Free The Catacombs (A Psychological Suspense Horror Thriller Novel) by Jeremy Bates Page B

the street, and
we ended up making a green Thai curry for dinner, which we ate with
a bottle of relatively expensive wine. I’d just gotten the job with
the travel book company a few days earlier, and we had been
celebrating all week.
    After dinner we’d been goofing around on the
bed and she had said to me, “Should I go off the pill?”
    “The pill?”
    “Do we want a baby, Will?”
    I was thrilled. “Really?”
    “We’re getting married in three weeks. If we
start trying now…”
    “We’ll have been married for about a year by
the time he’s born.”
    “He?”
    “He, she, whatever.”
    She beamed. “So?”
    “Yeah, I want to… I mean, if you want
to.”
    “Of course I want to!”
    And we had rolled around and play wrestled,
our clothes coming off piece by piece…
    Pascal and Rob had entered the room behind
me, causing me to start. Pascal started chatting with Danièle,
while Rob slumped onto the chiseled limestone bench that lined the
walls. He dug through his backpack, produced a couple beers, and
asked me if I wanted one.
    I turned my back to the mural, and the
past.
    “Sure,” I said.
     

     
    Danièle and Pascal produced some tealights
from their backpacks and placed the small candles around the
cavern. Then they took off their helmets and turned off the
headlamps, presumably to save batteries. They instructed Rob and me
to do the same.
    When everyone was settled on the limestone
bench, I studied the can of beer Rob had given me suspiciously. The
label read: “ Bière du Démon .”
    “Strongest blonde beer in the world, boss,”
he told me.
    I didn’t doubt him; it boasted a
twelve-percent alcohol content.
    “You drink this often?” I asked.
    “Never tried it. But thought it would be
appropriate for tonight. And they were only a buck a can at the
Super U near my place.”
    I popped the tab, brushed the froth off the
top, and sniffed. It smelled of fusel alcohols and bitter yeast.
The taste, a skunky sweetness, wasn’t much better—and then the
burning of cheap vodka kicked in.
    Rob made a disgusted face—I imagine I was
making a similar one—but said, “It’s not that bad.” To prove he
meant this, he took another sip.
    I smacked my lips. The aftertaste was an
unwanted gift that kept on giving. I thought I could detect a
hollow fishiness, and not in the delicate sashimi type of way.
    Nevertheless, the demon grog was drinkable,
and drink it I would. I wanted to forget that damn mural and forget
Bridgette—Bridgette who was now married and pregnant.
    I took another, longer sip.
    “You like it?” Danièle asked me,
surprised.
    “I’ve had worse.”
    “It is for hobos.”
    “I probably look like a hobo right now with
all this muck on me,” I said. “By the way, where’s all the sand
from?”
    “The ocean,” Danièle replied. “Millions of
years ago Paris used to be under a tropical sea. And I should tell
you,” she added, “that this is one of the most famous places in the
catacombs for parties. If you come on a weekend, Friday or
Saturday, you will likely see many cataphiles. Everybody drinks,
smokes. It can be a lot of fun. Do you smoke, Will?”
    “Pot?”
    She nodded.
    “I don’t buy it.” I shrugged. “But if it’s
around…”
    “Good. I will get you high later.”
    I didn’t know if I wanted to get high down
here, but I didn’t say anything.
    “Any chicks at these ragers?” Rob asked. “Or
is it one big sausage fest?”
    Danièle scowled at him. “You are married to
my sister, Rosbif. You should not care if there are ‘chicks’
present or not.”
    “I’m asking for Rascal’s sake.”
    “Pascal does not need woman help from you,
do not worry.”
    Rob and Pascal began bantering back and
forth in French.
    “Do you know most of the other cataphiles
you run into?” I asked Danièle.
    “Some. But there are always new people.”
    “What if assholes like those scuba guys show
up to one of these parties?”
    She shrugged. “Usually everyone is