Midnight's Lair (24 page)

    'For the love of Christ,' Hank snapped.

    Her eyes shot open.

    'Put on your jacket and let's get going.'

    She gave him a hurt look. 'I was just trying to get warm.'

    'You're getting me downright hot,' Brad said.

    She scowled at Brad, then pulled apart the sleeves of the jacket tied at her waist. Backing away from the lantern, she put the jacket on. She tugged its zipper up to her throat and said to Hank, 'There, are you happy now?'

    'Can we go?'

    Chris, coming up behind the girl, met Hank's eyes. She shook her head, grinned, and tapped Lynn on the shoulder.

    Lynn took the wet blouse from her. 'What are you smiling about? You think this is real funny?'

    'I'm just happy for your boobs,' Chris said. 'I'm sure they're a lot warmer now.'

    'Hardly far.' Lynn tied the sleeves of the blouse at her waist. 'You're a real laugh riot. I don't know what I'm doing here anyway.'

    'You don't have to stay,' Chris told her.

    'Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you.'

    'You're holding us up,' Hank said.

    'I fell. Or doesn't that mean anything to you?'

    'I'm sorry you fell, but…'

    'Do you want me to leave?'

    
Here's my big chance,
Hank thought.
Say yes, and she'll probably go.

    To his amazement, he realized that he felt sorry for her. She was somehow like a kid, a troublesome brat, but a brat who was starved for attention, approval, even love.

    
Don't go soft,
he told himself.
She's a pain in the ass, all that won't be the end of it unless you get rid of her.

    'Well?' she asked. 'Just say the word, and I'm out of here.'

    'I don't know. Will you behave?'

    'Behave? Are you shitting me? You sound like my old man.'

    'I believe,' Brad explained, 'that Hank is asking you to stop acting like a bitch in heat.'

    'Spare me, huh?'

    Chris put a hand on Lynn's shoulder. 'You don't want to go back alone,' she said.

    Lynn stared at her. No smart remark came out.

    'Let's get moving,' Hank said. 'Take the lantern, Lynn. You can lead the way, and the thing'll help warm you up.'

    Nodding, she took the lantern from him. She turned around and began walking upstream, her shoes making soft splashes. Brad followed, the pickaxe resting on one shoulder. Chris put her hand in Hank's. They walked up the stream behind Brad.

    They were in shadows. Though Hank could see the brightness ahead, the dark seemed to be pressing in on him. Sometimes, when Lynn passed a bend in the stream and high rocks blocked the light, he felt the cavern shrinking. His heart hammered. He struggled to breathe. When the brightness bloomed ahead of him again, the pressure receded slightly.

    He wished he hadn't given the lantern to Lynn.

    At least she's out of our hair, now, he told himself. Then he realized her annoying antics had been such a distraction that, for a while, he'd forgotten he was in the cave.

    
I ought to thank her,
he thought.

    Ought to hurry on ahead and catch up with the little twit and encourage her to start flaunting herself again.

    'Do you smell that?' Chris whispered.

    He sniffed the dank air. Though he'd been inhaling it, often frantically, from the moment he crawled into the cave, he hadn't given any thought to its smell. Now, he did. And detected faint odours he hadn't noticed before. 'My God,' he muttered.

    'It smells like… faeces. And rotten meat.'

    'Must be…' He fought for breath. 'Animals. Must live in here. And die.'

    The hooch was suddenly on top of him, crushing him. Not just the hooch, but his gunner, Willy Jones. Blackness. A stench of shit. He knew Willy was hurt, felt the blood running all over him. It didn't take long to realize Willy was dead. But he couldn't move, couldn't get out of the blackness, couldn't get out from under the body. Which started to rot.

    'Hank? Hank!'

    Chris was in front of him, shaking him, then clutching him tight to her body as he shuddered and wheezed.

    Light came. As he began to recover, he saw Brad and Lynn in front of him, staring with alarm.

    'I'm okay,' he gasped.

    'You're in no shape to go on with this,' Brad said.

    'Maybe we'd better all turn back,' said Lynn.

    'No. Got to…'

    'It's all right,' Chris whispered close to his ear. 'You're all right, now.'

    'What set him off?' Brad asked.

    'We were talking about that odd smell.'

    'Yeah, what is that smell?' Brad asked. 'I just started noticing it, myself.'

    'Death,' Hank muttered.

    Chris rubbed his back.

    'Can't be nothing dead in here,' Lynn said, sniffing the air. 'It's all closed up.'

    'So what's the stink?' Brad asked her.

    She shrugged. 'Does smell a little like shit, I guess. But that's impossible.'

    'Not just shit,' Brad said. 'It's like there's a rotting carcass.'

    'Elizabeth Mordock? Maybe we're close to that chasm.' Lynn, still sniffing, started to look around as if searching for it.

    'She's been dead sixty years,' Brad said. 'She's got to be nothing but bones by now.'

    'Maybe we'd better get out of here.'

    Brad looked at Hank. 'You going to flip out again?'

    
Flip out.

    
Hey, this guy's flipped out.

    
Well fuck, wouldn't you?

    That's what they'd said, the Marines who pulled him out. Pulled him out after an eternity that had actually lasted three days - the time it took to recapture the base camp after it had been shelled by the NVA and overrun.

    'I didn't flip out.' Hank told Brad. 'You don't know what the fuck flipping out is.'

    He felt Chris go rigid, as if shocked to hear the hard words spew out. He stroked her hair. Some of the tension went out of her body. She ran her hands down to his hips. 'You okay?' she asked.

    He nodded. 'Let's keep going.'

    They parted, and he saw Lynn shaking her head. 'Not me. No way. This is getting too damn weird. I mean, you're throwing fits and… and it doesn't smell right in here. It didn't smell like this before, and that means something's up ahead and I mean it must be dead and stinking, whatever it is, and I don't want to find out. No thanks. It's not like they even need to get rescued. If you don't get to them, they're just gonna get taken up in the elevator shafts so what's the point anyway? It's stupid. So from here on, you can just count me out.' She thrust the lantern toward Hank. He took its wire handle. 'Adios.' She turned her flashlight on, and stepped forward as if to pass between Hank and Chris.

    'Wait,' Hank said.

    'You're not going to talk me out of it, this time. Huh-uh. I'm getting bad vibes about this place, real bad. So you guys enjoy yourselves.'

    'Hold on. Chris, maybe you'd better go with her. Brad and I can go on ahead, if he's still willing.'

    Brad nodded.

    'I'm not leaving,' Chris said.

    'I don't need an escort,' Lynn said. 'I'm a big girl.'

    'I'm staying with you, Hank.'

    'Something's very wrong about all this,' he told her.

    'I know.'

    'This part of the cave is supposed to be closed up. Isn't it, Lynn?'

    'It was till we knocked through the wall.'

    'No other way in or out?'

    'Not supposed to be.'

    'Well, something has been decomposing in here.'

    'And taking dumps,' Lynn added.

    'It's turning nasty,' he said to Chris. 'I've got… bad feelings, myself.'

    'Well, I'm going with you.'

    'Bye.' Lynn stepped between them and started to run.

    Looking over his shoulder, Hank saw her dashing down the middle of the stream, the beam of her flashlight jumping around the rocks. Then she disappeared around a bend. The sound of her splashes faded.

    'Let's stick close together,' Hank said.

    Holding the lantern out ahead of him, very aware of Chris gripping his other hand, he started walking. Brad stayed close behind them.

    Though Hank still had some trouble breathing, he felt as if all his senses had been put on alert.

    There was danger here.

    Danger that he could feel, that he could smell in the subtle foulness of the air.

    The cave no longer squeezed him. He wasn't in a cave, he was in the jungle, on patrol. He didn't know what to expect, so he expected anything.

    And therefore he didn't gasp, didn't even flinch, at the sight that made Chris suck in a harsh breath and hurl herself against him and clutch him like a thrown cat.

    Brad came up beside them, took a step ahead of them. He brought the pickaxe down, holding it level with his chest as if prepared to use it as a weapon. Turning slowly, he looked from side to side. 'Jesus,' he muttered. Hank heard him labouring for breath. Then the big man doubled over and vomited.

    A stalagmite to the right of the stream had been clothed in a transparent pink nightgown. Arms of bone hung from the sleeve holes. A gleaming white skull was perched on the blunt top of the effigy. The bodice of the nightgown bulged, but not with breasts. Through the sheer fabric, Hank saw a pair of fleshless heads. Someone had stuffed small, human skulls into the gown. Infant skulls.

    Chris shook and whimpered against him. He stroked her back with his free hand. Bart was still hunched over, heaving.

    Near the effigy, on a lower clump of rock draped with glossy green satin, was a ribcage. A skull inside it seemed to be peering out through bars.

    He saw a pelvis beside it with skeleton fingers reaching through its cavity.

    He saw fleshless legs, apparently standing on their own, joined at the top to a gape-mouthed skull.

    Hank had seen carnage before. He'd seen hideous desecration of corpses. But never anything done with such perverse artistry - the creations of a mad sculptor.

    
And we're in his gallery,
Hank thought.

    The glow of the hissing lantern revealed more than a dozen samples of the maniac's work.

    And one sculpture, to the left of the stream, far worse than the others.

    It wasn't bare bones.

    This is the sight, Hank suspected, that had turned Brad's stomach.

    A woman. Young. Lashed to a column by a belt around her throat so she appeared to be standing. Long brown hair, neatly brushed, hung to her shoulders. From the look of her face, she'd been beaten, maybe before her death. The body had no arms, no breasts. Most of the skin, from the neck down, was gone. Her torso appeared to have been hollowed out.

    She wore blue jeans. From the way they sagged, there was little left of her legs except bones. But the bare feet were intact.

    Something about the feet.

    Hank realized that they were on the wrong sides of her body. Her legs had been reversed.

    'I don't believe this,' Brad muttered. He was facing Hank, but still bent over slightly. 'I don't believe this,' he said again. 'It's… it's…' He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

    'I bet,' Hank said, 'it's Amy Lawson.'

    The chewing went on. There were sighs, moans, sounds of tearing flesh, crackling gristle. Sometimes, Darcy heard small splashes as if inedible pieces had been tossed into the lake. She wanted to duck below the surface to stop herself from hearing the horrid feast, but she didn't dare move. She stood in the black, hugging Greg and Carol, waiting.

    Then came whispers.

    'Take her back?'

    'Get the others. Take 'em all back. Save 'em up.'

    'We don't have to go back.' The woman's voice. The one who had known about the dock and tour boats and elevators. 'We're free. We can get out, maybe.'

    'Topside?'

    'Yeah, topside.'

    'No topside.'

    'Where're your balls?'

    A sharp smack. The woman gasped.

    'Coward,' she said in a shaky voice. 'You're afraid of Ely Mordock.'

    'I fear no one.'

    'Then come with me. We'll leave the world. We'll kill tin Mordock and live in the sun. It's wonderful up there, you'll see. But we've got to go now. We've killed topside people, and they'll hunt us with guns if we don't get out now.'

    There was silence for a few moments. Then the man spoke. 'We go. We kill the others. We take them back to the world, save them up.'

    'But you don't under…'

    

    

    Another blow. This one didn't sound like a slap; it might have been a fist striking her face. She grunted. A moment later came a thud as if her head had struck the flooring of the dock. She moaned for a few moments, then squealed from a new silent hurt, and started to whimper. Squealed again. Gasped. 'No, don't. Please. I'm sorry.'

    'We go,' the man said.

    Darcy heard sounds of movement, then footsteps that passed directly over her head and kept going. The woman still whimpered.

    'Lana.'

    Moaning, she began to move. There were rubbing sounds, creaking wood, soft bumps. Darcy pictured her rolling over and getting to her knees. Then the woman was up and walking.

    Darcy listened to the footfalls on the planking. Soon, she could no longer hear them.

    My God, she thought, they've actually left. They're on the walkway now, heading away.

    Carol, who had been rigid in Darcy's arms, began to shake and sob. Darcy stroked her hair. She felt Greg's arm loosen its clamp across her back.