The Tombs

by Deborah Schaumberg

  “Help!” I screamed as loudly as I could. “Someone help me!”

  But she only smiled sweetly as she pierced my vein and slowly depressed the plunger.

  The drug coursed through my body, dragging me down with it. After that, I felt myself drifting—for how long, I couldn’t say. Nurses came and went. I never understood what they said; it was as if they spoke in exaggerated slow motion. I spent hours staring fearfully at the pipes, convinced they were squirming and twisting out of the wall. On occasion, I became conscious of being helped out of bed and walked next door to a small bathroom, where the nurses washed me and let me use the toilet. I could not tell the time of day. I ate. I slept. I slept a great deal.

  One day, I woke and realized my mind was less foggy. I lay quietly, afraid to make a sound lest a nurse enter with another needle. The room had changed. There was now a chair, a small table, and a lantern—

  And I was no longer restrained. Shocked, I sat up. My arms were sore. I pushed up my sleeves. Bruises covered the insides of my elbows. I hugged my knees close to my body. How long have I been here? I tried to count the days, but got lost in my muddled memories.

  When I felt strong enough, I got out of bed and walked shakily around the small room. There was nothing I could use as a weapon. I stood on tiptoe and peered out the square window in the door.

  Segments of yellow light banded the murkiness of the hallway; each marked the point at which an electrical bulb hung from a wire. I watched a few patients escorted by, one pushed in a wheelchair, the others holding on to nurses as they shuffled past. All of them had a glassy, expressionless look on their haggard features.

  As I continued to stare through the glass, hoping I would be lucky enough to see my mother, Indigo, or Hurricane, I heard a man’s voice approaching, then two. My heart thumped against my ribs. They started to move in my direction. I crouched down. Hide! But there was nowhere to go. I flew to the bed and crawled underneath it, scraping my knees and elbows on the stone.

  The metal door screeched open, grinding against the floor. Black boots and a pair of leather loafers with a pilgrim buckle entered, then stopped. The boots rushed to the bed. Rough hands grabbed my ankles and dragged me out.

  “Get away from me!” I screamed. “Help! Someone help me!”

  A guard in a crow mask easily lifted me and sat me on the bed, keeping hold of my arms.

  Dr. Spector smiled at me as he slowly shut the door.

  “Good day, Avery Kohl. I trust you have been comfortable? Alas, no more medication for you. If we are going to work together, I need you fully decontaminated.” His voice grated the edges of my nerves, sent quivers coursing up and down my body. “First I must test your ability, see what you can do.” He turned to the guard. “Bring her.”

  “No. Please no.” But the guard hoisted me up. It was walk or be dragged.

  In the hallway, I looked around frantically, trying to see a way out, any small detail. There was a nurse and patient down the hall but they disregarded my protest, as if it was commonplace. I counted the doors as we proceeded. At the fifth, Dr. Spector unlocked the door and flicked a switch on the wall. Two globes suspended from the ceiling cast a yellow-green glow.

  “Welcome to my laboratory.” He lifted his arms proudly.

  The small room was packed with machinery, books, glass jars, and beakers. In the center was a large chair, with straps on the arms and a contraption above it that reminded me of the one Spector’s cronies had used to test the street urchins. On the wall was a chart of a human head with the scalp divided into small numbered sections.

  I cringed at the sight of a real crow standing perfectly still on Spector’s desk. When I looked closer I realized the huge bird was stuffed, like the taxidermy animals hunters like to display.

  The guard pushed me into the chair, securing my wrists and ankles tightly. My breath came in shallow gulps.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Ignoring my question, Spector nodded to the guard. “That will be all.”

  When the guard exited, Dr. Spector took measurements of my head with a round caliper, occasionally fingering my skull. I cringed at the touch of his bony fingers. Then he lowered the metal helmet to my head, carefully adjusting the fit. “This machine is of my own design. I have a portable one, of course, but this lady is far more sensitive. This invention places me exceedingly beyond my peers at the Institute of Phrenology. Those Fowler brothers, old geezers, will quail in my presence.” He turned to a box next to me, fiddled with the knobs and dials, and swung a delicate metal arm to hover over a scroll of paper. The machine began to hum in my ear like an insect.

  “Where is my mother?” I imagined her in this seat and shuddered. My voice sounded tinny and small. “Please, can you tell me? Why have you kept her here?”

  Spector’s eyes flashed with some unreadable emotion. Contempt?

  “This is where she belongs. This is where all of you belong. Let’s just hope you are of use to me as well. Shall we?” He lifted his pointer finger to a small red button.

  “Wait!” My mind raced. I had to say something, anything, to keep him from pushing that button. “I’m sure you’re right. We do belong here. I’m just trying to understand—”

  “Your feeble intellect could never comprehend the intricacies of the science behind my experiments.” Spector leered.

  That’s it. I had to keep him talking. I had to play to his pride.

  “Is that why we have no power over you? Why you alone do not wear goggles?”

  “As I just said, you underestimate my science. I create my own power.” He raised his chin, looking me in the eye. I realized now why his left eye seemed different. This close I could tell it was made of glass. I’d seen a cruder version in my father’s workroom, but Spector’s was amazingly lifelike.

  “You mean the serum?” I blurted out.

  Spector laughed. “The serum is for those who have risen to the top and, of course, have the money to buy control over those at the bottom. I provide what they desire and they pay handsomely for it.” He shook his head. “No, no, my personal interest is in the science behind the serum, and for that, my name will go down in history.”

  Heat flushed through my veins. He wants to be famous for his barbaric experiments. He has not a shred of empathy or compassion. I’d thought him mad, but this was far worse. The severity of my situation hit me full on. We are but lab rats to him. My restrained hands began to shake. Sweat dripped down my face from under the helmet. He observed me with cold, clinical detachment, as if my display of emotion was simply part of his investigation.

  Then he grinned and pressed the button.

  The hum grew louder and louder until I felt like my brain must be vibrating in my skull. I squeezed my eyes shut, gritted my teeth, and clenched my fists as my body began to tremble. I heard the needle scratching wildly on the paper. I tried to take a breath, but my throat squeezed shut. I felt my eyes roll back in my head. My mouth stretched wide to scream, but nothing came out.

  The machine stopped.

  Dr. Spector lifted the apparatus as I slumped forward, held in place by the straps. I gulped the air.

  Tearing the paper from its scroll, he mumbled to himself, “Yes, yes, just as I’d hoped . . . even stronger . . .”

  Then the world went black.

  Chapter Thirty

  Toxic Flowers

  A rush of air filled my lungs as I sat bolt upright in bed. My head swam and the walls of my room tilted. I slumped back on the pillow until the feeling passed.

  Fuzzy memories drifted through my mind: Dr. Spector, nurses, an operating table, a needle. I looked at my arm; I saw another large bruise and specks of dried blood.

  Spector took blood from me. I’m part of his lurid experiments now. I ran my hands through my matted hair. My fingernails snagged, and I realized I’d bitten my nails to the quick. A noise outside my door sparked my attention. Burying myself under my covers, I peeked out as Mrs. Luckett entered with a steaming tin. She placed
it on the cart and eyed me warily through her goggles. My mouth dropped open when she lifted the cover: bite-size cubes of red meat in a puddle of red juices, mashed potatoes with a blot of butter, and steamed spinach. I had to pretend to be friendly. “New chef?” I smiled.

  Her eyebrows rose up. Her lips stretched into a tight little grin. “Dr. Spector himself requested this meal for you.”

  I rubbed my arms. Everything hurt. “Mrs. Luckett, I’m very sorry about my behavior when I first arrived. I was scared.”

  “No need to apologize, dear. I’m glad you’re adjusting.”

  “Yes, I know Dr. Spector is trying to help me. And you are as well. Thank you.” I tried to look nonchalant. “Do you know why he has taken my blood, by chance?”

  She checked the chart on the end of my bed. I already knew it said nothing, just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo about my psychological condition, and other cryptic notes and dates. “I’m not privy to the treatment specifics, but it indicates here that you are due for another bloodletting on the twelfth and again on the nineteenth. Don’t you worry. I’m sure he is doing everything he can to help.”

  My heart sped up at the mention of more bloodletting. For some reason, I thought of something my mother used to say: You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar. How I missed her little quips. My father and I used to chuckle at them, but I’d do anything to hear her voice right now. Or his. “Yes.” I kept my voice casual. “I’m quite sure you’re right. What day is it today?”

  “Today is Monday, November sixth.”

  “Mrs. Luckett, do you know how my mother is doing? Is it possible to see her?”

  Her smile dropped. I’d gone too far. “Now, now. Patient confidentiality does not permit me to discuss that. Strictly forbidden. Eat up, then get some rest. You need to build your strength. After I collect your dish, no one will disturb you until the morning nurse arrives,” she said as she bustled out.

  I looked down at my meal. Red meat, spinach . . . of course! Spector was trying to strengthen my blood. All right. I’d play his game. I wanted to get strong as well, to find my way out of here.

  Later, I woke to see the tray had been cleared. The clock showed half past eleven. All was dark and quiet in the hall. I raised the wick on the lantern, casting away the shadows.

  I had to reach my mother. I had to find Indigo and Hurricane. And how many others was he experimenting on? This madness must be stopped.

  Lifting my hands, I focused on my third eye. Though I tried to see the energy in my body, the vision would not come. I feared I would lose the ability to control my second sight if I did not practice. Here and now, I vowed to work on it every possible chance. Again I closed my eyes and slowed my breath. I found it helpful to count. Inhale for four, hold, exhale for four. When I next dared look, the light flowed around my hands. Somehow, it made me feel closer to my mother.

  A flash in the corner caught my eye. A rat. Its energy glowing, it emerged from beneath the pipes and crept along the edge of the room. Turning to keep it within sight, I watched it disappear into a large grate on the wall behind my bed.

  I got up and held the lantern up to the grate. Behind it, a narrow horizontal shaft stretched off into darkness. Gripping the edges, I tried to pry the grate free but only succeeded in hurting my fingers. Four screws held the grate in place. I needed a tool.

  Looking around the room, I got an idea. Swiftly and silently, I wedged my feet against the pipes on the wall, wrapped my fists around a small pipe, and pulled. It moved slightly. I leaned back, putting all my weight into it. It bowed a bit but held fast. Damn!

  Getting onto all fours, I lowered my face. Behind the pipes was a dark crevice. Biting my lip, I reached my hand into it, feeling around with my fingers. Disgusting. Damp grime, nothing more. I slid my hand out, oily black and caked with dust, and tried another spot.

  Exhilaration shot through me. Here were shards of metal. Reaching further, my fingers brushed over something hard and jagged. I pulled out a discarded section of pipe.

  This could work. Very carefully, I inserted the edge into the slot of one of the screws. I leaned into it, pressing hard. Slowly, the screw turned. Soon I had all four out, and the grate, hinged on one side, swung open. Behind it was an old stone tunnel just big enough for me to fit.

  A few months ago, I wouldn’t have gone in there for gold coins. Desperation breeds courage, I suppose. It might be a way out. On hands and knees, I entered, pushing the lantern ahead to light my way. As I crawled along, I saw the openings to other tunnels branching off into darkness. I’ll get lost. I’ll die in the walls of the Tombs.

  I backtracked to my room. I needed to ensure I could find my way out if I was to explore any farther. I had time, at least until the morning nurse came. Think, Avery, think.

  Jumping up, I grabbed my extra blanket. Using the rough end of the pipe, I made a hole and worked my way along the fabric, pulling out a long string. I did this again and again until I had a pile of strings I could tie end to end. Then I balled the sheets into the rough shape of a person and laid the first blanket over it.

  This time, I tied one end of my long string to the grate. I entered the tunnel with the lantern and pulled the grate closed, trailing the string behind me. Soon I came to an opening on my right. From within came a scraping noise, something moving my way. Rats! I braced myself for the vermin, but instead, a snakelike metal tube emerged, sliding forward as if pushed by someone on the other end.

  I stared at it in the light of the lantern. Its copper segments created a flexible cylinder. The welder in me was fascinated. On the end was a glass ball inside a wire cage. It reminded me of the periscope device Geeno had run through the door in his crate. I picked it up.

  Within the glass was the image of an eye. It blinked. Letting out an involuntary gasp, I dropped it, backing away. The eye blinked again, then vanished; the glass went black.

  Slowly, I reached out and picked up the glass ball. It jerked free and withdrew. Oh no you don’t. I followed it, eager to find out to whom that eye belonged.

  The tunnel ended at a vertical stone shaft with a ladder bolted to the side. The air smelled stale, and the dust on the rungs made it clear no one had been here in a long time.

  The metal tube continued to recede, tapping a steady rhythm on each rung as it was pulled upward. I tested my weight on the ladder. Sturdy. I had to hold the lantern and the rungs at the same time, making progress slow, but eventually I’d climbed at least thirty feet from the bottom. I couldn’t help noticing the welds that fixed the rungs of the ladder in place. Whoever had built it had done it well. As old and rusty as it looked, not one joint had cracked.

  My arms and legs ached; my breath felt stifled in the narrow passage. From the echo and the feel of space above me, I knew the shaft continued overhead, but the ladder ended at a large opening in the wall. The air was different here, warm and humid. The stone walls had green algae growing on them.

  Hesitantly, I hoisted myself up. There was no one there. Placing the lantern on the floor near the opening, I stood, wishing I had my knife. The first thing I saw was the moon, directly overhead, almost full and serenely beautiful. Am I outside? It’s not possible.

  As my eyes adjusted, I realized I was in some sort of greenhouse. Tall stone walls held a glass roof high above my head. It must’ve been snowing in the city; each metal frame had a drift collecting in its corners. Spots of greenish glowing light blinked in the night sky; it took me a moment to realize I was looking at the dirigibles, hovering above Manhattan. I tightened my lips, forcing myself to look away. I never thought I’d miss Vinegar Hill, but now I wished desperately that I was there, viewing the sky from my own rooftop.

  The smell of soil and sweet flowers drifted through the air. I breathed deep, filling my lungs with clean air. Towering trees and plants and racks of potted flowers surrounded me. Even the continuous dripping of water soothed my soul.

  I closed my eyes and focused. Somehow it was easier to concentrate amid all this greenery;
my gaze shifted into my second sight. “Oh!” I drew in a sharp breath. Every branch, every twig, every flower pulsed with shimmery white light. I imagined that this was what a fairy world would look like. Like a pearl within an oyster, it was strange that the Tombs should house such beauty within its walls.

  With a slithery splatter the tube and ball were pulled through a puddle and across the slate floor. I followed, brushing against the wet greenery, trailing my fingers through the light. Clusters of exotic flowers hung around me, dangling from a trellis above. They glowed in the moonlight, each white blossom, ten or twelve inches long, a delicate bell with ruffled edges. Laughing with delight, I reached out to touch one.

  “Don’t touch! Don’t touch!” a wiry voice yelled down at me.

  I stopped, my sight flashing back to normal. “Who said that?” Ducking below the flowers, I tracked the line of water from the tube up a wooden stairway that rose into the overhead greenery. A tree house was woven into the branches there. The path of the tube ended at an enormous spool wound by a tiny old man, struggling to turn the handle. His face was pressed into a metal cone; all I saw was his bushy gray beard sticking out on either side of his bald head.

  At my approach, he turned. I jumped back, nearly falling down the steps. His entire face was an enormous eye, as if a giant peered at me through a round window.

  “Oh, heavens, my mistake, my mistake. Please watch your step.” He lifted the great bulbous magnifying glass off his face. “Yes, yes, please do come in.” He bustled over, chin jutting out to compensate for the weight of the lens on his head.

  At two feet taller than him, I had to smile when he reached out, took my hand, and kissed the back of it. Quite the little gentleman. His eyebrows were as unruly as his beard.

  “Excuse my manners, please do. I haven’t had a visitor in . . .” He tapped his temple. “Forty-four years. Yes, yes, that must be it. Now, what is your name?”

  “My name is Avery Kohl, sir. I am looking for my mother. She’s being held—”