New York Deep

by Andrew J. Morgan

  Stepping back out into the noise and the diesel, Josh rubbed his hands together. As the last dregs of adrenaline in his system finally wore off, the cold began seeping in. It was a chill night, one that seemed to keep going and going and going.

  His bus was pulling in, and he made his way over to it, one of four people in the queue. They all boarded, trading the sound of engines for the vibration of loose panels, and the stench of diesel for the thick fug of years-old dust. He took a seat, and then a breath. It was strange, sitting here, the bus in no rush, the people on board immune to his thoughts. They were all carrying on like nothing was going to happen, and little did they know that in just a few hours, chaos would rain down. The calm before the storm. He'd never really understood that before, but now he did.

  The doors hissed shut and the bus revved and pulled away. Josh watched through the window, trying to pick out Michael in the restaurant, but he was gone. Another soul, another life, just like his, another journey that had touched his own for just a fraction of a second. Josh wondered what kind of secrets Michael had, if they were as big as his own. To him, they probably were.

  The I-80 was all trees and towns for at least two hours, and Josh managed to zone out for the most of it. The hot blower down by the seat and the humid air stopped him from falling asleep completely, and his brain swam in a semi-conscious dreamlike state where he was running from a CIA agent who wanted him to destroy the world with an alien time portal device. It was only when the bus driver called out for Parsippany-Troy Hills, the last major town before they entered the metropolis, that he realized the dream was real.

  Chapter 28

  There hadn't been many moments in Josh's life where he'd wished that everything could change. There had been a time, back when he was a kid, when he'd stolen ten dollars from his mother's bag and got caught a week later. The lurching reality of what he'd done had come crashing down on his juvenile mind and made him want to die.

  Equally when he'd taken the overtime, flown back from Niagara. The whole plane journey to JFK, he'd felt sick. He'd wanted to vomit, but he couldn't. His body held it in, as if to punish him.

  And now here he was again. For a sensation spread by decades between instances, it felt so uncomfortably familiar that he—like he had the other two times—didn't see how it could ever pass. He tried to blame it on the hot, dusty air of the bus, but there was an unshakable truth in his gut that told him he was heading toward almost certain failure. How was he supposed to do what he needed to do? How many times did he have to try? One man against the might and minds of the country's prime intelligence agency? Against a man whose dedication and tolerance for sabotage were immeasurable on any kind of human scale?

  Josh was done for. And not in the sense that he was going to die, no; Edwards had more sense than that. To kill Josh would be to send him back around, to give him another chance. What Edwards had in mind for him would be far more permanent than death. He shuddered.

  As the bus wound its way through Newark and into Jersey City, the nausea really started to hit. He needed a plan this time, something that would take him through to completion, to destroy the portal. Josh knew that with Edwards opposing him, nothing would be easy.

  But what if, after he'd gone back in time, he just . . . surrendered? Left the room, spoke to Edwards like he knew nothing, then went straight home? Sure, Edwards's men would be along to pick him up, but he'd be okay with it. He'd get them to pick up Georgie and Joseph, too. Then whatever was going to happen . . . could happen. Maybe they'd live in a bunker until a ripe old age together and see Joseph grow up in whatever way was possible . . .

  The mere thought turned Josh's stomach even harder than it already was. He knew what he had to do. The responsibility bestowed upon him was too great. It was his fault the room had been breached, his fault that Edwards had found it. Who knows—if the room hadn't come up on his radar, Edwards's whole team could have been disbanded. Dead end. Cold trail. File it away under things that could have been.

  But no amount of wishing otherwise made the truth change. He'd spent too long shirking his responsibility as a husband and a father, and that attitude needed to stop. No more excuses. No more distractions. No more lies.

  'Midtown,' the driver called out, as the bus came to a stop on West 42nd.

  Josh licked his dry lips, considering staying where he sat. The doors would close, the bus would drive on and Josh could get away, far, far away.

  A hiss signaled the changing of destiny as the exit sealed itself.

  'Wait!' Josh shouted, scrambling up out of his seat, so fast the blood rushed from his head. He teetered, dizzy, along the aisle, jogging to the front of the bus. 'I need to get off here!'

  The driver tutted, and opened the doors. 'Goddamn drunks,' he muttered to himself as Josh tumbled off the bus.

  The cold air hit Josh hard after the stilted confines of public transport, and he took deep breaths to calm his thumping chest. Midtown was quiet—there was no reason for anyone to be up this early in the morning—with only the odd car and cab prowling the moon and lamp-lit streets. It was a forty-minute walk to the deli on 62nd and 1st, the usual place he and Lionel frequented for lunch and their meeting place tonight. He immediately got off of 42nd, winding back and forth block by block toward his destination, taking care to keep a comfortable perimeter around the site and around Central Park.

  Walking briskly, he soon worked up a healthy sweat, gulping lungfuls of air as he tried to keep his mind clear and his senses alert. As he marched down 54th, his ears pricked. Something had changed. He listened hard, to the hiss of cars passing, to the gurgle of the drains beneath his feet, to the burble of exhausts trailing away from him.

  That's what was wrong: no cars were passing him. A car, lingering behind, idled as it trundled at his speed, closing slowly, keeping back. How long had it been following him? It could have been seconds, it could have been minutes. Josh had been so locked down in his own head that he couldn't be sure. Taking deep breaths he pushed on, building his speed, turning onto 3rd Avenue.

  The street was wider here, with more people on the sidewalk and more cars on the road. Josh listened as the quiet creak of tires pushed straight on . . . then turned to follow him. Should he run? Where would he run to? Perhaps he could double back on himself, make it hard for the car to turn around and follow him?

  No, that wouldn't work. 3rd was wide enough for it to swing back, and then it would all be over. Josh stopped, looking over his shoulder to see the car that had indeed been following him pull over. It was a black sedan, gleaming, and Josh watched as the driver rolled down the window.

  'What do you want?' Josh asked. He tried to sound firm, but the strain in his voice let him down.

  'You've been walking a while,' the man said. He was older, scruffily dressed. Needed a shave. 'Why don't you get in?'

  Josh's heart sunk. He'd tried to be careful, but his exhausted brain had let him down. He approached the car. 'Edwards not got the decency to pick me up himself?'

  The driver frowned. 'Whatever you say.' He nodded to the back door, an indication for Josh to board. With a sigh partially of defeat and partially of relief, Josh pulled the rear open. The smell of alcohol and stale vomit wafted from within.

  Hesitating, Josh asked, 'Where'd you say you were from?'

  'I'm not from no one,' the driver said. 'Do you want a ride or not?'

  Josh blinked. He'd been an idiot. This man wasn't a CIA aide, sent to collect him; he was an unlicensed cab driver. Josh shut the door, stomach fluttering with relief. 'No, that's okay,' he said. 'I think I'll keep on walking.'

  'Suit yourself, asshole,' the driver said, pulling away with a chirp of his back tires. Josh, barely given the chance to stand back, watched in stunned silence as the black sedan rejoined traffic, winding left onto 55th, presumably to seek out more unsuspecting walkers. He wiped his brow, surprised to find so much sweat beading there. Looking at his damp palm, he laughed out loud to himself. 'Well, shit,' he said. A man walking
by the other way gave him an odd look.

  There was still hope, Josh realized. He could still make it. He hoped Lionel had been able to make it, too. Reenergized by his near miss, Josh broke into a light jog as he navigated the last four blocks of his journey. As he threaded his way onto the quiet 62nd and 1st, he scanned the shadows outside the deli ahead for any sign of his friend. From there he could see no one.

  His heart sank as he reached the deli, shutters down, the tables and chairs that normally littered the sidewalk presumably stacked up inside, and he stared at the shop front a while before admitting to himself that Lionel really hadn't made it.

  What could have happened? Had Lionel come and gone, tired of waiting for Josh to travel across the state? Perhaps he'd not made it here at all, either having been intercepted by Edwards, or just deciding not to come? Maybe he'd contacted the CIA, told Edwards about the meeting, and Josh was about to get intercepted himself?

  A hand touched his shoulder, making him jerk with fright. He whipped around, fists ready, to see Lionel stepping back, hands raised.

  'Whoa . . .' Lionel said. 'Easy there . . .'

  Josh's chest felt like it was going to tear in two right down the middle. He clutched it with one hand, leaning against Lionel with the other. 'Jesus . . .' he wheezed. 'You nearly made me shit myself . . .'

  The two of them, alone on the silent street, laughed. Josh shook his head, unable to quite believe or comprehend the situation.

  'I hope I wasn't too long,' Josh said once he was able to support himself again.

  'No,' Lionel replied, looking at his watch. 'So are you going to tell me what's going on?'

  The last remaining trickles of humor in Josh ran dry. 'Yes, of course.'

  'Does this—' Lionel started, looking concerned, '—does this have anything to do with—with you going back in time?' The way he spoke made it sound like he still had trouble believing it, and Josh didn't blame him. He nodded.

  'Yes. When we drilled through the wall of that room, I found a time portal—'

  'Wait,' Lionel interrupted. 'You're saying that not only have you been back in time, but the portal is in a room below Central Park?'

  Josh nodded. 'Yes,' he said simply. Reacting to Lionel's expression, Josh added, 'That's the honest truth, and it needs to be shut down.'

  Lionel, mouth open from the question he'd just had answered, shut it again and nodded. His eyes glazed as he processed the information, refocusing when he went to speak again. 'Shut down?'

  'It's a long story. If I don't, then the temporal effects will start to hit Manhattan, then America, then . . . who knows how far it will go.'

  Lionel swallowed. His eyes were big and white. 'What do you mean by temporal effects? Is that what you were talking about when you called earlier?'

  'Yes. I mean chaos. Mass exodus. I've seen it.'

  Nodding slowly, Lionel said, 'And you need to get back into the room to stop all that . . . all that from happening.'

  'That's right. A back way, so the CIA don't know.'

  'Jesus . . .' Lionel said, looking up and down the street. 'Why aren't you helping them? I thought you wanted to help them?'

  'Edwards, it turns out he—he can't be trusted,' Josh said. 'But I need you to trust me. He's willing to make some pretty big sacrifices to get what he wants, and I've got to go back in time again and stop him. It's the only way.'

  Josh could see that Lionel would rather have been anywhere but there, but he could also see a glint of resolve in him, too. He watched as Lionel chewed his lip, hands on hips, eyes locked on Josh's own.

  'All right,' he said at last. Josh exhaled; he'd been holding his breath, waiting. 'I believe you.'

  'So you can help, right?'

  'Yeah, I can help.'

  'So how do I get in? Is it easy?'

  Lionel's silence gave him all the response he needed. 'Steam drains,' he said simply. 'That's the only other way in.'

  Josh's blood ran cold. He'd seen the steam drain plans in passing and knew he was in for a rough time. 'How long?'

  'About half a mile. Runs into the 65th Street sewer.'

  Nodding, Josh said, 'Okay, I can work with that. Tight? Where does it come out?'

  'You'll be on your hands and knees for the worst of it. It'll feed you out at an inspection chamber halfway between the staging area and the station at the end of the tunnel.'

  It could be worse, Josh told himself. Why he told himself that, he didn't know. It was like some kind of gut reaction to gloss over just how bad the prospect of crawling through half a mile of pipe was. 'I guess I've got no other choice.'

  'I guess not.'

  Josh took a deep breath and let it out again slowly, then patted Lionel on the arm. 'Thanks for your help, man.'

  'No problem. Any time.'

  'Wish me luck.'

  Lionel laughed. 'You don't need it. You're the luckiest son-of-a-bitch I ever met.'

  Josh smiled. He knew Lionel was talking about Georgie and Joseph, and even if he wasn't, it was the first place Josh's mind went. 'Thanks. I suppose I'd better be getting on with it then. Where’s the best place to get into the 65th Street sewer? 65th Street I'm guessing?'

  'Yeah.' Lionel seemed suddenly distracted. 'Hey, Josh—what's going to happen to me when you go back in time?'

  The thought hadn't occurred to Josh before. Would this version of events continue as it was without him, or would it vanish into nothing? Had his previous timelines continued on as well? He had no way of knowing. 'I—I have no idea.'

  Lionel grimaced. 'Okay, that's okay,' he said. 'I'm sure it'll all be fine.'

  'I'm sorry,' Josh said. He'd given no thought to his friend, and he was repaid with guilt because of it.

  'You've got to do what you've got to do.'

  'I do.'

  'Well then, let's not waste a moment longer.' Checking the street was still clear, Lionel led Josh down to 65th Street. They walked in silence.

  'Help me lift this,' Lionel said once they were there, squeezing the tips of his fingers around the edge of a drain cover. Josh helped him, and together they heaved the dead weight up and away from the hole beneath. It was dark, and it smelled bad. Really bad.

  'Aw, man . . .' Josh said, peering in.

  Patting Josh on the back, Lionel said, 'Time to go save the world, huh? There'll be traffic along any moment now, so better get in there quick.'

  Although he agreed, Josh struggled to move. 'It smells like something died down there . . .'

  'Something probably did,' Lionel said, nodding agreement.

  Fruitlessly taking a deep breath, Josh turned around and backed down onto the ladder fixed to the inside of the drain. Rung by rung he fed himself in, until he was almost completely beneath the level of the road. 'Where am I going, by the way?'

  'Oh!' Lionel said, startled by his own forgetfulness. 'Of course. How stupid. Go down to the left and keep going until you see the new jointing. That's the pipe you need. Head down that and the first joint you can fit in is the one you'll be taking to get to the room.'

  'Right, okay. That way?' Josh said, pointing.

  'Yeah, that way.'

  'Great. Thanks again.' Josh held out a hand. Lionel shook it.

  'No problem. I guess I'll be seeing you yesterday.'

  For a brief second, Josh didn't understand. 'Oh, right,' he said, chuckling weakly. 'I guess you will. See you yesterday, then.'

  And down he went. He could hear Lionel grunting as he shifted the cover back into place, throwing him into darkness. Taking out his cell, he used the screen as a light, feeding his way into the drain. It was hot and humid, as he expected a steam drain to be, but it was so much hotter and wetter than he could have ever realized. He'd only been down there a minute and he was already soaked from head to toe. His cell wouldn't last long. He'd need to be quick or he'd get lost in the pitch black.

  A double knock on the cover above was Lionel's farewell, and then Josh was alone. As quick as he wanted to be, he knew progress would be slow, especi
ally since he had to double over to fit into the drain itself. He headed in the direction Lionel had told him, praying for his cell to hold out against the moisture long enough for him to find his exit. Breathing was hard work, and it wasn't long before he felt like he was being suffocated, while his back screamed with agony—but he couldn't stop. He had no idea what awaited him at the end of the tunnel, and every second he took was another that Edwards gained an advantage over him.

  After an endless amount of time, at the point where Josh felt like the agony and the heat were going to make him pass out, his cell light caught something ahead. He could only see a meter or so in front, but even with the terrible visibility, the bright, fresh concrete stood stark against the decades-old drain it connected to. As Lionel had said, here was the drain that would lead him deep below New York, where his destiny awaited him.

  Chapter 29

  If Josh had thought the crawl through the drain had been hard going up to now, it was nothing compared to the squeeze into the new pipe that led deep into the East Side Access tunnels. Shuffling forward on his hands and knees—the ground wet and peppered with debris that grazed his palms, the ceiling scraping along the arch of his spine—was slow going. He had no way of holding his cell—which had somehow lasted the duration—and so he made his progress in the dark, feeling his way along. Every shimmy forward required great effort, the narrow pipe forcing him to drag his knees forward rather than lift them. Between his aching joints and his burning flesh, added to the suffocation of both the hot, humid air and the claustrophobic space, Josh had been transported to hell.

  The pipe wound down and forward for a while, before turning a corner in long, angled segments. Although Josh couldn't see how deep he was, he could feel it as he worked his way further into the ground. The pressure in his ears was slowly changing as he descended, a sensation that had become acute from his time working below the surface. Unfortunately, the feeling wasn't strong enough to know just how much longer he had to go.