Tunnels 02 - Deeper

  He just didn't understand girls — they were completely unfathomable as far as he was concerned. They seemed to say only some of what they were thinking, then they'd clam up, hiding behind a sultry silence and not saying the part that really mattered. In the past, when he'd put his foot in his mouth with girls at school, he'd tried to fix it by apologizing for whatever he'd done to offend, but by then it always seemed like they didn't want to hear it.

  He glanced at Elliott's back and sighed. Oh well, he'd made a pig's ear out of it all, again. What a bloody idiot he'd been. He tried to console himself with the thought that he didn't have to stay with her, or Drake, forever. His single purpose in life remained to find his father. All this was only temporary.

  Their water-soaked boots squelched loudly in an otherwise stony silence. They arrived back at the entrance to the base and climbed the rope. There was a stillness in the rooms, and Will assumed Cal had tired of his exercise and gone to sleep.

  In the corridor, Elliott thrust her open hand toward him, her eyes averted. He cleared his throat uneasily, not knowing what she wanted, and then suddenly realized she was asking for the return of her scope. He pulled his arm from the loops. She grabbed it from him, but then thrust her hand out again. After an uncomfortable moment, he remembered the pad of stove guns tied to his thigh, and fumbled at the knot to undo it. She snatched this from him, too, then flicked her head around and was gone. He stood there, dripping water into the dust and struggling with a disorder of isolation and regret.

  * * * * *

  In the weeks that followed, not once did Will again accompany Elliott. What made it worse was that she seemed to be inviting Chester to go with increasing frequency on her "routine" reconnaissance patrols. While Will and Chester never spoke of this, Will would catch glimpses of his friend chatting with Elliott out in the corridor, the two of them whispering together, and felt a sickening pang that he was being left out. Much as he tried to suppress it, he also felt a mounting resentment of his friend. He said to himself that Elliott should be teaching him, not bumbling old Chester. But there was nothing he could do about it.

  Will found he had time on his hands. He no longer needed to tend to his brother, who had progressed from the constant laps of their room and the corridor to the tunnel just outside the base. Here he marched up and down, albeit still with the aid of the walking stick. So, to fill the hours, Will either tried to update his journal or just lay on his bed, mulling over their situation.

  He realized, possibly a little late, that even in this roughest and most hostile of environments, where you had to do whatever was necessary, however rank and disgusting it might be, consideration for your friends was still paramount. This consideration, this code of behavior, was the glue that held the team together. You did not doubt Drake's or Elliott's judgment. You did not question their orders. You did exactly as they told you, because it was for your own good, and theirs.

  But Will had to admit that Chester was better suited than he was to following orders. And very early on Chester seemed to have formed an unquestioning and unwavering loyalty toward Drake, which he'd widened to include Elliott.

  Cal, too, was now not that dissimilar to Chester in his allegiance to the two renegades. Cal had changed. Perhaps his brush with death had altered him, or he was understandably afraid of being abandoned. There was still the occasional outburst of the old bravado, but, on the whole, his brother was quieter, even stoic about their current situation. Will used this very word to describe Cal's changed temperament when writing in his journal — he'd learned it from his father and had thought at first that it implied weakness, a readiness to accept anything, no matter how bad. But now Will was beginning to realize he had been mistaken. A person facing a life-or-death situation needed a certain detachment to be able to think straight and not be panicked into the wrong choices.

  * * * * *

  Over the course of the ensuing weeks, they had regular instruction from Drake on such topics as finding and preparing food. This had begun with the cave oyster, which, once cooked, tasted somewhat similar to extremely rubbery squid.

  Drake would also take them on short patrols and teach them field craft. On one occasion, he woke them at what felt like an early hour, although time did not really have any meaning in the everlasting darkness. He told all three boys to get ready and took them down the tunnel below the base, in the opposite direction from the Great Plain. They knew that it wasn't going to be a very long outing because he'd instructed them each to bring only a canteen of water and some light rations, while he carried a full rucksack.

  As they went through a series of passages, the boys chatted among themselves to pass the time.

  "Stupid moronic things," Cal had piped up as Will and Chester were discussing the Coprolites. Drake happened to overhear the remark.

  "Why do you think that?" he asked quietly. Will and Chester fell silent.

  "Well," Cal replied, apparently recovering some of his old cockiness, "they're nothing more than dumb animals… grubbing around in the rocks just like worthless slugs."

  "So you really think we're better than they are?" Drake pressed him.

  "Course we are."

  Shaking his head as he continued to lead them down the tunnel, Drake wasn't going to let Cal's comment pass. "They harvest their food without fully depleting it and having to continually move on. And whenever they mine, they even refill the shafts. They put it all back, because they have respect for the earth."

  "But they're… they're only…" Cal dried up.

  "No, Cal, we're the ones who are stupid. We are the dumb animals. We use up everything… we consume and consume until all the resources are gone… and then — surprise, surprise — we have to pick up and start somewhere new, all over again. They are the clever ones, in harmony with their environment. You and me… our kind are the misfits, the wreckers. Wouldn't you call that moronic?"

  Now in silence, they traveled about a mile, until Will increased his step, leaving Chester and Cal behind as he caught up with Drake.

  "Something on your mind?" Drake inquired before Will was even alongside him.

  "Uh, yes," Will faltered, wondering if he should have stayed back with the others.

  "Go on."

  "Well, you said you were a Topsoiler—"

  "And you want to know more?" Drake interrupted. "You're curious."

  "Yes," Will mumbled.

  "Will, it really doesn't matter what I was back in the world. It doesn’t matter what any of us were. It's here and now that counts."

  Drake didn't speak for several paces.

  "You don't know the half of it," he began, then seemed to stop himself, falling silent for several more paces. "Look, Will, the chance are that I could evade the Styx to return Topsoil, where I'd be forced to live a life much like your mother's, always checking over my shoulder as I passed the shadows. But, not meaning any disrespect to Sarah, I believe living here in the Deeps is more honest. Do you get what I'm saying?"

  "No, not really," Will admitted.

  "Well, you've seen for yourself it's no walk in the park down here. It's hard: a hand-to-mouth, dangerous existence," Drake said, then grimaced. If the White Necks don't get you, then there's a million other things that could snuff you out at the drop of a hat… infections, rockfalls, other renegades, and so on. But, I can tell you, Will, I've never felt more alive than my years here. Truly alive. So you can keep your safe, plastic Topsoil life — it's not for me."

  Drake broke off as they came to an intersection with another tunnel. He told them to wait while he proceeded to unpack various pieces of equipment. He did this efficiently, not looking at the boys. Cal held back behind the other two, anxious that he'd annoyed the man, but Will watched with increasing excitement as he saw Drake had brought a selection of the stove guns he and Elliott took with them everywhere.

  "Right," Drake said after he'd arranged the cylinders in two groups, each in order of decreasing size, on the sandy bed before them. The boys looked at him ex
pectantly.

  "The time's come for you to learn how to use these." He stood to the side so they could see the array of cylinders in the first group, the biggest a stubby tube with a circumference slightly larger than a section of drainpipe and eight inches in length. "All these… with the red bands around them… are charges. The more bands, the longer the fuse. If you remember, you saw Elliott set a couple of these with trip wires."

  Will opened his mouth to speak but Drake held up a hand to silence him.

  "Before you ask, I'm not going to demonstrate any of the charges here." Drake turned to the other group of items. "But these, as you know," he said, sweeping his hand over a range of smaller tubes, "are called stove guns. This," he said, pointing at the largest one, "is the heavy artillery… a stove mortar. You can see that, unlike the other guns, it doesn't have a trigger mechanism at the base."

  He hoisted up the stove mortar and swung it in front of them.

  "Simple but very effective for taking out a large number of your enemies, by which I mean the Styx. The casing" — he tapped it with a knuckle and in rang dully — "is made of iron and is capped at both ends." He patted it as if it were an elongated bongo. "This particular version is fired by striking the end." He took a deep breath. "The load can be whatever you want; rock salt, slate pencils, or pig iron are all very effective if you need to wipe out a large number of targets. A crowd-pleaser," he said with a wry grin. "Try it for weight, and, whatever you do, don’t drop it!"

  In respectful silence, the boys passed it from one to another, holding it carefully as they inspected the heavier end where the detonator was housed. Cal handed it back to Drake, who laid it down on the sand again.

  Then Drake indicated the other cylinders with a wave of his hand. "These are more portable and fired like real guns. They all have mechanical fuses not unlike the cocking arm on a flintlock." He seemed undecided which of the guns to select, and then chose one in the middle of the array. It was almost identical in size to some of the firecrackers Will had set off in the Eternal City, about six inches or so long and an inch in diameter. Its casing shone dully under their combined lanterns.

  Drake turned sideways to demonstrate the correct stance.

  "Like all these weapons, they are single-shot. And watch the recoil — hold it too close to your eye and you'll regret it. As with the others, they're triggered by a spring lever at the rear. They're fired by pulling the cord." He cleared his throat and regarded them. "So… who wants to have a go?"

  The boys nodded eagerly.

  "Right, I'll fire one first to show you how it's done." He went forward and searched the ground until he found a stone with the approximate dimensions of a matchbox. Then he walked another twenty paces to an outcrop in the middle of the intersection, on which he balanced the rock. Returning, he took a stove gun, not from the display on the sand but from the pad on his hip. The boys gathered by his side, jostling for a view. "Stand a little farther away, will you? Once in a blue moon they backfire."

  "What's that mean?" Will asked.

  "They blow up in your face."

  The warning wasn't lost on the boys, particularly Chester, who edged well away — so much so that he was almost standing with his back against the tunnel wall. Will and Cal were less cautious, positioning themselves a few feet behind Drake, Cal leaning with both hands on his walking stick and giving the demonstration his full attention. He looked for all the world like an observer at a golf tournament.

  Drake took his time to aim, then fired. To a boy, they flinched as the crack resounded. Thirty feet away, they saw the impact on the rock outcrop and a spray of fragments and dust. The target stone quaked slightly but remained in place.

  "Close enough," Drake said. "These aren't accurate like Elliott's rifle. They're mainly intended for close-quarter use." He turned to Cal. "Now you," he said.

  Cal was slightly hesitant, and Drake had to position him correctly, nudging his front foot forward and pulling his shoulders around so that his stance was correct. Cal was disadvantaged by the fact that his left leg was still a little weak, and the strain of holding the position showed on his face.

  "OK," Drake said.

  Cal pushed the cord at the rear of the tube. Nothing happened.

  "Pull it harder — the cocking arm needs to be snapped back," Drake told him.

  Cal tried again, but in the process moved the tube way off target. The slug hit the chamber wall some distance away and they heard a zinging as it ricocheted down the tunnel beyond.

  "Don't worry, it's your first try. You've never shot a gun before, have you?"

  "No," Cal admitted glumly.

  "We'll have more opportunities to practice when we get to the deeper levels. Nothing like a spot of big game hunting with the wildlife down there," Drake said enigmatically. Will's ears perked up, wondering what sort of animals these might be, but then Drake told him it was his turn.

  The gun went off the first time Will yanked the cord, and they saw the spray of dust just in front of the target this time.

  "Not bad," Drake congratulated. "You've shot before."

  "I've got an air pistol," Will said, remembering his illicit sessions with his old

  Gat gun on Highfield Common.

  "With some practice, you'll get better at judging the distance. Now you, Chester."

  Chester stepped forward a little hesitantly and took the stove gun from Drake. He hunched his shoulders over, looking very awkward as he tried to aim the device.

  "Rest it on the heel of your hand. No, move your hand underneath more. And, for heaven's sake, just relax, boy." Drake took his shoulders and instead of pulling them around as he'd done with Cal, tried to push down on them. "Relax," he said again, "and take your time."

  Chester still looked incredibly awkward, his shoulders creeping up again. It seemed forever before he finally tripped the trigger.

  None of them could believe their eyes.

  There was no shower of chips this time or whirr of a ricochet. With a crack, the bullet hit the target stone dead on, and it whipped down the tunnel beyond in a blur.

  "Atta boy!" Drake said, patting the flabbergasted boy on the back. "Bull's-eye"

  "Give that kid a coconut!" Will laughed.

  Chester was speechless, blinking at the space where the rock had been. Will and Cal congratulated him profusely, but he clearly didn't know what to say, totally confounded by his success.

  They knew the training session was over when, with some urgency, Drake immediately bundled up the charges and the stove guns in the roll of material and shoved them back into his rucksack. However, he left one, a medium-sized cylinder, in the sand. Will was looking at it, wondering if he should bring it to Drake's attention, when a stone flew before them and hit the ground, clattering along until it came to rest in the shale by Drake's feet.

  It was the very stone that Chester had hit with such accuracy.

  A raspy and lisping voice seeped unpleasantly from the shadows, as if a bad smell had been released.

  "Always one fer a bit of showmanship, wasn't yer, Drakey?"

  Will immediately looked up at Drake, who was alertly watching the darkness, the stove gun at the ready in his hands. His wasn't a perceptibly threatening or defensive stance, but Will saw the deadly intent in Drake's face just before he flipped the lens down over his right eye.

  "What are you doing here? You remember the Rule, don't you, Cox? Renegades keep their distance or suffer the consequences," Drake rumbled.

  "Yer didn't keep the Rule when yer gimleted poor old Lloyd, did yer? And took 'is girl."

  An amorphous figure emerged from farther down the tunnel, a misshapen and hunched bundle illuminated by the boys' lanterns.

  "Ahh, I heard yer 'ad some new lovelies. Some ripe meat."

  The shape coughed and continued to move forward, as if it were floating just above the ground. Will saw it was a man, wearing what looked to be a brown and extremely filthy shawl over his head and shoulders, like he was a peasant woman. He was pa
infully bent over, giving the impression he was seriously deformed. Stopping before Drake and the boys, he raised his head. It was a grisly sight. He had a huge growth on one side of his forehead, like a small melon, and the dirt was rubbed away on it, so they could see grayish skin shot through with a network of raised blue veins. There was another of these growths, slightly smaller in size, on his mouth, so that his lips, black and cracked, were drawn into a permanent O. A constant drool of slick, milky saliva ran from his lower lip and down his chin, where it hung like a liquid goatee.

  But his eyes were the worst things to behold: perfectly white, like freshly shelled boiled eggs, with no sign of a pupil or an iris whatsoever. They were the only solid, cohesive area of color on him, and all the more shocking for it.

  A gnarled-looking hand, like a sun-dried root, poked out of the shawl and described a circle as he spoke.

  "Got anything for yer old mucker?" Cox lisped loudly, with a spray of spittle. "Anything fer the poor old man who taught ya all yer know? How's about one of these choice youngsters?"

  "I owe you nothing. Just leave," Drake answered stonily. "Before I—"

  "Is them the boys the Blackheads is looking fer? Where are yer keepin' them 'idden away, Drakey?" Like a cobra about to strike, his head jutted forward, the white unseeing eyes sliding over Will and Cal, with Chester lurking terrified behind them. Will saw the thick crosses of darkened scars, one over each eye, and the matrix of many more gray gashes across the coal-black skin of his cheeks.

  "Their young scent is so" — the man quickly wiped his nose with a swipe from the gnarled hand — "nice and clean."

  "You spend too much time in these parts… you look like you're on your last legs, Cox. Perhaps you'd like me to help you along?" Drake said dryly as he held up the stove gun. The man's head swiveled toward him.

  "No need fer that, Drakey, not toward yer old friend."

  Then the shape bowed with great ceremony and instantly vanished from the area of light. Chester and Cal were still staring at the place where he'd been, but Will was looking at Drake. He couldn't help but notice that Drake's hands were gripping the stove gun so tightly that his knuckles were white.