by Phil Tucker
Thomas spent that evening in the office, hunched over his desk, staring at the graphs and spreadsheets without really seeing them. The hubbub of his co-workers seemed to come from behind a glass wall, and occasionally he would catch himself simply staring out at the cubicles, watching people walk by, almost failing to return nods and greetings. He stared and could hear Michelle's voice asking, is this more important? More important than our marriage? He felt empty, hollow. Head stuffed full of straw. Michelle didn't appreciate how good it felt to be a top player in his department. To be respected, to be relied on by his friends and peers. She derided it all as "corporate bullshit," but some of his greatest victories had been played out in these halls, amongst the men and women who were seated in the cubicles and offices about him. He felt safe here. Protected. He knew what to do and when to do it. With Michelle these days... things were no longer clear. He no longer understood his role. No longer understood on an intuitive level how to interact with her, how to simply... be.
One by one his co-workers left, and the dimness of dusk fell over the city, which lit up its windows and lights in defiance of the night. Streets flickered and filled with headlights and the sky glowed into a wan orange of reflected light pollution. Soon only the gentle whir of the air conditioning could be heard, along with the rare creak of a solitary and hidden worker leaning back in their leather chair to assess, ponder, reflect. Standing in his office doorway, Thomas saw a few pools of clean white light emanating from some cubicles, indicating little hubs of ongoing productivity, but for the most part it was dark, silent. A sudden uncertainty gripped him--what time was it? What day? Looking at his watch he saw that it was past eleven. Thursday night. Time, he thought, to go home.
Coat draped over his arm, he selected a path to the elevators that would take him past Buck's desk. The large man was frowning at his computer screen, arms crossed over his chest as he sat back and stared the data. At Thomas' approach, he glanced up, grinned ruefully and shook his head.
"Want to finish off this analysis for me before you go?"
Thomas smiled. "No thanks. I think I'm done."
Buck paused, on the verge of saying something lighthearted, and then frowned. "You all right?"
"Yeah, sure. I guess." Thomas looked out over the tops of the dark cubicles, at the far windows, and then back. "I don't know."
Buck leaned back in his chair, the hinges squealing in protest, his belly straining out over his belt, lowering his chin to his chest as he stared thoughtfully at Thomas. "What's up? Did you get in touch with Michelle?"
"Yeah, well, she got in touch with me, actually."
"Ouch," said Buck, wincing. "Not good."
"No, not good at all." Thomas tried to recall the anger, the outrage, the arguments he had used, something with which he could explain what had happened. But nothing came. Just sadness, a deep melancholy that promised at best numbness and sleep. "It didn't go well. She wants me to quit work. Leave New York."
Buck's eyebrows shot up. "Really? What did you say?"
"I told her I'd think about it."
"I bet she liked hearing that."
Thomas took a deep breath, and passed his hand over his brow. "I don't know, man. I was pissed. She put me on the spot..." Buck nodded, but said nothing. "It's just that she's so naïve. It kills me. Like she doesn't understand how lucky we are to have what we have. And it's always about what she wants, what she thinks is best for our marriage, what..." He couldn't do it. Couldn't come up with the argument. Buck continued to watch him, waiting. "Fuck it," said Thomas. He couldn't explain to Buck. He didn't even know how to explain it to himself.
Buck nodded slowly, his expression grave. "If you give me five minutes I can wrap up here. Want to go get a beer?"
"No, I'm fine, thanks. I should probably just get home. Sleep. Think things over, you know?"
Buck looked dubious. "You need to get that stuff off your chest, man. No good lurking around in your apartment like some ghost. Come on. First beer's on me. We'll get some hot food and figure something out. What do you say?"
Thomas smiled, but shook his head again. "Negative, Captain. I'm done. Thanks for the offer though."
Buck's smile died, and he nodded. "Well, okay. I understand. But you know I'm here if you need somebody to talk to right? I mean, we don't have to go for a beer, we can just--"
Thomas laughed, "Buck! Please, no, I understand, and really, I appreciate it. Maybe next time okay? I'm off. Take care."
Buck nodded, and Thomas turned and walked over to the elevator. He'd go home, have a hot shower, put on some clean clothing and maybe order some food. Watch television till he passed out, and then come right back to the office to work some more. Watching the numbers illuminate in order as the elevator ascended toward his floor, Thomas felt bone-weary. He'd work out this problem with Michelle. Somehow, he'd figure it out.
Walking into his building, Thomas was stopped by the concierge, who emerged with quick nervous steps from behind his desk to cough quickly and wave at him as he passed. Thomas paused, turned, and raised an eyebrow. Jose bobbed his head and took a sidling step closer, reaching up to adjust his immaculately poised cap.
"Mr. Verkraft, hello. Sorry to stop you, but you have a package."
"Oh? Okay."
Jose nodded again, paused as if waiting for more, and then quickly stepped back behind his desk, ducked out of view and came up with a bulky manila envelope. Handing it over carefully, he peered down with avid interest as Thomas turned the envelope around to inspect the writing on the front.
"It is from Buffalo," said Jose helpfully, reaching out to point at the return address. "From a Julia Morrow?" His inquiring look was met by a cool glance. Jose frowned, realizing that he had perhaps overstepped his bounds, and sat down at his desk to begin chewing on the inside corner of his lips nervously.
"Thank you, Jose." Thomas turned before the man could find another opportunity to dart out once more, if only perhaps to pump his hand and tell him that it had been his pleasure, and strode quickly toward the elevators.
She had sent him a large envelope with a bulky object in the middle. A book? It wasn't overly heavy, but what on earth could it be? Something of Henry's? Resisting the impulse to open it immediately, he instead tucked it under his arm and rode the elevator up this floor.
Opening his door, he dumped his briefcase on the couch and set the envelope on the kitchen counter, moving past it to the fridge where he poured himself a glass of orange juice. He stood eyeing the package as if it might contain some sort of dangerous animal. He decided to finish his glass first, but halfway through he stepped forward, set the glass down and tore the envelope open.
A video cassette slipped out with "#8" written in Henry's writing on the label. "Huh," said Thomas. He turned it over slowly in his hands, his mouth suddenly dry. Henry, Julia, Eric, and the other kid about to go down into that dark stairwell. That sound. That photograph of somebody running away into the far reaches of a tunnel. Cut off, truncated, and here was tape #8. Setting it carefully aside, he reached into the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper. A letter. Moving over to a stool, he sat down and began to read.
Hey Thomas,
I've spoken with Eric. Or, more accurately, he got back in touch with me. He is very serious about proving that he's not crazy. I was skeptical, but then he gave me this tape and told me to watch it. I don't know what to think now. Please watch this, and then give me a call.
Julia
Thomas frowned and reread the note. He finished his glass of orange juice and then rose and took the tape over to his television, where he leant down and slid it into the VCR. He stepped back, sidestepped the coffee table, and he lowered himself onto his leather couch and took up the remote control. He ran the tip of his finger over the plastic buttons, unsure. Did he really want to watch this? A premonition arose within him that bade him set the control down and think things over. To not act rashly. To not follow Eric's story further. He felt as if he stood on the cusp of someth
ing terrible, and thinking of Eric's sepulchral eyes, he was unsure if wanted to proceed. For a moment he hesitated, and then he took a breath and pressed Play.
Chapter 8
The television screen went black, and then showed the stairwell descending like a gullet into darkness. Several figures were walking down it, flashlight beams wandering before them. Thomas recognized Julia, Eric, the third kid. Henry was still holding the camera, it seemed, and then after a moment he began to descend after them, going quickly so as to catch up, the shot on the screen jerking up and down as the camera hiccuped in his hand.
The stairwell let out onto a corridor similar to those they had traversed above. Wallpaper blistered and peeling, empty doorways yawning into existence as their flashlights played over them. The floor was covered with curls of paint that had fallen from the ceiling, and their steps crackled and crunched faintly as they crept forward. Eric took the lead, moving cautiously, with Julia and their friend in the center. A flash of white as Julia turned to Henry, her gaze focusing on a point to the side of the camera, her face now devoid of humor, slightly tense.
They walked on, peering into rooms and opening the occasional door. Thomas thought of turning on his own lights to offset the creepiness he felt from the environs they were exploring, but then actually shook his head in irritation. It was just a video tape.
Eric paused, turned down a side corridor. A second turn, all of them moving in silence now. Then Eric stopped before a heavy iron door and turned to the camera.
"This should be the entrance to the boiler room. If we can open this up..." he turned and tried the handle, but it was stuck. He placed his shoulder to it and shoved hard. A horrid scraping sound filled the air, and the door budged. Eric tried again, and then a third time, and finally it shuddered open, revealing a large dark space beyond. Henry swung the camera around to check out the empty corridor behind them, and then back to the door. Eric had already stepped in, and the others followed.
"Goddamn," said the third kid. Jimmy. "This place is out of control." A massive boiler sat in one corner, a huge iron monstrosity buried under layers of rust, thick umbilical tubing emerging from it to plug into the walls and ceiling. It looked large enough to immolate a Cadillac inside, and there was a squat malevolence to it, to the almost organic curves and tubes that emerged from its ancient iron sides. The group fanned into the room, pausing to examine details, and Henry snapped off a few shots, the video swaying out of control during those moments to focus on the floor or strange angles of the wall.
"Okay, there should be another door back here," said Eric, stepping around a bank of what looked like warped high school lockers. Julia and Henry stepped after him, but then Henry paused to turn and gaze at where the third kid stood irresolute in the center of the room.
"Jimmy, you coming?" asked Henry. Jimmy's face was a pale smear. He turned and flashed his light back at the door through which they had entered and then nodded.
"Yeah, course I'm coming."
Henry panned back around and focused on where Eric was opening a heavy door that led into a narrow corridor.
"Here we go." Satisfaction in his voice. "This is one of the main steam tunnels. If we follow this thing, we should be able to get access to the other buildings. Even," he said, turning to look somberly at Julia, "the insane ward in Building Three that's been closed off since 1877."
"Get lost, Eric." Julia sounded at once amused and annoyed. "Insane ward, my ass."
"Insane ward?" asked Jimmy. "What insane ward?"
"Ignore him," said Julia. "He's just messing with us. Let's go already."
Eric grinned and stepped through into the tunnel, Julia following close behind. Henry's arm reached into the screen and clapped Jimmy on the shoulder as the other walked in after, and then the camera followed and they were in.
The steam tunnel was cramped and filled with large pipes painted in faded yellows and reds that ran through the center. There was enough room for them to walk along, but barely, and they had to duck so as to not hit their heads. Eric set off to the left, paused, and then made them all turn around and go to the right. Henry took the lead, his flashlight dancing along the crumbling cement walls, stopping occasionally to peer into small side tunnels down which random pipes would disappear.
They walked on in silence and stopped when the tunnel opened up into a large room. The pipes continued out into the room's center and then took a ninety-degree turn to extend down another tunnel.
Moving forward carefully, Henry panned the camera over the debris that covered the floor. Broken desks, staved in wooden boxes, rotten sackcloth and unidentifiable machine parts. All was dark and silent, disturbed only by the sound of their breathing.
"What is this place, Eric?" Henry flashed his light about until he discovered a door set at the top of a short stoop.
"Must be a basement of some sort. We should be below... building two, I think. I'm pretty sure if we can just open this door..." Eric began to wade forward, placing his feet carefully and picking his path around the detritus with confidence. How different, mused Thomas, was this Eric from the nervous, manic guy he had met in that white boarded house.
Eric reached the door, tried it, and found it locked. After a couple of futile shoves, he turned to the camera and gave a shrug. "Looks like a no go. Let's keep exploring."
"I don't know," said Jimmy. The camera swung onto him, flashlights causing him to close his eyes and bring his hand up to block the beams. "I mean, maybe we should just get out of here, you know? We've come pretty far, right? We can just call it quits and go to the Diner or something."
"Ah, come on Jimmy. Don't be a chicken shit." Eric didn't seem to consider Jimmy's suggestion worth considering; he was already picking his way toward a third tunnel he'd discovered in the left wall. "Listen, if you want, you can stay here and we'll pick you up on our way out." There was something malicious in Eric's tone, mild and slightly mocking.
"No, I mean, okay, I'll come." Jimmy glumly picked his way after Eric, frowning and staring morosely at the tunnel before them. "This place freaks me out, is all."
"Okay, this should lead us out under Building Four. That's the huge one that's all barred up on the west side, right? So if we follow this, we should be able to get in there, and we should be set."
"Yeah, okay, Eric," said Julia. She didn't seem to be enjoying herself any longer, but rather simply determined to see this through. "Let's just get going, yeah?"
Eric turned and shot her a strange look, his eyes glittering in the peripheral radiance of their flashlights, and then stepped into the tunnel. It was wider, had more pipes, and they scrambled and walked quickly along its length, Henry pausing occasionally to take more photographs. After a couple of minutes a handful of the larger pipes plunged into a cement wall, while the others continued along a now-much-smaller tunnel. Muttering, Henry turned sideways and began to follow the others, squeezing their way along until it opened up once more into a long chamber the end of which disappeared off into the darkness.
"Okay, we should be here." Eric turned to the group, face pensive as he gazed about. The room was large enough to cause his voice to echo slightly. "All we need to do now is find a door or something that'll lead us up. Let's look around."
This room was empty but for the pipes, which frayed and split like the strands at the end of an old knotted rope, each going into their own recess or nook. Henry and Julia walked along one wall, flashlight beams dancing before them, and then ducked behind a corner and the camera skewed off, wavering and pointing at the floor as the sound of their breathing mingled and they held each other. After a few moments Eric's voice called out from the distance and they stepped apart. Henry raised the camera and trained it on her face, and Thomas saw Julia's face heated with desire, her eyes heavy lidded and lips parted in an amused smile that curled into mock annoyance as she batted the camera aside and stepped in again for another kiss.
Thomas pressed Pause and rose to his feet. He stood irresolute for a moment,
and then moved to the kitchen where he refilled the glass of juice. He raised the glass to his lips, and then set it down before he could take a sip. Where was Henry? Was he alive? Was he out there in Buffalo somewhere, or what? What had happened? Thomas felt a pang, a physical sensation in his chest as he stared down at his glass, and a feeling of utter guilt arose within him. God, he thought, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes.
After a few moments he lowered his hand and looked back at the frozen image on the television screen. Later was better than never. He could still act, could still move and take control of the situation. Turn things around and stop hiding at work. A sense of grim determination filled him. He could track Henry down. He could salvage his relationship with Michelle. He could take control, face all the uncomfortable truths and realities. All he had to do was start.
Walking back to the couch, he sat down and pressed Play. The sound of heavy breathing and desire filled his apartment, and then Eric called out once more and Julia pulled away and Henry followed after, trailing her through the darkness and murk to where Eric stood in one corner with the clearly unhappy Jimmy. They were staring down a stairwell that circled down into the depths.
"Hey, look at this. Where do you guys think it goes?" Eric's excitement seemed to have prevented him from noticing anything amiss; his eyes were lit up, his expression animated and enthused. "Let's go down and check it out, yeah?"
"I'm down if you are," said Henry, his voice game but with an undercurrent of confident challenge. "There are few places you've been that I'm not excited to go."
Eric paused and stared at Henry, his expression suddenly confused, suspicious. "What...?" He was prevented from completing his sentence by Julia's stepping between the two of them and making her way down the stairs.
"Let's go," she said. "Unless you guys would rather stay up here and make out?"
Eric looked down at where she was disappearing, even more confused, "What?" Henry laughed and pushed by, Jimmy close in tow, and then they were all moving quickly down the box stairwell, turning once, twice, three times and stepping out into a cement corridor that extended off in three directions.