Judgment Plague. James Axler
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* *
THE THREE CERBERUS warriors clambered through the rough gap in the wall. They were in a long, roughly carved tunnel that stretched through a thick layer of poured concrete. The space was unlit, and way longer than their xenon beams could reach, leaving a whole swathe of the hole in darkness.
The concrete walls felt rough where they had been drilled into and broken up, and were scuffed and dark with mold. There was a little water on the floor here, not a stream but just a shallow trickle a couple inches across at its widest point.
“Water’s coming in from somewhere,” Brigid observed, running her beam on the glistening flow.
“Clean water,” Grant pointed out, noting its clearness.
The water was flowing steadily toward them, coming from the direction they were headed.
Kane marched on. The tunnel was on a gradual slope, and a few stretches had rugged, uneven steps carved in the floor. “Someone certainly wanted to get down here,” he said grimly.
“Or they wanted to get away from whatever is up there,” Grant suggested solemnly.
“You saw the borer,” Brigid pointed out. “Could be this tunnel’s been here for a long time.”
There was a sense of foreboding as they climbed the gentle slope to whatever waited above. Nothing came to block their path and there was no sign of life, not even insects feasting on the mold. The trickling of water was the only movement they could detect.
* * *
IT TOOK SIX MINUTES until the powerful xenon beams reached the end of the rough-hewn tunnel, seven until the Cerberus teammates had finished their ascent to its egress. The exit, like the rest of the tunnel, was roughly carved, an almost circular hole leading to whatever lay beyond.
Kane dowsed his flashlight and the others did the same, replacing the polymer-coated lenses over their eyes to see in the darkness rather than warn anyone of their approach. Looking back, he estimated that they had climbed at least a quarter mile up from the underground redoubt, and he guessed that they must be close to ground level.
Kane went ahead, crouch-walking toward the gap in the wall, anxiously manipulating his fingers as he itched to draw his sin eater once again. Behind him, Grant had drawn the Copperhead assault subgun and held it close to his body, pointed at the floor. If they met any more of those croc muties he would be ready. Brigid brought up the rear, her eyes fixed on the space behind them, making sure they didn’t get snared in a classic ambush with no way back.
Kane let his point-man sense attune to the new environment, stilling his mind and listening, smelling, feeling the way the wind currents moved. Whatever lay beyond the hole smelled old and dusty, but otherwise didn’t smell much at all. He was pretty sure there was no one around, and certainly no more of the croc things, unless they’d taken to using mouthwash.
Through the gap and into the next space. It was huge, momentarily dwarfing Kane with its proportions after the claustrophobic tunnel. He was in a room a little larger than a tennis court, containing a sunken space in the floor. The sunken area was rectangular and filled most of the room, with broad steps leading down into it and a metal ladder running up one side. It took a moment for Kane to recognize what it was—a swimming pool.
Grant followed a moment later, with Brigid just behind him, both of them glancing around warily.
“So,” Grant whispered, “where are we?”
“Pool,” Kane said, indicating the sunken space. He paced around the rim, scanning the room.
The pool was empty of water, but contained several boxes or crates, stacked one on top of the other. There were similar crates dotted around the sides, as well as a pile of material—probably clothes or towels, Kane guessed—near one wall. Up close, the material smelled musty. The room had no windows, but it featured two sets of double doors, set off center on the shorter walls.
Kane paced swiftly to the nearest doors, indicating Grant should do likewise for the far set. Moments later the two ex-mags were standing at the doors, listening for signs of life beyond them.
“On three?” Kane called across the room.
Grant nodded, running his index finger down the side of his nose as he caught his teammate’s eye. They called the gesture the one percent salute, a ritual between them that averred that no matter how much you plan for, there’s always that rogue element—that one percent—that can throw a wrench in the works. The salute was meant to be ironic, but the two men saw it almost as a lucky charm when they found themselves entering an unknown situation.
Kane did a silent count on his fingers and then the two ex-magistrates pushed at the doors they stood before. None of them opened.
“Locked.”
“Locked,” Grant agreed.
The top halves of each door featured a glass panel, but all of them seemed to have been obscured on the far side. Certain now that they were alone, Kane flipped his xenon flashlight back on and ran it over the windows and down the sliver of space between the doors to see if he could find a lock.
“Looks like someone’s put something against the other side of this one,” he stated, trotting back and keeping his voice at conversational level. “Looks like wood—maybe a dresser or cabinet.”
Grant tried his own doors again, pushing at them with his prodigious strength. “There’s some give here,” he told the others. “Might be able to force it.”
Kane looked from the empty pool to the doors, and finally settled his gaze on Brigid. “What do you figure this place is? Some kind of public baths?”
“Could be, but could just as easily be one person’s private pool,” she said.
“Looks kind of old,” Kane said to her.
“Reclaimed from prenukecaust stock maybe,” Brigid suggested. “Rebuilt or built to old specs. A lot of the materials we’ve come to use every day date back to those predark designs, remember.” She didn’t need to add that even her own blaster was of prenukecaust design, first fashioned in the late twentieth century.
* * *
CONCLUDING THAT THE only alternative exits in the room were narrow ventilation ducts, which had been sealed for years, the Cerberus crew agreed to try the doors that Grant had felt give. Kane and Brigid waited behind him while he put all his weight into moving them. The twin doors bulged outward, and the team could hear the rattle of chains. For a moment nothing happened, then came a splintering of wood as Grant applied more force, pushing his shoulder against the narrow gap between the panels.
There was a loud cracking and then the doors shuddered backward as they split from their frames, crashing to the floor with a metallic clatter of chain links, followed by an eerie silence.
Grant stepped back, pulling his Copperhead from its hidden sheath.
“Well, I guess that’s one way of opening a door,” Brigid said quietly.
Grant waited by the doorway, scanning the space beyond. It was dark out there, just as it had been inside. He saw a corridor lined with windows on one side and a rash of peeling paint on the other. The panes were so grimy they let in almost no light, a wash of mud caking their exterior. Apart from furniture, which included a pewlike bench and a trophy cabinet, the corridor was empty.
“What happened here?” Brigid whispered as she stepped forward to examine the scene.
“Maybe the crocs ate everyone,” Kane suggested. Though his tone was light, he was only half joking.
She shook her head, her usually vibrant hair almost purple in the semidarkness. “No, they locked the crocs in here, with the pool,” she reasoned. “Then they probably drained it in hopes of killing them.”
“How do you figure that?” Kane asked.
Brigid pointed to the fallen doors, the length of chain still