A World Below

by Wesley King

  She snatched the sheet out of his hand. As she read it, her eyes filled with tears.

  “No,” she murmured. “No, no, no.”

  “Just a precaution,” he said, suddenly feeling very guilty. “Nothing more.”

  Mel put her arm around Ms. Johnson and took the attendance sheet. Officer Brown gave it to another officer and stepped away, feeling sick. He couldn’t imagine what she was going through. He would be inconsolable too and probably half-mad. But he still had a job to do.

  The other officer stepped up behind him. “You want me to contact the school? I can tell them to start calling all the parents and get them down here.”

  Officer Brown nodded. “Yeah. It’s time.”

  Five Hours After

  * * *

  ERIC STEPPED INTO THE CHAMBER, shining his light in front of him with disbelieving eyes. The chamber looked enormous—easily a hundred times bigger than the Big Room. And it was alive.

  His cell phone light didn’t reach the ceiling or the walls, but it did fall on the last thing he was expecting to find this far into the Earth: a forest.

  It wasn’t a forest like any he had ever seen. The trees were squat and gnarled, with thin, needle-like leaves, and they were interspersed with huge mushrooms that stood at least ten feet tall and had enormous caps the size of his bedroom. They were also brilliantly colored: milky white, crimson, garish yellow, emerald green. But most bizarre of all were the shorter, slender mushrooms peppering the space between the giants; they were glowing with a dim, electric blue light. There were thousands of them, lighting the forest like candles.

  Eric grinned. The mushrooms had evolved bioluminescence, just like the glowworms.

  The underground world was not so dark after all.

  As he approached the forest, he saw that the vegetation was thick and close. Moss-covered vines hung off the branches like dusty cobwebs, making them seem old and tired and dirty. Smaller mushrooms and yellow bushes with wide, starchy leaves were sprouting up between the trees, creating a dense underbrush. Eric scanned both directions with his cell light, but the forest stretched out like an impassable wall, blocking his way.

  He stared at it for a long time, wondering how all this was possible. It explained the enormous rat . . . that was for sure. There could be an entire self-sustaining ecosystem in there.

  He noticed something else: the silence. There was no breeze to rustle the leaves, no crunch of fallen leaves, no reassuring birdcalls from the canopy. It was like the ghostly memory of a forest, long dead and now reclaimed by the fungi.

  Eric took a picture with his phone and grimaced when he saw he was already down to fifty percent battery. He had a few hours left at most with the light on. He decided to take advantage of the light from the mushrooms and turned the cell phone off.

  He took out his notepad and drew the forest onto his map, pausing at the name. He decided on the Mushroom Forest until he could come up with something better. He had no idea how big it was, and left the boundaries unfinished with a question mark.

  Eric wondered if this forest would become world famous when he emerged with his photos and his map. He pictured it crawling with scientists and tourists—the noise and lights and crush of civilization. It seemed wrong.

  He put his bag down and weighed his options. If he wanted to keep moving, he had to either find his way around the forest, go back, or go through. And he was very curious to go in.

  “First, it’s time to warm up,” he said aloud.

  He wandered over to the edge of the woods and ran his hands over the stalk of one of the giant mushrooms: It was moist and fleshy, like his skin after a long bath. The stems were easily three feet around, sometimes more, and they were as stable and rigid as a tree trunk.

  He began to gather brush and sticks from the edge of the woods, snapping some off from the gnarled trees, though they were very sturdy and stubborn. After a few trips, he was sweating profusely, but he had managed to gather a pile of tinder and some decent-size limbs for a fire. He built a small teepee from the limbs and stuffed the tinder material inside.

  “Here goes nothing,” he muttered.

  He took the pieces of flint out and began striking one with his fork. He hit it again and again, close to the driest brush he could find, creating a shower of sparks, but it didn’t catch. Eric frowned and dug into his backpack. He found an essay that Mr. Baker had returned a few days ago about the role of self-identity in A Prayer for Owen Meany. He had gotten an A.

  “Oh well,” he said, crumpling the paper up. “Sorry, John Irving.”

  He struck the flint again, and finally, when his fingers were aching, the sparks caught. The paper lit up, and he quickly blew on it and moved the lit paper into the center of the teepee with the dry twigs he had collected. Soon a small fire was blazing, pushing back the shadows and the damp.

  Eric slipped off his shoes, setting them open-faced toward the blaze and sticking his socked feet beside them. He rubbed his hands by the flames, feeling the chill fade away.

  When he had warmed a bit, he took out one of his granola bars and rewarded himself with half and a few sips of water. He ate the bar slowly, relishing it and leaning back. It felt good to be off his feet.

  He almost felt like he was camping. His dad had occasionally taken Eric on hunting trips—even as far as the Pacific Northwest. A love for the outdoors was something they had in common, so Eric always jumped at the chance to go. It was the only time they spent together.

  When he was nine his dad took him on a duck hunting trip with his friend Phil, who was a loud, belligerent man with an overgrown beard. At one point, they had gone to follow some tracks and asked Eric to stay behind. His dad said they would move faster without him.

  After a while Eric had gotten impatient and went to find them. It wasn’t long before he was thoroughly lost. He had panicked and searched until night had fallen black and cool across the forest. Finally, Eric smelled smoke and found his way back. His dad and Phil were casually sitting by the campfire, preparing dinner.

  “Not bad,” his dad said when Eric emerged from the woods with tears in his eyes. “See, Phil? He can find his way out here. Not an athlete, maybe, but he’s got a knack for hunting, I think.”

  “He didn’t even want to touch the duck when you shot it,” Phil said, laughing.

  His dad snorted. “True. Sit down, Eric. Want to learn how to clean a bird?”

  Eric nodded, too afraid to say that he didn’t. He watched the grisly process in silence.

  “Now we eat,” his dad said. “You can try the wing.”

  He slapped the bloodied wing onto the little spit they’d built and watched it cook. Eric watched the fire, wondering if the dead duck had anyone looking for him. He didn’t eat it.

  “I thought you wanted to be a hunter, boy?” his father said, looking disappointed.

  Eric wanted to eat it. He wanted to make his dad proud. But the blood had turned his stomach, and he just ate some of the wild potatoes they’d found instead. Phil laughed and said Eric clearly wasn’t going to be much of a hunter after all, and Eric didn’t ever get invited again.

  A year later his dad was gone, and there were no more hunting trips anyway.

  If only he could see me now, Eric thought. He’d be proud if he saw me down here.

  The thought made him angry. Why did he care what his dad thought? He had abandoned Eric and his mom and gone off with his new family. He didn’t want Eric, and Eric didn’t need him either. He didn’t need anybody. Eric looked around the chamber and then put his shoes on.

  He had made his decision.

  He was going through the forest.

  Six Hours After

  * * *

  CARLOS MOVED QUICKLY THROUGH THE tunnels, his rat-hide hunting boots silent upon the rock. He was already midway through the Warrens—a chaotic mass of tunnels that lay between the city of Medianoche and the Ghost Woods. The constant bends and dips and endless openings were difficult to navigate, but Carlos had grown up i
n these passages.

  He carried a jagged knife strapped to his waist—about the length of a forearm and sharpened from black stone. On his back he bore the century-old King’s Sword, a three-foot-long blade fashioned from the spine of a monstrous Night Rat—one of the omega predators in the caverns. Not the omega predator though, unfortunately.

  Carlos had to hope the surface humans stayed well away from the Black Deaths.

  As he moved, he thought about his sister. She had begged to come with him.

  “I am just as fast as you,” Eva said, pouting with her arms crossed. “Probably faster.”

  Carlos was busy giving his sword a last sharpening in the Great Hall, and he laughed.

  “I don’t doubt it,” he replied. “But it is too dangerous.”

  She stamped her foot. “It’s too dangerous to go alone. You heard the captain.”

  “He is the captain . . . and I am the King,” Carlos said. “It is my decision.”

  “Well, it’s the wrong one.”

  Carlos admired the blade and slung it over his shoulders, turning to her.

  “You just want to see the surface humans,” he admonished.

  Eva shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “They are a plague,” he said firmly. “You heard Father speak of them. They are deadly.”

  Eva looked into the fire, frowning. “Will you really kill them if they find Medianoche?”

  “If I have to. It is what Father would do—”

  “Father is not here,” she said quietly, the light playing tricks on her face. “You are.”

  The words hung in the air for a moment, and Carlos watched a scorched barbar branch crack and split into glowing embers. Then he pulled her into a hug. “I’ll see you soon, Eva.”

  And so he had left alone, feeling many eyes on his back as he disappeared into the tunnels. The truth was he needed to go alone. He needed to feel the Mother’s presence again.

  He needed to apologize and ask for mercy for his people.

  His ancestors had a sacred spot in the Ghost Woods that he was making for now. He would ask for wisdom, and then he would find the surface humans. The thought of them made him shiver. The legends described them clearly: white skin turned red by the great burning fire in the sky, tall and broad like giants, weapons called guns that killed instantly, and a ceaseless thirst for death. They killed plants and animals and men like it was nothing. Mothers told children stories of them in their beds, and the children quaked. And now he was going to see them. Alone.

  Carlos half-walked, half-slid down a sudden decline, and finally emerged into the cavernous chamber that housed the Ghost Woods. It shone an inviting blue, lit as always by the torch mushrooms. The forest stretched several miles across, and it was the richest source of food and supplies in the entire Midnight Realm.

  Carlos had once hated these woods. He had been left here alone for a week when he was just five years old—a grooming process to become the Midnight King. It had been the worst week of his life. Nights alone with silent trees, the calls of hunting lizards, and bugs crawling across his chest and face. By the end, he had felt like an animal too, and his father told him that was the point.

  But in time his feeling had changed. He had grown to love the Mother’s sanctuary, and he came here still to hunt with his soldiers. The Ghost Woods were the living, breathing spirit of the Realm.

  Carlos entered the trees, still barely making a sound in the thick undergrowth. He picked his way around a thicket of stout barbar trees. Vines hung from every limb, ethereal and caked with pollen. They looked like crystalline spiderwebs.

  Carlos breathed in the pungent air. He always felt more connected to the Mother here.

  As he cut through the undergrowth, he saw other residents of the forest flit from his path. There were many lizards here, most sightless and harmless, as well as long green snakes that hung among the vines for camouflage, bats that filled the canopy, tree mice and voles beneath his feet, and countless numbers of insects—ants, roaches, and large centipedes. The Night Rats hunted here as well, but they would not bother Carlos.

  Time passed silently beneath the trees, until Carlos finally stepped out from the underbrush into a clearing. It was a large natural circle in the center of the forest, and in the middle was a crystal clear pool—the final resting spot of the great water that had first carved this chamber. Lilies and water plants floated there, but nothing clouded its pure water.

  Carlos laid down his sword and knife and sat cross-legged on the bank. He stared out at the water, dipping his hands in and taking a drink.

  “It is I, Carlos Juarez Santi,” he said softly, “fourth Midnight King of the Realm.”

  He looked into the water, seeing only impenetrable blackness.

  “I am lost,” he whispered. “The Law is paramount. And yet . . . I could not kill that boy. I have failed as a King, and you have punished us.”

  He paused.

  “And now a greater danger has come. Did you bring the surface humans? Do they come to destroy us too? Why did they send children? How can I protect my people?”

  He stopped, thinking of his father. He used to take Carlos here, and they would sit for hours by the water, listening to the quiet. Carlos could almost see him, his strong arms draped over his legs. He could sit there without moving, like he had grown into a tree.

  “Why must I always fail him?” he whispered—to the Mother, to his father, to no one.

  He sat there for some time, his eyes shut. But the silence was not complete today. He heard bats screeching. Animals clawing through the woods. And somewhere . . . clumsy footsteps.

  Carlos opened his eyes . . . and saw light.

  Six and a Half Hours After

  * * *

  SILVIA STUMBLED OVER A CREVICE, feeling her ankle roll, and grimaced. Her feet were aching already, and now she had a bum ankle on top of everything else. The tunnel she had chosen had gone up for a bit, then leveled. Now they were heading downward—it seemed like nothing was going right. And she was the leader; she was to blame. The passageway seemed endless, and for all she knew, they were heading toward the molten core of the planet. It even felt warmer, though that might have been psychological.

  They had taken a quick break an hour earlier, eating sparingly and drinking more of their precious water. She knew what the class was thinking; she was thinking it too:

  Where are we going?

  I think this is the wrong way.

  My feet are so sore.

  I’m freezing. We need a fire.

  We’re going to run out of food.

  They were moving single file through the tunnel now, which was at least smooth and tall enough that they didn’t have to crouch. The panic had continued to grow and build in Silvia’s stomach, until it seemed like it was pressing on the back of her throat and threatening to erupt.

  Even Ashley had fallen silent now, though she stayed close on Silvia’s heels. She had broken down crying during the last break, saying they would never get out of the caverns alive.

  Silvia had been forced to tell her to keep quiet before she started a general panic.

  “You okay?” she asked now, glancing back at her best friend.

  Ashley looked pale, and there was sweat beading on her forehead.

  Ashley nodded miserably. “Fine. Sorry about before.”

  “No . . . I should have been more supportive. I just . . . well, I’m scared too. We all are.”

  Even whispering, their voices carried through the tunnel. She noticed people listening.

  “But we’ll be fine,” Silvia continued. “We’re going to start going up again soon.”

  “We’re lost, Sil,” Ashley said. “We could be anywhere.”

  I know, Silvia thought. “As long as we head upward, we’ll be fine,” she replied instead.

  She turned back, shining her light down the tunnel. There was an upward slope now, but it was negligible . . . five degrees at most. At this rate, they could be walking upward for ten years.
<
br />   She wondered how Eric was doing. Had he escaped the riverbank? Was he alone and scared somewhere? Did he have food or a light or anything at all? She thought about being down here without one and shivered. But the class had walked and shouted his name for almost an hour, their voices echoing down holes and passageways, and they had gotten no response at all.

  If he was alive, he was far away.

  She noticed that the tunnel was now speckled with white spots. The spots began to jut out in crystalline fragments like icicles, reflecting her flashlight and sparkling brilliantly. She heard a crack and turned to see that Tom had broken off a large piece with the butt of his flashlight.

  He saw everyone looking and shrugged. “Just in case it’s valuable,” he said.

  A few more people followed suit, but Silvia decided against it. She was fairly sure it was gypsum.

  When the group was done collecting their stones, they moved again. The sparkling stones became more frequent still, and then Silvia’s flashlight beam suddenly lit up ahead, as if it had hit a mirror. Frowning, she picked up her pace, and when she emerged into the chamber, she almost laughed.

  It was the most beautiful place she had ever seen.

  White stone covered the walls and floors and ceilings in magnificent, elaborate formations. It was as if they had wandered into a cathedral of ice, and it all caught the light and sparkled and glowed.

  “Wow,” Ashley murmured, stepping up beside Silvia.

  “Yeah,” Silvia agreed.

  The class filed out of the tunnel behind her, and she heard one sharp intake of breath after another. Silvia gently ran her hands along one of the white stalagmites, feeling the cool surface. Those who had working phones were taking photos, and the room filled with flashes.

  She soon noticed that there were openings cut into the walls—more tunnels to choose from. One led sharply upward. Silvia smiled. Maybe their luck was finally beginning to turn.

  “Maybe the caves aren’t all bad,” Ashley said, staring up at an enormous chandelier-like formation.