Read Online Tunnels 04, Closer by Roderick Gordon, Brian Williams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Roderick Gordon, Brian Williams
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passes the time," the Limiter replied.
"No, it's much more than that... it's a labor of love," Drake declared. "Do you mind if I...?" he asked, leaning over the table where the British army was positioned.
"Be my guest," the Limiter answered.
"That's better. He's where he should be, now," Drake said, as he carefully placed Wellington in front of a small campaign tent with the other British generals.
Drake then gazed around the rest of the room. There were shelves of books and a row of glass-fronted display cabinets in which there were English army helmets from Waterloo, the Crimean War and other nineteenth-century battles, with polished brass badges and plume-like hackles. As Drake looked away from these, he caught the Styx scrutinizing him, and met his impenetrable eyes.
"Something on your mind?" the Styx divined.
There were a thousand questions Drake wanted to ask this man, but he resolved not to bombard him with them all at once. "Yes, there is something. You know my name, but what do I call you? I'm aware the Styx don't have names... well, not ones that any Topsoiler can pronounce," Drake said a little awkwardly.
The Limiter considered this for a moment. "The beneficiary on the lease for this warehouse is Edward James Green," he answered. "I have other identities such as--"
"No, that'll do," Drake cut him short. "Edward... James... Green." He rubbed his forehead as he thought. "Then I shall call you... Eddie... Eddie the Styx." The notion of addressing one of these savage soldiers -- albeit a retired one -- by such an everyday Topsoiler moniker was so absurd that Drake couldn't suppress a chuckle.
"As you please," the newly-christened Eddie replied, non-plussed that Drake seemed to be so amused.
They moved to the far end of the room, to a bank of CCTV monitors, which displayed scenes of the street outside and several other views that Drake didn't recognize immediately -- they looked as though they were of the insides of brick tunnels. Eddie noticed Drake's interest. "The sewers under this building. It's a precautionary measure -- one can't be too careful," he said.
"No, one can't, not with the Styx," Drake agreed.
At the end of a small hallway was a heavy steel door. They passed through it and were descending a wrought-iron staircase when Drake drew to a halt. "What is this place?" he asked. The contrast with the lavish apartment he'd just left couldn't have been more marked.
From his elevated viewpoint, he was looking out over what appeared to be a warehouse, an area approaching a hundred meters from end to end, and half that in width. The tall windows were filthy and barely any light made it through, but what little there was revealed the floor space was dotted about with chunks of machinery. As Drake descended the remaining distance and could see the machines closer at hand, their condition suggested that they'd been unused for decades.
"This was a Victorian bottling factory, a family-owned business," Eddie said. "When their competitors stole their market share, they just shut up shop. They simply mothballed all the plant, and sealed the factory doors. The left it all to rot."
"And you took the lease on, then build living quarters in the roof space," Drake said, glancing at the floor above. As he brushed a rubber conveyor belt with his fingertips, pieces of it crumbled away at his touch.
Eddie led them down an aisle, either side of which were machines draped with rotting tarpaulins.
"What's that over there?" Drake asked, straining to see what lay in the shadows by the far wall. "Motorbikes?"
"Yes -- I use them to get around," Eddie said. "But what I want to show you is this way."
Near the corner of the warehouse, he stopped before an old lathe covered in a powdery orange rust. "First step in the de-arming," he told Drake as he pressed a grimy red button on its control panel.
Then he continued behind the lathe to a small structure in the very corner of the building. It was built of scaffolding and
"No, it's much more than that... it's a labor of love," Drake declared. "Do you mind if I...?" he asked, leaning over the table where the British army was positioned.
"Be my guest," the Limiter answered.
"That's better. He's where he should be, now," Drake said, as he carefully placed Wellington in front of a small campaign tent with the other British generals.
Drake then gazed around the rest of the room. There were shelves of books and a row of glass-fronted display cabinets in which there were English army helmets from Waterloo, the Crimean War and other nineteenth-century battles, with polished brass badges and plume-like hackles. As Drake looked away from these, he caught the Styx scrutinizing him, and met his impenetrable eyes.
"Something on your mind?" the Styx divined.
There were a thousand questions Drake wanted to ask this man, but he resolved not to bombard him with them all at once. "Yes, there is something. You know my name, but what do I call you? I'm aware the Styx don't have names... well, not ones that any Topsoiler can pronounce," Drake said a little awkwardly.
The Limiter considered this for a moment. "The beneficiary on the lease for this warehouse is Edward James Green," he answered. "I have other identities such as--"
"No, that'll do," Drake cut him short. "Edward... James... Green." He rubbed his forehead as he thought. "Then I shall call you... Eddie... Eddie the Styx." The notion of addressing one of these savage soldiers -- albeit a retired one -- by such an everyday Topsoiler moniker was so absurd that Drake couldn't suppress a chuckle.
"As you please," the newly-christened Eddie replied, non-plussed that Drake seemed to be so amused.
They moved to the far end of the room, to a bank of CCTV monitors, which displayed scenes of the street outside and several other views that Drake didn't recognize immediately -- they looked as though they were of the insides of brick tunnels. Eddie noticed Drake's interest. "The sewers under this building. It's a precautionary measure -- one can't be too careful," he said.
"No, one can't, not with the Styx," Drake agreed.
At the end of a small hallway was a heavy steel door. They passed through it and were descending a wrought-iron staircase when Drake drew to a halt. "What is this place?" he asked. The contrast with the lavish apartment he'd just left couldn't have been more marked.
From his elevated viewpoint, he was looking out over what appeared to be a warehouse, an area approaching a hundred meters from end to end, and half that in width. The tall windows were filthy and barely any light made it through, but what little there was revealed the floor space was dotted about with chunks of machinery. As Drake descended the remaining distance and could see the machines closer at hand, their condition suggested that they'd been unused for decades.
"This was a Victorian bottling factory, a family-owned business," Eddie said. "When their competitors stole their market share, they just shut up shop. They simply mothballed all the plant, and sealed the factory doors. The left it all to rot."
"And you took the lease on, then build living quarters in the roof space," Drake said, glancing at the floor above. As he brushed a rubber conveyor belt with his fingertips, pieces of it crumbled away at his touch.
Eddie led them down an aisle, either side of which were machines draped with rotting tarpaulins.
"What's that over there?" Drake asked, straining to see what lay in the shadows by the far wall. "Motorbikes?"
"Yes -- I use them to get around," Eddie said. "But what I want to show you is this way."
Near the corner of the warehouse, he stopped before an old lathe covered in a powdery orange rust. "First step in the de-arming," he told Drake as he pressed a grimy red button on its control panel.
Then he continued behind the lathe to a small structure in the very corner of the building. It was built of scaffolding and
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