the Museum’s many reconstructions. He clambered out and moved a few inches forward, then another few inches, sweeping his feet over the blackness of the floor. The stench around him was abominable, but it was not the smell of the beast, and for that he was profoundly grateful. Dry things—twigs?—crunched beneath his feet. Behind him, he could hear grunting, and the sound of others moving down the pipe toward him. The feeble light from D’Agosta’s flashlight in the subbasement beyond could not penetrate the blackness.
He turned around, knelt down by the mouth of the pipe, and began helping the bedraggled group out, directing them off to the side, warning them not to stray too far into the dark.
One at a time, people emerged and spread out against the wall, feeling their way gingerly, collapsing in exhaustion. The room was quiet except for the sound of ragged breathing.
Finally, Smithback heard the voice of D’Agosta coming through the pipe. “Christ, what is that reek?” he muttered to Smithback. “That damned flashlight finally gave out. So I dropped it into the water. Okay, people,” he said in a louder voice, standing up, “I want you to count off.” The sound of dripping water started Smithback’s heart racing until he realized it was simply D’Agosta, wringing out his sodden jacket.
One by one, in tired voices, the group gave their names. “Good,” D’Agosta said. “Now to figure out where we are. We may need to look for higher ground, in case the water continues to rise.”
“I’d like to look for higher ground anyway,” came a voice from the darkness. “It stinks in here something awful.”
“It’ll be tough without light,” Smithback said. “We’ll need to go single file.”
“I’ve got a lighter,” one voice said. “Shall I see if it still works?”
“Careful,” said someone else. “Smells like methane, if you ask me.”
Smithback winced as a wavering yellow flame illuminated the chamber.
“Oh, Jesus!” somebody screamed.
The chamber was suddenly plunged into darkness again as the hand holding the lighter involuntarily jerked away—but not before Smithback got a single, devastating image of what lay around him.
* * *
Margo strained ahead in the dimness, slowly moving the flashlight around the hall, trying to keep from deliberately spotlighting the beast as it crouched at the corner, observing them.
“Not yet,” Pendergast murmured. “Wait until it shows itself fully.”
The creature seemed to pause for an eternity, unmoving, as silent and motionless as a stone gargoyle. Margo could see small red eyes watching her in the gloom. Every now and then the eyes disappeared, then reappeared, as the creature blinked.
The creature took another step, then froze again as if making up its mind, its low, powerful frame tensed and ready.
Then it started forward, coming down the hall toward them with a strange, terrifying lope.
“Now!” cried Pendergast.
Margo reached up and fumbled for the miner’s helmet, and the hall was suddenly bathed in light. Almost immediately she heard a deafening WHANG! as Pendergast’s powerful handgun barked next to her. The creature stopped briefly, and Margo could see it squinting, shaking its head against the light. It bent back as if to bite its haunch where the bullet had passed. Margo felt her mind receding from the reality: the low, pale head, horribly elongated, the crease of Pendergast’s bullet a white stripe above the eyes; the powerful forequarters, covered with dense fur and ending in long, rending talons; the lower rear haunches, wrinkled skin descending to five-clawed toes. Its fur was matted with crusted blood, and fresh blood shone on the scales of the hindquarters.
WHANG! The creature’s right foreleg was yanked behind it, and Margo heard a terrible roar of rage. It spun back to face them and sprang forward, ropes of saliva swinging madly from its jaws.
WHANG! went the gun—a miss—and the creature kept coming, accelerating with horrible deliberation.
WHANG!
She saw, as if in slow motion, the left hind leg jerk back, and the creature falter slightly. But it recovered, and, with a renewed howl, coarse hair bristling high on its haunches, it came for them again.
WHAN
G! went the gun, but the creature did not slow, and at that point Margo realized with great clarity that their plan had failed, that there was time for only one more shot and that the creature’s charge could not be stopped. “Pendergast!” she cried, stumbling backward, her miner’s light tilting crazily upward, scrambling away from the red eyes that stared straight into her own with a terrifyingly comprehensible blend of rage, lust, and triumph.
* * *
Garcia sat on the floor, ears straining, wondering if the voice he’d heard was real—if there was somebody else out there, trapped in this nightmare—or whether it had just been a trick of his overheated brain.
Suddenly, a very different sound boomed outside the door; then there was another, and another.
He scrambled to his feet. It couldn’t be true. He fumbled with the radio.
“Do you hear that?” a voice behind him said.
Then the sound came again, twice; then, a short silence; then again.
“I swear to God, somebody’s shooting in the hall!” Garcia cried.
There was a long, dreadful silence. “It’s stopped,” said Garcia in a whisper.
“Did they get it? Did they get it?” Waters whimpered.
The silence stretched on. Garcia clutched the shotgun, its pump and trigger guard slick from sweat. Five or six shots, that’s all he’d heard. And the creature had killed a heavily armed SWAT team.
“Did they get it?” Waters asked again.
Garcia listened intently, but could hear nothing from the hall. This was the worst of all: the brief raising, then sudden dashing, of his hopes. He waited.
There was a rattling at the door.
“No,” whispered Garcia. “It’s back.”
61
“Hand me that lighter!” D’Agosta barked. Smithback, falling blindly backward, saw the sudden spark of the flint and instinctively covered his eyes.
“Oh, Christ—” he heard D’Agosta groan. Then Smithback jerked as he felt something clutch his shoulder and drag him to his feet.
“Listen, Smithback,” the voice of D’Agosta hissed in his ear, “you can’t crap out on me now. I need you to help me keep these people together.”
Relic (Pendergast, Book 1) Page 36
