The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [30]
They set off again and headed along a narrow ledge stretching through a winding tunnel. The atmosphere changed; unbelievably, it became darker and stuffier. After a tight bend, Laurel rechecked the Metapad and pushed forward, listening to a muted rush of distant waterfalls punctuated by their squelching waders, the rolling fetid water, and the squeak of rats. “We’re almost there.”
The light from her flashlight bounced off greasy streams. At another junction, they stopped an instant, enough so that Laurel could make out the leg scratching of angry red cockroaches. Startled by the light, the insects on the curved roof swarmed, collided with one another, and rained down on mounds of brownish matter that glistened in places. She cringed.
In the last tunnel leading to the station, you’ll come across roaches and big rats feeding on the fat fields: thousands of tons of fat solidified into huge iceberglike formations. Millions of gallons from cafés, leftover breakfast dishes, frying pans, and fast-food joints.
“Holy shit,” she heard Lukas mutter somewhere behind her.
“Fat: the effluence of affluence,” Raul muttered.
Laurel stepped forward to stare at a vast tunnel, its surface seemingly solid and swarming with insects. The stench was indescribable.
“Well, he certainly didn’t make it.” Lukas trained his flashlight on a figure wedged between two solid-looking mountains of brownish matter.
Laurel’s eyes widened as she took in a skull and a mass of bones sprinkled with a few buttons and pieces of shoes: the remains of a man, probably a vagrant, his flesh and dress devoured piecemeal by the rats.
“Through there?” Lukas asked.
Laurel noted that the beam from Lukas’s flashlight fought to remain fixed in one place without much success.
“That’s right. A few hundred yards.”
Lukas coughed, then leaned to the side to dry-retch a couple of times before drawing a hand across his lips. “I’ll take his fucking hairy balls anytime.”
Raul stopped dead in his tracks. “My hairy balls?” He turned around, pouted his lips, and blew a kiss in Lukas’s direction. “Can’t fault you for your taste.”
Lukas huffed and stepped forward into the greasy quagmire.
Laurel likewise ventured through solidified slabs of fat, careful to plant the soles of her waders with care before taking another step; a fall would be nasty, and probably fatal. Fat roaches darted in all directions before the powerful beams. Dark shapes scurried, filling the air with curious chirps. They waded through the fat for what seemed an eternity. The ground felt strange—at once brittle and squishy, like rotting cereal. Brown and white and gray—a pigeon-shit stew scattered with a top layer of tampons, disposable diapers, and condoms.
Leaving behind the fat fields, they entered a wide tunnel, mostly clear and with narrow sidewalks at either side, its air thick with the rancid stench. After ten minutes of marching single file, their oilskins rubbing against the brickwork, they reached a narrow side tunnel. Laurel’s eyes watered and her throat felt raw from repeated retching. Runny fat had invaded her waders, and her toes squelched in warm slime.
Suddenly, six feet ahead of her, a torrent of light spilled into the passage after a protracted groan of rusty hinges. A blond man in a blinding white lab coat over a blue shirt and tie leaned into the tunnel, wrinkled his nose, and grinned as if greeting a favorite aunt.
“Hello! I’m Dr. Carpenter. What took you so long?”
chapter 13
20:26
It had to happen one day. Reaching into his jacket pocket, Nikola Masek drew out a crumpled bag, rummaged inside, and popped a candy in his mouth. He’d asked his assistant to park outside the hibernation facility instead of in the underground parking lots. Although his specially shielded cell phone would work inside the dead zone, the sophisticated equipment in the van Nikola used as a mobile ops center wouldn’t. After climbing on foot from the parking lot’s upper section, he ambled across a wide belt of paved