I trudge through the streets of Paris, the cobblestone streets clicking beneath my boots. I
nervously tug at my stock as the damp air makes it chafe against my neck, keeping my musket
snugly against my shoulder. Lord knows I’m tired, but I have a job to do— garrison duty isn’t
something I can just skip out on in the British Army, lest I get punishment.
Paris isn’t so bad, really. I don’t know why the lads are so worried about this street in particular. Sure, there were rumors of that French company going missing here, but unless they
pop out of the dark and shake me down, I think I’ll be alright. Besides, the city’s lovely to look at now that most of the damage we did to it is being repaired. Ol’ Boney finally got his
comeuppance courtesy of Sir Wellington, and victory is the sweetest thing you’ll ever have in the
service. Hurrah for Old Nosey! —
I pause.
Something’s not right.
My hand leaves my stock, dropping to the butt of my musket in a flash before bringing it to the ready position as I halt. I fiddle with the hammer of my musket nervously, glancing around.
It’s quiet around here.
Too quiet.
Where are the civilians? Yes, we have a curfew, but even then I do see a few children and adults sneaking out. I’m a merciful man, so I pretend to not see them when I do encounter them.
But where are they now? It perplexes me to no end. I try my hardest to swallow my fear. I’m a soldier, hang it all! I shouldn’t be afraid in times like this. So, I summon my courage and open my lips to speak.
“Hark! Who goes there?”
I’m met with silence; utterly dead silence. I will admit, I am getting nervous at this point. Not even the rats are out, and it’s worrying me to no end. What would prevent the rats from coming out, especially during the night?
I begin walking again, albeit my pace has quickened considerably. I am praying that my
comrades are merely playing a joke of some kind, perhaps a cruel prank on the private of the
company. I’m merely waiting for one of them to jump out and shout.
Yet, it hasn’t come.
I’ve reached the end of the street by now, arriving at a large plaza. Gazing at the lush foliage of its park, I’m put partially at ease by its beauty. I look to my right; nothing. I look to my left, and then I see it.
A small orange glow in a small, green building.
My first thought is that we’d missed a few stragglers, and that they’d set a fire to try and
destroy the city, yet I smell no smoke and see no actual flames. I calm my nerves, chuckling
softly at my own idiocy. It’s merely a lamp, probably one that a groundskeeper forgot to
extinguish. Being a good-natured soul, I decide to go inside and extinguish the lamp. Keeping
my musket ready just in case, I venture over to the door. Pressing myself against the wall nearest to it, I try the handle.
It swings open easily.
“What kind of groundskeeper leaves his shack unlocked?” I wonder aloud, poking my head inside cautiously. My vision adjusts against the harsh glare of the lantern, and I am greeted with an unexpected sight. Instead of a shack full of tools and dirt, I am greeted with a room that would be more suited for a planner. Charts are scattered around the room, hanging on walls and laying on both the floor and table alike. Yet, two details catches my eye:
A shako laying on the table, with a distinctive red pom pom atop its front, and a slightly ajar gate directly across from the door.
This. This must be where that French company went! They never vanished, they just retreated into the catacombs! I feel a smile overcoming my features in my excitement. This could help me rise through the ranks! If I alert my captain to this, I may get an officer’s commission for my discovery! Now, I just merely have to find a more damning piece of evidence, and that promotion is mine.
I look around the building, and notice something I hadn’t before: a small inscription above the gate itself.
Arrête, c’est ici l’empire de la mort!
Admittedly, my French is poor. I am a Plymouth-born Christian with admittedly poor
education, but I can roughly translate it based off words and notes I’ve seen during my time here:
Stop, this is the Empire of Death!
…What a load of bollocks.
I roll my eyes inwardly as I walk forward. I’ve heard stories of the catacombs before, during our stay here. Urban legends mainly, but they all revolve around the catacombs being some sort of way into hell. Personally, I believe it to be a load of nonsense and blasphemy. In any case, I’ll just pop down there, find a musket or uniform scrap and be on my way.
I walk forward, moving the gate until it’s fully open before slipping inside. I find myself
before a narrow staircase descending into the depths. The cobblestone walls are partially crumbling due to time’s toll, and it smells like death, decay, and rot. Torches line my descent as I move down several steps in succession. I curse occasionally beneath my breath as I feel myself nearly slip a few times due to the chipped stone steps.
I hate it down here.
I reach the bottom in a rather embarrassing manner. On the last step, I let my guard down. And of course, that’s when it happens. My boot finds a loose piece of the stairs, and I fall flat on my face. My musket clatters away, skittering off further into the chamber. I grumble to myself, pushing myself off the ground and attempting to get the scent of copper out of my nostrils.
…Wait, copper?
I reach up, opening my mouth and pushing a finger inside to check for any damage. I feel no pain, yet I taste it now. It’s now that I realize that I’m not bleeding, yet there is blood upon the ground.
Fresh blood.
I fear what I may find, but I lift my head to look nonetheless. I am greeted with a sight that will haunt my dreams forever.
I see what can only be described as pure carnage. I see bodies littering the room; some
complete, some less so. My nostrils finally register not only the scent of copper, but the
overwhelming stench of death. No, not old rot from bones long since stored, but fresh, putrefying death. The corpse nearest to me seems relatively fresh, although it is certainly not the most fresh of the bunch. Its jaw has been removed. Not surgically, not cut away, not blown away, but physically torn from its place. I see his tongue hanging out like a gooey, bloated slug as the maggots continue to work in the hole. His uniform, once a proud blue and white, is absolutely soaked in blood. I dare not look at any other injuries he might have, yet I catch a glimpse of a missing hand as I turn to vomit.
Who— no, WHAT did this? Men don’t do this, even our sappers don’t have the strength to tear a man’s jaw off with his bare hands! Yet, as I sit here, I hear a noise. It’s distant at first, yet I hear it clearer as it begins to get closer.
It sounds like footsteps, but it’s all wrong.
Too many feet hitting the ground at once, complete with awkward timing.
Then, I hear it. A loud, bellowing noise that sounds like a mix of a deep bugle, an angry
bovine, and an agonized cry. The footsteps pick up their strange pace, and I can feel the chamber shake. Dust floats down from the ceiling, and I can hear bones rattling from within their resting places further on down the hall.
Forget the proof, and forget the musket. I must leave!
I do just that. I turn on my heel, beginning a rapid ascent up the stairs. I can hear it behind me— the clattering of boots and the slapping of bare feet on stone as I sprint as fast as my legs can carry me. I stumble a few times during my ascent and I hear a rushing of air just behind me when I do, as if it took a swipe at me.
I continue my hasty retreat up the stairs. I don’t remember them being this long, but I dare not slow or turn around to check. I don’t want to know what’s behind me. I don’t want to know why I can hear those terrible voices in French shouting for me, or why I can suddenly understand just what they are shouting to me.
“HELP US!”
“DON’T LEAVE!”
“HELP!”
“STAY WITH US!”
“SAVE US!”
“YOU CAN’T LEAVE US HERE!”
“IT HURTS, O’ GOD IT HURTS!”
I continue my panicked flight, although I can feel my muscles ache. Just a little further, a little further and I may close the gate. I can use the table to bar it, buy me some time as I—
I feel my foot hit a crumbling section of the stair, and I fall just short of the gate. I try to
scramble forward, to crawl through the gate, yet I feel my ankle being seized. I scream in abject
terror as I feel a sharp tug, yanking me back effortlessly no matter how hard I try to hold onto
any surface near enough. I feel my nails splinter as I claw at the landing in vain.
The last thing I see as the horror drags me back is the inscription above the gate on the interior
side. It is scrawled in a reddish brown substance, but I hardly care as I read the Latin inscription:
“ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE.”