Chimera

by David Wellington

  “Now I’m really confused,” Angel admitted. “It’s not like he left you a street address to go to.”

  “He kind of did,” Chapel said. “Just now, on my phone, I googled ‘Underground Atlanta.’ And now I know where Funt is.”

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+26:15

  “This is not what I expected, not at all,” Chapel said, when he and Julia climbed out of a cab downtown. Before them a massive sign read simply UNDERGROUND. A dark entrance below it led into a cavernlike space.

  Just after the Civil War, after Sherman burned the city to the ground, Atlanta had put itself back together, growing and flourishing in the Reconstruction. This whole section of the city had grown faster than the rest as bigger buildings were built and viaducts were raised to carry railroads and then vehicular traffic. The area under the viaducts, which had been at street level in the nineteenth century, had eventually been buried in new construction until the city streets were a whole story higher than they used to be.

  Entire city blocks lay down there, covered over and buried as the city grew up around them. Once, Chapel knew from what he’d read about the place, it had been a zone of speakeasies during Prohibition. Then it had been taken over by squatters and the homeless. Now Underground Atlanta was a giant shopping mall.

  And, apparently, a bolt hole for an ex-FBI agent named Jeremy Funt.

  Chapel and Julia headed inside, joining the flow of early morning shoppers and tourists. Inside, the Underground was paved with brick and lit only sporadically by overhead fluorescents and the occasional light well. It was full of brightly lit shops and souvenir stands, carts selling T-shirts advertising HOTLANTA or THE A, places to get your hair braided or your ears pierced, displays of antique cars and jazz legends and old railroad history. Someone was singing nearby, though Chapel couldn’t see where. The place’s weird acoustics distorted the singer’s voice and made the plateglass windows of the shops around him shake. The Underground smelled of pretzels and old beer and even older mildew.

  “Let’s find our man fast and get him out of here,” Chapel said, frowning. He definitely did not like how public this place was. If a chimera came here, looking for Funt, the collateral damage could be devastating.

  “Why is he here in the first place?” Julia asked.

  Chapel shrugged. “Based on what we saw last night—the way he rigged his house—Funt’s crazy. A paranoid. I expected him to have some underground bunker hidden away on some compound out in the country, a place full of guns and bottled water and a copy of The Turner Diaries.” He glanced around. “Not this.”

  Up ahead there was an indoor waterfall where children were playing, splashing one another and passersby. There was a tourist information stand there, a little booth with no one in it. There were brochures available, though, and Chapel grabbed one. “He said he was under the Underground, whatever that means.” He glanced through the brochure, looking for any clue that might tell him where to go next.

  Julia grabbed one for herself and started reading it. “Apparently there used to be a wax museum down here. That’s kind of creepy. I can imagine Funt hiding in an abandoned wax museum. The chimera might be confused by all the statues and not know who to beat on first.”

  “It’s a thought,” Chapel said. He shook his head and folded his brochure up again. Jammed it in his pocket. “Maybe we can ask someone.” He turned around, looking for anyone who might meet his eye.

  The first person he saw was an old guy with a straggly beard wearing a green army jacket. He had a cardboard sign around his neck that read HUNGRY VET PLEASE HELP. When he saw Chapel looking at him, he came over straightaway.

  “I’m not going to BS you,” the man said. “Just give me a moment of your time, and I’ll be on my way. I am an alcoholic, it’s true.”

  Chapel nodded. He could smell the gin on the man’s breath. At least he was being honest about it.

  “Any money you give me I’ll take straight to the bar,” the vet went on, clearly winding up to deliver a well-practiced pitch.

  “What branch of the service were you in?” Chapel asked him, beginning to think maybe the army coat was just for show.

  “Wait,” Julia said. “Wait—maybe you can help us. Do you know this place well?”

  “Like the back of my hand,” the drunk said, staring down at his hands as if he’d never seen them before.

  “Oh, come on,” Chapel said.

  “We need to find some place here. The place underneath the Underground. Does that make sense?”

  “Well,” the drunk said, stretching it out to multiple syllables. “Well, this is about as low as you can get in Hotlanta. About as far down as we go. Except the utility basement, there’s that.”

  “A basement?” Chapel asked. “Where’s the entrance?”

  The drunk stared at him shrewdly.

  “It’s extremely important,” Julia said. “Can you please show us where it is?”

  “I’ll do it,” the drunk told her, “on one condition only, from which I will not budge. Should you require my services, on this I must insist—”

  “What is it?” Chapel asked.

  “That the beautiful lady will consent to give me a kiss.” He batted his eyelashes at Julia.

  “That’s definitely not going to happen,” she told him. “How about this?” she held up a twenty-dollar bill, folded neatly and tucked between two of her fingers.

  “Right this way,” the drunk said, and started off into the darkened paths between the shops of the Underground. The twenty was already gone, presumably hidden somewhere on his person.

  He moved fast, zigzagging through the crowd. Most people drew back when he got too close. Others just ignored him. He weaved and bobbed back and forth, somehow never touching anybody. Chapel had to constantly apologize to the people he bumped into while trying to keep up. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Julia just pushing her way through. Apparently growing up in New York City had taught her how not to get lost in a crowd.

  They passed by plenty of closed stores and little stages where jazz bands vied for attention. Shoppers milled around a few of the businesses, but mostly people just seemed to want to get in Chapel’s way. Just as he was starting to get seriously annoyed, the drunk stopped abruptly and turned to face him.

  “And here we are, at our destination,” the drunk announced, raising his arms like a tour guide.

  “Where?” Chapel demanded. He looked around and couldn’t see any doors leading to hidden basements. Just a lot of thuggish-looking teenagers standing around being bored. There was a big Coca-Cola mural on one rough brick wall, and what looked like a very uncomfortable bench or maybe a utility box.

  “Oh ye of little faith,” the drunk said. He tapped the utility box with his foot.

  Chapel went around the side of the thing and saw that it was fronted by a pair of low wooden doors, no higher than his waist. It was a hatch to a utility area.

  “Okay. Fine. You can go now,” Chapel said to the drunk. He was already trying to figure out how he would get through those doors. They looked like they’d been permanently sealed shut.

  The drunk started to fume in protest.

  “Thanks,” Julia said, “you’ve been very helpful.”

  “How about a hug?” the drunk asked.

  “How about not?”

  She could clearly take care of herself. Chapel was too busy to pay attention. He was feeling around the edges of the doors. Funt wanted to be found, Chapel was sure of that. So he wouldn’t be hiding behind a sealed door.

  Chapel’s fingers found a concealed latch on one side of the doors. He slipped it open and the doors parted. Beyond them he could see a dark stairway leading down.

  Jackpot.

  He looked around and saw that no one was watching him. He would have much preferred to come back later, after everyone had gone, but he just didn’t have th
e time. He looked up and saw that Julia had gotten rid of the drunk by giving him more money. Well, as long as he left, that was fine.

  “That’s where we’re going?” she asked.

  “That’s where I’m going,” Chapel told her. “You’re staying right here.”

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+26:36

  “You can’t be serious,” Julia said. “I’ve come all this way, and now—”

  “The last time we tried to find Funt, we were both nearly killed by an improvised bomb,” Chapel pointed out. “There’s no telling what’s down there, waiting for me.”

  “And you think you’re safer on your own?” Julia asked. Her eyes were bright with anger. “I’m not some kid you’re being paid to babysit, Chapel.”

  “No. You’re a civilian who doesn’t need to know all the facts of this case.”

  Even as the words came out of his mouth he knew he’d made a bad mistake with her. He could see in her eyes that he’d picked exactly the wrong thing to say.

  Her mouth compressed in a hard line, and she folded her arms across her chest. “And that’s all that I am. Right?”

  He racked his brain for some way to explain what he’d meant better, to smooth things over. But there was no time for that. “I have to go, now. Lives are at stake,” he said, which even to his own ears just sounded bad. “Listen, I need you to stay up here and watch for cops. If they come down after me, it’ll spook Funt and he’ll run away.”

  She shook her head and looked away from him.

  At least she wasn’t arguing the point.

  He ducked through the short doors of the hatch and headed down the stairs.

  Angel’s voice sounded in his ear. “That’s not the fastest way to a woman’s heart, sugar,” she said.

  Chapel looked up and saw Julia’s legs framed by the open hatch above him. He whispered his reply so she wouldn’t hear it. “I’m still a professional, Angel. I have questions for Funt. He has information I need. Information a civilian shouldn’t hear.”

  “I’m torn here,” Angel said. “The part of me that works for Hollingshead thinks that’s absolutely right, and that you’re acting exactly as you should.”

  “And the other part?” Chapel asked.

  “The part of me that’s a woman thinks you’re being a jerk.”

  “I’ll settle for being half right,” Chapel told her.

  The stairs before him led down into a dark cavernous space filled with looming shapes. A storage area full of crates. He could see very little while his eyes were adjusting, but eventually he made out a line of pale light ahead in the darkness. It was coming from underneath a door. He reached for the knob and found it wasn’t locked. Beyond lay a corridor painted glaring white, lit by fluorescent bulbs that buzzed angrily as if annoyed at his intrusion.

  “—having trouble—” Angel said in his ear. “—losing your telemetry and—”

  “Angel?” Chapel asked. “Angel, you’re breaking up.”

  “—signal. You’re pretty far beneath the—”

  “Angel?” Chapel called. “Angel, repeat. Please come in.”

  A burst of static sounded in his ear, but it cut in and out.

  Apparently there were some places even Angel couldn’t tread. The vast amount of concrete and steel over Chapel’s head must be blocking her satellite signal. Damn. He hated proceeding without her watching over his shoulder.

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+26:47

  Chapel stepped into the white hallway. Three doors, also painted white, led off the corridor in a number of directions. One of them was a heavy reinforced steel door with a sliding plate set into its face. Its latch was protected by a massive combination lock. Chapel lifted the lock and found it had rusted shut—it might have been hanging there for twenty years, for all he knew. The sliding panel looked like it was painted shut.

  He could hear music. Faint music that sounded tinny like it was coming from a transistor radio. He banged on the door for a while, but there was no response. He tried the second door, but that was locked, too.

  He headed down the corridor to the final door. The music seemed louder there. He rested his ear against the door and through it he could almost make out what song was playing. The sound had to be coming from behind that door.

  His instinct was to draw his weapon. It was possible the chimera had beaten him here.

  But he’d seen no sign of a struggle. “Mr. Funt!” he shouted. “Turn off your music and listen to me! I’m here to help!”

  There was, of course, no reply.

  Chapel grunted in frustration and grabbed the knob of the door before him. It turned easily and the door opened on well-oiled hinges.

  Beyond lay a linen closet with a number of shelves. On one shelf sat the radio, playing some light jazz.

  On another shelf sat a squarish box made of green metal, slightly convex, propped up on a pair of scissor-shaped legs. In raised lettering on the front of the box was the legend FRONT TOWARD ENEMY.

  Chapel knew instantly that it was a claymore antipersonnel mine.

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+26:51

  Julia considered just leaving. After what Chapel had said to her, she was righteously angry—after everything she’d been through, for him to talk to her like she was an unruly child . . . it was sorely tempting to just walk away, to get a cab to the airport and go . . . somewhere else.

  She was smart enough to know that would be a terrible idea, though. Laughing Boy was still out there somewhere, looking for her. He would eventually find her. And if she didn’t have Chapel around to protect her when that happened, she would die.

  But damn Chapel! She’d thought, after what had happened that morning, that maybe there was something between them beyond just his business. She’d begun to think . . . well, she had no idea what she’d begun to think. But that was over now. Right out of the question. He’d gotten what he wanted. He was the big strong knight in shining armor and she had fallen straight into his arms—arm—like she’d been following some cheesy Hollywood script, and she hated herself for that a little. Now that he’d fucked her he had lost all interest in her as a human being, clearly. Just like every other man she’d ever met before. If he thought she was going to share his bed again tonight, he was sorely mistaken. She was her own woman and she could make her own choices.

  She couldn’t just walk away from him, obviously. She was stuck with him. But while he was off gallivanting around, at least, she considered herself on her own recognizance.

  There were shops around her, places she could go find some fresh clothes. Places to get something to eat. She was hungry.

  And maybe if she left, the homeless guy would leave her alone.

  “Do you like jazz?” he asked her, for the third time. He had a hopeful twinkle in his eye. Still.

  “Not particularly,” she said.

  Chapel had been down there for what felt like fifteen minutes. What was taking him so long? He just had to grab Funt and come back up. That shouldn’t have taken more than a few minutes. She wondered if maybe he’d stumbled on some booby trap down there and gotten himself blown up.

  It would serve him right, she thought. Leaving her here with this wino so she could watch for the police.

  From what she could tell, Underground Atlanta wasn’t exactly high on the list of places cops went to hang out. It was clogged with homeless people and drug dealers.

  “You’re not a tourist, I can tell,” the drunk said, as if he’d just proved he was Sherlock freaking Holmes. “That guy you’re with, he’s some kind of—what? Urban explorer? Thrill-seeking spelunker?”

  “He’s a building inspector,” Julia said, thinking on her feet. “I’m his assistant. We had reports that radon gas was leaking from this place, so he went down to check out just how deadly it is. Just standing here is probably giving you cancer.”

  The dru
nk’s eyes went wide, but then he laughed. It was not a sound she particularly cared for. Not after the previous day, when she’d had to lock herself in her own drugs closet while a laughing man claiming to be a cop tried to shoot her.

  “You’re just foolin’ an old fool,” the drunk said. “Tell you what. Let’s play a game. The game’s called Truth or Dare. You can pick which one—”

  “I’ve played Truth or Dare before,” Julia said.

  “I’ll just bet you have,” he said, with a leer.

  Julia just sighed.

  “Okay, I pick Dare,” the drunk said, and he moved around her until she couldn’t help but look in his face.

  “I dare you to go brush your teeth,” Julia said. She turned away from him, not even wanting to look at him anymore.

  But then she saw something that made her blood ran cold. A man in a charcoal gray suit. A man with a crew cut and a pair of thick black sunglasses, despite the gloom of the Underground. She knew his face.

  It was Laughing Boy.

  And he was walking right toward her.

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA: APRIL 13, T+27:56

  Chapel knew all about claymore mines.

  They were designed to shred people. Nestled inside that green box were approximately seven hundred steel balls embedded in C-4 plastic explosive. When the mine went off, it would send all of them screaming forward, right through his body. The force of the explosion would deform them into the shape of bullets. Anyone standing as much as fifty meters away from the explosion would be cut to ribbons by the blast. As close as Chapel was, there would be little left of him afterward but red goo.

  He threw his artificial arm up to protect his face. It would do no good at all, but it was a reflex action. So was screaming. He managed not to do that.

  Instead he shouted, “Funt, I’m DIA!”

  He knew something else about claymore mines, too. They weren’t actually mines at all. They weren’t designed to go off when you stepped on them or crossed a tripwire. They were designed to be remotely detonated by someone with a triggering device, someone nearby.