by Glen Krisch
"That doesn't look right." Doesn't look one bit safe, he thought.
"The shaft gets bigger." His earlier reluctance was gone. He once again bustled with excitement. "Listen… that water is louder. Sounds like a falls to me."
Jimmy had a point. It might not be a waterfall, but it sounded like a heavier flow than the trickle they'd seen so far. "All right. You first."
George crouched low, holding the lantern inside the opening, lighting the way as Jimmy crawled ahead. "Kinda slick. The floor's covered in moss. And it stinks like cowshit." Jimmy didn't seem fazed at all.
"Great. Can't wait." George followed his friend, followed him when he had a feeling he shouldn't. It was the story of their friendship.
The damp moss soaked their clothes. With the steepness of the shaft, it was a minor miracle they reached a plateau without slipping the whole way down. Once again on level ground, the limestone ceiling was high enough to stand without hunching. The shaft opened into an extensive alcove. The twisting path led them to a body of water with a surface so smooth and dark it could've been a pane of cobalt glass.
"Shit," George whispered, his breath stolen by the sight.
Water fell from high up near the ceiling--so high the lantern only hinted at the source--to a limestone spillway. The slab, as big as a church altar, dispersed the falling water. When it dribbled into the lake, it barely dimpled the surface.
"This has got to be it. Shit is right. Let's drop our lines." Jimmy approached the water and set down his tackle. He yanked the barbed hook from the pole's cork handle, and with the line already carrying a tied-off bobber, flipped his wrist and the bobber went flying.
"You haven't baited your hook." George approached the water with caution. While he didn't truly believe Greta's stories, it was better to be safe than sorry.
"I know. Just want to see how deep it is. You can tell by the sound when it hits the water." The hook and bobber had made a thick, thoomping splash. The water was deep. Cranking the reel to pull in the line, the metal gears sounded incredibly loud. "Get me some bread. I guess that'll have to do. Wish we'd had time to dig night crawlers."
George took the hunk of bread from his tackle box and broke off two pieces. They baited their hooks and cast their lines in opposite directions, not wanting to tangle in the near-dark.
They sat side by side, the lantern lit and warm between them. They had no luck for quite a while, and the more time went by without any sign of White Bane, the more George felt at ease. It was a foolish story, anyway. A catfish lunging from the water in order to prey on kids? Just an old story to make sure kids didn't explore the abandoned coalmines marring the Illinois prairie. He imagined every coal town had a similar tale.
"Don't matter if we catch him, I'm going to ask out Betty Harris regardless." George didn't take his eyes from his line. He dipped the pole, dancing the bobber on the cold black surface. His voice softened, becoming sheepish, "Then I'm going to marry her. Well, some day."
"Good for you. She's a nice girl. Tit's are a little big, more like a cow's than a girl's, but hey, whatever you like you like, right?"
"Jackass."
"I'm just kidding. I'm happy for you. Just think about what you're doing before you do it," Jimmy said. The humor had left his voice. "That's all I gotta say."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Means I'm thinking about enlisting in the Army. My mom might have to sign something, but I'm strong for my size. They should take me, even though I ain't eighteen."
"What the hell're you getting at?" George was shocked, unable to figure why someone would enlist. Especially someone whose dad had died not long after coming home from the European trenches, his lungs just about liquefied from mustard gas.
"I gotta be a man. Make a living for myself."
"That's not what we planned." Their plans went back many years. George would take over the farm from his dad and buy the vacant land next to their fallow plot. Jimmy would work his acreage with his brother Jacob; together, with their mom, they'd make a go of it.
"Yeah. Things change." Jimmy stared at his fishing line. George hadn't bothered casting again after pulling in his line. This was serious news. What about picnics with their future wives and future kids? Sitting on the porch as old men, sipping hard cider and swapping familiar stories?
"What about Louise?"
Jimmy opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but then clamped it shut.
"Jimmy?"
"That's the problem. I think I might be a father soon."
"Christ… really?"
"Yeah," Jimmy said, staring at the water. Eyes widening, he pointed to something cutting through the water. "Shit, what's that?"
George jumped to his feet and reached for his tackle box, ready to tear tail out of there. Then the fish changed directions and he realized just how small it was. It might've been a bluegill, a crappie at most. Nothing dangerous. Neither fantastic nor mythical. "That's a pan fish, dingy."
"I knew that. Really I did." Jimmy sighed with relief. Both seemed to want the adventure of searching for White Bane, but nothing of the actual confrontation. "I thought you were going to push me in front of you, let that big, scary pan fish get me instead of you."
"I would have, too. Don't you doubt it for a second." They laughed.
George swung his tackle box around as he reached to pick-up his pole again. In the process, he knocked the lantern over, sending it cracked and broken into the underground lake.
Instantly, they stood in utter darkness. Their breath hitched in their throats, otherwise, all they took in from their senses was the cold air.
"Damn, George, now what are we supposed to do? We're damn near a mile underground."
"It ain't near that far."
"Might as well be. We're blind."
Not knowing what else to say, but needing to hear his own voice, George said, "Maybe our eyes'll adjust."
"You got your matches, right?"
"Yeah, I think I've got a couple left. Let me check." He patted his pockets, found the smashed box. He slid it open, felt inside.
"Okay, don't panic," Jimmy said.
"I'm not. I still got three matches."
"I wasn't talking to you, just thinking out loud."
"Hell, just find something to burn. We can make a torch."
They hunted around on the floor, their hands encountering mud and flaked rock. Anything flammable would've quickly rotted and disintegrated in the damp atmosphere.
"How about in your tackle box?" Jimmy asked, his voice sounding far away.
"Didn't think of that. Let me check. How about you? Don't you have a comic with you when you fish?"
"Let me see… If I can find my box… Here we go. Tarzan might have to burn to get us out of here." Jimmy tore open his tackle box. Spoons and hooks rattled as he removed the top tray. Turning toward Jimmy's racket, George saw something, a glimmer, a phantom movement, something, in the distance hovering by the lake.
"Jimmy," George whispered.
"Damn. Nothing. I bet Jacob snatched my last Tarzan. I'm gonna whip his ass when I get home."
"Jimmy!"
"What the hell are you yapping about?"
"I see something. At least, I think I do." George did see movement. A flickering light, maybe a reflection off the water, on the far side of the lake.
"Where?"
"Just the other side of the water."
"Can't see nothing… Wait… I think I know what you mean. A wavery light. It's dim."
They both edged to the shore, standing shoulder to shoulder, trying to pick up the slightest detail. It was so quiet, the blood throbbed in George's ears as he strained to hear.
They nearly leapt from their skins as heavy chains rattled from somewhere near the phantom light.
Chains? George thought. "Shit. Let's get out of here."
"Wait, that could be someone. Give me a second." He stepped into the water. "Damn cold."
"What are you doing? You crazy?"
"Come on now, Jimmy. We should find our way back the way we came."
"What fun is that? Someone must've lit that fire, so there must be someone to help us get the hell out'a here."
"Shit, Jimmy," George said, mostly to himself. Even trapped in darkness and without a light to guide their way, George couldn't stop thinking: Jimmy Fowler's gonna be a dad. Who would've thought? His friend risked everything swimming in water as cold as a witch's tit, and with White Bane possibly nipping just under his feet. "Jimmy?"
"Huh?"
"You all right?" Feeling abandoned, George wanted to leave Jimmy and find his way back out. But he couldn't leave his friend behind. And White Bane? Nothing but an old lady's story that no one believed in the first place. Or so he hoped.
"Sure. Little cold's all."
"Hold up, will you? I'm coming with."
"That's just what I wanted to hear."
George took the matchbox from his pocket and placed it atop his tackle box. His dad's gun leaned against a boulder nearby. He wanted to take it with him--there was no way he wanted to discover the firelight's source without it--but it would be useless if it got wet. He wasn't as good a swimmer as Jimmy. He'd never be able to swim with the gun held overhead. He left it behind, noting the location as he stepped into the water.
Jimmy treaded water, waiting. As George swam out to meet him, he noticed he could actually make out his face. The firelight from down the tunnel was brighter, but the ceiling was a mere foot above the water.
"See what I mean? There has to be people over there. Even if it's just hoboes."
"If we're going to go, let's go. I can't swim as good as you." George struggled to keep his head above water. His soaked clothes pulled at him as if he had rocks in his pockets. "Just be careful."
"Careful? I'm always careful." Jimmy's tone was full of glee, happy to continue the adventure. He reached overhead as he entered the tunnel. "Not much room to spare. There's no tide in an underground lake is there?"
"You're joking, right?"
"Do I ever joke around? I'm as serious as the Spanish flu." Jimmy laughed, venturing farther. "Hey, once inside you can stand. On tip-toes, I can reach the bottom."
"Thank God." With the water lapping at George's ears, he was relieved when his toes finally touched the tunnel bottom.
"Come on, hurry up," Jimmy called out as he pulled away from George, unable to contain his excitement.
The icy water pressed against George's sternum as he trudged through the tunnel. Jimmy's wet head bobbed some twenty feet ahead. He reached the far end and cut a sharp right, out of sight.
It was just like Jimmy to leave him behind even though he was struggling. Sometimes he had no consideration at all. "Jimmy, wait up. I'm almost there." Violent shivers racked his body. The ceiling pulled closer to the water, forcing George to weave around low points where rock and water touched.
Jimmy didn't answer. The light brightened, and George could see torches hanging from the far wall. He was panicking now. He couldn't turn around, but in no way wanted to know what was in that alcove. Why hadn't Jimmy said a word?
"Jimmy?"
He's gonna leap out and try to scare me. That jackass. George hoped that was the case. He could forgive Jimmy if his silence was a measly attempt to scare him.
The tunnel widened. Jimmy stood on the shore twenty feet away. His friend was scaring him, but not in the typical Jimmy Fowler kind of way. A man with long blond hair held a blade to his friend's throat. Others stepped from the shadows, brandishing weapons of their own. Five men, ten. A score. A couple faces seemed familiar. Coal Hollow people. Behind the gathering, a Negro man stood chained to a wall. A whip cracked, followed by an agonized cry that dissipated into weakening echoes.
"You be quiet, boy," a slurred voice called from the crowd. "Take what's yours."
The blade at Jimmy's throat gleamed with candlelight. Jimmy's eyes were desperate, wide, more scared than George had ever seen.
"Run, George, run!" Jimmy screamed. The man silenced him by smashing the butt of his knife against his temple.
George's heart rollicked. Ever-fading candlelight reflected off the tunnel's cobalt water.
"Get'em boys. Bring'em back alive. If you can."
Something splashed nearby, three men taking up his pursuit. Crazed men. Swinging machetes. Their faces rough with beard growth, stained with tobacco juice. They all looked the same. They could have been brothers, triplets, even.
Still groggy, Jimmy was shoved aside, swallowed by shadows. The whip cracked the air, and again. The chained man no longer screamed; he slumped over, unconscious, the chains tight against his wrists. The firecracker snap cleared George's senses, stripping the numbing coldness from his limbs.
He made a break for the tunnel.
He didn't attempt to walk on his tiptoes as he had on the way in. He took up a full swimming motion, his arms and legs awkwardly cutting through the cold water. He naturally swam faster underwater, so he dove, pushing off the tunnel floor with his feet. He kicked hard, madly, too fast to be efficient. His lungs burned seconds after his dive, and his mind flooded with half-formed thoughts:
Jimmy's dead. They're gonna kill 'em…
Louise, what do I tell Louise?
Who's gonna take care of Ellie when I'm gone?
He broke the surface when his lungs couldn't take any more. Behind him, the splashing was deafening, as if a cavalry were fording a river. Leaving the light behind, his thoughts centered on getting to his dad's gun. Getting to the gun and buying some time.
He kicked down the tunnel, breaking through to the lake where they'd been peacefully fishing not more than twenty minutes ago. One man grunted, lunging for George's heels, snaring his pant cuff. The man laughed, but the sound was cut off when he pulled George under. Water bilged into his open mouth, his nose. Fighting frantically, he grasped above as if his fingers could take in air for his straining lungs. He kicked back, connecting with the man's face. Then again, and still the water invaded his mouth. He kicked a third time and broke free. Remaining underwater, he swam harder than he thought possible. He resurfaced when his palms slapped the rock shelf near the shore.
"Shitheel! Get back here, boy."
As soon as he pulled free from the lake, he convulsed, vomiting silt water. He still couldn't see anything, not without taking time to let his eyes readjust. He had no time. No time at all. One man reached the shelf. George crawled like mad, slipping across the muddy shore, mere feet ahead of his pursuer. George's shoulder crashed into his tackle box, but he welcomed the impact. It meant his dad's gun was close. If he could only remember which direction. Fumbling his hands forward, he somehow found the wooden gunstock. He grasped the gun and rolled to his back, bracing the stock against his shoulder.
Water slid down his cheekbones, and even though it hurt his chest, he tried to conceal his breathing.
He waited for any hint of movement.
A shadowy figure loomed above him. As the machete slit the air, he switched the latch on the gun and pulled the trigger. The shotgun jerked in his hands, blasting a hole in the man's chest, sending him head over heel to the water's edge. For a split second, the explosion lit the cavern as the others closed in. They could've been farmers. They all wore bib overalls, denim work shirts. Their faces revealed a grizzled sameness that left them indistinguishable in age, but they all had a farmer's strength, a corn-fed thickness to their arms and torsos.
As the echo tapered off, George heard the man's liquid-wheezing breath. His dying breaths. He'd killed someone. How in the world did the night turn so crazy?
George cradled the over/under and rolled to his feet. He ran as fast as possible through the winding trail, knock
ing his limbs against jagged outcroppings. He couldn't hear the other men, not with his ears ringing from the shotgun blast, but after killing one of their kind, he had no doubt they'd only redouble their efforts.
Who are you? George wanted to shout. He saved his breath. What did I ever do to you?
He reached the steep incline and scurried through the slick moss. When he reached the cave-in, he scrabbled into the low opening.
Once on the other side, he took a moment to catch his breath. Wheezing with his hands on his knees, a single thought pushed all others aside:
If I hadn't broken the lantern, none of this would've happened. I wouldn't have noticed the candlelight through the tunnel. Jimmy wouldn't have left me.
When he was ready to take off again, a face appeared in the low tunnel. Just the outline of a forehead, a curve of chin. Shadows for eyes. Nothing else. The man grunted, blindly swinging the machete as he crawled through the narrow opening. George switched to the other barrel and fired the shotgun into the man's skull. Something splattered George's face, but he hardly noticed. He turned and fled, desperately feeling for the next turn in the tunnel.
When he reached the last uphill leading to the cave's opening, he threw himself up the incline. The limestone floor transitioning to mud as he hit top soil. He shoved through the grass veil shielding the world from the unholy hell he had encountered below. Not knowing his location in relation to his house, he simply ran. The fog had burned off and the sky was warm with the rising sun. Before he lost sight of the cavern, he glanced back.
The unwounded third man appeared. Once clear of the small opening, another man's arm emerged from inside. Another man pulled free. The man had no face. Blood and clots of brain matter soaked his denim shirt. Once on his feet, the third man reached the opening, and he too climbed out, the mortal wound in his chest exposing his insides to the morning air.
The over/under had its .30 caliber round, but these men still chased him after being shot point-blank with a shotgun. There was no point in using the last round. George tossed the deadweight aside. He'd go back later for it. If he lived through this.