Free Embers & Ash by T.M. Goeglein

shelf that had been placed against it, scattering tools and round plastic tubs. I stared at one marked
Chromic Acid
and another,
Ammonia.
“I think we’re in some type of storage area,” I said.
    â€œLook,” he said, pointing around. “Three walls built from concrete blocks. But the one we came through . . . old brick.” He looked closely at the door. “It was sealed off. See how it was soldered at the edges? Someone did a lousy job.”
    â€œThank god,” I said. The stench was stronger, and I looked across at another door that was decades newer than the other one. “Come on,” I said. It opened easily, and we stepped onto a concrete platform that seemed to stretch forever in both directions. It was bisected by a slow-moving stream of beige goop, emanating a scent best described as slaughterhouse mixed with nursing home. Another platform, just as wide, ran along the other side of the stream. “Sewer. A big one and fairly modern, too,” I said, looking at the concrete walls and buzzing fluorescent lights. “This thing is fairly new . . . built way after Capone Doors. No painted hands.”
    The muffled sound of traffic
guh-dunk-guh-dunk
ed from far above.
    Doug tilted his head. “That’s why there’s no Fillmore Avenue,” he said. “Walking northeast from the bakery . . . I bet we’re under the Eisenhower Expressway. Fillmore probably got wiped out to make room for it.”
    â€œThat’s not all that got wiped out,” I said, staring around the cavernous space. “The tunnel used to continue somewhere up here, but it’s gone. Built over by the city.”
    â€œNow what?”
    I shrugged. “No idea.”
    â€œI know you don’t want to go back, but I think we have to, and find another Capone Door. I hate the idea of squeezing into that tunnel, but it’s our best option,” he said, reaching for the door that had closed behind us. “Okay, scratch that. It’s locked.”
    I looked at the punch code on the door, at the stencil reading
Maintenance C-316,
and at Doug biting his lip. “So, we head north,” I said, pushing the helmet back on my head, wiping at a line of sweat. “Hopefully, we’ll find something that leads back to Joe Little’s tunnels.”
    Doug shifted the backpack and sighed. “Hopefully,” he said.
    The platform was covered in a layer of slippery scum, with large pipes jutting from the wall, dripping into the terrible canal. We stepped over them carefully, our boots making suction noises as we walked. Now and then a big bubble of methane gas would pop lazily in the stream beside us, while cars and trucks rocketed overhead. It was as impossible to ignore the unbearable odor as it was the feeling of defeat, until I remembered something. “Last night,” I said, “I found a letter from Nunzio to Enzo hidden in the notebook.”
    â€œReally? Where?”
    â€œUnder the back cover. It said all kinds of stuff but only one thing that mattered.”
    â€œWhat?”
    I grinned at him. “‘Ultimate power is freedom.’”
    â€œWow,” he said. “What the hell does that mean?”
    â€œYou got me. But I like it,” I said, as my ears perked up, hearing a familiar tune—someone whistling “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Carefully, with a finger to my lips, I pulled Doug into a dark corner.
    Footsteps echoed toward us as a wiry guy in an orange vest and hard hat appeared on the platform across the stream. A walkie-talkie crackled, asking if he was at the door yet. The guy told it to relax and asked what the code was again. The walkie-talkie told him—
four-six-three
—as he stopped at a door stenciled with
Pump 12,
punched the buttons on a lock, and swung it open. A light flicked on and I squinted through the gloom, seeing the walls inside, made of old brick. After some