Douglas Preston - Reliquary

“Odd,” the FBI agent said, gazing at the intersecting tunnel. “This access route isn’t marked on my map. Well, it won’t matter; the last charge should bring down this entire structure of drifts, in any case.”

“They moved forward again, arriving in a few minutes at the entrance to what looked like an old maintenance area. Massive rusted wheels were stacked against one wall, along with what looked to Margo like various types of signaling and switching equipment. A tin lunch box sat on a rotting table; inside, Margo could see the ancient, desiccated skeleton of a half-chicken. The whole place had the air of being abandoned in a hurry.

“God, what a spot,” D’Agosta said. “Makes you wonder what the true story of these tunnels is.”

“Or if anybody still knows it almost a century later,” Pendergast said. He nodded toward a metal-banded door in a far corner, between stacks of dusty equipment. “That’s the maintenance stairway leading down to the Astor Tunnels. Here’s where we’ll set the last charge.” He pulled another brick of explosive from his bag, rolling it in the mud beneath his feet.

“What’s that for?” D’Agosta asked. “Camouflage?”

“Exactly,” came Pendergast’s whispered reply as he molded the charge around the base of a cement pylon. “This is apparently a more heavily trafficked area.” He nodded back down the tunnel in illustration.

“Jesus,” Margo breathed. The floor of the passage they had just come down was lined with the tracks of countless bare feet. She dug for the mask and took a drag of oxygen. The humidity was close to one hundred percent. She took another deep breath from the mask, then offered it to Smithback.

“Thanks,” he said, taking two slow hits. Margo watched as a dull gleam returned to his eyes. His hair hung limply over his forehead, and his shirt was torn and streaked with blood. Poor Bill, she thought. He looks like something that just crawled out of a sewer. Come to think of it, that’s not far wrong.

“What was going on topside?” Margo asked, hoping to draw him out of his thoughts.

“All hell was breaking loose,” the journalist replied, handing the mask back to her solemnly. “In the middle of Wisher’s march, hundreds of mole people began popping up from underground. Right there on Broadway. I heard somebody say the cops teargassed the tunnels under Fifty-ninth Street and the Park.”

“ Mole people, scriblerian?” Mephisto hissed. “Yes, we’re mole people. We shun the light, not because of its warmth or its brightness, but because of what it shows us. Venality, and corruption, and countless useless worker ants running on treadmills. ‘A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many / I did not know death had undone so many.’ ”

“Stow it,” D’Agosta snapped. “Just get me back to that venal, corrupt surface, and I promise you can crawl into the deepest shithole you can find and I’ll never come looking for you, ever.”

“While you two have been filling the air with strophe and antistrophe, I have set the final charge,” Pendergast said, rubbing his hands and tossing away the now-empty munitions bag. “I’m surprised you haven’t brought the entire foul nest down on us with your bickering. Now let’s get out, as quickly as possible. We have less than thirty minutes.” He led the way back out of the storage area.

Suddenly, he stopped. There was a brief silence.

“Vincent,” Margo heard him whisper. “Are you ready?”

“I was born ready.”

Pendergast checked the nozzle on the flamethrower. “If necessary, I’ll flame, then we retreat. Wait for the flames to clear before advancing. This fires a fast, clean-burning mixture designed for close fighting, but the propellant clings to surfaces for several seconds before flaring out. Understood? Remove your goggles and get ready to close your eyes against the flash. Hold off until I signal. The rest of you, ready your weapons.”

“What is it?” Margo whispered, pulling out the Glock and snapping off the safety. Then she smelt it: the foul reek of the creatures, hanging in the air like an apparition.

“We’ve got to get past that access vent,” Pendergast whispered. “Let’s go.”

Then there was a sudden scrabbling in the tunnel ahead and beneath them. Pendergast brought his hand down and D’Agosta switched on the beam at low power. Margo saw, with dread, that a knot of cloaked creatures was scrambling up the passageway toward them. They moved with sickening speed. Suddenly, everything seemed to happen at once: Pendergast cried out, there was a sharp snap from D’Agosta’s flashgun, and a white light of almost supernatural intensity burst through the tunnel, turning the dim black outlines of the rock to instantaneous color. There was a strange, drizzling roar, and a blue-orange flame shot from the flamethrower. Even though she was behind the FBI agent, Margo felt a terrific wave of heat cross her face. The stream hit the onrushing creatures with a loud popping sound and a firestorm of swirling sparks. For a moment the figures kept coming, and to Margo it looked as if the front ranks were wearing strange, blossoming robes of flame, which crisped and vanished into cinders. The flashgun winked out, but not before a terrible image of humped, misshapen bodies—swathed in burning flesh, falling forward, legs windmilling—imprinted itself on Margo’s brain.

“Retreat!” Pendergast yelled.

They stumbled back into the storage area, Pendergast sending another gout of flame toward the creatures. In the burst of orange light, Margo saw countless more running up the access tube toward them. Instinctively, she raised the gun and squeezed off several shots. Two of the creatures pinwheeled backwards and were lost in the flickering dark. Dimly, she was aware of having lost Smithback in the confusion. There was an explosion in her ear and both barrels of Mephisto’s shotgun went off. She could hear somebody shouting—perhaps it was her—and the frantic, blubbering screams of pain from the wounded creatures. There was a sharp report, then a massive explosion shook the tunnel as D’Agosta lobbed a grenade into the group.

“Quick!” Pendergast said. “Down the maintenance stairway!”

“You crazy?” D’Agosta cried. “We’ll be trapped like rats!”

“We’re already trapped like rats,” came the reply. “There are too many of them. We don’t dare fight here, we might set off the C-4. At least in the Astor Tunnels, we have a chance. Go !”

D’Agosta yanked open the metal banded door and the group stumbled down the stairs, Pendergast trailing, squirting tongues of fire back up the tunnel. Acrid smoke billowed down, burning Margo’s eyes. Blinking back tears, she saw another cloaked figure loping after them, its hood flapping, its wrinkled face twisted in fury, a jagged flint knife raised high in one hand. Dropping into a Weaver stance, she emptied the rest of her clip into the monstrosity, noting almost with detachment how the hollow-points blossomed as they tore into the leathery flesh. The figure fell and was almost immediately replaced by a second. There was a burst from the flamethrower and the figure fell backward, dancing and convulsing in a corona of fire.

They emerged in a small, high-ceilinged room, the walls and floor covered in tiles. From beyond a Gothic archway, the red glow of the ceremony could be seen. Margo looked around quickly, scattering rounds across the floor as she desperately reloaded her clip. Smoke hung in the air, but with relief she sensed the place was deserted. It appeared to be some kind of secondary waiting area, perhaps intended for children: several low tables surrounded them, some still set for games of checkers, chess, and backgammon, the pieces thickly draped in cobwebs and mold.