The Catacombs (A Psychological Suspense Horror Thriller Novel) (28 page)

“Mostly novels. But I have a lot of language
books too. My father says learning languages is one of the best
ways to pass the time and keep your mind sharp.”

“Were any of these books published after
1945?”

“1945?”

“After Paris was destroyed.”

“Of course not. That would be
impossible.”

“But have you checked?”

“How would I check?”

“Inside each book there is a publication
date on one of the first few pages.”

“Really? I have never seen those. But, no,
none of my books would have been published after 1945. Like I said,
that would be impossible.”

I eyed her wristwatch, thinking of telling
her it was less than ten years old. But there was no date stamped
on it. To her, that was simply what watches were like pre-1945.

I ground my jaw in frustration. How did you
convince someone, without any physical proof, that an entire
alternate history existed?

I said, “How did World War Two end?”

“The United States developed the nuclear
bomb and dropped a lot of them on Paris.”

“Why would they do that? The French were on
the Americans’ side.”

“But the Germans were in Paris and they
wouldn’t leave. It was the only option.”

“So what about the rest of the world?”

“What do you mean?”

“The entire world wasn’t destroyed,
right?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“How could I? I can’t go check.”

“You father could with his suit.”

She shook her head. “It only protects him
for a short time. He wouldn’t be able to leave Paris.”

I wasn’t getting anywhere with this line of
reasoning. The worldview fed to her presumably by her father was a
simple one, but the logic was sound. My only option, it seemed, was
to tell her the blunt truth. Only how would she react to this?
Accuse me of lying again and run off? I couldn’t afford that. I
needed her. She was, I believed, my only chance of escape. She
painted her father to be a just man who would keep me safe, but
just men didn’t live underground with murderers and disfigure and
brainwash their children.

I said, “Katja, can I tell you a
secret?”

She leaned forward. “Yes?”

“Do you promise me you won’t call me a
liar?”

She knitted her brow suspiciously. “I don’t
know…”

“I promised you that I wouldn’t tell your
father we’re speaking. You can at least promise me you won’t call
me a liar.”

“Well, okay, I guess.”

“Not all of Paris was destroyed in the war.
Most of it was,” I added quickly. “And you can’t visit it without a
suit because of the acid rain and radiation. You’re right about
that. I remember all of this now. But I also remember there is
another
part of Paris where the radiation isn’t bad and you
can see the sun and you don’t even need a suit. Not many people
know about it. Your father probably doesn’t know either. But my
friends and I found it. We’ve seen it.”

She stared at me for a long moment, the way
a child might when trying to figure out whether you’re pulling his
or her leg or not. And that’s what Katja was, wasn’t she? A child.
She might have the body of a young teenager, but she was
intellectually stunted. Everything she knew came from the books
she’d read, or word of mouth from her father. It was all taken on
blind faith. Nothing was grounded in gritty experience.

Slowly, she began shaking her head. I was
losing her, I realized, if I’d ever hooked her to begin with.
“Katja—”

“You’re a liar!”

“Katja, you promised you wouldn’t—”

She backed away from me. “Liar!”

“Look at my skin! It’s not like yours. It’s
dark. That’s from the sun.”

She hesitated.

“Katja, I’m telling you the truth! And I can
take you to the surface. I can show you it without a suit.”

“Stop it!”

“Please, Katja. If you free me, I’ll take
you, I’ll show you—”

“You’re tricking me!” she yelled. “You just
want to escape! You’re a liar, and I hate you!”

She fled, sobbing, into the blackness.

She should have listened to her father, Katja
decided as she slowed to a walk. She should never have visited
Will.

Originally she had only wanted to see what
he and his friends looked like. She had not planned on speaking to
any of them (and in this way she wouldn’t really be disobeying her
father’s orders, would she?). Even when they spoke to her—the woman
in French, Will in English—she had not replied. She had wanted to,
because Will had fascinated her. With his dark hair and dark eyes,
and his nose and mouth, he was how she imagined Prince Caspian to
be in
The Voyage of the Dawn Trader
. Also, after that first
encounter, feelings—strange, warm feelings she’d never experienced
before—came to life inside her. She had not been able to stop
thinking about him, and she’d even imagined she would marry him and
become Queen of the Catacombs, just as Ramandu’s daughter married
Caspian and became Queen of Narnia.

So eventually, inevitably, she had gone back
to see him again, and even when he lied to her, she had gone back
yet again. And she had touched him. That memory shot a shiver of
pleasure through her body, made her inner thighs go tingly, though
this was quickly followed by a cloud of dejection. Because why had
he wanted her to stop? Her uncles touched their penises all the
time, and it always made them happy. Had she done something wrong
then? Had she hurt him?

Katja reached her room and rubbed the drying
tears from her cheeks. A tarpaulin with “Building Site, No Access”
stenciled across the front of it covered the doorway. Her father
had installed it there so she could have more privacy. Sometimes
her uncles not only touched their own penises, but they wanted her
to touch them too. She never felt an urge to do this like she had
with Will, however, and during these occasions she would take
refuge in her room, where they knew they were not allowed. Before
the tarpaulin was in place, they would remain in the doorway and
tell her to watch while they played with themselves. Now they left
her alone for the most part—except for Hanns. He would simply push
the tarpaulin aside. All she could do was turn her back to him and
cover her ears with her hands and wait until he left again.

Inside the room Katja considered going to
her bed and lying down, but she still wasn’t tired. Instead she
went to her bookcase. She set the candle on a shelf and plucked
free one of her favorite books:
Anne of Green Gables
. It was
the longest book she’d ever read, and she was always proud to feel
its weight in her hands. She opened the cover. The first two pages
displayed the table of contents, while the first chapter, “Mrs.
Rachel Lynde Is Surprised,” began on the third page.

Where was the publication date Will
mentioned?

Katja returned the novel to its spot on the
shelf and plucked free her next favorite story:
The Wonderful
Wizard of Oz
. A quick look revealed no publication date. She
checked a third novel—
The Lion, The Witch and the
Wardrobe
—and frowned.

The second page, it seemed, had been torn
out. A sliver of it, the edge jagged, poked out from the glue.

Feeling suddenly sick with something she
didn’t like, she opened two dozen other books—
The Tale of Peter
Rabbit
,
The Wind in the Willows
,
Winnie the Pooh
,
The Velveteen Rabbit
,
Peter Pan
, more—and they all
had pages torn out. She had never noticed this before because you
really had to look closely to tell.

Had these missing pages contained the
publication dates that Will had mentioned? Who had torn them free?
Her father? But why? Because the books had been printed after 1945?
But that would mean Paris wasn’t destroyed—or at least some city
somewhere wasn’t destroyed. Why would her father not want her to
know this?

Then she recalled what Will had said:
Katja, what would you think if I told you Paris wasn’t destroyed
in World War Two by nuclear bombs, there is no acid rain or
radiation, and there are in fact several million people living
there right now?

Katja went cold all over. She didn’t want to
think about this anymore. But she couldn’t stop herself either.

Paris had been destroyed. It was filled with
radiation and acid rain.

It had to be.

But what if it wasn’t?

She was tempted to go and wake her father
right then, he would have an answer to why the publication pages
were missing, he had answers to everything, but she didn’t go and
wake him, because that feeling she didn’t like was still inside
her, it was oily and nauseating and she didn’t like it one bit, and
it took her a long time to attach a name to what it was:
betrayal.

Katja studied the poster on her wall. Her
father had given it to her several years before. It showed Paris in
ruin. All the buildings were destroyed and covered in snow, and the
Eiffel Tower was broken in half. Along the top of it were the
words: “The Day After Tomorrow.” Her father said that’s what people
called the day the United States dropped the bombs on Paris. She
never understood why it would be called The Day After Tomorrow.
Didn’t that mean it happened in the future? Anyway, she never
questioned him—and she never questioned why the bottom section of
the poster had been torn free.

Katja stood outside the door to her father’s
quarters and listened. She didn’t hear him moving about inside, but
that didn’t mean he was sleeping. He could be sitting at his desk,
reading. Still, she had to take a chance. She felt as if she were
falling apart inside, and she needed to know who to believe, what
to believe. She needed to know the truth.

She pushed open the door and let out the
breath she’d been holding. The study was unoccupied. A number of
candles burned softly, so she set hers aside. She didn’t like this
room because of the bones that covered the walls. Her father told
her that her grandfather was responsible for this. She didn’t
remember her grandfather, but she’d always secretly hated him.
According to her father, just after she was born, her grandfather
tried to take their family to the surface without suits. Everybody
became sick and returned underground, but the damage was done. They
turned crazy and their noses and lips fell off. Only her father was
unaffected because he had been smart enough to remain in the
catacombs. And since she was so young, he was able to reverse the
craziness inside her and raise her like a regular little girl.

He’s done everything for me
, she
thought, fighting tears.
He wouldn’t lie to me. I shouldn’t be
here.

Katja crept forward. Books were scattered
everywhere. She wasn’t allowed to read them because they were for
Adults Only. Some appeared really old, while others seemed much
newer. She chose a newer one with a scary cover. It was thick and
called
The Stand
. On the fourth page she read: First Anchor
Books Mass-Market Edition, June 2011. And below that: Copyright ©
1978, 1990 by Stephen King. There were other years on the page as
well, but her eyes glossed over them. The print was too small, and
her head was spinning.

The book fell from her hands and hit the
floor with a heavy thud. This snapped her from her stupor. Heart
racing, she glanced toward the connecting bedroom. When her father
didn’t emerge, she pivoted, intent on leaving. That’s when she
spotted an orange bag peeking out from behind her father’s desk.
She had never seen it before—it was so bright and new—and she was
sure it belonged to Will or one of his friends. She was also sure
she needed to see what was inside it.

She approached silently, stepping as lightly
as she could, careful not to bump anything. The stone floor was
cool under her bare feet.