The Catacombs (A Psychological Suspense Horror Thriller Novel) by Jeremy Bates Read Free Book Online Page B

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.”
    We walked on, our headlamps shooting zigzags
of light around the cavernous arch. Gusty trails of graffiti
covered the walls, curving onto the bricks overhead. The ground was
chunked with rocks that glowed pale gray, the color of Paris, the
buildings.
    A few minutes later Pascal called a halt. He
swung his Maglite to the left. Where the graffiti-covered wall met
the earth was a hole—or, more accurately, a chiseled craggy break
in the rock, no more than two feet wide. Spreading away from it was
what I assumed to be cataphile refuse: empty beer cans, juice
cartons, candy wrappers, white paste from carbine lanterns. A
junked foam chair sat off on its lonesome. I wrinkled my nose; the
stench of urine was strong.
    “This is the entrance?” I said. I had been
thinking it would have been more clandestine. This screamed: “Come
on in, we’re open!”
    Danièle nodded. “Some cataphiles, they are
such slobs.”
    “Don’t the police—the catacops—know about
this?”
    “Of course. This is the main entrance
nowadays.”
    Rob said, “So why don’t they seal the thing
up?”
    “They have before,” she continued, “but
cataphiles open it again. Also, it is not an easy situation for
them. They are scared they may trap inexperienced cataphiles
inside. But, you know, I think it would be a good thing if they
somehow closed it for good. Because then the people who make the
trouble, the vandals and drug-users and tibia-collectors, they will
get bored and find other things to do.”
    “Yeah,” Rob said in an uh-duh way,
“but wouldn’t that screw you too?”
    “Me?” Danièle seemed insulted. “I am not an
amateur. Pascal and I know ten other entrances.”
    The ever-silent Pascal got to his knees and
ventured first into the hole.
    “He doesn’t say much, does he?” I remarked
when he was no longer in sight.
    “His English is not so good,” Danièle
said.
    “Fuck me,” Rob said, peering into the
fissure. “I can’t see shit.”
    “It is okay, Rosbif,” Danièle told him. “You
are so small, you will have no problem fitting in there.”
    “Bite me,” he said, then lowered himself
into the opening. When only his legs were visible, poking out of
the rock mouth like a half-eaten meal, he let rip a fart. His
laughter floated back as he crawled forward.
    “Ugh,” Danièle said, waving her hand back
and forth