Undertow (The UnderCity Chronicles)

by S. M. Stelmack

  “Sometimes it still takes me by surprise.”

  “Because you expected it to be one thing and it’s another.”

  He turned to her and the sun glowed warm on his face. “Because,” he corrected quietly. “Because she burns so bright. Better than anything I could ever imagine.”

  Lindsay felt herself dissolving, melting under the power of his words. He took her hand in his, held it as if he were about to propose. His eyes searched hers. “It’s the same question I wanted to ask five years ago. Do we have a chance, Linds?”

  She didn’t think about it. She wrapped herself around him and he lost no time in doing the same with her. In the certainty of the sun and their bodies, she told him, “Yes, Jack. Together we can have something real.”

  As a train rattled by the window of his dilapidated apartment, Isaac Crabbe ran his hand through his straggly red hair and took a long, nervous drag on his last cigarette. Tocat’s pals were due any moment, and as far as he was concerned they couldn’t arrive soon enough. His apartment had been without heat for the past week, a result of his failure to pay his bills, as all the cash from welfare and panhandling had gone to smokes, food, and his phone.

  A nice, simple smuggling job was just the thing he needed. A day’s work, and he’d be back in the black—or at least get his place warmer than a meat locker.

  He took another puff, and looked at his watch. It had stopped. “Shit,” he mumbled. He struck it against the table and the second hand continued its circular march. There was a time he’d been a professional, master of New York’s secret ports, tunnels and byways, ferrying contraband into and around the city like a shadow. But his reputation alerted the police, and the day had come when they’d caught him making a twenty-pound delivery of cocaine. Twelve years of prison later, he had lost his contacts and the city had changed, leaving him to play gopher to small-timers, burnouts and renegades.

  Those were the breaks.

  He rolled his shoulders under his thick parka, and stubbed his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray, the centerpiece on his kitchen table. They’d better get here soon. Ever since power was cut off last week, his only light source was from the sun, and here in the late afternoon, it was almost setting.

  Despite expecting visitors, he still jumped when there was a knock at the door. Crabbe headed over to the triple-bolted entrance, squinted through the peephole, then opened up.

  Jack looked down at the man who answered, and knew that beside him, Lindsay was surprised, too, at seeing the dwarf. Standing a few inches under five feet tall with a rotund physique, Crabbe looked more like a scruffy garden gnome than a smuggler.

  “Isaac Crabbe?” Jack asked, uncertain if they’d found the right apartment in the crumbling tenement.

  “That’s me.” He used his foot to hook aside a step-stool from behind the door and swung it wide open. “Come on in. It’s colder than a witch’s tit in here. Still, we can talk with nobody bothering us.”

  Jack stepped inside first, scanning the tiny, dingy apartment that made his own spartan home seem like the governor’s mansion. Wallpaper the color of a rusted bucket was stained and peeling, and the green carpet was so dirt-matted it looked like turf after a game in the rain. Weighing down a tray table in the living area was a rabbit-eared television, a white-lace doily draped over it like a wig. Behind him, Lindsay emitted a descending scale of groans.

  Crabbe led them over to a folding table wedged into the back of his galley kitchen, and , still bundled in outside gear, they squeezed around it. Seeing as how there were only two chairs, their host stood, which meant that they were all pretty much level with each other.

  He rubbed his small square hands together. Apparently for warmth as much as anticipation. “So, not many people know about Schenley's Chasm. I’m guessing you two have been dealing with Seneca?”

  “We’re not drug dealers, if that’s what you’re asking,” Jack said flatly. “We’re looking to get a person out of the tunnels. The Pits, to be specific.”

  Crabbe’s cherubic face paled, and his rubbing hands stopped in a prayer-like pose. “Oh. Well, I can get you to the edge of them, but don’t ask me to take you in. Them things that live down there—”

  “We know,” Lindsay interrupted. “We’re looking for someone to get us through the Chasm and back again. That’s all.”

  Crabbe ran smoke-yellowed fingers over his bristly chin. “How long you going to want me to wait?”

  “Two hours should do it,” Jack said. “If we’re not back by then it’s a safe bet we won’t be coming.”

  “Ten grand, all in advance,” the dwarf announced, then flinched at Jack’s expression.

  “That seems a little steep,” Lindsay said.

  “I’d be risking my life there, lady. Two hours is a long time to be waiting around The Pits, especially if you’re going to be stirring them things up like hornets. I need some kind of hazard pay.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. It was a safe bet the man would flee if he thought the Moles had any chance of snatching him. Better to simply pay him for the use of his boat and go it alone. Before he could argue, Lindsay spoke up.

  “Fine. Ten grand, only one in advance. The other nine when we’re out of the tunnels.”

  Crabbe’s eyes widened as much as Jack’s, and he licked his lips. “What if you two don’t make it back? And even if you do, what’s to say you’ll pay me?”

  That was it. Enough crap from Crabbe. Jack leaned forward. “You calling us liars?”

  “No, no sir,” the dwarf stammered. “It’s…well…I don’t know you two, and you know how these deals can go sideways, sometimes.”

  Jack felt Lindsay’s hand on his thigh. “Look,” she said, “we’re all going to be taking risks. I think the offer is more than fair, Mr. Crabbe, so let’s quit haggling.”

  The man looked from Lindsay to Jack and back again, then his nervous smile returned, and he bobbed his head. “Okay, okay. When you want to go?”

  “When’s the soonest you can take us?” Lindsay asked.

  “Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning. You two know your way around Riverside Park at all?”

  Lindsay nodded.

  “Down around 93rd street there’s a big statue of a lady on a horse. Meet me there and we’ll go down. Let’s make it, say, eight in the morning. And don’t forget the money, okay?”

  Jack remained silent until they were in her car. “Are you nuts? Ten grand?”

  Lindsay turned the heaters on full blast. “I want him to have a strong incentive to wait for us, Jack. The only thing that can trump fear is hope, and hope for Crabbe is the color of money.”

  * * *

  Seline sat against the concrete pillar, her knees tucked up to her chin and her arms wrapped around them, eyes straight ahead. The chain had been taken away.

  She hardly ate anymore, spending all her time either sleeping or staring into the darkness. How long had she been here? Days? Weeks? Months? She had no way of knowing, her perception of time completely lost, and just as frightening was the realization that she didn’t care anymore.

  All she felt like doing was dreaming. Dreaming of her life above, and all the simple pleasures that ordinary human beings took for granted. The brightness of light and color. The sting of the harsh winter wind on her face, the kiss of raindrops. The tight wrap of Aunt Lindsay’s arms around her shoulders. Janice’s pat on her cheek. The ordinary act of speaking to them, to someone—anyone.

  How had Jack Cole survived for two years? She recalled the strange light in his eyes that burned, she now knew, from his sojourn in Hell. Would she become like him? No, how could she? He, at least, had the willpower to escape.

  Had Auntie given up on her? Taken down the Christmas tree alone? Gotten on with living the way the two of them had done after their family died?

  A noise shocked her from her spiraling contemplations, and her head jerked up. It took a second for her rattled psyche to register she was hearing words.

  “Hello? Anyone home?” The v
oice was female, with a weird sing-song lilt to it.

  Seline unfolded her body and got to her feet, staring about her. “Yes! I can hear you!” Her voice raw, tinged with hysteria.

  “Of course you can. I’m over here.”

  Seline swung her head in the direction of her visitor, and made out the dim outline of a thin female standing on the far side of the room. The mere sight of a human brought tears to Seline’s eyes. “Please help me,” she said, her voice trembling.

  “You know,” the woman replied, “I would, but I’m already helping someone else. How do you think you got here?”

  Seline cringed at the silky menace behind the words. “What do you mean?”

  The question was ignored; instead, one was posed. “Have you ever wondered what happens to your garbage?”

  “What?”

  “You know, your garbage. The stuff you throw away. Do you ever wonder what becomes of it?”

  “I…I guess it gets burned…or buried.”

  “That’s right. And the same goes for people. Those that aren’t wanted anymore must be vanished, so they’re either killed or buried. Buried in prisons or asylums or ghettos. And sometimes, just sometimes, they get literally buried. Down beneath your quaint little cities, where everyone can forget they ever existed.”

  “I came down here so people wouldn’t be forgotten,” Seline said. “I wanted to help make a place for them up in the city.”

  “How very nice of you,” the voice mocked. “I’m afraid, however, our friends down here have other plans.”

  “Plans? Who are you?”

  The shadowy figure cocked her head to one side, and though she couldn’t see it, Seline could sense the woman’s unwholesome smile.

  “Although people like you may have forgotten about us, we’ve never forgotten about you. No, while you’ve been busy going about your sane little lives we’ve been helping our associates down here tap into everything from your water to your phones to your bank accounts. This city is on the cusp of a great transformation, a revelation more wondrous than anything that has come before. Never fear, we’re not going to pull the trigger—not until it’s time. Which, by the way, is why you’re here.”

  Seline shook her head. “I’m not going to help you.”

  “Not to burst your bubble, dearest, but you already have. You see, our friends have been somewhat scattered, and they’re very difficult to find. Only one man has the knowledge of where to look for them, and he’ll be making a rescue attempt on you any time now.”

  “Who?”

  “Why, Jack Cole, you silly thing.” The woman laughed. “We had tea together the other day. Your auntie, bless her, has persuaded him to retrieve you, and he wasn’t having much luck until recently. You see, everyone thinks that there’s only one way into The Pits, but I get the sneaking suspicion that Jack knows of another. I haven't told your hosts about it. Imagine how grateful they'll be when I present him all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

  The madwoman’s voice rose and verged on the oracular.

  “He will be our devoted spider,

  And weave our web ever wider,

  Unfurl our net across the world you’re in—

  Paris, Rome, Moscow, London, and Berlin.

  And when we’re posed to have our way,

  It’ll be over in just one day.”

  Seline recoiled at the venomous poetry, the lilting voice like sugar-laced poison.

  “You’re insane.”

  “That’s what they tell me, dearest. Then again, they don’t know the half of it, do they?”

  Lindsay studied Riverside Park's statue of Joan of Arc, the young saint set upon her steed, sword raised high in a gesture of fierce determination. Today she’d need to share the woman's courage and faith—though not her fate.

  Najib had agreed to visit Sumptown the night before on their behalf, and early that morning, had returned with ammunition and a pair of sub-machine guns. However much the weight of the weapon in her backpack was reassuring, she knew from the massacre at Seneca that a successful rescue wouldn’t hinge on firepower. The guns were tools of last resort; stealth and knowledge were the only real keys into—and out of—The Pits.

  Beside her Jack wore sunglasses against the glare of the sun on the skin of snow, and that, along with the loaded bag at his feet, made him look like an itinerant mercenary. Lindsay checked the time on her phone. Quarter to eight. Fifteen minutes before the descent. By noon she could have Seline back. Or they could all be dead. She scrolled to Janice’s name with its thumbnail picture of her broad, smiling face. When Lindsay wanted to call her, Jack had nixed the idea, concerned that her old friend would become a target for the APs, if she wasn’t already. So Lindsay now experienced the same regret as when her family had died. Of being robbed of the chance to say goodbye.

  His focus straight ahead, Jack spoke quietly, his tone lecture-smooth. “The point where The Pits meet Schenley's Chasm shouldn’t be guarded. The Moles don’t really use the river for anything, except their young sometimes hunt rats there in the summer.”

  “How did you learn about it?”

  “One of their young told me.”

  Lindsay frowned. “They speak English?”

  “Some can. Usually they talk in their own language.” By way of example, Jack gritted his teeth and let out a series of whispery sizzling noises, similar to those she’d heard in King’s office. It was eerie to have these sounds of horror come from her lover.

  “How much do you know?”

  “A fair bit, but it’s difficult to master. It’s got a very unusual syntax. You know how in French everything has a gender—you refer to a pencil as un crayon, an eraser as une gomme?”

  Lindsay nodded.

  “In the Mole language everything is either ‘up’ or ‘down’. Everything belongs to either the tunnels, or the surface world. Water below ground is sssik. Water above ground is ssseh. There are other sounds that hold more complex meanings.

  “For example, khksssik is a threat. It means that I won’t give you any water until you suffer from thirst. Khksssiks means I won’t give you any water till you die, and khksssikk means I’m going to kill you using water, as in drowning you.”

  Lindsay flinched. Jack caught her reaction and quieted, looking instead to the park entrance. “I’m not a linguist, though I picked up enough of it. Suffice to say, it’s not a pretty language.”

  He seemed embarrassed to have this knowledge, as if admitting to a dirty past. In her mind, it made him unique and important. Of the few that knew the Moles existed, he was likely the most sane and educated. Aside from the APs, chances were he was the only human who had any understanding of the monsters or their dark culture.

  “Don’t they ever have anything nice to say? Like ‘I’m happy.’ or ‘Have a nice day?'”

  A beat or two passed as he considered her question. “Thmmussik. It means ‘You are mine.’ Depending on who in the hierarchy says it, it’s an expression of regard. Their leader said it to me once. After that, none of them touched me. Resources are so scarce that to possess anything earns you respect.

  “And nobody ever gives away what they claim. It wants me back because I'm a possession. Whatever its plans with Mad MacMurphy, that’s the root of it. Ownership. Domination.”

  Bitter anger cracked through each word, and Lindsay did the only thing she knew to do. She pressed her body to his, wrapped her arms around his hard middle. “Should I show you once more how wrong they are?”

  It was a request to kiss him. Instead he took her, his mouth opening over hers, and they melted against each other. It would likely be the last of the several thousand they’d shared during the past day and night. They’d ate, slept, and made love again and again with a passion sprung from the acceptance of what this day would bring.

  Lindsay was gripping Jack’s coat for support when she felt him stiffen. His lips rubbed against her cheek. “Here comes our guide for the day.”

  Twisting around, she spotted Crab
be bustling toward them, his body bundled in a ratty mustard-colored parka, a furry Russian-style hat perched over his long red hair.

  “You bring the money?” he asked the moment he was within speaking distance.

  Lindsay handed over a roll of hundred-dollar bills. Crabbe tucked the cash inside his moth-eaten parka as quick as a pickpocket. “Okay. Follow me.”

  He led Lindsay and Jack to the waterfront, leaving behind the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan. They made their way across the frozen park, passed beneath an elevated highway, until at last they came to the bleak, rocky shore of the Hudson River.

  Sliding a pry bar from beneath his jacket, Crabbe kicked aside snow to reveal a manhole, then looked at them uncertainly.

  “Under our feet is a tunnel. It’s on the small side, and it’s going to be slippery from the ice, but it’ll take us to a cave. The cave’s got a drop-off down into the Chasm where I got my boat. Let me tell you, the climb's tricky. I’m warning you two now so you won’t be blaming me if one of you falls or gets hurt. This time of year ain’t the best for tunnel crawlin’.”

  Lindsay could feel Jack’s worried eyes on her. “If I can pee from a plank hanging higher than a kite, I can handle this.” She turned to Crabbe. “Fine. We’re ready.”

  After a furtive scan of the deserted shore, Crabbe pried open the cover, then clambered down the rusted iron rungs. To Lindsay’s relief the tunnel lay only a dozen feet below, though Crabbe hadn’t been kidding when he said it was small. Even with his undersized physique his chin was pressed into his chest.

  Jack stood on the other side of the hole from Lindsay. He’d taken off his sunglasses and his amber eyes held hers with tenderness.

  She held that look and said, “Tonight, I’m inviting Janice over for a family dinner. The four of us. Afterwards, we’ll take down the Christmas tree together.”

  The look in his eyes deepened. “I’d like that, Linds.”

  Their crawl through the drainage tunnel wasn’t as bad as Lindsay had expected, the cold having congealed the filth and litter into inoffensive clumps. Still, the pressing confines of the icy pipe meant that she had to push her backpack along ahead of her, and even with the reassuring illumination of her flashlight she was relieved to see the cave appear in her beam.