Read The Catacombs (A Psychological Suspense Horror Thriller Novel) Online

Authors: Jeremy Bates

Tags: #british horror, #best horror novels, #top horror novels, #top horror novel, #best horror authors, #best suspense novels, #best thriller novels, #dean koontz novels, #free horror novels, #stephen king books

The Catacombs (A Psychological Suspense Horror Thriller Novel) (6 page)

Danièle said, “We are here.”

Chapter 7

On the sidewalk outside the campervan Pascal
and Danièle pulled on hip waders. Rob was on his butt, swapping his
shoes for a pair of Wellingtons.

“I didn’t know I needed any of this stuff,”
I said, feeling suddenly foolish standing there in a black
pullover, black jeans, and powder-blue Converse All-Stars.

“There is water in some places,” Danièle
told me. “But do not worry, you will be fine. Most important is a
helmet.”

“I don’t have that either.”

“Pascal and I have extras. You and Rob
choose.”

Rob opened the large navy canvas bag before
him, which reminded me of my equipment bag when I played prep
football. He withdrew two safety helmets, one red and one white,
both with LED headlamps strapped to them. “Red or white, boss?” he
said.

“Either.”

He tossed me the red one. I caught it and
turned it in my hands. It was well-used and scuffed. On the back
was a fading sticker of a grim reaper flicking off the world with
his bony middle finger. Along the brim, written in black marker,
was: CHESS. “Who’s Chess?” I asked.

“That is Pascal,” Danièle said. “It is his
catacombs name.”

I would rather have used Danièle’s spare
helmet than Pascal’s—I didn’t want to feel indebted to the guy—but
if I asked Rob to trade I’d probably have to explain the reason for
my request. “Catacombs name?” I said.

“Every cataphile has an aboveground name and
a catacombs name.”

“Dorks!” Rob said as he plunked on his
helmet and rapped it with his knuckles to check its integrity.

“Why the aliases?” I asked.

Danièle shrugged. “In the catacombs, the
above world does not exist. We do not speak of it. You are free of
your old life, free to reinvent yourself any way you like. With
that new identity comes a new name.”

I had to admit, after all the shit I’d been
through over the couple years, this sounded rather appealing. “So
what’s your catacombs name?” I asked.

“In English it translates to Stork
Girl.”

Rob howled.

“What?” Danièle demanded, planting her fists
on her hips.

“Danny, that’s the stupidest name I’ve ever
heard.”

“You are the stupidest person I have ever
met,” she declared. “And, if you must know, I did not make up the
name. Pascal did.”

Rob said something in French to Pascal.
Pascal said something back, pantomiming a big head.

“He thinks when I wear a helmet,” Danièle
explained to me, “it makes my head look big. This makes my neck
appear small and long, like a Stork’s.”

“I like Stork Girl,” I said.

“Thank you, Will.”

And I did. It was cute. Definitely a better
moniker than Chess. I imagined Pascal came up with that one on his
own too. It was pretentious while masking the pretentiousness. Sort
of like saying, “I’m a master manipulator, a strategist, a genius
in my own right, checkmate asshole” while at the same time, if
asked about its meaning, allowing him to humbly confess he was just
a simple guy who enjoyed a game of chess.

“So what’s my dork name?” Rob asked.

“Rosbif,” Danièle said immediately. “And
you, Will, I do not know yours. I will think about it.”

A middle-aged man turned the corner at the
end of the street and approached us. He was walking a brown
dachshund on a leash. Pascal clipped a ragged utility belt around
his waist from which dangled a 6D Maglite flashlight and Leatherman
hand tools. He retrieved the last two helmets from the bag, handed
one to Danièle, then tossed the bag back inside the campervan and
locked the door.

Everyone stepped aside so the man and his
dog could pass. I expected him to stop and ask us what we were
doing. He only nodded politely and continued on his way, tugging
the sausage dog along to keep up.

“He doesn’t find us strange?” I said when he
was out of earshot. “We look like sewer workers or something.”

Danièle shrugged. “He is aware of what we
are doing. Many people dressed like us come and go this way.”

I spotted a covered manhole in the center of
the road. “Is that the entrance?”

“No, it is this way. Follow me.”

She started away, her helmet tucked under
one arm. I shrugged my backpack over my shoulder and followed. We
crossed a vacant lot and came to a crumbling dry-stone fence. It
was as high as my chest and thick. I gave Danièle a boost, then
heaved myself up, so I was sitting on the capstone next to her. We
shoved off together, landed on spongy dead leaves, and scrambled
down the slope of a steep, forested ravine. When we burst free of
the vegetation, we were standing among a pair of abandoned railway
tracks.

“Where are we?” I asked, turning in a
circle, seeing only shadowed foliage surrounding us on all sides.
The earth was carpeted with more dead leaves and lichen. Everything
smelled lush and fresh.

“The Petite Ceinture,” Danièle said. “It was
a railway track that used to circle Paris, sort of like a defense,
yes? The trains moved the soldiers from one point to the next
quickly. It has not been used for a very long time.”

I flicked on my headlamp.

“No, not yet,” Danièle said. “We do not want
to attract attention.”

I frowned. “Who’s going to see us here?”

“Not yet,” she repeated.

I turned off the light just as Rob and
Pascal joined us. Rob was cupping his left eye with his hand,
cursing inventively. “Pissing branch,” he complained.

Danièle smiled. “You must be more careful,
Rosbif.”

“Fuck off, Stork the Dork.”

Still smiling triumphantly, as if she had
been the one to poke Rob in the eye, Danièle headed off along the
tracks. The rest of us fell into line behind her, single file. The
rusted rails and rotted wooden ties were nearly overgrown with
weeds. I began playing a game in which I was only allowed to step
on the ties. If I missed one, and my foot touched the crushed stone
that formed the track ballast, I had to start my count from the
beginning. On my third go I was up to one hundred sixteen when
Danièle stopped suddenly. I bumped into her from behind and saw
several flashlight beams maybe a hundred feet in the distance.

Pascal brushed past me and conversed with
Danièle in serious tones.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Other cataphiles,” Danièle said.

“Oh.” I had thought they were the police.
“So what’s the problem?”

“There is no problem. Most cataphiles are
friendly, but some…” She shrugged. “What you are on the surface,
you are underground.”

“So a tool’s a tool,” Rob said. “Who gives a
shit? What are they going to do? Looks like there’s only three of
them.”

Danièle said, “I think we should let them
enter the catacombs first, then we will follow afterward.”

Rob snorted disapproval. “And what if they
don’t move for an hour? We’re on a schedule, right?”

Danièle looked at Pascal. He nodded.

“Okay,” she said. “We will go. But Rosbif,
Will, do not speak English.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Even friendly cataphiles, they do not like
foreigners coming and going. The catacombs is their world. They
want it to remain secret, as much as it can. If they hear you speak
English, they will know you are a foreigner.”

“And?” I said.

“And nothing. But it is better to be
safe.”

“Do not be scared,” Pascal told me.

I leveled my gaze at him. He turned
promptly, and we continued toward the cataphiles, four abreast. Rob
had been right. I counted three flashlight beams, three guys. They
stood at the mouth of what appeared to be a train tunnel, speaking
loudly and laughing.

When they noticed us they went quiet.

Pascal said, “
Salut!
” and began
conversing with one of them.

They were all dressed in boots, blue
coveralls, and white gloves. Their ages ranged from twenty-five to
forty, give or take. Two oxygen tanks, fins, and an assortment of
other diving gear rested beside them.

The guy Pascal was speaking to was the
oldest. He had beady eyes and a hangdog face with the loose jowls
of an aristocratic banker. Greasy black hair, parted down the
center, gave him a Dickensian air. His voice was gruff, atonal,
sort of pissed off.

The other two complimented each other only
in that they were opposites. One was short, Rob’s height, but much
skinnier. He had a bad case of acne, and he seemed nervous, staring
fixedly at a spot on the ground in front of him. His buddy, on the
other hand, cleared six feet. I couldn’t tell if he was as tall as
me because he wore his hair in a volcano of dreadlocks, but he
would have been a good thirty or forty pounds heavier. Judging by
his barrel chest and knotty neck and broad shoulders, he subsisted
on a diet of eggs, meat, and protein shakes. His face had that
young Arnie look, all thick slabs and bony protrusions. His
coveralls were stained with clay, no doubt from previous descents
into the catacombs.

He was ogling Danièle in a way I didn’t
like. He sensed my eyes on him, turned toward me, and said
something.

When I didn’t reply, he scoffed and reached
for my helmet.

I batted his hand away. “Fuck off.”

Surprise flashed on his face. Then a toothy,
Neanderthal smile.

Pascal and the old guy stopped talking.
Everyone’s attention turned to Dreadlocks and me.

“You American, huh?” he said, stepping
toward me. His size made it feel as though he was crowding my
personal space. “You go catacombs?”

Either he was as dumb as he looked, or that
was a rhetorical question. I waited for him to continue.

“You take many photographs, huh?”

“I don’t have a camera.”

“You going to paint your name? Paint a
pretty picture?”

“Why would I paint a picture?”

“That’s what you
touristes
do. You
come here, you paint pictures.”

“Not today.”

He licked his lips. He had either exhausted
his English, or he was thinking of something else to say. He nodded
at Danièle. “She your girlfriend, huh?”

“Why do you care?”

He sneered at her. “You
touriste
too?”

She fired off a string of French. He
chuckled, though not in a friendly manner, and replied. Their back
and forth devolved into a heated argument.

For a moment I was absurdly proud of Danièle
for standing her ground.

Pascal was keeping his distance. Rob was
grinning amusedly, maybe even manically. His hands were balled into
tight fists. I had the feeling he was about to throw himself at the
big guy.

I stepped between him and Dreadlocks and
said to Danièle, “Let’s go.”

Dreadlocks gripped my shoulder and spun me
around. I stepped on one of his boots and shoved him in the chest,
removing my foot so I didn’t break his ankle as he dropped, arms
pin-wheeling, to the ground.

Sitting on his ass, he appeared momentarily
dazed. Then his eyes stormed over. Roaring, he lunged at me,
thrusting his meaty hands in my face. Everyone in both parties got
into it, yelling and pulling us apart.

Danièle tugged me free. I was panting, not
yet done. Dreadlocks continued to hurl curses, towering above his
two buddies, who were doing their best to hold him back. Blood
smeared his hammered forehead.

“Will, enough!” Danièle said. “Stop it!”

It took most of my self-restraint, but I
reluctantly turned my back to the fight. I snatched my helmet,
which had fallen off my head, and drew the heel of my hand across
my lips, which were numb from a blow the fucker had landed.

Pascal was already walking away into the
tunnel.

Both Danièle and Rob placed a hand on my
back, urging me to follow.

I went.

 

 

Darkness folded around us like great black
wings. Ahead Pascal turned on his headlamp. Rob and Danièle and I
did the same.

“What a fucking knob jockey,” Rob said as
Dreadlocks’ taunts faded behind us. “Him and his asshat friends
too.”

Danièle looked at me. “Why did you speak
English?” she demanded. “We told you not to say anything.”

“He tried to grab my helmet,” I said. “What
was I supposed to do?”

“You should have ignored him.”

“What was he saying to you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Talking smack,” Rob offered helpfully.

“Yes,” Danièle said, “but Will did not have
to push him.”

“He grabbed me,” I reminded her.

“You cannot do that anymore,” she said, and
in the bright LED lights of our helmets I saw she wasn’t angry,
only concerned. “If something happens when we are deep
underground…”

She didn’t have to finish. I understood.

“They had scuba gear,” I said, wanting to
change topics. “What was that about?”

“There are some spots, some shafts, in the
catacombs that have filled completely with water. They likely want
to see whether they lead anywhere.”

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