by Hines
(Humpty Dumpty had some great falls.)
Lucas closed his eyes for a moment.
These words were his own personal totem, of sorts, but an incomplete one. They were brief whispers of a past he couldn’t remember, memories he couldn’t bring to the surface. Haunted whispers of the Great Before, which was pretty much anything before the orphanage, anything before his sixth year. These words were, in fact, the only thing he had from the Great Before, and they were mere shadows of whispers, maddeningly brief.
(Humpty Dumpty had some great falls.)
The orphanage. A cliché, really, the loner kid who never had close relationships with anyone because his parents had been killed when he was young and he’d been raised in an orphanage on the outskirts of DC.
Except he’d never known his parents. He knew they were dead—that’s what the people at the orphanage had told him—but he’d never been told anything about his past, and so he remembered nothing of it.
Nothing about the Great Before except . . .
(Humpty Dumpty had some great falls.)
Yes, except that, a nonsense line that came back to him at the strangest times, meaning nothing, doing nothing, representing nothing. And yet it leaked from the cracks of his memories even now, more than two decades later.
His memories, what fragile shells of them existed, began at about age six. Before that, there was nothing. Just a solid expanse of white, stretching from horizon to horizon. He had existed in that time, he knew, and yet he had not existed.
It wasn’t bad, as orphanages go, he supposed. Certainly not like the fanciful orphanages of literature, where young children were whipped into silence by angry and sadistic nuns wielding leather strops. No nuns at all in his orphanage; in fact, Lucas hadn’t even seen a nun until he left the confines of the orphanage at age eighteen.
Still, even his most vivid memories of the orphanage were painted in broad strokes. He hadn’t formed any close friendships with anyone there, couldn’t even really say the names of any other kids, now that he thought about it. He saw their faces in his memories, of course, but that’s all they were: faces. Even the teachers and staff were little more than that.
Instead, he remembered the roof. From his room, shared with so many other children, he had a clear view of the window. And through that window, when he ventured to it, he saw a far-off land of light and magic. He would find out later that those lights were the Metro DC area, but in his six-year-old mind, they were simply a promise. A promise of something he didn’t fully understand but wanted to find.
He spent many hours in the dead of night admiring the far-off lights, imagining himself in that mystical place. Later, when he was older, he would open the window, crawl through its narrow space to the asphalt-shingled roof, and lie on his back staring at the lights, reaching out now and then and imagining himself grasping those lights in his hands.
That’s what had started his creeping. Staying outside on the roof for a few hours invariably led to searches by the staff, and Lucas would catch glimpses of them inside the house, looking for him. After watching them for a while, he would pick a time to climb back through the window, wander down the hallway with the wood-slat flooring, and innocently ask, “Were you looking for me?”
Why the other kids never said anything, he did not know. Maybe it was the bond of a shared secret. But it continued for several years, without his increasingly longer sojourns being discovered.
This, he knew, is what had awakened the Dark Vibration inside. And for the many years since, he had been feeding that Dark Vibration.
(Humpty Dumpty had some great falls.)
These words weren’t a totem that transported him to his Happy Place. They were cruel reminders that he had no Happy Place.
He slammed a hand against Noel’s desktop, jarring the framed photo out of its place a fraction of an inch. He bit his tongue, kept his eyes tightly closed, blocked the uninvited words from his mind.
(Humpty Dumpty had some)
(Humpty Dumpty had)
(Humpty Dumpty)
When he opened his eyes again, he was in control. The door to uninvited whispers of his past had been shut, and he was firmly in the present. Here in Noel’s cubicle.
To watch Noel, to see her at work, he would have to build an observation deck. And in the open like this, there was really only one place to do it.
He looked above him at the acoustic tiles of the ceiling, calculating what he would need to do. Then he moved. Even though he’d spent several hours today lying motionless on top of the elevator car, when Lucas decided to move, it was smooth. Effortless. Liquid.
He boosted himself up onto Noel’s desk, reached overhead, and pushed one of the ceiling tiles out of the way. He smiled at what he saw. Just as he’d hoped, the poured concrete floor of the next story was hidden a few feet above the tile.
More than enough room.
He unshouldered the dusty blue nylon backpack—his constant companion—and unzipped the main compartment. Inside were all his tools of the trade: a flashlight, a utility knife, some climbing rope, a few sets of webbed rigging he’d built himself, and several other items. He selected a small hand drill and set down the pack for a moment. He tested the divider between Noel’s space and the adjoining cubicle, then stepped on the thin edge and balanced himself there effortlessly. His head was now in the space left by the removed tile, and he held up the hand drill just in front of his face as he began drilling into the concrete. It wasn’t easy, and he knew he’d burn through a couple of bits, but he didn’t mind the work. He enjoyed it. He had the whole night if he needed it.
Later, when he’d completed drilling three holes, he tapped anchors into them and turned the screws inside; they expanded to fit the holes and wedged themselves in place. Then it was just a simple matter of affixing his small hammock, handmade from several sections of climbing rope, to the anchors.
Finished, he stepped down from the top of the divider and admired his work. With the hammock in place up above the tiles, he could hang comfortably, facedown, to peer into Noel’s world below. Not so much different from the elevator, really. But more intimate. And therefore more exciting.
He put all the acoustic tiles he’d pushed aside back into the track, save for the one that was directly over Noel’s head and computer terminal. In this one, he drilled a small hole—so small it looked like the simple pattern of the tile—and then put it in its place as well. Now he had an observation deck, complete with a peephole.
He jumped down from Noel’s desk, noticing the thick layer of concrete dust he’d let filter down. Sloppy, yes. He usually wasn’t so. But no matter. He brushed the dust off the desk and chair, sweeping it to the floor. He left, found the janitor’s closet on that floor (unlocked, of course, but no janitor around), and returned with some towels, cleaner, and a small hand vac.
Five minutes later, all evidence of his being there was gone. And Noel’s cubicle was probably cleaner than it ever had been with the regular janitorial staff working. He’d worked up a bit of a sweat and could use a good cleaning himself, so he’d probably have to shower soon. The Y and the homeless shelters were always options, but Lucas knew more than a few offices in the neighborhood that provided workout areas and locker rooms with showers for their employees.
Mostly high-tech companies, pouring on benefits to keep workers healthy and happy. And in those places, the hot water never ran out in the middle of your shower.
Finished with the immediate work, Lucas readjusted his backpack and found himself staring at the photo of Noel and her kids again.
A beautiful photo, really.
He took it and added it to the items already in his pack.
TWO
THE NEXT DAY LUCAS MADE HIS WAY TO THE BLUE BELL CAFé FOR HIS early morning dishwashing shift.
The Blue Bell was an ancient cube of stucco, weathered gray by decades of grime. Just down the street, a new strip mall was rising, a nod at gentrification. But here, on the shady side of the street,
the Blue Bell refused to give up its many ghosts.
He put a hand on the side of the Hobart. Room temperature; no way Briggs had run it in the last couple hours.
“Did it to you again, huh?”
Lucas recognized Sarea’s voice and turned around. She was smiling, as usual, and her eyes shimmered. Lucas thought again of the photo he’d lifted from Noel’s desk, and realized he was drawn to the photo because that look on Noel’s face—that look of absolute joy—was much like the look Sarea always had on her face. He blushed a bit at this thought.
“Yeah, I guess,” he offered.
“Should at least ask you to kiss him first, before he goes and does that.”
Lucas smiled. “I could probably live without a kiss from Briggs.”
“We all could.” She turned and was gone.
Sarea was like that; one moment, she was in the room with you, carrying on a conversation. Then, without warning, she was gone.
An hour later, she might be back, picking up where she’d left off. For Sarea, life was one long conversation with several pauses.
Lucas, smiling, turned on the hot water and started rinsing dishes.
HE DID A DOUBLE SHIFT, AND SAREA DOUBLED OVER WITH HIM. SHE EVEN spent an hour helping him load dishes after the late dinner rush.
When they punched the clock and left the café, twilight was spreading its fingers over the city; purple light burnished the bright windows of the strip mall down the street.
Outside the back door, Sarea took out her pack of cigarettes and pointed them at him. He didn’t smoke, but he always took one when Sarea offered. It was a familiar ritual, and it kept her around for a few minutes, talking to him.
Sarea put a flame to both their cigarettes, then leaned her head back against the stucco wall of the café, blew a cloud of smoke from the side of her mouth while she eyed him.
Lucas looked down, uncomfortable with the attention.
“You ain’t much of a talker, Lucas.”
He shrugged, and she laughed at that. He wasn’t sure why.
She took another drag on her smoke. “Where you from, anyway?”
He knew a shrug wasn’t going to help him here. He also knew he couldn’t answer the question, because he had no idea where he was from, unless you counted an orphanage. “Long story,” he tried.
“Yeah,” she said. “And you don’t do long stories.”
She put one of her sneakered feet up against the wall behind her, picked a fleck of tobacco off her tongue. “So where do you live, at least?”
“Staying in a place over by Howard University.”
Another laugh.
“What?” he asked.
“Howard U-ni-ver-si-ty. How’s a white boy like you end up in the District, working for cash under the counter at the Blue Bell, and staying at a place filled with black folks?”
He puffed on his own cigarette, looking down at the ground. “You mean I’m not black?” he asked.
That made her laugh again. It felt good to make her laugh.
She dropped her cigarette, crushed it with her foot. “Guess that’s as much as I’m gonna get from you, huh?”
He shrugged again.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Mysterious is always more interesting.”
She turned and walked up the alley, and Lucas watched her figure disappear into the haze of twilight.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, HE WAS HOME. HE’D TOLD SAREA HE WAS STAYING in a place near Howard University. That was true enough, in a way, but it wasn’t really near the university as such.
It was inside it.
Specifically, he was currently staying inside one of the underground tunnels attached to the steam plant. He’d been here a couple weeks now, and he was comfortable hanging around for at least another two weeks before moving on. He’d been scouting an abandoned floor in an old office building several blocks away, and it seemed like a logical next step.
For now, though, he had his own space down here, below the pipes that occasionally clinked, occasionally roared as heated air moved through them. The sounds were comforting to him, more comforting than the utter silence he’d experienced in some other spaces.
He moved his electric candle—a miniflashlight with a removable top that became a base—and sifted through his backpack. He found the photo of Noel, the dark-haired office worker. She had her tragic history, which meant Lucas had his magic hopes she would turn out to be a truly interesting dweller.
He fingered the frame of the photo, looking at the bright, familiar smiles of Noel and her children.
Genuine smiles.
At least he had this.
He crawled to a space near the head of his sleeping bag and placed the photo among all the others; he had arranged more than two dozen of them in a deliberate, almost geometric pattern. Noel’s picture fit the overall mosaic well.
Of course, his minishrine didn’t hold just photos. There were other mementos that had spoken to him as well. Jewelry, notes, children’s artwork, a purple scarf. They were all here, these totems of Happy Places. And they were here to comfort him. To let him know Happy Places did, in fact, exist.
He turned off the electric candle and crawled into his sleeping bag, letting the sound of air hissing through the pipes above lull him to sleep.
DEEP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, A SCRAPING SOUND AWOKE HIM. A scuffling. He lay awake for a few minutes, remaining absolutely still, listening to the sound and establishing the pattern in his mind.
It wasn’t one of the pipes; he’d memorized their various sounds over the past few weeks. Rats? No. Plenty of them down here, to be sure, but he could recognize their movement by the scuttle of their claws. Nor was it a mechanical sound. It was, he guessed, another person. Dragging something, maybe.
Seccies? No, it wouldn’t be security guards at this time of night, certainly not underground like this. And if it were, he’d hear more sounds; seccies weren’t exactly light on their feet, in his experience. This scraping was slow, deliberate.
Already he had an idea what it might be, but he thought he should investigate, make sure it didn’t get too close to his home base.
No one knew where he was, and he wanted it to stay that way. He had, after all, an altar of wondrous mementos to protect; the thought of anyone else touching that perfect photo of Noel and her children, for instance, made him sick.
He felt with his fingers, finding where he’d left his electric candle, and detached the base to screw the head back in place. Now he had a flashlight, but he didn’t turn it on. No need yet.
Lucas crept down the tunnel toward the steam plant, the apex of the underground system beneath the university. Like so many other college campuses, the university had been built on top of a network of these tunnels, which carried heat from the central plant to the various dorms and buildings through pipes belowground.
He took several steps, paused at the wall several yards from his home base, listened again for the sound. It was closer.
He felt the pipe above him, then put his foot against the adjacent wall and boosted himself up, scrambling so he was astride the giant pipe. Quickly he crawled along its length, sliding through the opening in the barrier wall while he stayed on top. There was very little room above the pipe at the wall, but Lucas fit through it easily; he was able to sneak into tight spaces few other people would dare try.
A few minutes later he stood inside the main plant itself, next to the boiler, which radiated pipes in all directions like a giant, mechanical octopus. Steam hissed in the heavy air, and the whole room smelled like rust. Rats scratched at the floor in dark corners. He began making his way around the boiler, pausing to put his hand on each pipe as he listened.
At the fourth pipe he felt a vibration, followed by the familiar scuffling.
He hoisted himself to the top of this pipe and began to follow it away from the boiler, past the barrier wall and beyond. Ahead, the steady scuffling continued with slight pauses in between. Still Lucas refused to use his light; he knew,
soon enough, he’d see another light to guide him.
A few minutes later, he saw what he was expecting: the light of a miner’s helmet, obviously attached to someone who was inching along the pipe. He couldn’t quite make out the form in the darkness, but he was sure he knew what he was looking at now.
An infiltrator. A creeper. Someone who loved to explore the hidden spaces behind KEEP OUT AND AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY signs.
He lay still for a few minutes, watching the other figure struggle. Move-pause-scuffle . . . repeat. Every thirty seconds or so, the figure stopped to sweep the light across the underground tunnel. A few times, Lucas saw the flash of a digital camera.
So what did this one like to call himself? Lucas had run into them inside buildings, drains, sewer systems. The more highbrowed bunch liked to call themselves infiltrators. Others preferred urban explorers or hackers. Some identified themselves by the kind of areas they preferred to explore: drainers, tunnelers, steamers. For slang, they all answered to the term creepers.
Usually they were teens or twentysomethings, chasing a few thrills to see if they could break into unauthorized areas or explore the unexplored. Some liked to “sign in”—infiltrate spaces and leave their own unique tags or markings as bits of communication with other creepers. Others, again usually the more highbrow among them, frowned on leaving any trace of themselves.
The question was, should he let this one know he was here? He felt a certain kinship, he supposed, with these creepers—he was, after all, something of a creeper himself—but he didn’t like too much contact with unknowns. Not that the thought paralyzed him with fear or anything; in fact, he was rather comfortable communicating with others.
He just didn’t enjoy it.
Washing dishes, sharing a smoke with Sarea, okay. Beyond that, though . . . just give him a dark hole he could crawl into.
Lucas sighed. He supposed he could just return to his space, lie awake for a few hours while he listened to this kid fumble about like a rhino on a tightrope. Or he could help the kid out, get him inside the central utilities building, let him take a few photos, and send him on his way.
