Douglas Preston - Reliquary

“The Hudson,” said Pendergast, “is tidal all the way up past Manhattan.”

Margo dropped the plant and took a step back. “We saw what the drug did to just one microscopic organism. If it’s released into the ocean, God knows what the end result would be. The marine ecology could be totally disrupted. And the food chain is dependent on the oceans.”

“Hold on,” said D’Agosta. “The ocean’s a pretty big place.”

“The ocean distributes many seeds of freshwater and land-growing plants,” Margo said. “Who knows what plants and animals the virus will colonize and multiply in? And if the plant propagates in the ocean—or if the seeds find their way into estuaries and wetlands—it won’t make any difference.”

Pendergast waded out of the water and slung the plant over his shoulder, its bulbous, knotted roots staining the narrow line of his shoulders.

“We’ve got three hours,” he said.

PART THREE

HUT OF SKULLS

It can be illustrative to view the various stratum of subterranean New York society in the same way one would view a geologic cross section, or a food chain showing devolvement from predator to prey. Highest on the chain are those who inhabit a twilight world between the underground and the surface; who visit soup kitchens, welfare offices, or even places of employment by day, only to return to the tunnels by night to drink or sleep. Next come the long-term, habitual, or pathologically homeless persons who simply prefer the dark, warm filth of the underground to the sunlit, often freezing filth of the city streets. Below them—often literally—are the multiple substance abusers and criminals who use the subway and railroad tunnels as havens or hideaways. At the bottom of the cross section are the dysfunctional souls for whom normal life “topside” has simply become too complex or painful to bear; they shun the homeless shelters and flee to dark places of their own. And of course there are other, less categorizable, groups that exist on the fringes of these main strata of underground society: predators, hard-core criminals, visionaries, the insane. This latter category comprises a growing percentage of the homeless, primarily due to the abrupt court-ordered closures of many state mental institutions in recent years.

All human beings have the propensity to organize themselves into communities for protection, defense, and social interaction. The homeless—even the deepest, most alienated “moles”—are no exception. Those who have chosen to live in perpetual darkness below ground will still form their own societies and communities. Of course, society itself is a misleading term when dealing with the underground population. Society implies regularity and order; underground living is, by definition, disordered and entropic. Alliances, groups, communities come together and dissolve with the fluidity of mercury. In a place where life is short, often brutal, and always without natural light, the trappings and niceties of civilized society can fall away like so much ash under the least pressure of wind.

L. Hayward, Caste and Society Beneath Manhattan

(forthcoming)

= 46 =

HAYWARD PEERED DOWN the abandoned subway tunnel, toward the flashlights that played like emergency beacons across the low ceilings and wet stone walls. The Plexiglas riot shield felt bulky and heavy against her shoulder. To her right, she could sense Officer Carlin’s alert, calm presence next to her in the dark. He seemed to know his stuff. He’d know that the worst thing you could be below ground was cocky. The moles wanted to be left alone. And the only thing that inflamed them more than the sight of one policeman was the sight of many policemen, bent on rousting and eviction.

At the front, where Miller was, there was lots of laughter and tough talk. Squad Five had already rousted two groups of upper-level homeless, fringe dwellers who had fled upstairs in terror before the thirty-strong phalanx of cops. Now they were all feeling like hot shit. Hayward shook her head. They had yet to encounter any hard-core mole people. And that was strange. There should have been a lot more homeless in the subway tunnels beneath Columbus Circle. Hayward had noticed several smoldering fires, recently abandoned. That meant the moles had gone to ground. Not surprising, with all the racket everyone was making.

The squad continued down the tunnel, pausing occasionally while Miller ordered small teams off to explore alcoves and side passages. Hayward watched as the groups came swaggering back out of the dark, empty-handed, kicking aside garbage, holding their riot shields at their sides. The air was foul with ammoniac vapors. Even though they were already deeper than ordinary rousting parties ever went, the atmosphere of a field trip had not yet dissipated, and nobody was complaining. Wait until they begin to breathe hard, she thought.

The spur tunnel came to an abrupt end and the squad proceeded, single file, down a metal staircase to the next level. Nobody seemed to know just where this Mephisto hung out, or the extent of the Route 666 community, the primary target of their roust. But nobody seemed to be worried about it. “Oh, he’ll come out of his hole,” Miller had said. “If we don’t find him, the gas will.”

As she followed the rattling, jostling group, Hayward had the unpleasant sensation she was sinking into hot, fetid water. The staircase came out in a half-finished tunnel. Ancient water pipes, weeping with humidity, lined the rough-hewn rock walls. Ahead of her, the laughter tapered off into whispers and grunts.

“Watch your step,” Hayward said, pointing her flashlight downwards. The floor of the tunnel was peppered with narrow boreholes.

“Hate to trip over one of those,” Carlin said, his large head made even larger by the heavy helmet he wore. He kicked a pebble into the closest borehole, then listened until a faint rattle came reverberating up. “Must have fallen a hundred feet,” he said. “Hollow down there, too, by the sound of it.”

“Look at this,” Hayward said under her breath, shining her light on the rotting wooden pipes.

“A hundred years old if they’re a day,” Carlin replied. “I think—”

Hayward put a restraining hand on his arm. A soft tapping was sounding in the heavy darkness of the tunnel.

A flurry of whispers filtered back from the head of the squad. As Hayward listened, the tapping sped up, then slowed down, following its own secret cadence.

“Who’s there?” Miller cried out.

The faint sound was joined by another, deeper tapping, and then another, until the entire tunnel seemed filled with an infernal symphony of noise. “What the hell is it?” Miller asked. He drew his weapon and pointed it down the beam of his flashlight. “Police officers. Come out, now!”

The tapping echoed on as if in mocking response, but nobody stepped into the flashlight beams.

“Jones and McMahon, take your group ahead a hundred yards,” Miller barked. “Stanislaw, Fredericks, check the rear.”

Hayward waited as the short details disappeared into the darkness, returning empty-handed a few minutes later.

“Don’t tell me there’s nothing!” Miller shouted in response to the shrugged shoulders. “Somebody’s making that sound.”

The tapping tapered off to a single, faint ditty.

Hayward took a step forward. “It’s the moles, banging on the pipes—”

Miller frowned. “Hayward, stow it.”

Hayward could see that she had the attention of the others.

“That’s how they communicate with each other, sir,” Carlin said mildly.