“A network?”
“A secret underground network,” Floyd said, glancing up at the dirt above our heads. “And I mean that in both a literal and figurative sense.”
After a moment of silence—both of us lost in thought—I stood up and started taking pictures of the box. “For Charlie,” I muttered when Floyd glanced up. “He knows about this type of shit, right? He might be able to tell us something.” The light from Floyd’s flashlight helped me focus on the box. I got a couple of midrange shots, then cranked the lens down into macro mode to catch the finer details.
When I was done, I settled back into a crouch and started to flip through the pictures on the LCD screen. The pictures looked good. The focus was sharp, especially on the macro shots, and I could make out a product number on the box’s bottom edge: PDL-0001A.
As the seconds stretched into minutes, Floyd started to fidget at my side. He stood up and paced the length of the room a couple of times, then moved over to the mouth of one of the tunnels. He pointed his flashlight down the tunnel’s length, but its meager light did nothing to illuminate that inky-black space.
When I finished checking out my shots, I glanced up and saw his outline in the dark. Its edges were barely visible, gradients of gray in a sea of black. It was a beautiful scene: Floyd standing at the mouth of the tunnel, staring into its deepest, darkest heart. I raised the camera and took a couple of pictures. The strobe flash shattered the darkness, replacing black with omnipresent earthy brown. And in those brief instances, Floyd’s bright clothing stood out like a neon sign, a flare of color in an otherwise drab world.
Suddenly, Floyd let out a startled gasp and stumbled back from the opening. The gasp was a panicked, frantic sound, a loud
He dropped his flashlight, plunging the chamber into complete and total darkness.
I fumbled with the camera, turning it back around and frantically working the buttons with my uninjured hand. By the time I had it lit, Floyd was at my side, his hand gripping my arm. “Did you see him?” he whispered, his face pressed up against my ear. “Down the tunnel? In the flash?”
“I didn’t see a thing,” I said. “What is it? What did you see?”
“It can’t be,” he whispered. “Those eyes, those eyes … like they were underwater, like they’ve been underwater for a year. Since … since …” Then a deep shiver ratcheted through his bones, stealing his voice.
And I could see his fear. All of it. It was in his eyes, the scathing, terrified depths of the thing, that primal, bestial terror. He watched the tunnel for a couple more seconds, then abruptly turned my way, fixing me with that same unbreakable stare.
“Let’s go. Let’s go
He pulled me to my feet, not waiting for an answer, and plunged us into the nearest tunnel.
Photograph. October 20, 10:50 P.M. Naked flesh:
It is a simple image. All blurred colors, with no sharp lines. Too abstract to be pornography. Too explicit to be art.
At first, I thought we were lost. I thought Floyd had pulled us into the wrong tunnel.
There was just dirt around us—damp, featureless dirt. Nothing to distinguish one tunnel from another, nothing to recognize, to cling to in the dark.
I imagined us wandering, lost, through these tunnels.
The camera battery would die soon. Without its light, the darkness and dirt would swallow us whole. And then we’d be really and truly lost. We’d be buried alive.
Using our hands. Stumbling blind. Moving deeper and deeper underground.
Finally, without warning, we reached the cellar. Floyd let out a loud sigh of relief, breath hitching in his throat. Then he pulled me from the mouth of the tunnel, out onto the concrete floor. When I paused, lifting the camera to view the empty room once again, Floyd continued on without me, dropping my arm and darting ahead into the gloom. His feet made a terrible racket as he stumbled his way up the dimly lit steps.
The door banged open above me, letting light into the cellar. After the darkness, that dim gray rectangle burned like a supernova at the top of the stairs.
When I reached the foyer, I found Floyd sitting with his back against the front door. He was digging through his pockets. After a couple of seconds, he pulled out a pill bottle and spilled a couple of oxycodones onto his shaking palm. He bolted them down and closed his eyes, his entire body falling slack with relief.
“What did you see?” I asked. When he didn’t respond, I tried again: “How about we talk about it?”
“How ’bout we shut the fuck up?” Floyd replied, his anxiety rushing out in an exhausted gasp. “How ’bout we just …
He remained still for a couple of seconds. Then he hugged himself, rubbing at his arms like he was trying to get warm. “I was seeing things,” he said. “I just let my imagination get the best of me.”
“Then tell me what it was,” I prodded.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Dean,” he growled. His eyes popped open, and he fixed me with an angry glare. “This isn’t something I talk about, okay? So shut the fuck up! There ain’t going to be a tender moment here … and no fucking group hug!”
He pushed himself up off the floor and threw the door open, storming out in an angry huff. After a couple of seconds, I followed, tracing his path back through the snow.
As soon as I entered the house, I heard Floyd’s bedroom door slam shut up on the second floor. I thought about following him up but decided not to press my luck. He’d taken his pills. He’d be calmer soon. If he wanted to talk, he’d talk.
“What was that?” Charlie asked, emerging from the kitchen. “It sounded like a freight train running through the house.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just Floyd. I think I pissed him off.”
Charlie nodded dismissively, then turned back toward the kitchen. He paused at the threshold and looked back over his shoulder. “If you want to do your forum post,” he said, “you should get me your computer soon. I don’t know when Taylor’s friend’s going to show up.”
I grunted my assent, then went upstairs to grab my notebook computer. I paused briefly in the hallway outside Floyd’s door. I could hear him pacing back and forth inside his room. Whatever he’d seen down there in the tunnels, he hadn’t escaped it yet. It was still with him, chasing him back and forth, back and forth.
When I got back to the kitchen, Charlie popped open my computer and set it on the table next to his own. He immediately began shuttling through my file system, popping from window to window with uncanny agility. It was too fast for me to follow; his hands were a blur, careening back and forth atop the keyboard. After a couple of minutes, he made an encouraging sound and started typing code into his own machine.
I let him work, turning my attention to the camera.
The camera was getting dirty. Before coming to the city, I’d treated my Canon with great care. It was my prized possession, and I kept it clean, in pristine shape. In the last couple of days, however, I’d let all of that slide. Now I was dismayed to find dings and scratches all along its matte-black body. Not to mention the mud and the layer of grime where I’d been touching it with my dirty hands. I used the hem of my shirt to wipe away most of the
