Reliquary

“Help me turn this,” Duffy said.

“You heard him,” Waxie snapped at the policemen. From his perch, Smithback could see two of the tiny figures gripping a large iron wheel. There was a faint grunting. “It ain’t moving,” one of the policemen a

The man named Duffy bent closer, inspecting. “Somebody’s been messing around here!” he cried, pointing. “Look at this! The shaft’s been packed with lead. And over here, these valves have been broken off. Recently, too, by the looks of it.”

“Don’t give me any of your bullshit, Duffy.”

“Look for yourself. This thing is shot to hell.”

There was a silence. “Shit on a stick,” came Waxie’s fretful voice. “Can you fix it?”

“Sure we can. If we had twenty-four hours. And acetylene torches, an arc welder, new valve stems, and maybe a dozen other parts that haven’t been manufactured since the turn of the century.”

“That isn’t good enough. If we can’t stop that shunt from opening manually, we’re screwed. You got us into this fix, Duffy. You’d damn well better get us out.”

“To hell with you, Captain!” the shrill voice of Duffy echoed up. “I’ve had all I’m going to take. You’re a stupid, rude human being. Oh, yes, I forgot: fat, too.”

“That’s going in my report, Duffy.”

“Then be sure you put in the part about being fat, because—”

There was an abrupt silence.

“You smell that?” asked one of the-policemen on the ladder.

“What the hell is it?” came another voice.

Smithback sniffed the cool, moist air, but could smell nothing but damp brick and mildew. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Waxie said, grabbing the ladder and hoisting himself up the rungs.

“Just a minute!” came the voice of Duffy. “What about the valve?”

“You just told me it couldn’t be fixed,” Waxie said without looking down.

Smithback heard a faint rattling sound from the deeper darkness of the pit.

“What was that?” Duffy asked, his voice cracking.

“Are you coming?” Waxie yelled, hauling his ungainly body up the ladder, one rung at a time.

As Smithback watched, Duffy took a look over the platform edge, hesitating. Then he turned back and began to scramble up the ladder behind Waxie, followed by the uniformed policemen. Smithback realized that in five minutes, they’d reach the catwalk. By then he’d have to be gone, making that long crawl back up the gangway and out of sight. And with jack shit to show for his pains. He turned to go, hoping he hadn’t missed the rest of the riot, wondering where Mrs. Wisher was by now. Jesus, what a bad call, he thought ruefully. Can’t believe my instincts let me down. With his luck, that prick Bryce Harriman was already…

A sound echoed up from below: the protesting squeal of rusty hinges, the loud booming of an iron grating being slammed.

“What was that?” Smithback heard Waxie yelp.

Smithback turned back and looked down the ladder. He could see the figures on the ladder below him, suddenly motionless. Waxie’s last question was still echoing and rumbling, dying away in the shaft. There was silence. And into the silence came the sound of scrabbling on iron rungs, mingled with strange grunts and wheezes that raised the hairs on Smithback’s nape.

Flashlight beams played downwards from the group on the ladder, revealing nothing.

“Who is it?” Waxie cried again, peering down.

“There’re some people coming up the ladder,” one of the policemen said.

“We’re police officers!” Waxie yelled, his voice suddenly shrill.

There was no answer.

“Identify yourselves!”

“They’re still coming,” the policeman said.

“There’s that smell again,” came another voice, and suddenly it hit Smithback like a hammer: an overripe, goatish odor that brought back like a physical blow the nightmare hours he’d spent in the bowels of the Museum, eighteen months before.

“Unholster your weapons!” Waxie yelled in a panicky voice.

Now Smithback could see them: dark shapes moving quickly up the ladder from the depths, wearing hoods and dark cloaks that billowed behind them in the updraft.

“You hear me down there?” Waxie cried. “Stop and identify yourselves!” He twisted his thick form on the ladder and looked down at the officers. “You men, wait here. Find out their business. If they’re trespassers, give them citations.” He turned and began scrambling desperately up the ladder again, Duffy at his heels.

As Smithback watched, the strange figures passed the platform and approached the stationary cops. There was a pause, then what to Smithback appeared to be a struggle, the dim light making it look oddly like a graceful ballet. The illusion vanished with the roar of a 9-millimeter, deafening in the confined space, rolling up and down the brick shaft like thunder. Then the echoes were drowned out by a scream, and Smithback saw the lowest policeman detach from the ladder and plunge into the shaft, one of the figures still clinging to him. The attenuated screams of the officer echoed up from the pit, slowly vanishing into nothing.

“Stop them!” Waxie cried over his shoulder, toiling up the ladder. “Don’t let them come!”

As Smithback watched in frozen horror, the shapes came ever more swiftly, the metal ladder clattering and groaning under their weight. The second cop fired wildly at the figures, then he was grabbed by the leg and yanked with horrible strength from the ladder rung. He hurtled downwards, firing his revolver again and again, the muzzle flashing as he pin-wheeled into the darkness. The third policeman turned and began climbing with panicky speed.

The dark figures were swarming upward now, two rungs at a time, climbing with long, loping movements. One of the figures passed through the beam of a spotlight, giving Smithback a glimpse of something thick and moist shining briefly in the reflected glow. Then the lead figure caught up with the policeman and made a wide, slashing movement across the back of the retreating man’s legs. He screamed and twisted on the ladder. The figure pulled himself level with the officer, then began tearing at his face and throat while the rest of the hooded figures scrambled past.

Smithback tried to move but seemed unable to tear his gaze away from the spectacle beneath him. In his panic to climb the ladder, Waxie had slipped and was clutching to one side, trying to gain a purchase with his scrabbling feet. Duffy was coming up quickly beneath him, but several of the dark figures were right behind.

“It’s got my leg!” Duffy screamed. There were unmistakable sounds of thrashing and kicking. “Oh, my God, help me!” The hysterical voice echoed and reechoed crazily through the dim space.

As Smithback watched, Duffy shook himself free with a strength born of terror and scrambled up the ladder past the struggling Waxie.

“No! No!” Waxie yelled in desperation, trying to kick away the grasping hands of the closest figure and knocking back its hood in the process. Smithback jerked his head back instinctively at the sight, but not before his brain had registered something out of his worst nightmare, worse for being vague in the dim light: narrow lizard’s pupils, thick wet lips, great creases and folds of extra skin. It suddenly dawned on him that these must be the Wrinklers Mephisto had referred to. Now he knew why.

The sight broke Smithback’s paralysis, and he began scrambling up the catwalk. Behind him, he could hear Waxie firing his service piece—there was a roar of pain that almost turned Smithback’s limbs to jelly—two more quick shots in rapid succession—then Waxie’s rising, blubbering scream of anguish, suddenly truncated to a horrifying wet gurgle.

Smithback half ran, half scuttled up the catwalk, trying to keep the sense of overwhelming fear from paralyzing him once again. Behind him, he could hear Duffy—God, he hoped it was Duffy—sobbing and scrambling up the iron rungs. I’ve got a good head start, he thought; the figures still had nearly one hundred feet of ladder to climb. For a moment, he considered going back to help Duffy, but it was the work of an instant to realize there was nothing he could do. Just give me the luxury of living to regret ru