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The Empire of Death

June 6th, 1937

Paris, France

T

he famed "City of Light" was less than luminous. Feeble rays of early-morning sunlight struggled to pierce a thick, steel-grey blanket of clouds, casting a gloomy pall over the arrondissements. The roiling sky threatened an imminent downpour, and already a cold mist was falling. It collected in the rain gutters of the many apartments, gurgled from the mouths of weathered gargoyles, and flowed through the cobble-stone streets in tiny rivulets.

The weather was not improving the mood of Dr. Henry "Indiana" Jones, Jr. He stood at the corner of Place Denfert-Rochereau, in front of a small shack constructed of black-painted iron. It had a slightly ominous, sepulchral look to it; a plaque above the entrance announced, in gold lettering, "ENTRÉE DES CATACOMBES." It was currently locked.

Hunching his shoulders against the cold drizzle, Indy checked his wristwatch again: 10:15 A.M. He was supposed to have met with his contact here, fifteen minutes ago. Sure, Indy had arrived late, but only by one minute. The other fourteen were on Pierre Cavey.

Never trust a Frenchman…

Indy turned to face the street and leaned against the dark wall, arms crossed. He resigned himself to wait another five minutes. After that, if Pierre had not shown up, well…Indy would just have to improvise. But for the meantime, he stared glumly out from beneath his brown fedora, which was starting to get soggy in the now-steady rain. Paris was still slowly waking up; only a few cars sloshed by through the water-logged streets. The rising-and-falling wee-wah siren of a Préfecture de Police squad car droned in the distance. Directly across the road, amidst identical 18th century buildings with Romanesque arches, a small but steady flow of weary travelers climbed up from the Métropolitain station, passing beneath the iconic art nouveau cast-iron balustrade. Spread out behind it was Square Claude Nicolas Ledoux, one of three "green places" gardens located in the main square of Denfert-Rochereau. Further to the right, set in the center of the main square, was the Lion de Belfort, a regal statue of the titular feline erected to commemorate the courage of Colonel Denfert-Rochereau against the Prussian army. Despite the early hours and dismal weather, Paris was still a beautiful, somehow mysterious city that managed to capture Indy's heart each time he visited. Today, however, his business lay beneath the popular public places.

He unzipped his leather jacket, a worn and beaten thing that probably would have been seized and burned in one of the more fashionable districts of Paris. Indy reached into the inside pocket and withdrew a small, thin object loosely wrapped in brown parcel paper. Careful to shield it from the rain with his body, he delicately peeled away the wrappings, revealing an ancient-looking leather bound book. A journal, in fact. He had purchased it only a day ago from a well-known collector and had spent all night paging through it in his hotel room. What he found confirmed the stories he had heard, and elevated his stay here in Paris to something more than a waste of time. Now, if only he could get through that door…

As if on cue, Indy heard the click and clunk of tumblers and locks being turned. With a screech the heavy iron door swung open on rusty hinges and a balding, bespectacled face peered out. Upon catching sight of Indy, the man's eyes widened for a moment. After a furtive glance up at the sky, he beckoned Indy inside, although he looked like he'd much rather slam the door in his face.

This sort of nervousness around Indy was typical, especially in the field (although to call Paris "field work" might be a bit of a stretch). His outfit was something more akin to a lion tamer's than an academic's, and his face, while quite dapper behind the pair of wire-framed glasses he donned in the classroom, gained a hard, intimidating edge to it when peering out from beneath the large brown hat. A rough layer of stubble didn't help, nor did the holster hanging from his belt. Most professional archaeologists would take care to look less dangerous. Indy wasn't most professional archaeologists.

He followed the man out of the rain and into a small lobby. The man closed and locked the door once more, then retreated behind a reception desk. He seemed determined to put something between Indy and himself.

"Bonjour, Pierre." Indy said, making sure to add a slight edge to his voice.

Pierre Cavey was a thin man with a long, gaunt face, square gold-framed glasses, and a thin crop of dark hair. He wore a pinstriped suit, a satin handkerchief artfully stuffed in the breast pocket, and at the moment he looked extremely nervous. He was constantly wringing his hands into knots, his hair seemed to be matted with sweat (although that could have been from the rain), and he seemed determined to look anywhere but at Indy.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Jones," Pierre replied in a quavering voice. "Are you still—zat is to say, do you still intend to visit ze ossuary?"

Indy nodded coolly. "Certainement. Do you still intend to let me?"

"Ah…well, you see…" Pierre stuttered, one hand tugging at his collar. "Ze ossuary, it is…"

Indy leaned across the counter, glaring out from under his hat. "You agreed," he growled. "You've already been paid by the National Museum. You're not backing out now, are you?"

Pierre retreated to the wall. "It is ze rains, Monsieur. Zey can flood ze tunnels. It would be most unsafe to descend today. Per'aps tomorrow…?"

But Indy couldn't wait. "This has to be done today," he asserted. "Don't forget, I'm not the only one interested in what's down there." He smiled grimly. "But I am the nicest."

Pierre was visibly sweating now, and seemed to be desperately searching for an escape. Indy waited, arms crossed. Finally, extending his hands entreatingly, Pierre moaned, "Monsieur, please…ze ossuary. It is nothing but bones. What—what could possibly be si précieux down zere?"

Indy mulled over how much to tell the man. As far as archaeology went, his experience with the French had been less than positive. He also didn't want a horde of Louvre professors to swoop down on this discovery before he'd even had a chance to document it. On the other hand, Pierre was hardly a dangerous man. He'd almost certainly keep quiet, so long as Indy emphasized the importance of discretion.

Wordlessly Indy placed the leather journal on the counter and pushed it towards Pierre. The man approached the counter, eyeing Indy warily like a deer watching for predators. "Qu'est- ce que c'est?"

"A journal," Indy informed him. "Belonged to one Jacques Desrochers, an 18th century worker who helped move bodies into the catacombs below."

Pierre paged through the journal, examining it with fascination. As he neared the center, a folded piece of parchment fell out. He dropped the journal and retreated to the wall again, looking horrified. "Pardon!" he pleaded. "I did not mean—"

Indy laughed despite himself. "Relax," he said. "You didn't break it." He unfolded the thin, translucent paper and spread it out on the counter. "It's a map."

Convinced that Indy wouldn't shoot him just yet, Pierre returned to the counter. As he studied the map, a frown creased his brow. "It is of ze ossuary," he said, sounding puzzled, "but I do not know zese tunnels." He indicated several lines that branched out towards the edge of the map. One of them was marked in faded red ink.

Indy nodded. "They're old passages carved by the Romans, back when this was still a stone mine. Jacques explored them. And here"—he indicated the red line—" is where he found the treasury."

Pierre's head snapped up, eyes wide. "Treasury?" Indy nodded, hiding his smile.

Got him.

"According to his journal, Jacques found a chamber filled with Roman swords, bronze shields, gold jewelry, and silver idols. He speculated that some ancient miners had stolen the hoard and hidden it down in the mines, then were executed for their crime."

Pierre's jaw dropped. He was practically drooling onto the map. "And…it is sill zere?"

"Maybe," Indy said demurely, shrugging. "Jacques never recovered all of it, only a few statues. But someone else may have found the rest."

Indy could see the man's mind working as he weighed the risks—and the rewards. Finally, with a glance at Indy, he disappeared through a side door. A moment later he returned carrying a large, jangling key ring and two flashlights. "Follow me."

He led Indy through the lobby, to an iron gate that guarded a narrow, winding staircase. Pierre searched for the matching key on the ring, found it, inserted it into the lock and turned. It clicked, and the gate swung open with a squeal. He stood to the side. "Après vous," he said, allowing Indy to go first. With a nod Indy started down the stone stairs. The temperature dropped drastically as they descended into pitch blackness; they both clicked on their lights, the yellow beams catching their breath as it clouded in the chill air.

They exited into a small gallery. Pierre searched with his light beam and found a box mounted on one wall. He opened it and, after studying them a moment, threw some switches. Bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling flickered, illuminating the space with a sallow light. Indy stowed his flashlight in the satchel hanging at his side. He spied a dark portal to his left, and, as he approached it, more bulbs beyond it flared to life with buzzes and pops, one after the other, illuminating a long, low, narrow passageway with rough walls and a gravel floor.

Pierre moved to Indy's side. "It leads to ze ossuary," he said in a hushed voice. "It is a long way, but it is ze only way."

Indy peered down the tunnel, a cool, damp, musty breeze blowing into his face, like the breath of the dead. He couldn't see the end of it. Turning to Pierre, he said, "Let's go, then," and ducked through the portal.

It was deathly silent and, despite the lights, oppressively dark. The bulbs seemed to only just hold the darkness at bay, like a tamer against a lion, and the only sounds Indy could hear were the crunch of their footsteps, Pierre's slightly ragged breathing, and the occasional drip of water. The temperature dropped even more the further they went, and Indy found his boots and pants were nearly soaked through with cold vapor. He zipped his jacket all the way up to his neck and shoved his hands into the pockets.

"How long does this tunnel go?" he asked, breath billowing in front of him.

"Zere are over 300 kilometers of passageways beneath Paris," Pierre informed him. "Zis tunnel barely makes up a fraction of zem. But we are almost through," he added, sounding as though this voyage could not be over soon enough.

After a few twists and turns they came to a junction: to the left the passage proceeded in darkness and was blocked by another gate; to the right, the string of lights continued.

"Hold it," Indy said, raising a hand. He removed Jacques' journal from his jacket and checked the map. He noted with some unease that the moisture had already soaked into the thin paper, the ink smudging beneath his thumbs. They needed to hurry. "Right," he said. Pierre looked immensely relieved that Indy had not said "left."

They endured another long walk in silence and semi-darkness. As they proceeded, Indy realized that the gravel beneath their feet was now almost submerged beneath a low layer of grimy water. He sincerely hoped the catacombs would not flood, or, at least, that he would be gone before they did.

"We are now 25 meters beneath ze surface of Paris," Pierre whispered. Indy glanced at him. The man was clearly struggling to remain calm, his eyes wide and darting, and he seemed to be talking to himself more than to Indy.

"You don't come down here often, do you?" Indy asked. Pierre gulped audibly and shook his head.

"Zis is only my second time," he said. "But I 'ave studied ze maps extensively. We should not get lost." He looked as though he didn't quite believe that. Indy clapped him briefly on the shoulder. The last thing he needed was a panicked man with him 25 meters underground.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, they left the claustrophobic passage and entered a larger, barrel-shaped room. The walls were constructed of large stone blocks cemented with mortar. In the middle of the room stood two wide, rectangular pillars, like silent sentinels, painted black with white obelisk-like shapes. Indy passed between them and approached a stone portal in the opposite wall. Two more pillars flanked it, black with white diamonds. Inscribed on the lintel were the words, "ARRETE! C'EST ICI L'EMPIRE DE LA MORT."

"Stop," Indy muttered, "this is the Empire of Death." Not very reassuring. He glanced at Pierre; the man seemed to share his sentiment. Indy adjusted his hat and stepped through the doorway.

Even though he knew what to expect, Indy was still stunned by the sight: the walls of the hall were not constructed of stone, but of human bones. They were arranged in geometric, almost artistic patterns. Rows of skulls acted as borders on the top and bottom, with millions of femurs filling the spaces. Piled onto the top row of skulls were jumbles of bones, carelessly heaped together. The sheer number of them was staggering; Indy, who had seen gravesites from all over the world, could not think of any other place so literally full of death.

"Ze distance between ze bone wall and ze actual back wall is three meters, plus ou moins," Pierre informed him, still spouting facts in an attempt to retain his sanity. Indy decided that the sooner they were done here the better, and they began to press through the macabre gallery.

They passed stone altars, sculptures, plaques inscribed with family names, and, of course, bones. They would see bones arranged in crosses, flower patterns, even full skeletons given "wings" like an angel. One particularly chilling display had three skeletons garbed in the brown robes of Franciscan monks, having seemingly perished in prayer. The further they went the more agitated Pierre became. More disconcertingly for Indy, the further they went, the higher the water level became. In places he could hear distant gurgling as rain seeped down into the tunnels through unseen cracks and channels in the stone. By the time they reached the next large display, the chill water was up to their shins.

The duo found themselves in another barrel-shaped room, smaller than the entrance, and surrounded by a several-meter high crescent of bones. The centerpiece, an unlit oil lamp, sat on a stone plinth flanked by more black-and-white columns. Two stone stools were placed on either side of the room, worn smooth by countless visitors. Water dripped from the ceiling constantly, plinking in the pool at their feet so loudly that they almost had to shout to be heard.

"Ze Tomb of ze Sepulchral Lamp," Pierre announced, and seated himself on a stool, overcome by the journey. Indy withdrew the map and examined it.

"I think this is the place," he told Pierre, "but…wait…"

Pierre looked up at him. "But what?"

Indy squinted at the map. It was practically falling apart in his hands, and the lines were now horribly smudged, making it difficult to clearly discern them, but if he was correct…

He approached the bone wall, directly behind the lamp. Three rows of skulls met at a vertical column of skulls in the center of the crescent, water leaking from the eye sockets. He pulled out the flashlight, clicked it on, and shone it back over the top of the wall, through a narrow gap between the stone ceiling and the bones.

Oh, boy. He turned to Pierre.

"We have to climb over them."

The Frenchman frowned and shook his head. "Quoi? Ze water, Monsieur, I cannot 'ear you."

Indy cupped his hands to his mouth and hollered, "We have to climb over them!"

Pierre's face went slack. He glanced from Indy, to the bones, then back to Indy, and, once again, to the bones. "No…" he muttered. "No, sûrement vous plaisantez!"

Indy shrugged. "Nope. Je regrette, but it's the only way." He waved the map in the air for emphasis, causing a piece to flutter down into the water.

Pierre would have none of it. He leaped to his feet, wild-eyed. "Impossible! We cannot—you cannot—" He spluttered in indignation. "Such a desecration!"

"Look!" Indy yelled back. "There's no other way. I didn't come all the way down here just to turn back now. I'm not asking you to come with me; I'm just telling you what I have to do. Stay here if you want." He began to turn, but Pierre was not done. The idea of remaining there, by himself, in the dark, with only a flashlight for company, seemed to light a fire in him.

"Stay 'ere?" he repeated incredulously. "Stay 'ere? Absolument no!" He barreled past Indy, marched up to the wall, and began to clamber on top of the bones. Indy smiled inwardly, and followed after him.

As gently as possible, Indy gripped the top of the pile and heaved himself up, using protruding bones as footholds. He winced as he kicked loose several skulls and femurs, and again when he found himself lying on his belly, staring at Pierre's backside. The man seemed to have frozen up once he realized what he had just done. Indy gave him a prod. "Get moving or move aside." Pierre chose the latter, and Indy crawled past him.

The ceiling was horribly low, the bones horribly sharp, and the entire place horribly wet. Indy tried not to think about what was in the water he was inadvertently inhaling. As he dragged himself across the bones, the ceiling became lower and lower; he was forced to remove his hat and clutch it in one hand, flashlight in the other; then he had to press his chin against the bones beneath him; then his cheek. He was wondering just how much more he could take when—

Indy tumbled forward, headfirst, off the mountain of bones and into darkness. He landed, not with a thud, but with a splash. A yelp and a second splash told him Pierre had indeed followed him. Indy retrieved his light to find himself sitting in frigid waters that were nearly up to his shoulders. He staggered to his feet, jammed his water-logged hat onto his head, and trained the beam on Pierre, who was doing a strange sort of jig, trying to rid himself of the filth.

"Dance on your own time," Indy said gruffly. He swung the ray around, probing the darkness and trying to get his bearings. They were in a box-like cavity behind the bone wall. Tool marks on the stone told Indy that the space wasn't natural. He continued to shine the light around, into every dark corner—

Pierre issued a sudden shriek and leapt back as Indy's light caught two grotesque faces pushing themselves out of the back wall, mouths stretched in silent screams. Indy's heart skipped a beat—and then he regained his senses. He approached the faces and ran a hand over them.

"They're carvings, Monsieur," he told Pierre, who was pressed against the opposite wall. "And maybe something more…" Holding the flashlight with his teeth, Indy reached inside each of the carving's mouths, grasping them by the upper jaw, and pulled. There was a moment of resistance; then, with a rumbling grating sound, a portion of the wall slid forward, revealing a low tunnel. Dark water sloshed in it; it was already flooded nearly halfway. Indy crouched down and peered back into the crawlspace. The shadows were nearly impenetrable, but he sensed rather than saw a larger chamber beyond.

Bingo.

He turned to Pierre. "This way forward." He squeezed into the crawlspace. After a brief hesitation, Pierre followed.

The constrictive walls, combined with water up to their necks, created a doubly unpleasant form of claustrophobia. And the water was rising. Soon it was up to their chins. Indy crawled as fast as possible. He could hear Pierre coughing and spluttering behind him, but there was nothing to do but keep moving.

It was a relief when they tumbled out into a larger room, coughing and inhaling as much of the stale air as they could. Pierre was visibly shaking. Indy took a moment to shine the light around. They were in another stone box, smaller than the last. And it wasn't empty.

Indy jumped to his feet. A low, long slab sat in the back of the room. He cautiously approached it and, detecting no devious traps, ran a hand along the length. His fingers discerned a thin line in the stone. A sarcophagus.

He turned to Pierre for help, but the man was hunched over in a corner, clearly overwhelmed by the ordeal. Shaking his head, Indy went to one end of the sarcophagus, placed his hands on the lid, and shoved. He leaned into it, putting all his weight on it.

It didn't budge.

He placed his back against the lid and his feet against the wall, and, taking a deep breath, pushed, groaning in exertion, literally putting his back into it. Then, with a crack, finally, slowly, it began to move. He took up his first position and kept pushing, straining until his arms burned and quaked. When it was two-thirds of the way off, gravity did the rest: the lid tipped, one end falling into the water with a glunk, the other now at an incline. Indy leaned over the lip of the box, flashlight in hand, and peered inside.

He nearly choked at what he saw.

Countless artifacts, filling it to the brim: long shining gladii, burnished bronze shields, helmets, coins, silver statues—an entire museum exhibit worth of treasure. They glinted in the beam of his flashlight, casting spots of gold and silver around the room. A huge grin split Indy's face, and he began to laugh. This was beyond his wildest expectations. It would more than make up for the expenses he had cost the museum. It would—

Click.

Indy stiffened. His laughter died in his throat, but the echoes bounced continues, as if to mock him. Damn. Slowly he straightened—and felt cold metal press into the back of his neck.

"An amazing find, mon ami. Now raise your arms slowly, and stand against ze wall."

Gritting his teeth, fists clenched, Indy had no choice but to comply. He moved to the right of the sarcophagus and turned to face Pierre. There was no sign of the nervous, terrified man he had been a moment ago. His posture was straight, his face set and determined, and the hand that aimed the Luger PO8 pistol at Indy was steady as a rock.

"Your reputation precedes you, Monsieur," he said in a calm voice. "When I received your letter of request, I immediately knew something of great value must be in my ossuary. But did you really believe zat I would let you, an Américain, lay claim to it?" He barked a bitter laugh. "Ridicule!"

Indy scowled and cursed his own eagerness. He should have been more careful, more alert. Instead, he had allowed Pierre to get the jump on him. And it may have cost him the find. To a Frenchman. Again.

"Now if you don't mind," Pierre said. "Would you please assist me in retrieving my treasure?" He removed his suit jacket, still keeping the gun trained on Indy, and threw it to him. He jerked his head at the hoard. Indy moved towards it, glaring at the Frenchman as he passed. He set the flashlight inside the sarcophagus and began to stuff artifacts into the jacket, using it as a carrying bag. He tried to choose the least-valuable looking ones.

"You're not with the Louvre?" Indy growled as he worked.

Another harsh laugh. "No, no, I do not work for zose imbeciles. I am a simple business man. One who knows a lucky break when he finds one." Pierre shoved the gun into Indy's back. "And do not get astucieux wiz any of zose weapons."

Damn it.

Indy placed the last coin in the make-shift bag and turned. He shoved it towards Pierre, fixing the man with a steely glare. "That's all that will fit."

With one hand Pierre hefted the sack. He smiled at the weight. "Zat will do, zen. Now, I must bid you au revoir, mon ami." He began to back towards to crawlspace, keeping the gun trained on Indy. Indy watched him, waiting.

Then, for the briefest of moments, he did it: Pierre glanced behind him to gather his bearings. In a flash Indy's hand was at his waist. He pulled a long leather bullwhip from his belt and swung it through the air. With a crack it lashed out, striking Pierre on the wrist. The man yelped and dropped the Luger as it went off, the report bouncing around the room. Indy dived to the side as something whizzed past him, his shoulder striking the wall.

Pierre lunged for the gun, moving awkwardly through the rapidly rising water; Indy lashed out with his leg, burying his foot in the man's stomach. He fell back, retching, into the crawlspace. Indy whipped out his own Smith & Wesson revolver and fired, the shots glancing off the edges of the passage; Pierre, deciding that no treasure was worth his life, scrambled back through the waterway.

Indy pursued him, but his larger frame forced him to move slower. Meters ahead, Pierre swam out of the tunnel. Indy frantically swam/crawled as fast as he could, but it was no use. With a rumbling the large stone block began to fill the entrance. Indy fired several shots through the rapidly narrowing sliver of light, to no avail. Pierre gave the block a final heave. It sealed the entrance with a resonant boom.

Silence fell, unnatural after the brief skirmish. The only sounds Indy could hear were those of the water lapping against the walls and his own breathing. He sloshed to the end of the tunnel and pushed against the block. The reaction he got was the one he expected—none.

He was trapped. And the water was still rising.

Trying to suppress his panic, Indy turned himself around and paddled back into the main chamber. He noted with small satisfaction that Pierre had left behind his bundle of treasure. But it would do Indy no good now. He stood up, retrieved the flashlight, and searched around with the beam, looking for a way out he feared did not exist.

I'm not getting out of here.

He immediately squashed the idea, knowing that to lose hope would seal his doom. Indy rushed to the walls, sloshing through the ever-rising water, searching desperately for—

The water was still rising.

He spun around. The tunnel was blocked, but the water was still coming in. Which meant there must be another way in—and maybe a way out. Indy dropped to his knees, the water up to his chin, and stretched out his arms, letting them float. After a moment he felt it—a slight current, a flow of water, coming from the back of the room.

He scrambled to his feet and slogged towards the sarcophagus. He peered behind it; there was a narrow gap between it and the back wall. Now that he looked, Indy could actually see the water flowing in.

He grasped the edges of the box and pulled, while pushing with his body at the same time. The damn thing was too heavy. He needed to lighten the load.

Setting his light on the lip of the box, he reached in and grabbed a handful of coins. Sorry, Marcus. He tossed them over his shoulder, and immediately grabbed another handful. He worked fast, heaving aside the gladii, hurling the shield like a discus; any academic pretense was lost beneath his drive to survive.

Finally, the sarcophagus lay empty. With the water now up to his waist, and only inches from the lip of the box, quickly Indy grabbed the corners and pushed once again. This time it moved, if slowly. He shoved it just far enough from the wall, when water poured inside it, rendering it immovable. He grabbed the light and examined the back wall. A black hole gaped like a mouth, but it was small—maybe too small.

What choice do I have?

His bullwhip floated beside him. He seized it, stuffed it into the back of his pants, took a deep breath, and plunged into the cold water. He grabbed the edges of the hole and tried to pull himself into it.

He didn't fit.

Indy resurfaced, the water now up to his shoulders, the chamber flooding faster now that the hole was unblocked. He took another deep breath and dived once again. He pushed the flashlight through the opening, then tucked his arms in at his sides, positioned his body, and pushed against the sarcophagus with his legs. His head fit through, but his shoulders caught. He thrashed about, working them into the small opening. Once his arms were inside and free he pushed against the interior of the wall—and his head struck another one. He could go no further; he floated there, half in, half out, stuck.

Panic rose in his chest, eating away at the air in his lungs. Indy struggled to suppress it. He grabbed the flashlight and shone it around. The space was narrow, a tube of rock that continued up above him for who knows how long. He twisted and kicked his legs, bringing his entire body into the tube, so that he was vertical, and began to pull himself up.

He swam against the current, which was just strong enough to slow him down. At places the walls became even narrower, but he struggled through them, ripping his shirt and slicing his flesh. His lungs cried out for air, but he resisted the urge to inhale.

Indy's heart leapt when he finally swam out of the tunnel—but it plummeted as he entered another one. It was horizontal, and stretched off into the darkness on both sides. He had no time to contemplate a direction; he just picked one and swam.

The tunnel seemed to grow even narrower as he went. Then he realized that his vision was narrowing- he was beginning to black out. His lungs burned. He needed air. Now.

His movements became sluggish and his head began to pound. Every kick was a Herculean task. He couldn't go much further. He had to breathe or he would die.

Indy resisted the urge as long as he could, which wasn't long. Almost against his will he opened his mouth and reflexively gulped. His lungs burned as the foul liquid rushed into them, a horrible icy fire. His vision narrowed to a pinpoint as darkness closed around him. At the same time, he felt a tug on his entire body…

The tour group moved through the large tunnel. Pipes ran along the walls and above them, as well as into the rushing water beneath the floor grate. And everywhere was the stench. A horrible, rancid smell they could all taste.

The little girl tugged at the hand of her mother. "Mommy, can we go, please? It smells!"

The mother, who was reading a fascinating sign about the many ways in which the sewers were cleaned, flapped a hand at her daughter. "In a minute, Alice."

Alice heaved a dramatic sigh. Clutching her stuffed bear, she wandered away from her mother and the rest of the group, gazing around with wide eyes—but the air made them sting and burn, so she stopped that. It smelled awful, it was boring—but it was also a bit scary, with the loud rushing water and the dim lights.

She walked toward a stream of brown liquid that was rushing from a hole in the wall. It fell through a grate in the floor, splashing into the fetid pool below. She peered inside the hole, careful not to get too close; she didn't want any of that yucky stuff on her.

With an ear-piercing shriek she leaped back as a big shape was hurled from the tunnel and fell to the floor with a squishy sound. It looked like a man, but then Alice saw the long tail-like thing coming from its back, and her mind jumped to one conclusion—monster.

She began screaming, and kept screaming even when her mother rushed to her side and seized her by the shoulders. The other tourists crowded around the monster. One of them knelt down and rolled it onto its back. She wanted to yell at them to get away before it hurt them, but then the monster made a gurgling, coughing sound. Fluid spewed from its mouth as it sat up, and Alice fainted in her mother's arms.

The Métro ride across Paris was not pleasant for Indy, or any of the other passengers. He was sopping wet and smelled like he had just crawled out of a sewer, which he basically had. It was with an immense sense of relief that he exited the station, crossed the street to his hotel, and entered the lobby. The receptionist immediately wrinkled her nose at everything about him, but Indy just stomped past in his squelchy boots.

Normally he took the stairs, since the tiny elevator looked about as safe as an ancient bridge in India, but this time he made an exception. He endured the shaky ride up to his floor and exited into the hall when the gate had clattered open.

His spirits could not have been lower: he was soaked to the bone, his whole body ached, he smelled like the wrong end of a camel, and he needed a new gun (again). All Indy wanted to do was take a hot shower, collapse on his bed, and pass out for about sixteen hours. Then he could contact Marcus, start explaining why he had lo—

Indy paused, one hand on the door handle of his room, the other fishing in his soggy pocket for the key. It wasn't there, but that wasn't what had struck him. What struck him was the fact that the handle felt…odd. It was too loose, and it rattled in his hand. Indy frowned. He was sure he had locked it. Perhaps the maid had forgotten to relock it, but after the day's events, he wasn't going to take any more chances. His hand went to the butt of his gun. It was ruined from his swim, but it still retained the power of intimidation. At least he hoped it did.

Indy steeled himself. Then, in one fluid motion, he drew his revolver, kicked the door open, and burst into what should have been an empty room.

It wasn't.

7