Bad Glass

“C’mon,” I said, pointing to a door in the left-hand wall. “Taylor’s still out there. We’ve got to find her.”

“But … but Danny,” Floyd said, his voice searching, desperate. His eyes remained fixed on the dead body. His face had gone paper-white. “What happened to Danny?”

“I don’t know,” I said, omitting all the stuff I did know, all the stuff I’d seen—Weasel’s fingers, Taylor’s father, merged flesh and broken form—that might shed light on the situation. “The city. The city happened.” It was a statement I’d made before, and it still seemed to hold true.

Unless it’s me and not the city. Unless I happened. My presence, my being here—melting Danny, punching out his heart.

Then I grabbed Floyd’s forearm and pulled him across the room. I cut a wide berth around Danny’s broken form and steered us clear of the piles of twitching spider parts.

Charlie followed.

We crossed through two more rooms, then back through the maw of an earthen tunnel. Once again heading down.

There were wires in the walls here, poking intermittently from the dirt. Not neat, straight lines like the ones we’d found beneath our neighbor’s house, but branching and skewed, like veins in the walls of an organ, as if they’d developed here over time to push blood through the bowels of the earth.

I headed straight through an intersection, then turned left through another hub. More passages followed. I was moving at random, stopping every now and then to listen for sound in the dark, looking for something to guide me through this maze. But there was nothing, and I just kept moving. No sound. No hint. No clue.

Once I looked back and saw Charlie drawing an arrow in the wall with the blade of his shovel. Marking our path.

Then we were in another hub. There was a lantern perched atop a folding metal chair here; it was lit, supporting a tiny guttering flame. The walls danced in flickering light.

I was ready to plunge forward through the mouth of another tunnel, but Floyd grabbed my arm and pointed toward something on the floor, half buried in the dirt. He dropped to his knees and started clearing away some of the muck. It was a messenger bag—tan canvas smeared with mud, a ripped and reknotted shoulder strap.

“This is Sabine’s,” Floyd said, a hint of awe in his voice as he brushed aside dirt, revealing a large rectangular patch sewn into the fabric. The patch read: ART SAVES! I remembered my last glimpse of this bag—on the screen of the video camera, draped over Sabine’s shoulder as she disappeared into the shattered wall. It had caught on the edge of the hole. She’d had to reach back to set it free.

Floyd’s hands were shaking as he upended the bag, sending loose paper, pens, and a can of spray paint spilling to the floor. “What happened to her?” he asked. “You said she was with Mama Cass.” This was the lie I’d told Taylor back at the house. She must have passed it on. “But if this is here … where’d she go?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

But I wondered: Could she be down here? Still alive?

I didn’t think so.

Floyd’s shoulders started to shake, matching his palsied hands. I opened my mouth to tell him something reassuring—I’m sure she’s fine, she just lost her bag—but Charlie interrupted. “Shhhhhhh,” he urged. He was standing at my shoulder, and when I looked back, I found his eyes fixed on the tunnels up ahead, darting from one to another. His hands worked back and forth on the handle of his shovel. “Do you hear that? Do you hear that sound?”

I held my breath and listened. After a moment, I picked out the sound of shouting in the distance. Then there was a low, ominous growl, echoing far, far away.

The sound of wolves.

The sound of shouting and wolves.

Photograph. Undated. Amanda and the wolves:

The picture is framed in the horizontal, perfectly level. All browns and blacks, contrasting white bathed in orange.

It is underground: a dirt cave with a ten-foot ceiling, about twenty feet across. The space is illuminated from the left, where an irregular opening spills bright orange light into the earthen room. There is another tunnel in the right-hand wall, this one filled with darkness.

At least twenty wolves clog the far end of the space. Twenty muzzles face the camera, bright eyes glimmering in the half-light. And, standing in their midst, near the far wall: a woman. Naked, breasts bared, waist- deep in furred mammals.

The woman is blond and dirty. A wolf sits at her side, perhaps the largest in the room. Her hand rests on the scruff of its neck, and the animal, in turn, has a paw raised up against the woman’s side. This is the only animal that is not facing the camera. Its muzzle is turned to look up at the woman’s face.

The woman’s expression is placid—no harsh lines or hunched-up muscles. Her eyes match the wolves’ perfectly; the left one is buried in darkness—a glint of metallic orange shining out from the shadows—and the right one is bright and wide.

There are no bared teeth—on the wolves or on the woman—but the wolves look tense, their muscles coiled with a sharp animal alertness. They look ready to spring, ready to bite and shred and tear.

Floyd dropped Sabine’s bag, and we once again plunged into the dark. At first, I wasn’t sure if I’d picked the right tunnel, but a shout—louder this time—confirmed my choice.

A name, raw and angry: “Amanda!” It was Mac’s voice up ahead. I recognized the hoarse, bass growl.

We emerged into another unlit hub and paused, once again waiting for a guiding voice. My head spun as I tried to catch my breath.

And again: “Amanda!”

Charlie darted out ahead this time, leading us into the rightmost tunnel. The tunnel jibbed and bent, and then there was light up ahead. I could see it—not a steady light but flickering, strobing against the dirt walls. I could smell ozone burning in the air.

We came out into a wider corridor, still dirt but about six feet wide, much wider than the narrow boreholes through which we’d been running. Up ahead, there were two figures standing at the threshold of another, even wider space. Another hub, I guessed. The light was brighter here. We didn’t really need our flashlights anymore.

It was Mac and Taylor, standing at the end of the tunnel. Mac had Taylor gripped in a sleeper hold, with Taylor’s arm waving above her shoulder as he wrenched her back and forth in that incapacitating embrace. They were facing away from us, into the attached room, and as we approached, I could hear Mac growl into Taylor’s ear: “Make her listen! Make her come here!”

Taylor let out a sob. The sound—so pathetic and broken coming from such a strong woman—weakened my knees and almost sent me sprawling to the floor. But I managed to stay on my feet. I continued forward, shoving the flashlight into my pocket and wrapping the baseball bat in a tighter two-handed grip. The feel of the hardwood between my fingers gave me strength, and suddenly I was filled with an intense rage.

Charlie stopped in the tunnel up ahead, pausing in indecision about fifteen feet from its end. I shoved him out of the way and continued on.

Neither Mac nor Taylor saw me coming: Mac remained focused on the room beyond the threshold, and Taylor couldn’t even look back over her shoulder.

“She’ll listen to you,” Mac growled into Taylor’s ear. “Make her—”

And I swung.

The bat slammed into the side of Mac’s knee. Tendon gave way, and he crumpled to the ground, pulling Taylor down on top of him. I bent forward and slid the barrel of the bat past Taylor’s head; she was still in his