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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.
Smithbackheard a faint rattling sound from the deeper dark-ness 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 po-licemen. 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 mo-tionless. Waxie s lastquestion was still echoing and rumbling, dying away in the shaft. There
was silence. And into the si-lence 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 sud-denly 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 iden-tify 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.
AsSmithback watched, the strange figures passed the plat-form and approached the stationary cops.
There was a pause, then what toSmithback 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 con-fined
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!
AsSmithback 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.
Smithbacktried 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.
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