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The Sacrifice

Page 11

by Donna Collins


  But it was in there…and it was his for the taking.

  Moonlight soon evaporated into darkness, and by the time he’d walked the first mile, only the light from his torch spot-lit the tunnel walls. He’d never known darkness like it, and nearly walked right past the tiny hole on the left-hand side of the floor – a perfectly formed circle just big enough for him to squeeze down through. He snapped a glow stick and dropped it, the amber light landing in a puddle of water six or seven feet below. This hampered the glow from reaching even a meter in distance, making it hard to detect whether anything lay in wait. Regardless, he slid off his backpack, the removal of weight from the extra battery supply he carried a welcome relief to his shoulders, and pushed it through the hole. It hit the watery floor and then, as planned, Roman lowered himself through feet first.

  Over four hundred miles and at least seven levels of tunnels made up the Catacombs, and one wrong move on Roman’s part meant he risked never finding daylight again. Every so often, as Hansel and Gretel had done with breadcrumbs, he cracked another glow stick and dropped it. As no light whatsoever reached these passageways, the amber glow could be spotted easily, and although his route was clearly marked on the map, having the added security of the sticks to guide him back to civilisation was more than a little comforting.

  He walked on, every so often stumbling on loose rocks and human bones. The lower he went, the more water flooded the route. When it eventually reached knee height and began to spill over the top of his wellingtons, he considered abandoning the job altogether and getting the hell out of there. Air had become stuffy, and his chest tightened as he worked harder to breathe. Several times, while concentrating on the route ahead, he tripped and nearly tumbled into holes and crevasses so deep his torch light couldn’t even touch the bottom.

  Roman felt his little finger, still sore and taking an age to heal. Old Man Davis could break any bone he wanted, and that was one hell of an incentive for Roman to keep going.

  So that’s what he did, trudging on through the water until it became too much and he had to climb onto the small ledges and hunch, so as not to hit his head on the low ceiling. Three times he stopped to stretch and empty his boots of water, the stench almost enough to make him gag. Collapsed walls revealed hidden rooms, and when he shone his torch inside, skeletal remains at least three feet deep covered the ground.

  The lower he went, the more bones he encountered, until the water disappeared and he had no choice but to walk across the graveyard of remains, bones snapping beneath his weight and sending chills down his spine.

  It took him three long hours to reach his destination, some three hundred and twenty-two feet below street level. Many drawings and symbols, some centuries old, carved the walls along his route, but this one – the chalked figure of a man, arms and legs outstretched – was what he sought.

  He turned to the small opening on his right, no more than three feet high, and sank to his knees. A shiver ran his spine, and he paused. Every ounce of his being screamed at him not to enter. Nausea stuck in his throat, and he very nearly turned and left. He sensed what was in the next room, and he didn’t want any part of it. He took a deep breath and lay on the ground atop a bed of severed bones and skulls. When he exhaled, his breath trembled with fear. Was the cross that important to him that he’d put himself that close to evil? He took another deep breath, and pulled himself through the hole and into the room behind.

  Inside, the five-foot-high ceiling stopped him from completely straightening. He shone the torch light around the small crypt, not really sure what he expected to see, and his blood ran cold. On the far wall, painted in something he didn’t want to think about, were the Latin words: semita ad immortalitatem. The Pathway to Immortality.

  He’d heard this phrase spoken only once before, back when he’d first started being a reaper, just before he’d entered Hell for the first and only time. And he’d never forgotten them. If he was smart, he’d choose now to turn and run. But he wasn’t smart. He was greedy.

  He looked for another door, or gateway, but only walls of bone surrounded him. He glanced at the sign again. Below, buried between rows of skulls and bones, was a timber plank, similar to the one he had taken from the Italian cathedral. He pulled a hammer and chisel from his bag and carefully started to chip away at the surrounding skulls. They splintered beneath each tap and crumbled from the wall until he was able to wiggle the wood free. That was the easy part. Now, he just had to find his way back to the surface and out of this hellhole.

  The first sight of early sunlight looked as though Heaven itself beckoned him in. Rays broke through the tunnel entrance, turning an otherwise eerie place into one of beauty, and Roman trudged onwards, itching to feel the warmth of the morning sun upon his skin once again. He’d been underground for hours, and although very little ever unnerved him, he swore he’d never return to this place again.

  A shadow broke the rays and a figure, smaller than he and much slighter in build, stepped forward. Roman raised his torch, the beam immediately finding the face of a young woman, extremely beautiful and, he estimated, a few years younger than himself. He paused, scanning for additional threats. When he was certain there were none, he stepped forward again.

  When he reached the young lady, she wasted no time in getting to the point. “I need you to go back inside the Catacombs.”

  Roman laughed. Just his luck. A beautiful woman crosses his path and she’s as nutty as a fruitcake.

  “Please,” the girl said, her French accent strong. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  Roman stopped. He took a deep breath and glanced over his shoulder at the spine-chilling darkness looming within the tunnel. His body ached from tiredness, and all he wanted was to eat, sleep, and get back to Eliza, although not necessarily in that order. “There ain’t nothin’ on this earth that could make me go back down into those caves.”

  “Not even five hundred thousand? Sterling?”

  Roman glanced at the entrance where civilisation beckoned, and then back into the blackness of the tunnel. Half a million was a lot of money. But he couldn’t be bought, at least not where the Catacombs were concerned.

  He turned to leave, but the woman grabbed his arm. “My family is very wealthy.”

  Roman stopped again, and repositioned the wood on his shoulder. “Sorry, lady. I have business in England.”

  “I have just offered you half a million pounds. Are you not the least bit curious as to why?”

  “Lady, I gave up on curiosity years ago. Takes too much energy.”

  The woman pulled a card from a dainty little bag that hung from her shoulder, and tucked it into the top pocket of Roman’s shirt, letting her hand linger. Her index finger tapped against his chest, and she smiled. “Like I said, my family is extremely wealthy. Maybe one million pounds could persuade you, no?”

  A million pounds could persuade him, if he didn’t have to get back to Eliza. “Like I said. I have unfinished business in England.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll call me afterwards?”

  Roman glanced back inside the tunnel. “Lady, I won’t be around afterwards.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Billy pulled the police car to a stop, and stared at the scene before him.

  Members of the public congregated behind strips of blue and white police tape running the hospital’s perimeter. A local news van pulled alongside Billy, and a young female reporter jumped out. He recognised her immediately from the six o’clock news on BBC One. Her hair was scuffed into a bun and there wasn’t an ounce of makeup on her face; a far cry from the beauty he watched on the screen every evening. An older cameraman climbed out after her, overweight and struggling to keep up as she pushed her way through the wall of onlookers and disappeared into the crowd.

  Billy tried to follow, nudging his car forward inch by inch, but the public, far too interested in what was going on inside the hospital, made no attempt to move out of his way. Some turn
ed and shouted at him, another banged her fist on the bonnet of his car. Billy hit the lights. Neon pink and blue highlighted faces and the backs of others’ heads. Slowly the crowd parted, and a quick burst of the siren made the ones who hadn’t noticed him jump and follow suit.

  Two policemen stood guard at the car park entrance, where Billy also found the news reporter, petite in frame, arguing with them like a crazed woman at being denied access. Billy wound down his window, heard her yell something about the freedom of the press, and motioned for the officers to let him through.

  He drove into the car park and the reporter, clearly a risk taker, whacked his roof. “I have a right to report the news.”

  “And you can, right from where you are.”

  The reporter huffed, Billy’s words only antagonising her further. She lowered to his eye level, clearly with more to say, but Billy pressed the window button up and pulled the car forward. In his rear-view mirror, he briefly glimpsed her trying to chase him before the two officers moved her back behind the barrier.

  Now inside the car park, Billy could see the mass of destruction that held the crowd’s attention. Emergency services swarmed the area: police, firefighters, doctors and nurses, some still wearing their uniforms while others, looking exhausted and dishevelled, were dressed in more casual clothes. Nobody stood still. One doctor helped an elderly woman into the back of an ambulance, and then climbed in alongside her. George’s garbled message about Billy getting his arse over to the hospital ASAP had made little sense to him. Two police officers, suited up in black combats and protective vests, guns swinging from their shoulders, rushed another patient from the building.

  The drizzle of rain that had started twenty minutes before had lifted, and an early-morning glow reflected across the hospital windows, warming the horizon behind him. Dew glistened across areas of lawn and trees, but the bright and glorious day that beckoned was marred by the sight of torment and pain. Nowhere could Billy see Eliza. He stopped the car and got out. Patients groaned and sobbed, and some hospital staff joined them. Billy saw Dr. Bob, dressed in a jumper and tracksuit bottoms, the cocky expression that always plastered his face now gone. In its place, a haunting picture of confusion and distress. He caught sight of Billy and stared at him, emotionless.

  Billy looked away, searching the sea of faces in the hope of finding Eliza. But all he saw were strangers, their expressions plagued with torment and fear. He pulled out his mobile and dialled Eliza’s number, but it went directly to her voicemail, just like the other twenty-five times. Goddamn it, where are you?

  A series of gunshots blasted from inside the hospital. Patients and hospital staff screamed and fled to the safety of vehicles, where they ducked and hid from sight. Police officers contradicted those actions, some by running straight towards the building while others remained rooted to the floor, standing shoulder to shoulder with the firefighters as they watched the hospital’s double doors, waiting to see what would emerge.

  Billy grabbed a passing officer, a twenty-something chap he knew was stationed one village on from his. “What the hell’s happened here? Is there a shooter inside?”

  The officer stopped. “Nobody knows. Someone went nuts inside. Killed a whole bunch of people.”

  “Someone? You mean a doctor? A patient?”

  The officer shrugged. “That’s all I know.” And he continued towards the hospital.

  Billy headed after him. He had no idea what had happened, and no idea where Eliza was, but what he did know was that he couldn’t stand around here waiting to find out.

  “Billy, hold up.” George grabbed his arm. He looked totally drained, not just from the obvious lack of sleep, but more likely from the stress of dealing with all the mayhem. His clip-on tie was gone, and the top three buttons of his shirt were undone to reveal the white stained vest he wore underneath. Usually Billy would have commented, but not today. Not now.

  “George, what in the hell is going on here?”

  “It looks as though some psycho’s gone on a killing spree. It’s a massacre in there, dead bodies everywhere. Even the corpses down in the morgue took a beating.”

  “What?”

  George tutted. “What is the hospital world coming to? If the MRSA bug don’t get you, some raving lunatic will.”

  “What about Eliza?”

  George shook his head. “I haven’t seen her yet. Firearms Unit are doing a final sweep of the building, but it looks as though the last patient has just been brought out.”

  “So then where the hell is she?”

  “If she’s still inside, Firearms’ll find her.”

  “I can’t wait that long.” Billy turned for the hospital, but George stopped him and pushed him against the side of the ambulance. It was a show of force Billy had never seen from his sergeant before.

  “Let Firearms handle it.”

  “She’s my sister.”

  “I know, but there are people out here who need your help now.”

  “If everyone’s out, what the hell are the guys inside shooting at?” Billy shrugged from George’s grip only to be re-pinned against the van.

  George swallowed, took a breath, and said, “There’s some crazy talk making the rounds out here, none of which, may I add, I believe. If you want to help, help out here.”

  Billy glanced towards the entrance. Eliza could be inside, needing his help. How was he supposed to stay away?

  Three officers emerged from the hospital entrance, all empty handed.

  “Hey.” George clicked his fingers, snapping Billy from his thoughts. He stepped back and removed his weight, allowing the heels of Billy’s shoes to touch the floor. “I need your help.”

  Billy raised his hands in a show of surrender. He needed to get George off his back so he could slip inside the hospital unnoticed. “Okay, who do you want me to help first?”

  “There’s a young man over there, reckons he saw the maniac who did this…”

  Billy listened, but his eye was on the entrance. As soon as George finished saying what he had to say and walked away, Billy was going in to find Eliza.

  “...Some dude in a baseball cap and Timberlands. Now go take his statement.”

  Billy turned to George. “What did you say?”

  “I said, go take his statement. He’s scared half to death, and I want to know what he has to say before the bloody doctors tell us we can’t question him.”

  Billy saw the young man sitting inside the back of an open police car, a beige blanket wrapped around his hospital gown, shoulders hunched, exposed hairy legs crossed at the ankles. Billy glanced back towards the hospital, but George blocked his view.

  “Do I have to frog march you over there? I said go and ask him some questions.”

  Billy’s body tensed. He took a deep breath and tried to relax.

  “If you try to get in there for her, I’ll lock you in the back.” George raised an eye towards his police car. “And then you won’t be any good to anyone, least of all Eliza.”

  George was right. If Billy couldn’t work, he was of no use to anyone. He ran his fingers through his hair until they interlocked behind his head. His shoulders tensed, and he stretched out the ache between his blades and slowly made his way towards the witness. Two minutes – one hundred and twenty long seconds. That’s all this guy was getting from him.

  The young man sat on the back seat of the car. He looked scared and in shock, and Billy knew getting any information out of him would require understanding and sympathy, both of which Billy didn’t have the time to give right now. He had no idea where Eliza was, and her mystery man was still that – a total mystery.

  The young man glanced up as Billy approached, eyes bloodshot, hardly any colour in his cheeks. “Did they get him?”

  “Get who?” Billy leaned on the roof of the car.

  “The guy inside. The one that…” The man looked down towards his lap. His fingers entwined around the blanket, scrunching the wool toget
her until it bulged in his hand.

  “Did you see what happened?”

  The man nodded. “The guy…he just…he just ripped their heads off.”

  “What?” Billy crouched down beside him. “Whose heads?”

  “The old couple.”

  “With his bare hands?”

  The man nodded, almost trance-like. He pulled the sagging blanket back around his shoulders. “I expected more blood.”

  “What did this man look like?”

  “Tall. I…I couldn’t see his face. His hat was pulled down too low.”

  “What kind of hat was it?”

  “Baseball cap. Navy, black, dark green. I’m not sure.”

  Billy’s stomach tightened. “What else? What else was he wearing?”

  The man thought for a moment. His head started to shake, as though his brain didn’t want to remember any more.

  “Think hard,” Billy said.

  The man closed his eyes. “A jacket, dark, I don’t know what kind.”

  “Okay, that’s good. What else?”

  “Boots, maybe the Timberland kind. Again, I don’t know. Everything happened so fast.” The man opened his eyes. “He did curse about the amount of blood on them.”

  “Blood?”

  A single tear rolled from the corner of the man’s eye, its trail glistening across his cheek until it ran dry. “So much blood.”

  “I thought you said there wasn’t a lot of blood.”

  The man glanced up. “Not from the old couple. But the security guard…”

 

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