William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

lanterns high. Monk saw the yellow light on the walls. Was it his imagination that they were bulging, as if any moment they would rupture and the water burst through, drowning them all? He was gasping for breath now, his body trembling. Was he a physical coward after all? It was a new and shattering thought.
    Was it pain he was afraid of, or death? The end of opportunity to try again, to do better? Some kind of judgment when it was too late to understand or be sorry? Or oblivion, simply ceasing to exist?
    And then with a sweet, hard certainty he knew the answer: He was afraid of the ultimate failure of being a coward. And that was something he could control. It might cost him everything he had, but it was still within his power to do it. It was within him, not beyond. He felt his heart steady.
    He was treading on Sutton’s heels, and Rathbone on his, then Crow, Orme, and Runcorn. They moved as quickly as they could, heads bent to avoid the low roof, feet slipping on rubble.
    The smell seemed stronger. Monk felt it thick and pungent in his nose. It was not just sewage, it was gas. He strained his ears but heard no more rumbling, only the slosh of their feet in deeper water, and the increased skittering and squealing of rats, as if they too were panicking. It made the small hairs stand up on his skin, but he knew it was infinitely better than silence. If the rats were alive, then the air was breathable.
    There was another fear that he would not express, but it kept beating in his brain. Sixsmith was free. No one else knew he was guilty except Hester and Scuff. All those who could prove it were here in this worm-hole in the earth, about to be trapped, buried—by Sixsmith?
    Sutton was still leading the way, but the water was flowing against them. He bent and picked up Snoot. It was too deep for the little dog to stand in, and he kept having to lift his head up.
    No one remarked on the obvious. Monk turned to look behind him once and saw their smudged faces, eyes reflecting fear. Rathbone pulled his mouth down at the corners but said nothing.
    “Keep close,” Monk warned. “Better put your hand on the man in front of you. Lose touch, and we’ll all stop. That’s an order!”
    They pressed on. The smell was definitely stronger. There was another violent tremor. Sutton stopped and they looked at each other. No one spoke.
    They began walking again and came to a fork. Sutton took the right turning, and no one questioned him. Ten minutes later the water was shallower, and a few moments after that they came to a blank wall where the rock had fallen in. It was totally blocked. Not a break of air came from the other side.
    “Sorry,” Sutton said gently.
    They each dismissed it and told him not to worry. They had barely finished speaking when there was a hollow roar beyond the fall, as if a train had gone by, and then utter, suffocating silence.
    Sutton’s lantern slipped out of his hand and crashed into the water, wavering under the thick, filthy stream for a moment or two, then going out.
    “What was that?” Runcorn said hoarsely. “Water?”
    “No.” Sutton held Snoot more tightly.
    “What?” Rathbone demanded.
    “Fire,” Sutton croaked.
    “God Almighty!” Rathbone leaned against the wall. In the yellow glare his face was gray.
    “Reckon as Mr. Sixsmith knows we’re on to ’im,” Orme observed.
    “Pity we din’t get ’im. ’E’s a real bad one.”
    “That hardly begins to describe him,” Crow said bitterly. “We’ll go back.”
    No one answered him; none of them wanted to argue the realities. They turned and started to retrace their steps until they were at the fork again.
    “Other way?” Runcorn asked Sutton.
    Sutton shook his head. “That’s the way o’ the fire. We need ter go back the way we come.”
    “Water’s deeper,” Crow pointed out.
    “I know.” Sutton started forward without adding anything. They went after him, each apparently lost in his own thoughts.
    Monk tried hard not to let his mind go to Hester and Scuff. It would take from him his anger and the strength it gave him to go on through the icy, stinking water up to his knees and the filth that was in it. He knocked against the bodies of dead rats. Ahead of him Sutton was still carrying the little dog. Had he any idea at all where they were, or what was ahead of or behind them, except rockfalls and fire?
    They turned more corners and passed a weir. The water thundered over the drop so violently they could not hear each