Mark

Francois led them deeper into the tunnel. It narrowed precipitously, funneling them into a winding dirt and stone passage that forced them to stoop as they walked. In some places, it squeezed them so tightly that MacDougal had to turn sideways and suck in his paunch to move forward. Johnson supported Wight, who stumbled along, his eyes glazed. Blood leaked from a cut on the side of his head, dripping onto the floor as they walked. Mark brought up the rear, his own head pounding. He probed at it, gingerly, giving his hand a rest and letting the light of his flashlight lapse, feeling at the spot where the German had struck him. His fingers came away sticky, but not wet. That was a good sign, he supposed, though his vision swam when he turned his head too quickly.

With the rush of their fight and flight fading, Mark found himself shivering in the dark. The sun shone up above, but down here, the cold raised gooseflesh all along his arms. The tunnel plunged deeper in fits and starts, and their footsteps echoed through the darkness. Stumbling down another crude set of steps, he felt the weight of the city pressing down over him. They must be twenty meters deep by now, and all those tons of rock were just…sitting there, right over their heads. It wasn’t natural. The air tasted dusty on his lips, pungent with a faint odor of rot, a malaise that he couldn’t identify. It grew stronger with every step they took.

At the front of the group, Francois paused to hood the lantern, narrowing the light to a single thin beam. He ducked through a crevice in the rock, peering this way and that for a long minute before grunting and dropping through. “This way,” he called back, signaling to the left.

MacDougal followed him, and Johnson helped Wight down through the slit in the stone. Mark wiggled through after them. He made the drop blind, landing feet first with a crunch in a straight tunnel that ran perpendicular to the first. The stagnant air smothered them. It had thickened to a cloying scent, sweet and rotten at once. Mark put one hand against the lumpy wall to steady himself as he made to follow the dim outline of Johnson and Wight ahead of him.

He frowned, running his hand along the tunnel wall. The lumps were regular, evenly spaced, and rounded. Had they shored up the walls with river stones or something? No, it couldn’t be. These were too regular to be natural, and they didn’t feel like stones under his hands. His fingers found empty voids beneath the smooth domes and hard ridges. Confused, he raised his flashlight and gave the handle three hard squeezes.

The light whirred to life, and a pair of empty eye sockets stared up at Mark above a snaggle-toothed grin. With a cry, he jumped back, snatching his hand away. He fetched up against the opposite wall and recoiled, feeling the same domes against his back. The walls were skulls from floor to ceiling, stacked in neat rows as high as he could reach. They sat cheek-to-cheek, jaw over skull in neat ordered rows like the work of some deranged bricklayer. And every last one of them leered at him with laughing, black eyes.

“Sergeant!” he hissed, scurrying to catch up. “Sergeant, this place is full of bones!”

MacDougal did not slow. “A few million bodies worth, aye.”

“A few million…? Why the bloody hell don’t they just have normal cemeteries?” Christ, he’d been breathing the remnants of a million dead Parisians. No wonder it had smelled so bad. He pulled out a handkerchief and wrapped it around his nose and mouth to block some of the stench. It didn’t help, and it couldn’t block the sight of all those skulls grinning at him, their eyes following him. He shuddered with revulsion.

Francois answered him. “We do. Hundreds of them, in fact. But Paris, she is a grand city, and large besides.” He paused to consider an intersection, wafting the lantern left and right before signaling them to go right. “It can be crowded when so many people all want to live together, and the dead, they do not move out, no? So the cemeteries grew full to bursting.”

“So your solution was to dig a bunch of tunnels and stick everyone in here instead?”

“No, the tunnels were already here. They were mines once.” Francois gave a rare section of empty stone a fond pat as they passed it. “Lutéce limestone, the finest in all the world. It is a warm stone, you see? A beautiful cream color. All of the buildings in the heart of Paris are built with this stone. It holds the very soul of the city.”

Mark eyed a wall built entirely of femurs. “Looks to me more like the soul of the city might be down here.” That earned a wry chuckle from the frenchman, as unexpected as it was rare.

“Indeed. As I said, the cemeteries within the city walls were overflowing. Something had to be done, and these tunnels were already here, right beneath our feet, so…” He shrugged. “At the very least, the dead do not have very far to travel.”

They lapsed into silence after that, hurrying along down dark, bone-lined passageways. At intersections, Francois would sometimes stop for a minute or more, considering which path to take. When Mark asked him why they kept stopping, all he said was “It has been many years since I came this way. Now be quiet; your voice will carry for miles.”

So Mark held his tongue and followed the mad rebel, squeezing at his flashlight’s handle until he thought his fingers would fall off. In many of the tunnels the bones formed macabre patterns, crosses and geometric shapes picked out in femurs and tibia. The eyes seemed to follow Mark as they passed, laughing at him. In other areas they had collapsed, forcing the team to wade through knee high piles of medieval Parisian dead.

Mark hated every second of it. Bumping into the patterned stacks triggered cascades of dust that clung to him and made his skin crawl. The stink followed them, and he heard rats chittering in the darkness, following the whirring of his flashlight. He would have let it lapse, but then he would have had to rely on Francois’s dim lantern, and that was worse than the queer shadows his own light threw across the bones.

For what felt like an eternity but was probably less, Francois led them through the tunnels. A final turn brought them into a large, open chamber. For once, there were no bones; instead, someone had carved three buildings in miniature relief. Mark took his light over to inspect them, squeezing for every scrap of brightness it could muster. It was a castle, he realized, carved in exquisite detail right out of the solid rock by some bored worker or bohemian artist. And it was old too, worn from the touch of many hands in some places, and coated with a thick rime of dust.

“Wait here.” Francois said, making for the far end of the chamber. Another tunnel branched off there, sloping upwards.

MacDougal frowned. “Why?”

“They are not expecting me, and they will be suspicious.” Francois did not slow. “I will be back in a few minutes.”

Mark would have objected to the Frenchman’s departure, but MacDougal accepted it with a grunt. The light from Francois’ lantern faded away as he rounded the corner of the sloping passage, leaving only Mark’s little light to brighten the gloom. He worked the handle like his life depended on it, his hand aching.

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The four of them huddled around the light, the same way they might a tiny fire. Well, three of them huddled. Wight slumped when Johnson put him down, his head drooping, leaving a gap between Mark and the semi-conscious man. Rogers’ usual place. Mark closed the gap with a pang, sitting down next to Wight and helping to prop him up, shaking him a bit.

“Don’t go to sleep,” Mark urged. You weren’t supposed to do that with head injuries, right? Wight gave him a listless nod, but his eyes fluttered even as he did so. The blood in his mustache stained it a dark reddish brown color that stood out starkly on his pale face.

Mark handed the flashlight off to Johnson and swung the pack off his shoulder. He rummaged through, feeling his way through the things he’d been able to bring. His deck of cards, some clothes, a box of ammunition that wouldn’t even fit the Walther at his belt…He felt something slosh, and pulled out his canteen. The water swished inside as he shook it. He judged it to be about half full, and hearing it made him aware of how chapped his lips were, how the dust filled his throat. He poured a careful measure of it onto his handkerchief and set to wiping some of the blood and dust off Wight’s injury

Underneath the superficial cut, the man’s skull sagged. Mark dabbed at it gingerly, afraid that if he pressed too hard his fingers might go right through. He needed more help than Mark, or any of them, could offer. The water was warm, but in the cold of the tunnels that seemed to help. Wight’s eyes brightened a little bit, and Mark helped him take a few measured swallows.

They passed the canteen around in silence, sharing it out until Mark shook the last few drops onto his tongue. MacDougal had half a loaf of potato bread in his own bag, and they shared that around too, though Wight shook his head, going green when they offered it to him. They were finishing the last crusts when Francois returned, a man wearing a beret and carrying a rifle in tow.

The man gave them a long, hard look as they came to their feet to face him, his finger resting on the trigger of his rifle. He turned to Francois, speaking in fast, low French.

“They can come. Fleur-de-Lis will have questions, and they will need to be searched, but we have a little food and someone can see to their hurts.” Turning back to the men, he continued. “Follow me, please.”

They did as they were bid. Johnson handed Mark back his flashlight, and he switched it to his left hand to give his aching right a break. The tunnel sloped upward in a steady climb that left Mark panting, culminating in a sturdy wooden door. The man leading them knocked on it with the butt of his rifle and called out.

The door swung open to reveal three more men, wearing berets and grim, worried expressions. Worse yet, all three aimed rifles through the doorway at them, their fingers hovering on the triggers of their weapons.

“Whoa there.” MacDougal said, putting his hands up. “We’re friends.”

“We’ll see.” The foremost of the three said tersely, his eyes hard. “Up you get.”

They ushered the men up, watching even the stumbling Wight with suspicion. Mark was the last, and he blinked in the light, eyes watering after hours in the dark of the tunnels. The room proved to be a wine cellar, full of thick oak casks and heavy with the scent of alcohol and fruit. Electric lights dangled from the ceiling, and though Mark knew they were dim, they seemed bright as the morning sun. He pocketed the flashlight, and shook his cramping hands.

The men searched them, patting them down with rough efficiency and taking their weapons. Mark’s Walther caused a brief argument before Francois stepped in to explain where it had come from. When the men were satisfied, one of them ran upstairs to fetch their leader.

Mark leaned over to MacDougal. “So we’re finally going to get to meet this ‘Fleur-de-Lis’ person.” He whispered. One of the men guarding them eyed him. The men had lowered their rifles, but still held them ready.

“Speak French, Mark, and don’t whisper; it isn’t polite.” MacDougal tried unsuccessfully to beat some of the dust and grime from the front of his coat, grimacing at his disheveled state. “Not how I would have chosen to come.”

A woman came down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Francois stepped forward to meet her, a smile breaking across his face. She went straight to him, fussing over his bruises and speaking to him in a low, hushed voice.

Mark wondered who she might be. Francois’ sister, perhaps? The way she mothered him suggested they might be family, but Mark found it hard to believe that such a gorgeous woman could share any blood with the ill-tempered rebel. Where Francois was tall and sallow with black hair and olive skin, the woman was shorter than Mark, with fair skin and a healthy dose of freckles splashed across her cheeks. She had dark blond hair, the color of fresh honey, pulled into a tight bun. A few strands had escaped it, and these hung down to frame a heart shaped face.

She turned from Francois towards Mark and his team. The men in the room tensed as she made her way across the room to stand in front of the squad, their fingers going back to the triggers of their guns. Casting a glance back at them, she said, “At ease men, these are our British allies.” Her French had a quick, rhythmic pattern to it, and her voice was clear and firm.

As though compelled by magic, the men did as she had commanded, one even going so far as to lean back against the wall behind him. Turning back, she went on. “Sergeant MacDougal, I presume. My cousin has told me much about you. Your strike to disable the power station was well timed.”

Cousin? Mark thought to himself, glancing at Francois. Good looks, apparently, were restricted to half of the family tree.

A flicker of confusion passed over the Sergeant’s face, and then cleared. “I should thank you, ma’am. The information that made that strike possible was just as timely.” He offered his hand to the woman. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Fleur-de-lis.”

She took it, giving it two firm pumps as Mark blinked in consternation. This beautiful woman was the resistance leader? “Likewise, Sergeant, but please, call me Liliane. I am very sorry to hear of the loss of your comrade; France will not forget him, or his sacrifice.”

“Our thanks.” The Sergeant’s voice was thick, and he cleared his throat with a cough before continuing. “We’re not down and out yet though. If you’re willing to help us, we can redeploy and start hitting them again.”

Liliane gave a cautious nod, her lips pursed. “We’ll…have to talk about that. This will require a rapid revision of our plans. Did any of the Germans who came for you escape?”

MacDougal hesitated. “Just one.”

“Then your faces are known to them.” Liliane said, setting her mouth in a tight line. “It would be too dangerous, especially given how many people saw you at the power station…No, if you want to continue working in this city, that is your choice, but it will be without our help. Things have become very dangerous.”

Johnson cut in. “Sergeant,” He said in a soft voice. “Wight needs medical attention. If we take him to a hospital here, we’re all likely to be found out.” He still held Wight upright, but the man looked to be asleep on his feet. The wounded man’s jaw dangled open, his eyes blank, and the caterpillar above his lip drooped lifelessly.

MacDougal blew out a long breath. “You’re right. I’m not going to lose anyone else, if I can help it.” Turning back towards Liliane, he went on. “Can you help us get out of the country?”

She hesitated. “Probably. It will be a long trip, and a lot of walking. We can get you to a hospital in Orléans for him first,” she gestured at Wight. “It’s not far and lightly garrisoned. You should be able to escape notice, with a proper cover story.” She scowled. “This is all very rushed. Better if we had time to come up with a more detailed strategy.”

MacDougal nodded, his resolve firming. “We’ll have to make do. I need to get word back to headquarters of what’s happened before we go, though. Our radio was destroyed, so if we could use one of yours that would be much appreciated.”

Liliane furrowed her brow. “That will be…difficult.”

“It would be a short message,” He assured her. “Nothing that could put your people in any danger.”

“That’s not the issue.” She grimaced, pushing back the hair that had escaped her bun. “We don’t have a radio here, and yours was not the only squad hit. This morning, every team in Paris with a radio was attacked.”