The Iron Tomb

by Peter Vegas

  Hadi cut him off. “Sam. I do this for you . . . as a friend. You have everything?”

  “Yep.” The flashlight was in his back pocket, and Sam could feel the gun digging into the small of his back. “I’ve got everything.”

  “What about the necklace. You have it on, yes?”

  “Yes,” said Sam, tapping his chest. “It’s right here.”

  Hadi knelt down. “Good. It brings much luck. You go now. But remember, you must be at the truck depot by six. If you are not, Kareem will go.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be there.”

  There was an awkward pause, with Sam on the ladder, only his head sticking out, and Hadi kneeling next to him. Sam wasn’t sure what to say, but then it clicked that Hadi was waiting for him to go so he could close the manhole.

  “Right, I’ll be off, then.”

  “Good luck, Sam,” Hadi called out as he slid the heavy steel lid back into position.

  With a heavy thunk, Sam’s world went black, but all he could think about were his parting words to Hadi: “I’ll be off, then.” He’d sounded like a lame character in a bad movie.

  As he climbed down the ladder, Sam kicked himself for not thinking to take a look where he was headed when he had the chance. It was too risky to take the flashlight out of his pocket now, so he just kept climbing down. And down. And down. When his feet hit water, he figured he’d reached the bottom. When the water was up to his waist, he decided it was time for the flashlight.

  The sewer was much bigger than Sam had expected. More like an underground canal. The beam from the flashlight only just reached the roof. Directly above him, Sam could just make out the hole the ladder came out of. It dropped straight down, but behind it, a few feet above the waterline, was a narrow path. When he’d read Hadi’s sewer plan, Sam had naturally thought of the kind of sewage that got flushed down the toilet. It was a relief to discover he was standing in merely stagnant water—probably just storm water runoff.

  He climbed back up to the path and checked the map and the time on his cell phone. It was ten thirty. Plenty of time to get to Kareem. Or so he thought.

  * * *

  IT TOOK THIRTY MINUTES TO get to the first intersection. By then Sam had worked out that Cairo’s old sewage system was a lot bigger than it looked on his badly drawn map. Now Hadi’s insistence about being at the truck depot by six made more sense. Sam had a lot of ground to cover, and the condition of the path didn’t help. It was covered in slime and crumbling away in some places, so he had to watch his step.

  He picked up the pace and made better time to the second intersection. Like the first, there was a flimsy metal bridge across the intersecting waterway. He crossed straight over, but not because he was confident it was safe. Far from it. The thing looked like it had been made out of wire coat hangers assembled by blind men. But Sam had no choice. Using the bridge was much faster than wading through the water, and if it failed, that’s where he’d end up anyway. The rusted metal joints screeched as he wobbled his way across. The same thing happened on the next bridge.

  That was how he discovered that he was being followed.

  At the third intersection he took the bridge that went right and into a new tunnel. He had just crossed and the sounds of the squeaking joints were still ringing in his ears. The noise continued for a few more moments before he realized it wasn’t in his ears at all. The noise was coming from the bridge. Sam turned and shined the flashlight back at the bridge, but there was no one there. Then he lowered the beam of light down to the walkway to see it was alive with a tightly packed mass of wriggling brown and black bodies.

  He was being followed by hundreds of giant rats.

  They were covering every spare inch of the floorboards, and it was their collective weight that made the bridge wobble and gave away their position.

  As the flashlight played across them, they froze. Hundreds of tiny black eyes locked on to Sam. He felt as if they were waiting for him to make his next move. Daring him to do something. So he did.

  Raising the flashlight like a club, he lunged forward, screaming.

  Nothing. The furry mob didn’t flinch. All eyes remained on Sam, and it freaked him out. It was as if they were saying, Is that the best you’ve got?

  It wasn’t.

  The green glow from the barrel of the Space Ranger Laser lit the tunnel around Sam. A fraction of a second later a pellet slammed into one of the rats in the front row.

  Sam saw panic set in as the furry mass shrank back and folded in on itself.

  But he was wrong. It wasn’t panic. It was bloodlust.

  Tiny fangs flashed in the light as the mob attacked their wounded comrade.

  Sam backed away from the carnage and turned off the flashlight for five seconds. When he flicked it back on, the scene looked exactly the same. It seemed like a good sign. Maybe in their feeding frenzy they’d forgotten about him.

  He headed away from the bridge as fast as he could safely go, checking behind him every couple of minutes. It appeared he’d made a clean break, but the fourth time he looked back, the flashlight caught a new front row of tiny glistening eyes following him silently down the path.

  * * *

  IN THE NEXT FEW HOURS Sam formed a routine. Move along the path as fast as he could and then, when the Cairo sewer space monsters were too close for comfort, he’d turn and take out a couple of the front row. This would trigger another feeding frenzy. Sometimes, one of the victims would drop into the canal, and a wave of bodies would pour in after it. They seemed just as capable of dismembering their friends in the water as they were on dry land. Sam learned to aim for targets near the wall. This created a rat traffic jam that slowed the group down.

  The system seemed to be working. He still had plenty of ammo, since the magazine in the handle held hundreds of pellets. He was confident of making it to the exit point in time. But everything changed when a new sound drifted up the tunnel.

  More creatures. These were coming toward him, and they were of the two-legged variety.

  10

  RAT FOOD

  IT WAS A SOLITARY COUGH that had given them away. If it hadn’t been for that, Sam would have walked right into them. They were coming out of a cross-tunnel just ahead on the right. There’d been no flashlight to signal their presence. They had their hands full. But Sam didn’t find that out till later.

  It was the second to last intersection before the truck depot. If he had gotten there even five minutes earlier, Sam would have been home free. Instead, he had just a few seconds to act. Going back wasn’t an option. The brown horde had made sure of that. There were two bridges at the intersection ahead. One went left, one straight ahead. Sam considered making a run for it, but really, there was only one way to go.

  Sounds of heavy breathing and scuffing boots filled the chamber as Sam lowered himself into the water, but his feet weren’t touching the bottom. Hanging off the edge of the path, his fingers would show up like little meat signposts if flashlights were switched on. He took a breath, shut his eyes, and let go.

  It was a quick and silent fall, but not without cost. Sam had tucked the gun into his belt. As he landed, it fell out, lost forever in the black soup that was up to his chest. All he could do was push himself against the wall and wait.

  The beams from two flashlights bounced off the walls. The bridge across the canal Sam was standing in groaned as one of the men walked out to the middle and lit a cigarette. Sam was dangerously in the open. It would take only a brief wave of a flashlight to expose him. He decided to risk moving under the bridge.

  Sam sank down till his nose was just above the surface. The stench of stagnant water and decaying matter filled his nostrils. He tried to block out thoughts of where he was and what he was soaking in and focus on getting under the cover of the bridge.

  Suddenly, it sounded like heavy raindrops were hitting the water behind him. It was great timing. The noise turned into a downpour, drowning out Sam’s movements. He reached cover and turned to vie
w the spectacle. A thousand hungry eyes had followed him into the canal. The surface was so thick with rodents, it looked like you could have walked across them. From the bridge it must have looked impressive. For Sam, down at water level and knowing he was the target, the sight was terrifying. There was a burst of excited Egyptian chatter from the man, and the bridge began to creak as the second man, dragging cargo behind him, joined the other. Thoughts of the oncoming rats were forgotten as Sam had visions of the rusty old structure buckling under the weight and crashing down on him. But those thoughts lasted only until the two flashlights lit up the rats again. Their collective swimming efforts had churned up the sewer. It looked like five hundred black and brown socks in a washing machine.

  More Egyptian was spoken; then the bridge began to sway as the two men called out together. “Talata, etneen, wahid!” It was a countdown. A couple of seconds of silence ended with a loud watery explosion.

  The giggles of delight sounded oddly out of place as the two men inspected their handiwork. It was chaos. The tightly packed rat swim team had had their formation shattered. Tiny bodies were bobbing up and down, unable to handle the waves that had been kicked up. But what got Sam’s attention was the source of the splash: There was a new body floating in the middle of the sewer.

  But this one was much bigger and wearing clothes.

  * * *

  SAM WATCHED WITH SICK FASCINATION as the rats went to work on their floating buffet. As the feasting began, the events of the past few hours fell into place.

  The rats hadn’t been scared of him because they were used to seeing humans on their turf. Humans that brought food. The canal was an underground body dump. The rats were the cleanup team.

  There was a shout from one of the men on the bridge; he’d spotted something sticking out of the corpse. In their eagerness to get at the flesh, the rats were ripping the clothing off with their claws and teeth. The frenzy had exposed a wallet, and the discovery was important enough for one of the men to cross to the other side of the canal to try to retrieve it. Sam slipped farther back into the shadows.

  When it became obvious the man couldn’t reach the body from the path, he gave up and, much to his companion’s amusement, lowered himself into the canal and waded out toward the floating mass of soggy fur balls. Using the flashlight as a club, he belted the rats out of the way, grabbed the wallet, and waved it triumphantly at his colleague. Caught in the flashlight from the bridge, the wallet was covered in so much blood it looked like it had been pulled out of the victim’s chest, not his pocket. The blood dribbled down the man’s arm as he held his prize in the air. Without realizing it, he’d turned himself into a new item on the menu.

  Using the dead body as a springboard, a couple of the more energetic rodents leapt through the air and latched on to the man’s exposed forearm. He howled and swatted one of his attackers with his flashlight. Suddenly, the whole mob wanted in on the action. Rats began launching themselves at the terrified Egyptian, who dropped the wallet and began swatting rats as if they were mutant mosquitoes. His cries of distress were enough to stop his companion’s laughter and bring him down off the bridge. He wasn’t game enough to get into the water, but he lay on the path and held his arm out, using his flashlight to give him extra reach. Sam was so engrossed in the rescue attempt he didn’t realize the flashlight was aimed straight at him until it was too late. There was a grunt of surprise from the man on the path. Sam could see what was going through his mind: He was torn between his instinct to go after the intruder and helping his friend. Luckily for Sam the decision was made for the man when his rat-covered partner lunged toward him, and suddenly he was fighting to avoid being pulled into the water as well.

  Sam didn’t waste a second of his reprieve. He turned and began wading down the murky canal, determined to put as much distance between himself and the two body dumpers as he could.

  * * *

  THE HOWLS OF THE RAT attack victim bounced off the sewer walls, but that was good news for Sam. As long as the man was still in trouble, his mate would be with him. It was when things went quiet that the chase would start.

  A few minutes later the sewer fell silent.

  Sam pushed on in total blackness. Using his flashlight was out of the question, so he moved by feel, running his hand along the slimy brick wall. If he got up to the path, he could move faster, but to do that he had to get to a ladder before the men got to him.

  A new sound drifted down the sewer. The now familiar squeaks of the rusty bridge.

  The chase was on.

  Sam stumbled as his hand hit open space. He’d reached the next intersection. A ladder was just ahead. As he crossed over, he could hear two sets of boots thumping along the path. Voices began calling out in low, angry tones. And then, as Sam’s hand made contact with cold steel, a new problem hit him. The intersection had been the last intersection. This ladder was the ladder. The exit to the truck yards. If he climbed up to the path and tried to lose his tail, there was no way he’d make it back in time. He sank back into the water. Better to wait there and hope they passed by.

  As Sam watched the two flashlight beams come dancing down the path, he noticed they kept stopping and turning away. They were checking the water. Sam’s choice had been made for him. He had to move.

  * * *

  THE TWO MEN STOPPED AT the ladder. The wet one slumped against the wall, breathing heavily, while the other peered over the edge of the path. When he was done, he moved off, calling out to his partner, who got to his feet reluctantly and shuffled up the path. Sam watched all this from his hiding place high above them.

  As he was climbing up onto the path, Sam realized he had one more option—to hide at the top of the ladder and hope his trackers didn’t bother looking up.

  The danger passed by, and Sam pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, thankful he’d put it and his sketch book in the plastic bag the gun had come in, to protect them from getting wet. The green glow of the screen lit up the concrete chamber around him. The good news was it was five to six. The bad news followed quickly. The sounds of the men returning.

  The blackness at Sam’s feet began to lighten as the flashlights got closer. Perhaps they had given up and were going home. But as the circular patch of light below grew brighter, Sam saw things were about to go very bad.

  During his time huddled at the top of the ladder, the steady drip from his waterlogged clothing had created a huge wet stain on the path below. Sam could tell from the way the flashlight stuck to the puddle that the men had spotted it. He pushed the iron lid above him. It didn’t budge. Two dark shapes appeared below, and the narrow shaft Sam had climbed filled with light. Angry cries bounced off the walls, and the ladder began to shake.

  Sam was trapped like a rat. All he could do was watch as one of the killers came for him, his black bulk silhouetted by his companion’s flashlight below.

  The flashlight! Sam pulled it from his pocket and hurled it down the shaft. The thud of metal on flesh triggered a stream of harshly spoken Egyptian, but the figure kept climbing. Sam locked his arms tightly around the top rung of the ladder as a probing hand brushed his shoe. He kicked wildly, connecting with something soft and triggering another burst of Egyptian curses. Then a hand grabbed him by the ankle and tried to pull him off the ladder. Sam kicked with his free leg, but lost his footing on the slippery rung. Now the only things stopping him from plunging down the shaft were his arms, still hugging the top of the ladder. The man below kept pulling and tugging downward. Sam’s grip was slipping. Gravity and the Egyptian body dumper were about to win the battle.

  “Give me your hand!” ordered a gruff voice.

  Right at that second Sam didn’t have a spare hand to give. He couldn’t even lift his head up to see who was speaking. He’d been so focused on fighting off the man below, he hadn’t noticed the sewer lid slide back.

  The man above didn’t ask again. Instead, two large hands slipped under Sam’s armpits, hauled him out of the hole, and dumped him on
the ground as easily as if he’d been a small sack of potatoes.

  Lying there in the predawn darkness, Sam watched as an elderly but well-built man pushed the lid back into position and rolled a large rock on top of it. Muffled thumps of fists on steel broke out on the other side of the manhole cover.

  “You wanna say good-bye to your friends?” inquired Sam’s rescuer. Sam shook his head wildly, which amused the large Egyptian. “Okay, then. We go.” He pointed to the battered old truck parked a few feet away. “But you know . . . after a few hours in that, you might wish you were back down in the sewer.”

  Sam didn’t think that was likely.

  11

  SHIPPING NEWS

  ALTHOUGH HE HADN’T INTRODUCED HIMSELF, the man Sam assumed was Kareem led him to the back of the truck, swung one of the large metal doors open, and motioned for him to get in.

  “Guess I’m traveling economy class,” Sam muttered.

  The space was filled with large cardboard boxes. The biggest contained a fridge. It wasn’t Sam’s knowledge of kitchen product packaging that told him this, but the words scrawled on one side with a black marker. Kareem coughed impatiently, making it clear that he was waiting for Sam to sit down and get comfortable before he shut the door. Well, not comfortable, thought Sam. That was impossible. At least economy class on an aircraft came with a pillow and a blanket.

  Kareem slammed the door shut and it became obvious why he’d been waiting. The back of the truck was now pitch-black. It was like being down in the sewer again. Minus the water, the rats, and men carrying a dead body. The engine rumbled to life and the heavy scent of diesel wafted through the wooden floorboards. But Sam didn’t care. It had been a night from hell, the third in a row, and he was exhausted. Kareem nudged the truck out onto the street and before he had it up to third gear, his passenger was asleep.

  * * *