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Authors: Dean Koontz
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Beyond, the storm drain was easily large enough to accommodate a man. He wondered if it harbored rats and roaches. Then he decided that rats and roaches could be no less pleasant than remaining here to be discovered by the police or the triplets. The former would recommend that he be locked up in some asylum; the latter might just take it in their heads to murder him. Painlessly, of course; they had promised that much.
He laid the grill aside and dropped into the drain. The tile was only damp; no rats or roaches either visible or audible. He reached overhead and replaced the grill. It made a bit of noise sliding in place, but he could do nothing about that.
He had not considered how dark it would be. His fears seemed to drink the darkness and bloom with its nourishment. Although he would have a hard enough time seeing what he was about, he knew the mechanical triplets would see very well in the dark, too well to make it an even battle.
Overhead, someone shouted. The police? Or the triplets?
He heard voices and the shuffle of feet near the drain.
A revolver boomed in the closed warehouse, echoing from the corrugated walls.
Fingers felt along the drainage grill; he could see them, searching for a hold.
He turned, peered into the stinking blackness of the storm drain, bent to avoid any ceiling projections, and hurried forward, giving the rats plenty of warning if they were there.
----
IX
He was thankful for the recent balmy weather which had given the city clear skies for several days. The runnels were dry, or nearly so, and they presented no hazard more nerve-wracking than occasional patches of slick, wet mud. He fell on a few of these, skinning both knees and both elbows. His clothes were damp in many places and smeared with a rich, black soil; chewing gum wrappers stuck to his trousers; his face was filthy; the left sleeve of his shirt was torn from cuff to elbow. He didn't curse once. Nor did he wish he was out of that place and under an open sky, for all these bothersome details were far more desirable than capture.
His eyes had somewhat adjusted to the gloom, though he could see very little, no more than a few feet. There was no sign of movement behind, no light to show the triplets the way.
He began to walk rather than run any farther. His chest ached; his calves and thighs felt strained and loose. As he walked, he held a hand over his heart, as if clutching it, feeling the beat of it and wishing there were some way to slow the tempo. He took turn after turn in the subterranean network; each twist into a new branch of the drainage system was one more obstacle to anyone who might be trying to follow him.
Ahead, concrete steps, fortified with flagstone insets, led up into more darkness. The city was built on two hills and in the valley between; necessarily, there would have to be different levels in the drains. Weak, blue light, filtering down from above, showed him the way. He climbed the steps, avoiding the soggy clumps of rotting, dead leaves that clung in all the corners of the risers.
At the top of the stairs, he found a landing from which two tunnels bored away in opposite directions. Directly in front of him, in the blank stone wall, there was a heavy, metal door, painted gray with the number 17 stenciled on it in white. A blue safety bulb burned in a wire cage above the door. He crossed to it, tried the handle, and found the door locked.
Hello in there! he called without response.
He pounded on the door, sure that he had found a maintenance area of some sort. It was sturdily hinged and reverberated only slightly, despite the force of his knocking.
Hey, in there!
Still no
He laid the grill aside and dropped into the drain. The tile was only damp; no rats or roaches either visible or audible. He reached overhead and replaced the grill. It made a bit of noise sliding in place, but he could do nothing about that.
He had not considered how dark it would be. His fears seemed to drink the darkness and bloom with its nourishment. Although he would have a hard enough time seeing what he was about, he knew the mechanical triplets would see very well in the dark, too well to make it an even battle.
Overhead, someone shouted. The police? Or the triplets?
He heard voices and the shuffle of feet near the drain.
A revolver boomed in the closed warehouse, echoing from the corrugated walls.
Fingers felt along the drainage grill; he could see them, searching for a hold.
He turned, peered into the stinking blackness of the storm drain, bent to avoid any ceiling projections, and hurried forward, giving the rats plenty of warning if they were there.
----
IX
He was thankful for the recent balmy weather which had given the city clear skies for several days. The runnels were dry, or nearly so, and they presented no hazard more nerve-wracking than occasional patches of slick, wet mud. He fell on a few of these, skinning both knees and both elbows. His clothes were damp in many places and smeared with a rich, black soil; chewing gum wrappers stuck to his trousers; his face was filthy; the left sleeve of his shirt was torn from cuff to elbow. He didn't curse once. Nor did he wish he was out of that place and under an open sky, for all these bothersome details were far more desirable than capture.
His eyes had somewhat adjusted to the gloom, though he could see very little, no more than a few feet. There was no sign of movement behind, no light to show the triplets the way.
He began to walk rather than run any farther. His chest ached; his calves and thighs felt strained and loose. As he walked, he held a hand over his heart, as if clutching it, feeling the beat of it and wishing there were some way to slow the tempo. He took turn after turn in the subterranean network; each twist into a new branch of the drainage system was one more obstacle to anyone who might be trying to follow him.
Ahead, concrete steps, fortified with flagstone insets, led up into more darkness. The city was built on two hills and in the valley between; necessarily, there would have to be different levels in the drains. Weak, blue light, filtering down from above, showed him the way. He climbed the steps, avoiding the soggy clumps of rotting, dead leaves that clung in all the corners of the risers.
At the top of the stairs, he found a landing from which two tunnels bored away in opposite directions. Directly in front of him, in the blank stone wall, there was a heavy, metal door, painted gray with the number 17 stenciled on it in white. A blue safety bulb burned in a wire cage above the door. He crossed to it, tried the handle, and found the door locked.
Hello in there! he called without response.
He pounded on the door, sure that he had found a maintenance area of some sort. It was sturdily hinged and reverberated only slightly, despite the force of his knocking.
Hey, in there!
Still no
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