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“See that? Shoot there. Everything you have.”
They both open up. I put away the SIG and take out the Desert Eagle .50 the Satanists left for me at the Chateau. Normally, I hate pistols like this because they’re more suited for killing tanks and dinosaurs than shooting people. But I might have finally found a use for it.
I join the women in emptying shot after shot into the scaffold joint. Candy runs out of bullets first. Brigitte has more shots, but her CO2 pistol is designed to punch through flesh not metal. I empty almost the whole clip from the Desert Eagle before I hear the first creak. The crazies have pulled enough bodies out of the way to start down after us again. They’re rocking the scaffold so hard it’s bouncing off the walls of the narrow concrete passage. The damned thing is rocking but it won’t fall.
When the mob hits the area with the weak joint, the whole structure moans and bellows like a gut-shot buffalo. And comes crashing down on top of them. As metal, wood, and concrete cascade down, the crazies claw the air and crawl on crushed arms and legs, still trying to get to us. The roar of the collapse bounces around the stone walls until it feels like my eardrums are about to implode. A blinding storm of concrete dust fills the air. We cough and hack like asthmatics running a marathon in a sandstorm.>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.”
