“Godsdammit!” Frank yelled.

“Gee, Frank, you think anyone heard that?” Donny asked, the sound of his deep, rich voice echoing around him.

“Shut it,” the man threw back at his partner above as he hauled himself up off the floor.

He looked around, re-tightening the fine chains of his talisman that he had bound his fingers in before the military had sent him in here. A harder-than-normal task given that he also had to use his one arm to keep himself from going blind.

Rather than the ammunition that he and the others had presumed were to be handed out…hoped, rather, the numerous boxes brought in by the military had instead carried some new tool. Some blasted French creation that was currently doing its best to burn through his retina.

The item was merely a small tube filled with various chemicals—Frank would not dare to guess as to their nature lest he tempt fate even further, as he was already pushing it with that boy back in the truck—that when activated with a twist and a pull of the cap, produced an intense, near-continuous light from its tip.

Apparently; he was still too busy wrestling with the luminous ghost swimming in front of his eyes to see anything properly right now.

He, Donny, and Germain had gotten the wet end of the stick when those flunkies had been handing out the assignments—something his bones kept insisting was personal, despite knowing it was not; the government was extremely fair when it came to screwing people over, so it was more than likely just genuine bad luck.

The three of them were to make their way through the basement storage area, a series of underground levels that served as long-term storage for the museum above, and where new artefacts were brought in for processing.

While experience told him that the malign forces assailing this place would more than likely head upstairs towards where the patrons would have been, Frank would have bet his boots and belt that the source of whatever was happening would be somewhere down here, some discovery still waiting for inspection…possibly broken open after some overworked jackass knocked it over or some curator got greedy.

He audibly ‘tsk’ed’ at that last thought.

Not to say that he was above such temptation himself, anything in here would probably cut off a zero or two of his yearly rent if presented to the right buyer, but that was a fool’s game; the government would have ensured that everything was recorded down thrice or more before sending it here, and there was always the tried-and-true method of tracking things down if they had not. Even if they did not catch him, there would be questions, and with the number of bodies that were bound to be around here and upstairs, there would be more than enough ways to answer them.

Whoever said the dead told no tales was a moron.

‘But then again,’ Frank thought, ‘greedy curators could mean hidden stashes?’

Nothing was perfect, so some of the items here may have slipped through the stringent security measures. The current mess was proof enough that there was some wiggle room where that was concerned.

Of course, he would have to recover his sight first.

With space limited within the city, luxuries like ramps and stairs were hard to come by, the only way to get anything down here being with the help of a series of elevators large enough to fit the Beast in its entirety and then some. Problem was, some idiot in high command made it mandatory that the electricity be cut in situations such as these, the machinery powering such devices now as dead as he hoped never to be. The three of them had to climb down through an emergency access ladder along the side of the building, an unmaintained hole in the ground, the rungs embedded into the cement to form a long-lasting ladder now long worn away by rust and weather. Because of that, they then had first needed to retrieve some rope from the military before they could even think of descending down here.

The pricks back outside actually had the gall to accuse them of using that excuse as a means of trying to worm their way out of things.

‘Pricks!’

Before heading down, he had tried the military’s fancy stick, pulling the cap, then dropping it down the long vertical tunnel to hell. The burst of light from its initial ignition had been intense, blinding all three of them as it did Frank now, hence Germain’s poor accuracy in dropping it, but had suddenly diminished to a barely perceptible glow when it went inwards, the thing hitting a rung or something before reaching the bottom, then bouncing off somewhere inside to parts unseen.

They had assumed that the light was short-lived and Frank, having already lost his draw, quickly descended to take advantage of its lingering presence before whatever was below could recover from its effect, but the rope had twisted during that hurried descent, Frank’s back turning to the doorway as he climbed down, only to sharply spin back as the rope twisted the other way, the sudden brightness then disabling his sight, causing him to fall on his ass as his hands lost their grip.

Once down, he was given a fright as something happened then. Perhaps the formula was unreliable, causing it to momentarily dim, or perhaps whatever shroud passing itself off as the shadows of this place had tried to douse the unwanted illumination? Whatever the case, Frank moved back, keeping the walls of the hole around him so that he would at least not have to fear being flanked, though he could hardly claim to be capable of even simply seeing whatever might have been coming for him at that moment. Hopefully, whatever it was would not realise that unfortunate truth.

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“You dead, Frank?!”

“Yes! Any other stupid questions?! Good, get down here!”

Germain came first, Donny last.

Frank did nothing stupid like trying to cause Donny and Germain to fall on their rears as he had in reprisal for their earlier amusement at his misfortune; shenanigans now and then were all well and good, but not when you faced the eternal dangers of the unknown.

“Hell-and-a-half, that’s bright. You should have saved it,” Germain told him.

“What? No, that’s still the first one.”

“You’re Kidding? I thought these were from the military?”

“Well…broken clocks and all that,” Donny offered from the side.

He and Germain clung to the left and right walls respectfully, Frank still pressing himself backwards in the middle. All of them still squinting, they made to light their lanterns. Traditional tin and glass; good for storms, not so much for venturing into the hearts of unfathomable evil. A good swipe and the blasted things would burst into a fog of fire, igniting anything within reach of it. An effect not entirely unwanted, as one such burst had saved Donny’s life two years prior when he had to resort to using his old one as a makeshift grenade, but in general, not something one desired—the trusty tool just as much a threat to its wielder as anything they risked facing.

Ironically, they used such lights—specifically, their thick metal bases—to shield them from the intense illumination that had yet to show any sign of waning as they cautiously ventured forward.

They had been assigned to the southern side, their given task an expected death sentence. Freelancers were supposed to be free, and indeed, they did have certain liberties, but they were also more restricted than the nine-to-fivers in a lot of ways.

They were not without options, but with sunset rapidly approaching—something the military must have included in their plans, Frank was sure, the lack of time further forcing their hand—and the fact that the men in charge were willing to assign several groups like his to the lower floors meant that any dissent could be met with summary execution without risk of repercussion.

‘All that and no ammo!’

For the seventh time that hour, Frank cursed the Khaki-clad bastards above.

Walking past the light of the French stick, the yellowing luminescence just enough behind them that they could see but not so far that they lost any protection from its reach, they took in their surroundings.

There was just a small opening, vacant of any door that should have been present to keep what was outside out and what was inside in, box-laden shelves visible beyond that. More important than that sight, was what the trio heard.

Nothing.

It was silent. Too silent.

A cliché to be true, but unless their entrance had remained unnoticed, that silence meant that whatever was out there was holding back. A sign of cunning, if not intelligence. Both were dangerous qualities.

Ultimately, ignoring the odd toys they could produce, humanity only had their smarts to rely on—and if you had ever met any of their leaders, you would know just how small that advantage was. A brutish monster, frothing and thrashing at the sight of prey, was something to be hoped for, not lamented.

Frank reached for the map book by his side, one of the many tools that everyone in their profession needed was a way to keep track of things. A small, simple picture printed on paper, unfortunately, its accuracy in depicting their surroundings another win for the military, at least. But seeing as broken clocks could only be right twice a day, Frank was sure that it would be back to business as usual from now on.

Before he could try and read it, he shot back as a fine powder filled the air.

Franks looked to its source and asked, “What the hell are you doing?!”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Germain replied.

It was a stupid question; the secrets of the trade were not to be inquired about, spied upon or pilfered, such things being the life and blood of each of them—literally in some cases—the compromising of which possibly damning the affected party to the streets or the hereafter if they were lucky, to places further astray if not, and the perpetrator, if caught, to a death in the dark if ever found alone.

Which was why Frank made a mental note to grab a sample before they left. Freelancers were considered a shifty lot for a reason, after all, and you did not get anywhere in life if you never tried to take an advantage when you could.

He held his lamp high as he peered at the small, intricate drawing that had been poorly pasted into his notebook. Frank would have preferred to lay the blame for the inaccuracy on his current circumstances, but he had never had the hand or the mind for arts & crafts.

Nor for reading maps in harshly lit basements, he now found out.

“We’re under the Roman part,” Donny informed him.

“How you figure that?”

“‘caus I listened. Southern upper-corner, Roman exhibit.” Donny then punctuated his sentence by tapping Frank’s map with the tip of his finger. “We’re to head down this way…”

“I heard that part,” Frank started.

“Gentlemen? The sun stops for no man.” Germain cautioned.

“Alright, alright,” Frank surrendered, “Okay, so under the Roman Exhibit, then the dino…”

“Prehistoric exhibit,” Donny corrected.

“…the dino room,” Frank repeated, “and…no, not there….”

“That’s the general room, or what’s under it. We avoid that.”

“Right, right…so down here, then to the Euro crap.”

Donny did not bother to correct his partner this time; Germain was right in their need for expediency and they could only delay the inevitable for so long.

“Then, if we don’t encounter anything,” Donny had to pause a moment as Germain and Frank both snorted, “then we head into the primary storage areas beneath the general exhibition.”

“Wait, wait, what’s this room?”

“I forget what’s above, but beneath is the long-term storage for Egyptian artefacts.”

“And the room next to it?”

“Storage for the African artefacts. The exhibit’s above.”

“We don’t go there,” Germain warned.

Neither of the other two disagreed with him.

“Right, Gentlemen,” Frank began, “if the worse should happen, please tell the world that I was a magnificent bastard.”

Frank then grabbed one of the many medallions around his neck, kissed it while muttering a prayer to St. Jude, then performed a similar ritual with his chicken foot, praying then instead to whatever bastard would listen. He then walked forward, chains ready and lantern held high, the light of Germain and Donny following close behind.

Unlike the little page of neatly organised and coloured squares and rectangles, the underground warehouses and hallways connecting them that served the museum above were each a maze, each threatening to mislead them from their path as they made their way through the winding passageways of unlabelled crates and dusty shelves, precious minutes wasted on unexpected dead ends and their inevitable loss of direction.

Silence reigned all the while, its unwavering presence wearing at the nerves of the trio. Violence should have been heard—chanting, running…panicked gunshots at the very least. That there was nothing did not bode well. Not for them, and not for the other groups that should have been down here with them.

They eventually passed through the storage beneath the Roman exhibit and into the one beneath the Prehistoric exhibit, the nondescript boxes soon giving way to more nondescript boxes.

They took a short break then, needing it not to recover from fatigue but to clear their lungs of the copious amounts of dust pervading the musty air.

A presence that was not lessened by the continuous addition of more of Germain’s powder. Whatever it was or effect it might hold, the man’s faith in it was absolute, and its supply seemingly unlimited. And it was in that brief moment of rest that they finally heard a sound whose source did not originate with themselves.

Nothing was said in response to that intrusion; the three having both long been in the business and being of a professional mind, instead separated to different areas around the small clearing amidst the many crates and shelves that they currently occupied, taking up positions in preparation of defence or for an ambush of whatever the source of that strange sound may have been.

Donny, the best of them in marksmanship, took sight from behind a pile of boxes, peering through a thin gap between the two topmost crates—Frank and Germain then taking to either side of the area, all eyes, firearms and trinkets focusing on the gap within the wall of boxes that they had not come through. It was not a kill zone, they were not the hunters here—never—the only thing any freelancer could ever hope to be was a survivor.

The intent was to spy on whatever passed by, and, should it come to it, give themselves some advantage if they needed to confront the thing. But if it came to that, it would be a two-man fight, a third of their number needing to flee with any information they might gain to the others above.

Whom that third would be was anyone’s guess, though.

Then, they waited.

However long it took to get to their current location was minuscule compared to the endless moments that passed as they continued that vigil for that strange sound approaching them, but moment by moment, it drew closer, and with it, so too did each of their urges to run grow sharper.

But still, they waited.