Read Online The World Beneath (Joe Tesla) by Rebecca Cantrell - Free Book Online
Authors: Rebecca Cantrell
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leaned against the cold steel pillar and waited. Rebar picked up the hammer again and smacked it into the bricks, the noise echoing down the tunnel. Brick chips caromed off the wall, one slicing a thin line into Rebar’s stubbled cheek. He didn’t seem to notice.
Brick dust, soot, and crushed cement swirled around the hammering man. He looked like a genie emerging from the glowing lantern in a cloud of red and gray dust. Rebar coughed, spit next to the rusty tracks, and went back to hammering, counting each blow.
Should Joe offer to take a turn? What was the etiquette on performing public acts of vandalism with an accomplice? Lookout or criminal, those were the roles. That made him the lookout. He should sneak off. But he stayed.
A section of wall at Rebar’s shoulder height gave, toppling forward to create a dark hole. Joe blinked in surprise. He pushed off the pillar and stood straight.
Joe fidgeted from side to side while Rebar pounded the broken section until it was big enough to climb through. Joe wanted him to stop so that he could peek at the secret behind the wall, but he kept his peace. After all, the mission was Rebar’s, not his.
Rebar picked up the lantern and held it above his head like an old-time lighthouse keeper, warning ships away from the rocks. The man’s grotesque shadow leaped across the pillar and fell on Joe’s hand.
Without turning around, the man thrust the lantern through the hole. The tunnel around Joe went dark. The silhouette of Rebar’s head against the yellow light blocked Joe’s view inside.
Joe moved next to him, leaning forward eagerly. He couldn’t wait to see it.
“Permission to see inside?” he asked.
The horse-like smell of Rebar’s sweat blanketed the air, reminding him how much bigger, stronger, and crazier Rebar was than he. Rebar leaned away with a grunt, leaving the arm holding the lantern in the bricked-up room.
Joe peered through the hole. In the center of the room stood a single blue train car. Rust bloomed along its steel side like dark lichen. The window glass looked more than twice as thick as normal train windows, watery green behind a patina of dust. Bulletproof. A familiar circular seal adorned the car’s side—an eagle bearing a laurel branch in one clawed foot and arrows in the other. He didn’t need to read the words above it to know what they said: Seal of the President of the United States.
A legend in the tunnels. He had heard of a special train car that had carried Franklin Delano Roosevelt to New York during the Second World War, stopping two hundred feet underneath the Waldorf Astoria, a short walk from a freight elevator used to carry FDR and his automobile up to the hotel parking lot during the war. After the war, the car had vanished.
Until now.
Rebar had found it. But why?
A flash of ivory drew Joe’s eye to the top of the car. Thick dust blanketed old bones. A tiny skull, long arm bones, fragile-looking ribs. A child’s skeleton.
A train passed a hundred feet behind them. The ground shook. A piece of broken brick clattered into the room, and the skeleton on top of the car shivered. Rebar’s arm twitched. Moving light scattered shadows around the room as if a thousand ghosts danced there, finally set free.
Joe shifted his gaze from the dancing shadows to the left wall. Olive-green fabric covered with dust leaned against the stone. On the train ties next to the green pile rested a pale orb with a hole in the back.
A skull.
The green rags? An Army uniform covering a skeleton. At the end of one green arm a dusty gun lay atop the rusty train track. The man had shot himself in the head.
On the ground between the skull and the uniform-clad skeleton lay a set of round wire-framed eyeglasses, one lens a spider’s web of cracks. A man died there, long ago. Not just one (cyan). Two (blue). Close to the wall, a second skeleton wore a long coat that looked as if it had once been white.
He realized it from their postures—the men had
Brick dust, soot, and crushed cement swirled around the hammering man. He looked like a genie emerging from the glowing lantern in a cloud of red and gray dust. Rebar coughed, spit next to the rusty tracks, and went back to hammering, counting each blow.
Should Joe offer to take a turn? What was the etiquette on performing public acts of vandalism with an accomplice? Lookout or criminal, those were the roles. That made him the lookout. He should sneak off. But he stayed.
A section of wall at Rebar’s shoulder height gave, toppling forward to create a dark hole. Joe blinked in surprise. He pushed off the pillar and stood straight.
Joe fidgeted from side to side while Rebar pounded the broken section until it was big enough to climb through. Joe wanted him to stop so that he could peek at the secret behind the wall, but he kept his peace. After all, the mission was Rebar’s, not his.
Rebar picked up the lantern and held it above his head like an old-time lighthouse keeper, warning ships away from the rocks. The man’s grotesque shadow leaped across the pillar and fell on Joe’s hand.
Without turning around, the man thrust the lantern through the hole. The tunnel around Joe went dark. The silhouette of Rebar’s head against the yellow light blocked Joe’s view inside.
Joe moved next to him, leaning forward eagerly. He couldn’t wait to see it.
“Permission to see inside?” he asked.
The horse-like smell of Rebar’s sweat blanketed the air, reminding him how much bigger, stronger, and crazier Rebar was than he. Rebar leaned away with a grunt, leaving the arm holding the lantern in the bricked-up room.
Joe peered through the hole. In the center of the room stood a single blue train car. Rust bloomed along its steel side like dark lichen. The window glass looked more than twice as thick as normal train windows, watery green behind a patina of dust. Bulletproof. A familiar circular seal adorned the car’s side—an eagle bearing a laurel branch in one clawed foot and arrows in the other. He didn’t need to read the words above it to know what they said: Seal of the President of the United States.
A legend in the tunnels. He had heard of a special train car that had carried Franklin Delano Roosevelt to New York during the Second World War, stopping two hundred feet underneath the Waldorf Astoria, a short walk from a freight elevator used to carry FDR and his automobile up to the hotel parking lot during the war. After the war, the car had vanished.
Until now.
Rebar had found it. But why?
A flash of ivory drew Joe’s eye to the top of the car. Thick dust blanketed old bones. A tiny skull, long arm bones, fragile-looking ribs. A child’s skeleton.
A train passed a hundred feet behind them. The ground shook. A piece of broken brick clattered into the room, and the skeleton on top of the car shivered. Rebar’s arm twitched. Moving light scattered shadows around the room as if a thousand ghosts danced there, finally set free.
Joe shifted his gaze from the dancing shadows to the left wall. Olive-green fabric covered with dust leaned against the stone. On the train ties next to the green pile rested a pale orb with a hole in the back.
A skull.
The green rags? An Army uniform covering a skeleton. At the end of one green arm a dusty gun lay atop the rusty train track. The man had shot himself in the head.
On the ground between the skull and the uniform-clad skeleton lay a set of round wire-framed eyeglasses, one lens a spider’s web of cracks. A man died there, long ago. Not just one (cyan). Two (blue). Close to the wall, a second skeleton wore a long coat that looked as if it had once been white.
He realized it from their postures—the men had
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