Hellboy by Yvonne Navarro

Author:Yvonne Navarro [Navarro, Yvonne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Science Fiction, General, Horror, Media Tie-In
ISBN: 9780743492898
Google: _Ziw3r6zjFMC
Amazon: 0743492897
Publisher: Pocket Star
Published: 2004-02-23T05:00:00+00:00

13

THE LIGHT AND SOUND OF THE SUBWAY TRAIN SCREAMING past was more like an explosion than anything else. It roared through the tunnel with a blast of high beams, and then it was gone, leaving behind a sudden, teeth-jittering emptiness and a ringing in the ears.

Circles of light abruptly swept the space, revealing walls encrusted with mildew and rusting steel columns dripping with moisture and stains. Here and there rats chittered and scurried through the filthy, trash-filled puddles in the center of the tracks, their clawed feet making erratic trails among the debris. Agent Clay swung his own flashlight from side to side, occasionally kicking out at a rodent that dared to get too close; another half dozen agents followed behind him with two of them, Moss and Quarry, armed with heavy-duty flamethrowers. Trailing to the rear and taking in the not-so-touristy sights in companionable silence, were Hellboy and Abe.

Finally they turned off the main subway tunnel and filed into a side tunnel that was too narrow to let pass more than two men at a time. After about twenty feet it widened into a small alcove, itself ending at a couple of double metal doors hanging crookedly on what was left of rust-eaten hinges. Clay kicked the doors open and shone his light inside, then motioned for the others that it was okay to follow.

Inside was a storeroom of sorts, piled high with abandoned filing cabinets, old-fashioned typewriters, and stained school desks with thousands of names and figures carved into the humidity-soaked wood. Although the walls in here were just as moisture-damaged as the tunnels, the agents could see the remains of a hundred-year-old mural that ran the full width of the side wall. On it, happy boys were doing charitable acts—one was helping old ladies with groceries, another coaxed a cat from a tree, yet another tied a shoe for a child smaller than him. It was all very holier-than-thou, and beneath the painted Latin phrase declared Viriliter Age, the translation of which encouraged the viewer to act like a man.

Quarry shook out a triple-wide map, then shone his flashlight on it. “We’re in the cellar of the Benjamin Institute, a turn of the century orphanage,” he told the others as he pointed at a spot on the paper. “It’s been closed since they moved the sewers in 1951.” He re-folded the map and put it away; the sound of the paper crinkling was unpleasant, magnified by the high ceiling and the air currents of the close-by tunnels. The long beams of the agents’ flashlights bobbed and left tracer images as the men constantly aimed them at the lightless corners and the blacker areas beneath the junked pieces of furniture.

Next to Hellboy, Abe pulled off his gloves, set them aside, then extended one hand to test the air. He tilted his head thoughtfully, then nodded. “There’s a pulse,” he said. Then he knelt in front of an oily-looking puddle and lightly skimmed the top of it with his palm.

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