Into the Black

by Sean Ellis

  "A coffin?" was the distasteful reply. She was moving, getting closer.

  He didn't elaborate; he had been half-joking, but it was as good an explanation as any. Reaching out, he began groping in an arc all around until his fingers grazed something soft. "Don't move."

  He eased away from the wall long enough to touch her. His fingers barely caressed her hair, but starting from that point he was able to find her shoulder, and then take her hand. "If we follow the wall, we should be able to move around the perimeter of the room and find another passageway."

  Their haste to escape led to more than one minor collision; although it took only about a minute for them to grope along the wall and find a way out of the vault, the irregularities of the room and the arrangement of invisible impediments proved to be a precarious obstacle course. Kismet barked his shins twice, and caught the corner of a protruding piece of stonework squarely in his chest. Notwithstanding this, they reached the opposite side of the room and found a recess that led to a flight of worn stone steps. The treads were irregular, forcing them to proceed slowly. At the top of the stairs a thin strip of light was visible, burning through the space between the threshold and the bottom of an unseen door. Kismet explored the door with his fingertips and located an archaic slide latch that could be worked from either side of the door. "Thank goodness for that," he whispered, and worked the bolt. With the revolver poised, he pushed the door open.

  The light beyond was by no means brilliant, but even its dim glory was more than their eyes were used to. Squinting and shading his gaze with a cupped hand, Kismet scanned the area for any movement. Seeing none, he took the last step out of the underground chamber.

  The room into which they entered was a pantry, lined with several shelves of canned food. A single electric light bulb hung from the ceiling. Kismet pulled Irene out of the dark stairway and closed the door behind them. It was a sure bet that at least some of Grimes' men were pursuing them through the darkened passage, but Kismet saw an opportunity to cut off that pursuit.

  After guiding Irene out of the way, he insinuated his fingers into the space between the wall of the pantry and the upright shelves. The shelf unit was heavy, built of sturdy hardwoods, likely a century before by a craftsman who knew his business. Fortunately, the carpenter had not integrated the shelves into the wall, but left them standing free. Sensing his purpose, Irene offered her assistance to Kismet's endeavor.

  He felt his muscles growing fatigued before the shelves moved even a millimeter. Yet, as the cabinet began to tilt, its own weight began to work for them. With a loud grunt, he redoubled his efforts and kept pushing until it went over. Jars of preserved fruits and vegetables exploded on the pantry floor, only to be buried by the cabinet as it fell on top of the debris. The shelves fell directly in the path of the door through which they had escaped. Kismet reckoned that it would be impossible to open the door more than a couple inches. "That ought to slow them down," he observed. "But my guess is that some of Grimes' men stayed topside. We have to keep moving."

  From beyond the pantry, they heard sounds of shouting. Kismet concluded that their foes had not initially been aware of the alternate exit from the underground chamber, or were at least in the dark as to where it came out. The priests and nuns who resided at the church however, doubtless unaware of the mob's murderous intentions, would almost certainly be able to give them the details. Kismet opened the pantry door and looked out. The hallway beyond was deserted. Two other doors opened off the corridor, and a third doorway was framed at the far end, presumably the exit. Kismet realized intuitively that they were no longer in the main church building, but in a satellite structure.

  The door at the end of the hallway opened into a large kitchen facility, already washed for the evening and put in order for the next day. He moved through the cooking area and peered carefully through the windowpane in the exit door. A large, indistinct object obscured the landscape outside, blocking the dim light of the street lamps as well as Kismet's view of the church courtyard. Fortunately, it would also give them cover for their escape. He opened the door and together they ventured outside.

  The object eclipsing the street was the sanitation truck Kismet and Lyse had passed during their initial approach. The vehicle stood at idle, the extended lifting forks slotted into the channels on either end of a medium-sized garbage dumpster. The truck's operator, a pot-bellied fellow with an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth, was standing near the rear of the vehicle seemingly oblivious to the smell. The middle-aged priest with whom he was animatedly conversing did not appear to have the same immunity to the stench, but like the driver was captivated by the commotion that was blossoming around them as black suited men poured out of the main church building and spread out across the grounds.

  As Kismet watched his mind turned with possibilities. Then it dawned on him what good fortune had provided for them. Grinning, he faced Irene, put a finger to his lips, and then led the way toward the truck's cab. He opened the passenger door, wincing as the hinges creaked, and climbed inside.

  Apparently, the noise had not been loud enough to raise an alarm. The driver's shoulder was just visible in the large mirror mounted on the left door, and it seemed he had not heard the sound over the idling engine.

  When Irene was seated beside him, Kismet depressed the clutch and shifted the transmission into gear. There was an audible clanking sound in the differential and an instant later, the driver's face appeared in the mirror. The man's expression was one of confusion and disbelief, which gave way to anger as he realized someone was stealing his truck. Kismet hit the lock with his elbow, and then punched the accelerator. The garbage-man jumped onto the running board and made a vain attempt to open the door while shouting rare curses known only to truck drivers and longshoremen. The enormous machine lurched forward and commenced a broad turn under Kismet's guiding hands that spilled the enraged man from his perch.

  Unfortunately, the screams of wrath drew the attention of Grimes' men, who raced to intercept the commandeered vehicle. Kismet checked to be sure that the fallen man was clear of the truck's massive tires, then accelerated, working through the gears as he steered the truck toward the open gates of the church compound. Several of their pursuers were visible behind him, but none were in a position to blockade the exit.

  The truck shot out into the street, and Kismet whipped the steering wheel hard to the right. Irene slid across the seat, colliding with him as she fought to get a handhold on her own side. The back end of the truck fish-tailed and Kismet fought to regain control, slamming into parked cars, and causing two pedestrians to drop their parcels and dive for safety. He wrestled the steering wheel back and bore down on the accelerator once more. The forward movement pulled the truck out of its thrashing and at last, control was restored.

  Despite her earlier terror, Irene now seemed almost to be enjoying the wild ride. Kismet flashed her a grin, then saw in the side view mirror Grimes' thugs pouring into the street and crossing over to the cars his exit had damaged.

  "I don't think we're in the clear yet."

  Irene craned her head around to look, but the mirror on her side had been knocked askew during their escape. She began rolling down her window, but Kismet forestalled her with a restraining hand and a shake of his head. She frowned in mock disappointment. "So what now?"

  "I'll try to lose them. Outrun them or something. This truck sticks out like a sore thumb." He glanced in the mirror, noting the caravan of Buick Skylark sedans that was closing the distance between them. "Better keep your head down in case they start shooting."

  Though he lived in New York and walked its streets often, Kismet neither owned a car nor had occasion to drive around the city. He knew approximately where he was, but lacked the familiarity needed to elude the ruthless men pursuing them. He was going to have to equalize the situation; it was time to slow them down.

  The street they were on eventually began crossing the main avenues, and Kismet swung the behemoth onto the first one
that afforded easy access, driving north through the heart of Greenwich Village. Traffic was light, but this advantage did not compensate for the truck's lack of maneuverability. Rather than dodge in and out of the flow, he picked the center lane and stayed there, shifting the truck into a higher gear and flooring the accelerator. Cars in his lane hastened to flee before the imposing juggernaut that rolled unstoppably through red lights while blasting its horn like a herald of doom.

  Even in this, Kismet realized, they were gaining nothing. The traffic that parted grudgingly to allow them past left a wide-open trail for their pursuers to follow. In the mirror he could see the train of lights racing toward them, and several blocks behind them, the flashing beacons of a police car that had joined the chase.

  One of the sedans disappeared into Kismet's blind spot, but before he could act on his sudden inspiration to hit the brakes, forcing a collision, the car reappeared in his mirror, sidling alongside the truck's left flank. A dark silhouette leaned out the passenger side, carefully aiming a pistol up at Kismet.

  "Fool," Kismet rasped to no one in particular. If the gunman shot him, the truck would veer out of control, probably killing the inhabitants of the sedan as well as countless innocent pedestrians. Either the man with the gun was too dense to realize that, or too callous to care. With a shake of his head, Kismet took a preemptive measure.

  Jerking the steering wheel to the left he crossed several feet into the path of the Buick. The other driver reacted without thinking, braking and swerving reflexively away from the truck. His impulsive response proved disastrous. The sedan slammed into a parked car, jackknifing both vehicles, then plowed onto the sidewalk, stopping only when its front end wrapped around a sturdy light pole. The man with the pistol was catapulted from his window perch, and Kismet caught a brief glimpse of his body rolling like a tumbleweed, into the path of the other pursuing vehicles.

  In the mirror he saw the aftermath of the encounter. The array of headlights broke apart, losing symmetry as the various cars swerved to avoid the fallen man, or stopped to render assistance. The maneuver had yielded a few seconds of lead-time—no great margin to be sure, but enough to begin formulating his next move.

  "Irene, do you drive?"

  "Of course..." She looked at his face, then at the elaborate system of controls on the dashboard. "Oh, you're not serious."

  "It's easier than it looks," he lied. "Come on. Slide over here and do exactly as I tell you."

  She hesitated, then reached out to him and let herself be pulled close. He liked the feeling of her body pressed against his, and had to force himself to shake off the distracting sensation. "It's simple. It drives just like a car. You don't need to crank the wheel very far to get results. It will resist if you aren't going fast enough, but if you're going too fast you'll roll it over."

  "I'm going to have to turn this thing?" she groaned.

  "Yes, but if everything goes as planned, you'll only have to do it once.”

  "And where will you be?"

  "I'm going to try to slow them down." He quickly described the foot pedals and gave her a rough idea of how to downshift. "Think you can do it?"

  "No," she replied in all sincerity.

  "Sure you can." Before moving out from behind the wheel, he located the control box for the lift mechanism and experimentally pushed one of the green buttons. The hydraulic lift lurched, sending a vibration through the body of the truck, and the dumpster rose up, briefly blocking their view as it passed in front of the windshield. There was a deep rumble behind them as the contents of the bin emptied into the large holding canister. Kismet released the button, leaving the lift in the fully elevated position.

  "That should do the trick. Okay, your turn." He unlocked the door and worked the lever, careful not to let it fly open. With his other hand he kept the steering wheel steady and scooted to the extreme edge of the bench seat. His right foot was stretched as far as he dared to keep the accelerator depressed.

  "Grab the wheel," he instructed. "Get ready to put your foot on the pedal. Now!"

  He slid out of the way and she did exactly as told, muttering pessimistically in Russian. Kismet retained his hold on the wheel, but was now standing outside the truck, on the running board. He felt an immediate decrease in power. "Push down a little harder!" he yelled over the sound of road and engine noise. She did, and the speedometer needle registered the acceleration.

  "You're doing great!"

  "When do I turn?"

  "I‘ll tell you when," he replied. Irene's confidence was already starting to overshadow her inexperience and Kismet felt certain that she was capable of executing his plan. "Okay, you're on your own!"

  He eased away from the door, slamming it closed when he was out of the way. Utilizing the door handle and the extended mirror frame like ladder steps, he ascended to the roof of the cab, staying close against the side of the truck in case one of the Grimes' men thought he made a nice target. Once atop the cab, he was blasted by the wind of their passage through the streets. He risked raising his head just high enough to look over the inverted dumpster at the thoroughfare behind them, and saw two sets of headlights racing toward the truck, with a third, the police car, not far behind.

  He had been fortunate that the controls for the hydraulic lift were fairly intuitive; the next part of his strategy would require only brute strength. Keeping his arms spread wide for stability, he braced his back against the roof of the cab, extended his feet against the side of the dumpster and began pushing.

  The mechanism of the lift was designed to raise the load evenly until, at the last moment, it would be turned almost completely upside down, allowing the refuse inside to fall into the cavernous interior of the garbage truck. Kismet now saw that the lifting forks were not parallel to ground as he had hoped, but angled upward to prevent the dumpster from sliding off—which, unfortunately, was exactly what Kismet wanted it to do.

  Nevertheless, the heavy container grudgingly yielded to the insistent pressure from his straining thigh muscles and began to slide. As it crept up the length of the rails the resistance steadily decreased, and at the halfway point, gravity became his ally. The brown dumpster tilted and began to slide independent of his efforts. A moment later, it crashed noisily along the back of the truck before banging down onto the pavement.

  Irene was maintaining a good speed and a straight course, using the horn as she entered and crossed intersections under solid red lights. New York drivers answered with angry gestures and blasts from their own horns, but did not attempt to assert their legal right of way. Kismet knew she was going to have to make a turn at one of those intersections, and quickly, so as not to lose any advantage he might have gained with the dumpster maneuver. He cautiously rose to a crouch, peering over the end of the truck to see if his ploy had achieved the intended results. The container had stopped bouncing and now rested on its back, straddling the broken white line in the center of the avenue. The pursuing vehicles had been forced to take evasive action, but were quickly recovering and again closing the gap. It was time to take the next step.

  Before he could move from his perch, another intersection flashed by—the perfect opportunity, but already lost. Sliding cautiously toward the right side of the cab, Kismet lowered himself onto the running board. Before he could open his mouth to speak however, something cracked against the outer wall of the refuse canister, pinging away in a flash of sparks. Someone was shooting at him. He pressed himself tight against the door.

  "Irene!"

  "Now?" Her voice was barely audible.

  "No! Take the next right! Got it?"

  There was a brief silence and Kismet repeated himself, and then heard her shout an affirmative. He risked a forward glance, marking the distance to the next traffic signal, and then turned his attention to the next part of his plan.

  When they had first commandeered the truck, Kismet had spied the mobile control box hanging from a bracket just behind the passenger door. He had suspected its purpose even then
, filing the information away without really knowing why. Now he knew. He took a moment to study the switches so there would be no surprises.

  The engine revved loudly as Irene depressed the clutch prematurely, her other foot still holding the accelerator. Kismet looked forward again, realizing that she had misunderstood his instructions and was turning down a narrow alley instead of waiting for the next major intersection. The mechanical whine subsided after a moment and Kismet felt the truck slowing as she braked. He mentally commended her for not panicking and more or less getting it right, but his relief turned sour in the next instant.

  Irene tried to steer and shift at the same time, and failed to do either very well. The truck angled toward two o'clock, not enough to make the right hand turn, and continued to lose speed. Gears shrieked in metallic agony as the clutch engaged, and then the truck stopped dead. A moment later it lurched forward again, throwing Kismet against its side and nearly dislodging him from his foothold. Only a fierce grip on the frame of the side mirror kept him from spilling into the street.

  As the truck began to move again with painful slowness, Irene threw her strength into the labor of turning the steering wheel. The vehicle grudgingly complied and crept into the narrow side street.

  Kismet turned back to the avenue behind them. The first of the chasing cars screeched into view. It lost some traction as the driver attempted the turn too fast, but he knew what he was doing and corrected, regaining control without sacrificing any speed. Kismet knew he had to act immediately or his efforts would be for nothing. He pushed the button.

  Twin hydraulic cylinders lifted the hatch covering the back end of the refuse canister, exposing its cavernous interior. Kismet's fingers danced toward a different switch, activating a much larger device.

  The front end of the enormous tank-like structure began swinging up and immediately the contents of the container were vomited into the alley. A number of plastic garbage bags burst on impact with the street, spewing a foul-smelling mixture of food refuse and other debris into the path of the oncoming vehicle.