The Nightmare Stacks: A Laundry Files novel Read Online Free PDF

in this but I can’t —”
    Alex flicks the switch and a bare bulb flickers on above them, illuminating the staircase down to the tunnel that leads to the entrance of the former Leeds War Room Region 2 bunker.
    Peeling paint, the smells of stagnant water, wet concrete and mold, cobwebs: these are Alex’s first impressions of the 1950s cold war installation. It skulks on the edge of the city, bookended by a police station and one of the city’s larger crematoria, as if to underline the brooding horror of its purpose. Perhaps the rising damp and other signs of neglect are a good thing. Better by far if it could be left to decay on the scrapheap of history. But the Laundry has plans for it.
    Pete parks his suitcase at the top, then starts down the staircase, boots clattering on the treads. The skeleton of a motorized winch squats rusting on a rail that spans the top of the stairwell, unused since the last time anyone needed to move furniture in and out of this horribly expensive hole in the ground. “Remind me again who thought this was a good idea?”
    “Don’t be silly, Alex, it’s perfectly safe: it’s maintained by our cuddly friends Mr. Telereal and Mrs. Trinium, it says so right on the rusting sign by the front door. If we slip and break our necks or get ourselves electrocuted in the waterlogged subbasement, squatters are
sure
to find our bodies within a few months – aha!” At the bottom of the stairwell they find another lobby. An arch-roofed corridor, ceiling festooned with ominously fat cables, slopes down into the ground. The fluorescent tubes flicker, their ballast circuits dying, but about a third of them are still working and it’s enough to see that, although the paint is peeling and the tunnel smells musty, the floor is clear. “The way in is down here, according to the map.” Pete refers to a thick sheaf of photocopies that he clutches in one hand. “There’s supposed to be a caretaker in residence, but I don’t see any sign of —”
    Alex’s nostrils flare. “We have company.”
    “Jolly good: you go first.” Pete nudges him forward.
    “Bastard,” Alex says without any real rancor; “I want danger money.”
    “If the caretaker shoots you I’ll sign off on your hazard pay.”
    The corridor curves as it descends. Just as the entrance stairwell disappears from view behind them, they come to a wide vestibule. A huge steel blast door, painted so many times that it appears to have developed map contours, is very pointedly wedged open with a pry bar jammed under its lower lip and wooden chocks rammed into its hinged edge. Beyond the door a different corridor veers off at right angles, its walls painted institutional cream. They’ve clearly been renewed not less than a decade ago. (The tunnel beyond the blast door comes to a dead end punctuated by heavy steel grilles into which a steady breeze blows, evidence of well-maintained air conditioning fans.)
    “Oi! Who are you —”
    Alex was aware of the caretaker’s presence almost from the bottom of the stairwell. His stertorous breathing is almost as loud as the distant traffic noise. But he waits until the man shuffles into view before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his warrant card. “Ministry of Defense, Alex Schwartz and Peter Russell. We’re on your approved visitors list for this week.”
    The caretaker is about sixty, the heavy burden of his years slowly crumpling him into an envelope of wheezing lassitude wrapped around a bloated core of abdominal discomfort. He wears a security guard’s uniform, but Alex can’t help noticing that he’s tucked his feet into a pair of rubber waders with a fake wool lining. His breath smells…
bad
: or maybe it’s not his breath. His exhalations merely smell of cheap stale cigarettes. But something else, some miasma he carries with him like a shroud, makes the things in the back of Alex’s head stir and chitter in the darkness. Alex clamps down, but Pete is oblivious as the caretaker