Welcome to Las Vegas

by Stacy Green

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  Stepping into the storm drains a second time was near torture. Drenched with sweat, Tate barely noticed the cooling temperature. The darkness dominated his thoughts. He’d swear it was even thicker than before, reaching out to grab him. Fighting the ever-present panic, he took a deep breath and pushed forward.

  He made his way down the next drain, heading toward the Strip. Supposedly the area beneath the famed Las Vegas hotspot housed the biggest homeless population. He prayed that his sister would be there.

  Splash, splash, splash. More standing water. More stink. More fucking darkness.

  Tate swatted at the nerves crawling on the back of his neck. Or were bugs on him? Cockroaches skittered away from his light. Had one of them hitched a ride?

  “Fuck.” He stopped, shimmied out of his backpack, and roughly patted himself down. He shook out his shirt and then did the same to the backpack. The bottom of it was now soggy with dirty water.

  “Goddammit.” Tate hefted the backpack, disgusted by its new weight. “This thing’s going in the trash.”

  An eerie glow several feet ahead kick-started Tate’s pulse. He tightened his grip on the industrial flashlight, preparing for what or who was to come. A runner and sometimes weightlifter, he could hold his own in a fight–with even odds. But anyone living down here, wanting to jump an outsider, would have the maze of tunnels and the darkness on his side.

  Dense, stagnant humidity pressed against Tate’s face. He dragged his fingers over his cheeks, wiping away imaginary spiderwebs. He didn’t want to move toward the pinprick of light. His wits were barely hanging on, and a fight would sever them completely.

  He kept walking.

  The water had dissipated–he’d reached higher ground. As he approached the creepy glow, he realized it was a camp light, balanced on a cracked plastic crate. Next to it was a paper plate with crackers on it, and a generic can of spray cheese. A woman with her hair slicked back into a tight ponytail perched on a second crate holding a crack pipe and a lighter stripped of its color. She glared at Tate over the rim of the pipe.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Her voice was raspy and irritated.

  “I’m looking for my sister.”

  “I’m not her.” The woman flicked the lighter, and the edge of the pipe burned red. “And I haven’t seen her.”

  “You don’t even know her name.”

  “Don’t care.”

  Tate’s frayed nerves sparked. “Obviously, you only care about getting high.”

  “Good catch.” The woman closed her eyes and exhaled a slow, satisfied breath. Tate edged closer, and he could see the damage done to her skin by the drugs. She was thin and wrinkled with heavy creases around her eyes and lips and rusty-colored splotches on her cheeks.

  Her narrow eyes popped open. “Did I invite you into my home?”

  “I need to find my sister.”

  Before she ends up like you.

  “She’s not here.”

  He waved the picture. “Her name is Lily. Have you seen her?”

  Another hard glare, and then the woman put down her pipe. She threw a gaunt hand out. Her nails were chipped and yellow. Tate handed her the picture, and she brought it close to the light.

  “Pretty girl.”

  “We’re twins.”

  “You must be the ugly one.”

  Tate didn’t care about the insult. His average looks were the least of his issues right now. “Have you seen her?”

  “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know.” The woman gave the picture back to him with another jerk of her hand. “I might have seen her hanging out closer to the Strip last week.”

  “In here, by the Golden Nugget? Or on the streets?”

  “In here. Yeah, maybe by the Nugget.” She rolled her eyes overhead and wrapped her skinny arms around her waist. “ I don’t go out there much. I stay close to my place.”

  Tate followed the tilt of her head and for the first time, saw the rest of the woman’s “place.” An old mattress was propped on cement blocks, and more crates were used to keep food and clothes off the floor.

  He didn’t know what to say.

  “You ought to get out of here,” the woman said. “My man’ll be back soon, and he doesn’t like strangers snooping around. Besides, this ain’t no place for the likes of you.”

  “I have to find my sister.”

  “If she’s down here, she don’t want to be found.”

  “I can’t leave her in a place like this.”

  A bitter laugh burst from the woman’s gray lips. “This is a lot better than being above. Here, we have shelter. We can breathe. Live our lives. Long as you know what places to avoid, down here can be paradise.”

  Fear trickled down his spine. “What places should I avoid?”

  “You? Everywhere. Look at you.” She flung her hand out again. “All tan and fit, with your expensive hiking boots and t-shirt. How much did you pay to wear that logo on your chest?”

  “What does that matter?”

  “Matters because you’re a begging duck. That’s what I call ‘em. The lookees who come down here wanting to know what it’s all about. Most got money in their pockets and shit for brains. You know how easy it is for a guy like you to get jumped?”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Sure. Until you run into a couple of guys who know these parts and are looking for their next score.” She waved the pipe. “You’d be amazed what a guy jonesing for a hit is capable of.”

  “I’m following this drain toward the Strip and the Golden Nugget. There should be a fork ahead. Then I turn left. Right?”

  “You’re an idiot to go that way. Tunnel’s going to narrow real soon. Hard to walk, even harder to see. Hardcore assholes like to hang out that way too.”

  “I’m not worried,” he bluffed.

  “They aren’t even the worst of it. The storm drains don’t come with a map. Least not one you can pick up at a gas station. Unless you know where you’re going, you’ll be lost within a couple of hours. Stuck in the dark with the rats and the drug thieves. Then what’ll you do?” She leered at Tate, showing a row of yellowed teeth. “You’re not afraid of the dark, are you, begging duck?”

  Bile rose, burning his throat. These miserable tunnels with their concrete walls and dirty secrets had him on the verge of paranoia. He choked back the fear and glared down at the woman.

  “Thanks for your help.” Tate turned to go as she lit up her pipe again.

  “Remember what I said, begging duck.” Her raspy voice crawled through the blackness and wedged itself in Tate’s subconscious. “Don’t get lost. You might never find your way out. Think you could handle that?”

  He ignored her and plodded past her camp into the gaping, black drain.

  “Monsters down here.” She kept talking. “And they aren’t all alive. Monsters, begging duck.”

  Tate splashed into the water and tried to control his breathing. His heart raced. Blood pounded in his brain. His head ached as he tried to rationalize the fear away.

  She was a crack addict. Trying to scare him. The tunnels weren’t infinite. He’d find his way out.

  Eventually.