Brian Lumley - Necroscope - Invaders

"This way,' said one of the minders… and something else that had been niggling at Santeson at once crystallized. It was their voices. Voices that rumbled out of them; they coughed, or growled, their words. They fired them at you; speech came bursting from them, literally impacting on you, or at least that was how it felt. Up in the casino, in some kind of decent light, the effect was lessened — lessend by the light, maybe, the accustomed surroundings — but down here in the near-darkness…

… It was like these people belonged down here in the dark. Almost as if they were made for it.

The minders led the way. Santeson couldn't complain about that; it was oddly reassuring to have these two in front of him and not behind. But he'd only taken a few paces when he stumbled. And now that his eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom he saw why, and also why the place had reminded him of a brothel. It was the lighting.

The corridor was lit by a string of small red light bulbs, well spaced-out on a cable that was hooked up to a low ceiling. But the ceiling was of stone, likewise the walls and the floor. Natural stone, hewn stone. And this wasn't a corridor at all — except in the most primitive sense of the word — but a tunnel. A tunnel carved from the bedrock, and the floor was ridged and uneven.

So? Santeson asked himself. What did you expect down here? You go far enough down and there's rock, for Christ's sake! And as he stumbled a second time:

'Mind the floor/ one of the minders grunted, half-turning to glance back at him.

Only half-turning, but Santeson got a glimpse of his eyes. And he saw that they burned like sulphur in the dark! He began to panic, and immediately got a grip on himself. It had to be a chemical reaction, some kind of gas down here. For all he knew, his eyes might be burning yellow, tool Or perhaps — again perhaps — it was the lights. Like those fluorescent lights in the disco, that made his false front teeth glow.

'How f-far is it?' he heard himself say. A stupid question, stupidly put. How long is a piece of string? But for no reason at all that he could give name too, Santeson's nerve was going, and all of the smart talk lay dead in him. And in front, one of Milan's minders chuckled like a file on broken glass, and answered:

'Not very f-far at all!'

The walls had widened out, disappeared into gloom; the ceiling was higher, and the light correspondingly dimmer. Ahead of Santeson, the broad backs of the minders were twin black silhouettes, moving unerringly, relentlessly through the darkness and leading him on like…

… Like what?

For suddenly, out of nowhere, there was this picture in his mind of a lamb with a noose round its neck, and in his nostrils a waft of slaughterhouse breath that stung like a slap. And as he tried to shut these scenes and sensations out, still he wondered: How do these people see in the dark?

'Now be very careful how you go,' one of them said, and his voice echoed in what was obviously a large space, but one that

was filled with a powerful musk and a strange rustling. And his colleague advised:

'Step where we step.'

'I can't see a f-fucking thing!' Santeson husked, his voice a whisper in the darkness.

Abruptly, the minders paused, so that he almost bumped into them; they looked at each other questioningly, then turned as a man to Santeson. And: 'Would you like to?' One of them coughed a query.

'Eh?' Santeson stood there trembling. 'L-like t-to?'

'Would you like to see a f-fucking Thing?' said the minder, tilting his head in inquiry, his face gaping into such a grin as Santeson just couldn't believe.

'Lights,' said his partner, moving swiftly — with a flowing motion — away into the darkness.

'Camera,' said the one with the yawning cavern mouth, giving Santeson a small push in a certain direction. And:

'Action!' came the other's gurgling answer from some short distance away.

Santeson's balance was shot anyway. Weak as a baby, stumbling away from the one who had pushed him, he flailed his arms, fought to stay on his feet. But then he stepped on something — something that writhed or slithered underfoot — and at the same time was momentarily blinded as several neon tubes in the ceiling buzzed into life.

After that… madness!

Santeson no longer believed any of this. It had to be dazzle from the sudden glare, or his imagination, or anything. But it couldn't be real. What lapped at his feet… that couldn't be real. And what humped in one corner of the cave, tossing and heaving… that wouldn't interface with reality at all—

— Until it looked at him and said, 'H-h-help meeeee!' And then he knew it was real!

As his eyes rolled up and he flopped, so the minders were there beside him, taking him under the arms, bearing his weight as easily as if he were a child. Tall, thin and spidery as Santeson was, his knees scraped along the stony floor as they bore him up and away, out of the cave of the seething Thing, to Malinari…

Three hours earlier:

Crouching low under the circular shimmer of the jetcopter's fan, and calling Jake's name, Liz Merrick was buffeted by a blistering whirlwind of heat where she ran across the helipad to where Chopper Two was making ready to take off. Jake shouldn't have been able to hear her over the high-pitched whining of the engine and vanes, but he 'heard' her anyway.

Sliding a gunner's door halfway open, he clung to a strap, leaned out and down, and took the fluttering envelope that she passed up to him. And with a last long look into her eyes, seeing the pain in them, he felt the slight tremor that warned of imminent take-off and closed the door to the merest crack. The chopper lifted off, rose up and turned once, slowly, through a hundred and eighty degrees.

Liz came back into view. She'd moved into a safe position at the edge of the helipad and was waving up at him. He opened the door a fraction more, waved back. But then, as the chopper gained altitude, keeled on its side a little and headed north, she was lost to sight.

Jake closed the door and took his seat beside Lardis Lidesci. And thinking hard — thinking about Liz, and thinking at her — he said:

Take care of yourself, Liz. You be sure to take very good care of yourself.

You too, she told him, quite clearly. And also: … I'm sorry, Jake.p>

It was in Jake's mind to ask her what about, but since he believed he already knew, there wasn't much point in it. Moreover, he knew that it wasn't her fault, that she really didn't have anything to be sorry about. It was the job that kept coming between them — Ben Trask and E-Branch — and E-Branch would always come first.

But a picture of Liz stayed in his mind — her night-black hair, cut in that boyish bob; her intelligent, sea-green eyes; her curves, of course, and her smile like a ray of bright light — standing there at the edge of the helipad, waving, and gradually dwindling into the distance. And despite that it was all in his mind's eye, Jake knew that in fact she was still there, watching the jetcopter right out of sight.

He had put the envelope in his pocket. Now, as the rumble of the chopper's jets took over and he felt forward acceleration, he took it out to read what Liz had written on the single leaf of paper that was folded inside. But as he unfolded it:

'From Liz?' Lardis grunted.

'Mind your own business,' Jake answered.

'She thinks a lot of you.'

'That cuts both ways,' said Jake. 'Can you read our language?'

'Some,' said Lardis. 'When it's printed. But handwriting? Not a chance. It looks like spider shit to me!'

'Good!' said Jake. And despite the Old Lidesci's sideways squint, he read what was written:

Jake-It's a bit late, but you asked me to remind you of a name — the name was KORATH. You may not remember it, but if you do you'll probably think I'm a treacherous bitch. If so, well, there's not much that I can do about it. But it seemed to me you thought this was pretty important. And since we don't know what's coming, it could be a question of now or never, my one chance to put things straight—