by Dana Mentink
She felt something bump against her leg and she bit down a cry. From overhead came a sharp crackle, maybe from a living thing, maybe just the wood settling around her. Fear caught flame inside and began to gnaw away at her confidence.
She forced herself back in time.
You would have made a fine soldier, ma’am.
She recalled the warmth of his arms holding her with tenderness that might be nothing more than her own imaginings. She busied herself breathing in and out, wishing she had not lost her flashlight.
Time dragged on. She began to think about the possibility that Trey had gotten into trouble, perhaps snagged on a protruding rod, knocked unconscious and sucked under the water.
Another minute gone. She shuffled next to the drain and shoved her hands into the water, feeling for the rope which was still stretched taut. She tugged on it, praying for a return pull. Nothing.
The what-ifs shook through her like the aftershocks that rocked the city. Sucking in a breath, she dropped to her stomach into the water and peered into the hole. She could see that the drain ended abruptly, plunging away into darkness. Trey was down there somewhere. Caught or knocked unconscious. She should get help. Resurfacing, she sucked in the musty basement air and took two steps toward the door until a surge of determination, stronger than the current, overrode her common sense.
This time she would not watch another man she cared about die.
This time, she would put another’s life above her own.
Please, God, she managed as she once again sank into the water, and before she had time to rethink the idea, she held her breath and pushed herself through the hole.
* * *
Trey tried to right himself. The drain hole shot him down a tube into a torrent of water that kept him rolling and tumbling until the rope snapped tight, jerking him back, imprisoning him at the bottom of the spillway as the water thundered around him.
He fought against his nature not to suck in a breath as he scrambled to find a foothold on the slippery cement. Finally, his boots hit solid surface and he struggled to his feet, keeping his head tucked to avoid the low ceiling. The water was lower, only shin-high, flowing past him on its way out into the darkness. He wanted to see if his flashlight worked and check out the surrounding area, but his thoughts were fixed on Sage.
“Sage!” he hollered. His words were buried under the sound of the roiling water, but he shouted again, louder.
He didn’t think even the drill sergeant he’d had at boot camp, whom they’d referred to privately as D.S. Foghorn, could make himself heard over that cacophony. The only option would be to climb back up the tube until he got closer to the drain and shout again for all he was worth. He began to fight his way hand over hand, feet slipping on the slime-covered cement as he hauled himself upward. One meter of progress and he was panting, muscles burning from fighting the water that threatened to tear him off the rope.
He kept his mind on Sage. On that kiss, the one he still felt from his toes to his mouth and everything in between. Should he focus on that sign of tenderness that thrilled him to the core or the fact that she’d pulled away, regret showing plainly in her face?
Strange times, Trey. People in foxholes did uncharacteristic things that they would never contemplate during peacetime.
The stress of the situation brought on the need to be close, that was all. It was clear in the way she’d looked distressed after, as if she wished she could erase the moment altogether.
Water beat at his face and chest as he fought his way along.
Halfway up the tube, he paused to yell again into the darkness. He wondered if he should be telling her to forget it, to head back with the others. He had not heard anything that indicated Barbara’s presence. He opened his mouth to holler just as a dark shape came hurtling out of the tube, crashing into him and knocking him over. He spiraled backward into the rush of water, scraping his elbows and knees.
He grabbed at the mass that passed him, fingers grasping sodden material, holding on with all the strength he possessed.
Sage’s arms flailed as she fought off the pounding water. He’d gotten hold of the back of her sweatshirt.
“Grab on to me,” he shouted.
She turned toward him, wide-eyed, thrashing.
He struggled to maintain his grip on her, praying the rope would hold as they were dragged down the spillway. It was like a twisted version of the water rides the kids enjoyed back home as they skidded over the concrete channel.
She thrashed some more before she got her body oriented in the right direction and her arms went around him, holding tight.
With a rib-creaking jerk the rope snapped taut at the bottom of the spillway, and this time it was nearly impossible to right himself with Sage’s weight fastened to his middle and his pack sandwiched between them. Somehow he managed to once again find his footing and stand, knee-deep in the cascade, helping Sage to do the same. He half-pulled, half-dragged her away to the calmer water at the periphery, pressed against the damp stone walls. He freed his flashlight from his back pocket and shone it on her.
She was trembling, looking impossibly small, breathing fast. “I’m okay,” she panted.
“Got tired of waiting?”
“I figured you’d had plenty of time.”
He grinned. “I guess I did.” He hugged her, allowing himself to press her body to his just for the briefest of moments, to assure himself she was there, safe and sound. When he reluctantly let her go, she wiped her hands over her face, clearing the droplets that collected on her hair and eyelashes.
“Where are we?”
He beamed the light around, shining it on the ceiling that was a scant five feet high. They were in some sort of water runoff system. Underneath their feet was cement, but his light revealed that farther ahead the surface sloped downward, morphing into a stone tunnel.
Sage chewed her lip. “This is too much.”
“What is?”
She shook her head, showering him with drops of water. “Barbara’s goal was to see every major opera house in the world. Her favorite is the Paris Opera House. You know, the one with the underground lake? Where the phantom hid out?”
“What phantom?”
“You never saw The Phantom of the Opera?”
“I’m more of a country and western kinda guy. Opera isn’t my thing.”
She laughed and splashed away toward the stone tunnel. “Well, if my cousin was trapped down here, she would spend the time exploring and trying to find a way out, not twiddling her thumbs.”
“Exploring?” Trey secured his pack over his shoulders. “Women who are extremely pregnant go exploring?”
Sage called back over her shoulder, “Only one way to find out.”
Trey caught up and splashed along behind Sage, ducking low enough for his taller frame to fit. The walls were cracked and trails of moss clung in the fractures. The extent of the old Imperial surprised him. “Derick would have to take a loan the size of the national debt to renovate this place.”
She shot him a look. “True, but burning it down was not the answer.”
Certainly cheaper than trying to fix it. He decided to keep that thought to himself. He still could not wrap his mind around the idea that the old relic was priceless. It was a theater where people pretended to be someone else and put on shows. It was not a cathedral or, say, an FT-17 tank, like the Five of Hearts, a full-track, steel-bodied monster that had overrun the German lines after taking over a thousand hits. Now that, he thought, ducking under a fractured beam, was an artifact worth every penny paid for restoration.
He was still contemplating the Five of Hearts when the smell of mildew made his nostrils burn and the tunnel ended abruptly. They stepped through into a chamber that did indeed feature an underground lake, though it was merely a collection point for water r
unoff no more than five meters across. He imagined there must be a drain at the bottom somewhere, which had been blocked due to the earthquake and caused the water to pool. Hard to say how deep, but he estimated no more than three meters, tops. All around them rose walls faced with stone, intersected by a series of catwalks that clung to the sides, some collapsed, their wooden poles hanging brokenly down toward the black water.
A desperate moan echoed through the chamber. Sage clutched Trey’s arm. Slowly he circled the light around the cavern, over the still water, along the stone walls and across the broken catwalks. Something shone in the beam.
Trey did not believe in phantoms, but something moved on the catwalk to their left, something white and eerie.
Something human.
EIGHTEEN
Sage couldn’t speak as the thing emerged on the catwalk above them. Her skin prickled when the tortured moan came again, and for a moment she had the impulse to run as fast and as far as she could.
A hand poked through the wooden railings of the catwalk, the fingers long and thin, curved into claws.
Trey raced up the rickety stairway before she could react.
“Someone’s hurt,” he called as he charged up the ladder. Sage finally fought through the shock and sprinted after him. The moans were cries of pain, which she would have figured out earlier if they weren’t in such a bizarre location.
She emerged through the square opening onto a narrow wood-planked landing not more than three feet across. A crumpled bundle lay a few paces away, whimpering now.
Sage squeezed past Trey, who had knelt down next to the figure, wedging his flashlight between the railings.
Wild black hair, a mouth twisted in agony, white full skirt and what had been a neat jacket ruined and soiled. Her cousin Barbara clutched the railing with one hand and her distended stomach with the other.
Sage dropped to her knees, overwhelmed. “Barbara. I’ve been looking for you.” Tears stung her eyes as she realized her worst fears had been true. Barbara had indeed been imprisoned in the bowels of her beloved opera house, alone and terrified. “Who did this to you?”
Barbara started to answer, but her words morphed into a shriek of pain.
“She’s in labor.”
Sage looked dumbly at Trey. “Labor?”
His face was dead serious. “Yes. She’s having the babies. Now.”
Sage stopped herself from repeating the word now. Instead she swallowed hard and tried to force her brain to digest the facts. Her cousin’s agonized cries seemed to derail any logical thought she might have had. Finally she forced her mouth into action. “Do you know how to deliver babies?” she croaked.
“We’re going to find out,” he said.
The dark walls blurred in front of Sage’s eyes. They could not possibly be responsible for three lives here in the filthy underground chamber. Barbara’s babies could not be born without the benefit of doctors and sterile sheets. She pulled out her phone and checked it. No signal. No help from above. How could they bring tiny fragile infants into the world now?
Trey was rummaging in his pack. He found a spray antiseptic and doused his hands and hers.
“We’re not really going to do this, are we?” she whispered.
“No choice,” he grunted. “It isn’t going to wait.”
Her mouth went bone-dry. “What—what should I do?”
“For the moment, hold her hand and pray.”
Pray. It seemed the only thing that made sense. Sage knelt next to Barbara and took her hand, clutching the cold fingers in her own. “It’s going to be okay, Barbara. We’re going to help you.” She began to speak prayers for her anguished cousin, for safety for the emerging little lives, for a supply of courage that she did not seem to feel. The prayers flowed naturally, as if she’d been on close terms with God all the time.
“The babies,” Barbara moaned, squeezing Sage’s hand in a death grip.
Trey looked up from his examination. “Got one crowning. Time to push, Barbara.” He pulled off his bootlaces and laid them beside him, along with a pair of first-aid scissors.
Barbara only groaned again until Sage knelt close. “Push now. You’ve got to push your babies out. Come on.” She positioned Barbara’s head on her knees and elevated her shoulders a little. “One, two, three.”
Barbara grimaced as she managed to bear down and her entire body stiffened with pain. Just when Sage thought she could not possibly continue, Barbara went slack and Trey caught the baby girl in his hands. He quickly wiped her off with a corner of his shirt, tied the cord with the bootlace, snipped it and handed her to Sage. “Here. Find something to wrap her in.”
Startled, she snatched the bundle and peered down into the tiny eyes that blinked back at her from a little wrinkled face before the baby started to cry. The sound was thin and small in the cavernous space, but it was sweet as a song, a melody of life in a lifeless place. Sage automatically began to jiggle the infant up and down like she had done with her sister’s baby while she stripped off her sweatshirt, wishing it was dry. None of her clothes were dry and neither were Trey’s. Barbara’s garments were ragged, so the sweatshirt was the only option. She held the baby close, hoping her own body heat would keep it warm.
Barbara’s hands balled into fists and a cry escaped her lips as the second baby began to crown. Sage cradled the girl in one arm like a football, while she found Barbara’s hand with the other, waiting for Trey to give the signal to push again.
“Deep, slow breaths, Barbara.”
She watched Trey’s handsome face crease into consternation. Something fluttered deep inside her stomach as Trey caught her eye.
“Cord wrapped around the neck,” he said, voice low. “I can’t get my fingers under it. They’re too big. Can you try?”
Sage’s body went numb. No, I can’t. I’m too terrified to do anything. But she knew doing nothing could mean the baby would die and possibly Barbara as well. Forcing herself to nod, she eased out from underneath Barbara and handed the bundled baby to Trey, who held on to her as if she was made of delicate spun glass. He used one arm to support Barbara’s head.
Sage knelt between Barbara’s knees and squirted more disinfectant on her hands before she tried to free the baby’s neck from the strangling umbilical cord. She’d thought the cord would be fragile, a tissue-like thread that connected mother and child. Instead she discovered a tough, ropelike length cinched around the baby’s neck. Panic surged up her spine when the cord remained tight in spite of her efforts, the baby’s coloring turned strangely dusky in the weak light. God, please, please, please. Again and again she tried to tug it away.
Try as she might, she could not get the cord free from around the baby’s neck. Now her hands were trembling violently. “I can’t get it off, but I’ll try to loosen it.”
“Whatever you have to do to keep the airway open,” Trey said. His voice was quiet, reassuring.
Trying to control her own shaking, she inched her first finger under the cord and eased it inch by inch until it hung more loosely around the baby’s neck. “Okay, Barbara.” Okay, God. “Let’s have the baby.” Please save this child. Panic prickling her skin, she held her breath and waited to see if God would save this tiny life or take Barbara’s second baby home before it had the chance to experience even one small breath.
* * *
Trey’s heart thundered in his chest as he squeezed Barbara’s shoulders with one hand and juggled her daughter in the other. His whole being was riveted on Sage and the tiniest nuances of her expression—fear, concentration, hopefulness—as she tried to keep the cord from strangling the baby as it came through the birth canal. Prayers crashed through his mind like waves.
Time stood still, marked only by the faraway dripping and Barbara’s ragged breaths. Then suddenly Sage surged forward, catching the newly birthed boy
and holding him up into the circle of light. Her mouth went slack.
“He’s not breathing,” she whispered.
Trey’s mind reeled to think of what advice to give, but Sage moved without him, turning the baby over, cradling his head in her palm and rubbing his back vigorously.
He saw from her face it had not worked. She propped the limp infant on her thighs, wiping his mouth and nose with her sleeve and tapping the bottom of his feet. “Please breathe, little baby,” she cried.
The tension in her body told him before her stricken look. The infant was still not breathing.
“The baby,” Barbara whispered. “My baby.”
Trey lowered her and placed the little girl in her arms before he moved to Sage, who was staring into the face of the perfect boy. He had never tried CPR on an infant and the thought of his big hands on those delicate ribs made his gut tighten. He might make matters worse if that was even possible. No choice, he had to act.
He reached to take the baby from Sage when her hand shot out, stopping him.
“Wait.” She put her cheek down close. “I think he’s breathing.” She tilted the baby’s head back a small fraction and the baby sucked in a gurgling breath, coughed and let out a robust wail.
The joy in Sage’s eyes and her wondrous smile lit his soul. He found himself grinning hugely, awash in awe. This life, this moment, in this foul place, God had met them where they were and given them a miracle. Best of all, Trey knew from the happiness shining on Sage’s face that she knew it, too.
“He’s okay, Barbara. Your son is okay,” he told her.
Barbara’s sigh of relief mingled with their own.
Sage reached out one hand to him and he took it. Palm to palm, fingers intertwined, they allowed themselves a brief moment to mark the divine gift they had received, two lives birthed from the belly of a ruined opera house. He had no doubt it was the finest performance the old theater had ever produced.
