Darkside

by P. T. Deutermann

  A voice whispered right into his left ear. “Sure I can, Hall-Man-Chu.”

  Jim barely suppressed the urge to jump out into the tunnel and snap the light on. The voice had been right beside his ear, but his ear was right next to a solid steel cabinet. No way could there be anyone there. It had been a chilling voice, a metallic whisper. As if someone was synthesizing it. He lifted his left hand above his ear and felt around until he encountered a tiny plastic box. There was a screen on the front of it. A speaker.

  “Because, Booth, like I said, the doors are all sealed tonight. All except the storm drain, and I have people sealing the river grate as we speak. It’s like Hotel California, Booth-you can come anytime you want, but you can never leave.”

  There came a booming sound of something heavy being shut way down the storm drain tunnel. The river grate, right on cue. But the voice spoke in his ear again. “Who wants to leave, Hall-Man-Chu? I certainly don’t. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  Jim began to perspire. Booth was speaking on the tunnel announcing system, which was a string of speakers scattered throughout the tunnels, so that the PWC could make announcements to people working down below. Shit! Was Booth in the PWC ops station? Or had he just tapped in? Yeah, that was it-he had tapped into the speaker system. And also provided it with some electrical power. Guy was good.

  “So let’s chat, Drac,” Jim said, trying not to let his voice betray the anxiety he was feeling. If Booth could do sound, maybe he could do lights, too. And maybe even video. So Jim didn’t dare turn on his flashlight. “You can talk to me or to all of us.”

  “You mean both of you, don’t you?” whispered the speaker. “Although one of you is-what’s the word?-indisposed.” A nasty laugh. “So what is it you think you know, sir, other than that you’re alone down here on my turf?”

  Indisposed? He didn’t like the sound of that. Had he taken Branner? “I know you’re some kind of whack job who had something to do with Brian Dell’s so-called accident, for one thing,” he said. Then he moved back away from the speaker, very slowly, standing on tiptoes so as to make absolutely no sound. The darkness remained absolute. There weren’t even any lights from the power panel showing in the passageway.

  “ Accident? You don’t know shit. Is that what Hot Wheels is telling you? Silly girl. She has it all wrong. Oh, and I know where she is right now, too. With that pretty little lawyer. You know her? Did you know she’s doing Julie’s daddy these days?”

  What? Jim thought as he continued to reposition himself. He felt for the radio. He had to figure out when to call for the lights, but he didn’t want to do it before he knew where Booth was.

  “Surprised there, Mr. Security Man, sir? Mr. Hall-Man-Chump? Mr. Lame -Man-Chump is more like it. Here’s whassup: I’m going to do you and your butch buddy there, then deal with Hot Wheels. Then, who knows-maybe I’ll just go radio-silent and wait to throw my hat in the air with the rest of my sterling classmates.”

  Jim kept moving, turning as he went, one arm held out in the darkness to keep himself from bumping into anything, the other holding the Maglite close by his hip, ready to snap it on. He thought he was moving back down toward the dogleg turn, closer to the Fort Severn doors. Was Booth using a radio to key the speakers? If so, he could be anywhere in the tunnel complex. Or right behind him.

  “No way, Booth,” he said. “We’ve told too many people about you. Your name’s already on the graduation hold list.”

  The voice just laughed. Jim had moved far enough away from his starting point to be between speakers now, and the voice had an echo to it. He still sensed that there was some human presence nearby, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. “Not what I’ve heard, Mr. Security Officer, sir,” Booth whispered. “The word in the third is that the Dark Side’s gonna rug this one. The dant’s had some guidance from on high. Accident. All an accident. Very sad, but there you are. Told those naughty mid coolies not to go up on the roof. Told ’em a million times.”

  “All true, Booth,” Jim said, stopping in place now and listening hard. “Except Julie’s given NCIS enough to reopen this thing. I personally told the supe we’d be reopening, or he could read it in the newspapers. And you know how the supe hates newspapers.”

  “She can’t get me without getting herself,” the voice said softly, as if Booth were closer. Much less of an echo. “I know her. You don’t. She’s complex, Julie is. And she’ll never do that. Life for Julie is all about Julie, see. And without her, you and your rent-a-cop pals got jackshit. Most importantly, the Dark Side wants it over, Mr. Hall, sir. Even if you leak to the Annapolis crab wrapper, no one’s going to give a shit. By direction.”

  “So where’s the Goth girl, Booth? What happened to little Miss Natter? Do you happen to know? Annapolis cops are looking into that one, by the way. They won’t care what the SecNav has to say.”

  “They don’t care, period, Mr. Insecurity Officer, sir. It’s a missing persons case. And besides, if it all goes south, I’m prepared to do the honorable thing. And the name wasn’t Natter. In her world, she was Krill.”

  “Krill, Drill, Snapping Shrimp, for all I care,” Jim said. “But we’ve given them your name as our best bet for the downtown Batman. See, the issue is time. Their investigation will take more time than you’ve got days left here. And that will give us time to pull the scab on Dell. You’re done, shithead. Come on down!”

  Booth didn’t answer this time. Jim bumped into something on the side of the tunnel. He felt behind him and his fingers told him it was a door. It was ajar. There was a strange chemical smell coming from behind the door. He picked up the radio and called softly, “Lights on.” Nothing happened.

  He called again, louder this time, feeling with his fingers for the radio’s power switch to make sure it was on. He heard what sounded like fading laughter coming from the speakers, then silence. The radio appeared to be working. Had the son of a bitch trashed the retransmitter? Screw it, he thought, and snapped on the Maglite.

  The tunnel was empty in both directions. The concrete was strangely gray in the blue-white beam of the Maglite. There was enough humidity in the air now that he could actually see the shape of the beam. He was standing right next to the equipment room. He nudged the door open with his foot. The chemical stink was stronger. A can clinked as it rolled out of the way. Shining the light on it, he saw that it was a can of diesel engine-starter fluid. And then he saw Branner. She was slumped against a telephone switchboard cabinet. There was a swatch of duct tape plastered over her mouth, and what looked like a small sponge sticking up out of it under her nostrils. There was more duct tape wrapped around her arms and legs.

  He recognized the smell: ether. Starter fluid contained ether. He looked both ways again and then stepped into the room. He bent down and snatched the tape and sponge away from her face. She groaned but did not open her eyes.

  He stepped back out into the main tunnel and checked both ways with the Maglite again. Still nothing. No one lurking. He listened carefully. No one coming, either. He tried the radio again, but there was no answer. His fingers were sticky from the duct tape and stank of ether.

  He felt the warm air stir, but it wasn’t like the last time he’d been down, when there had been a distinct pressure change. This was different, more subtle. He keyed the radio again and saw the tiny red light come on, indicating a transmit signal. The radio was working. The signal just wasn’t getting out. He could go up the tunnel and check the retransmitter, but then he’d have to leave Branner. He went back inside after sweeping his light around the tunnel one more time. He set the Maglite down on the floor and used his knife to cut away the duct tape from her arms and legs. She groaned again but still didn’t open her eyes. He could smell the ether on her breath. She’s going to hate life when she does wake up, he thought, the smell nauseating him.

  He felt another stir of air as he checked her pulse. Booth must be big and fast to have been able to get Branner, the judo instructor. He had to get her out of here, and get he
r some oxygen and medical attention. That much ether, she might get chemical pneumonia. He reviewed the tunnel layout in his mind. The nearest exit grate was next to Dahlgren Hall, about 150 feet to the right, beyond the oak doors to the Fort Severn tunnels. It was at least two, maybe three hundred feet back to the Stribling Walk grating, and twice that to the interchange between the Academy and the town’s utility tunnels. The ether smell was making him increasingly nauseous. He knew he was forgetting something. Okay, so he’d carry or drag her to the-What was that?

  He’d heard a noise but couldn’t identify it. He stopped to listen. Not a noise, exactly. A vibration. A rumble?

  He hadn’t heard it; he’d felt it. Yes, definitely. A rumble from out in the tunnel. And then another sound.

  Water. Rushing water. Lots of rushing water.

  Oh shit.

  Booth had probably opened one of the big valves on the fire main. Or maybe on the main containing potable water. Or both. He was going to flood the tunnels big-time.

  Gotta move right now, he thought, his head spinning from the ether fumes. He grabbed Branner under her arms and tried to get her up into a fireman’s carry, but there wasn’t enough space in the equipment room, and she was heavier than he expected. As he eased her back down onto the floor, the rumbling got louder, and he felt, rather than saw, the first rush of water out in the passageway. Felt it and smelled it. A distinct odor of chlorine filled the already-humid air. He grabbed the light and shone it out the door. The water was flowing like a big black river, already covering the entire width of the floor and rushing down toward the storm drain.

  The storm drain.

  Well hell, that would take care of any flooding problem. That thing was four, maybe five feet in diameter, plenty big enough to drain off whatever the pressurized lines could put out. Even as he thought that, he felt water seeping through his shoes. He looked down. There was a two-inch coaming between the equipment room and the main passageway. The water was already coming over the top of it.

  The water was rising. The flap doors to the storm drain must be blocked. But how? They were spring-loaded to open when there was any pressure in the tunnel.

  That U -shaped handle. If Booth had stuffed something through the crack, a piece of rebar or something similar, the doors would allow water to leak through, but they wouldn’t open. And Booth could have done that while getting away, because the storm drain tunnel was some distance from where they were.

  He put the Maglite under his right armpit and grabbed Branner again, straightening her out so he could pull her through the door and out into the main passageway. The water was rushing by. It had a real current now, and it was coming up over his ankles. The glow from the flashlight illuminated Branner’s feet, which were making a V -shaped wake in the torrent. He checked his orientation, made sure he was going the right way, and then began to pull her through the water toward the dogleg turn. He thought about finding the source of the water, then remembered all those valves on the fire main were outside the grating doors. The locked grating doors. By the time he found the right one, it might be too late, the way this water was rising.

  He got about twenty feet before he tripped over something and landed hard on his behind. Branner’s head dropped underwater for a second and she came up spluttering. She sat up, her face white in the light, felt the water, and automatically rolled over to get to her hands and knees. Then she got a strange look on her face and began to vomit into the flood. Jim felt absolutely helpless as he watched her convulsions, even as he realized how fast the water was rising. As Branner slumped back down toward the floor, he grabbed her again and held her up.

  “Wha-what happened?” she gasped. “What’s all this water? Where are we?”

  “Booth got you with ether,” he said, getting to his knees. It was getting hard to stay in position. “Can you get up?”

  She started to nod but then was racked by a bout of dry heaves as the ether worked its poisonous spell. He just held her while her entire body spasmed against him. The water was over a foot deep now.

  He pulled her to her feet and put his arm around her to steady her while urging her forward. It was like walking through molasses, and the water was up to their shins.

  “Booth’s flooded the tunnel. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “The radio?” she asked weakly.

  “I think he got the retransmitter. I can’t get a signal out. They’re gonna know they have a leak down here as soon as someone looks at a water-pressure gauge.” And shuts down the system before the tunnel completely floods out, he fervently hoped. And doesn’t count on the storm drain to solve the problem.

  He got her through the dogleg turn and then pointed her toward the Dahlgren Hall access grate. The water was knee-deep now and still rising. There was less of a current, but violent swirls knocked them from one side of the tunnel to the other. Jim tried not to think of all that electrical equipment behind the doors as they labored past them. Branner was able to move on her own finally, which meant Jim could use the Maglite again. They held on to each other as they leaned back against the current. Suddenly, they felt the current reversing, shoving them backward from their objective. Now what the hell? he thought as they both almost went down into the swirling blackness. Then the current subsided entirely. Even so, the water seemed to be rising faster now, and Jim could feel the pressure building in his ears. As they stumbled up to the grating door, he reached for his keys. Which was when he remembered that all the grating doors were blocked from the outside. Not just locked but physically blocked.

  They were trapped. Unless the chief got to a door and unblocked it, that water would continue to rise until it filled the tunnels. And the chief, waiting for Jim’s signal up in the PWC operations station, might not even be aware that there was a problem. And even if he did, he’d have to get to the right grate. He saw that Branner had figured it out at about the same time.

  “What do we do?” she said in a shaky voice.

  Holding the flashlight under his right armpit, Jim fished for the collection of tunnel keys in his pants pocket and began fumbling until he found the one that unlocked the door. The water was now above their belts. There was no more current, just that inexorable rise. Jim could feel intense pressure in his ears now. He pushed the door, but it didn’t budge. Definitely blocked.

  “We go back,” he said. “Try another door.”

  “But-”

  “They may have missed one. The radios don’t work. They don’t even know we have a problem. We can’t just stand here and drown. Let’s go.”

  Branner fished her own flashlight out of her belt and they pushed through the rising waters, heading back toward the dogleg turn. Jim tried to figure out how Booth had known to flood the tunnel, but then realized Booth must have been listening to the radio circuit and heard them confirm the doors were blocked. Big mistake to have mentioned that.

  His tunnels, not ours, he reminded himself as he pushed himself through the black water. It was slow going, and he found himself pulling Branner along with him. She still wasn’t 100 percent capable.

  “We have another option,” he said. “We get to that vestibule above the storm drain before the water gets over our heads, maybe we can force those flaps open.”

  “But the river grating is blocked, right?”

  “Yeah, but that would dump the water. Give us time for the people in the PWC station to realize there’s a problem.”

  “Not if it’s high tide.”

  He thanked her for reminding him. His own brain wasn’t working all that well as the humidity rose. It was getting hard to breathe. Just then, there was a loud humming sound, and the cracks around an equipment room door to their right glowed momentarily with an unearthly blue-green light. Jim felt a tingling in the water as something big shorted out in the equipment room. Branner must have felt it, too, because she swore softly. They came abreast of the Fort Severn doors as another equipment room flared briefly. This time it was more than a tingle. Up ahead were a
dozen more cabinets.

  “They’ll know something’s up with that shit going on,” he said, puffing as he forced himself through the chest-high water.

  “May be academic,” she gasped as she tripped over something on the floor. Jim tripped, too, and they both went down into the water, losing their flashlights. They came up blowing water out of their mouths, and then Jim dove back under to get his Maglite. Hers was gone.

  “Deck plates are coming up,” he said.

  “We’re getting nowhere,” she said. “You got a key for these doors?”

  Jim stopped and looked apprehensively at the big oak doors. “Yeah, but we don’t want to go in there. It’s a damned cave-in waiting to happen.”

  She pushed water away from her chest in an effort to stand upright. “No choice,” she said. “We’re outta time. We can’t get to the next door and find out it’s blocked, too. Which it will be.”

  Another piece of electrical machinery shorted out down the passageway, and this one, sounding like a welding torch, blew vicious white sparks through the air vents and out into the passageway.

  “Okay,” he said, getting the keys out. He held the light under his chin as he searched for the key to the left door. Even as he was looking, he knew this wasn’t a good idea. At the end of the Severn tunnel was that magazine, which was below the level of the main tunnel. Going in there would trap them like rats, unless they found the way up through that hole in the back. And he had never found out where that hole came out topside. If it came out topside.

  “Hurry,” she said, hiccupping. “I’m treading water here.”

  The water was up to Jim’s chest as he sorted through the bundle of keys. It seemed to be taking forever. Then he remembered that these doors took the antique keys. Why hadn’t he known that as soon as he began looking? The atmosphere was compressing hard and he was having trouble thinking. Oxygen mix must be off, he thought as his fingers found the big key.

  He slammed it into the lock, but it didn’t work. Two doors. Two keys. He’d picked the wrong one. Back to sorting keys again. He found the second one and shoved it into the lock.