The Catacombs (A Psychological Suspense Horror Thriller Novel) (26 page)

And then there was the city of Paris itself!
He had seen pictures of it in the weekly magazines, but they
couldn’t compare to the real thing. The people, the restaurants,
the churches, the traffic, the
size
of the city, the
speed
of it.

Zolan didn’t have to worry about revealing
his German heritage, because nobody wanted anything to do with a
barefoot, wild-eyed gypsy wandering the streets in cartographic
anarchy.

For the first week he survived by rooting
through garbage bins for scraps of food and sleeping in parks at
nighttime. Then early one morning he was apprehended by a
shopkeeper when he attempted to steal a freshly baked baguette.
When he refused to answer any of the shopkeeper’s questions, the
man summoned the police. Because he still refused to speak, and he
possessed no identification, he was sent to a Catholic orphanage
run by a congregation of women known as the Grey Sisters.

Zolan didn’t know how old he was then—his
father had never celebrated any of his or his siblings’
birthdays—but based on the fact he had been born sometime around
the end of the war, he guessed he was twelve or thirteen. The other
boys at the orphanage were always complaining that there was never
enough food, or there was no hot water, but he was in luxury. He
had a soft bed of his own (where he hid any extra food he scavenged
during the days), he had donated clothes (who cared if they didn’t
fit), and he had a small wooden bowl in which to “do his duties”
(which was a lot easier than digging a hole). Everyone believed he
was deaf and dumb and left him alone. He was fine with that. He
quietly learned French and English, he devoured whatever books he
could get ahold of, and he made friends with a dog that came by
every now and then. He was happy.

When Zolan was thought to be sixteen, he was
considered a man and sent into the world. That was in 1960. He got
a job shining shoes, he got heavy into alcohol, and he killed a
man. It had been an accident. He’d only wanted the man’s wallet,
but the dumb fuck had refused to hand it over and tried to run.
Zolan left Paris and
traveled much of France:
hitchhiking, sneaking onto trains without a ticket, sometimes
simply walking on foot. He stayed in
Emmaüs
shelters, psychiatric
institutions, detox centers. Occasionally he found odd jobs as a
mason or metal worker. He spent whatever money he made on booze and
tranquilizers.

Five years later his past
caught up with him. He was back in Paris, and after a late night
bar fight he was arrested and charged with assault. While he was in
police custody awaiting arraignment, an off-duty inspector thought
he fit the description of the suspect who had stabbed to death an
up-an-coming politician in 1961, and sure enough his fingerprints
matched those collected at the scene of the crime. He was found
guilty of first-degree murder, sentenced to eighteen years in
prison, and released on parole after ten. He’d been free less than
two months when he killed a prostitute. He didn’t remember doing
it. But housekeeping in a shitty motel found him passed out on the
bed with a dead hooker. This time he was given a life sentence and
released after twenty-one years. It was 1997, and he was
fifty-three years old.

Zolan found work stocking
shelves at a Carrefour, kept on the right side of the law, began
his love affair with the red light districts, and led a fairly
uneventful life for the next two years. That’s when he began
thinking about the catacombs again, and finding his way back to
where he had grown up. He didn’t believe his father or siblings
would be alive.
But he hoped he might find out what happened
to them. Get closure of some sort—the type of thing you began
caring about more and more the older you get.

So trusting a jumble of research and rumors,
he made his way to a specific tunnel underground and followed it to
its source: the basement of the Ministry of Telecommunications. He
wedged himself between horizontal bars blocking the passage and
ascended a staircase to the security office on the building’s
ground floor. A logbook indicated the guards were off patrolling.
He took a spare key ring and combed the building until he
discovered what he had come for at the bottom of a desk drawer:
maps of the ministry’s citywide network of tunnels. He stole a copy
of each map, returned the key ring to the security office, and left
through the ministry’s grand front door onto an empty avenue de
S
é
gur.

Even with the maps, however, which Zolan
transcribed into one grand map (and had been improving upon ever
since), it took him three years until he found his way home.

And what was waiting for him there.

Zolan refilled Danièle’s glass of water,
which was somewhat awkward because he had the mother of all
erections. It had started ten minutes before when she had been
sobbing and bent over in such a way he could see down the throat of
her shirt to her cleavage. He’d considered fucking her then and
there—who was to stop him?—but he didn’t, and he was glad he
didn’t. Because he was enjoying this interaction, this power trip,
even more. She feared him, which meant she respected him. She knew
he was her only hope of returning to the surface. She would do
anything he wanted her to do. So why take something when he could
have it given freely?

Zolan’s erection became
harder still while Danièle sipped the water and waited obediently
for him to proceed.

“After I found my way out of the catacombs
as a child, I didn’t return to them for nearly half a century,” he
told her, retaking his seat on the edge of the desk, adjusting
himself discreetly. “And when I did, and I made my way back
here…how do I explain? It was hard to comprehend what had
transpired in my absence. My father was still alive. He was roughly
eighty years old then, and if you saw him on the streets of Paris,
you would have thought he was mad as a hatter. And he was. But he
was still functioning—and providing. Over the decades he had
continued to make trips to the surface to gather food and supplies
for not only my brother and two sisters but for the four
generations that followed through inbreeding.

“This had become his kingdom of sorts—though
he was a king of fools, because he gave up any effort to educate or
civilize his children or their children or their grandchildren. He
knew what would happen if he did. They would leave him for the
world above. He would be alone. And being a king of fools was
better than being a king of none, I suppose.”

Danièle said, “But you said they understood
German?”

Zolan nodded. “I should qualify that. They
understand words. Pronouns and verbs mostly. ‘Me want’ or ‘you
go’—stuff any three or four year old picks up. That’s about as far
as most of them have matured intellectually.”

“How could they live like that?”

“Because they didn’t know any better,
Danièle. They didn’t—and still don’t—understand anything is missing
from their lives.”

“So what do they do day after day?”

Zolan shrugged. “What our ancestors did for
millions of years. They obey instinct. They eat, they shit, they
fight, they sleep, and they fuck—oh, do they like to fuck. They’re
like rabbits. Had they been raised in more sanitary conditions
there would be twice as many of them.”

“And they kill,” Danièle said.

“To them, you and your friends were
intruders.”

“Why not kill us on sight then? Why chain us
up and fight us?”

“For sport,” he said simply.

“Sport?”

“Entertainment.”

“But you just said they’re animals—”

“I never said they’re animals.”

“You said—”

“They function on instinct. But they still
have emotions, for emotions are merely the awareness of instincts.
They cry, they laugh, they get bored. They have their needs and
wants, just like you or I.”

“Which include killing innocent people?”

Zolan shrugged again. “We are all savages at
heart, Danièle. We are inherently a violent species. We commit
wars, genocide, murder. That is why every society is built upon the
foundation of law and punishment. We cannot trust ourselves. We
need to be kept in line.”

“Did they do the same to you as they did to
us when you arrived?”

“Imprison me? No—I was the first outsider
they ever encountered, and they were too surprised to do anything
of the sort before my father recognized me. He was dying then, and
he believed my return was a preordained event. I was the son who
had returned to inherit his kingdom. I remained for a week, then
came back every few days after that, bringing supplies—proper
supplies. My father had scrounged from alleyways and trash bins
whereas I brought groceries from the supermarket. I was quickly
embraced by everyone here. When my father died, I took over.”

“And this is what you want?” Danièle said,
gesturing vaguely.

“What is wrong with this?” Zolan replied
with a faint smile. “Here, I am free—categorically free.” He stood
decisively. “Now, I imagine you are exhausted. You need to rest. I
will take you to your room.”

“My room?” She frowned. “But—I thought you
would let me go? I will not tell—”

“And what of your friends? You’d leave them
behind?”

“No… But, I mean, when they come to, you
will let us go?”

“When they come around, we will talk. We
will come to some sort of arrangement.”

Her frown deepened. “What kind of an
‘arrangement?’”

“I don’t know,” Zolan said, and that was the
truth, for he only knew that none of them would leave the
underground alive. He went to the door, opened it. “Are you
coming?”

Danièle stood hesitantly. “In this room—are
you going to chain me up again?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he told her. “You are
my guest. You are free to do as you wish.”

A ball of searing light was trapped inside my
skull and wanted out. That’s what it felt like when I opened my
eyes. I remained still and prayed for the pain to subside. It
didn’t, but the white stars cleared from my vision, and I was
relieved to find I wasn’t in total darkness. A soft yellow glow
came from my right. I turned my head. A half-melted candle and—

I started.

Seated on the ground next to the candle was
the girl who had visited Danièle and me before. She held a large
green book in her hands. Over the top of it emerald eyes studied me
attentively. They were utterly captivating.

For a moment I hoped against hope that this
nightmare might be at its end, that the girl’s face would be whole
and beautiful, but even as these thoughts flashed through my mind
she lowered the book, revealing her cruel disfigurements.

I focused on her eyes. “Elle…” I
mumbled.

The girl—she couldn’t have been any older
than thirteen or fourteen—set aside the book. She put a finger to
her ghastly mouth, indicating that I not speak, then picked up a
glass of water. She held it to my lips, using both hands to tilt
it. The water was cool. It trickled over my tongue, down my throat.
I wanted to take the glass in my hands so I could drink faster, but
I found my arms were once more secured behind my back.

The water filled my mouth, poured over my
cracked lips, spilled onto my chest. When there was no more, I
looked at the girl, wanting to thank her, but my eyes were pulled
to her mutilations. She noticed and tilted her face to the side,
almost as if she was ashamed, or bashful.

“My friend?” I said. “Danièle? Where…?”

“Your friend is sleeping,” she told me.

I stared. “You speak English?”

Her cheeks dimpled, as if she was smiling.
She nodded.

“How…why?” I said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Who taught you?”

“I taught myself.”

I must be dreaming, I thought. This couldn’t
be real. I was not lying here conversing in English with this
hideous thing that spoke like a ventriloquist without moving her
lips because she had no lips. “Who are you?” I asked.

“My name is Katja.”

“Do you live here…in the catacombs?”

“I should go,” she said abruptly, and pushed
herself to her knees. “I’m not supposed to speak to you.”

“Why? Who told you that?”

“My father. But I cannot—”

“Who’s your father?”

She became visibly anxious. “I must go.”

“Wait!”

She paused in a half crouch.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Don’t go. Please. I…I
just want some company.”

She watched me for a moment, then retook her
seat on the ground. She didn’t say anything, and neither did I. I
was trying to get my head around this madness. She could speak
English. So could they all? No, I doubted that. The others had been
different. This girl…she didn’t smell like them or act like them.
In fact, she seemed downright civilized.