The old elevator squealed in protest, jerking upward inch by inch. Inside the concrete-lined shaft, the only constant was perfect darkness.
Doggett’s breathing was increasingly labored, and Mulder finally made the connection. He smelled something on the FBI agent, something sickly and familiar and scary as hell.
It was blood. At the very least, Doggett had a punctured lung.
No matter how you sliced it, he was going to die unless they got help fast. And the Bailey kid wasn’t far behind. The younger man was hunched on the floor, soundless. Unless Mulder missed his guess, that wasn’t a normal state for the little Englishman.
Sydney slowly pulled the sword from its fragile makeshift scabbard. Mulder didn’t have to see her with his eyes; somehow he knew it was what she was doing. They couldn’t stop the groan of machinery, but for some reason, they felt compelled to remain silent, as though speaking might somehow jinx them. The FBI agent turned reporter pictured the relic hunter raising the weapon, and in his mind’s eye, the rust fell away from the sword in sheets, leaving a sleek, slender silver rapier of flawless design. He thought he might even have heard the stuff sloughing away, but perhaps it was only his imagination.
Without quite knowing why, they all dropped to their knees. Sydney was nearest the open door, poised to strike, the sword pointing toward the unseen enemy.
Go to Part Thirty Nine.