Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [103]
The pack hadn’t exactly lost interest in me, but you could tell they weren’t going to get excited. Most of them probably hadn’t seen anybody get this far before. I kept my eyes on the shack as though the Mole would emerge any minute. I knew better, but I knew the rules too.
I heard Simba grunting behind me and knew the Mole was coming, but I didn’t turn around until I felt his hand on my shoulder. I turned, and there he was. The Mole—even in the dim light, his skin looked transparent, the blue veins corded on his hands like there wasn’t enough skin to cover everything. Short, stubby, clumsy-looking Mole, blinking his tiny eyes rapidly at the unaccustomed light of day. He was wearing one of those one-piece coverall outfits like mechanics use in gas stations and carrying a toolbox. In spite of his pale skin he was so dirty from his work that he looked like he was prepared for night surveillance. He moved close to me, bumping Simba aside like the beast wasn’t there. And Simba, with that respect for genuine lunacy shared by all animals, moved aside without even a growl.
The Mole put his hands in his pockets, looked carefully at me for a moment or two, and mumbled something to Simba, who immediately trotted off. Then he motioned that I should walk ahead of him to the shack.
As soon as I got past the hanging door I smelled muscatel, urine, and old wet rags. There was an orange crate in one corner with some old newspapers on top and a dirty raincoat lying open on the ground like it was a wino’s bed. Some empty bottles, candy wrappers, a broken piece of wood that had been a chair once. The Mole walked past the stuff like it wasn’t there, and I breathed through my mouth as I followed him.
At the very back of the shack he fiddled with some levers and pulleys, then bent and yanked something and there was an opening in the ground. He sent me in first, climbed down after me, reached back and made some more adjustments. I felt the Mole slip past me in the dark, then he led the way through the tunnel. We must have walked a hundred yards or so until he found the door and stepped through, and then we were in his den.
I’m not sure how he worked it, but it’s like a half-underground, half-above-ground bunker. The top is covered with the bodies of wrecked and rusting cars, but there was some way that light filtered through because the place wasn’t that dark. It was as clean as the shack had been foul, and much bigger inside.
The room we entered was like the Mole’s parlor, or whatever the equivalent would be for underground bunkers. He had an old leather easy chair with matching ottoman in one corner, a two-person sofa facing it on an angle. I think the floor was hard-packed dirt but it was covered with several sheets of flattened linoleum and there was an oval throw rug in the middle. I had never gotten past this room but I knew there were others—a place to sleep and some kind of bathroom in the back, maybe even a kitchen. It smelled clean down there, but the air was sharp, like the filtered stuff you get in operating rooms. The Mole had some way to vent everything to another part of the junkyard, but I don’t know how he did it.
The junkyard itself wasn’t open to the public. The Mole and the dogs and God knows what else lived there in perfect symbiosis. We all pick our ways to survive, and the Mole decided this was his way a long time ago. He never left the place except to do his work. I thought I knew the