Catacombs of Terror!

by Stanley Donwood

  I thought for a while. I drank fast. Smoked half a cigarette. “Yeah. I’ve got a plan. Like I said, we’ve got six hours before dark. We’ve got protection. We’re all here. Except Barry, who is otherwise engaged. I say we get down there straight away.”

  Kafka put his glass on the table. He took a deep breath. “Really? Now?”

  “Really. Now,” I said quietly.

  Stonehenge wagged his head from side to side. “We should wait until it’s dark.”

  “Why the hell should we wait until it’s fucking dark?” I asked angrily. “When it’s Sunday, when there’s no one around, when we’ve got plenty of time? What is this? Scooby-Doo? What are you waiting for? A clap of thunder? Unearthly cackling? We should get a head start. Work out where we’ll be in relation to this goddamn map of yours. Find the vats and blast them. What else are you planning? A late lunch, maybe?”

  “He’s fucking crazy, but he’s right,” insisted Kafka to Stonehenge. I was surprised. I’d tagged Kafka as reluctant. Maybe I’d been wrong.

  “What’s the point in sitting around up here? If we’re going to have to do it, I’m all for starting it now. I don’t want to hang around worrying, fretting, maybe deciding to fuck off. That’s just bullshit. I reckon we should just get stuck in!”

  “Yeah, come on, Stonehenge,” I hissed, “what the fuck are you so frightened of? We’ve both been down there. You haven’t. It’s time to test your knowledge, time to test your nerve. I’ve got the shooters, you’ve got the map, and we’ve got the bollocks. Let’s get down there and kill some fucking pigs.”

  Stonehenge looked at us. He looked at me. Then he looked at Kafka. Then he sighed. Took a pull on his pint. He shuddered. He was trying to be cool, but it didn’t wash. And he knew it. He didn’t want to be involved in this any more than we did. And, like us, professional curiosity had got the better of him. Barry had contacted him. He’d contacted me. I’d contacted Kafka. Or had Kafka contacted me? I couldn’t remember. It didn’t seem important. And now here we all were, drinking beer but not tasting it, looking at a view but not seeing it, talking about something but not doing it. It had all collapsed on his head. He’d never really thought it was serious. It had all been historical research. Myth. Legend. And now all that stood between him and a sixty-foot journey underground to a subterranean world of sheer terror was approximately half a pint of beer. I was looking forward to seeing how he dealt with it.

  “I, I really don’t think . . . .”

  He wasn’t dealing with it very well. He was practically gibbering.

  “You’ll have a gun,” I reminded him. I spoke quietly. People were having normal times around us, and I didn’t want to disturb them. As I think I mentioned before, I’m a civilised kind of guy. “And there’s some woods just over the road from here. We can practise. You’ll be great, I can tell from the way you act so reluctant. People who are too keen are just a liability. If you’re going to be effective, you need to be very calm. Very cool. Very collected. You’re that sort, Stonehenge.”

  This time he had a vague glint in his eye. I’d excited him. He might even have believed me, at least for now. “Okay,” he said, “maybe you’re right. We go down now. Forget the target practice. I’ll be fine. What was it that one of you said? Just point and click? We’ll need all the ammunition we have. Let’s not waste it. Right then. We check out the tunnels, find the chloroethylene vats and the altar, and wait.” He looked at me. “And we kill those pigs. If they don’t kill us first.”

  “Yeah, well,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 19

  Fucking Horrible

  We left the hill-top pub and found a footpath that led down towards Charlcombe. It was a steep path, down the side of a muddy field. The rain was continuous, and my umbrella was no good because I needed my arms to steady myself on the gradient. I threw it onto the wet grass. An umbrella was no defence where I was going. We slid to a halt at the stile at the bottom of the field. The lane just below was deserted. A few hundred yards round the corner was the path that led further down the valley to the KHS dig. To the hole. The pit. Or whatever the hell it was.

  I checked my watch again. It was just after 6 P.M. But getting dark. Unseasonable weather. The grey clouds shrouded the sun. It felt like it was later. Much later. The wind was picking up, the trees around us bowing to it, or to something. It was cold down in the valley. Much colder than it should have been. The gap in the hedge was further than I remembered. But it was there. We squeezed through, casually, as if we were three guys out for an afternoon walk after a few beers at the pub. Yeah, well. In the pouring rain it maybe didn’t look so convincing. Kafka spoke first.

  “There’s a guy over there, just standing around by the tarpaulin.”

  He was right. Hundred percent right. A sentry, a guard, whatever. The guy hadn’t noticed us yet. He was sheltering just under the tarp. We followed the footpath. We were going to have to do something about the security guard, or else we really were on a Sunday stroll. A stroll to nowhere. We walked over a ridge until we were out of sight.

  “What the fuck is he doing there?” said Kafka between his teeth.

  “I said we should wait until dark!” said Stonehenge.

  I turned round and faced the two of them. “Shut up. No unnecessary discussion, okay? We’re here to do a job. No talking unless it’s vital. No fucking argument. Get it?”

  They both nodded. That was good. I didn’t want to get into any bullshit with Stonehenge when we had a herd of demonic pigs chasing us.

  “Now. There’s one guard. One guard that we’ve seen. There may be more. Okay. There have never been guards before, so they must know that we’ve been nosing around. Why are we here? We’re here to prevent a murder. At least.”

  “At the very least,” murmured Stonehenge.

  “Okay,” said Kafka, “let’s scout the site. If that bloke’s the only guard, we deal with him. Knock the fucker out. But we don’t harm him unnecessarily. I know what security guards get paid. Not enough to get dead for. But we tie him up, right?”

  “Yeah, well,” I added, “he’d better be tied up good. The way I see it, we’re going to be in trouble whatever happens. But the more time we have, the better.”

  Me and Stonehenge laid low under cover of the ridge while Kafka took a recce. He was back inside ten minutes. I’d hardly started on my second cigarette.

  “He’s the only one. As far as I can tell.”

  “How far’s that?” I asked. “Are there any more guards under the tarp?”

  “None. I got round to the back of the dig. Nobody. But there’s no way we can get in there without him noticing. We’re going to have to deal with him. Martin?”

  I growled. I dislike violence, but I mind it less when it’s unavoidable. And I don’t mind it at all when it’s going to stop me being arrested for murder. And brutal, savage, twisted murder at that.

  I ambled across the field in the general direction of the guard. Innocent. Taking an interest in the trees, the hills, the view. Stopping occasionally to check the view down across the eastern fringes of the city, over to the hills beyond. Oh, very beautiful. Veiled in rain, but nice all the same, right? Oh, for sure. The guard started taking notice of me when I was about two hundred yards from him. I waved. He didn’t wave back. I started walking towards him with a certain amount of purpose. Say, what’s that big blue tarpaulin all about? Maybe that guy standing by it can tell me. Hey, I’m a happy, outdoors kind of guy. But I wasn’t in a hurry. I stopped here and there, examining trees or whatever. It was slow, but I reached him in the end.

  “Hello there,” I said brightly, “the rain’s not so bad once you’re out in it, is it?”

  “Fucking horrible.”

  I punched him hard in the gut and he toppled. I sat on his chest. A guard off his guard. Easy. I pinned his arms with my knees and held his windpipe. Kafka came hurrying over.

  “Find some rope,” I spat, “and gag the fucker.”

>   Kafka did the necessary. Once the guard was trussed and silenced, I stood up. Then Stonehenge jogged over. This wasn’t his scene. It wasn’t my scene either. I wished I could have stayed in the Hare and Hounds, admiring the rain.

  “Is he going to be okay?” asked Stonehenge, nodding towards the struggling guard.

  “Probably more okay than we’re going to be,” I replied. “Why the fuck are you bothered? Shall we descend to the underworld?”

  I pointed out the CCTV cameras, and we picked our way across the muddy planks to the centre of the dig. It got drier as we walked towards the hole. Kafka and Stonehenge looked eerie in the blue light that came through the tarp. I guess I did, too. It was as dry as I remembered around the hole. The ladder was still there. And the winch. And the props. It was only the second time I’d seen it in the light, if that’s what you could call it under the blue tarpaulin. About eight feet diameter. And dark, down there. Very dark.

  “The first time I went down there,” I said quietly, turning to Kafka, “it was the same diameter all the way down. No wider at the bottom than it is here. The next time I went down—with you—it was twenty or thirty feet in diameter at the bottom. Twenty-four hours later.”

  Kafka looked at me. A stern expression. Not doubting, but, well, unsure. I continued.

  “You know as well as I do that nothing about this hole is . . . right. It’s wrong. In every way. I don’t know why or how, but these tunnels play with us. With our minds. You got a different tape recording than what we heard. I got a different hole than I expected. So, how about this. We all study Stonehenge’s map. We decide what to do. We work out a left, right, left, right, right, left, or whatever. We do not change our minds. Does that sound like a good idea? Because it fucking well better.”

  “Clear,” said Kafka.

  “Look,” said Stonehenge, “I’m not used to making everything up as I go along, but it seems that we have no choice. If we’re to stop Them, we have to be very, very careful. We have to know what we’re doing.”

  Wow. This was Stonehenge the prof talking. I was almost impressed. It looked like he’d got over his fear, his concern, or whatever it was. I almost missed his unique line in taking twice as long as he needed to say anything at all.

  “The main trouble is that we’re about a mile north of the chloroethylene vats. Well, slightly to the northeast. Due south of here is the Circus, which is really where we need to be. That is the hub of the tunnel system. The thing is, I’m certain that the Circus cavern is extremely well guarded. Trying to get into it would be suicide. And a very unpleasant suicide. Here, look at the map.”

  The map was bad news. To me it looked like a mess. An incomprehensible mess.

  “Are you sure that’s a map?”

  “Of course it’s a map! Look! Here’s the Circus. Here’s the three tunnels radiating out from it. The northern tunnel leads directly to where we are. To Charlcombe.”

  Stonehenge was stabbing his finger on the piece of paper he was calling a map, but it took me a couple of minutes to see what he meant. It wasn’t like any sort of map I’d ever seen. More like a diagram of somebody’s memories. Even more like something you’d find scrawled on the floor in a building for people who might need upholstered walls. Whatever. But it made sense, after a while.

  “I’m really fucking worried about the pigs,” said Kafka.

  “I’m really fucking worried about the pigs, too,” I muttered, still staring at the map.

  “Shoot the leading pig,” announced Stonehenge. “That should frighten the rest. I don’t know how long for. I don’t know if these pigs are tribal. If they have a hierarchy. But I imagine that they do. All the legends concerning the Fleet Pigs talk of a queen. If there is a queen, then it follows that there should be tribal leaders.”

  “You imagine. If. Then it follows. You’re very good, Stonehenge. I’m very, very glad that we’ve got you with us. Tell you what, when we get face to face with Queen Pig, you can do the diplomatic bit, okay?”

  I ground my cigarette out with my shoe. Stonehenge hadn’t made me any less worried about the pigs. I glanced at Kafka. He didn’t look particularly uplifted either. But the top of the ladder was still here. The rungs got harder to see as they were swallowed by that yawning darkness.

  “What’s that smell?” asked Stonehenge. He swung his face around. But we knew where it came from. Even if we didn’t know what it was.

  “It’s from the pit,” said Kafka simply. “It comes in waves. It can get pretty intense down at the bottom. And worse in the tunnels, because there’s no way out.”

  This was stupid. We were standing around doing nothing, scaring the crap out of ourselves. Pathetic. The other two carried on talking, but I didn’t listen. I walked closer to the hole and stared down into it. It was like a well full of ink. Black ink, the darkest, most viscous, velvety ink I could have imagined. And as I stood there, a gasp of sulphur retched from its depths. The odour washed over me. I didn’t care about that any more. I didn’t really care about anything any more. I was ready to go down.

  Chapter 20

  Don’t Fucking Panic

  We worked out a route from the map. Committed it to memory. Or tried to. I went down first. Stonehenge next. Then Kafka. I could almost taste the darkness after only about five rungs. I had a sudden crisis of confidence. Luckily it was a very quick one. I didn’t have time to stop climbing, or anything like that. Step after step. Once Stonehenge lowered himself into the hole, it got really dark. His bulk blocked out the blue light. I kept climbing down. Eyes open or shut, it made no difference. A wave of sulphur gusted gently over me. More than once. It was like the tunnels were—breathing, or something.

  No one said anything the whole way down. It was a long trip. Took a long time. I thought about whistling, but I couldn’t remember a tune. I got the same feeling as ever, of being alone in the universe. A lonely universe. An endless tube, spinning and spinning in the emptiness. It got so I couldn’t tell if I was climbing up or down. I was just climbing. I thought about all this stuff for a while. Passed the time. After that I started counting rungs, but then I forgot whether I was counting with my left hand or my left foot. I tried to work that out, but I didn’t get anywhere. Then I started wondering whether I was going down or up again. Okay. I don’t want to bore you as much as I got bored. That would be horrible. Yeah, well.

  It wasn’t any more fun at the bottom, but I felt a shudder of gratitude at being able to stop climbing. I had been going downward after all. I stepped away from the ladder as Stonehenge and then Kafka reached the end of it. I waited for a while as we got our breath back. Then I reached inside my pocket for my flashlight.

  Well, we were in a chamber. Okay. But it wasn’t the same chamber that me and Kafka had found less than twenty-four hours ago. It was bigger. Much bigger. Thirty feet in diameter? Forty? I didn’t care. It wasn’t relevant. I heard Kafka gasp. Or maybe it was me. I swept the beam around the walls of the chamber. Still three tunnels. Still the weird bell-jar shape, like being in some kind of dome. Still mud walls. Still flagstones on the floor.

  “What is this place?” breathed Stonehenge. He wasn’t asking us. He was just wondering out loud to himself.

  “Which tunnel was it?” asked Kafka.

  I kept the beam moving because I couldn’t think of anything to say. Then I thought of something.

  “I don’t know,” I muttered.

  “Good job that I brought this then,” said Stonehenge, fumbling in his pockets. He pulled out a compass. “We need to go due south. Oh. Oh no.”

  “What is it?” asked Kafka.

  “Take a look at this,” Stonehenge grunted bitterly.

  We crowded round. The little needle on the compass was spinning wildly, sporadically swinging one way then the next.

  “It must be the iron content in the rock down here . . . .” Stonehenge was trying to rationalise something that was three dozen stops past Barking. Iron content? Oh, for sure. That’ll be it. I guess the fact that the
chamber had enlarged itself had one of those logical, scientific-type explanations, too.

  “Put your goddamn toy away,” I said. “And tell me what you think will happen if we try firing a gun. Maybe the lead content in the rocks will fuck the bullets up. No, actually, don’t bother trying to think of something. I couldn’t bear it. Hey, Colin. Have you got any idea—any idea at all—which way we went last night?”

  He trailed his eyes around the walls of the chamber. Shook his head.

  “Wait a minute,” said Stonehenge. “Take a look at the bottom of the ladder. That’s our reference point. I’m guessing, but I think we climbed down facing roughly south. So if we take that tunnel . . . there, it should be the right one.”

  I shot him a grudgingly admiring glance.

  “Okay. I’ll go first, then you, Stonehenge, then Colin. A couple of things. No random flashlight use. No unnecessary talking. And if you need to fire a gun, make sure you know exactly what you’re pointing at. What I’m saying is, make sure it’s not me. Clear?”

  They nodded.

  “Okay. Colin, here’s yours.” I handed him a gun.

  “And Stonehenge? Here’s yours. This is the safety. Keep it pressed down. Flick it up when you need to, if you need to. Keep your arm steady when you aim and if you fire. Make sure you’ve got a clear shot. Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it. Just remember: steady, steady, steady. Don’t fucking panic. If your head’s panicking, make sure your arm’s cool. Right? Steady. Squeeze. And only—absolutely only—when you have to, when there’s no other thing you can do. Okay?”

  Stonehenge took the pistol. He looked at it a little apprehensively. That was okay. Apprehensively is the only way to look at gun, the way I figure it.

  I took another look around the chamber. Water dripped constantly from above. It wasn’t homely, but the tunnels, I knew, were worse. Much worse. It was cold. Three people against a global conspiracy. Flesh-eating pigs. Sacrifice. Yeah, well. I pointed my flashlight towards the tunnel that we had to assume was the right one. And I started walking towards it.