Текст книги "Reliquary"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

= 52 =

SNOW CHECKED THE oversized wall clock. The narrow hands behind the protective metal cage read 10:15 P.M. His eyes traveled across the empty squad room, past the extra tanks and regulators, the torn flippers and oversized masks. His gaze came to rest at last on the mountain of paperwork atop the desk in front of him, and he winced inwardly. Here he was, supposedly recovering from a bacterial infection of the lungs. But he, and the rest of the NYPD dive team, knew that he was actually in the doghouse. The Dive Sergeant had taken him aside, told him what a great job he’d done, but Snow hadn’t believed it. Even the fact that the skeletons he’d discovered had been the start of a big police investigation didn’t make any real difference. The fact was he’d lost it, lost it on his first dive. Even Fernandez didn’t bother to tease him anymore.

He sighed, looking out the grimy window at the long-deserted dock and the dark oily water beyond, glittering in the restless night. The rest of the squad was out after a helicopter crash in the East River earlier in the evening. And there was something big going on in the city, too: his police radio had been squawking nonstop with talk of marches, riots, mobilizations, crowd-control measures. Seemed like the action was everywhere except in his own quiet little corner of the Brooklyn docks. And here he was, filling out reports.

He sighed, stapled some papers into a folder, closed it, and tossed it in the outgoing tray. Dead dog, removed from the Gowanus canal. Cause of death: gunshot wound; ownership unknown; case closed. He slid another folder off the pile: Randolf Rowell, jumper, Triborough Bridge, age 22. Suicide note found in pocket. Cause of death: drowning. Case closed.

As he dropped the file into the bin, he heard the diesel rumble of the launch as it nosed its way into the dock. Back early. The engine sounded different somehow, throatier, he thought. Maybe it needed a tune-up or something.

He heard running footfalls on the wooden dock and suddenly the door burst open: men in black wet suits, no insignia, faces black and green with greasepaint. Twin haversacks of rubber and latex dangled around their necks.

“Where’s the dive team?” barked the forward man, a hulking figure with a Texas accent.

“East River chopper crash,” Snow said. “You the second squad?” He glanced out the window and was surprised to see, not a familiar blue-and-white police boat, but a powerful inboard V-bottom launch, lying low in the water and painted as dark as the men.

“All of them?” the man asked.

“All except me. Who are you?”

“We ain’t your mother’s long-lost nephews, darlin’,” the man said. “We need someone who knows the shortest route into the West Side Lateral, and we need him now.”

Snow felt an involuntary twinge. “Let me radio the Dive Sergeant—”

“No time. What about you?”

“Well, I know the flow grid around the Manhattan shoreline. That’s part of Basic, every police driver has to—”

“Can you bring us in?” the man said brusquely, cutting him off.

“You want to get inthe West Side Lateral? Most of the pipes are grilled, or too narrow for a—”

“Just answer the question: yes or no?”

“I think so,” Snow said, his voice faltering a little.

“Your name?”

“Snow. Officer Snow.”

“Get in the boat.”

“But my tanks and suit—”

“We got everything you need. You can suit up on the launch.”

Snow scrambled from his chair, following the men out onto the dock. It didn’t seem to be an invitation he could refuse. “You still haven’t told me who—”

The man paused, one foot on the gunwale of the launch. “Commander Rachlin, Patrol Leader, SEAL Team Blue Seven. Now get a wiggle on.”

The helmsman gunned the launch out of the slip. “Mind your rudder,” the Commander said, then gestured Snow closer. “Here’s the op,” he said, lifting a matted seat and pulling out a sheaf of waterproof maps from the storage space beneath. “There’ll be four teams, two to each team.” He glanced around. “Donovan!”

“Sir!” a man said, coming over. Even in the bulky suit, he looked thin and wiry. Snow could see nothing of his facial features behind the neoprene and greasepaint.

“Donovan, you and Snow here are buddying up.”

There was a silence that Snow interpreted as disgust. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“It’s a UD job,” Rachlin said.

“A what?”

The Commander looked at him sharply. “Underwater demolition. That’s all you need to know.”

“Is this connected with the headless murders?” Snow asked.

The Commander stared. “For a dumb-ass, tit-suckin’, bath-tub-divin’ tadpole of a po-lice diver, you ask a whole lot of questions, darlin’.”

Snow said nothing. He didn’t dare look at Donovan.

“We can chart our way in from this point,” Rachlin said, unrolling one of the maps and tamping his thumb on a blue dot. “But the new treatment plant made these insertion areas here obsolete. So you’re gonna get us in to that point.”

Snow bent over the laminated map. At the top, in chiseled copperplate script, a legend read WEST SIDE STORM AND SEWER SURVEY, LOWER QUADRANT. Below was a labyrinth of faint intersecting lines. Somebody had placed three sets of dots beneath the western side of Central Park. He stared at the complex traceries, his mind racing. The Humboldt Kill was the easiest insertion point, but it was a hell of a long way in to the Lateral from there, with many twists and turns. Besides, he didn’t want to go back there, ever, if he could help it. He tried to remember their training sessions, the long days on boats nosing up muddy canals. Where else did the West Side Lateral drain into?

“This isn’t an essay question,” Rachlin said quietly. “Hurry it up. We’re on a tight schedule here.”

Snow looked up. There was one route he knew of, a very direct route. Well,he thought, they asked for it.“The Lower Hudson Sewage Treatment Plant itself,” he said. “We can go in through the main settling tank.”

There was a silence, and Snow glanced around.

“Dive in goddamn sewage?” a very deep voice said.

The Commander turned. “You heard the man.” He tossed a wet suit toward Snow. “Now get your lovely little behind below and suit up. We’ve got to be clear and at the extraction point by six minutes to midnight.”

= 53 =

MARGO SAT ON the cold tile floor of the armory, inwardly fuming. She wasn’t sure who she was more angry at: D’Agosta, for roping her into this mess to begin with; Pendergast, for refusing to take her along; or herself, for being unable just to let the whole thing drop. But that was something she simply couldn’t do. It was clear to her now just how long a shadow the Museum murders—the terrifying final struggle in the Museum basement—had cast over her. It had robbed her of sleep, fractured her peace of mind. And now this shit, on top of everything else…

She knew Pendergast had been thinking of her safety, but she still could not contain the frustration of being left behind. If it wasn’t for me, they’d still be in the dark,she thought. I made the connection between Mbwun and Whittlesey. I figured out what really happened.With a little more time, she might have even tied up the nagging, perplexing loose ends that still remained: what the rest of Kawakita’s cryptic journal fragments meant, what he’d been doing with the thyoxin, why he’d been synthesizing Vitamin D at his final laboratory.

Actually, the thyoxin made sense. The journal entries implied that, near the end, Kawakita had had a change of heart. Apparently, he’d realized his latest strains of glaze no longer twisted the body, but instead twisted the mind. Maybe he’d even learned of the environmental dangers posed by saltwater coming in contact with the plants. In any case, it seemed clear he’d decided to undo what he’d done, and rid the reservoir of Liliceae Mbwunensis.Perhaps the creatures themselves had learned of his intention. That could explain his death: obviously, the last thing they wanted was somebody meddling with their supply. But that still didn’t explain what the hell he’d been doing with vitamin D. Could it have been necessary for the genetic sequencing? No, that wasn’t possible…

Suddenly, Margo sat up, drawing in her breath sharply. He was planning to kill off the plants, I’m sure of it, she thought. And he knew that put him in terrible danger. So the vitamin D wasn’t for glaze production. It was for…

Suddenly, she understood.

In an instant, she scrambled to her feet. There wasn’t a moment to lose. Galvanized into action, she began yanking open locker drawers, spilling the contents into the narrow corridor, hastily grabbing at the items she needed, stuffing them into her carryall: oxygen mask, night-vision goggles, boxes of 9-millimeter hollow-point rounds for her semiautomatic pistol.

Breathing heavily, she ran to the door of the armory and looked out into the larger storage area. It’s got to be around here somewhere,she thought. She began running along the rows of wooden cabinets, quickly scanning their Formica labels. Stopping abruptly, she opened one of the cabinets and took out three empty one-liter bottles equipped with sports-style squeeze caps. Placing them on the floor along with her carryall, she opened another cabinet and pulled out several gallon containers of distilled water. Then she ran down the rows, searching once again, muttering under her breath. Finally, she stopped and yanked open another cabinet door. It was filled with rows of jars containing pills and tablets. She feverishly scanned the labels, found what she wanted, and raced back to her carryall.

Kneeling, she opened the jars and upended them, making a small mountain of white pills on the tiled floor. “What’s the concentration, Greg?” she found herself saying out loud. No way of knowing: I’ll have to guess high.Using the bottom of one of the jars, she smashed the pills to powder, then scooped several handfuls into each of the liter bottles. She topped off the bottles with water, shook them vigorously, checked the suspension: a little coarse, perhaps, but there was no time for anything better. It would soon dissolve.

She stood up and grabbed her carryall, scattering the empty bottles noisily down the corridor.

“Who’s there?” came a voice. Too late, she realized she’d forgotten about the guard on duty outside. Quickly, she stuffed the bottles into her carryall and slung it over her shoulder as she headed for the exit.

“Sorry,” she said. “Daydreaming.” She hoped she sounded sincere.

The guard frowned, putting his magazine aside. He began to stand up.

“Which way did Agent Pendergast go again?” she said hurriedly. “He mentioned something about C section.”

Mentioning Pendergast’s name had the desired effect; the guard sat back down in his chair. “Take Elevator Bank Four up two flights and make a left,” he said.

Margo thanked him and hurried to the wall of elevators at the end of the corridor. She checked her watch as the doors closed, then cursed: no time. Savagely, she punched the button for the lobby. As the door opened, she gathered herself for a sprint. Then, noticing the numerous guards, she settled for walking quickly across the lobby, turning in her visitor’s pass, and stepping out into the humid Manhattan night.

Outside, she sprinted toward the curb and the nearest taxi. “Fifty-ninth and Lex,” she said, jumping in and slamming the door behind her.

“Okay, but it ain’t gonna be a fast ride,” the cabbie said. “There’s some kind of march or riot or something going on near the Park; traffic’s snarled up tighter than the hairs in a dog’s asshole.”

“Then do something about it,” Margo said, tossing a twenty into the front seat.

The driver raced east, then swung north on First Avenue, dodging traffic at a breakneck pace. They made it as far as 47th Street before lurching to a stop. Ahead, Margo could see a veritable parking lot of cars and trucks, engines idling and horns blaring, six parallel lines of brake lights stretching unbroken down the dark thoroughfare. In an instant, she grabbed her carryall and tumbled out the door, sprinting northward through the pedestrian traffic.

Seven minutes later she reached the Bloomingdale’s subway entrance. She took the steps downward two at a time, dodging the late-evening revelers as best she could. Her shoulder ached from the weight of the carryall. Over the noise of the engines and the frantic horns, she thought she could hear a strange, muffled roaring in the distance, like ten thousand people all yelling at once. Then she was underground and all sound was blotted out except the squealing of the trains. Fishing in her pocket for a token, she went through the turnstile and raced down the steps to the express track. A small crowd was already there, huddled near the lighted staircase.

“You see those guys?” a young woman with a Columbia T-shirt was saying. “What the heck was that thing on his back?”

“Probably rat poison,” said her companion. “They grow ’em big down here, you know. Just last night, at the West Fourth Street Station, I saw one that must have been the size of a full grown—”

“Where’d they go?” Margo interrupted breathlessly.

“They just jumped on to the express tracks and ran uptown—”

Margo dashed to the north end of the platform. Ahead, she could see the subway tracks stretching into the darkness ahead. Small, stagnant pools lay between the rails, shimmering a faint green in the lights of the infrequent switches. She looked back down the track quickly to ensure no train was approaching, then took a deep breath and jumped down onto the track.

“There goes another!” she heard someone shout behind her. Hoisting the carryall to a more comfortable position, she began to run, trying hard not to stumble on the gravel bed or the uneven surface of the railroad ties. She squinted ahead into the distance, trying vainly to make out shapes or silhouettes. She opened her mouth to shout Pendergast’s name, then abruptly closed it again: it was farther up this very line, after all, that the subway massacre had occurred not so long before.

Even as the thought crossed her mind, she felt a puff of wind raise the hair at the back of her neck. She turned, and her heart sank: behind, in the darkness, she could see the circular red symbol of the number four express, distant but unmistakable.

She ran faster, gasping the dense and humid air into her lungs. The train would only stop a moment to load and unload passengers, then it would be off again, gaining speed as it raced toward her. Frantically, she looked around, searching for a workmen’s cutout or some other place she could take shelter. But the tunnel stretched smooth and dark into the distance.

Behind her now she could hear the chimes of the closing doors, the hiss of air brakes, the whirring of the diesels as the train gathered speed. Wildly, she turned toward the only shelter available: the narrow gap between the northbound and southbound lanes. Stepping gingerly over the third rail, she cowered between rusting girders, trying to make herself thinner than the track switch that stood beside her like a dark sentinel.

The train neared, its whistle shrieking a deafening warning. Margo felt herself blown backward by the concussive blast of its passing, and stretched out her arms, grasping desperately at the girders to keep from sprawling onto the southbound tracks. The cars passed in a flash of bright windows, like a reel of cinema film trailing horizontally in front of her, and then it was receding northward, rocking slightly to the left and right, spitting a shower of sparks.

Coughing from the mushrooming clouds of dust, her ears ringing, Margo stepped back onto the tracks and looked quickly in both directions. Ahead, in the red glow of the receding train, she could make out three figures, emerging from a distant break in the tunnel wall.

“Pendergast!” she shouted. “Agent Pendergast, wait!”

The figures stopped, then turned to face her. As she sprinted forward, she could now make out the narrow features of the FBI agent, staring motionlessly in her direction.

“Dr. Green?” came the familiar drawl.

“Jesus Christ, Margo!” the voice of D’Agosta snapped angrily. “What the hell are you doing here? Pendergast told you—”

“Shut up and listen!” Margo hissed, coming to a stop before them. “I figured out what Kawakita was doing with the vitamin D he was synthesizing in his lab. It had nothing to do with the plant, or glaze, or anything. He was making a weapon.”

Even in the dark, she could make out the disbelief on D’Agosta’s features. Mephisto stood behind him, silent and watching, like a dark apparition.

“It’s true,” she panted. “We know the Wrinklers hate light. Correct? But it’s more than hatred. They fearit. Light is deadly to them.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Pendergast said. “It’s not the light itself, actually. It’s what the light creates.Sunlight falling on skin activates vitamin D. Right? If this were poisonous to the creatures, direct light would cause them great pain, even death. That’s why some of my inoculated cultures died. They were left under the lamp overnight. And that might even explain how the Wrinklers got their name. Skin lacking in vitamin D tends to have a wrinkled, leathery appearance. And vitamin D deficiency causes osteomalacia, softening of the bones. Remember how Dr. Brambell said Kawakita’s skeleton looked almost as if it had suffered a nightmarish case of scurvy? Well, it had.”

“But this is all guesswork,” D’Agosta said. “Where’s the proof?”

“Why else would Kawakita have been synthesizing it?” Margo cried. “Remember, it was equally poisonous to him. He knew the creatures would be after him if he destroyed their plant supply. And then, lacking the drag, they would go on a killing rampage. No, he had to kill both the plants andthe creatures.”

Pendergast was nodding. “It appears to be the only possible explanation. But why have you come all this way to tell us about it?”

Margo slapped her carryall. “Because I’ve got three liters of vitamin D in solution, right here.”

D’Agosta snorted. “So? We’re not exactly short of firepower here.”

“If there’s as many of them down there as we think, you couldn’t carryenough firepower to stop all of them,” Margo said. “Remember what it took to bring down Mbwun?”

“Our intention is to avoid any encounters,” Pendergast said.

“But you sure aren’t taking any chances, with all those weapons you’re toting,” Margo replied. “Bullets may hurt them. But this”—she gestured at her pack—“gets them where they live.”

Pendergast sighed. “Very well, Dr. Green,” he said. “Pass it over. We’ll divide the bottles among ourselves.”

“No way,” Margo said. “ Icarry the bottles. And I come along.”

“Another train’s coming,” Mephisto interjected.

Pendergast was silent a moment. “I already explained that it’s not—”

“I’ve come this far!” Margo said, hearing the anger and determination in her own words as she spoke. “There’s no way in hell I’m going back now. And don’t tell me again how dangerous it is. You want me to sign something indemnifying the authorities in case I scratch myself? Fine. Pass it over.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Pendergast sighed deeply “Very well, Dr. Green. We can’t waste any more time arguing. Mephisto, take us below.”

= 54 =

SMITHBACK FROZE IN the tunnel, listening. There were the footsteps again, seemingly more distant this time. He breathed deeply several times, swallowing hard, trying to force his heart back down out of his throat. In the dark, he’d lost his way in the narrow passages. He was no longer even sure he was moving in the right direction. For all he knew, he’d turned himself around completely and was heading back toward the killers, whoever or whatever they were. Yet instinct told him he was still heading away from the scene of horrible butchery. The slick-walled passages still seemed to lead in only one direction: down.

The hideous creatures he had seen were the Wrinklers, he was sure of that. The ones Mephisto had been raving about, maybe the ones that had killed all those people in the subway. Wrinklers. In the space of a few minutes, they’d killed at least four men… Waxie’s screams seemed to echo and reecho in his ears until he wasn’t sure what was real and what was merely memory.

Then another, very real, sound intruded into his thoughts: the footsteps again, and very close. He twisted around in panic, looking for a place to run. Suddenly there was a bright light in his eyes, and behind it a figure loomed toward him. Smithback tensed for a fight he hoped would be mercifully short.

But then the figure shrank back, squealing in terror. The flashlight dropped to the floor and came rattling toward Smithback. With a flood of relief, the journalist recognized the bushy mustache belonging to Duffy, the fellow who’d been straggling up the ladder behind Waxie. He must have eluded his pursuers, God only knew how.

“Calm down!” Smithback whispered, grabbing the flashlight before it rolled away. “I’m a journalist; I saw it all happen.”

Duffy was too frightened, or winded, to ask what Smithback was doing underneath the Central Park Reservoir. He sat on the brick floor of the tunnel, his sides heaving. Every few seconds he took a quick look into the blackness behind him.

“Know how to get out of here?” Smithback prodded.

“No,” Duffy gasped. “Maybe. Come on, help me up.”

“Name’s Bill Smithback,” Smithback whispered, reaching down and hoisting the trembling engineer to his feet.

“Stan Duffy,” the engineer hiccuped.

“How’d you get away from those things?”

“I lost them back there in the overflow shunts,” Duffy said. A large tear rolled slowly down his mud-streaked face.

“How come these tunnels only lead down, and not up?”

Duffy dabbed absently at his eyes with one sleeve. “We’re in the secondary flow tunnels. In an emergency, water runs down both the main tube and these secondary tubes, right to the Bottleneck. It’s a closed system. Everything around here has to go through the Bottleneck.” He stopped, and his eyes widened, as if remembering something. Then he glanced at his watch. “We have to go!” he said. “We’ve got just ninety minutes!”

“Ninety minutes? Until what?” Smithback asked, playing the light ahead of them down the tunnel.

“The Reservoir’s going to drain at midnight; there’s no stopping it now. And when it does, it’s going right down these tunnels.”

“What?” Smithback breathed.

“They’re trying to flush out the lowest levels, the Astor Tunnels, to get rid of the creatures. Or they were, anyway. Now they want to change their minds. But it’s too late—”

“The Astor Tunnels?” Smithback asked. Must be that Devil’s Attic Mephisto was talking about.

Duffy suddenly grabbed the flashlight and started running down the tunnel.

Smithback took off after him. The passage joined a larger one which continued downward, spiraling like a gigantic corkscrew. There was no light save for the wildly flailing beam of the flashlight. He tried to stay to the sides of the curving tunnel floor, avoiding the standing water that ran along its bottom. Though he wasn’t sure why he bothered; Duffy was splashing straight down the center, making enough noise to raise the dead.

Moments later, Duffy stopped. “I heard them!” he shrieked as Smithback appeared by his side.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Smithback panted, looking around.

But Duffy was running again, and Smithback followed, panic ripping his heart, thoughts of a big story forgotten. A dark opening appeared at the side of the tunnel, and Duffy made for it. Smithback followed, and suddenly the ground opened up beneath his feet. In an instant, he was sliding uncontrollably down a slick wet chute. Duffy’s wail came keening up from below as Smithback spun around, clawing at the slick surface. It was like every dream he’d ever had of falling, except even more horrible, inside a dank black runnel, unguessable depths beneath Manhattan. Suddenly there was a splash in front of him, and the next moment he too landed, hard, in about twenty inches of water.

He scrambled to his feet, aching in numerous places but glad to feel a firm surface under his feet. The floor of the tunnel seemed even, and the water smelled relatively fresh. Beside him, Duffy was wailing uncontrollably.

“Shut up,” Smithback hissed at him. “You’re going to draw those things right to us.”

“Oh, my God,” Duffy sobbed in the darkness. “This can’t be happening, it can’t. What are they? What—”

Smithback reached into the blackness, located Duffy’s arm, and pulled the man toward him brusquely. “Shut up,” he said, lips touching the engineer’s ear.

The sobbing subsided to a soft hiccuping.

“Where’s the flashlight?” Smithback whispered.

Sobbing was the only reply. But then a dim light switched on nearby. Miraculously, Duffy was still clutching it.

“Where are we?”

The hiccuping subsided.

“ Duffy!Where are we?’”

There was a stifled sob. “I don’t know. One of the spillover tubes, maybe.”

“Any idea where it goes?”

There was a sniffle. “It bleeds off excess flow from the Reservoir. If we move downstream to the Bottleneck, maybe we can reach the lower drain system.”

“And from there, how do we get out?” Smithback whispered.

Duffy hiccuped. “Don’t know.”

Smithback mopped his face again and said nothing, trying to roll the fear, the pain, and the shock into a little ball he could stuff down inside himself. He tried to think about his story. God, he’d be a made man with a story like this, following on the heels of the Museum Beast murders. And with luck, he’d still have the Wisher piece in his pocket. But first…

There was a splashing sound, its distance hard to gauge because of the echoes but clearly approaching. He leaned into the darkness, straining to hear.

“They’re still after us!” Duffy yelped, inches from his eardrum.

Smithback grabbed the arm a second time. “Duffy, shut up and listen to me. We can’t outrun them. We need to losethem. You know the system: you’ve got to tell me how.”

Duffy struggled, making an unintelligible sound of fear.

Smithback squeezed harder. “Look, we’re going to be all right if you just calm down and think.”

Duffy seemed to relax, and Smithback could hear him breathing heavily. “All right,” the engineer said. “The emergency spillovers have gauging stations at the bottom. Just before the Bottleneck. If that’s where we are, maybe we can hide inside—”

“Let’s go,” Smithback hissed.

They splashed through the darkness, the flashlight beam jogging from wall to wall. The low tunnel took a turn, and a vast, ancient piece of machinery rose up before Smithback: a giant hollow screw, or something like it, placed horizontally on a bed of granite. Heavily rusted pipes protruded from either end, and a convoluted mass of pipes lay farther back, like coiled iron guts. At the base of the machine was a small railed platform. The main body of the stream ran down past the station, while a small side tunnel snaked its way into the blackness to their left. Taking the flashlight, Smithback grabbed the railing and swung himself up, then helped Duffy to a position beside him.

“Into the pipe,” Smithback whispered. He pushed Duffy inside, then wriggled in himself, tossing the lighted flashlight into the stream before retreating into the darkness.

“Are you crazy? You just threw away—”

“It’s plastic,” Smithback said. “It’ll float. I’m hoping they’ll follow the light downstream.”

They sat in absolute silence. The thick walls of the gauging machinery muffled the tunnel noise, but in a few minutes Smithback could tell that the splashing sounds had grown more distinct. The Wrinklers were approaching—swiftly, too, by the sound. Behind him, he could feel Duffy twitch, and he prayed the engineer would keep his head. The splashing became louder and now Smithback could hear them breathing, a heavy wheezing, like a winded horse. The splashing sounds drew alongside the gauging station, then stopped.

The foul goatish reek was thick now, and Smithback shut his eyes tightly. In the blackness to his rear, Duffy was trembling violently.

He heard splashes in the water outside the station as the things milled about. There was a low noise that sounded like snuffling, and Smithback froze, remembering the Mbwun beast’s keen sense of smell. The splashing continued. Then—with an enormous feeling of relief—Smithback heard it begin to retreat. The things were continuing down the tunnel.

He breathed slowly and deeply, counting each breath. At thirty, he turned to Duffy. “Which way to the storm drains?”

“Out the far end,” Duffy whispered.

“Let’s go.”

Carefully, they turned around within the cramped, fetid space and began wriggling their way toward the rear of the pipe. Duffy emerged at last into the open air. Smithback heard first one, then both, of the engineer’s feet drop into the water, and was wriggling forward himself when a sudden piercing scream cut through the pitch black, and a spray too thick and warm to be water spattered his face. He backed frantically into the pipe.

“Help!” Duffy blurted suddenly. “No, please don’t, you’re gonna—Oh, God, that’s my guts—Jesus, somebody get—”

The voice changed suddenly to a frenzied wet wheeze, then died beneath the heavy thrashing of water. Smithback, scrambling backward in mindless terror, heard a thudding sound like meat chopped with a cleaver, followed by the knuckle-crack of bones being wrenched from their sockets.

Smithback fell out the near end of the pipe, landed on his back in the stream, scrambled to his feet and ran blindly down the side tunnel, not hearing, not caring, not thinking about anything except running. He ran and ran, careening off the sides of the tunnel, scrabbling and thrashing down the endlessly forking paths, deeper and deeper into the dark bowels of the earth. The tunnel joined another, and another, each one larger than the last. Until, quite suddenly, he felt an arm, wet and horribly strong, slide around his neck, and a powerful hand clamp down simultaneously over his mouth.