“What’s that?”
“Run on back up the street to my house. Tell Lawanda to go down in the basement and get my crowbar and my sledgehammer. Then bring them back here.”
“You’re gonna smash the door down?” Chris asked.
“Won’t they hear us?”
Mr. Watkins shrugged. “If there is anybody else inside that house other than them kids, then you can bet your ass that they already know we’re here. Especially with all the hollering and carrying on. We’ve lost the element of surprise. Now we’re just going to bum rush them.”
As Markus trotted up the street, Mr. Watkins pulled out his pistol and faced the front door.
Grinning, Leo playfully punched the older man in the shoulder.
“Damn, Mr. Watkins. I had no idea you were so hardcore. Original fucking gangsta!”
Mr. Watkins didn’t smile. He paused, lighting another cigarette. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and seemed sad.
“I’m no gangster, Leo. What I am is a pissed-off, middle-aged black man whose gut sticks out over his pecker now and who can’t get any from his wife except on holidays and gets hollered at for smoking in the house and hates his shitty job and is tired of watching this neighborhood turn to shit, because this neighborhood is all he has left in this world. And there ain’t nothing on Earth more hardcore than that.”
They waited, and when Markus returned, they moved with grim purpose. Without a word, Mr. Watkins handed the gun to Leo and the crowbar to Chris. Grunting, he wielded the sledgehammer. It’s bright yellow, fiberglass handle seemed to glow in the darkness.
Mr. Watkins tossed his cigarette butt out into the street and stepped forward.
“Okay, boys. Let’s go knock on the door again.”
They clomped up the porch, no longer bothering to conceal their presence. Then Mr. Watkins raised the sledgehammer and swung, putting all his weight into it. The door shuddered in its frame. Wood splintered with a loud crack.
“Listen,” Dookie gasped.
From inside the house, they all heard the sound of fleeing footsteps.
“You think it’s those white kids?” Leo asked, nervously fumbling with the gun.
“Only one way to find out,” Mr. Watkins said, and swung the sledgehammer again.
SEVENTEEN
Heather clutched the sharpened butter knife in one hand and the sputtering lamp in the other. Both items jittered from her uncontrollable trembling. Although she’d willed herself to stop, the shaking continued. Worse, even though she could see her breath in front of her, appearing as white puffs of cloud each time she exhaled, Heather was bathed in sweat. Neither condition was conducive to escaping. She didn’t know if it was shock or fear or the temperature or a combination of all three, but it was maddening and aggravating. It was hard enough listening for sounds of pursuit behind her without having to do it over the chattering of her own teeth. The only part of her not shaking was her feet. They were completely numb. She’d tried pinching the soles, but she felt nothing other than a vague twinge. She could still walk, but she had no sensation in them.
Since leaving the strange grotto behind, the ground beneath Heather had been rising steadily as she progressed through the small tunnel. She’d lost track of time and had no way of knowing how long she’d been crawling. The darkness and her own fatigue weighed heavily on her, and it was getting harder to concentrate. Her mind kept returning to the bizarre collection of photographs and drawings, trying to mine some meaning from them—some explanation for the evening’s horrifying events. She grew increasingly frustrated trying to figure it out. Nothing about this situation made sense. It all just seemed so random. So unexplainable. How could such a race of beings exist undetected beneath a city the size of Philadelphia for so long? And what were they? Mutants, obviously, but from where? And from whom? They didn’t seem to have any single racial characteristic or genetic background. How long had they been here? How many people had they killed?
She had no way of knowing. In fact, all that Heather knew for sure was that her legs hurt, her back hurt, and her eyes felt gritty from sweat and dirt. There were blisters on her palms and knees, and the cut on her foot was bleeding again. Lantern smoke drifted lazily into her face, obscuring her vision and making her choke. Each time a new round of shaking overtook her, Heather’s teeth clamped together. She’d bitten her tongue and the insides of her cheeks several times. The slow, steady taste of blood made her stomach roil.
Heather wondered how much farther she’d have to climb before she could escape this nightmare. By all rights, she should have been above ground by now. And yet here she was, still stuck in a damned tunnel with the weight of the entire city over her head. She wished it would all just come crashing down, squashing everything flat. Even that would be preferable to this miserable, torturous scurrying around in the dark. Heather stifled a laugh. Her brother would have loved this shit. He was always playing his dungeon crawl games online. He’d have been right at home here.
A deep, thunderous rumble echoed from somewhere behind her, reminding Heather of her immediate danger. She forced away the self-pity and crawled on, clinging to the hope that she’d get somewhere if she just kept going the same direction she was headed. Then again, it wasn’t like she had much choice. There were no branching tunnels. Her options were moving forward up the slope or retreating back the way she’d come—and she knew what awaited her there. All roads have to lead somewhere. That was what her dad always said, at least. She wondered if her parents were worried about her yet. Would Kerri’s or Steph’s parents be looking for them? Would they have called the police by now? Or Javier’s mother, maybe? No, she worked nights, and Javier hadn’t seen his father since he was three years old.
The air changed up ahead. She felt it shift, running across her face like the touch of light fingers. The sensation was amazing after what seemed like forever in the stifling dampness of the caves. The lantern flickered and hissed, and the flame danced around as if also enjoying the breeze. She had no idea what was up ahead of her, but if there was fresh air, then surely that meant there was a way out.
Heather’s spirits soared. She forgot all about her family, about Javier and Kerri and Brett, and focused solely on survival and escape. She crawled faster. Then the air shifted again, bringing a new stench—a thick, pungent odor of rot and filth, stronger than any she’d smelled so far tonight. Despite her best efforts to ignore the scent, Heather gagged, choking. Ropes of spittle hung from her open mouth. Her stomach heaved. If she’d had anything inside it, she would have vomited. Instead, the muscles in her abdomen cramped, expanding and contracting painfully. Heather wiped her lips with the back of her hand and gasped, trying not to gag again. The flickering lamplight glinted off the sharpened butter knife. She focused on it. When she’d calmed down again, she proceeded onward, breathing through her mouth as she crawled. That didn’t help much; she could taste the repugnant aroma on her tongue. Soon, whatever was ahead of her became too much. Her eyes watered, blurring her vision, and her gag reflex refused to stop. She closed her eyes and fought the urge to puke.
At least her uncontrollable trembling had ceased.
She turned around, raised the lamp, and looked back down the tunnel and into the darkness. If her pursuers were still back there, they were being quiet. She was so close to the surface. She had to be! But she didn’t think she could make it any farther, struggling against that reeking miasma. She debated turning around and returning to the small room.
Heather was still considering her options when she heard chattering laughter behind her, coming from the same direction as the stench. The sound was high pitched and excited. She spun around again, holding the lantern high and thrusting the butter knife out in front of her. Shadows scurried toward her, growing larger with each passing second. Then the creatures skittered into view. Heather shrieked, and something tore in the back of her throat. The things that came for her were obscenities, barely even capable of being called humanoid. These weren’t mere mutations, like the others she’d seen. These organisms were utter blasphemies.