An Echo of Death (4 page)
Authors: Mark Richard Zubro
I touched the front of my pants. I had my keys in one pocket and what felt like several quarters in another. I also had my wallet in my back pocket. It could serve if necessary.
I glanced back at the ever-growing light behind us, now the size of a half-dollar. If the guys ahead of us saw it, we'd be in trouble.
I unbent each body part as carefully and quickly as I could and stood up. Scott reared back his right arm to toss his handful of coins. I grabbed his hand to stop him. If he threw the whole handful, they could travel in random directions. It wouldn't do to have an object whiz by from our direction. I wanted the coin to land beyond them.
I held Scott's arm to keep him from throwing and took one of my coins. Carefully, I stretched my hand above my head. I touched the top of the tunnel before my arm was fully extended. I couldn't pitch them overhand. I lowered my arm to waist high, pulled it back, let it shoot forward, and heaved the coin sidearm down the tunnel.
The two men performed to perfection. They leaped up, grabbed the flashlight, and pointed it away from us, first down the tunnel we'd been traversing, then down the other.
“What the hell was that?” Baritone asked. “I don't like this! They're around here somewhere.”
I could tell now that Tenor held the flashlight. He began to swing it back in our direction. Baritone raised a hand and fired down the tunnel where the sound had come from. The report echoed and thundered. We were still too far away to rush them under cover of the noise of the gunshot, but we crept forward slowly.
Tenor's hand with the flashlight swung back away from us. “Stop that!” he said. “Orders were no shooting. At least not yet.”
“I'll defend myself,” Baritone said.
When one of them had said, “Catch them” earlier, I thought perhaps they'd been told not to shoot. This new comment confirmed that possibility and gave me some comfort.
Baritone continued, “I'm not going to get caught. I'll kill them first.”
“Shut up!” Tenor said.
I hoped they would keep talking to cover the sound of our approaching footfalls.
We were ten feet behind them when the figure with the flashlight looked back. “There's light behind us.”
“The guys are coming,” the deep voice said.
“Someone else is there,” Tenor said.
“Now,” I muttered. We rushed them.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Scott dive for the tenor and grab for the hand with the light. The beam wobbled and swung erratically. I jumped toward the hand with the gun which Baritone had begun to raise. My marine training proved to be not all for naught. I slammed his hand against the wall. A shot blasted the darkness. My ears rang. He still gripped the gun. I hoped the shots wouldn't cause a cave-in.
The tunnel behind us echoed with shouts. I wrapped both hands around Baritone's arm and tried to bang the wrist or fingers against the wall. He tried to bite me. I twisted around and managed to get an elbow under his jaw and knock him back a few feet. I'd spun around and was
now facing back the way we'd come. At least three separate bright lights bobbed closer. Adrenaline poured into my body. I threw my whole weight behind smashing the hand with the gun against the wall.
now facing back the way we'd come. At least three separate bright lights bobbed closer. Adrenaline poured into my body. I threw my whole weight behind smashing the hand with the gun against the wall.
Metal clacked against the cement. I got an arm loose and smashed the heel of my palm up against the bridge of his nose. He crumpled to the ground, and I heard whimpering in the baritone range.
I whirled to find Scott still locked in combat with Tenor. I grabbed the back of Tenor's hair and twisted and pulled back, then rammed his head nose first against the wall. He dropped the flashlight, met the floor, and stayed there.
Voices called behind us. I grabbed the gun off the floor, and Scott snatched up the flashlight.
Not much time to decide which tunnel. Scott leaped toward the opening leading to the intersecting passage and turned right, farther into the tunnel. He was moving, and I had no time to agree or disagree. No good to try going back. I followed him.
As my butt cleared the entrance, I heard shots ring out.
Into the ensuing silence, Baritone yelled, “Don't shoot! Don't shoot! You might hit us!”
A few precious seconds gained in the confusion and silence. Had the decision not to shoot been changed?
I didn't bother debating the safety of falling into a dead-fall, well, or cavern. We couldn't use the flashlight. It might light our way, but it would also make us great targets with them close behind.
“Run!” I yelled.
I feltâmore than sawâthe shadow of Scott's body speeding beside me. I heard the material on my shirt scrape against the wall as my arms pumped furiously. I glanced back once and saw a light flashing around a corner. I didn't slacken my pace, but I fired two rounds at random behind me. The two flashes from the gun gave a brief burst of light, but the roar of the firing made an incredible din. I didn't care whether I hit anything. I just
wanted to scare them into not followingâor at least hesitating, because now we were armed as well. It didn't work.
wanted to scare them into not followingâor at least hesitating, because now we were armed as well. It didn't work.
Out of the threatening darkness behind us a fusillade of bullets thundered and echoed through the tunnel. I dived into Scott, shoved him to the floor, and covered him with my body. Bullets rained for fifteen or twenty seconds. I felt a few faint bits of dust drift onto my cheek, from where a bullet must have hit in the ceiling above. My right arm and shoulder got soaked from a puddle of water.
“Are you hit?” I whispered in the echoing din.
“I'm okay,” Scott muttered.
“We can't stay here,” I said. “They'll simply come for us. We've got to run.”
I heard his mumbled agreement.
“Now,” I whispered.
We rose. I said, “Keep as close to the sides as you can.” I didn't want to fire again because the tracings from my gunshots, I now realized, had shown them where to fire. As I ran, I tried rationalizing my not thinking about our being targets, but quickly gave it up amid the desire to keep air flowing into my lungs, and the growing fear that I would plow into something, or trip and break a vital limb leaving myself to the mercy of whoever had killed Glen.
I turned my head back for a second. No lights behind us. Maybe at least one of them had figured out that their lights presented a target for us to shoot at, as well.
Down the tunnel we fled, reckless in our fear. Our narrow confines allowed the sounds of pursuit from behind to echo and reecho, making it seem, at times, as if our hunters were inches behind us.
Suddenly the tunnel began to slope down. Then lack of wall touching my elbow and a sense of spaciousness on either side made me aware that we were at a junction.
I reached out for Scott.
“Which way?” he whispered. His words seemed as loud as the last trumpet on Judgment Day.
If I remembered the general idea of the tunnels from all
the flood stories, they moved generally west and south from where we were. If we had been traveling south, then we certainly didn't want to take the left-hand opening, which would lead toward the lake. The tunnels dead-ended or turned back upon themselves before reaching Lake Michigan.
the flood stories, they moved generally west and south from where we were. If we had been traveling south, then we certainly didn't want to take the left-hand opening, which would lead toward the lake. The tunnels dead-ended or turned back upon themselves before reaching Lake Michigan.
Not a lot of time to choose.
“Right,” I said. “At least we'll be out of any line of fire if they decide to start shooting again.”
“What if that tunnel that was paralleling ours comes out near here?” Scott asked. “Some of them could have followed it and used lights. They could have leapfrogged ahead of us and be to our right.”
“Then straight ahead. No more time to argue. Let's move.”
The sounds of pursuit grew fainter, so we employed more care now as we rushed forward. The tunnel floor continued to slope downward, apparently for the trip under the river.
Visions of tons of water breaking through and trapping and drowning us popped into my head. Supposedly the city was making more inspections and bulkheads were being installed to prevent another flood like last time. Which brought another unbidden thought: What if they already had installed the bulkheads along here, and we were rushing headlong into a trap no matter which branching we took? At least now I had a gun. Maybe we could hole up in some obscure cranny. Probably couldn't hold out long. No one knew where we were. I didn't know how often they inspected, or whether the workers on the bulkheads put in overtime on weekends.
We came to another crossing and hesitated, then whirled around uncertainly. I listened for a few moments. Not even an echo pursued us. Maybe we were outdistancing them. I put my arm out to point forward and touched metal. Another couple of steps, and we'd have run into a
bulkhead. To the left was the lake. We took the right-hand turn.
bulkhead. To the left was the lake. We took the right-hand turn.
The aroma of a cat-litter box had been slowly turning into that of a monkey house which desperately needed cleaning. Now that stench of unwashed cages began to overpower us.
“I think we'd better try the light,” Scott said.
“It's not too dangerous?” I asked.
“Whatever is making that stink is more dangerous than what's behind us. Listen,” he said.
Silence impenetrable fell. I strained to listen. Then I caught a light skittering, screechy noise.
Scott switched on the light. At first we couldn't see anything, but we walked forward slowly. Another fifty feet, and at the far edge of the glow from the light, I thought I caught a glimpse of a moving carpet of gray. We stopped. Hundreds, maybe thousands of verminous creatures barred our way.
I stifled my impulse to turn and run.
Scott played the light along the walls. We could see a faint crack through which the animals seemed to move. About forty feet farther along was another junction.
“Will they attack us?” I asked.
“Not if we keep moving.”
“We aren't going to try and walk through them?”
“No, but we can't go back. Let's try for that junction.”
Going back was useless. Going close to rats was our only hope. We began inching forward.
“We haven't met many so far,” I murmured.
“I think all the boarding up of exits has taken away their food supply. They won't stay anyplace that has no food.”
We proceeded at a slow, steady pace.
“I think they're frightened of the light,” Scott said.
Perhaps it was my imagination or the dimness or the fall of the light that made these critters seem to be the size of
the proverbial Toyota. I knew this wasn't the environment in which either of us wanted to meet the vermin elite.
the proverbial Toyota. I knew this wasn't the environment in which either of us wanted to meet the vermin elite.
We turned the corner we'd seen and moved away from the rats. I felt a shiver through my body when we finally turned off the light. We had to save the battery. Slowly the smell became less overpowering. After a while, I put the gun in my belt.
I could hear Scott and touch him, but I desperately wanted to see him. His facial expressions as he talked. The cleft of his chin, the gleam in his eyes when he was about to make me laugh, his broad shoulders, the tiny cone-shaped mole just below his butt on his left leg.
We strode forward while holding out our hands in front of our bodies. An eerie length of time later, I touched solid metal on my right.
“Turn on the flashlight,” I said.
Scott whirled the beam around and caught a shadow to the left. I moved up to examine it.
Metal rungs. Narrow and rusted. He played the beam upward. The glorious steps led into darkness, but it was up, not forward. I leaped toward the bottom rung. I bumped against Scott. The flashlight fell and winked out. I tried to grab it, missed the step, and sprawled forward, banging my head on the cement.
“You okay?” Scott called.
Moments later, I felt his hands touching my left arm.
“I'm fine,” I said.
I tapped my hand on the ground to find the flashlight. I could feel Scott next to me doing the same.
“Got it,” he said a minute later.
“Turn it on!” I ordered.
“I'm trying to. I think it's broken.”
I felt stupid for screwing up, and now giving commands. Of course he would try to turn it on.
When the light didn't reappear immediately, I got truly frightened.
“It's not going to work,” I said. “It's my fault. I'm sorry.”
“Forget it.”
I heard the clunk of metal on cement and then the roll of the flashlight.
“Did you throw it away?” I asked.
“It's broken,” Scott said. “We can't fix it.”
I was torn between yelling at him for flinging it away and feelings of guilt for causing him to drop it in the first place.
“Let's try to find the rungs,” Scott said.
We stepped close to each other and then began moving to the sides, touching every inch of wall.
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