“While you two have been filling the air with strophe and antistrophe, I have set the final charge,” Pendergast said, rubbing his hands and tossing away the now-empty munitions bag. “I’m surprised you haven’t brought the entire foul nest down on us with your bickering. Now let’s get out, as quickly as possible. We have less than thirty minutes.” He led the way back out of the storage area.
Suddenly, he stopped. There was a brief silence.
“Vincent,” Margo heard him whisper. “Are you ready?”
“I was born ready.”
Pendergast checked the nozzle on the flamethrower. “If necessary, I’ll flame, then we retreat. Wait for the flames to clear before advancing. This fires a fast, clean-burning mixture designed for close fighting, but the propellant clings to surfaces for several seconds before flaring out. Understood? Remove your goggles and get ready to close your eyes against the flash. Hold off until I signal. The rest of you, ready your weapons.”
“What is it?” Margo whispered, pulling out the Glock and snapping off the safety. Then she smelt it: the foul reek of the creatures, hanging in the air like an apparition.
“We’ve got to get past that access vent,” Pendergast whispered. “Let’s go.”
Then there was a sudden scrabbling in the tunnel ahead and beneath them. Pendergast brought his hand down and D’Agosta switched on the beam at low power. Margo saw, with dread, that a knot of cloaked creatures was scrambling up the passageway toward them. They moved with sickening speed. Suddenly, everything seemed to happen at once: Pendergast cried out, there was a sharp snap from D’Agosta’s flashgun, and a white light of almost supernatural intensity burst through the tunnel, turning the dim black outlines of the rock to instantaneous color. There was a strange, drizzling roar, and a blue-orange flame shot from the flamethrower. Even though she was behind the FBI agent, Margo felt a terrific wave of heat cross her face. The stream hit the onrushing creatures with a loud popping sound and a firestorm of swirling sparks. For a moment the figures kept coming, and to Margo it looked as if the front ranks were wearing strange, blossoming robes of flame, which crisped and vanished into cinders. The flashgun winked out, but not before a terrible image of humped, misshapen bodies—swathed in burning flesh, falling forward, legs windmilling—imprinted itself on Margo’s brain.
“Retreat!” Pendergast yelled.
They stumbled back into the storage area, Pendergast sending another gout of flame toward the creatures. In the burst of orange light, Margo saw countless more running up the access tube toward them. Instinctively, she raised the gun and squeezed off several shots. Two of the creatures pinwheeled backwards and were lost in the flickering dark. Dimly, she was aware of having lost Smithback in the confusion. There was an explosion in her ear and both barrels of Mephisto’s shotgun went off. She could hear somebody shouting—perhaps it was her—and the frantic, blubbering screams of pain from the wounded creatures. There was a sharp report, then a massive explosion shook the tunnel as D’Agosta lobbed a grenade into the group.
“Quick!” Pendergast said. “Down the maintenance stairway!”
“You crazy?” D’Agosta cried. “We’ll be trapped like rats!”
“We’re already trapped like rats,” came the reply. “There are too many of them. We don’t dare fight here, we might set off the C-4. At least in the Astor Tunnels, we have a chance. Go!”
D’Agosta yanked open the metal banded door and the group stumbled down the stairs, Pendergast trailing, squirting tongues of fire back up the tunnel. Acrid smoke billowed down, burning Margo’s eyes. Blinking back tears, she saw another cloaked figure loping after them, its hood flapping, its wrinkled face twisted in fury, a jagged flint knife raised high in one hand. Dropping into a Weaver stance, she emptied the rest of her clip into the monstrosity, noting almost with detachment how the hollow-points blossomed as they tore into the leathery flesh. The figure fell and was almost immediately replaced by a second. There was a burst from the flamethrower and the figure fell backward, dancing and convulsing in a corona of fire.
They emerged in a small, high-ceilinged room, the walls and floor covered in tiles. From beyond a Gothic archway, the red glow of the ceremony could be seen. Margo looked around quickly, scattering rounds across the floor as she desperately reloaded her clip. Smoke hung in the air, but with relief she sensed the place was deserted. It appeared to be some kind of secondary waiting area, perhaps intended for children: several low tables surrounded them, some still set for games of checkers, chess, and backgammon, the pieces thickly draped in cobwebs and mold.
“A shame for black,” said Mephisto, glancing at the closest table as he broke open the shotgun and reloaded. “He was a pawn ahead.”
There was sound on the stairway, and a fresh group of Wrinklers scuttled out of the darkness toward them. Pendergast crouched into position, sending the long flame licking toward them. Margo dropped into firing stance, the popping of her gun drowned out in the general roar.
There was a movement from beyond the arch, and more creatures came running toward them from the Pavilion itself. She watched as Smithback, frantically working the grenade launcher, was overcome and dragged to the ground. Pendergast had his back to the tiled wall, sending a sweeping arc of flame across the creatures around him. With a curious sense of unreality, she aimed at the heads of the running figures before her and began pulling the trigger. One creature dropped, then a second, and then she was firing on an empty clip. She moved backward as fast as she dared, grabbing in her carryall for another handful of ammunition. Then there was movement all around her—arms like steel cords wrapped around her neck and ripped the gun from her grasp—a fetid odor like the breath of a corpse filled her senses—and she closed her eyes, crying out in pain, fear, and rage, composing herself as best she could for inevitable death.
= 60 =
SNOW WATCHED AS the dark figures massed, filling the mouth of the tunnel before them. They had paused in the harsh brilliance of the flare, but were now moving forward with a kind of deliberation that made Snow’s skin crawl. These were not brainless creatures throwing themselves mindlessly into battle; some kind of strategy was at work.
“Listen,” Donovan said quietly. “Load one of those canister rounds into the XM-148. We’ll fire together on my signal. You aim at the left of the group, I’ll aim at the right. Reload and fire again as fast as you can. Grenade launchers have a tendency to pull high, so keep your aim low.”
Snow loaded the round into the launcher, feeling his heart thumping at the back of his throat. Beside him, he felt Donovan grow tense.
“Now!” Donovan yelled.
Snow pulled the forward trigger, and the weapon almost bucked out of his hands as the load roared toward the group. The bright plumes of the two explosions filled the narrow tunnel with orange light; Snow found he had aimed too far to the left, hitting the wall of the tunnel. Then, with a deep shudder, a section of the ceiling collapsed. Horrifying screams came from the group of hooded figures.
“Again!” Donovan cried, loading another round.
Snow reloaded and fired again, letting the barrel drift slightly to the right this time. He watched, mesmerized, as the shell erupted from the barrel and—seemingly in slow motion—pinwheeled its way over the heads of the roiling group at the tunnel’s mouth. There was another shudder and a fresh burst of light.
“Lower!” Donovan screamed. “They’re closing!”
Sobbing now, Snow ripped open the extra pouch with his teeth, loaded the round, and fired again. The bright fierce plume erupted in the midst of the figures. Muffled shrieks sounding piercingly over the roar of the explosion.