New York Deep

by Andrew J. Morgan

  The thoughts got wilder and wilder. Josh had never really given much consideration to the possibility of alien life, and for all he had cared, there was none, but now . . . now he had to face the very real possibility that this sphere was not of earthly creation.

  So many questions. Would he ever get answers? Would he wake up in hospital and find that this was all just some comatose hallucination? He tried to think back further, to when they'd first discovered the room, tried to remember if he'd fallen, banged his head. Gas, there was gas . . . or what he'd thought was gas. All of a sudden his brain didn't seem to have untangled quite as much as he'd hoped. What he did know for sure, however, was that he was hungry, and that he had arrived at the convenience store.

  This time he figured he'd take more supplies, just in case. He found an old shoulder bag behind the counter, dusted it off and shook out the spiders, then began to fill it with cans of this and that, boxes of crackers and other items he assumed would still be edible. He also found some extra batteries for his flashlight, but none of them worked.

  Figures, he thought. The possibility of the sphere doing absolutely nothing when he stepped into it lurched his stomach, which then did a double loop-the-loop at the thought of how much more time would have gone by during his period back in that crystalline room. The epicenter, that's where the space-time tunnel bored its way back to the past. The room, the area immediately surrounding it, that was the precipice, the edge of the waterfall over which time plunged. Ten minutes by it had advanced him several decades; he could not afford to lose that much time again. It was a one-way trip.

  Josh was so hungry that he ate in the store, despite the smell and the dust. The crackers he ate were dry and stuck to his throat, but they went down okay with some more tinned fruit. He ate to be full—but not too full; he had to walk and climb after all—zipped up the bag, slung it over his shoulders, and exited the store.

  He froze.

  Across the road, on the sidewalk, was the bear. Under the clear light of day, Josh confirmed what he thought he'd seen yesterday, that it was gaunt and haggard. Hungry. He could not see the cub. The bear watched him, then snorted. Josh backed up a step, which made the bear move one pace toward him. Josh froze; so did the bear.

  Was it going to attack? Did it have the strength? He was well aware that he was a walking slab of meat to this bear, which considered him with a sideways eye like it meant to put him in its stomach. It snorted again, and took another lumbering, ponderous step forward. Josh backed away, through the shop door. It was a single door, too narrow for the bear to enter, but it was glass, and the bear was probably strong enough to break it. It took another step forward, leaning to sniff in Josh's direction. If the bear got any closer, he'd be trapped. If the bear was hungry, it would probably wait him out, guarding the entrance until Josh finally had to leave.

  Easing the door shut, Josh slid the bolts top and bottom. Then, scrambling his way back through the store, negotiating a spilled basket full of decimated goods, he found the rear entrance and tried it. Locked. Shit. There were stairs to the next floor, but that was no use. The front really was his only way out. Quietly, he made his way back again. The bear was at the front door, stood on hind legs, sniffing at the vent above.

  'A bear in Manhattan,' Josh whispered to himself. 'What next?' He laughed, taking himself by surprise. What next indeed. He looked around; if the bear was hungry, he could give it food, or at least something tastier than him. He picked up the basket, emptied out the waste, and went about gathering items he thought the bear might like. Meats, cheese, fruit—they were all out of the question, but there were some tinned cakes and other treats that it might like. Probably not the healthiest choice for it, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and right now, Josh didn't exactly have the luxury of choice. Once the basket was full, he found a clear space and emptied it all out. Then he opened the packaging and started loading the basket with the unwrapped food.

  It wasn't enough. He gathered some more items from the higher shelves, reaching for the surplus, when, perched on a stool, he missed his footing, grabbing at the shelf and pulling it and its contents from the wall. He and they came crashing down, the shelf landing on his leg. He yelped in pain, which in turn made the bear slap its weight against the glass. It roared and pounded, the entire store front buckling under its weight.

  Wincing from the pain, Josh scrambled up, quickly checked his leg—it was bruised, but didn't seem broken—gathered up as many boxes as he could and hobbled over to the basket. He tore the packaging open, scooping out cakes and sweets and loading the basket with them. The bear roared again, but dropped to all fours, peering in through the window at him.

  Basket full, Josh heaved it up and took it around the back, to the stairs he'd found while investigating the back door. He went up a flight, into the darkness of the second floor hallway, heart pounding in his ears. It wasn't particularly noisy downstairs, but it was eerily quiet up here. The only light he had to go on was whatever escaped through the cracks below the doors along the hallway, which were all shut. Not wanting to risk wearing his flashlight down unnecessarily, he let his eyes adjust while he tried to get his bearings. The stairs had twisted him around, so it took him a moment to think which way would take him to the front of the building. He hobbled down the hallway, trying to take shallow breaths as he kicked up dust, heading for the door at the end. That should be the one.

  The handle was cold, and Josh turned it slowly. He didn't know why he was being so cautious, but he felt he ought to anyway. Easing the door ajar, light flooded out, and he blinked to readjust. Then he entered fully, and looked around the room. It was a bedroom, neatly made, nicely decorated—or had been—with a chair in the corner. In that chair were the remains of a person. They had not fully decomposed, years of sun and dry air mummifying their skin into a parchment-like sheath over their bones. Some fragments had torn away, but on the whole they were intact, covered with dusty, stained clothes and an apron.

  The storeowner. Must have stayed when everyone else left. Josh wondered how many others might have stayed, why they hadn't joined the exodus. On closer inspection, he saw a pill bottle on the floor beside the body, covered in dust. They'd taken their own life. They couldn't bear to leave it all behind, except to move on to death. It made Josh feel sad to think that someone had needed to make that decision. An image of Georgie flashed in his mind.

  He broke away from the corpse—and his thoughts—turning his attention back to his current predicament. The window was easy enough to open, if a little stiff, and he looked down onto the street to see that the bear had taken to lying down outside the front of the store. It was leaning against the door; was it doing that on purpose? Did it know it was trapping him? He didn't really want to find out.

  From the basket he picked out a small cake, something to get the bear started. He took aim out of the window and threw, hoping to land it near the bear—but not too far away. Instead, he hit the bear smack on its head, and the bear skipped back and let out a startled roar. The cake fell off, but the bear didn't notice it, too busy searching out the mysterious attacker. It roared again as Josh selected another cake, taking better care in his aim this time, factoring the weight of the treat into his throw. It sailed downward, landing in front of the bear, catching its attention.

  Cautiously, the bear approached it, sniffing. It got within inches, snuffling loudly enough for Josh to hear from his lofty vantage point—and then it turned away.

  'Oh, come on . . .!' Josh groaned to himself.

  The bear, a few steps away from the cake, turned back. It considered the cake from a distance, sniffing the air, pawing at the ground. Josh willed it nearer with his mind, holding his breath and staring unblinkingly until—at last—it edged a little closer. Its neck was stretched right out to get a good scent without walking any further, and then Josh heard it smacking its lips. It roared, bucking onto its hind legs, as if challenging the cake. The cake did not respond, so the bear calmed, then edged another ste
p closer.

  'Go on . . .' Josh commanded breathlessly. 'Eat the Goddamn cake . . .'

  Another step closer, then another, and the bear was on top of the cake. In a sniff and a swallow, the cake was gone. Then it noticed the first, and gulped that down too. Josh reacted quickly, taking advantage of the bear's hunt for more to eat. He hoisted the basket onto the window ledge and started hurling the contents out into the street, trying to create a trail away from the shop. The bear was cautious again, but soon was eating as fast as Josh could throw. Josh realized that he wasn't going to have enough time to run back downstairs and get out if the bear continued eating so quickly.

  There was only one thing for it: Josh picked up the basket, leaning it into his shoulder, took a breath and launched the entire thing out of the window. It didn't go far, but it went far enough, and it landed with a smash and a clatter, spilling its contents everywhere. The impact made the bear jump, but the smell emanating from the sweet, mushy pile was too great for it to ignore. It skipped the rest of the trail and went straight to it. This was it—this was Josh's opportunity to get out.

  Ignoring the pain flaring in his leg, he bolted from the room, along the hall and down the stairs, snatching up his bag along the way. He ran for the exit—almost throwing himself to the floor as he slipped on a loose can—jumping straight for the bolts and flinging the door wide open. His leg was fire, but he gritted his teeth and went for it, the bear with its back to him. He ran as hard as he could, not turning around. The bear cried out, but it wasn't a roar, it was a long, mournful sound—but still Josh did not look back. He ran until he reached a blockade of cars mounted on the sidewalk, and quickly climbing over them, he took the opportunity to glance back over his shoulder.

  The bear had not made chase; it had been joined by its cub, and both of them were eating from the basket. For now, Josh was in no danger, so he reduced his run to a quick walk, trying to keep the weight off his leg, and continued on toward the East Side Access.

  Chapter 16

  The walk back, slowed by the pain in his leg, took Josh a lot longer than he'd hoped. He had to stop occasionally to let the pain ease off, but he finally made it back to the site. It was a relief to get there, but he still had the ladder climb to make. He gritted his teeth, stepped on to the first rung with his good leg, then heaved his bad one on too. It was painful, but it was bearable. Holding his weight on his good leg, he shifted the bad to the next rung down, then hung his weight from his arms while his good leg caught up. The pain while he swapped legs was immense, but he did it. One down, a million to go. It may as well have been. He looked down. It was a long way into the darkness, and his head swam.

  He repeated the process a few more times over, skipping himself down one rung at a time, and soon his arms were straining against his weight. He couldn't keep it up. His hands were bordering on cramp, and if that set in, he'd be done. There was only one option, and that was to lean on his bad leg and go down alternate rungs, rather than one at a time. He took a few quick preparatory breaths, then lowered himself to the next rung, leaning on his bad leg. He cried out, the pain shooting needles up his thigh, but he was okay. It's just pain, he told himself. I can push through it.

  And push through it he did for the next rung, and the next, and the next. His head was light from the agony, which had become constant, and he let himself climb on autopilot until—

  'Shit!'

  His hands slipped on a rung, and he tumbled backward, fingers clawing at the air. For a brief second he was weightless, silence ringing in his ears. Then he crashed back against the cage, chest pounding fit to burst, gulping oxygen like it was the last he'd ever breathe. The cage had saved him. All of a sudden, everything felt very real. Clarity had come to him in an instant.

  He steadied himself on the ladder, taking a firm hold, and instructed himself to pay more attention. The adrenaline dump had reduced the pain enough to get moving again, and he focused on his rhythm, making sure he kept hold of the ladder at all times. As the heat and pain began to build again, he realized he only had about a floor left to go, and he hurried down the last few rungs, cramp and pain forgotten. To touch down on solid earth was a blessing, and he collapsed to the ground, sitting in the mud, catching his breath and letting the agony fade a little. A cool draft blew down the shaft, and he let it evaporate the sweat from his brow. It was a small relief, but a welcome one nonetheless.

  When he felt ready to go on, he took a can of tinned fruit from his bag and drank the juice, leaving the fruit behind for later. Then he remembered the camera he'd left at the foot of the elevator shaft, and stuffed that into the bag as well. Zipped up and ready to go, he flicked on the flashlight and headed into the darkness. Unable to see the right tunnel from there, he picked his way across, looking for equipment and other objects that he recognized. There was that hazmat suit in the puddle; he was going the right way.

  Soon he found himself at the sentry point, and the tunnel loomed ahead, a dark hole in an already dark cavern. Somehow it seemed blacker than black deep down inside.

  Fighting every instinct not to enter, Josh pushed on, heading into the depths. The slippery ground made it hard to keep steady, and the constant sliding made his leg ache badly. But there was no going back—only forward. Every time he felt a wobble as his soles lost grip, he righted himself and redoubled his efforts. He'd get back to that room, back to the sphere. The alternative didn't bear thinking about. He certainly didn't want to spend a night or two down here while he waited for his leg to ease up, and he definitely didn't want to be wandering God knows how far across America to find civilization—if it even still existed.

  Step by step he trudged through the tunnel, listening. At first he wasn't sure if it was just his imagination, his blood rumbling behind his ears, but then he was sure—he could feel it, the energy. He was getting close. By the time he reached the end of the track, he could feel that detachment, that numbing vibration that separated his mind from his body.

  Josh tried his best to push the nervous bile back down his throat. The tunnel rounded, and soon Josh's flashlight picked out the drill. It was rusted and old, a relic. That was not a concern for him, but what lay beyond was. The tunnel that extended from the drill into the room had partially collapsed. Josh took a spade abandoned near the drill and approached the collapse. He prodded it gingerly, listening for signs of any further structural failure, and when there were none, started digging. Praying the collapse was only a few feet deep, he stuck the spade in at the top and started to pull material out. As he did, more spilled in from a pocket above the tunnel, and for at least thirty minutes he was clearing fresh spoil as it was added to the pile.

  God, thirty minutes, he thought, checking his watch, catching his breath. He tried not to think how far into the future he'd been slung, focusing on the digging instead. But he was hot, doubly so because of the work, and it was making him sweat profusely and his leg throb. It was hard going.

  What made things worse was that the flashlight, wedged into the wall, seemed to be getting dimmer. Did it just flicker? Panicking, Josh redoubled his efforts; he knew he didn't have much time left before all he'd have was darkness.

  Continuing to dig, he finally cleared all the new spoil and actually started to tunnel through. He burrowed as high as he could in the hope that much of the tunnel's ceiling was still intact. The CIA's attempts to support it clearly hadn't worked, but he hoped that not all of it had failed. He would crawl through, that would save time, so the tunnel would only need to be narrow.

  By the time he was reaching in with the spade as far as he could, he was still not through. There was only one thing for it: he'd have to clear the rest by hand. He clamped the flashlight between his teeth, tied his bag to his ankle and climbed head first into the hole. The spoil was a mixture of damp earth and hard, fragmented schist, so it simultaneously soaked through his clothes and dug into his skin. It scratched and clawed at him as he shuffled in, the tunnel barely wider than he was, arms stretched out in fr
ont, dragging himself along. It was hot, musty, damp. Close. The flashlight, in his mouth, spilled light everywhere but where he wanted it, but he did his best to guide himself forward. There wasn't really enough room to lift his head anyway, so he had to work by feel alone.

  He scooped the dirt out with his hands, as much as he could manage. He tossed fistfuls toward himself, trying to spread it out thin so he could still fit past. It splattered his face. He continued scrambling through, fingers burning wet as mud and blood became one.

  It will be over soon, he told himself.

  He could only clear as far as he could reach, kicking himself forward to start digging again. Every time he did, his leg cried out, but by this point he was in pain all over, and he didn’t really notice. He just wanted to be out, or be dead. One of those two would happen, he'd make sure of it. The end couldn't be far.

  Then he heard a rumble. He paused, holding his breath to listen. It swelled above the vibration, and then it died away. It was distant, but it was enough of a warning for Josh to get a move on. He scrabbled at the spoil as fast as he could, grinding his fingers away at soil and rock. The rumble sounded again, louder, closer. He could feel earth falling around his legs. A chunk dropped down somewhere behind him—he was trapped. He couldn't dig backward, so he hoped he could still go forward. His neck ached, his arms ached, his legs ached, his chest, knees and hands stung from multiple scratches, and he felt like he was going to vomit. Dear God, please don't let me vomit . . .

  When his fingers pushed through and felt air, he almost cried. He had spent much of his life in tunnels, but all that experience felt like nothing compared to this. He wriggled and thrashed to get out, banging his head and arms and legs, writhing free of the tunnel and spilling down onto the ground below. Somewhere in the fracas, he had lost the flashlight; it was pitch black. Another rumble sounded, and the small tunnel closed up for good. The flashlight was gone. He could see nothing.