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The kids made short work of the floor and after booby trapping the entrance into this cellar, I followed them. Into about two feet of cold smelly water, Boris, I identified him by a white stripe running from snout to forehead, had taken point and Horace was behind me. Along the wall at regular intervals, old electric lights were positioned and giving off a faint glow. This was odd, it indicated that this area was either still in use or only recently abandoned. As we moved the water became more shallow until we were finally slopping through mud. I hadn’t noticed an incline and wondered what had happened. I touched the shaft wall and felt a vibration. Some kind of machinery, pumps maybe – it would account for the water’s disappearance. But who was operating them and why? Cautiously I sniffed the air, there was the faint smell of machine oil and something else that I couldn’t quite identify. Then a memory kicked in of a trip to the circus, greasepaint.
Boris stopped suddenly, Horace continued to face back making sure we weren’t surprised. I squelched to Boris’ side, his teeth were already bared at four dim figures about his size, making their way towards us. They all had clown faces attached to metallic grey and skeletal caricatures of human bodies., Boris was first and soon locked in battle with the lead creature. The others smiled and walked towards me, I snarled, pulled out the Beretta and advanced. They stopped, this was evidently not what they had expected. As Boris finished off his opponent he lay flat. He’d anticipated me perfectly, I raised the weapon and started to run at them firing as I ran. It’s not easy to hit a moving target while you’re moving yourself as well. I managed fine although I had to empty the clip before ending the job.
I was puzzled by these critters. They were more vulnerable than their armoured cousins. Their main weapon seemed to be the phobias of their victims. Were they target specific? A new generation of critter? If so, who was dreaming these bastards up? All good questions that I hoped to find an answer for, but obviously not yet. I turned my head to Horace, he was still facing the way we came. Seems as though these two picked my brain for tactics when needed. I pursed my lips and blew, whether anything came out I didn’t know but he twisted his head around then scampered to my side. I reloaded and started to move forward again. If anything tried to approach out of my sight, I trusted my pets to give me the nudge.
The ground was no longer muddy and I knelt and touched it for a second. Not gravel, which was good, I didn’t want to make a noise and attract unwanted attention. It felt like packed dirt and I suspected we were approaching a slightly busier environment. Then I stopped, I could smell tobacco. I grinned, no pro would smoke on guard duty, cigarette smoke can be smelled from half a mile away. This had to be another Reader, good – I had been cheated of torturing the last one. Boris and Horace stood in front of me, this was mutiny. I realised they were right though, whoever the tobacco addict was, he’d have to be taken out silently. Boris set off, turned a corner and returned about three minutes later. There was blood around his mouth.
I walked carefully to the turn-off, peeked around the corner and pulled my head back. Seemed to be okay, so I moved to where a dead brother lay, his garment soaked with gore. He had been guarding an entrance, I placed my hand on the wall again, vibrations were stronger here and the wall was quite warm. I nodded to Horace and he walked through the entrance, calm as you please, but anybody in there would think he was just another critter. He reappeared, nodded and I stepped into a massive cavern, its natural splendour was marred by row upon row of white objects lining the walls. They were about the size of a large box, or a coffin. I moved to the nearest container, it was sealed but had a Perspex window, I glanced inside and gagged. Pieces of this puzzle had begun to click gruesomely into place.
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In five hundred years time, most of us will be forgotten dust. But Hitler will still be remembered, God loves irony.
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Fear book 3 - part 9
