ICROUCHED MOTIONLESS, PEERING INTO THE ENDLESS BLACK VOID.
Clearly, I hadn’t broken through to the aboveground world. But to what? A basement? A tunnel? Another catacomb, long ago sealed and forgotten?
Impressions churned in my head.
The outside air was dank, colder than that in the tomb.
My nose sorted new smells. Mud. Stagnant water. Mold. Piss?
“Hello? Help!”
My voice echoed, suggesting a cavernous space.
“Anyone out there?”
Nothing but the hollow rollback of my words.
I squinted into darkness so absolute it seemed to have life.
Based on the time it took the door to sail down to terra firma, I gauged distance to the ground as just a few feet.
Could my injured ankle take the hit?
It had to. Staying put wasn’t an option.
Rolling to my bum, I scooched forward, eased my legs over the edge, then turned onto my stomach. I tried to stretch to my full length while keeping a grip on the door opening. The brick was too slick, my fingers too numb. I dropped off.
The landing sent a sharp slap of pain up my left leg. The knee buckled and I tumbled sideways. My shoulder hit hard, and rough ground claimed what skin remained on my right cheek.
I lay a long moment, waiting for the throbbing to subside. My hands and feet were almost dead from the cold. My head pounded. My mouth and tongue were parched.
I was gagging from the smell of sewage and sludge.
Sudden flashbulb images. A quarry. Boxed bones. Chris Corcoran. Veca-mamma. Cukura Kundze.
Lassie Tot.
At last. Memory was trickling back.
I’d traveled to Chicago when? Vecamamma’s Christmas decorations were up. December. How long ago? What had occurred since?
Recent history remained elusive, so I tried to focus on the present situation.
In the stillness, faint but close, I heard twittering and scratching.
Adrenaline shot from synapse to synapse.
Rats!
I lurched to my feet.
And cracked my skull.
My heart went into claustrophobic overdrive.
Easy!
I drew a steadying breath. Another.
Bent at the waist, I tested with one tentative step.
My injured ankle breathed fire.
I gulped several more mouthfuls of air. Then, crouching with arms outstretched, I painfully backtracked.
I’d landed not far from the mouth of the tomb. I explored the wall with my hands.
I was in a brick, tubelike structure with a sloping floor. The tomb entrance was near the tube’s top on one side.
The scrabbling sounded closer now, robust. I shivered from cold and disgust.
The tube leads somewhere. Follow it.
Using the wall as both guide and crutch, I began hobbling through the dark.
The air was dank, the ground slick underfoot.
I imagined beady red eyes. Naked tails. Yellow teeth bared in long pointy snouts. I had to force my fingers to stay on the brick.
The smell was overpowering, a mixture of garbage, feces, and slime. Was I in a drainpipe? A sewer?
Yes. It had to be a sewer.
Active? Abandoned?
Sudden terrifying thought.
In older neighborhoods, Montreal relies on a combined drainage system, with sewage and rainwater running through the same pipes.
The air was frigid. What conditions prevailed up top? Snow? Sleet? Was it too cold for rain?
Might a surge of black water suddenly engulf the space I was in? Would it carry me downstream or drown me?
What was wrong with my mind? Why contemplate Montreal’s public works and not recall what brought me to this hell?
Think! Think!
More firefly images.
The Oka skeleton. The Memphremagog corpse.
I took five more tortuous steps. Seven.
Names.
Rose Jurmain. Christelle Villejoin. Anne-Isabelle. Marilyn
