Catacombs of Terror! (15 page)

“I can't just give you a pistol!”

“Oh, yes you can. Bullets, too. And you're going to give them to me now.” I guess there's just something about a man who's just been chased through underground catacombs by flesh-eating pigs and is looking at doing it all over again. Like I say, I wasn't being threatening. But my gun-loving computer guy put his face in his hands for a little while before reluctantly beckoning me through a door.

We passed through his kitchen. I didn't comment. Not many people could have suppressed an observation of some kind. But I kept quiet. I wanted a gun, not a discussion about domestic hygiene. He led me through another door into what would have been his garage. If it hadn't been full of weapons.

“This is interesting,” I said politely, “very interesting. It's quite a serious interest you have here. Before you start justifying yourself or whatever, I'd like to remind you that I'm in a hurry. A big hurry. So, listen. You give me a gun, some bullets, and—wow—I forget I know you. Because I'm in trouble. You do not want to be involved. Hey, I wish you were, preferably instead of me, but you're not. So, get a move on.”

This guy was very creepy. I'm no great shakes myself, and I'd had dealings with people who were no shakes at all. But this guy was off the scale.

“What sort of gun do you want?” he said, in a quiet voice.

“Something that fits in my hand and isn't too complicated to operate. I'm not a rocket scientist. Something that works first time, every time.”

Yeah, well. He went off into a kind of monologue. He talked for about fifteen minutes. I tried to listen for a minute or two before I realised it was futile. He probably talked like this every night. Only this time he had an audience. Eventually he handed me a gun. Then some ammunition. He was still talking, while I was watching his hands. Shaking. He was scared of me. That was kind of weird, when I thought about it. He had more weaponry in one garage than I'd seen in my life, give or take a few of the more extreme scenarios. And he was scared of me. Still, he was just another lunatic. Anyway, I had places to go. Flesh-eating pigs to see. I had a busy life.

After tearing myself away, I wandered further up the hill in the rain towards the 4
P.M
. rendezvous. I was going to be late. Recently my sense of time was having problems. Hours were getting shorter, and minutes just weren't in on the game. So, I got to the pub a little later than Colin Kafka and Stonehenge. It was called the Hare and Hounds. Which were we? I wondered. Neither. We were just fucking idiots.

They were halfway through their pints. I furled my wet umbrella. They looked vaguely pleased to see me. I doubted that I was capable of looking pleased to see anything. Let alone them. Yeah, well. I threw them a sneer and went over to the bar. I returned with a pint of my own and sat down heavily on a stool.

“Do you have the . . . ?” asked Kafka.

I murmured an agreement. Of course I had them. I tapped my coat pocket, just so that he didn't ask me again. Stonehenge looked awkward. Not strictly his deal, I supposed. But things had changed. And we had to be ready for anything. Stonehenge may have looked uncomfortable, but he kept his mouth shut. Which meant he knew the score. I wondered just how uncomfortable he was going to look down in the tunnels. I wondered if he'd be able to keep his mouth shut when the squealing started. Or that hideous moaning. I remembered what Kafka had said about the tape recording. My name, in amongst the moaning. It didn't seem like a good omen. But then, nothing did.

The pub had big picture windows. They opened out over Charlcombe and all the way over more hills than I could be bothered to look at. Stonehenge shuffled his chair over to give me a good look.

“Impressive view, hey, Valpolicella?” he said.

“I'm not here to appreciate the stupid countryside. So. It gets dark at ten
P.M
. We've got six hours at least before they start their fucking monkey business. Are you certain that you didn't get tailed up here?”

“Absolutely sure. After your call we took extra care. Not that we wouldn't have anyway. We split up, took separate routes, met up as if by accident. Do you have any plans?”

I thought for a while. I drank fast. Smoked half a cigarette. “Yeah. I've got a plan. Like I said, we've got six hours before dark. We've got protection. We're all here. Except Barry, who is otherwise engaged. I say we get down there straight away.”

Kafka put his glass on the table. He took a deep breath. “Really? Now?”

“Really. Now,” I said quietly.

Stonehenge wagged his head from side to side. “We should wait until it's dark.”

“Why the hell should we wait until it's fucking dark?” I asked angrily. “When it's Sunday, when there's no one around, when we've got plenty of time? What is this?
Scooby-Doo?
What are you waiting for? A clap of thunder? Unearthly cackling? We should get a head start. Work out where we'll be in relation to this goddamn map of yours. Find the vats and blast them. What else are you planning? A late lunch, maybe?”

“He's fucking crazy, but he's right,” insisted Kafka to Stonehenge. I was surprised. I'd tagged Kafka as reluctant. Maybe I'd been wrong.

“What's the point in sitting around up here? If we're going to have to do it, I'm all for starting it now. I don't want to hang around worrying, fretting, maybe deciding to fuck off. That's just bullshit. I reckon we should just get stuck in!”

“Yeah, come on, Stonehenge,” I hissed, “what the fuck are you so frightened of? We've both been down there. You haven't. It's time to test your knowledge, time to test your nerve. I've got the shooters, you've got the map, and we've got the bollocks.
Let's get down there and kill some fucking pigs
.”

Stonehenge looked at us. He looked at me. Then he looked at Kafka. Then he sighed. Took a pull on his pint. He shuddered. He was trying to be cool, but it didn't wash. And he knew it. He didn't want to be involved in this any more than we did. And, like us, professional curiosity had got the better of him. Barry had contacted him. He'd contacted me. I'd contacted Kafka. Or had Kafka contacted me? I couldn't remember. It didn't seem important. And now here we all were, drinking beer but not tasting it, looking at a view but not seeing it, talking about something but not doing it. It had all collapsed on his head. He'd never really thought it was serious. It had all been historical research. Myth. Legend. And now all that stood between him and a sixty-foot journey underground to a subterranean world of sheer terror was approximately half a pint of beer. I was looking forward to seeing how he dealt with it.

“I, I really don't think . . . .”

He wasn't dealing with it very well. He was practically gibbering.

“You'll have a gun,” I reminded him. I spoke quietly. People were having normal times around us, and I didn't want to disturb them. As I think I mentioned before, I'm a civilised kind of guy. “And there's some woods just over the road from here. We can practise. You'll be great, I can tell from the way you act so reluctant. People who are too keen are just a liability. If you're going to be effective, you need to be very calm. Very cool. Very collected. You're that sort, Stonehenge.”

This time he had a vague glint in his eye. I'd excited him. He might even have believed me, at least for now. “Okay,” he said, “maybe you're right. We go down now. Forget the target practice. I'll be fine. What was it that one of you said? Just point and click? We'll need all the ammunition we have. Let's not waste it. Right then. We check out the tunnels, find the chloroethylene vats and the altar, and wait.” He looked at me. “And we kill those pigs. If they don't kill us first.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let's go.”

We left the hill-top pub and found a footpath that led down towards Charlcombe. It was a steep path, down the side of a muddy field. The rain was continuous, and my umbrella was no good because I needed my arms to steady myself on the gradient. I threw it onto the wet grass. An umbrella was no defence where I was going. We slid to a halt at the stile at the bottom of the field. The lane just below was deserted. A few hundred yards round the corner was the path that led further down the valley to the KHS dig. To the hole. The pit. Or whatever the hell it was.

I checked my watch again. It was just after 6
P.M
. But getting dark. Unseasonable weather. The grey clouds shrouded the sun. It felt like it was later. Much later. The wind was picking up, the trees around us bowing to it, or to something. It was cold down in the valley. Much colder than it should have been. The gap in the hedge was further than I remembered. But it was there. We squeezed through, casually, as if we were three guys out for an afternoon walk after a few beers at the pub. Yeah, well. In the pouring rain it maybe didn't look so convincing. Kafka spoke first.

“There's a guy over there, just standing around by the tarpaulin.”

He was right. Hundred percent right. A sentry, a guard, whatever. The guy hadn't noticed us yet. He was sheltering just under the tarp. We followed the footpath. We were going to have to do something about the security guard, or else we really were on a Sunday stroll. A stroll to nowhere. We walked over a ridge until we were out of sight.

“What the fuck is he doing there?” said Kafka between his teeth.

“I said we should wait until dark!” said Stonehenge.

I turned round and faced the two of them. “Shut up. No unnecessary discussion, okay? We're here to do a job. No talking unless it's vital. No fucking argument.
Get it
?
”

They both nodded. That was good. I didn't want to get into any bullshit with Stonehenge when we had a herd of demonic pigs chasing us.

“Now. There's one guard. One guard that we've seen. There may be more. Okay. There have never been guards before, so they must know that we've been nosing around. Why are we here? We're here to prevent a murder. At least.”

“At the very least,” murmured Stonehenge.

“Okay,” said Kafka, “let's scout the site. If that bloke's the only guard, we deal with him. Knock the fucker out. But we don't harm him unnecessarily. I know what security guards get paid. Not enough to get dead for. But we tie him up, right?”

“Yeah, well,” I added, “he'd better be tied up good. The way I see it, we're going to be in trouble whatever happens. But the more time we have, the better.”

Me and Stonehenge laid low under cover of the ridge while Kafka took a recce. He was back inside ten minutes. I'd hardly started on my second cigarette.

“He's the only one. As far as I can tell.”

“How far's that?” I asked. “Are there any more guards under the tarp?”

“None. I got round to the back of the dig. Nobody. But there's no way we can get in there without him noticing. We're going to have to deal with him. Martin?”

I growled. I dislike violence, but I mind it less when it's unavoidable. And I don't mind it at all when it's going to stop me being arrested for murder. And brutal, savage, twisted murder at that.

I ambled across the field in the general direction of the guard. Innocent. Taking an interest in the trees, the hills, the view. Stopping occasionally to check the view down across the eastern fringes of the city, over to the hills beyond. Oh, very beautiful. Veiled in rain, but nice all the same, right? Oh, for sure. The guard started taking notice of me when I was about two hundred yards from him. I waved. He didn't wave back. I started walking towards him with a certain amount of purpose. Say, what's that big blue tarpaulin all about? Maybe that guy standing by it can tell me. Hey, I'm a happy, outdoors kind of guy. But I wasn't in a hurry. I stopped here and there, examining trees or whatever. It was slow, but I reached him in the end.

“Hello there,” I said brightly, “the rain's not so bad once you're out in it, is it?”

“Fucking horrible.”

I punched him hard in the gut and he toppled. I sat on his chest. A guard off his guard. Easy. I pinned his arms with my knees and held his windpipe. Kafka came hurrying over.

“Find some rope,” I spat, “and gag the fucker.”

Kafka did the necessary. Once the guard was trussed and silenced, I stood up. Then Stonehenge jogged over. This wasn't his scene. It wasn't my scene either. I wished I could have stayed in the Hare and Hounds, admiring the rain.

“Is he going to be okay?” asked Stonehenge, nodding towards the struggling guard.

“Probably more okay than we're going to be,” I replied. “Why the fuck are you bothered? Shall we descend to the underworld?”

I pointed out the CCTV cameras, and we picked our way across the muddy planks to the centre of the dig. It got drier as we walked towards the hole. Kafka and Stonehenge looked eerie in the blue light that came through the tarp. I guess I did, too. It was as dry as I remembered around the hole. The ladder was still there. And the winch. And the props. It was only the second time I'd seen it in the light, if that's what you could call it under the blue tarpaulin. About eight feet diameter. And dark, down there. Very dark.

“The first time I went down there,” I said quietly, turning to Kafka, “it was the same diameter all the way down. No wider at the bottom than it is here. The next time I went down—with you—it was twenty or thirty feet in diameter at the bottom. Twenty-four hours later.”

Kafka looked at me. A stern expression. Not doubting, but, well, unsure. I continued.

“You know as well as I do that nothing about this hole is . . . right. It's wrong. In every way. I don't know why or how, but these tunnels play with us. With our minds. You got a different tape recording than what we heard. I got a different hole than I expected. So, how about this. We all study Stonehenge's map. We decide what to do. We work out a left, right, left, right, right, left, or whatever. We do not change our minds. Does that sound like a good idea? Because it fucking well better.”