The muck of the sewer was only ankle-deep, but splashed up well past their boots. Aoife was wearing a white shirt, and she got the worst of it, but before long they were all wincing and shivering as gusts of air blew straight through their soaked clothes. The tunnel was straight, without branches or entrance points, and the ceiling got lower and craggier the father they went, until they had to duck half the time.
"Practically a stroll in the countryside, this," Joe said, kicking at a patch of moss.
"Aye, something's wrong," Tom said. "Are there tunnels like this in the sewer system? Art?"
Art didn't answer, and Georgie swung her torch around in a wide arc. Three pale, frightened faces looked back at her.
"Christ, we've lost Art," she said, keeping her voice as level as she could get it, and pointed the torch back down the tunnel, the way they'd come. At the edge of the light, there was a vague, moving shape.
"Art, is that you?" Tom called. The shape thrashed, but didn't respond. Georgie advanced on it.
The shape didn't get any clearer with more light on it, just larger, until a vast shaggy creature filled half the tunnel. It held Art in its arms, which moved like tentacles when Georgie looked at them side on, his legs kicking feebly in the air. Georgie paused; it didn't have anything resembling a head, really, so there were no obvious targets.
Aoife ducked past her and swung a rolling pin into the side of the creature. It was a good rolling pin, a family-heirloom slab of marble a foot long that made a satisfying sound when it hit the monster, like bones cracking. It dropped Art and turned to face them, revealing its one feature: a gaping mouth wider than Georgie's head, with endless rows of teeth. The mouth and arms moved toward them like a solid shadow, and Aoife hit it again, this time across the edge of its mouth. Teeth and marble shards burst out of the collision point, and it ran, melting back into the shadows.
"That was incredible," Georgie said. Aoife shrugged.
"Ach, it's just a wee rolling pin."
The wee rolling pin was blood-smeared, pitted with scars, and Aoife clutching it looked like an old, vengeful goddess, from some time long before Christ had reached Ireland.
Tom helped Art up and he stood, shaking. His face was ringed with tiny puncture wounds, slowly oozing blood.
"I don't want to be here," he said. Tom shushed him and tried to look at his wounds, but he shoved him away and moved back down the tunnel. "I mean it, I don't. None of you saw that, none of you felt it –"
"I found something," Joe called, and held up a dripping shoe. It was small, child-sized, and the cheap glue holding the sole together was falling apart already.
Art took a long, trembling breath, then approached.
"Is that Sarah's?" he asked.
"Could be." Half the kids in Derry wore those same cheap shoes, that lasted almost until you grew out of them. It could have been Sarah's shoe, or Gabriel's, or anyone's.
They kept moving, faster now, Georgie bringing up the rear and making sure they stayed together. Whatever was in those tunnels, they had a better chance with all five of them.
The tunnel opened up into a flooded chamber, big enough that the torchlight didn't reach the other side. There was no path or route along the edge, just an island, really just a pile of sticks, at the center.
"This isn't on the map," Art said.
"Then it's where we're going," Georgie said, and took a step into the water. It went up to her knees, and she nearly overbalanced from the shock of cold water filling her boots.
"It gets deeper," she warned them.
Joe waded in first, up to his chest, holding his torch above his head. The far side of the cavern was lit then, enough to see that there was no other passage. The only exit was back the way they had come.
Art made his way in next, complaining with every step about sewage. It was reassuring. Aoife followed him, and then Tom, and suddenly Georgie was standing there alone, in a pool of water that could be hundreds of feet deep, watching their heads move away.
She took another step in, the water almost up to her waist. The rest of them still had their heads above water, and were still walking determinedly, like it was nothing.
It was just water.
Georgie took another step, missed her footing, and plunged in.
She couldn't hear, couldn't see, couldn't breathe. The torch in her hand sputtered out, and she dropped it and flailed, reaching desperately for the surface. She couldn't swim. Her legs reached for solid ground and found none.
…
Sister Michael stumbles, badly, and manages to right herself by knocking over a shelf of fishing flies. There are some parts of that summer twenty-seven years ago that she tries her best to forget, but they're coming back up. It's a fish tank, she mutters, looking at it again. There's nothing in it aside from rocks and a sad-looking trout. It's hardly big enough to dip her feet in.
"Can I help you, miss?" There's a boy in front of her with an employee badge on and half a dozen wispy hairs on his chin, looking bored.
"I'm looking for ammunition," Sister Michael says. The boy points toward the checkout desk.
"It's all controlled, can't have anyone walking out with it." He winks at her. Sister Michael is disgusted. "Show him your license and he'll get it for you."
Sister Michael slides her gun license over the counter to another teenager, who asks her a few questions and then disappears into the back of the store.
Sister Michael doesn't like guns. She's kept the rifle all the same, though, since Tom left it to her, and gone out for target shooting every six months to keep her hand in. She's no sharpshooter, but she doesn't need to be for this.
The boy emerges after a very long time, holding a cardboard box the size of Sister Michael's hand, and slides it across the counter to her. "Is this for hunting?" he asks.
It is, but Sister Michael doesn't bite.
"Target shooting," she says primly, indicating the line on her license that says the same. Sister Michael is very careful about regulations, as if that's enough to separate her from all the boys gunning each other down in the streets.
"Camouflage is all marked down," the boy says blandly, and she realizes he wasn't trying to trick her. It's a sales pitch, nothing more.
Sister Michael glances at the rack of camouflage clothing. She can hardly go traipsing through the sewers in a habit, and the camouflage is marked down. A childhood of endless scrimping and saving has left its influence.
"I'll take a full suit of it."
…
Drowning was easy.
Georgie fought and thrashed until her lungs were bursting, and all she had done was sink deeper. And now the light was fading, and the strength was seeping out of her limbs, and it would be so easy just to breathe in. To give up.
Georgie opened her mouth, and Joe's hand closed around her wrist and hauled her to the surface.
She was dragged to solid ground by four sets of hands that clutched at every scrap of her clothing they could reach. Georgie spent a long time on her knees, coughing and retching, until she felt slightly less like a drowned rat. She stood up, eventually, and joined the rest of them in a loose circle around the hole at the center of the island.
"Why doesn't it flood?" Art asked.
"Someone's finally decided to give us a break," Georgie said. The eerie blue light from the hole wasn't reassuring, but she kept that to herself.
They climbed down carefully, into a vast space. Children, dead or worse, hung in the air, unresponsive. It's easier to brush over all of that now, but Georgie was very afraid. She looked at the face of one, and the boy's blank white eyes made her look away.
None of them spoke, and the silence of the vast space hung over them, until a small voice broke it.
"Georgie, you look awful," Sarah said dreamily. "Did you get dragged through a field backward?" She was sitting on the ground, surrounded by carefully arranged rings of pebbles.
"It's a trick," Art said.
"Ach, that's just Sarah," Georgie said. The relief of Sarah alive had hit her so hard she was barely standing, but it wouldn't do to frighten the wain.
"She's not afraid," Art said, more insistently. Georgie tried to step toward Sarah, but he blocked her with one arm. "How could she be here, with It, and not be afraid?"
"Sarah's an odd duck," Georgie muttered. "Sarah, are you alright?"
"I'm starved," Sarah said, in a tone of voice that had Georgie shaking her head and digging through her pockets for something to give her on instinct. Gabriel whined the same way, and Georgie was weak to it. There was a rather squashed caramel in one pocket, which she extended. Sarah got up, stepped carefully through the pebbles, and took it.
"Do you really think she's dangerous?" Aoife asked, pointing at the girl barely up to their waists chewing a sweet. Art sighed and acknowledged he was a bit outnumbered.
For one moment, Georgie thought they'd won. They had found Sarah. It was time to go home.
A balloon floated up behind Sarah, bright scarlet red even in the dim light. Another followed it, then another, until they were surrounded. Georgie grabbed Sarah by one arm and pulled her closer, ignoring her complaints.
"Leaving so soon?"
The voice wasn't even scary. It sounded like her da, or at least how Georgie remembered him.
The balloons cleared to reveal a man dressed in an old, tattered clown costume. It grinned, revealing endless pointed teeth.
"Don't you want to stay and play with the clown?"
Tom, behind her, made a raw, frightened sound. Georgie squared her shoulders. It was just one man, she told herself. Nothing to be afraid of, really.
"We'll be leaving now," she said firmly.
"The fuck are you going to do to stop us, old man?" Joe asked, and something flew at him in a blur and slammed him into the wall, hard enough that dust rained down around him.
They ran for cover, ducking the things that might have been limbs lashing out at them. Joe was on the ground, blood leaking from one corner of his mouth, but Art reached him and dragged him to an overhang.
"You can run," the clown said, standing perfectly still in the center of the cavern. Georgie tried to force her body farther into the crack she was hiding in. It was facing away from her, looking at the exit. "You can run all you want. But you won't escape me. I am every nightmare."
The noise of Georgie's breathing was far too loud, and she clamped one hand over her mouth to stifle it. It swung both of It's arms wide and opened It's mouth.
It was facing away from her. Georgie only got a glimpse or two of It's face peeling open up to the eyes, and the awful light that spread from It's open maw. She shut her eyes all the same.
"I am fear itself," It said. "I am … right behind you."
The words were whispered straight into Georgie's ear, on puffs of hot, moist breath. Georgie turned around, very slowly, and opened her eyes. Two staring blue eyes showed in the darkness, and below them a mouth full of gleaming yellow teeth.
"Boo."
Georgie tried to scream, but It's arms forced the breath from her body. There was an awful wet touch at her shoulder, then a stabbing pain like thousands of needles. Teeth. Georgie scrabbled along her side with her free arm, searching for her knife, and came up empty-handed. It's teeth hit bone.
She hit and kicked at It blindly until It let go, then slumped into the wall. When she could breathe and see, she clamped her good hand over her shoulder to stem the bleeding and stood up slowly.
IT had Tom cornered, and was advancing slowly. Joe hurled a rock at It and missed badly; he was still on the ground, woozy and bleeding. Art was trying to help him up, Aoife was struggling against vines or ropes twining around her and holding her down, Sarah was … Sarah was floating, eyes blank, with the rest of the children.
Georgie ran straight for It. Art tried to hold her back and she ripped out of his grasp and kept moving. Tom wasn't screaming, he wasn't the sort to be dramatic like that, and it wouldn't do any good. As Georgie got closer, It's mumble turned into words.
"I know your secret, Tommy boy."
"Leave him alone," Georgie said. It was barely audible even to her, and the line never worked on bullies anyway, but IT faced her.
"I could tell her," It said, and Tom whimpered. "I could tell her all of your dirty little secrets, how do you think she'd feel about you then?"
Georgie's hand closed around her crucifix and pulled it from her neck. When It lunged toward her, she met It with her weapon outstretched. The crucifix plunged to the hilt into It's eye.
Silver killed monsters. It was a fairy story, but Georgie had always believed that her crucifix would protect her one way or another. And it did. Silver killed monsters if you believed.
It howled, It's face bubbling and melting like hot wax. Tom stood up and staggered towards her. Behind them, Sarah MacCool fell to the ground, her mind her own again.
They ran, of course, but two of them were injured and couldn't move quickly and they were still terribly afraid. They were hardly ten feet from the tunnel when It loomed up in front of them, looking battered but still frightening enough.
'We're not afraid of you," Art said. Joe repeated it, and It smiled.
"How about you?" It asked, approaching Aoife, It's features twisting and melting until It looked like an ordinary man. "Are you scared?"
Aoife shrank away from It's touch, and It followed her. The man whose form It had taken had a few freckles and a kind, measured smile.
"Are you still my little girl?"
Aoife screamed, a long furious sound with words in it that Georgie couldn't quite make out. She hit It with her rolling pin one more time, and both shattered when they connected.
They ran, again, scrambling desperately into the tunnel and not stopping to look back. Sarah came to a dead stop, leaving them to scramble around her.
"Come on," Art said, and she scowled at him.
"I lost my shoe."
"We don't have time to go find your shoe," Art snapped. Sarah's face screwed up in preparation for a scream. Art was an only child, and he hadn't the faintest idea how to deal with children.
"I'll carry you out," Georgie said. Sarah's expression flipped in a blink, turning to delight. She hauled Sarah over one shoulder, making her squeal, then settled her properly on her back. She hardly weighed anything, and Georgie was well used to carrying children, but it made her stumble. Her shoulder was still bleeding, and she hoped Sarah wouldn't notice it. The poor girl had already been through far too much.
"Did you really think that would kill me?"
"Aye, I did," Joe muttered, as It's voice echoed around them.
"Let's go," Art said, grabbing at their hands. "Come on, we have to run."
"Run where?" Tom said. Art didn't answer him.
"If we run …" Aoife's voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat and kept going. "It's faster than we are. And we're still afraid."
Georgie could hardly stand, let alone run. Her hands were going numb, a hazy pink fog settling over her mind. Each of It's footsteps jarred her back to awareness.
"Georgie," Tom said, and she turned to look at him. He was at the back, staring down the tunnel, watching It approach. "This place burns."
"What?" Georgie asked.
"We know it does. We all saw the fire, Georgie, this place will burn if we can light it."
There was always a book of matches in Georgie's trouser pocket. The cardboard was damp, but they were still there. It loomed taller and taller.
Her trembling hands snapped the first match in half. The second was waterlogged and sparked feebly before fizzling out. One left.
This place could burn.
Georgie felt the weight of Sarah's arms around her neck like a collar. The last match flared to life. She held it up to see Tom's face, then dropped it. The water at her feet went up like kerosene, and It screamed.
The rest of the night is vague, lost in the relief of survival. The tunnel led them to a long flight of stairs that led them to St. Joseph's Church. There was help and a paramedic bandaging Joe's ribs and Georgie's shoulder and Mrs. MacCool from the corner fussing over Sarah and a reporter with the Derry Journal.
Art spoke to the reporter, mostly, but they were all herded together for a photo of the heroic rescuers. Sister Michael remembers every inch of the photo. Art and Aoife were smiling, mostly from relief. Joe's eyes were closed, the boy hardly awake in a haze of codeine. Tom wasn't looking at the camera. His hold on her arm was too tight, but she didn't want him to let go. Georgie wasn't smiling; a moment before the flash went off, she saw something red behind the photographer. It was the scarf of a curious onlooker, nothing more, but it made Georgie's heart catch in her throat. She would spend the next twenty-seven long years watching behind her and locking doors and flinching at shadows.
In the center of them was Sarah, beaming like it was all a grand adventure.
Setting Notes:
I tried to figure out if there were chain stores where Sister Michael could buy ammunition and a camouflage outfit, and it doesn't look like there are outdoor-gear chains in the UK in general, but there are plenty of smaller local businesses selling the same thing. This means it's pretty hard to find information about them and what they might look like, so I left it vague. In my mind, she's in a Bass Pro Shop.
I have once again waded into the history of UK gun law, and come back out knowing even less than when I went in. My best guess is as follows: a license has been required to own a firearm in the UK for about a century, and the license also specifies the types of ammunition the owner is allowed to purchase. A reason to own the gun is also required, such as hunting or target shooting. In 1997, essentially all handguns were banned in the UK, although Northern Ireland carved out some exceptions. In 1996, the gun laws of 1988 were still in effect, which banned several types of guns and high-caliber rifle ammunition. Which type of ammunition is Sister Michael buying? The legal kind, next question.
Codeine is an opiate drug commonly used as a pain reliever, and one of the most common opiates in the world. Yet more truly unnecessary medical research was involved in this throwaway line, but in the sixties morphine was apparently becoming less common as a prescription painkiller, and codeine was one of several feasible medications for a paramedic to be handing out.