Undertow (The UnderCity Chronicles) (18 page)

Pressing back against the column she searched the blackness, her pulse racing. From the darting movements there were at least three or four of them now, a couple smaller than the first one.

“Please…leave me alone….”

The sound of dripping water began again, this time from all around her. She scrambled to her feet, swinging her head to locate her tormentors. The water gave way to the rumble of a subway, loud and echoing this time, coming through the darkness at her, about to crush her beneath its wheels.

Then all at once they swarmed her. They harried her, one snapping at her while the others circled around, ripped at her clothes, yanked at her hair, drew blood again and again. She tripped over her chain and they wrestled to the cold floor. Screaming, she kicked one off. Another leapt onto her chest, its weight slamming the air out of her lungs as it sunk its teeth into her shoulder. Slashing with tooth and claw, they tore at her, then suddenly they abandoned the fight, scuttling away fast.

It took a moment for her to realize they were gone, but in that same instant she sensed she still wasn’t alone. A burning metallic smell wafted over the stench of blood, and looking up she saw a dark shape loom over her.

“Please…help me…” she begged, sobs wracking her body. “Please let me go.”

It seized her by the back of the neck, fingers hard and strong as iron, and dragged her to her feet.

“You tried to escape,” came a cold, cracking voice, the first she’d heard since her capture an eternity ago.

“No…I was just talking to them…just talking and they attacked me…”

The thing shoved her face against the column. She didn’t dare resist, restricting herself to a gasp of revulsion as it inspected her, its cold hand groping. She stood there, not wanting to think of what was about to happen, then to her amazement, she felt her collar slip from her.

Her keeper didn’t let go, however. He spun her around and marched her forward, her neck still in its vice-like hold.

“Where…where are we going?”

No answer.

She was propelled down unseen corridors and crumbling steps, the metallic reek of her guide making her nostrils burn and eyes water. It jerked her to a halt.

“Where are we?”

She heard the flick of a lighter, and behind her a small orange flame lit up the chamber to impossible brightness. Her eyes took in what could only be described as a nursery, and then focused on what the little shadows played with in the dark. Again Seline screamed, and this time she couldn’t stop.

* * *

Frank Moore pulled aside the gray tarp that camouflaged the entrance to a dead-end tunnel, and led Lindsay, Jack and Reggie inside. Both sides of the warren were lined with lockers, boxes and small crates, along with stacks of firewood and oil drums full of kerosene, gasoline and water. So much of it that there was only a narrow fissure down the middle for them to walk single file, and Lindsay worried that if she knocked anything it would trigger a slide that’d bury them alive.

“Been building up this stockpile for almost ten years now,” Frank said in a voice loud enough to carry down the line. “Down here we can survive about anything, but it’s not only about living. Sumptown’s a little seed of civilization buried in the ground. No matter what happens upstairs, we’ll be here to start things over again.”

“Kind of like an insurance policy for humanity?” Lindsay asked from right behind him, squeezing past what looked like parts of a helicopter.

The miner’s headlight on the mayor bobbed. “Yeah, I like the way you put it. That’s exactly what we are. I mean, all the presidents and kings and whatnots are going to make it through the collapse thanks to their bunkers and secret moon bases. Down here we have a place where the common man has a chance to ride out the storm.”

Moon bases? Frank really was off his rocker. Then again only a week ago, she would never have believed in Sumptown or Mole people or mysterious subterranean cultures. Why
not
moon bases?

Frank stopped at a sturdy steel locker and opened its bulky padlock with a key from his shirt pocket. “The Moles can’t stand bright light, and they don’t use firearms from my experience, maybe because they’re sensitive to sound. That might give you enough of an edge to beat them, especially with these.”

Inside was a row of submachine guns, each fitted with a powerful flashlight beneath its barrel. He pulled one out, slapped in a clip of ammunition, and handed it to Lindsay.

“This switch here is the safety,” he explained, flicking it on and off. “It’s a good idea to keep it on when you’re shouldering the gun. Always keep it off when you’re in Mole territory—that being the deep tunnels anywhere outside my town.”

“Okay,” she said, nervous as Frank moved behind her, showing her how to hold the weapon.

“Keep it close to your body so they can’t pull it out of your hands, and lean into it when you fire. You don’t need to worry too much about aiming, seeing as you’ll be fighting in close quarters, but don’t pull the trigger unless you know who you’re shooting at. This weapon’s one hundred percent lethal, so there’s not going to be any second chances for a person on the wrong end of it.”

“Any other advice?” she asked, trying to hold the gun as if she did it all the time.

“Ma’am, I’d need two months to make you halfway competent with that weapon. I will tell you this: always remember you’re in a three-dimensional environment. You’re vulnerable from above, from below and from all around. Whenever you look up, look down. Whenever you check right, check left. Only that kind of three-sixty awareness is going to keep you breathing.”

The mayor handed guns to Jack and Reggie, and though Jack handled his like a Ranger, Lindsay saw that Reggie didn’t look any more comfortable with a firearm than she did. The big man caught her look and shrugged.

“Never liked guns much.”

Jack nodded his thanks to the mayor. “I’ll make sure we return them in good condition, Mr. Moore.”

“Don’t worry about the guns, Mr. Cole. I’ve got enough for an army down here. I’m thinking it’ll be nice seeing 'em used for a good cause.”

As the three of them left Sumptown on the bridge, Lindsay looked over her shoulder at Reggie. “So, where do we find these mercenaries Najib told you about?”

“They’re called ‘The Tecos’. They guard a community beneath Central Park. A place called Seneca.”

“Seneca?”

”Back in the 1800’s Seneca used to be a village,” Jack spoke up. Other than a few terse answers this was the first time he’d volunteered anything to her since they’d left her apartment. He was pissed about something she couldn’t begin to fathom. “The place had Manhattan's first significant population of black property owners, which got erased when they built Central Park, and the community we’re heading to is located right beneath where it used to be.”

“Is it like Sumptown?” Lindsay asked.

“No,” Reggie answered this time. “I only been there once. Even then it was a lot bigger and a lot meaner. The people running it got a drug lab. They make meth, ecstasy...that sort of stuff, and I heard they keep slaves, too. Been doing all that for almost twenty years now, since they’re too deep in the tunnels for the cops to catch them.”

Jack reached the end of the bridge, and this time when he spoke, it was almost to himself. “The trick will be getting the Tecos to go down into The Pits with us. We’ll have to offer them a lot of cash to make it worth their while, especially given the money they must be earning with the lab.”

Reggie stepped off the bridge behind Lindsay and slung his gun over his back, a thoughtful look on his face. “Maybe not. Najib knew them pretty good. Told me he’s owed a favor by a man called Tocat. And that Tocat is a man of honor.” He paused. “Considering.”

“Considering…?” Lindsay prompted.

Jack looked at her in faint astonishment. “What do you think? Considering they kill people the way you swat flies.”

The tunnels seemed infinite in their reach, and that Jack and Reggie could navigate their way through them with such certainty still impressed Lindsay. A New Yorker all her life, she knew how confusing the surface could be, so mastering its underground was no small feat. This time down, she’d been trying to estimate where under the city they were, and presently had them beneath Park Avenue, somewhere near the reservoir.

Together their small group made their way though mile after mile of concrete corridors, passing through regions of ever-increasing strangeness and desolation. They crossed through a huge pillared chamber whose ceiling was stuccoed with purple crystals, and over a catwalk that spanned a reeking garbage pit. They waded through a narrow drainage tunnel ankle-deep with blood-red water, and climbed though a jagged rock fissure into the crypt of some forgotten blueblood family, their caskets long since broken open and grave-robbed.

The silent march was long and grueling, but at length they came to a stop at a rust-stained metal door, emblazoned with the emblem of the Pennsylvania Railroad Company, along with the year of its placement—1922.

Reggie pulled open the heavy portal, its hinges groaning.

“Now you’re going to see something, Lindsay,” Reggie whispered, a wide grin on his face. “Welcome to The Gallery.”

Following Jack though the doorway, Lindsay entered what appeared to be an abandoned train tunnel, judging by the rubble-littered tracks that ran down its center.

“Turn on your flashlight and look around,” Jack said quietly into her ear. There was, in his voice, something she’d not heard since they were kids: excitement. “You can’t visit the underground and not see this place.”

Intrigued, Lindsay shone her powerful flashlight about, and gasped.

Covering the high wall was a grand mural depicting the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. Lindsay recognized it instantly as a detail from Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel. Though the colors were muted from the grime of years, there was a mastery and vision to the work that took Lindsay aback. She drew closer, admiring the artistry and the sheer audacity of the artist to dare imitate one of the masters. Then something caught her eye.

“Adam’s black! I mean not because of the dirt—he’s black!”

Reggie gave an appreciative whistle. “I was wondering if you’d clue in. Look at him after the angel kicked him and his woman out.”

Lindsay peered at the figures on the far right of the ‘canvas’. “He’s white.” She laughed. “I guess I know what the race of the artist was.” She frowned. “OK, if black is the superior color, why is Eve white in both cases?”

“Because the woman was trouble right from the start,” Jack said, from directly behind her. Reggie rolled out a length of appreciative chuckles.

She ignored both of them. From the corner of her eye she caught another departure from the original. She stepped back to make certain and bumped up against Jack.

She turned to him. “Look, look. The Adam and Eve after the fall, below their feet, they’re about to step onto an open manhole. It’s not quite the same as the ground. See? Here and here.”

Jack’s expression changed from lofty amusement to avid interest. His light came up beside hers and followed to where she was pointing. He squatted down to take a closer look. “I’ll be damned. I never noticed that before. You, Reggie?”

Reggie shook his head, and Lindsay felt the same pride of a child who’d done what had stumped an adult.

“They’re about to go down into the tunnels,” Jack said quietly, then added darkly, “Eat an apple, go to hell. Good eye, Lindsay.”

He swung his light slowly along the tunnel wall, and Lindsay gave a low sound of surprise. Paintings stretched off into the darkness, all powerful representations of the originals. A light bulb went on in Lindsay’s head.

“We’re near the Met, aren’t we?”

Something like admiration flickered across Jack’s face. “You’re quick,” he said. “We’re more or less below the Museum right now. If you listen carefully you can hear the trains pull in every so often. The artist must’ve known their collections pretty well, maybe even worked there. Take a look at them, Lindsay. You’ll like this.”

He took hold of her hand and tugged her along, stopping before what seemed like a faithful reproduction of Degas’
Dancers
. Girls in tutus gracefully stretched and unfolded themselves. The wall-length mirror caught their serene reflections, but behind them in the glass were other dancers, ragged figures, their bodies contorted, their hair wild. There moved the tunnel dwellers in dark counterpoint.