Douglas Preston - Riptide

"We're gonna have to crawl," Johnny muttered, his voice momentarily uncertain. He paused, and for a hopeful instant Malin thought they were turning back. Then Johnny straightened one end of the paperclip and stuck it between his teeth. The wavering shadows thrown by the match gave his face a ghoulish, hollow look.

That did it. "I'm not going any farther," Malin announced.

"Good," said Johnny. "You can stay here in the dark."

"No!" Malin sobbed loudly. "Dad's gonna kill us. Johnny, please ..."

"When Dad finds out how rich we are, he'll be too happy to be mad. He'll save a whole two dollars a week on allowance."

Malin sniffed a little and wiped his nose.

Johnny turned in the narrow space and placed a hand on Malin's head. "Hey," he whispered, his voice gentle. "If we chicken out now, we may never get a second chance. So be a pal, okay, Mal?" He ruffled Malin's hair.

"Okay." Malin sniffed.

He got onto his hands and knees and followed Johnny down the sloping tunnel. Pebbles and grit from the tunnel floor dug into the palms of his hands. Johnny seemed to be lighting a whole lot of matches, and Malin had almost screwed up the courage to ask how many were left, when his older brother halted abruptly.

"There's something up ahead," came the whispered voice.

Malin tried to see around his brother, but the tunnel was too narrow. "What is it?"

"It's a door!" Johnny hissed suddenly. "I swear, it's an old door!" The ceiling angled up to form a narrow vestibule ahead of him, and Malin craned desperately for a view. There it was: a row of thick planks, with two old metal hinges set into the frame of the tunnel. Large slabs of dressed stone formed the walls to either side. Damp and mold lay over everything. The edges of the door had been caulked with what looked like oakum.

"Look!" Johnny cried, pointing excitedly.

Lying across the front of the door was a fancy embossed seal made of wax and paper, stamped with a coat of arms. Even through the dust, Johnny could see that the seal was unbroken.

"A sealed door!" Johnny whispered, awestruck. "Just like in the books!"

Malin stared as if in a dream, a dream somehow wonderful and terrifying at the same time. They really had found the treasure. And it had been his idea.

Johnny grasped the ancient iron handle and gave an exploratory tug. There was a sharp creak of protesting hinges. "Hear that?" he panted. "It's not locked. All we have to do is break this seal." He turned and handed the matchbox to Malin, his eyes wide. "You light the matches while I pull it open. And move back a little, willya?"

Malin peered into the box. "There's only five left!" he cried in dismay.

"Just shut up and do it. We can get out in the dark, I swear we can."

Malin lit a match, but his hands shook and it flickered out. Only four more, he thought as Johnny muttered impatiently. The next match sprang to life and Johnny placed both hands on the iron handle. "Ready?" he hissed, bracing his feet against the earthen wall.

Malin opened his mouth to protest, but Johnny was already tugging at the door. The seal parted abruptly, and the door opened with a shriek that made Malin jump. A puff of foul air blew out the match. In the close darkness, Malin heard Johnny's sharp intake of breath. Then Johnny screamed "Ouch!", except the voice seemed so breathless, so very high, it almost didn't sound like Johnny. Malin heard a thump, and the floor of the tunnel shivered violently. As dirt and sand rained down in the darkness, filling his eyes and nose, he thought he heard another sound: a strange, strangled sound, so brief that it might almost have been a cough. Then a wheezing, dripping noise like a wet sponge being squeezed.

"Johnny!" Malin cried, raising his hands to wipe the dust out of his face and dropping the matchbox in the process. It was so very dark, and things had gone wrong so suddenly, and panic began to overwhelm him. In the close, listening darkness came another noise, low and muffled. It took Malin a moment to realize what it was: a soft, continuous dragging. . .

Then the spell was broken and he was fumbling in the dark on his hands and knees, hands outstretched, searching for the matches, bawling his brother's name. One hand touched something wet and he snatched it away just as the other hand closed on the matchbox. Rising to his knees, choking back sobs, he grabbed a match and scratched it frantically until it flared.

In the sudden light he looked around wildly. Johnny was gone. The door was open, the seal broken—but beyond lay nothing except a blank stone wall. Dust hung thickly in the air.

Then wetness touched his legs and he looked down. In the spot where Johnny had stood there was a large, black pool of water, crawling slowly around his knees. For a crazy moment, Malin thought maybe there was a breach in the tunnel somewhere and seawater was leaking in. Then he realized the pool was steaming slightly in the flicker of the match. Straining forward, he saw that it was not black but red: blood, more blood than he ever imagined a body could hold. Paralyzed, he watched as the glossy pool spread, running in tendrils across the hollows of the floor, draining into the cracks, creeping into his wet Keds, surrounding him like a crimson octopus, until the match dropped into it with a sharp hiss and darkness descended once again.

Chapter 2

Cambridge, Massachusetts Present Day

The small laboratory looked out from the Mount Auburn Hospital annex across the leafy tops of the maple trees to the slow, sullen waters of the Charles River. A rower in a needlelike shell was cutting through the dark water with powerful strokes, peeling back a glittering wake. Malin Hatch watched, momentarily entranced by the perfect synchronicity of body, boat, and water.

"Dr. Hatch?" came the voice of his lab assistant. "The colonies are ready." He pointed toward a beeping incubator.

Hatch turned from the window, reverie broken, suppressing a surge of irritation at his well-meaning assistant. "Let's take out the first tier and have a look at the little buggers," he said.

In his usual nervous way, Bruce opened the incubator and removed a large tray of agar plates, bacterial colonies growing like glossy pennies in their centers. These were relatively harmless bacteria—they didn't need special precautions beyond the usual sterile procedures—but Hatch watched with alarm as the assistant swung the rattling tray around, bumping it on the autoclave.

"Careful, there," said Hatch. "Or there'll be no joy in Whoville tonight."

The assistant brought the tray to an uneasy rest on the glove box. "Sorry," he said sheepishly, standing back and wiping his hands on his lab coat.

Hatch gave the tray a practiced sweep with his eyes. Rows two and three showed good growth, rows one and four were variable, and row five was sterile. In an instant he realized the experiment would be a success. Everything was working out as hypothesized; in a month he'd have published another impressive paper in the New England Journal of Medicine, and everyone would be talking yet again about what a rising star he was in the department.

The prospect filled him with a huge feeling of emptiness.

Absently, he swiveled a magnifying lens over to make a gross examination of the colonies. He'd done this so often that he could identify the strains just by looking at them, by comparing their surface textures and growth patterns. After a few moments he turned toward his desk, pushed aside a computer keyboard, and began jotting notes into his lab notebook.

The intercom chimed.

"Bruce?" Hatch murmured as he scribbled.

Bruce jumped up, sending his notebook clattering to the floor. A minute later he returned. "Visitor," he said simply.

Hatch straightened up his large frame. Visitors to the lab were rare. Like most doctors, he kept his lab location and telephone number under wraps to all but a select few.