Gregg Loomis - Gates Of Hades

Rassavitch didn't believe a word of it.

With Rassavitch's poor language skills, flat, Slavic face, and ghostly white skin, the authorities would surely study the New York driver's permit he had effortlessly obtained.

They would question him for hours. Somehow they would know he was here to destroy them.

So, he took the train, where there were no security precautions.

The cars were clean, quiet, and mostly empty. At first he wondered why more Americans did not use this mode of transportation. His answer came at every place the tracks paralleled a highway: automobiles sped by far faster than the train. So did the buses he saw.

He would have an opportunity to ride one of those buses from Atlanta, where the train would go on to New Orleans. From the bus to Savannah, he was to go to an address he had been given by a man who had sought him out yesterday and handed him a copy of Chekhov's plays with the correct passages underlined. In the book had been ten one-hundred-dollar bills and an address in Savannah.

There was no indication as to what Rassavitch should do when he reached the Georgia port city, nor instructions as to how the money should be used, although it was obvious some of it would be spent reaching his destination. Once he got there, he would figure out what to do next.

Baia

In front of Jason, Adrian stiffened, his head cocked to listen.

"Wha…?" Maria took the regulator from her mouth, then froze.

Jason inhaled and removed his regulator, whispering, "I'd say we've got company."

"But who…?"

"You can bet it ain't the Sibyl."

He pointed to the light on his helmet as he turned it off. Maria and Adrian did the same, leaving them in a darkness punctuated with the flare of the bushes that did not burn. The gaseous flames cast flickering shadows that danced menacingly across the walls to make forms of fanciful creatures of all descriptions.

In fact, Jason thought at first that it was these imaginary creatures he saw emerging from the hazy darkness at the farthest point of the cavern. The thing looked insectlike, round eyes occupying a full three-quarters of a face with a tube for a mouth. Approaching with a low shuffling motion, it was something out of a bad sci-fi movie, although there was noting fictional about the automatic weapon it carried.

Jason's hand went to his own face, searching for a leak in his breathing equipment that could have allowed him to inhale the hallucinatory fumes of the steaming rocks. As far as he could tell, the ethylene gas had nothing to do with what his eyes kept insisting he was perceiving and his brain kept trying to dismiss as impossible.

Another of the creatures emerged into the shimmering light, and Jason realized what he was actually seeing, ashamed of the relief he felt. The fire dancing above several bushes was reflecting off the glass eye ports of old- fashioned gas masks, their air hoses a trunklike connection to the air purification system on each man's back.

Jason counted six of them. Mere men or not, they were now probing the reluctant shadows of the cavern with flashlights, both sweeping the floor with each step to prevent falling into one of the numerous shafts to the tunnel below, and searching every crevice. It required no effort to guess for whom.

Jason could see Adrian, a solid form of darkness to his left. Keeping a low profile, he pulled Maria behind as he duckwalked over, took a breath, and removed his mouthpiece. "We need to back out of here, same way we came."

"That a fact?"

On all fours, hands outstretched, searching for unseen openings that could result in a fatal fall, Jason, Adrian, and Maria shuffled across the rubble-strewn floor.

Any doubt as to the intentions of the men in gas masks dissolved when a beam of light exposed Jason. He rolled violently to his left, shoving Maria away as a stream of gunfire chipped an explosion of tiny, shrapnel-like fragments from the stones where he had been. The sound was still booming off the walls and unseen ceiling as Adrian rolled onto his back and fired two single rounds from the captured Beretta in the direction of the muzzle flash. He was rewarded by a yelp of pain.

"The river," Jason said, trying to keep his attention on the floor they were crossing. "If we can make it to the riverbed we should be able to see them better than they can see us."

"Aye." Adrian grunted. "But then, there're a lot more of them than us."

Adrian, always the optimist.

By the time the three slid down the steep bank of the riverbed, the flaming bushes were little more than a glow in the distant darkness, not enough light to frame their pursuers.

"We can put the breathing equipment away," Maria whispered.

"You can read the gas gauge in the dark?" Adrian wanted to know.

She held it up, showing a tiny green light.

Thankful for the smallest of favors, Jason wriggled out of the heavy backpack, helped Maria off with hers, and led the group to the far side of the dry river. Without the equipment, they should easily outdistance those behind them. Halfway up the embankment they stopped, each looking over a shoulder.

"Sodding bastards're comin' right on," Adrian whispered, seeing the beams of light sweeping the gully. "Wee long for a shot."

"A bit long for their flashlights, too," Jason said, starting back up the incline. "I wouldn't be revealing our position by taking a shot at them."

Jason reached the top first and reached back to take Maria's hand.

"I can manage," she said tartly.

Was it the tension or had he made some unknown misstep?

Once all three were atop the bank, they began to feel their way along the narrow passage through which they had entered. Here, at least, there were no holes concealed in the dark.

There was, however, endless rubble.

As Adrian tripped for the third time, he swore softly. "I'll be bloody killin' meself; I canna see."

"If we turn on our lights, somebody else will do it for you."

"Look!" Maria spoke aloud.

At the instant she spoke, Jason saw a glimmer of light ahead, a mere flicker that could just as well have been his imagination.

Adrian had seen it, too. "Bloody hell! Now they're in front as well!"

"Feel your way along the wall," Jason advised. "Somewhere along here is the sacrificial chamber where that other passageway comes in."

"An' what is making you think we're the only ones knowin' aboot it?" Adrian asked. "They could jus' as well be comin' through there, too."

Adrian had the optimism of a man mounting the gallows.

I-95, between Savannah and Charleston

22:21 EST the previous day

Eighteen-wheelers owned the interstate late at night. They rushed by with a blaze of headlights and a whoosh of air that made the old flatbed truck shiver, sometimes so hard that Rassavitch feared the single container on the back might come loose from its restraints.

The container.

When he had arrived at the Savannah bus station, a man had brushed by him, shoving a slip of paper into his hand. The paper bore what Rassavitch thought was a street address, a guess confirmed by the cabbie who had driven him away from the Greyhound terminal. In minutes, the taxi had been cruising through a seedy neighborhood where the few functioning streetlights showed houses thirsting for paint and weedy yards hosting rusted hulks of automobiles. The occasional resident strode quickly along cracked sidewalks as though in a hurry to get off the street, casting only a glare of resentment at the wealth implied by a taxi ride.

The cab slowed and the driver was scanning the few street numbers. He stopped in front of a house showing no lights but with a flatbed truck in the dirt driveway. "This looks like it." He turned his head, looking up and down the deserted street as if expecting an assault any minute. "You want, I kin wait here till you inside."