Douglas Preston: Relic

[429] There were no more sounds from around the corner. The creature was listening.

“Hello?” she called, willing herself to speak again. “Is anybody there?”

The voice echoed and died in the corridor. She waited, staring into the gloom, straining to see any movement.

A dark shape began to resolve itself against the far darkness, at a distance where the flashlight beam failed. The movement stopped. It seemed to have its head up. A strange, liquid snuffling sound came toward them.

“Not yet,” Pendergast whispered.

It moved a little farther around the corner. The snuffling noise grew louder, and then the stench, wafting down the hall, violated her nostrils.

The beast took another step.

“Not yet,” Pendergast whispered.

Garcia’s hand was shaking so violently he could hardly press the transmit button.

“Coffey!” he hissed. “Coffey, for God’s sake! Do you copy?”

“This is Agent Slade from the Forward Command Post. Who’s speaking, please?”

“This is Security Command,” Garcia said, breathing thick and fast. “Where’s Coffey? Where’s Coffey?”

“Special Agent Coffey is temporarily indisposed. As of now, I’m taking command of the operation, pending the arrival of the regional director. What’s your status?”

“What’s our status?” Garcia laughed raggedly. “Our status is, we’re fucked. It’s outside the door. It’s breaking in. I’m begging you, send a team in.”

“Hell!” came the voice of Slade. “Why wasn’t I informed?” Garcia heard some muffled talk. “Garcia? Do you have your weapon?”

“What good’s a shotgun?” Garcia whispered, almost in tears. “You need to get in here with a fucking bazooka. Help us, please .”

“Garcia, we’re trying to pick up the pieces here. [430] Command-and-control is all screwed up. Just hold tight a moment. It can’t get through the Security Command door, right? It’s metal, isn’t it?”

“It’s wood, Slade, it’s just a goddamn institutional door!” Garcia said, the tears running freely down his face.

“Wood? What kind of place is this? Garcia, listen to me now. Even if we sent someone in, it’d take them twenty minutes to get to you.”

“ Please ...”

“You’ve got to handle it yourself. I don’t know what you’re up against, Garcia, but get a grip on yourself. We’ll be in as soon as we can. Just keep cool and aim—”

Garcia sank to the floor, his finger slipping from the button in despair. It was hopeless, they were all dead men.

= 60 =

Smithback gripped the belt, playing a few more inches back toward the group. If anything, he thought, the water was rising even faster than before; there were surges every few minutes now, and although the current didn’t seem to be getting stronger, the roar at the end of the tunnel had grown deafening. The oldest, the weakest, and the poorest swimmers were directly behind Smithback, clutching to the rope of belts; behind them the others were clinging together, treading water desperately. Everyone was silent now; there was no energy left to weep, moan, or even speak. Smithback looked up: two more feet, and he’d be able to grab the ladder.

“Must be a mother of a storm out there,” said D’Agosta. He was next to Smithback, supporting an older woman. “Sure rained on the Museum’s party,” he added with a weak laugh.

Smithback merely looked up, snapping on the light. Eighteen more inches.

“Smithback, quit switching the light on and off, all [432] right?” D’Agosta said irritably. “I’ll tell you when to check.”

Smithback felt another surge, which buffeted him against the brick walls of the tunnel. There were some gasps among the group but no one cut loose. If the belt rope gave way, they’d all be drowned in thirty seconds. Smithback tried not to think about it.

In a shaky but determined voice, the Mayor started telling a story to the group. It involved several well-known people in City Hall. Smithback, despite scenting a scoop, felt sleepier and sleepier—a sign, he remembered, of hypothermia.

“Okay, Smithback. Check the ladder.” The gruff voice of D’Agosta jerked him awake.

He shined the light upward, rattling it into life. In the past fifteen minutes the water had risen another foot, bringing the end of the ladder almost within reach. With a croak of delight, Smithback played more of the belts back to the group.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” said D’Agosta. “You’re gonna go up first. I’ll help from down here, then I’ll follow last. Okay?”

“Okay,” Smithback said, shaking himself into consciousness.

D’Agosta pulled the belt taut, then grabbed Smithback by the waistband and heaved him upward. Smithback reached over his head, grabbing the lowest rung with his free hand.

“Give me the light,” said D’Agosta.

Smithback handed it down, then grabbed the rung with the other hand. He pulled himself up a little, then fell back, the muscles in his arms and back jerking spasmodically. With a deep breath, he pulled himself up again, this time reaching the second rung.

“Now you grab the rung,” D’Agosta said to someone. Smithback leaned against the rungs, gasping for breath. Then, looking upward again, he grasped the third rung, [433] then the fourth. He felt around lightly with his feet to secure them on the first rung.

“Don’t step on anyone’s hands!” D’Agosta warned from below.

He felt a hand guide his foot, and he was able to put his weight on the lowest rung. The firmness felt like heaven. He reached down with one hand and helped the elderly woman. Then he turned back, feeling his strength returning, and moved upward.

The ladder ended at the mouth of a large pipe jutting out horizontally where the curved vault of the roof met the tunnel wall. Gingerly, he moved to the pipe and began crawling into the darkness.

Immediately, a putrid odor assaulted his nostrils. Sewer , he thought. He stopped involuntarily for a moment, then moved forward again.

The pipe ended, opening into blackness. Gingerly, he brought his feet outward and downward. A hard, firm dirt floor met his shoes a foot or so beneath the mouth of the pipe. He could hardly believe their luck: a chamber of unknown size, hung suspended here between the basement and subbasement. Probably some architectural palimpsest, a long-forgotten by-product of one of the Museum’s many reconstructions. He clambered out and moved a few inches forward, then another few inches, sweeping his feet over the blackness of the floor. The stench around him was abominable, but it was not the smell of the beast, and for that he was profoundly grateful. Dry things—twigs?—crunched beneath his feet. Behind him, he could hear grunting, and the sound of others moving down the pipe toward him. The feeble light from D’Agosta’s flashlight in the subbasement beyond could not penetrate the blackness.

He turned around, knelt down by the mouth of the pipe, and began helping the bedraggled group out, directing them off to the side, warning them not to stray too far into the dark.

One at a time, people emerged and spread out against [434] the wall, feeling their way gingerly, collapsing in exhaustion. The room was quiet except for the sound of ragged breathing.

Finally, Smithback heard the voice of D’Agosta coming through the pipe. “Christ, what is that reek?” he muttered to Smithback. “That damned flashlight finally gave out. So I dropped it into the water. Okay, people,” he said in a louder voice, standing up, “I want you to count off.” The sound of dripping water started Smithback’s heart racing until he realized it was simply D’Agosta, wringing out his sodden jacket.

One by one, in tired voices, the group gave their names. “Good,” D’Agosta said. “Now to figure out where we are. We may need to look for higher ground, in case the water continues to rise.”