Chapter 2

He hadn’t realised just what a tangle the world down below could be until he was right among it. A long and thin twig scraped along his side as he slid past, and he jerked away from the sting of yet another scratch. The undergrowth was impossibly thick, and though he knew it would help shield him from searching eyes, it was hard to be grateful when every step seemed to include sharp rocks and lurking burrs.

He set his foot down and yelped. Something had driven deep this time, and he halted, crouching back to examine the wounded appendage. His feet had been effectively tenderised from the constant movement, and even as he tried to be gentle, he could not help but wince.

As he probed and attempted to get a grip on the splinter of wood, he reflected with grim humour that the uncomfortable conditions were probably good. Despite his exhaustion, there was no chance of laying down to sleep here.

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She very nearly balked when she saw just where and what she’d be crawling through, but the male was behind her and she could just about hear him vibrating with nervous impatience. The drain was admittedly larger than most she’d seen, but it was still a small, dark hole, and the frequency of water rushing through gave the cement a layer of slimy plant life that she shuddered to touch.

It was just big enough for there to be a few inches of space either side of her shoulders. Most adults would be able to fit, she guessed, but anyone with a particularly broad figure would struggle. Thankfully it had not rained for several days, so it was more or less dry. It smelled, though; not sewerage, thank God, but the rankness of algae.

She shuffled forward hesitantly, rather reluctant to go away from the warm light of the entrance into the cold unknown. Just as she debated whether or not this could actually be considered a good idea at all, there was a thump behind her, soon followed by the muffled clang of the grate crashing back into place. Well, that certainly narrowed her options, and she started crawling again, not keen to be run into by the man she knew was bringing up the rear.

A few metres in, or so she guessed, and all light was gone. It was disconcerting to say the least, and the heart-rate that had only just begun to steady once again quickened. Though she’d never been claustrophobic, the fact she didn’t know where this tunnel lead or how long the journey was supposed to be had her muscles tensed so that her knees banged hard off the cement. More bruises, no doubt. Only the sound of people shuffling along like her, ahead and behind, provided any comfort.

She didn’t know how long or far they crawled, though she suspected it was less than she thought, but suddenly there was light again. It came gradually, filtering down so slowly she did not realise it was there at first. But she could see the bulk that was Bichari, scooting down the tunnel as she was. From that point the light got rapidly brighter, even if by general standards it was dim at best.

Bichari’s silhouette seemed to mutate suddenly, and it was only after a few seconds of startled blinking that she realised the woman was swinging her feet around under her, not sprouting strange limbs. Another second later, and she dropped out of sight.

She shuffled forward hurriedly, and found herself peering over the lip of the tunnel into what appeared to be a considerably larger drain system. There was water down there, moving sluggishly between two thin pathways that ran either side, and Bichari was standing easily on one of those. The dark woman looked up, and waved her hand in the unmistakable gesture of ‘come on’.

Mimicking what she thought she had seen Bichari do, albeit nowhere near as gracefully, she wriggled so that she was instead sitting on the edge, legs dangling down. She then eased herself forward carefully, for it was a drop of a couple of metres, and the idea of over-balancing into the water was not remotely pleasant.

“Hurry up,” was hissed from behind her, startling her enough that she instinctively pushed forward, sliding off and falling down. The impact stung her already sore feet, sending small shocks of pain up her calves, but it was at least a steady landing. Aware of the impatience in the male’s voice she quickly stepped a few paces to the left, and he immediately dropped down as well.

The smell was worse here, more than just algae. “Sewers?” she whispered. Somehow, speaking loudly seemed like a bad idea, if only because it was likely to echo within the space. Light glimmered down from slitted holes, ready to carry the sound of their voices out into the open street.

“What, you wanting to drink the water?” he demanded, though also seemed to be keeping his voice low. “This is the main drain. Mixes stormwater and waste water. Suck it up.”

She wrinkled her nose, but made no retort.

Bichari struck off to the right of the tunnel they’d emerged from, and continued down that way for a while. It was like the quick and quiet scampering of rats down a pipeline, with frequent flinching pauses when some particularly loud noise was heard from outside. Even with the intermittent sources of light, the semi-darkness and rumbles from above strained her nerves.

So she could not help but feel a little despairing when they finally halted—not at a grate to go outside, but at the round hole of another tunnel. Bichari didn’t even hesitate, pulling herself up into the narrow interior without a glance backwards. Once again it was the male’s presence behind her that kept her moving, though she was slower this time; slow enough to notice the tunnel had a small x carved next to it, the scratchy semi-white etching you got when you scraped rock against rock.

This tunnel seemed even smaller, though that may have been her imagination. She was tired, it was damp and dark. She wanted out.

It angled upward the further they went in, making the crawl a little harder, especially in the tiny space. There was an irritated grunt from behind, suggesting that the male was having a worse time of it, being larger.

Without light she didn’t see when Bichari halted, and bumped into her, hastily scuttling back with a, “Sorry! Sorry!”

Bichari didn’t reply, and the sound that came was instead was a muffled banging. The banging of a fist on a metal surface, she realised. They must have reached the end of the tunnel; or so she hoped, considering the other option was that they were lost and had hit a dead end. She shivered.

A pause. And then:

“And who’s this?”

“Bichari and Tahiti,” the woman replied patiently. “You know it stinks in here. Open up.”

More sounds, the grinding sound of something heavy being dragged backwards. Even as it happened, the man—Tahiti?—snarled, “Who the fuck do you think it’s gonna be?”

“Well,” was the amiable drawl. A crack of light appeared, as the round circle of metal that had apparently been blocking the tunnel was edged away. Squinting against the sudden glare of artificial light, she could see the edges of a face peering in. Male again, though the details were blocked by Bichari’s body. “It could always be-” The tone sharpened abruptly. “Whoever your lady friend is?”

“A hostage.” Bichari emerged from the tunnel, and then all she could see were her legs as the woman stood.

“What?” Both she and the new man managed to say it at the same time.

Bichari chuckled. “Joke. It’s a joke, Cottontail. She’s a shifter, no doubt there.”

Whatever Cottontail’s response to that was, she didn’t hear it, as she was distracted from the discussion by a sudden shove from behind. “Will you get a move on, violin-girl?”

Flushing slightly, she crawled the last metre or so to the end of the tunnel, and out into the room beyond.

It was a basement. Or a storeroom, maybe. Shelves turned it into a labyrinth of pathways, though some seemed to have been forcibly moved into different positions in order to make more space. The light did not come from the few bulbs that were scattered here and there across the roof—no, somebody had tied torches to the ceiling, where they swung gently and sent shadows rising and falling across the room.

Bichari and the man they called Cottontail were standing next to the tunnel, and Tahiti was pulling himself out. Other than them, a few curious faces were beginning to circle around the shelves. Dragging strangers into their midst didn’t seem to be an overly common occurrence.

“Where’s Adrez?”

“Out.” Cottontail was rubbing at his chin, a rueful motion. He looked to be one of the younger people in the room, though he had to be in his mid-twenties. “He is not going to be thrilled.”

“Fuck ‘im,” Tahiti muttered, slumped against the wall.

“She was running from the feds,” Bichari elaborated. “So I think he might understand.”

“You took someone the federal police was pursuing?” This disbelieving exclamation came from a much older man, grey-speckled hair made all the more monochromatic by the odd light. Someone else added, “Oh boy...”

Tahiti slammed both palms hard against the floor. “Blow it out your arse, Jacob! We rescued her, and I sure as hell don’t see her complaining!”

This sparked more indignant protestations, and the feeble image of an organised, cooperative underground system that had been developing in her mind crumbled away quite rapidly. A gentle hand on her elbow made her jump, and she looked up at the sympathetic, if amused, eyes of Cottontail. “Viola, right?”

“My name’s not-”

He carried on, steam-rolling over her soft intervention. “Don’t really care, love. Would you like something to drink?”

That explained a lot, she thought with no little disgruntlement. Bichari. Tahiti. Cottontail. Viola.

“God yes.”