Going Gray (13 page)

“Rats!” he answered, his tone sharp. “Probably driven inside too. Same as us.”

“Do you think there are a lot of them?”

“Can’t tell, but I’m hearing something. And most of the sound is coming from the pipes. Like it's their own private highway.”

Emily startled when Peter cupped her shoulder with his hand. He motioned to their left and beamed his light in that direction. She glimpsed one of the fleshy tails before it dashed into the dark, escaping the light as if it had burned them. But it was what the rats did next that stirred a deeper fear. They perched themselves behind one of the slender pipes, standing on another pipe below it, and resting their paws in front of them. If she didn’t know any better, she’d have sworn that the rats were watching them. A half dozen, maybe more, stared, motionless, lined up like a knock-down carnival game—
three balls, three throws, knock one down and win a prize
.

“Why aren’t they running?” she asked, curious.

“I think they’re waiting for us. Following us.” Peter exclaimed. “Have been for a while now.”

“Food.”

“Food? Could be.”

“If they are in here with us, then they’re going to be looking for food.” Emily shined her flashlight at one of the bigger rats. Round gleaming eyes stared back at her, patiently. “At least I think that’s what they are doing.” Emily kicked the tip of her shoe, stubbing her toe on the ground. The rats didn’t move. Frustrated, she looked for something to throw, but the service tunnel was surprisingly clean.

“Let’s get moving,” Peter told her, setting his flashlight in the direction of the lone light. “I don’t want to stay down here any longer than we have to. And I don’t want to give them rats anything to think about.”

“Think about what?” she asked, but then considered what he meant and didn’t like the humor of it.

“I think I might be a bit too tough for their taste, but you’d probably chew up nice and easy,” he laughed.

Peter stepped ahead of her, whipping around in a single turn, his flashlight perched beneath his chin, shining a flood of blue light on his face. The image was terrifying. Emily tensed. “You look exceptionally tender
Clarice
!” He hissed the name, bellowing a raucous laugh that echoed all around her. The sound was surprisingly good—very haunted house, she supposed. Feet pattered along the pipes, answering his mock cry, running in both directions.

Fear suddenly overwhelmed her, tightening every muscle. She ran at him, slapping his arm for having scared her.

“Ow,” he cried, but continued laughing.

“Not funny!”

Peter’s laugh quieted, ending when he cleared his throat. She didn’t know why, but the sudden emotion pushed her to crying. “Just don’t do that, okay?” His arm was around her next, holding her.

“Shhh, I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was sedate, calming. She let herself go for a moment not caring whether or not she was embarrassing herself. It was a small cry, but enough to wet her cheeks and to spill what needed spilling. “I can be an asshole sometimes, and given the circumstances, that wasn’t very funny.”

Emily felt the heat of his body, and leaned into him, closer. Time passed without any tears, without any words, only the sound of their breathing and the distant scurry of tiny feet along the pipes.

“We should get moving,” she said, and then quickly regretted saying anything at all. A new feeling stirred. Inviting.

“Yeah,” he answered, but then touched her chin, easing her face up until she only saw his eyes. At once, she was lost in them, unable to look away. She melted inside. “I am sorry. I promise I won’t do that again.”

“Good,” she told him, but that was all she could get out. When he didn’t look away, she melted some more. Emily put her hand over the flashlight, and added, “Might just have to kick your ass if you do.” They laughed at that.

Emily couldn’t tell how far they walked, and was glad when they were finally beneath the emergency light. The rats stayed close behind them, matching their pace. The light wasn’t at all like the emergency lights in the mall. She looked at it but turned away from the curly hot glow. She stared ahead into the darkness where an afterimage floated in front of her. It was a tunnel light, the kind with a heavy glass jar and a small metal cage to protect it.

A ladder, similar to their own, jutted out of the wall. She followed it upward and to her relief she saw the underside of a hatch door.

“Do you think anyone is in the Food-Mart?” she asked.

“Can’t say,” Peter answered, taking hold of the ladder and jerking on it. “Might have already been down here and didn’t see anything but the rats.” Emily watched as Peter shined his flashlight on the stack of pipes, tracing them back until the beam of light vanished in the blackness.

“I think I hear something,” she said.

A faint commotion. Peter stopped climbing.

“Did you hear it?” Emily asked. Gripping her flashlight, her hand trembled.
Breathe
.

Peter raised his hand, leaning toward the dark and listened. “I hear something. But to me, it sounds like water.” His voice didn’t sound convincing. “If everything comes in from the street like Mr. Halcomb said, I’m guessing that there are tunnels connecting all the buildings. Relax. If anything, I’m surprised that we don't hear more.”

Emily tried relaxing. And when the sound came again, she repeated to herself what Peter said.
It’s just water.

They weren’t alone. While she thought there might be some survivors in the Food-Mart, she never considered the rest of the town. The other tunnels. How many?

The scurrying echo of rat feet caught her attention. More of them followed. She swung her flashlight around, stabbing it in every direction. The shine of cold beady eyes stared back at her. She hated the thought of it, but this was their tunnel and her and Peter were the trespassers.

“We should get moving,” she told Peter, pushing against his back. He climbed the ladder and knocked the metal plate with the heel of his hand. “Try your flashlight… metal on metal and all that.”

Light bounced and danced on top of her as he clinked the metal with the butt of his flashlight. The sound rang truer, cleaner and easier to hear. They waited. An awful thought occurred to her then. What if the Food-Mart hatch was locked, or stuck? Minutes seemed to pass and Peter knocked again. They waited for a knock back, or the sound of a muffled call. Nothing.

“I think we’re going at it alone on this one,” he said and handed her his flashlight. “Gotta try and push the door open.” The flashlight handle was warm and even in the cool air, she could see a sweaty sheen on his face. With one hand holding the ladder, Peter pushed against the door, easing into it, straining to move it. He groaned, lunging upward until his arms shook from the stress.

“Is it stuck?” she asked, and then felt stupid for stating the obvious. “I mean, do you think it’s locked?” Peter pushed again.

“Nope, not locked,” he answered, feeling around the lip of metal and concrete. “Locked would feel different, looser. That quake we had earlier—the bigger one—I think something fell on the door, weighing it down.”

“What do you think we should do?”

“Got an idea,” he said and pushed one leg behind a ladder rung, freeing his other hand. “Leverage. I need leverage to use both hands and push up on the door. Just hope this ladder holds.” Peter pushed again, and at once Emily could see the hatch begin to open. A sliver of light appeared, tapping the darkness like a knock on the door. Emily shielded her tunnel eyes from the brightness, unable to adjust fast enough.

“It’s moving!”

“Whatever is on the door, I think it’ll slide off —” Peter groaned, “— just a little more.” Emily could barely hold the flashlights. Her hands shook as she jumped up and down, excited by the light, but more so with the idea that they’d be out of the tunnel soon.

Peter’s scream doused the fluttery feeling in her belly. The sound was terrifying: primal. The sharp light quickly went gray, doused, blocked by a beefy arm sliding through the opening. The arm dropped down, swinging back and forth, carried by its own weight. Peter reeled backward, nearly tumbling down the ladder, but with his leg behind the ladder rung, he held firm.

And though she’d been startled as well, a sudden coldness came to her. The weight on top of the hatch was a dead body. Sleeveless and covered with patches of brown and gray hair, an old tattoo in the shape of an ancient scroll dressed the dead man’s forearm. An older man, years had taken away any of the tattoo’s clarity, leaving behind blotchy letters and fading ink mottled with age spots.

Scaly dark patches of dried blood covered the inside of the man’s arm, yet there were no burns on his skin. The man hadn’t died from the poison.
An
injury?
she supposed, unsure.

Days ago, before the clouds fell, she would have run from such a thing. But now, the sight of a dead body, the touch of their lifeless skin, had become part of her every day. Sadly, it almost seemed normal.

“He’s dead,” Emily offered, shining her flashlight onto the dark patches of blood. She narrowed her eyes, seeing the edge of dried blood lift and flake, moving against the shallow current of air. Peter looked down, covering his eyes from her flashlight. “Do you think you’re going to be able to open the door?”

Peter pinched the man’s arm, moving it around to see the blood. “There’s a few burns,” he answered, continuing to inspect tattoo man. “But I don’t think he’s been outside.”

“Do you want me to come up and help?” Peter shook his head. He strained against the door, and then repositioned his legs: one in front of the ladder and one cradling a rung from behind.

“I’ll try to slide him off.”

Peter faced away from the opening, pressing his shoulder into the metal plate and then lifted. Emily shuddered at the sound of flesh slipping on the metal. More of the arm fell in, lifting her hope. Peter pushed harder, higher, until more sounds of the scraping flesh came to them. The dead man’s arm rolled, becoming alive, moving backward and around until it faced the other direction. For a moment, the man’s hand lurched unexpectedly, and the stiffened fingers poised upward as if flipping them off.

“He’s giving you the bird,” Emily said, but then felt stupid for trying to make a joke of it. Peter turned his head in time to see the dead man’s final obscenity, and then returned to pushing on the door. A thump came from above them, and the hatch door flung open.

“Got it!” Peter exclaimed. But when his eyes bulged, and tears wetted his cheeks, Emily shrank back to find safety in the dark. “The smell… it’s awful.” Peter heaved and then grabbed for the ladder, missing the rung while yanking upward on his pinned leg, trying to free it. He clutched at the air and then cupped a hand over his mouth, gagging and waving for Emily to turn away. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t tell what was wrong. Vomit spewed from between his fingers in long streams. A fountain of chunky slop splattered down onto the dense concrete in front of her, covering her shoes in specks of what looked to her like clam chowder. She gagged and pressed her lips and tried to hold her breath. The stench from the opening breached the service tunnel like a deadly finger, watering her eyes in an instant. She felt her insides turn and then heaved, coughing out a mouthful of tea and banana muffin.

“Peter,” she coughed. “Come down before you fall.” Another shower of vomit rained onto the concrete, splattering and painting a sickening flower on the concrete. By now, Emily had the company of curious rats coming toward her—all apprehensions lost to them. There was food falling from the sky, and they were hungry for a bite. Disgusted, Emily shooed them away, swinging the flashlight like a sword. Jutting rays of light cut across the dark, revealing a small army of beady eyes. She no longer feared a bite from their yellowing teeth, or felt squeamish by their stringy naked tails. The air stank of salty decay and rot and drove all of her instincts at once.

“Awful —” Peter started, and continued to gag. He puckered his mouth then, pressing his lips until they were thin gray lines. When he reached the last ladder rung, Peter dropped to the concrete. He wiped his mouth, swinging his arms at the rats. “Get out of here!”

“What is that?” Emily managed to cough out. Swinging her flashlight, she imagined holding a lightsaber—like the kind she’d seen in the movie her father watched over and over—but this one had little effect on the rats. A few shied away from the light, only to advance again. “We have to get up there. We’ll have to run past it somehow!”

“Rotting meat. A lot of it, I think. We must be at the back, near the walk-in freezer,” Peter answered, kicking his feet in the direction of the rats. “Freezer must’ve been left open. Not sure why?”

A rat—one of the biggest Emily had ever seen—ignored their yells and swinging feet and jumped straight up, reaching as high as their knees, and plopped its round body into the middle of the vomit puddle. The two looked at one another, but said nothing as the rat picked up a chunk of spent food and sank its toothy mouth into it.

“Gross, let’s get out of here.”

“The hatch is free, just hold your breath and follow me.”

“Where should we go?” Emily asked, and wondered if the entire store smelled as bad. There’d be no way to breathe if that were the case. Peter stared at the rat, who by now had been joined by two more. All three stared back, sometimes looking at Emily, but mostly watching Peter. Even in the shadow, Emily could see the blood running out of his face, sickened by more than just the smell.
He’s going green
, she thought. Though, in this light, she wouldn’t call it green, he was gray. “Peter!” she yelled, wrenching his attention away from the rats feasting.