by Jeremy Bates
No, that wasn’t true. I never believed I was saving her from anything.
I had simply been using her.
She stopped at my feet. “Am I doing okay, Will?”
“You’re doing great, Katja,” I said.
Twenty or so rungs later the shaft came to an end. One moment nothing was above me, the next some sort of grate. With a sinking heart I placed my hand against the iron bars, positive they were going to be welded in place, and pushed.
They lifted away.
The smell took me back to elementary school: wood polish and industrial cleaners and disinfectants. I turned in a circle and saw I was in some kind of small closet/office. Against one wall was a chair and desk on which sat a cup of pens and a stack of paper and a gooseneck lamp. The rest of the walls were obscured by shelves crowded with janitorial supplies.
Katja poked her head through the hole and her eyes widened in wonderment. I helped her out, then Danièle, who was right behind her.
“Oh God!” Danièle said, covering her mouth with her good hand. “We made it. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Will! We made it.”
I managed a nod. This felt too surreal. If I spoke, I feared I would break the spell and wake up back in the catacombs.
I went to the door. Turning the handle popped the push-lock. The door opened to a long hallway—one with waxed floors and painted walls and fluorescent lights set into ceiling fixtures.
Katja squeezed past me and gasped. “Is this Paris?”
“Almost, Katja,” I said. “Almost.”
I snuffed the torch out on the floor and left it there, and we followed the hallway past several closed doors to a staircase. We ascended the steps and emerged in a room filled with a range of display cases lit by dimmed spotlights.
“Where are we, Danièle?” I said.
“It must be Val-de-Grâce.”
“I thought Val-de-Grâce was a military hospital?”
“Originally it was a church. Then a convent was added to it. Then the convent was converted into a military hospital. Then a modern military hospital was built on the same grounds, and the old one was turned into a medical museum. So that is where we must be.” She went to the closest display case. “Yes, see—I am right.”
Katja and I joined her. On the other side of the glass was a primitive prosthetic hand that would have required the user to change the attachment—fork, spoon, tweezers—every time he or she undertook a different task.
“What is that?” Katja asked.
“A hand,” I told her.
“A hand?”
“People who lost theirs stuck that on their arm.” To Danièle I said, “Which way’s the exit, do you think?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea.”
We went in an arbitrary direction but didn’t get far before Katja stopped at another display case.
“Katja,” I said, impatient, “there’s no time.”
But she didn’t move. When I realized what the exhibit was my stomach dropped. She was staring fixedly at several wax casts of human faces—those deformed by war injuries and those same ones put back together with reconstructive surgery. Katja pointed to one face in particular whose deformities bore an uncanny resemblance to her own. “What happened to him?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
She indicated the post-surgery cast. “Is that what he looked like before?”
“No, that’s what he looked like after.”
“After?”
“There are medical procedures today…they can help…”
“Can they make me look like you?”
“I…I don’t know…”
She frowned. “What happened to me?”
“Your father never told you?”
“He said my nose and lips fell off because of the radiation. But if there is no radiation, that can’t be true.”
“Will, hurry!” Danièle called softly. She was twenty feet ahead of us, beckoning us to follow.
“We’ll talk about it later,” I told Katja. “But we have to keep going. We’re not supposed to be here, and we need to find help.”
We passed a smorgasbord of other medical displays: colorful faience apothecary jars, paintings of medics at work on the battlefield (which made me think of M.A.S.H. circa 1814), scale models with old-fashioned dolls taking the place of patients, even a full-size reconstruction of a surgical anatomy lesson.
Finally we passed through a large wooden door and entered a long wide hallway. One wall was lined with marble busts and memorial tablets dedicated to medics killed in the field, the other a series of arched windows that overlooked a cloister and formal garden, though it was night and not much outside was visible.
We were halfway down the hallway when the door we were headed toward opened and a man dressed head to toe in black appeared.
Chapter 82
The military guard started at our sudden appearance before drawing his pistol and pointing it at us. “Who are you?” he demanded in French. “What are you doing here? The museum is closed.”
“We were attacked,” Danièle said. “We need help.”
The guard came closer. He squinted at Katja’s face and winced. “What’s wrong with her?”
“She was attacked.”
“Turn around. All of you. Hands on your heads.”
Danièle obeyed. Will and Katja followed her lead.
“What’s happening?” Katja asked softly.
“Just do as he says.”
Danièle heard a burst of static. The guard reported a break-in and requested backup. Then: “Who attacked you?”
“A man,” Danièle said. “His name is Zolan.”
“Is he here with you?”
“I do not know. He attacked us in the catacombs.”
“The catacombs?”
“We escaped up a ladder. It led us here.”
“To the museum?”
“To the basement level. We were looking for a way out.”
Silence.
“Please,” she said. “We need help—”
“Have you been drinking alcohol tonight?”
“No!”
“Have you taken any drugs?”
Danièle shook her head in frustration. God! He likely thought they were a bunch of meth heads. She couldn’t blame him. They were covered with dirt and sweat, her hand was a mushy pulp, Will’s neck and face were smeared with blood…and Katja… Did he think they did that to her?
“Let me show you,” she said.
“Show me what?”
“The ladder that led us here.”
“The ladder in the basement.”
“Yes.”
He was silent.
“Well?”
“Quiet.”
A minute later the door they had rushed through opened and two more military guards appeared. One of them had the cleft jaw of a drill sergeant, while the other was younger and sported dark stubble. They were both dressed in black uniforms with black folded side caps, black boots, and back ballistic nylon duty belts loaded with equipment.
Their pistols were trained on Will. When they saw Katja, they made no effort to hide their expressions of disgust.
“What happened to her?” Drill Sergeant said.
“I’m okay actually,” Katja told him.
He ignored her. “They were just walking around in here?” he said to the guard behind them, outside of Danièle’s field of view.
“They say someone attacked them in the catacombs. They climbed a ladder that led here.”
“Here?”
“That is what they say.”
Drill Sergeant crouched before Katja and said, “What happened to you?”
“What do you mean?”
He touched his nose.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You don’t know?”
She shook her head.
He glanced at Will, the bleeding wound on his neck. “Did you do this to her?”
“I don’t understand,” he
replied in English.
Drill Sergeant blinked. “American?”
Will nodded.
Drill Sergeant stood, looked at Danièle. “And you?”
“I am French.”
“Do you have identification?”
“Not with me.”
“You,” he said to Will in English now. “Passport? Residence permit?”
Will shook his head.
The three guards conversed with each other for a few moments, then they handcuffed Danièle’s and Will’s and Katja’s wrists behind their backs. One of them got on the radio again.
“What are you doing?” Danièle protested. “We have done nothing!”
“This is a military facility,” Drill Sergeant said. “You’re trespassing.”
“We need to see a doctor—”
“Relax, we’re taking you to the hospital.” He gripped her arm and pulled her to her feet. “But first you’re going to show me how you got in here.”
Will and Katcha remained behind with the other two guards while Danièle led Drill Sergeant back to the basement level.
She pointed down the hallway. “It is that way.”
“Show me.”
She went slowly, feeling uneasy, suddenly convinced Zolan was going to be in the room, waiting for them. But almost immediately she dismissed this worry. It was no longer the two of them alone in his quarters. Drill Sergeant was here. He was huge and had a pistol and Zolan wouldn’t stand a chance against him.
Danièle stopped outside the door to the janitorial closet and said, “The ladder is in there. There is a hole in the floor.”
“Step aside.”
She did as he asked. He pushed the door open, reached inside, and turned on the light. The small room was empty. Danièle relaxed—until she saw that the grate was back in place over the shaft. She frowned, trying to recall whether they had replaced it. She knew she didn’t. Katja wouldn’t have. So had Will? She couldn’t remember—she couldn’t remember anything of those first few moments after exiting the shaft except for euphoria at escaping the catacombs.
“There,” she said, pointing to the grate.
Drill Sergeant looked at her skeptically, then entered the room. He stood above the grate and peered down. She joined him.
Blackness.
He took a flashlight from his belt, flicked it on, and shone the beam between the bars.
Electric fear soldered Danièle to the spot.
Ten feet down, a horrible mutant face stared up at them.
“What the fuck?” Drill Sergeant said, aligning the pistol with the flashlight, so they both pointed into the hole. “Don’t fucking move!”
Danièle sensed movement and spun to see Zolan burst from behind the door and swing his bone-weapon like a baseball bat at Drill Sergeant’s head. Drill Sergeant turned just as the end of the femur cracked against his temple. He collapsed like a sack of flour. Danièle made to run, but Zolan pulled her against him and clamped his hand over her mouth.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered into her ear.
Chapter 83
I stared at the ground in front of me, fighting to remain conscious. My vision was blurring and my ears were ringing and every part of my body ached for rest, from the soles of my feet to the pads of my fingertips. But I wouldn’t let myself pass out. Not here, not on the floor. I wanted to get to the hospital first, get looked over by a doctor, be told I didn’t have any kind of traumatic brain injury. The latter worried me more than I cared to admit. I’d been knocked out cold by blunt force trauma twice. I could be suffering intracranial pressure, or cerebral bleeding—or something serious enough to turn me into a vegetable or prevent me from ever waking again.
Also, I needed to be around for Katja. The next few hours were going to be terrifying for her. She was going to come into contact with more people than she had seen in her entire life, while being inundated by sights and sounds and smell she wouldn’t recognize or understand. She would likely be interrogated and locked up, perhaps even verbally abused and threatened.
And when our story was eventually verified, something that could take days, what then? Where would she be taken? Would she be dropped off at some almshouse and left to fend for herself? No, I decided. This wasn’t the middle ages. She’d likely end up at an intermediate care facility or care house or whatever they were called nowadays—those places where people with physical or mental disabilities went. And…well, maybe that wouldn’t be as bad as it sounded. After all, it couldn’t be any worse than what she’d endured living with Hanns and the rest of her extended family. Also, there’d be care workers to help get her up to date with the world, help integrate her into society.
In fact, could it be that my earlier doom and gloom outlook for her future was misguided? Could she indeed live a full life? I recalled the look on her face when she saw the wax casts of the injured soldiers’ faces: wonder and hope. I had not considered reconstructive surgery for her before, but could that be a feasible option? Medical technology has come a long way in a short time. Doctors have performed complete face transplants. Wasn’t it possible then they could provide her some sort of artificial nose and lips? And the financial cost? Well, maybe there could be a silver lining to the inevitable media whirlwind. Surely when people learned what she had been through, donations would pour in. Plastic surgeons might even offer to work on her pro bono; the publicity and prestige if successful would be priceless.
This was all speculation, of course, but there was one thing I knew for certain: I was not going to abandon Katja. I would be a brother to her. I would be there for her every step of the way—
Someone on the other side of the door began whistling, a sad, windy melody.
One of the guards called, “Qui est là?”
“Je m’appelle Monsier Lenoir,” a voice floated back. “Je suis le portier.”
“Le portier?” The guards exchanged glances.
Moments later the door opened and an old man in drab work clothes appeared pushing a mop protruding from a yellow bucket on wheels.
Zolan!
“That’s him!” I said. “He’s the one who attacked us!”
The guard closest to me yelled at me to shut up, but both he and his pal placed their hands on the butts of their holstered pistols.
“That’s him!” I repeated, staring up at them. Then: “Katja, tell them! Tell them who that is.”
“Cest mon pѐre,” she said in a small voice.
The guards seemed baffled. “Votre pѐre?” one said.
She nodded.
They approached Zolan, speaking to him, giving orders. Zolan spoke back and held up his hands.
“Don’t listen to him!” I shouted. “Whatever he’s saying, he’s lying!”
One of the guards yelled at me to shut up again, while the other resumed conversing with Zolan. I didn’t know what Zolan was up to, but my carrying on like a raving lunatic wasn’t helping any.
“Katja,” I said quietly, looking at her. “We’re going to have to run.”
“Run? Where?”
I jerked my head in the opposite direction of Zolan and the guards. “Through that door.”
“What’s happening?”
“Just run. Don’t look back. Okay?”
She nodded.
I moved from my knees into a crouch. Katja did the same.
“Hé!” one of the guards shouted. “Arrêtez!”
He started toward us. The other hesitated, then followed.
Zolan withdrew a pistol from beneath his shirt.
“Watch out!”
My warning was drowned out by the ensuing gunshot. The report rang through the hallway.
“Go!” I shouted to Katja, and we turned and ran.
A second shot sounded. A guard screamed. A third shot, and the screaming stopped.
Katja and I crashed through the wooden door and kept running.
Danièle sat in the corner of the small room, a foul-tasting rag stuffed into her mouth, her hands still cuffe
d behind her back. Four zombie-men huddled together by the door while others continued to climb from the hole.
She almost wished Zolan had killed her along with Drill Sergeant. The fact he didn’t meant he had other plans for her. These were not hard to fathom. He would take her back to his lair in the catacombs, only there would be no pretenses this time. He would imprison her, and he would rape her. She would become his go-to fuck. This knowledge filled her with a bottomless despair, a state of doom. She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t go through that.
Her only chance, she knew, was for the two remaining guards, or for Will, to stop him. This was possible, but Zolan now had Drill Sergeant’s pistol—and the element of surprise. Danièle didn’t know what his plan was, but he had changed into a janitor’s uniform hanging on the back of the door and left with a mop and yellow bucket.
Did he really think this disguise would fool Will and Katja? Or did they not matter to him? Did he merely want only to get close enough to the guards to shoot them?
The last of the zombie-men emerged from the hole, seven in total. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the cramped space, ill at ease, restive, no doubt uncomfortable in the unfamiliar environment. Their collective stench was overpowering, making Danièle’s eyes water.
Then one of them—the first one out of the hole, the one Zolan had called Jörg—tapped his bone-weapon against the door. He listened, then rattled the handle. He continued rattling it more and more aggressively until the push-button lock popped. He jumped backward, startling the others. Some moaned, some looked about wildly, but for the most part they remained quiet.
Jörg rattled the handle a final time, and the door clicked open. He grunted with satisfaction, stuck his nose to the crack, and made sniffing noises. He paused, sniffed, paused. Then he pushed the door farther open, wincing at the light. He glanced over at Danièle, his eyes calculating.