Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [129]
I call out to them and run faster. And then my foot catches on something and I’m airborne. I come down hard. I’m lying on the ground. My head’s throbbing. Something warm and wet is trickling down my cheek. I’m so dizzy I feel like I’m going to die. I close my eyes, trying desperately to make the spinning stop, then open them again. I’ve never seen such darkness. Or heard such silence. There are no more voices. No more lights.
For a second I wonder if I’m asleep or passed out or dead.
I can’t be those things. If I was, my head wouldn’t hurt so much. I am alone, though. Deep under Paris in the catacombs. In the dark. With several million dead people all around me. And no idea how to get out.
I scramble to my knees and feel around for my flashlight. My hands travel over dirt and bones and I nearly sob with joy when I find it. It went out, but I give it a shake and it comes back on. I pick up my guitar case, and start off after the goths. I have to find them. They’re my only way out. I hope like mad that there are no more forks in the tunnel. No wrong turns to take. After a few minutes, by some miracle, I spot them. They’re up ahead of me. Moving slowly.
“Hey!” I shout in French. “Yo, wait up!”
They stop and as I catch up to them, I see why they’re going so slowly. They don’t have a flashlight. They have a candle.
“Enough already,” I say, handing the hot one the flashlight. “Get us out of here.”
But he doesn’t move. Instead he plays with the flashlight. He shines it up on the ceiling and all over the walls. He shines it in his face. His friend takes it. Turns it upside down. Shakes it. Accidentally turns it off. Asks me to light it again.
They’re high. They must be. Which is great. Just great. I’m in the catacombs of Paris with a bunch of stoners on a most un-excellent adventure. I turn the flashlight back on and give it back to the hot guy. We hear a shout coming from the way we came and it gets us going again. We’re moving fast. After a few minutes, the tunnel narrows. We trudge through cold, black water, then the floor slopes upward and the ground is dry again.
And suddenly, there is a stink—a stink like no stink I’ve ever smelled. It’s tangible. Evil. It’s so strong, it’s a physical entity. I drop my guitar and my bag, bend over, and throw up. I feel so insanely sick, I’m not even embarrassed. When there’s nothing left I stand up straight. I’m coughing and spitting and gasping for breath. My throat feels like someone poured acid down it. Tears are streaming from my eyes. I look at the others. And they’re fine. All fine. They’re looking at me with puzzled faces. Like they can’t figure out why I’m not.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I rasp. “Can’t you smell it?”
“Yes,” one of them says.
“What is it?”
“Dead people, of course. We’re in the catacombs.”
“Yeah, but—” I start to say.
And then I see them. In the glow of the flashlight, I see the corpses. Stacks of them. Some are shriveled. Some are putrid. Most still have their clothes on. Not one has its head on.
“No. No way. No way! This can’t be. Fresh dead people?” I shout. “I took the tour. No one said anything about fresh dead people. They said the bodies were two hundred years old. This is bad. Really bad. We’ve got to call someone. Frontline. Nightline. Anderson Cooper.”
The four of them look at each other like I’m weird. Like I’m weird!
I freak out then. Get a bit shrill. The hot guy shushes me. “Be quiet. The guard might still be around,” he says. “Why are you making such a fuss? Surely you’ve seen these and more during the balls.” He pulls a little muslin bag from inside his vest and hands it to me. “Here. Hold this to your nose.”
I hold it over my face like a gas mask.