Victor Gischler - Vampire A Go-Go

They headed for a narrow path on the other side of the park bench. It led uphill.

Allen groaned. “Can’t we escape downhill?”

“We don’t have to run,” Amy said. “Just keep moving.”

The narrow path zigzagged uphill and joined a wider path. It was steep enough going to wind Allen after five minutes. He got sweaty, puffed for air. The path led into a road, which they took to the top of the hill. A blocky gray building sat at the top.

“This is Zizkov Hill, isn’t it?” Allen recalled the description in The Rogue’s Guide . “The Monument.”

“The National Monument, yes. We’re approaching it from the back.”

It looked like a big, squat concrete bunker. They circled around the side, then ducked into a breezeway that ran through the middle of the structure. The whole place was lit poorly by scattered streetlights. Amy stopped in front of a large, dark set of wood doors chained together with a thick brass padlock. She fished into her shirt and brought out a small key on a string, then unlocked the padlock and opened one of the doors just wide enough for both of them to slip inside. She closed it again, padlocked it on the inside.

The room was bare, gray stone, with a single Soviet-looking lightbulb sticking out of a utilitarian fixture. A gray block humped up from the center of the floor-the tomb of the unknown soldier, which The Rogue’s Guide said was now empty. There was nothing else in the chamber, and Allen was forced to wonder what they were doing here.

Amy reached around the side of the tomb, depressed a small square of stone. The tomb rumbled; the squeal and clink of chains, the hum of machinery. The top of the tomb slid halfway back. Allen stepped forward, looked inside.

A metal ladder descended into a tunnel below.

“We can lie low down here,” Amy said. “Follow me.”

She swung her leg over and into the tomb, went down the ladder.

Allen hesitated, then followed.

The bottom of the ladder let them off in an old service tunnel, where water pipes and other conduits ran along the floor and ceiling. The stone tunnel was barely four feet wide and less than six feet tall, again lit by low-watt bare bulbs every twenty feet. Allen had to bow his head slightly as he followed Amy.

Abruptly they came upon a man-sized hole in the side of the tunnel. They ducked inside.

The chamber, a large area full of pipes and valves, stretched ten feet high. The room was obviously some sort of central crossroads for all the plumbing and electrical wiring for the Monument and other buildings on the hill.

But the room had been recently altered.

Three double beds with matching pillows and comforters spread around the room. Beads and tapestries had been hung in an attempt to make the chamber seem livable. There was a desk with a computer. An easy chair with a lamp standing next to it. A few books on a footstool. A table set up with kitchen stuff, hot plate and microwave.

The Harry Potter poster over one of the beds just looked… wrong.

The girl on the bed with the camouflage comforter and matching pillowcases sat up, startled, setting aside a book she was reading. “What are you doing here? What’s he doing here?”

It was one of the other girls from the Globe. The tough-looking one with black spiky hair and the heavy, dark eye makeup. She’d kicked off the combat boots and had put on torn jeans and a Clash T-shirt. The Clash? Was that some honest bit of retro or some kind of put-on? Allen’s mother had listened to the Clash.

“Basil is dead, Clover,” Amy said.

The Tough one-Clover-went blank, then her face slowly softened and her shoulders slumped. “Shit.”

“I think they got the others too,” Amy said. “I don’t know what to do. Can we handle this, just the three of us?”

“To hell with that,” Clover said. “I say we call for reinforcements. Get everyone in here, guns blazing, and put a lid on this fucking shit pronto.”

“That would be rash.”

Allen jumped at the new voice behind him. He stepped aside as she entered the room, the third one from the Globe. In the crowded café, Allen had only seen her sitting. Now he could see how tall she was-at least an inch taller than Allen, with a broad back, short hair, and tightly muscled arms, making her look like a cross between a phys ed teacher and a Navy SEAL. Her voice was deep and flinty.

“Sam!” Amy put a gentle hand on her arm. “Basil is dead.”

“I know,” Sam said. “I just came from there. The place is crawling with local fuzz.”

Amy’s eyes went glassy, on the verge of tears. “What do we do now?”

“Counterstrike,” Clover said.

“That doesn’t get us anywhere.” Sam looked at Allen. “How far did Basil get with him?”

Amy opened her mouth, but Allen said, “Ask me, why don’t you? I’m standing right here.”

“Okay, sport. What did Basil tell you?”

“He didn’t get very far,” Allen said. “He started talking about alchemists.”

“Did he tell you what Evergreen is doing?”

“No.”

Sam nibbled her bottom lip in contemplation. “We need to call for help. They need to know back home what’s happened to Basil.”

“What about Allen?” asked Amy.

Clover scooted to the front of the bed, grabbed her combat boots, and jammed her feet into them. “Tie him up. Try the mind probe on him.”

One of Allen’s eyebrows went up. “Mind probe?”

“Do we have to? Allen’s on our side now.” Amy grabbed his arm. “Tell them, Allen.”

“I’m not on anybody’s side. I don’t know what the hell is going on. I don’t know who you are!”

“I’m Amy.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“We are The Three,” Sam told him. “And we’re members of the Society, an ancient order dedicated to preserving and protecting the balance of magic. The balance that Dr. Evergreen is about to throw completely out of whack.”

Allen frowned.

“See how easy that was to explain?” Clover stuck a cigarette in her mouth. “Magic balance out of whack. Aren’t you glad you asked?”

Allen could not think of anything he was glad about.

“Don’t smoke,” Amy said. “I hate it when you smoke.”

Sam unwrapped a thin cigar, put it in her mouth, and lit it.

“You’re doing that on purpose to irritate me. You know the smoke bothers my eyes.”

“Clover’s right.” Sam inhaled, held it, then blew a long gray stream toward the ceiling. “We can’t let you run to Evergreen and tip him off.”

“It was the priests that broke in on us,” Amy said. “They killed Basil. They tried to kill us. Allen saw them. He wouldn’t be on their side. Not now. Would you, Allen?”

Allen opened his mouth. Shut it again. Amy had a point. It had been Father Paul. With a machine gun . Allen had seen his face clearly. On the other hand, Amy and this Basil guy had shoved him in the trunk of a car, had questioned him at gunpoint.

“Look, I don’t know what to think. All I know is I don’t want any trouble.”

“Well, trouble is what you got,” Clover sneered. “You’re in this up to your ass, so deal with it.”

“Leave him alone,” Amy said. “He’s overwhelmed.”

“Boo-fucking-hoo.”

“Enough.” Sam puffed the cigar. “Let me think.”

Allen pointed at the easy chair. “Can I sit there? I feel like I’m going to fall over.”

Sam puffed the cigar, nodded.

“I’ll get you a drink,” Amy said. “Some water.”

Allen collapsed into the chair. How long since he’d slept?

“Take this.” Amy handed him a glass of water.

He drank, realized how parched he was, gulped it all down.

Sam stood next to his chair and placed a warm, calloused hand on his forehead. Blurry syllables spilled out of her mouth, too fast and strange to understand.