"The walls are still unlike the stonework in the video," said Pendergast, sotto voce. "This is schist, not granite, and not cut the same way."

"It's like a maze down here."

Pendergast nodded toward a low archway. "Let's try that passage."

They ducked into the low tunnel. "Jesus, that smell, " said D'Agosta. It was a cloying stench of horse blood, thick, with an edge of iron to it, all the more horrible for its obvious freshness. It was accompanied by occasional eddies of cool air, coming from some invisible vent to the outside. In the distance, echoing through the tunnels, he could hear the cries and shouts of pursuing congregants, who also appeared to have gained the underground and were spreading out, searching for them.

They continued down the tunnel, Pendergast moving so swiftly D'Agosta had to jog to keep up, splashing through standing pools of water and slime. Nitre and cobwebs coated the sweating walls, and as they moved D'Agosta could see white spiders scurrying into holes in the brickwork. At the edge of darkness, red rats' eyes gleamed and flickered at them as they passed.

They approached a junction in which three cross — tunnels met, forming a hexagonally shaped space. Pendergast slowed, putting his finger to his lips and gesturing for D'Agosta to creep along one wall of the tunnel while he took the other.

As they reached the junction, D'Agosta felt, rather than saw, a rapid movement above him. He dropped and rolled to one side just as something — the zombii — creature — dropped down, the tatters of ancient finery whipping and rustling over his knotted limbs like ruined sails in a strong breeze. D'Agosta squeezed off a shot, but the man — thing was ready, and it moved so unexpectedly that his shot went wide. It raced across his field of view, flashing through the beam of his flashlight, and as D'Agosta dropped to the ground to escape the charge a momentary, terrifying impression burned into his retinas: the single lolling eye; the whorls and curlicues ofvévé painted or pasted on his skin; the wet lips quivering in a grin of desperate hilarity. And yet there was nothing vague or hilarious in its movements — it came after them with single — minded, horrifying purpose.

D'Agosta fired again, but it was a gratuitous shot: the thing had flitted back into the darkness and disappeared. He lay on the ground, shining the light around, this way and that, gun at the ready.

"Pendergast?"

The special agent stepped out of the darkness of a doorway, crouching, his Colt drawn and held in front of him with both hands.

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of dripping water.

"He's still out there," murmured D'Agosta, rising to a half crouch and making a three — hundred — sixty — degree turn with his gun. He strained to see into the darkness.

"Indeed. I don't think he will leave until we are dead — or he is."

The seconds dragged on into minutes.

Finally, D'Agosta straightened up, lowering the Glock. "There's no time for a waiting game, Pendergast. We've got to—"

The zombii came like a dull flash from the side, going straight for his light, slashing at it with a spidery hand and sending it spinning into the darkness with a crash. D'Agosta fired, but the thing had darted out of view and back into the relative protection of the darkness. He heard Pendergast's.45 go off almost simultaneously with his, a deafening double blast — and then darkness fell abruptly with the sound of Pendergast's own flashlight shattering against a wall.

The passageway was plunged into profound darkness — and almost immediately afterward, he heard the sounds of a desperate struggle.

He lunged toward the noise, holstering the Glock and pulling his knife, better for close — in work in the dark and less likely to hit Pendergast, who was now apparently locked in a life — or — death battle with the creature. He collided with the zombii's sinewed form and immediately slashed at it with the knife, but for all its shuffling movements it was dreadfully strong and quick, turning and clawing at D'Agosta like a panther, enveloping him in a suffocating stench. The knife was torn from his hands, and he went at the man — thing with his fists, pummeling it, seeking the soft gut, the head, all the while fending off the wiry hands that clawed and raked at him. In the dark, enveloped in a robe, he was at a disadvantage; the ragged creature, on the other hand, seemed to be in its element: no matter how D'Agosta twisted and struggled, it kept the advantage of position, aided by the slickness of its body, coated with sweat and blood and oil.

What the hell had happened to Pendergast?

An arm fastened around his neck, suddenly constricting like a steel cable. D'Agosta wrenched sideways, gasping and choking, trying to throw off his attacker while simultaneously feeling for his gun. But the slippery man — thing had muscles as hard as teak: no matter how D'Agosta struggled, one hand maintained its grip, constricting his airway, while the other pinned his gun hand. A cry of triumph went up from the creature, a banshee — like wail: oaahhuuuooooooooo!

Flashes of white sparkled in his field of vision. He knew he had only moments left. With a last explosive effort he wrenched his right arm free, pulling out the gun and firing, the flash — boom illuminating the sepulchral tunnel, deafening in the confined space.

Eeeeee! the zombii screamed, and D'Agosta immediately felt a sharp blow to the head. More stars exploded before his eyes. The thing had pinned his forearm again and was shaking and slamming it against the ground, trying to knock the weapon from his hand.Eeeeee! it cried again. Dazed as he was, D'Agosta nevertheless felt sure he had hit the creature — its agitation, its high — pitched keening, were obvious — and yet it seemed stronger than ever, fighting with an inhuman fury. It stomped his forearm and he heard bones snapping. Indescribable pain blossomed just above his wrist; the gun went flying and the thing fell on him once more, both hands now around his neck.

Twisting and turning, slamming at the zombii with his good arm, D'Agosta tried to break free — but he could feel the remains of his vitality ebbing fast.

"Pendergast!" he choked.

The steel fingers tightened further. D'Agosta heaved and bucked, but without oxygen it was a losing battle. A strange tingling stole over him, accompanied by a buzzing sound. His hand reached out, clawing the floor, looking for the knife. Instead, it closed around a large fragment of brick; he clutched it, swung it around with all his might, and slammed it into the zombii's head.

Eeeeaaaaaaahhh! it squealed in pain, tumbling back. He gasped, drawing in air, swinging the brick back, striking the creature again. Another shrill screech and it leapt off him.

Coughing, sucking in air, D'Agosta staggered to his feet and ran wildly in the dark. After a moment, he could hear the man — thing scurrying after him, bare feet slapping the slimy stone floor.

From his vantage point at a wide tear in the chain — link fence, Rich Plock scanned the crowd streaming through with a steely satisfaction. Ten initial groups, roughly two hundred per group — that meant two thousand in the crowd, less than he had expected but formidable in their determination. As New York City demonstrations went, it might still be a small one — but this was a demonstration with a difference. These people were dedicated. They were hard — core. The nervous and weak of heart, the day — trippers and sunshine friends — the Esteban types — had stayed home this time. So much the better. His was a purged group, a crowd with a purpose, unlikely to cave in the face of opposition, even violence. Although there couldn't be much violence — the inhabitants of the Ville had to be outnumbered ten to one by the protesters. They might resist at first, but they would quickly be overwhelmed.