AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Did they?” says Candy.
“Yes. There were runes carved into the paving stones leading to the crypt. Each step completed one part of a hex. There was only one path in, and by taking it, you were creating the spell that would lead to your death.”
“What did you do?”
“We approached slowly, walking in a random and confusing manner. Forward. Backward. We jumped over stones and touched others more than once. Whatever we could do to break up the pattern of the spell.”
We’re Gene Kelly dancing in the rain with monsters. I guess I’ve done stranger things in my life.
“Since you’re the one with experience, would you lead us?” says Traven.
Brigitte goes to the top of the stairs. She starts down, goes over the second step, then back from the third to the second, and down to the fourth. She repeats the pattern as she descends. Stepping over one or two stairs, going forward and then backward. It’s like a demented St. Vitus’s dance or a very odd torment for a soul in Hell, and definitely one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever seen. On the other hand, no sea monsters burble up from below and no dragons cook us from above. Her plan looks like it could work. Like Vidocq said, we don’t have any choice but to keep going. Traven goes next, slowly and methodically following Brigitte’s clumsy, stuttering steps. I nod for Delon, Vidocq, and Candy to go ahead of me. I have a feeling that clog dancing with stitches in my belly is going to be slow and painful.
We go down four floors. There are no more landings or doors, just wide, empty rooms stretching out from the staircase, each room a little rougher than the one before it. None of this can be part of the original plans for Kill City. Someone put this down here or built around something that was already in place. I don’t like either possibility. And I sure as shit want out of here as fast as possible.
Each floor we pass is like its own mini-kingdom. More tribes and federacies that call Kill City home. On the first is a mixed bunch of Lurkers, some Nahuals, Fiddlers, and some ragged Luderes. Fiddlers are psychics that can read objects by touching them. Like dice or a whole deck of cards. They often work with Luderes to scam civilian and Sub Rosa casinos. I’d say this bunch has lost its touch. They throw rocks and garbage at us as we go by. There’s nothing we can do but duck and dance faster down the stairs.
The next floor is a beautiful fever dream. It looks like another Sub Rosa family. An old one. Their clothes look nineteenth century, patched and stitched a hundred times. They’re eating fast-food garbage-can scraps from the piers on an elegant dining table set with bone china and lit by white tapers in silver candelabras. Probably the last of their fortune that they were able to save and bring down here. Who knows how many times they’ve had to drag this stuff from hovel to hovel over the last century.
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, “DÄ?kuji.”
“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.>“So, what were you? Workers getting shops ready for the mall?”
“And some construction workers.”
“I was an OSHA inspector.”
