Summer Lane - State of Emergency

“Ready,” I say. “Tah-dah.”

Chris rolls of the couch and grabs his gear, pausing only to flick a non-existent piece of dust off the collar of my coat. I scowl, wishing he’d stop flirting with me. It’s only making things awkward.

Isn’t it?

I shake myself. I can’t think about that right now. It’s escape time.

Walter puts on an old wool jacket and pulls a crochet beanie over his head. I almost burst into tears when I watch him adjust the hat, recognizing the fact that it’s homemade — probably made lovingly by his wife.

Walter turns to us, smiling.

“Let’s go, shall we?”

Chris squeezes my shoulders.

“Stick close,” he whispers.

“Do as I do,” Walter warns, opening the apartment door. I suddenly feel anxious, seeing the dark hallway, realizing that whatever tunnel we plan to drop into will be fifty times darker.

Chris nudges me out the door, lacing his fingers through mine. I exhale, charged with energy from that one simple gesture. I could get used to life-threatening situations.

Walter locks the apartment door behind us, walking down the stairs. He’s incredibly spry for an eighty-seven year-old man. When we reach the bottom level, he takes a long time opening the door and security bars. He exits first. Chris pauses at the door, waiting for the go-ahead.

“It’s safe,” Walter whispers.

Chris and I walk outside. It’s dark on this side of town. No floodlights, no guards as far as I can see. There is light in the distance, though, probably coming from the Relief Camps on the other side of the city.

Walter ducks into an alleyway.

“It’s about a quarter of a mile from here,” he whispers.

“What is?” I ask.

“Weren’t you paying attention to everything we said inside?”

“No. It made no sense.”

Chris releases a deep, soft laugh beside me.

“We’re looking for the entrance to the tunnels,” he explains.

“What does it look like?”

“You’ll see,” Walter snaps, obviously irritated that I didn’t pay attention to his tunnel strategy/lecture upstairs. That’s a teacher for you.

We take several left and right hand turns, Walter avoiding lighted areas. He stops at the corner of an abandoned Starbucks. “There’s a guard at the end of this block,” he says.

Chris nods as I peek around the corner, spotting a blue-uniformed trooper ambling across the street with a flashlight. He does a sweep of the area and takes off to another part of the city.

“What’s he even looking for?” I wonder.

“Escapees,” Walter says, chuckling.

I swallow a huge lump in my throat. Walter starts moving across the street, leaving Starbucks behind. We walk up to the sidewalk, Walter staring at a metal gutter opening.

“A gutter?” I say, deadpan. “How am I supposed to fit in there ?”

“It’s a lot bigger than it looks,” he replies. “Trust me.”

Chris kneels down and wraps his fingers around the gutter grill, popping it out without any trouble. Well, either that or he’s just freakishly strong. I’m willing to go with the latter assumption.

Chris bends down.

“It is a lot bigger than it looks,” he confirms. “Down you go.”

“What? No. You go first.”

He smirks. “You’re scared.”

“Um, yeah . A big dark hole in the ground has the potential to scare me quite a bit,” I point out.

Chris stands up, amused.

“Well, you can take it from here,” Walter says.

We immediately turn our attention back to the old man with the crochet beanie on his head.

“Thank you for your help,” Chris says, shaking his hand, patting him on the back. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

“This is my home,” Walter replies. “I intend to keep it that way.”

Walter looks at me.

“You keep your eye on him, alright?” he smiles.

“Whatever you say.” I stand there fiddling with my jacket buttons, overcome with the urge to hug him. So I do. I throw my arms around his neck and pull him into a warm embrace. “Everything will be okay,” I say. “This isn’t Nazi Germany. Not yet.”

I step back, hoping he didn’t see that as an invasion of personal space or anything. “I believe you,” he replies, taking my hand. “Be careful, both of you. And good luck.”

Chris drops to his knees and slides under the metal plating of the gutter. He rolls over the side of the cement slope and disappears under the sidewalk. I freeze, waiting for him to hit the bottom.

I hear a soft thud, then, “Your turn, Cassie.”

I turn around and kiss Walter on the cheek.

“Thank you,” I say.

I get down on my hands and knees and crawl under the sidewalk. The cement slopes downward, covered with wet leaves. I swallow and whisper, “Here I come.”

I roll off the slope, twisting to brace for the impact. I land on my feet, halfway on the ground, halfway on top of Chris. He catches me, making the hit pretty soft. “Good thing you don’t weight much,” he mutters.

It’s absolutely impossible to see down here. A little stream of light is coming from the gutter opening above. It’s almost completely extinguished as Walter puts the gutter grill back on, propping it against the sidewalk.

“I’ve never heard of a gutter this size,” I say. “This is against so many safety regulations.”

“That’s the least of our problems.” Chris reaches for my hand and holds on tight. “Don’t let go. Just trust that I know where I’m going.”

“I don’t,” I reply, “but I still won’t let go.”

I reach out to touch the wall, grossed out when my fingers brush something wet and slimy. My shoes are apparently ankle deep in city sludge, too.

“No talking unless absolutely necessary,” Chris says. “We don’t want anybody to hear us.”

“What if somebody else is down here? Somebody bad?” I ask.

“The chances of that are slim. Come on.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Because I didn’t want to.” A few beats of infuriating silence go by before he continues. “If there is someone down here, that would make it even more important to be quiet. Yes?”

I nod.

“Cassidy?”

“I nodded! We’re not supposed to talk, remember?”

Chris either chokes or laughs, tightening his grip on my hand. He starts walking forward, and I realize that I have to bend down a little bit to keep from hitting my head on what is now a cement ceiling. We’re in a tunnel, sloughing through sticky grossness that’s been washed right off the city streets.

“I thought these tunnels were supposed to be empty,” I say, disgusted by the feel of dirty water around my ankles.

“They’re abandoned,” Chris whispers, “not empty. Relax. Walking through sewage is better than being arrested.”

Sewage ?

I try not to gag. Chris is hunched down more than I am on account of him being six foot four. After a few hours — okay, minutes — of feeling our way down the cold tunnel, I start to feel claustrophobic. Why?

One: There is no light. Two: I feel like I’m trapped in a box. And three: It smells like a bunch of rats came and died down here.

“How much farther?” I ask.

“About a mile.”

“A mile !?”

“Shhh.” Chris slaps his hand over my mouth. “Quiet, remember?”

I move his hand away from my face, noting just how stale and pungent the air is down here. I had expected a cold, freezing tunnel system. Instead it’s almost warm, like no air ever enters the tunnels.

Every once in a while we hear weird dripping or scurrying noises, sending horrible images of Indiana Jonesand the Temple of Doom through my head. I curl my hands into fists and keep my lips pressed together, trying to avoid inhaling any unseen insects.