The third floor is like a level of ghosts. We can’t see any forms, just their eyes in the darkness. They’re like cat eyes. Bright and reflective. With a whoop, they rush snarling at us like goddamn Drifters. Everyone ahead of me freezes on the stairs, bunching up. A bad idea.
“Move,” I yell.
Brigitte starts down again, keeping to the far side of the stairs.
The clan on this level is so filthy they shine with it. It’s like they’re covered in oil. They lean from their perch and reach for us with hands like filthy, ragged claws. We keep going but the stairs are slick and we’re walking funny. It’s hard to keep a safe, steady pace.
I hear something slide and someone lose their footing. Brigitte falls against the railing on the near side of the stairs. One of the clan gets hold of her hair and pulls. She beats on his arm with her fists but can’t get any footing to pull herself back onto the stairs. Traven leans over the rail and grabs the one holding on to Brigitte. Plants a kiss on his lips. The filthy guy lets go of Brigitte and screams as loud as he can through his plugged mouth. Traven holds on to him, clamping the Dolorosa on tight, spitting sin and damnation down the guy’s throat. Hands reach from the dark and get hold of the man, pulling him away from Traven. The guy sputters and wails. Brigitte grabs Traven and drags him back onto the stairs. They run and the rest of us follow. Fuck incantations and maybes.
When we hit the bottom of the stairs, everyone is ready. We have our guns out and Vidocq is all set with a potion. But there’s nothing down here except dull walls and a poured concrete floor. Brigitte hugs Traven. Wipes the filth from his mouth.
She says, “Děkuji.”
“Anytime,” says Traven.
We start out and only get a few yards before rubble threatens to fill the passage where some of the upper floors have fallen into this one. We play our flashlights around the room. Delon is the first one to spot the graffiti. On both sides of the passage there are big block letters, desperate messages in a bottle.
HELP US.
WE’RE ALIVE.
DON’T FORGET US.
“My God,” says Traven. “One of the construction crews must have been trapped down here.”
“They never recovered all the bodies,” Candy says.
I say, “Why didn’t they just walk up the stairs?”
“Perhaps something prevented them,” says Vidocq.
“If they got caught in a collapse this far down, it would be a bad way to go. Let’s not end up like that.”
“This is the only passage. Let’s get going,” says Delon.
It’s getting on my nerves, being led around by a talking slot machine. I wonder if Kasabian’s head would work on one of these mechanical bodies? Maybe I’ll have to gently remove Paul’s head when this is over and see.
Every few yards there’s more graffiti. Each collection gets less and less coherent. No more HELP US. It’s all FUCK YOUs and HOME HOME HOME. Then the words are gone and the graffiti gets completely Neanderthal. All skulls, Devil heads, and tumbling dice coming up snake eyes. Like scribblings of someone on a very bad acid trip. A few yards beyond that, the graffiti is just random streaks of color and smeared handprints. Either they had a lot of paint when they got trapped or by the end they were using other stuff on the walls. I’m going with the paint theory and ignoring the stuff that looks like teeth and skull fragments scattered in the rubble. Even that feeble lie goes south when we find the hanged men.
They’re suspended by ropes and electrical wires from an overhead beam. They’ve been dead a long time. Long enough that they’re dried out and unreal-looking, like scarecrows meant to keep anyone from getting too close. But who else is going to come down this far but rescuers and why would they want to scare them off?
“Any idea when we get out of this fucking place?”
“I’m just feeling my way along,” says Delon. “If there are location markers down here, they’re covered up by junk. We have to get keep going until we find another way down. A staircase or even an elevator shaft.”
Our shadows flash across the far wall as lights come on behind us. For a second I think I can smell the Shoggots. I reach for the Colt in my waistband when a voice echoes off the walls.
“Don’t go for your gun, Stark. We have more of them than you do.”
I know that voice. It’s Norris Quay. I think I would have preferred the Shoggots.
“Stay there. I’m coming to you.”
Candy grabs my arm and Vidocq circles in front of me.
“What are you doing?” he says.
“Listen. I’m the only one who knows this guy. I can talk to him. The most important thing is to keep an eye on Delon. Make sure he doesn’t come over.”
“Why?”
“That’s Victor Frankenstein out there.”
Candy says, “I’m coming with you.”
“Fine. Don’t go for your gun unless I do.”
“Okay.”
I hold my hands out by my sides so they can see I’m not armed.
“Get those fucking lights out of my eyes so I can see you.”
“Do it,” says Norris, and the lights swing away, lighting the cavern and not burning holes in my retinas.
Quay is in the middle of a group of twelve men. He’s dressed in padded overalls and wearing lightweight leg braces. An attendant on either side of him keeps hold of his elbows in case the braces aren’t enough to keep him upright. Down here Quay looks so frail it’s like his attendants are perp-walking a mummy. Quay’s two Titans are there, each armed with HK417s, rifles you don’t walk toward but flee from as fast as you can. If you have a choice about which way to go. Quay’s other goons are just as heavily armed. Probably a collection of ex-military and cops. They look at Candy and me like we’re a couple of baked hams with biscuits and beans. There’s someone behind Quay but I can’t quite make out who.
“Does the old folks’ home know you’re missing bingo night, Norris?”
He smiles.
“I couldn’t let you and Paul have all the fun, could I? Who’s the young lady? You two have seemed awfully close on the journey.”
“Candy, meet Norris Quay, the richest asshole in this time zone.”
Candy puts her hand up to shield her eyes from the glare of lights.
“Wow. He does look like Paul.”
“Paul looks like me, dear,” says Quay. “Get the lineage right.”
The man behind him pushes past the attendants and points at us.
“They’re the ones who destroyed my workshop. Them and some Mata Hari. Now I can’t make any more familiars.”
Candy waves to him.
“Hi, Mr. Rose. How are you?”
Quay holds up a hand.
“Calm down, Atticus. We’ll have you set up in a new space as soon as we get what we came for.”
“Which brings me to the sixty-four-dollar question. What the hell are you doing here, Norris? You already have Paul planted with us. Does he even know about you? What’s going to happen if he sees you?”
“I don’t give a tinker’s balls what happens to him. He’s an instrument. A pocket watch bought and paid for. As to why I’m here, I thought that would be obvious. Redundancy.”
“There’s plenty of assholes in Kill City already. We don’t need duplicates.”
“Did you know that when NASA sent the Apollo rockets into space, they each had three computers on board? Three, on the assumption that two would fail.”
“So Paul is the first two and you’re lucky number three?”
“No. Paul is one. You’re two. I know you’d move Heaven and earth to get what you set out for. But what if you both failed?”
“What if I succeeded and didn’t want to give the 8 Ball up?”
“That too. And now that we’re this close, I don’t know that a redundant system is all that necessary.”
“We’re not there yet.”
“When the Apollo Eleven lunar module, the one that first put men on the moon, was landing, all three computers failed. Neil Armstrong had to land on the moon manually. But he was an experienced pilot and they were so close that it was not only feasible but doable. And so man landed on the moon and returned safely. I believe that from here my little team can pilot ourselves down to Mare Tranquillitatis all on our own.”