Filaria - Brent Hayward [29]
After a long moment, when it must have become apparent to Philip that Phister would not offer a response, or concur with his suggestion, the man tried a new tack.
“Am I, then,” he said, wiping his face with a sleeve and blowing tentatively through both nostrils as if to test them, “to understand . . . to understand that, that neither of you have been in a lift pod before? Never been . . . up? Either of you?” Beneath his stained jacket, the man’s chest still heaved. He straightened the fabric and tried to brush it flat. “You two have never left the basement? At all?”
Phister had to quickly wedge his shoulder hard against McCreedy’s head because the old man had started to get up again, trying to grab Philip from around Phister’s torso. But he was losing momentum.
“No,” Phister said. “We never done that before. That pod thing you brung us in. We didn’t even know such a thing existed. Or that this place did. This upper level. Only rumours of it . . . We didn’t know . . .”
“I had assumed.” Philip slid off the hood, onto his feet. “But I should never assume. I tell my students that all the time. I could not conceive that anyone would stay in one place for . . . for generations? Especially the basement. No matter how ignorant they appear.” Glaring at McCreedy, who did not react this time.
At least, not with violence.
“We fuckin stayed put,” the driver said. His voice was oddly flat. “We stayed away from everything and everyone and let me tell you we were fuckin happy down there.”
Philip narrowed his eyes, suspicious of this lull. He said, “I suppose you might be in a state of shock. It’s understandable. Your first time away from home. Though really, Phister, I must say that this cretin’s reaction,” chin indicating McCreedy, “is inexcusable, for a man of our era. Yet I feel much empathy for you, dear boy. I should have mentioned in advance what we were about to do. Or perhaps realized the extent of your provinciality.” Wiping his face again, Philip winced when he saw the fresh blood that marked his sleeve. “Well, let me tell you,” he looked up, “a few facts.
“This place is called the warehouse. Most of it — most of what I’ve seen, anyway — is much the same as what you presently view. Boxes and shelves and such. My students and I congregate here at times, to rehearse, on account of the open areas and good acoustics.
“All we did was hail a multiple pod from the basement, enter it, and take it up one level. That’s it. Nothing magical or mysterious. People do it every day.”
Phister and McCreedy, sitting there, slack-jawed.
“How can I express this succinctly? You two gentlemen have lived, underfed, isolated, at the bottom of the world. Literally.”
McCreedy said, “And if you don’t take us back down there again soon, I’ll wring your fuckin neck.” Yet his gloved hands lay on the dashboard railing like two dead animals. Sweat beaded his forehead and ran in rivulets at his temples and from beneath his cap. He was beginning to emit a sharp stench.
Standing by the car, grooming, Philip snorted, “Take you back down? I will do no such thing. You, sir, are a maniac and an imbecile and I am departing your company this very instant.”
McCreedy hunched farther into the driver’s seat. The fight he’d had inside was certainly gone, expended in one flurry. He stared blankly at Philip, subdued, and seeing this look on McCreedy’s face, Phister could not help but think that the old man’s surprising deflation was in part due to his own lack of support. Phister just hadn’t wanted to be left alone with McCreedy. Not for another three days. He found it hard to believe that two grown men could act like such fools. He asked Philip, “So what does that mean? You’re going to leave us here?”
“As I said, I wish you the best of luck, young man.” Philip bent and retrieved his wool hat, dusted