James Van Pelt - Summer of the Apocalypse

“Do we have to?” asked Teach weakly.

After splashing along for a couple of minutes, ducking their heads beneath low-slung I-beams every ten feet, Teach said, “Will this get us there?”

Eric kept his hand on a conduit next to him. The water wasn’t deep, but the footing was slippery. “It’s not a direct route. This passage ought to take us to the Heating Plant where all the heat and power originated.”

“So, what were those boilers for?”

Eric thought about it. Their steps echoed in the passageway. The air smelled dank, but not dead. He guessed that there must be circulation. “Maybe they’re for back up. I studied the maps and a schematic of C.U., but they didn’t say anything about that.”

They reached an intersection, and Eric stopped. Teach bumped him from behind.

“Where’s this go?” asked Teach.

Eric held up the lantern, but the pale light showed only a few feet of passage. “It wasn’t on the map.” A sign bolted on the wall said, “B-82.”

Eric had always had a good memory for things he’d read, and in his mind’s eye he could see the map of C.U. on his dining room table, the late afternoon sun slanting across it as he placed his finger on each building and looked for its name in the key. He smiled to himself. “It’s to the theater. We started from the basement of the Geology Center. Next to it was Economics. This passage wasn’t on the map, but that’s the theater’s number from the schematic.” Eric pointed to the sign. “If this goes where it ought to, we’ll be underneath the Ekeley Chemical Laboratories Complex in a few hundred yards, which will put us close to the library.”

“The place gives me the creeps. If it weren’t for the kids, you couldn’t have gotten me down a hole like this for a year’s supply of firewood.” Teach’s deep voice rumbled in the dark, but he sounded unsure, a little panicky. Eric gritted his teeth. The reminder of the lost kids made him quiver, and Teach’s nervousness set him on edge. Here, in the service tunnels beneath the campus, Teach looked out of place. Water soaked his soft leather soled moccasins, and goose bumps stood his leg hairs on end. They started forward again, Eric holding the lantern ahead of them, feeling each step carefully, although the floor had not varied and the water had remained a uniform half-inch in depth so far. “It’s a scavenger skill,” said Eric patiently. “For years, we’ve explored the Gone Time places, hunting for supplies, looking for the treasures that had been left behind. I’ve spent thousands of hours in the dark.” They came to a ladder. Eric climbed a few rungs and shown the light on the trap-door above. A huge padlock was snapped shut around a pair of sloppily welded rings to hold the door closed. Here a sign said, “B-19.”

“Right on path,” said Eric. “That’s Chemistry. Arts and Science should be directly ahead, and the library will be on our left.”

Eric moved the light close to the ladder rungs. “See this,” he said and showed Teach how a thin layer of flaky rust coated each step. “The middles are scraped clean, though. Whoever locked the doors did it pretty recently. Probably in the last year. Either somebody is living in the tunnels, or there is one door that’s locked on the outside.”

Teach rubbed his finger on the rung and held it up. “Damp. It would rust in a couple of days. Somebody uses this ladder a lot.”

Eric smiled. “Give me a couple of months and I’ll make a scavenger out of you.” Teach shuddered. “Jackal’s life isn’t for me. Too many poisons. If it’s Gone Time I say leave it lie. Good for cooking fire talk, but don’t play with their toys.”

“You’d rather a bear ate you, or your children died from measles, huh? Are you happy knowing that your expected life span is twenty years shorter than mine?” Suddenly angry, Eric stomped down the corridor, splashing dark splotches against both walls. He felt the blood rising in his face. We’re so close, he thought. The library’s right around the corner, and this… this… caveman doesn’t know why we’re here. Behind him, Teach said evenly, “I’ve heard a lot about the Gone Time. Mostly horror stories I’ve got to tell you. Stuff my parents told me. What Ripple’s found out. Even the things you’ve said. I’ve heard about Gone Time magic, tales I can hardly believe, but you know what I never hear anyone say? That Gone Time people were happy. For all the cars and trains and subways, for all the medicine and telephones and computers, for all the manufacturing and invention and television, I haven’t heard a single word about how happy the Gone Times were. So why don’t you answer your question? Were you happy in the Gone Time? When was the first time you were really happy?”

They pushed on in the dark in the silence punctuated by the hollow slap of their feet on the wet floor, and Erie thought back, and he remembered the first time:

Between conscious and unconscious he drifted, and he was thinking, I’m warm again, and he floated. Slowly he felt himself moving upwards, out of the lethargy and dreaming of sleep, and briefly he thought of going back to the soft blankness, but he didn’t, and slowly he became aware that he was lying on his side. He was wrapped in warmth. It pushed against his back and sides, even over his ears and the top of his head. He breathed in the moisture of his own breath. His head rested on soft, warm cloth. Vaguely, he wondered where he was and how he got here. It was like he’d been sick when he was a child. He’d hide under the blankets with his fevers and chills, and listen to the gentle hiss from the vaporizer, smell the rich penetrating odor of Vick’s Vapor Rub, and he’d stay covered up until the fever broke and he was wet with perspiration. For hours he’d stay wrapped, interrupted only by his mother checking on him. Being sick was no fun, but afterwards, wrapped and warm and tired, he felt content. That’s how he felt now, but he knew he wasn’t a child, and after a while he started to think about what had happened in the last few days: the cave, the long bike ride, the destruction in Golden and the ghost cop, Meg and the basement, wind, the long run from the fire, hail, snow, cold, and Leda. None of these memories worried him. He was just sorting them out lazily, as if they’d slipped out of place, and he needed to file them again.

Where am I? he thought. What does it matter? he answered, and he let his attention drift away again almost back to sleep. His right arm seemed to be trapped, but he didn’t feel energetic enough to move it. His left arm was draped over something, and the weighty softness of cloth pressed around it all. Beneath his left hand, he felt a warm, damp, smooth surface, and he rubbed it gently. Still not awake, sleep like a great, fuzzy presence in his mind, he massaged the surface beneath his hand and it stirred. An arm tightened around him, and he realized he was holding Leda. They were in bed, and he remembered the white bungalow with blue trim, the blue goose with “Welcome” painted on it on the front door. He felt a hand on his back move; fingernails scratched lightly by his shoulder blade, not purposefully, accidently; she was still sleeping. Her forehead rested on his chest, and he could feel her breathing. He pressed against her back, pulling her closer and continued rubbing. Skin rippled under his palm, her backbone a gentle line of bumps, her skin slick with sweat. The tiny hairs at the back of her neck felt like mouse fur. He left his hand there and moved his fingers in tiny motions, stroking lightly, holding her, and gradually, through his drowsiness, he realized they were naked, that she had saved his life with her body warmth. Her chest rested against his own. His left knee lay on top of her knee. This wasn’t what he’d imagined being in bed with a woman would be like. He thought of the scenes from movies he’d seen, the arching, violent couplings; the athletic, frantic gymnastics in film after film, but here he was in bed with Leda, holding the back of her neck, feeling her breath on his skin as she slept, and it felt comfortable and lazy and… and… right. Not even sexual as he’d always thought of it. Just good. He lay like that for a long time. A half-hour or more he guessed.