Bad Glass Part 12

Floyd grunted at my abrupt dismissal, but he didn't complain, following me wordlessly into the continuing dark.

After a couple of hundred yards, the walls of the tunnel fell away, opening into a circular room about ten feet wide. A chill broke over my flesh as soon as we entered; it felt at least ten degrees colder inside this small s.p.a.ce. The ceiling remained low, and we had to stay hunched over to keep from hitting our heads.

I slowly panned the camera from left to right, spilling light across the dirt floor. There were tunnels reaching out in every direction, like spokes sprouting from a circular hub.

"What the h.e.l.l is going on?" Floyd whispered, moving up to my side. "Who could have done this?"

"I don't know," I said. "I wouldn't even think it was possible." I moved to the mouth of the nearest tunnel. Its dimensions seemed to match the earlier pa.s.sage: about five feet around, with a flattened floor. A trickle of wind blew in from the darkness. It smelled of autumn leaves and fresh clean snow. "There are no supports on the walls or ceiling, nothing to prevent a collapse." I drew my finger through the damp earth at my side, watching as it spilled to the floor. "n.o.body would do it this way. It's too dangerous. d.a.m.n near suicide."

I turned and found Floyd perched on his knees in the middle of the room, his eyes pointed down at the floor. It was a strange position, and for a moment I thought I'd caught him in midprayer. Or maybe he's fainting, I thought. Maybe this is all just too much for him and he's ready to topple face-first into the dirt. Then he raised his hand and beckoned me over. He had his little flashlight out, and he was shining it down at a box embedded in the middle of the floor.

The box was constructed from matte-black industrial-grade plastic. It had eight thin white wires sprouting from its squat body-two on each side-and a corresponding row of pinpoint LEDs glowed on its top. I turned and raised my camera, following a wire across the floor and into one of the gaping maws.

"It's a junction box," Floyd said. "It links wires from all of these tunnels."

"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 s.h.i.t, 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 s.p.a.ce.

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 hisssssssss, like the sound of gas leaking from a pressurized tank.

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 b.u.t.tons 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, b.e.s.t.i.a.l 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 right now!"

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:

Abstract blur of Caucasian skin. Gold candlelight on open denim. The barest shape of an erection, jutting out of indigo blue. And stretched lips.

It is a simple image. All blurred colors, with no sharp lines. Too abstract to be p.o.r.nography. 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. We've come too far, I told myself. We should be in the cellar by now!

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.

And what would that do to Floyd? I wondered, peering into the darkness ahead. He was already freaking out. Much more of this and he'd be a complete nutjob, panicked and hyperventilating.

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 f.u.c.k up?" Floyd replied, his anxiety rushing out in an exhausted gasp. "How 'bout we just ... shut the f.u.c.k up?"

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 f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.k up! There ain't going to be a tender moment here ... and no f.u.c.king 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 p.i.s.sed 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 a.s.sent, 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 mud, then removed the lens cap and turned the camera up toward the light. I could see specks of dirt all across the green-tinted lens, countless dots of black, marring my precision optics. I let out a deep sigh and replaced the lens cap. There was no way I was going to try to clean my good gla.s.s with a dirty shirt. I had a cleaning kit upstairs. I'd give it a good working over tonight, before I went to bed.

After I finished inspecting the camera, I turned on the viewscreen and flipped back through the pictures I'd taken in the tunnel. Most of them were worthless. They were blurred, out of focus, or showed nothing but deep brown dirt. The pictures of the junction box, while technically fine, were incredibly boring; they were nothing but industrial detail with absolutely no hint of mystery or art. And the pictures of Floyd in the hub were too dark, his pale face floating in a sea of black, staring off into even more black. He could have been standing in any dark room, cave, or midnight forest.

I zoomed in on the last couple of shots, trying to figure out what he'd seen in those brief camera flashes, but the pictures showed nothing new-just his face, contorted in sudden horror.

I shook my head and scrolled back to a picture of the junction box. "Do you know what this is?" I asked Charlie, holding up the camera for him to see.

Charlie glanced up from his notebook. His eyes swam for a couple of seconds-out of focus, as if he'd just surfaced from a dream-before he finally managed to lock in on the camera. He took it from my hand and studied the image. "It's a networking hub." He found the navigation b.u.t.tons and began zooming in on different parts of the picture. "I don't recognize the product number. PDL-0001A-I'm not sure what company that would be. It certainly doesn't look like a consumer model."

"What does it do?" I asked. "What would somebody use it for?"

Charlie shrugged. "Standard stuff. Connecting computers in a network." He held up the camera and pointed at the image. "Those wires are heavy-duty coax, so this setup could potentially cover quite a bit of ground. And the LEDs on top? Each indicates a live connection-a computer, another hub, a printer-so there are at least eight nodes on this network. Possibly more if they've chained together additional hubs."

"Would it work for audio? Voice traffic?"

"Sure. You could send pretty much anything down this type of line. As long as it's digitized."

I nodded. I'd already guessed at most of these answers; it was all pretty standard stuff. It was this next bit I really wanted to know: "Let's say you were able to get your hands on one of these lines, in the middle of a network. Would you be able to listen in? Would you be able to hear what's going down the wire?"

Charlie paused, a concerned look on his face. "Yeah. At least theoretically, you'd be able to sniff out all of the information flowing over the network. You might not be able to understand it if it's encrypted, but you'd be able to get it."

I nodded and smiled.

"What is this, Dean?" Charlie asked, moving uncomfortably in his seat. "Is this part of the military's setup here in the city? Did you take this picture at the courthouse?"

For a moment, I was tempted to tell him the truth. I was tempted to tell him all about Devon's radio, and the tunnels, and the network hidden beneath the city. But finally I decided against it. He had enough to worry about. Besides, I wanted Taylor to hear it first. When it came to this house, and the people in it, she was in charge. She would know what to do.

"It's nothing to worry about," I lied, forcing a smile onto my lips. "There's abandoned computer s.h.i.t all over the city. I was just wondering what it might be worth back home."

Charlie managed a surprised flurry of blinks. Then he offered up a sly smile. "h.e.l.l, if that's your scam, don't waste your time with this junk." He held up the camera, indicating the junction box on its screen. "After I finish up with your forum post, I'll point you toward the real moneymakers ... for a small cut of the profit, of course." He let out a loud laugh, then turned back toward his computer.

There was a wide, boyish grin on his face as he got back to work. It was good to see him smile. For a time, at least, he actually looked his age.

Taylor and Danny showed up a little after sunset, carrying a cardboard box filled with booze. Bottles of Wild Turkey and Bombay Sapphire.

"Some guys in my unit went AWOL for a couple of days," Danny explained, flashing a lopsided grin. "I covered for them, and they were so grateful, they brought me back some gifts. I thought I'd share the spoils."

We built a fire in the living room and sat around drinking bourbon and gin out of mismatched gla.s.ses. Amanda and Mac joined us, but Charlie stayed in the kitchen, finishing up work on the thumb drive.

"Where's everyone else?" Taylor asked.

"Sabine's with Mama Ca.s.s," Amanda said. "I think they're working on something. Some type of project."

"And Floyd's upstairs, brooding," I added. "As for Devon ..." I just shrugged. For all I knew, the tunnel had swallowed Devon whole.

Or maybe he's standing right across the street, I thought, watching us from his second-story window. Watching us drink. Taking notes. Planning diabolical plans.

I stared down at the bourbon in my gla.s.s. It glowed gold in the firelight, shining like liquid honey. Those first few sips had hit me hard, heightening the effects of the oxycodone in my blood. I flexed my hand and felt the skin tighten around my wounds. The pain was still there, but distant, a tickle up and down the length of my forearm. Distant, as if I were experiencing a wound on someone else's body.

I glanced up and caught Amanda midsentence: "-so hard. I thought he was dead for sure!"

"Yeah," Danny said. "f.u.c.ker's lucky to be alive. He fell three stories and walked away with nothing but a bad bruise and a sprained foot." Danny paused, and a thoughtful look came across his face. "Of course, he hasn't said anything yet, and we can't figure out what happened. He's in some type of ... waking coma. The medics have to keep him sedated all the time; otherwise he tries to get up and walk away. It's like that's the only thing he knows how to do anymore. Walk. Like that's the only thing left in his head."

I shivered, remembering how it had looked: the soldier plummeting from the hospital window, hitting the ground hard, then getting up and lurching away.

"They aren't planning any more expeditions into the hospital," Danny said, shaking his head. "Everyone's frustrated. We aren't getting anywhere, running into walls and cliff faces everywhere we turn. And we have no idea what to do next." After a moment of thoughtful silence, he raised his gla.s.s and smiled. "Let's drink to the military-science and religion, but with guns!"

Amanda laughed. "Hear, hear!" she said, raising her gla.s.s.

I took a small sip from my drink. I was already feeling tipsy, and if I wanted to stay conscious, I knew I'd have to take it easy.

Taylor scooted over to my side and clinked her gla.s.s against mine. She smiled at me. It was a warm smile, but there was a hint of a question in her steepled brow. "So tell me," she said, keeping her voice low. "What happened with Floyd? Why's he brooding?"

Before answering her question, I cast a quick glance around the room. Amanda, Mac, and Danny had moved closer to the fireplace; they were warming their hands and laughing, their voices rich and loud in the first flush of intoxication. Charlie was still in the kitchen. For the moment, Taylor and I had a certain amount of privacy. We'd found our own little world here, seated at the foot of the sofa.

"We followed Devon across the street," I said, glancing over toward the living-room window. Right now, the window was nothing but a dark square blacked out by the night, but I remembered the view from across the street. Standing at his perch, Devon would have a clear view of our conversation. "He's been spying on us, spying on the house. With binoculars." I didn't mention the radio. "But that's not what bothered Floyd ... We found something over there, under the house. Tunnels."

Taylor nodded. There was concern on her face but no surprise. She skated right over the part about Devon's spying, making me think she already knew, or at least suspected. "What did Floyd see?" she asked instead. "What did he see down there?"

The question caught me off guard. I'd been expecting questions, but nothing that direct. "I don't know," I said when I once again found my voice. "He wouldn't tell me."

She read the confusion on my face and patted me on the forearm. "That's just what happens," she said. "That's what the city does. To each of us."

She nodded toward my drink and smiled coyly. "Now drink up. Tomorrow we can worry. Tomorrow we can plan. Tonight ..." Her smile grew, and she once again clinked her gla.s.s against mine. "Tonight we have booze."

"Come on, Dean. Let's go upstairs." Her voice was a hushed whisper against my ear. An audible smile. "We should be together. The three of us."

Taylor smiled and ran the back of her fingers across my cheek. I pulled away, laughing. I could feel hot blood rushing through my flesh. I was drunk, f.u.c.ked up, and the whole situation seemed unreal.

Danny and Taylor each grabbed an arm and helped me to my feet. The room swayed for a moment, and then we headed for the stairs.

"You up for this?" Taylor whispered in my ear.

"Yeah," I said with a surprised laugh. "I guess I am."

We staggered into Taylor's room, and my head spun in the darkness. Then Taylor struck a match and started lighting candles. There were a half dozen total, and she laughed as she stumbled about the room, from candle to candle, trying to keep the match lit.

Danny put his hand on my shoulder, and I turned to meet his grinning face. "You've never done anything like this before, have you?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No. No. Never fooled around with any guys. I never had the inclination. No offense," I added lamely.

"Well, it's just like with girls," he a.s.sured me.