iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第5章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　that　this　cozy　little　scrum　became　the　must…see　event　of　the　academic　year。　Even　the　media　turn　out　to　record　it；　with　satellite　vans　and　video　cameras　ing　from　as　far　as　Philadelphia　and　New　York。　Mere　thought　of　the　Nude　Olympics　usually　lights　a　fire　under　the　cold　months　of　college；　but　this　year；　with　Katie's　turn　ing　around；　I'm　more　interested　in　keeping　the　home　fires　burning。
　〃You　ready？〃　Charlie　asks　once　the　two　sophomores　have　finally　passed　by。
　I　shift　my　foot　across　the　manhole　cover；　dusting　off　the　snow。
　He　kneels　down　and　hooks　his　index　fingers　into　the　gaps　of　the　manhole　cover。　The　snow　dampens　the　scrape　of　steel　on　asphalt　as　he　drags　it　back。　I　look　down　the　road　again。
　〃You　first；〃　he　says；　placing　a　hand　at　my　back。
　〃What　about　the　packs？〃
　〃Quit　stalling。　Go。〃
　I　drop　to　my　knees　and　press　my　palms　on　either　side　of　the　open　hole。　A　thick　heat　pours　up　from　below。　When　I　try　to　lower　myself　into　it；　the　bulges　in　my　ski　jacket　fight　at　the　edge　of　the　opening。
　〃Damn；　Tom；　the　dead　move　faster。　Kick　around　until　your　foot　finds　a　step　iron。　There's　a　ladder　in　the　wall。〃
　Feeling　my　shoe　snag　the　top　rung；　I　begin　to　descend。
　〃All　right；〃　Charlie　says。　〃Take　this。〃
　He　pushes　my　pack　through　the　opening；　followed　by　his。
　A　network　of　pipes　extends　into　the　dark　in　both　directions。　Visibility　is　low；　and　the　air　is　full　of　metallic　clanks　and　hisses。　This　is　Princeton's　circulatory　system；　the　passageways　pushing　steam　from　a　distant　central　boiler　to　dorms　and　academic　buildings　up　north。　Charlie　says　the　vapor　inside　the　pipes　is　pressurized　at　two　hundred　and　fifty　pounds　per　square　inch。　The　smaller　cylinders　carry　high…voltage　lines　or　natural　gas。　Still；　I've　never　seen　any　warnings　in　the　tunnels；　not　a　single　fluorescent　triangle　or　posting　of　university　policy。　The　college　would　like　to　forget　that　this　place　exists。　The　only　message　at　this　entrance；　written　long　ago　in　black　paint；　is　LASCIATE　OGNE　SPERANZA；　VOI　CH'INTRATE。　Paul；　who　has　never　seemed　to　fear　anything　in　this　place；　smiled　the　first　time　he　saw　it。　Abandon　all　hope；　he　said；　translating　Dante　for　the　rest　of　us；　ye　that　enter　here。
　Charlie　makes　his　way　down；　scraping　the　cover　back　onto　its　place　after　him。　As　he　steps　from　the　bottom　rung；　he　pulls　off　his　hat。　Light　dances　across　the　beads　of　sweat　on　his　forehead。　The　afro　he's　grown　after　four　months　without　a　haircut　barely　clears　the　ceiling。　It's　not　an　afro；　he's　been　telling　us。　It's　just　a　half…fro。
　He　takes　a　few　whiffs　of　the　stale　air；　then　produces　a　container　of　Vick's　VapoRub　from　his　pack。　〃Put　some　under　your　nose。　You　won't　smell　anything。〃
　I　wave　him　off。　It's　a　trick　he　learned　as　a　summer　intern　with　the　local　medical　examiner；　a　way　to　avoid　smelling　the　corpses　during　autopsies。　After　what　happened　to　my　father　I've　never　held　the　medical　profession　in　particularly　high　esteem；　doctors　are　drones　to　me；　second　opinions　with　shifting　faces。　But　to　see　Charlie　in　a　hospital　is　another　thing　entirely。　He's　the　strongman　of　the　local　ambulance　squad；　the　go…to　guy　for　tough　cases；　and　he'll　find　a　twenty…fifth　hour　in　any　day　to　give　people　he's　never　met　a　fighting　chance　to　beat　what　he　calls　the　Thief。
　Charlie　unloads　a　pair　of　pin…striped　gray　laser　guns；　then　the　set　of　Velcro　straps　with　dark　plastic　domes　in　the　middle。　While　he　keeps　fiddling　with　the　packs；　I　start　to　unzip　my　jacket。　The　collar　of　my　shirt　is　already　sticking　to　my　neck。
　〃Careful；〃　he　says；　extending　an　arm　out　before　I　can　sling　my　coat　across　the　largest　pipe。　〃Remember　what　happened　to　Gil's　old　jacket？〃
　I'd　pletely　forgotten。　A　steam　pipe　melted　the　nylon　shell　and　set　the　filler　on　fire。　We　had　to　stomp　out　the　flames　on　the　ground。
　〃We'll　leave　the　coats　here　and　pick　them　up　on　the　way　out；〃　he　says；　grabbing　the　jacket　from　my　hand　and　rolling　it　up　with　his　in　an　expandable　duffel　bag。　He　suspends　it　from　a　ceiling　fixture　by　one　of　its　straps。
　〃So　the　rats　don't　get　at　it；〃　he　says；　unloading　a　few　more　objects　from　the　pack。
　After　handing　me　a　flashlight　and　a　two…way　hand　radio；　he　pulls　out　two　large　water　bottles；　beading　from　the　heat；　and　places　them　in　the　outer　netting　of　his　pack。
　〃Remember；〃　he　says。　〃If　we　get　split　up　again；　don't　head　downstream。　If　you　see　water　running；　go　against　the　current。　You　don't　want　to　end　up　in　a　drain　or　down　a　chute　if　the　flow　increases。　This　isn't　the　Ohio；　like　you　got　back　at　home。　The　water　level　down　here　rises　fast。〃
　This　is　my　punishment　for　getting　lost　the　last　time　he　and　I　were　teammates。　I　tug　at　my　shirt　for　ventilation。　〃Chuck；　the　Ohio　doesn't　go　anywhere　near　Columbus。〃
　He　hands　me　one　of　the　receivers　and　waits　for　me　to　fasten　it　around　my　chest；　ignoring　me。
　〃So　what's　the　plan？〃　I　ask。　〃Which　way　are　we　going？〃
　He　smiles。　〃That's　where　you　e　in。〃
　〃Why？〃
　Charlie　pats　my　head。　〃Because　you're　the　sherpa。〃
　He　says　it　as　if　sherpas　are　a　magical　race　of　midget　navigators；　like　hobbits。
　〃What　do　you　want　me　to　do？〃
　〃Paul　knows　the　tunnels　better　than　we　do。　We　need　a　strategy。〃
　I　mull　it　over。　〃What's　the　nearest　entrance　to　the　tunnels　on　their　side？〃
　〃There's　one　in　back　of　Clio。〃
　Cliosophic　is　an　old　debating　society's　building。　I　try　to　see　each　position　clearly；　but　the　heat　is　clogging　my　thoughts。　〃Which　would　lead　straight　down　to　where　we're　standing。　A　straight　shot　south。　Right？〃
　He　thinks　it　over；　wrestling　with　the　geography。　〃Right；〃　he　says。
　〃And　he　never　takes　the　straight　shot。〃
　〃Never。〃
　I　imagine　Paul；　always　two　steps　ahead。
　〃Then　that's　what　he'll　do。　A　straight　shot。　Beat　a　path　down　from　Clio　and　hit　us　before　we're　ready。〃
　Charlie　considers。　〃Yeah；〃　he　says　finally；　focusing　off　into　the　distance。　The　edges　of　his　lips　begin　to　form　a　smile。
　〃So　we'll　circle　around　him；〃　I　suggest。　〃Catch　him　from　behind。〃
　There's　a　glint　in　Charlie's　eyes。　He　pats　me　on　the　back　hard　enough　that　I　nearly　fall　under　the　weight　of　my　pack。　〃Let's　go。〃
　　
　We　start　moving　down　the　corridor；　when　a　hiss　es　from　the　mouth　of　the　two…way　radio。
　I　pull　the　handset　from　my　belt　and　press　the　button。
　〃Gil？〃
　Silence。
　〃Gil？　。　。　。　I　can't　hear　you。　。　。　。〃
　But　there's　no　response。
　〃It's　a　bug；〃　Charlie　says。　〃They're　too　far　away　to　send　a　signal。〃
　I　repeat　myself　into　the　microphone　and　wait。　〃You　said　these　things　had　a　two…mile　range；〃　I　tell　him。　〃We're　not　even　a　mile　from　them。〃
　〃A　two…mile　range　through　the　air；〃　Charlie　says。　〃Through　concrete　and　dirt；　not　even　close。〃
　But　the　radios　are　for　emergency　use。　I'm　sure　it　was　Gil's　voice　I　heard。
　We　continue　in　silence　for　a　hundred　yards　or　so；　dodging　puddles　of　sludge　and　little　mounds　of　scat。　Suddenly　Charlie　grabs　the　neck　of　my　shirt　and　pulls　me　back。
　〃What　the　hell？〃　I　snap；　almost　losing　my　balance。
　He　runs　the　beam　of　his　flashlight　across　a　wooden　plank　bridging　a　deep　trough　in　the　tunnel。　We've　both　crossed　it　in　previous　games。
　〃What's　wrong？〃
　He　gingerly　presses　a　foot　down　on　the　board。
　〃It's　fine；〃　Charlie　says；　visibly　relieved。　〃No　water　damage。〃
　I　wipe　my　forehead；　finding　it　soaked　with　sweat。
　〃Okay；〃　he　says。　〃Let's　go。〃
　Charlie　walks　across　the　plank　in　two　great　strides。　It's　all　I　can　do　to　keep　my　balance　before　landing　safely　on　the　other　side。
　〃Here。〃　Charlie　hands　me　one　of　the　water　bottles。　〃Drink　it。〃
　I　take　a　quick　drink；　then　follow　him　deeper　into　the　tunnels。　We're　in　an　undertaker's　paradise；　the　same　coffinlike　view　in　every　direction；　dark　walls　tapering　faintly　toward　a　hazy　point　of　convergence　in　the　darkness。
　〃Does　this　whole　part　of　the　tunnels　look　like　a　catab？〃　I　ask。　The　hand　radio　seems　to　be　buzzing　patches　of　static　between　my　thoughts。
　〃Like　a　what？〃
　〃A　catab。　A　tomb。〃
　〃Not　really。　The　newer　parts　are　in　a　huge　corrugated　pipe；〃　he　says；　moving　his　hands　in　an　undulating　pattern；　like　a　wave；　to　suggest　the　surface。　〃It's　like　walking　on　ribs。　Makes　you　think　you　were　swallowed　by　a　whale。　Sort　of　like　。　。　。〃
　He　snaps　his　fingers；　searching　for　a　parison。　Something　biblical。　Something　Melvillian；　from　English　151w。
　〃