Tunnels (48 page)
"Shut up, will you!" snapped a gruff voice just inches behind his ear.
"What's happening?" Chester begged.
"You're going on a little journey, my son, a little journey," said the same voice.
"But I haven't done anything! Please!"
He heard boots grinding on a stone floor as he was pushed from behind. He stumbled and fell to his knees, unable to rise up again with his hands tied behind his back.
"Get up!"
He was hauled to his feet and stood swaying, his legs like jelly. He'd known that this moment was looming, that his days were numbered, but he'd had no way of finding out what it would be like when it did come. Nobody would speak to him in the Hold, not that he made much of an effort to ask them, so petrified was he of provoking any further retribution from the Second Officer and his fellow wardens.
So Chester had lived as a condemned man who could only guess at the form of his eventual demise. He'd clung on to every precious second he had left, trying not to let them go, and dying a little inside as one after another they slipped away. Now the only thing he could find solace from was the knowledge that he had a train journey before him — so at least he had
some
time left. But then what? What were the Deeps like? What would happen to him there?
"Move it!"
He shambled forward a few paces, unsure of his footing and unable to see a thing. He bumped into something hard, and the sound around him seemed to change. Echoes. Shouts, but from a distance, from a larger space.
Suddenly, there came the clamor of many voices.
Oh, no!
He knew without a shred of doubt exactly where he was — he was outside the police station. And what he was hearing was the baying of a large crowd. If he'd been frightened before, it was worse now.
A crowd
. The jeering and catcalls grew louder, and he felt himself being lifted under each arm and hoisted along. He was on the main street; he could feel the irregular surface of the cobbles when his feet were allowed to touch the ground.
"I haven't done anything! I want to go home!"
He was panting hard, struggling with his own saliva and tears, it sucked into his mouth with every inhalation.
"Help me! Someone!" His voice was so anguished and distorted that it was almost unrecognizable to him.
Still the crazed shouts came from all around.
"TOPSOIL FILTH!"
"STRING 'IM UP!"
One repeated shout with many voices took form. It went over and over again.
"FILTH! FILTH! FILTH!"
They were shouting at him — so many people were shouting at him! His stomach churned with the stark realization. He couldn't see them, and that made it worse. He was so terrified he thought he was going to be sick.
"FILTH! FILTH! FILTH!"
"Please… please stop… help me! Please… please help me… please." He was hyperventilating and crying at the same time — he couldn't help it.
"FILTH! FILTH! FILTH!"
I'm going to die! I'm going to die! I'm going to die!
The single thought pulsed through his head, a counterpoint to the repeated chant of the crowd. They were so close to him now — close enough that he could smell their collective stench and the foul reek of their collective hatred.
"FILTH! FILTH! FILTH!"
HE felt as if he were in the bottom of a well, with a vortex of noises and shouts and vicious laughter swirling around him. He couldn't take it anymore. He had to do something. He had to escape!
In blind terror he tried to break free, struggling and twisting his body, convulsing against his captors. But the huge hands only gripped him even more savagely, and the rabble's cries and laughter reached fever pitch at this new spectacle. Exhausted and realizing it was futile, he moaned, "No… no… no… no…"
A sickly, intimate voice came to him from so close that he felt the speaker's lips brush his ear. "C'mon now, Chester, pull yourself together! You don't want to disappoint all these good ladies and gentlemen, do you?" Chester realized it was the Second Officer. He must have been relishing every second of this.
"Let them have a look at you!" said someone else. "Let them see you for what you are!"
Chester felt numb… bereft…
I can't believe this. I can't believe this.
For a moment it was as if all the jeering and chanting and catcalls had stopped. As if he were in the eye of the storm, as if time itself had stopped. Then hands took hold of his ankles and legs, guiding them onto a step of some kind.
What now?
He was heaved onto a bench and shoved hard against its back, in a sitting position.
"Take him away!" someone barked. The crowd cheered, and there were rapturous yelps and wolf whistles.
Whatever he had been put on lurched forward. He thought he heard the plunging of horses' hooves.
A carriage? Yes, a carriage!
"Don't make me go! This isn't right!" he implored them.
He began to gibber, his words making no sense.
"You're going to get exactly what you deserve, my boy!" said a voice to his right, in an almost confidential tone. It was the Second Officer again.
"And it's too good for you," came another he didn’t recognize from his left.
Chester was now shaking uncontrollably.
This is it, then! Oh God! Oh God! This is it!
He thought of his home, and the memories of watching television on so many Saturday mornings popped into his head. Happy and cherished moments of normality with his mother in the kitchen cooking breakfast, the smell of food in the air, and his father calling from upstairs to see if it was ready yet. It was like another time, another century.
I will never, ever see them again. They're gone… it's all gone… finished… forever!
His head sank to his chest. He went limp as the stone-cold realization that it was all over spread through his whole body.
I am FINISHED.
From the soles of his feet to the top of his head he was filled with a crushing hopelessness. As if he'd been paralyzed, his breath slowly left his lips, pulling with it an involuntary animal sound, a half whine, half moan. An awful, dread-filled sound of resignation, of abandonment.
For what seemed like an eternity, he didn’t breathe at all, his mouth gaping, closing, opening, like that of a stranded fish. His empty lungs burned from the lack of air until finally his whole body jerked. He sucked in a painful breath through the clogged wave of the hood. Forcing his head up, he let go a final cry of utter and final despair.
"WWWWWWIIIIIILLLLLL!"
* * * * *
Will was surprised to find he'd dozed off again. He awoke, disoriented and with no idea how long he'd actually been asleep, as a dull, far-off vibration roused him. He couldn't pinpoint what it was, and in any case the cold, hard reality of the choice to go into the Deeps came flooding back to him. It was as if he'd awoken into a nightmare.
He was Imago crouching by the well, inclining his head toward the sound, listening. Then they all heard it plainly; the distant rumbling grew louder with every second until it began to reverberate around the chamber. At Imago's direction, Will and Cal shimmied over to the opening in the floor and readied themselves. As they both sat with their legs dangling from the edge, beside them Imago was leaning his head and shoulders into the well, hanging down as far as he could.
"Slows around the corner!" they heard him shout, and the noise grew more and more intense, until the whole chamber was vibrating around them. "Here she comes. Bang on time!" He pulled himself out, still watching the tracks below as he kneeled between the boys.
"You're sure this is what you want?" he asked them.
The boys looked at each other and nodded.
"We're sure," Will said. "But Chester…?"
"I told you, don't worry 'bout him," Imago said with a dismissive smile.
The chamber was shaking now with the sound of the approaching train, as if a thousand drums were beating in their heads.
"Do exactly as I say — this has to be timed to perfection — so when I say jump, you jump!" Imago told them.
The chamber filled with the acrid taint of sulfur. Then, as the roar of the engine reached a crescendo, a jet of soot shot up through the opening like a black geyser. It caught Imago square in the face, spraying him with smut and making him squint. They all coughed as the thick, pungent smoke flooded the Cauldron, engulfing them.
"READY… READY…," Imago screamed, pitching the backpacks into the darkness below them. "
For a split second
"GO, WILL!" Imago screamed again, and Will tipped himself off the edge.
The sides flashed past, and then he was out and tumbling into a vortex of noise, smoke, and darkness, his arms and legs flailing. His breath was knocked from him as he landed with a jarring crunch, and a pure white light burst around him, one he couldn't even begin to understand. Points of illumination seemed to be leaping over him like errant stars and, for the briefest of moments, he really wondered if he'd died.
He lay still, listening to the percussive beat of the engine somewhere up ahead and the juddering rhythm of the wheels as the train picked up speed. He felt the wind on his face and watched the long wisps of smoke pass above him.
No, this wasn't some industrial heaven; he was alive!
He resolved not to move for a moment while he mentally checked himself over, making sure he didn't have any broken bones to add to his already burgeoning list of injuries. Incredibly, other than a few additional grazes, everything seemed to be intact and in working order.
He lay there. If this wasn't death, what was the bright, fluxing light he still saw all around him, like a miniature aurora? He pulled himself up onto one elbow.
Countless light orbs the size of large marbles were rolling around the gritty floor of the car, colliding and rebounding off one another in random paths. Some became trapped in the runnels in the floor and would dim slightly as they touched, until they became unseated and scampered off on their ways again, flaring into brilliance once more.
Then Will looked behind him and found the remains of the crate and the straw packing. It all became clear. His fall had been broken by a box of light orbs, which had smashed open when he landed on it. Thanking his luck, he felt like cheering, but instead helped himself to several handfuls of the lights, stuffing them into his pockets.
He got to his feet, bracing himself against the motion of the train. Although foul-smelling smoke streamed thickly around him, the loose orbs lit up the car to such effect that he was able to see it in detail. It was massive. It must have been nearly a hundred feet long and half that in width, much larger and more substantial than any train he'd ever seen Topsoil. It was constructed from
slablike
plates of iron, crudely welded together. The side panels were battered and rusted away, and their tops worn and buckled, as if the car had seen eons of hard use.
He dropped down again and, his knees grinding in the grit on the floor, the movement of the car buffeting him around, he went in search of
boot propped up on another line of boxes.
"Cal,
Fearing the worst, Will shouted even louder. Not wanting to knock against
head. It didn't look good. His face and hair were slick with a red pulp.
Will reached out gingerly and was touching the watery redness on his brother's face when he noticed the broken green forms scattered around him. And there were seeds stuck to
forehead. Will drew back his hand and tasted his fingers.
It was watermelon!
At
side was another damaged crate. As Will shoved it away to make more room, tangerines, pears, and apples spilled out. His brother had evidently had a soft landing, smashing into crates of fruit.
"Thank goodness," Will repeated as he shook
"Get off me, will you!"
"What happened?" he shouted over the din of the train.
"Lucky duck, you fell in the restaurant car!" Will chuckled.
"Huh?"
"Doesn't matter. Try to sit up," Will suggested.
"In a minute."
"I'm going to…" he shouted over at
"What?"
"Explore," Will motioned.