The boards flex so much that they pullthe nails from the wood. There is a terrible creaking and a sound, rat-tat-tat,like a machine gun. A dark tide begins to seep in through the windows andfoundation cracks in the basement, at once both horrifyingly fast and languid.It rises up and I struggle to swim. It presses on me, thick and sticky. Icannot move in it. The fluorescents flicker as I lose my footing and begin tosink. I gasp for air but the muddy water clings to my face like a caul. Iinhale it deeply, pull it into my lungs like mucus. My ribs ache from pullingagainst the thickness filling my throat. I cannot get any air.
Dark forms move in the flood, kickingand thrashing beside me. I can’t make out their shapes, but they, too, aredying. Then I cannot see, except for red flashes behind my eyes, and thennothing. Eventually, I wake on the floor beside the crate. The basement is dryand I am alone. Inches from my nose, in a glue trap by the wall beneath thestairs, a mouse lies dying. It cannot move at all, and takes rapid shallowbreaths. As I watch, helpless, its breathing becomes sporadic and stops.
It’s all the sleep I get.
* * *
By Wednesday, time seems to be stoppingfor me, days bleeding into each other. I’m pounding Red Bull to keep my eyesopen. It warmed up so fast, from the twenties to the fifties in two days.Joggers and walkers are out in force, on the sidewalks and along the seawall.I’m wearing a t-shirt under my vest, waving traffic past the site with a flag.It’s been spitting a little rain on and off, but not too bad.
I think I bruised a rib trying to suckin air during a dream, and I’m trying to keep out of shoveling. The remainingsnow along the edges of the road is shrunken and packed and blackened withexhaust. The snow at the park is trampled and brown. The turf beneath is allchopped up as if someone spent the night tearing at it with a post digger. I’mso exhausted from the nightmares I can’t pay attention to anything. I swear Isaw the horses in the subway tunnel, running along the side of the car outsidethe window where I was leaning. Chasing along with me, keeping pace.
I don’t know what’s happening.
The other guys, Biggs included, all lookexhausted, but no one will talk about it. I think I hear hooves on cobbles, butwhen I look up it’s just the click of skateboard wheels. Parker is sayingsomething from down in the trench, but I don’t know what.
“So, we went there, did the thing, andthen we came back,” Parker says.
“Great story, Parker,” Biggs says. “Yougot me on the edge of my seat with that one.”
Reeve nods in agreement. If he hears thesarcasm in her voice he doesn’t let on.
O’Brien, across the trench on thesidewalk side, looks like he’s worse than any of us. He’s past fifty, and hisface is drawn and paler than usual. He’s also in a foul mood, scowling down atParker in the trench.
“No, you idiot,” O’Brien yells. “Youcan’t do it that way, you gotta take that one out first and then theother thing. I don’t have time for this shit. Jesus. Reeve, get down in therewith him. We gotta fill this section today and keep moving.”
Three kids who should be in school zoompast us on their bikes in the small gap between the traffic barrels and abright yellow chicken salad delivery truck.
“Damn fools are gonna get themselveskilled doing that,” Biggs says. The cartoon chicken with a bowtie and paperdeli hat smiles at us and gives a big thumbs up.
“Hey, Biggs. Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s like, ever since we turned thecorner by the rink and started digging down here by the park, I’m getting thesebad dreams.”
“Oh, hell, no,” Biggs says. “I don’tknow anything about it. Don’t ask me.”
“But, before I heard the horses and itlooked like you—"
“Uh-uh. I ain’t about any of that weirdshit, you understand me? You get your own answers for whatever you think you’reseeing. I don’t know nothing about it. When I get off shift I am going home,have a glass of wine, and read a book while my baby rubs my feet. Why are youeven asking me, anyway?”
There is a squeal across the street. AnAsian woman in a jacket and skirt has stumbled. Bystanders help her up. She istall and thin with long legs, almost gangly in her professional attire. Shesnapped off a heel, and is laughing with the people who helped her stand, soshe must not be hurt badly. Tall heels. I’m surprised she didn’t break a leg.She hobbles off, lame but moving.
“Glass of wine sounds good,” I say. “Mypop makes his own by the barrel.”
“Yeah? Well, you carry some down hereI’ll bring it home and try it.”
“Portuguese wine is pretty sweet.”
“That’s all right. I’m pretty sweettoo.”
We laugh. Behind us, O’Brien’s yellingsounds more complimentary and encouraging now, so I figure we can fill thispart of the trench and be done with it. Maybe once we do, the nightmares willstop and I can get some sleep. The afternoon is quiet and we use the backhoe topack the pile of excavated fill back into the hole on top of the new pipesection with the litter of coffee cups and cigarette packs. We’re not supposedto dump that stuff in, but no one will know what’s down there until someonedigs it up again. Hell, the whole airport is built on trash fill, so whatdifference can it make?
I do not see or hear any horses on theway home, and I believe that, whatever that was, it is over now.
