James Moore - SNAFU - Hunters

Eventually we stopped in a room with benches hewn from the stone walls and I checked the map. Five hours, and we’d barely begun to cover the catacomb’s length.

“I think this is good for tonight,” Nick said around a mouthful of cereal bar. His coating of chalky dust left his beard gray, giving him the appearance of a statue come to life. “We should head back. Continue tomorrow. I don’t want to stay down here.”

“I completely agree,” Colin said. “But let’s find these bastards soon. I don’t want to spend all summer crawling around in this shit.”

“Let’s hope the next hunt is somewhere warm and sunny,” I said, flipping off my tablet and returning it to its plastic bag.

We headed back, Colin taking the lead. The journey felt longer than it should have, my perception of time warped by exhaustion and the impatience to breathe fresh air. While I frequently turned to check behind us, I couldn’t help but shake the feeling we were being followed. Unseen eyes watching us from the blackness. Once, I even stopped the others, convinced I’d seen a shadow move at the edge of my light, but there was nothing there.

“You’re tired,” Nick said. “Just stay alert. Never assume it’s in your head.”

The paranoia continued to mount until we finally crawled back up that painted shaft and out onto the streets and into sunlight.

We headed down at 2100 hours from a new location, a locked and rusted gate along the Seine. This time I wore rubber waders and carried dry socks stuffed into bags. Three hours later, we reached the room we’d stopped at the night before.

“Look here,” I said, shining my light onto the dusty floor. A bare footprint – its long toes resembling a hand with their length and positioning – marked the very center of one of our own old boot prints. “I knew I heard something behind us.”

“They knew we were here,” Nick whispered, his hand moving to the war pick at his belt. “Biding their time for an opening. Stay sharp.”

I sympathized with Theseus, hunting and being hunted by the Minotaur in Minos’ labyrinth. I sniffed, a faint and familiar smell tingling my nostrils.

“Ammonia,” Colin said, reading my face.

We continued on, searching the tunnels for any signs, that tickling at my nape that we were being watched now fueled and unstoppable. Three times we wheeled around, believing something behind us, but there never was.

We’d rounded a corner when Colin, in the lead, brought up a clenched fist, telling us to stop. He motioned to his ear.

Holding my breath, I listened. Only silence. I opened my mouth to whisper a question when a distinct grunt, like from some large rooting animal, echoed from the darkness ahead. Then the sounds of splashing water followed by another grunt.

Nick looked back at me, his hand lowering to his war pick. I drew Hounacier and we moved forward, silent as we could.

The passage sloped downward, turning twice before opening into a long, vaulted room, its floor completely submerged in milky-brown water. Nick’s bright torch reflected off the surface, throwing its shimmering glow across the ceiling.

Another splash brought the light down onto a vaguely human shape twenty meters away at the far end, standing before an arched doorway. The ghoul’s eyes reflected the light from their deep sockets. Wild black hair crested its simian head and down its hunched back. Wet rags, the remains of whatever clothes the owner had worn when the demon had taken them, hung in shredded tatters, dripping on the landing on which the creature stood. The ghoul’s lips curled back as it growled, long and steady.

Colin began swinging his sword beside him, the blade quickly gaining speed. He took a step forward.

“Stop!” Nick hissed.

Colin looked back, but kept Saighnean spinning.

Nick nodded to the floor. “We have no idea how deep that is.”

As if in answer, the ghoul let out a howl and slammed its fists into the floor.

“He’s right,” I whispered. “It’s not coming at us.” I scanned the water, searching for any sign of a floor or movement beneath. I didn’t know if ghouls even needed air, but their undead familiars wouldn’t.

The ghoul roared and hopped, but didn’t advance.

“Just keep at it, asshole,” Nick said. He dropped his holy weapon into his belt loop and drew his pistol. The black suppressor made it look like a cannon.

The ghoul slapped at the water and took a step forward, obviously unconcerned by the gun.

The shot cracked through the room, louder than I would have expected. The round caught the demon in the thigh. It howled, stumbling back, blood pouring down its leg. Nick fired again, this time blasting a hole in the wall behind it.

The ghoul scrambled back through the doorway. The obsidian-tipped slugs couldn’t harm the demonic spirit, but they’d definitely kill the possessed body. It leaped for cover as Nick’s third shot rang out.

We stood there for a solid minute, listening.

“Cheap trap,” Nick said, holstering his pistol. “Lure us into some sunken pit. Let us drown and eat us.” He turned to me. “Is there a way around?”

Giving the water a wary glance, I stepped back into the passage before sheathing my machete and opening the map. “Yes. Take us about an hour.”

We headed back and circled our way around, eventually making it back to the flooded chamber from the other side. The ghoul’s blood still spattered the ground, but didn’t lead us far before ending at another submerged hallway with no way around.

After nine laborious hours, we returned to the surface, tired, bruised, and frustrated.

“We’ll get them tonight,” Nick promised as we started down the manhole on our third night. “I promise.”

“You said that last night,” I said.

“But tonight they’ll get aggressive. Their trap didn’t work, so they’ll make their move. We just have to beat them to it.”

“If you’re wrong,” Colin said, his voice echoing up from below. “You owe me a drink.”

Metal and concrete grinded above as Nick slid the manhole cover into place. It thudded, pinching off the light from above. “Deal.”

The ladder ended in a circular brick chamber. Shards of broken bottles gleamed from a mound piled along one side. Three arched doorways led from the room. Above one, stenciled in metallic paint, read Dante’s immortal line, Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate , the words framed with winged skulls.

“All right, Doctor,” Nick said as he reached the bottom. “Which way?”

I nodded to Dante’s door, “Abandon all hope, you who enter here,” and we headed through. We followed the passage past several antechambers, each decorated in its own style. In one, a support pillar had been carved into that of a long-haired maiden, a rotted green blanket wrapped over her shoulders like a cape, and a hundred empty tea light cups laid out on the floor before her. I took comfort that none of those candles were burning.

The passage continued on, shrinking lower and lower until we had to crawl. Nick cracked another glow stick and hurled it ahead. It skittered and fell into a room at the far side. “Is there another way around?”

I shook my head. “No. Not unless we doubled back three kilometers. That should empty into the hall we want.”

He shined his light onto the ceiling, revealing a wide crack running the length. One good bump might easily bury us forever.

“Stay low,” he said, and continued forward.

Something moved past the light ahead, casting a shadow. Icy fear shot down my spine. There was no way to draw our weapons and fight in this tiny space, and whoever crawled into that room would be open to attack, helpless.