Undertow (The UnderCity Chronicles)

by S. M. Stelmack

  After what seemed a lifetime on the ladder, Lindsay’s boots touched concrete. Other than the rumble of a subway in the distance, no sound met her ears. The darkness was more an oppressive force than the mere absence of light, and it was only the low timbre of Jack’s voice at her ear that steadied her.

  “I’m going to give you just enough light to see. Don’t turn your flashlight on unless I say so, and if my light goes out, don’t move.”

  She nodded, before realizing he couldn’t see her. She was about to speak when a penlight clicked on, casting a pale circle at their feet that moved along the floor ahead of Jack as he guided her down a narrow corridor.

  The hall branched after about a hundred feet, then did so again and again, each time Jack leading her in a different direction. The air was cold and stale. At least it didn’t stink, and as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she began to pick out details of her surroundings beyond the small ring of illumination.

  Above them was a featureless concrete ceiling broken now and then by the underside of manhole covers, and once by a dark shaft that rose to some nameless place.

  Along the walls were thick pipes and cables, coated with dust and the sporadic cobweb. There was the occasional access panel or vent, along with intermittent graffiti unlike any she’d seen before. The art of the streets consisted of stylized names, messages and images borrowed from a familiar alphabet and popular culture. Here, it was applied in bizarre, twisted patterns and caricatures, as if the creators had based their work on some dark, tormented mythos. Lindsay wanted to examine them more closely, but she didn’t dare call out to Jack.

  That this labyrinth extended for so many miles, on so many levels, humbled her. The place was a city beneath a city, and as they continued onward she began to appreciate the magnitude of the task Captain Monroe had in policing it.

  She stumbled over something invisible in the dark, and caught herself against a pipe. Jack’s light swiveled to her as she straightened, the eye of its beam settling on her midsection. He was a few seconds ahead of her, though he appeared as no more than another shadow in the gloom. Even so, she felt comforted. Jack, whatever he’d become, was with her. She gave a small, apologetic wave. The light lingered, and then turned away.

  On and on they walked, twisting though the endless maze until Lindsay was certain she nor any other normal person could find their way back. They crept down spiraling stairwells with banisters of antique iron, and squeezed through openings scarcely wider than vent holes. They threaded their way though dank halls made foggy from cracked steam pipes, and past a large chamber piled high with rusting, unmarked oil drums. Their silent passage wound on for hours, with pauses lasting only long enough for Jack to refresh the batteries in his penlight.

  At last he motioned her to a small alcove in a concrete wall. She slumped down on its chilled floor, her legs aching. He squatted beside her, his warmth as strong and vital as the sunshine, and she instinctively tilted towards him until their shoulders brushed. He leaned away, and Lindsay bit her lip. If Jack was a source of comfort, it was of the cold variety.

  “Tired?” he whispered.

  “No,” she lied.

  He carried on. “We’re coming up to a large cavern now. A place called ‘Sumptown’. There’s a community of people there, and they might know what happened to Seline, but it’s going to be very important that you don’t offend them.”

  “Right,” she said obediently. “What offends them?”

  “Don’t contradict them or challenge their beliefs. They really hate that.”

  “Okay, I can do that. Falls under Rule One, right?”

  She thought Jack gave a fleeting smile. “You always were a quick learner, Linds.”

  Linds. A few people had used that short form over the years. A boyfriend or two. Janice. Her ex-husband. With them, it was a name. With Jack—. With Jack, it was invoking a relationship, a history, an understanding. An intimacy. Not that he saw it that way. She needed a drink, and dug into her bag for her bottle of water. She took a swig, and pulled out a power bar. Jack gripped her wrist.

  “Don’t open that here.”

  She looked into the glitter of his eyes. “Why not?”

  “The smell will attract rats.”

  Lindsay cocked her head. “So?”

  “In some parts of the tunnels, people eat rats,” he explained. “In this part, the rats have been known to eat people.”

  Lindsay swallowed hard, dropped the bar back into her pack. “Why the hell does anyone live down here? I mean, even the worst part of New York has got to be a hundred times better than this.”

  Now Jack leaned into her. He was warm and strong, and intense—really intense. “You say that because you’re used to the surface. To the people here, the tunnels are a sanctuary. Most of them came down because the world above was worse. To them the surface is where they were abused or neglected or where people wanted to take their children away from them.”

  “People bring their kids down here?” Disbelief pitched her voice up an octave. “That’s insane!”

  Jack sighed and stood. “No, Linds. What they’re running from is.”

  * * *

  About a hundred feet beneath Manhattan was a small underground lake—a flooded cavern whose slowly churning waters were fed by an abandoned sewer tunnel and the constant dripping of condensation from the stalactites above. Pulling out his flashlight, Jack shone its beam upon the water, reflecting an oily rainbow of toxins leeched from the city streets, then raised it to illuminate the only way across—a floating bridge fashioned of rope and oil drums that stretched off into the blackness. Its length was reinforced by scavenged cables, topped with rusting sheet metal, and decorated with dozens of little tin bells that looked as if they had been pilfered from a department store Christmas tree.

  Lindsay eyed the structure and was relieved Jack had forbidden eating. Her stomach was roiling like the waters below.

  “Sumptown is on the far side of this lake,” Jack explained. “We have to cross the bridge to reach it. It doesn’t look like much but it’ll hold. You can turn your flashlight on too, if you like. Just don’t go shining it in anyone’s face.”

  Switching on her light, she teetered along behind Jack’s sure footing. The bridge swayed under their weight, setting off the bells to alert the residents to visitors. Across the water shimmered the glow of a fire, though not until they reached the far side was she able to make out what it illuminated.

  Sumptown was located atop a steep embankment, its shore defended by coils of razor wire. Beyond this hostile barrier was an encampment of small huts and tents cobbled together from tarps, plastic sheeting, plywood and corrugated metal. At the center was a fire pit large enough to roast a bull, around which three dozen or so people were gathered, all of them with their eyes on Jack and Lindsay.

  Lindsay glanced at Jack. He’d stopped at the end of the bridge, mostly shielding her from view, but she could still see the locked jaw, still sense his tension. They waited as a stocky man got up and approached, an automatic rifle in his hand. His bearded face was dark with grime, causing his eyes to shine brightly in the flickering light.

  “Well, well, look what the rat dragged in.” He slowly smiled. “How long has it been, Mr. Cole? A year? More?”

  “More,” Jack confirmed.

  The man called over his shoulder, “Dee? Dee. Come say hello.”

  An older woman, around the man’s age, broke from the others. Though her face was every bit as grimy as his, her hair was wrapped into an elaborate bun studded with rhinestone hairpins, and she was wearing an evening sweater with sequins that glinted faintly in the light. A line popped irreverently into Lindsay’s mind: A funny thing happened on the way to the opera.

  “Well, look at you,” Dee said, coming straight up to Jack and peering into his face. She held out her hand and when Jack took it, her other one came over his in, what looked to Lindsay, motherly affection.

  “You’re looking as good as ever,” she said, the
n caught sight of Lindsay over Jack’s shoulder. “And who might this be, Mr. Cole?” The teasing innuendo was clear in her voice. Should be no problem convincing them that she was Jack’s.

  Jack turned so the women could face each other for introductions. “This is Miss Lindsay Sterling. Lindsay, this is Mr. Frank Moore, mayor of Sumptown, and his wife, Mrs. Dee Moore. As you can see, Miss Sterling’s a topsider.”

  The Moores gave Lindsay a look of profound pity.

  “Oh,” Dee said. “Well, I suppose that can’t be helped. Most everybody is, after all. Please, come and join us by the fire. You two are just in time for lunch.”

  Lindsay was shown to a backless kitchen chair beside Jack who was offered a padded office chair, complete with a back—clearly a place of honor. The entire community surrounded them, and Lindsay felt her anxiety ebb at their friendly appearance. Their demographic range surprised her. They were a roughly even mix of young and old, male and female, and they all seemed quite healthy considering their bleak environment. All had the same dull gray complexion and dark, glittering eyes, and from studying their faces, it was impossible to group them by race or creed.

  Cooking over the fire was a large pot of oatmeal, the gray mush making great swampy belches. Dee ladled a generous helping into a chipped ceramic bowl, and handed it and a metal spoon to Lindsay. Graciously she took it, wondering how she was going to stomach the stuff. Dee gave one to Jack, and he began chowing it down.

  Then again, this was a man who ate scrambled egg sandwiches on stale bread.

  Jack’s eyes narrowed on Lindsay, and taking up her spoon, she nibbled at the gunk. It was good, tasting of sugar and cinnamon, and kind of creamy, too. Lindsay’s second spoonful was heaping.

  The talk between Jack and the Moores was idle at first, revolving around tunnels that had collapsed or been discovered, and to residents that had moved on or found trouble. It was only when Jack had scraped his bowl clean that he got down to business.

  “I’m looking for a lost topsider. Her name’s Seline Sterling. Miss Lindsay’s her aunt.”

  “Oh?” Mr. Moore slid Lindsay a wary look. “Tell us about her.”

  Lindsay opened her mouth, precisely as Jack cut her off. “She’s a Samaritan. Came down here to see if she could help.”

  “One of those outreach people?” the mayor asked in disapproval.

  “No, an independent. Like I started out.”

  “I see.” Mr. Moore turned to a thin-faced youth crouched beside him. “Have you heard of her, Mr. Jarvis?”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied. “She’s been in the subways for a few months, talking to the addicts. I heard she made contact with the APs, can’t say for sure.”

  Jack winced at the mention of the APs, and it took all Lindsay had not to ask about them. “Are any of your other runners here today?” he inquired.

  “No,” the mayor answered. “They’re all either fetching water or out on Mole patrol. They should all be back by supper. You’re welcome to stay and wait for them if you like.”

  “I think we’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Moore.”

  The formal discussion between Jack and the mayor now over, snippets of conversation began amidst the others in the circle, though their voices remained hushed. Dee, who had been beside her husband, sat on an overturned pail beside Lindsay.

  “This is your first time down here, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “That obvious, huh?”

  “One glance at your eyes and you can tell.” At Lindsay’s confused look, Dee added, “They’ve got color.”

  Lindsay still didn’t understand, then looking more closely she realized why all the tunnel dwellers appeared the same. The perpetual darkness had expanded their pupils so much that their irises had nearly disappeared, and it struck her that they could see things invisible to her. That was worrisome.

  “I suppose if I stayed down here my eyes would become like yours,” Lindsay said.

  “Yes. Your skin would darken too. It takes a few months.”

  “I wouldn’t get paler?”

  “You would, except the grime down here soaks into you after a while,” Dee said contentedly. “Turns everybody the same shade in time, which is good.”

  “It is?” Lindsay asked, eliciting a good-natured laugh from the older woman.

  “Sure. Topsiders are always fighting over who’s skin is what color. Down here we’re all the same. We’re all human. Well, all except for the Moles.”

  Beside her, Jack shifted slightly and she knew that he’d tuned in. “The Moles?” Lindsay asked.

  “They keep to themselves mostly, down in the pits, but they’re awful dangerous when they want to be.” She glanced at Jack. “I imagine Mr. Cole has told you more about them than anyone else ever could.”

  “Actually—” Lindsay began.

  Jack reached across her lap and hooked his hand under her thigh. It was a small gesture of claim. Lindsay stared at the hard stretch of his arm nearly touching her breasts, the curve of his fingers on her leg, and she felt her insides warm at how good it looked. “Actually, Mrs. Moore, I don’t trouble Miss Sterling with my tales given her present worry for her niece.” His words were polite, yet both women knew better than to challenge them.

  Lindsay gave Dee a small, helpless shrug, and the woman redirected the conversation. “Of course, Mr. Cole. So, what do you do for a living, Miss Sterling?”

  “Oh, I’m an interior designer,” she replied, awkward about her profession given the shabby surroundings, but Dee perked right up.

  “You mean you decorate people’s apartments and the like?”

  Jack withdrew his hand, clearly satisfied with the change in subject matter, and Lindsay felt that same stab of disappointment as when he’d pulled away from her in the tunnels. She refocused on Dee. “Sort of. I mostly work on retail décor,” she said. “I do restorations and renovations, create looks for stores, restaurants, boutiques….”

  “Oh,” Dee said brightly, “that’s great. We’ll need people like you when we re-surface. It’ll be important to make things beautiful again.”

  Lindsay blinked. “Um….”

  “Sooner or later the world above will destroy itself,” Jack interjected, the conversational lilt to his voice overlying a warning tone. “Then the people down here plan to re-colonize the surface.”

  Lindsay picked up Jack’s signal and nodded gravely. “I see. Well, that would certainly provide, uh…plenty of opportunities for my business.”

  “Oh, yes,” Dee bobbed her head, her glittery hairpins twinkling away. “One day New York will be as beautiful as the ruins of Pompeii.”

  After lunch some of the Sumptown residents disappeared, drifting off to their tents or fading into the darkness that was never far away. Jack and the mayor stayed to visit over tea, and since Lindsay didn’t know the protocol for excusing herself, she stayed as well. The conversation seemed interminable. They joked and gossiped about people and places she’d never heard of, their references too obscure for her to understand. Pipe-hand Joe and Gasoline Jane. Snakes and Ladders. The Pit Stop. The Black Door. Dyer Pass. Gutter Run. It was as if they were speaking graffiti; she understood the words, not the meanings.

  She took to watching the people around the fire, and discovered that they, in turn, were watching Jack. The men, all skinny and stringy, stared at Jack as if he were a god. Though the women watched more circumspectly, Jack couldn’t take more than three sips of his tea before it was topped up.

  She herself began observing him. He’d hung his jacket from the back of his chair, his long legs were stretched in front of him, his booted ankles crossed. The flames danced shadows across the planes of his face, and every now and again, caught the golden glint of his eyes. He held an air of reserve and power, ideal qualities for the hero that everyone here saw him as. It made him seem alien to Lindsay, yet sexy as hell. All kinds of females shot her looks of envy and wonder, and Lindsay felt a kind of warped pride to be Jack’s woman.

  Try as Lindsay might
to resist, her eyelids began to droop. She hadn’t slept the night before, too wound up from her encounter in the subway tunnel and Jack’s late night call. Her condition didn’t go unnoticed. When Mr. Moore came to the end of one of his rambling anecdotes, Jack turned to her.

  “You look tired.”

  It took a moment to bring him into focus. “I’m okay,” she lied, in compliance with the second rule.

  “Uh-huh.” He turned to the mayor. “You have a place we can crash for a few hours, Mr. Moore? She’s exhausted, and I could probably use a siesta myself.”

  The mayor nodded. “Of course. There’re bunks in The Library.”

  Toting his gun, he guided Lindsay and Jack to the largest structure in the village: a pavilion tent, its entrance flanked by two small concrete lions. “Have a good sleep. I’ll send someone to wake you when the runners get back.”

  With that he walked away, leaving them to settle in.

  The floor of the library was made of plywood covered by a patchwork of old Persian rugs, the only furniture a pair of army cots pushed into a far corner, and a dozen overstuffed bookcases that lined the walls. Kneeling beside one Lindsay inspected the titles with her flashlight.

  “Emergency Medicine… Anthrax, A Practical Guide for Citizens… The SAS Survival Handbook… Voltaire: Volume 5…”

  Jack gave a thin smile, looking over his shoulder as he shoelaced shut the tent’s entrance. “No television or internet down here, so people read a lot. You name it, they’re ready for it.”

  “Is that why they’re down here? Waiting for the end of the world?”

  “That’s the case with the Moores and a few others. Mostly they're here because their mayor takes care of them. He used to be in the Special Forces a long time ago, so he knows his stuff when it comes to survival. He’s a good guy, but not someone to toy with.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to buy a cabin in the woods somewhere? Isn’t that what most survivalists do?”