Free Embers & Ash by T.M. Goeglein Page A

clanking and hissing, the guy reemerged, slammed the door, held his nose, and told whoever was on the other end of the walkie-talkie that there was something in the air down here that reminded him of the Cubs. When the footsteps faded, I said, “Come on.”
    â€œOver there?” Doug said, pointing at the stream. “Through
that
?”
    â€œHow else are we going to get to the other side?” I said. “What, you’re scared to get dirty?”
    â€œNo. I’m scared of drowning in toilet paper and nightmare condoms.”
    â€œIt can’t be that deep,” I said, stepping over a low railing and sliding in, the sludge rising to the top of my boots as my feet touched bottom. It was syrupy and warm even through rubber. I moved cautiously, terrified of the slightest splash. Doug eased in behind with the backpack on his head. I grabbed the railing on the other side, pulled myself up, and helped him climb up, too, right outside the door.
    â€œLet us never speak of this again.” He shuddered as I punched four-six-three into the lock. Inside, the fluorescent light spread a yellowish glow. The pump dominated the room like a huge steel octopus, fat in the middle, pipes twisting off in several directions, the thickest ascending into darkness. Doug touched the wall and said, “It’s the same brick as in the tunnels. But this place goes nowhere. Now what?”
    Something else answered, high-pitched and insistent.
    I turned to a tiny pair of gleaming yellow eyes.
    â€œAntonio?” I said.
    It wasn’t possible, of course. The two original sewer rats that Great-Grandpa Nunzio had trained to guard Club Molasses decades ago, Antonio and Cleopatra, were long dead. But throughout the past six months, their descendants had appeared at critical moments to do what they’d been bred to do—aid and protect a Rispoli. This one twitched its worm tail, impatient, not the least bit intimidated, and scurried up the high middle pipe. I aimed the flashlight after it, seeing footholds, and said, “Let’s go.”
    â€œWhoa, time out,” Doug said. “I was willing to walk through a stream of human gravy, but follow a rodent to who-knows-where? Really?”
    â€œAt least it goes up.”
    â€œAt the very least.” He sighed.
    We climbed quickly, leaving the ground far below. The helmet lights helped but the rat made the difference. It scrambled from foothold to foothold, guiding us upward, reassuring us with encouraging squeaks until it was quiet. I peered around, seeing nothing, and then spotted the little animal directly across from me, standing in the entrance to a tunnel. I knew rats were good jumpers; it had leaped across the three feet of air floating between the pipe and the tunnel entrance, and we’d have to do the same.
    Running in a frenetic circle, the rat squeaked once in farewell and disappeared. “We have to jump over there,” I said to Doug. “Can you make it?”
    â€œOf course. I’m in great shape,” he said nervously.
    I took a deep breath and pushed off, landing solidly on both feet. Peering down into darkness and then at Doug hugging the pipe, I said, “Don’t think too much.”
    He looked down, and then back at me. “I’m thinking too much.”
    â€œJump!” I yelled, the word bouncing from the walls, and he did, but with his arms extended instead of feet first. He hit the ledge at his chest, fingernails digging at the brick floor, and began sliding backward. I grabbed his wrists and pulled like it was a tug-of-war, grinding my heels, yanking with all I had as he came barreling up and over, knocking me flat. While he lay on the path fidgeting and talking to god, I rose and looked at the wall across the chasm. Just like in the sewer, it was solid concrete. My guess was that once, long ago, the tunnel we occupied continued on the opposite side. I turned and looked at a pointing hand on the wall