Then Margo felt Smithback push himself forward. He stared, breathing loudly through his nose, hardly seeming to blink.
“Ah, the scriblerian in heat,” whispered Mephisto sarcastically.
But Smithback did not look to Margo as if he was enjoying the view. His hands began to shake, first slightly, then almost uncontrollably. He allowed D’Agosta to pull him away from the viewplate, a look of horror frozen on his face.
Pendergast gestured to Margo. “Dr. Green, I’d like your opinion,” he whispered.
She knelt by the hole, lifted her goggles, and peered down into the cavernous space. For a moment her mind couldn’t quite grasp the image that was spread out beneath her. She found herself looking down through the remains of a shattered chandelier into the center of the vast space. She could make out the ruins of what had once been a room of great elegance: Doric columns, giant murals, and tattered velvet draperies contrasted with the mud and filth that coated the walls. Directly beneath her, in between the cracked candelabra arms and dangling crystals, she could make out the hut of skulls that Pendergast had described. A least a hundred hooded figures stamped and shuffled in front of the hut, swaying in ragged lines, murmuring a toneless, unintelligible chant. In the distance, the monotonous tattoo drummed on as more figures streamed in, taking their places, picking up the chant. Margo stared, blinked, stared again in mingled fascination and horror. There could be no doubt: these were the Wrinklers.
“It seems like some kind of ritual,” she whispered.
“Indeed,” Pendergast replied from the darkness beside her. “No doubt this is the other reason that people were never killed on the nights of the full moon. The ritual, whatever it is, is still in place. The question is, who or what is leading it, now that Kawakita has been killed?”
“It’s quite possible there was some kind of coup d’état, Margo said. “In primitive societies, the shaman was often killed and replaced by a rival shaman, usually a dominant figure from within the group.” She watched, intrigued despite the great fear and loathing she felt. “My God. If only Frock could see this.”
“Yes,” Pendergast replied. “If one of these creatures took Kawakita’s place, killing him in the process, that could explain why the murders have grown more numerous and more vicious.”
“Look at how they walk,” Margo whispered. “Almost as if they were bowlegged. Could be incipient scurvy. If they can’t take vitamin D into their systems, that would be a result.”
Suddenly, there was a commotion, a chorus of guttural sound beyond Margo’s field of vision. The group of Wrinklers shuffled apart. There was a low series of calls, and then Margo saw a figure, cloaked and hooded like the rest, being carried slowly into view in a sedan chair made of bone and twisted leather. As she watched, the procession approached the hut, incorporeal in the flickering light. The sedan chair was carried inside, and the swelling of the chant increased, reverberating through the chamber.
“Looks like the shaman’s arrived,” she said breathlessly. “The ceremony, whatever it is, could start at any moment.”
“Hadn’t we better get moving?” she heard D’Agosta mutter. “I hate to spoil this National Geographic moment, but there’s about thirty pounds of high explosive down the hall, just waiting to go off.”
“That’s correct,” Pendergast said. “And one last charge to set.” He placed his hand on Margo’s arm. “We must get moving, Dr. Green.”
“Just a minute, please,” she hissed. There was a sudden stir in the crowd below, and perhaps a dozen cloaked figures came into view, heading directly for the hut. At the entrance they knelt, arranging several small black objects in a semicircle. The chanting continued as a figure stepped out of the hut, bearing two burning torches.
Margo looked closer, trying to determine what the black things were. There were six of them, and from her vantage point, they looked like irregularly shaped rubber balls. Obviously, they were an integral part of the ceremony. The Chudzi tribe of Natal, she remembered, had used round stones, painted white and red, to symbolize the daily cycle of—
Then one of the figures tugged at the nearest object, the black rubber cowl sloughed away, and Margo took an instinctive step backward, smothering a groan of dismay.
Pendergast quickly moved to the opening and stared downwards for a long moment. Then he stood up and stepped away. “We’ve lost the SEAL team,” he said.
Mephisto came forward, glancing down into the flickering space, his long tangle of beard given a Mephistophelean tinge by the ruddy glow. “Now dearies, don’t forget it’s dangerous to swim after a heavy meal,” he muttered to them.
“You think they set their charges before…?” D’Agosta’s voice trailed off in the darkness.
“We’ll just have to hope they did,” Pendergast murmured, sliding the cover back into position. “Let’s set the last charge and leave while there’s still time. Keep in position. Remember, we’re practically in their nest now. Exercise hypervigilance.”
“Hypervigilance.” Mephisto snorted.
Pendergast gazed toward the homeless leader in mild reproof. “We’ll discuss your low opinion of me—and my own opinion of your taste in haute cuisine—some other time,” he said, turning toward the exit.
They left through a passage on the far side of the housing and moved quickly along the passageway. After traveling about a hundred yards, Pendergast stopped short at a spot where a ragged-walled tunnel came up from below to join the main passageway. The drumming could be heard distinctly, issuing up from the narrow tube.
“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, b
ut 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.
“A shame for black,” said Mephisto, glancing at the closest table as he broke open the shotgun and reloaded. “He was a pawn ahead.”
There was sound on the stairway, and a fresh group of Wrinklers scuttled out of the darkness toward them. Pendergast crouched into position, sending the long flame licking toward them. Margo dropped into firing stance, the popping of her gun drowned out in the general roar.
There was a movement from beyond the arch, and more creatures came running toward them from the Pavilion itself. She watched as Smithback, frantically working the grenade launcher, was overcome and dragged to the ground. Pendergast had his back to the tiled wall, sending a sweeping arc of flame across the creatures around him. With a curious sense of unreality, she aimed at the heads of the running figures before her and began pulling the trigger. One creature dropped, then a second, and then she was firing on an empty clip. She moved backward as fast as she dared, grabbing in her carryall for another handful of ammunition. Then there was movement all around her—arms like steel cords wrapped around her neck and ripped the gun from her grasp—a fetid odor like the breath of a corpse filled her senses—and she closed her eyes, crying out in pain, fear, and rage, composing herself as best she could for inevitable death.
= 60 =
SNOW WATCHED AS the dark figures massed, filling the mouth of the tunnel before them. They had paused in the harsh brilliance of the flare, but were now moving forward with a kind of deliberation that made Snow’s skin crawl. These were not brainless creatures throwing themselves mindlessly into battle; some kind of strategy was at work.
“Listen,” Donovan said quietly. “Load one of those canister rounds into the XM-148. We’ll fire together on my signal. You aim at the left of the group, I’ll aim at the right. Reload and fire again as fast as you can. Grenade launchers have a tendency to pull high, so keep your aim low.”
Snow loaded the round into the launcher, feeling his heart thumping at the back of his throat. Beside him, he felt Donovan grow tense.
“Now!” Donovan yelled.
Snow pulled the forward trigger, and the weapon almost bucked out of his hands as the load roared toward the group. The bright plumes of the two explosions filled the narrow tunnel with orange light; Snow found he had aimed too far to the left, hitting the wall of the tunnel. Then, with a deep shudder, a section of the ceiling collapsed. Horrifying screams came from the group of hooded figures.
“Again!” Donovan cried, loading another round.
Snow reloaded and fired again, letting the barrel drift slightly to the right this time. He watched, mesmerized, as the shell erupted from the barrel and—seemingly in slow motion—pinwheeled its way over the heads of the roiling group at the tunnel’s mouth. There was another shudder and a fresh burst of light.
“Lower!” Donovan screamed. “They’re closing!”
Sobbing now, Snow ripped open the extra pouch with his teeth, loaded the round, and fired again. The bright fierce plume erupted in the midst of the figures. Muffled shrieks sounding piercingly ov
er the roar of the explosion.
“Again!” Donovan yelled, firing his own grenade launcher at the figures. “Hit them again!”
Snow loaded, fired; the shot fell short, sending a concussive blast of heat toward them, knocking him to his knees. He righted himself, blinking against the clouds of dust and smoke that billowed through the dark space. He was out of grenades, and his finger moved from the forward trigger to the rear trigger.
Donovan held up his hand in the signal for “danger point.” They waited, guns pointed into the blackness, for what seemed to Snow like several minutes. At last, Donovan relaxed his weapon.
“That was a hell of a shitstorm,” he whispered. “You did all right. I want you to hang back for a moment while I recon. If you hear anything, give a holler. I doubt we’ll find anything larger than a pinky waiting for us after that, but I’m not taking any chances.”
He checked the magazine of his M-16, snapped on a flare, and tossed it into the drifting smoke. Then he moved forward slowly, hugging the tunnel wall. As the smoke dissipated, Snow could see the dim outlines of Donovan’s head and shoulders as he moved stealthily forward, the dark bar of his shadow flickering behind him.
As Snow watched, the SEAL picked his way around the broken, smoking forms that littered the mouth of the tunnel. Reaching the mouth of the tunnel, Donovan looked cautiously around, then rotated himself out into Three Points. Finally he took a step into the chamber and was swallowed up by the blackness, and Snow was left alone with only the dark for company. It suddenly occurred to him that the duffel of magnesium flares was still hanging by his side, forgotten in the fight. He fought back the urge to shrug it off and leave it behind. Rachlin said it stays with me until the mission’s over, he thought. So it stays.
Rachlin… it seemed impossible that those creatures could have killed all the SEALs. They were too well armed, too battle savvy. If the other two tunnels were like this one, maybe some of the men escaped up the ladders at the end. If so, we ought to go back and try to…
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