by Alex Moss
Anna’s body glides toward The Deep.
She can see the clown-faced boy looking at her through the blue–the eyes–pale green and trance-like–Stelson’s eyes. But this time he seems to be telling her something through them. There is a sympathy and she reads the message using a connective sense of purpose.
To be as still as she can be.
So Anna relaxes and lets her body and limbs flail and drift like linen in a soft river eddy and it’s not long before a dark shadow passes over The Deep and then something enters the water and swims toward her as she hits the bottom of the pool like a wounded shark and lays motionless, face down, feigning death.
THIRTY-THREE
Later.
As Stelson’s gaze lingers on the dead woman’s body in the City National Bank, an enormous wave of guilt passes over him. He feels responsible. He took that last sliver of energy from her. If there’s anything he’s learned recently, it’s that he needs to use that anger and frustration in a guided way. He looks up at the high ceiling and harnesses the pain and adrenaline into focusing his mind on what he needs to do next.
He pushes himself up into a crouched position, one hand on the floor to prop him upright. Teetering, he looks at the revolving door. If it’s just one man he could call in a SWAT unit, but then what? What he really wants more than anything right now is vengeance on the lone assailant. He springs forward and heads for the row of tellers.
BANG!
A stray bullet ricochets, pinging off another surface close by. He’s behind the tellers on the customer side and sensing that the shooter is on the other.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Stelson shouts out. “Give it up.”
“Who the hell are you, kid?” the man responds.
“Basically, I’m the worst nightmare you’ve ever had.”
“Sure thing, youngblood.”
“The whole of the LAPD is outside. I could just call them inside.”
“And who the fuck are you? Their secret weapon?”
“Somethin’ like that.”
Stelson shifts his body to be more in line with where he thinks the man’s voice is coming from.
“Want some green? I can get you some to get lost.”
“I’m guessing you weren’t the asshole who blew up the bank?”
“Right place, right time.”
“You know where the bombers went?”
“I ain’t seen nothin’.”
Stelson vaults the top of the granite teller counter. He sees the gun and hand outstretched, swinging his way and he grabs it and smacks it down on the floor before a shot can go off. He digs his nails into the muscles and tendons of the man’s wrist to release the weapon–the .38 S&W Special slides away in direction of the lifeless security guard that used to own it.
And then Stelson goes hard at it, hitting the man at the rate of a hummingbird’s wing beat until the face he’s pummeling begins hemorrhaging. The strength and power from one young man is disturbing–uncontrolled rage, unedited and deadly. Then he slows down and takes in the particulars of this man. Does he really deserve this and who is he to cast judgment? Conscious that he’s too close to the edge this time, he finds his merciful side and relents.
He crouches next to the man and grips him by the collar and speaks softly with sincerity. “You think you’re some kind of gangsta but look at you. Still got your uniform on. What happened? You get fired? Cashing in your severance check and figured, what the hell, everyone else is dying aroun’ here and I can just go on ahead and rip off the bank and no one can stop me?”
Stelson spots the small backpack stuffed with bills nearby. “You did it for that? Can’t be more than five thousand dollars.”
The man is in agony and he can barely speak. “You were right. You’re the worst nightmare I ever had.”
“What about the vault?”
“The vault is the vault. It’s still virginal. I just ripped off the tellers.”
Stelson’s mind goes into overdrive.
He looks into the man’s eyes. “Why did you get off so lightly? Why you?”
“Look at me now, kid. Guess I got what was comin’.”
“Sonofabitch.” He shakes the man by the collar. “I just had to watch a nice lady die on me. You coulda saved all these people by telling the truth.”
Stelson releases the man, gets up, and walks away. He moves toward a large granite block that’s a bit like a mausoleum. Sections of it are cracked with long fissures that expose the metallic surface of the safe inside. He circumnavigates it to meet the entrance that’s locked tight and tries to rotate the trio of handles.
He strains but nothing shifts, the safe untouched, as the man said. It’s clear from the debris that the epicenter of the blast is about ten meters away, where the floor is seemingly sucked downwards in a wave of granite blocks, glass, and metal, as though Atlas had thumped the ground with an iron fist. As he steps away toward the vortex in the bank floor, the stunted bullet slug lodged in his ballistics vest drops out and trips along the floor.
Stelson holds his chest, a reminder to the lingering pain that it caused, and follows the slug’s path to what looks like a manhole cover set inside a crown of metal thorns.
Stelson kneels down and examines it side by side with the slug–about the same size as a manhole cover, but this thing is five inches thick. He turns it over, expecting it to be heavy, but does so with ease. On the other side are five geometric key-holes and the iron colored metal is vacuum set inside a thick ring, limpet like, and the thorns of metal protrude from its edges all the way around.
Each thorn is warped in shape, some more than others. It’s clear that they used to be straight spikes, probably to hold the whole unit into the ground. Only a violent burst of energy would’ve been able to dislodge it.
The central plate of the unit is almost pristine whereas the slug and every other hunk of metal in close proximity to the blast is warped and mangled in some way, shape, or form.
Stelson plots a path toward the center of the blast. He has to be sure footed like a kid traversing coastal rock pools. The floor is like a collapsed lava tunnel. It leads downwards into a vortex of rubble where there is a narrow passage to a sublevel.
The spoked manhole cover must have been a locked entrance to this newly discovered space below. He crawls through a precarious overhang into darkness and then starts to slide as his elbows and knees rest on a metal downpipe angled at approximately thirty degrees. There is an infrequent clattering sound in the distance.
His eyes begin to adjust to the dark that’s distilled by some distant lighting. The downpipe levels off so that he’s forced to crawl another ten meters toward a vented metal gate at the end of the tunnel. The gate swings, clattering open and shut; the hot gusts of air in the much larger tunnel beyond causing the gate to suck in and out like the gills on a fish.
Stelson pushes it wide open to get a view of the wider, squarer tunnel. It has soft amber-colored light strips running along the middle of the ceiling that give off a warm but muted ambiance.
He climbs down from the pipe. It’s a little above head height. To the left, the tunnel lighting is out and it’s pitch black. To the right, the tunnel is long and straight, the perspective making the space shrink into the distance, and there are distant sounds. Hard to make out. They could be anything–the creak of metal piping, a metro train, traffic running over manhole covers above, mixed with hollow voices.
This is the obvious path so he takes it and his stroll evolves into a jog and then a dash. The floor of the tunnel, flat and clear like a runway. He has a good idea where this leads, the probable path his brother took with his crew.
His body strobes past vertical steel beams, oxidized and unrefined to reinforce the tunnel from the weight of downtown above.
He’s moving too fast to take it all in, but some of the walls are
covered in faint paint-work and etchings that are too intricate to be considered as graffiti.
These are multiple images that depict forms of electronic architecture and design if you analyzed them closely enough. At some point in time, perhaps decades ago, someone had a plan in their head and they plastered it all over these walls because they had nowhere else to do it, or they wanted someone else to find it and use it.
For a brief moment, Stelson slows to absorb their sheer scale and detail as they stretch intermittently along both sides of the tunnel, but he’s quickly distracted by some movement in the tunnel up ahead.
Something or someone darted from one edge to another and out of sight. He could be seeing things. In this light it’s hard to tell and the warm gusts of air could help accentuate an illusion. He keeps his focus. The hollow noises up ahead get louder with jarring reverberations.
He slows to a more cautious pace. Fifty meters later and the walls on either side open up and give way to dark rooms–storage spaces beyond the steel beams. This place is more like a museum now–a veritable treasure trove of relics and artifacts from the past.
Buried away in the darkness are the shells and scraps of old cars from the 1930s and 40s: old barrels, crates, lampposts, cigarette dispensers, steel bunk beds, railway sleepers, and sections of track. Stelson has sprinted past about twenty old cars of various conditions, only sections of them visible in the gloom of each space.
Then something causes him to stop and turn back. Something he saw but didn’t register until seconds later. It’s a delayed image, mirrored from his occipital lobe. He creeps back along the open rooms until he can match the vague lingering memory with the tangible truth.
A dark and lonely mannequin sits in the driver’s seat of a 1940s Buick Roadmaster Convertible.
The ambient light only highlights the front grill and headlamps. The rest of the vehicle is just a dark curvaceous outline. The Buick has a design that’s so emotive it could make most men sing, but instead, it’s the supposed mannequin that comes to life.
The ghostly figure steps out of the Buick and blinks. Stelson steps backwards. He recognizes the profile. The lighting catches it to reveal the human form.
Benjamin Koit.
He has a limp.
Stelson eyes the bloody wounds on both right arm and leg that are soaking his leather jacket and jeans.
“You’ve been shot,” Stelson states the obvious.
Koit is glaring at him, his jaw clenched, teeth grinding.
“You were supposed to run, Mr. Floyd. I gave you a chance and that was the last.” Koit is limping toward Stelson. He steps backwards at about the same rate, maintaining a manageable distance between them both.
“Who are you hiding from?” Stelson asks with curiosity.
“The clown-faced demon.”
Stelson moves backwards.
“Who told you about the tunnels, Mr. Floyd? How did he know where they would lead?”
“Nobody tells me anything. I just ended up here.”
“Well that’s unfortunate. Like I said, you’re out of chances.” And on that, Koit blocks out the pain and goes after Stelson.
Stelson turns and runs; the pain in his chest makes breathing labored and Koit is only about ten meters behind.
It seems as though the tunnel ends but there’s a discreet left hand turn where it narrows and darkens for about five seconds at this speed before opening up into its full width again.
At the far end of the tunnel, another two hundred meters ahead, there is a huddle of figures around another vented gate leading to a pipe.
Koit is starting to clip Stelson’s heels and he’s leaving a trail of blood as his heart pumps hard enough to accelerate the bloodletting. But it doesn’t slow him down. Koit leaps and cuts Stelson to the ground with a sweep of his powerful arms.
Stelson is left stunned and shaken but he manages to shout at the huddle ahead as Koit climbs up and brings his fists together, straight arms out, tensed and prone for a mock hammer blow to the back of Stelson’s head.
SHOTS ring out and a bullet catches Koit on the left shoulder blade, turning and flinging him back and off balance.
Stelson hugs the floor as projectiles ZIP and WHIZZ over his head.
Like a maimed animal, Koit looks at Stelson with the acceptance that his prey has eluded him this time. He stands his ground, not knowing which wound to tend to so he lets them all bleed profusely.
The gunfire abates and Koit is allowed to mope off, limping into the orange gloom and making the right turn out of sight.
Stelson lifts his head. A Latino man in a dark blue SWAT uniform is weaving his way to him with an M4 Carbine assault rifle tucked into his right shoulder, his head cocked sideways and index finger warming the trigger.
“Hands on your head. Look up at the ceiling.”
Stelson clasps his hands but seeks out the man’s eyes.
“I know you.” The man says and lowers his rifle.
“You know my brother, right?”
“Yeah, I do, and he sends his regards. Brace yourself.” The man kicks Stelson at full force in the rib cage and turns toward the huddle. “Bobby, you might wanna see this dude. You two go way back.”
Stelson is left catching his breath, but he’s strong enough to lash out and twist the man’s ankle so that he falls. He makes an energetic wriggle to get on top of this asshole and then grapples the assault rifle, holding it at both ends and pressing it hard against the maggot’s windpipe.
“Maybe I should just kill the messenger.”
As the man gasps for air and smells of panic, two other dark blues with M4’s are running his way at speed. On point, they pull Stelson off, smack him down into submission, and then lift and drag him by the shoulders to see Bobby Floyd who is waiting beside the vented gate with another man from his unit.
“And now we are cinco.” Bobby’s harsh gravelly voice is unmistakable. He kneels down and smiles in his customary warped fashion. Up close, he is nothing like a clown. There is too much distress in the man’s face. The snake eyes, like Stelson’s, are too deep and laden with trouble to leave any space for frivolity. This is a sick soul with an acidic core.
Stelson looks at the other four men. He’s appalled–now the fifth man on a team that he didn’t knowingly sign up for.
“What the hell is going on?” Stelson asks.
“You don’t know what you got yourself into, bro?” He sounds surprised with a sarcastic tone. “I did warn you but you didn’t damn well listen and now I gotta work with your sorry ass.”
“You were meant to be the fall guy, Bobby. The distraction, man. Meant to get caught, or at least banged up in the state pen. At least that’s what I thought.”
“We were the distraction and so were you but it’s a little more complicated than that. You see, this is all about timing and the art of surprise. I am not expendable. Not on this score. Not yet. If I was, then I woulda murdered you a long time ago.”
“So now’s your chance, Bobby.”
“You still have no comprendo.”
Stelson frowns.
“You are protected. You have a role to play, cinco.”
“Which is what?”
“You don’t fucking know?” Bobby grips Stelson by the neck as the other two goons hold his arms. “Maybe I should just kill you?”
“Tell me!”
Bobby starts strangling Stelson. “What did Victor tell you to do, you stupid worthless little shit?”
“Look out for her.”
“Yes. The girl. It’s always about a girl. She is the keeper and you need to get her outta there with the product. You would die for her, right?”
Stelson nods as best he can in this position.
“Good. That’s what I thought.” He releases Stelson.
“But there was no product to steal.”
/> “It’s an illusion, bro. It’s called bait. If Victor had walked outta there with the product, uno, dos, tres, cuatro, BOOM! They woulda just got their heads blown off from two sides, and without me it woulda been three sides. We just took care of one already and diverted the entire LAPD.”
“Koit’s still alive. You saw him creep off.”
“He’s a hard target and we ain’t got time to screw around.” Bobby looks at his watch. “Do you know who he really is?”
Stelson shakes his head.
“He’s a false prophet for the lost.”
“The lost?”
“Folks like you and me. As you well know, this ain’t our world, even if we try to make it so.”
Bobby signals for them all to enter the pipe. They sling their M4 Carbine rifles across their shoulders and another cradles his hands and hitches the others up through the vented gate. Stelson is fourth man up, Bobby last to leave the tunnel.
Rubber grippers have been stuck to the tunnel wall and Stelson pulls himself upwards. There is some light from above where the manhole cover has been set aside.
Stelson turns back to Bobby. “How did you open it without detonating anything?”
“Koit. He has access to these tunnels. Some kind of key opens the manholes.”
“You have this key?”
“No.”
“So where’s the second bomb you were going to use?”
“There is no second bomb.”
“You were relying on Koit?”
“That’s how we knew about the tunnels. He moves around the city this way and he owns a shit load of real estate.”
“And you know all this because?”
“We did some time together.”
“But he’s no older than me.”
“He’s older than you think. He’s done a few rounds.”
“Did he get inside your head, when you were lost?”
“Just focus on the here and now, bro. Any other time and I’d be rippin’ out your vital organs and feeding them to my dogs.” He nods toward his henchmen.
