Steve's arm jutted from the sea of rats, like a buoy in the middle of the ocean. The rest of him was buried beneath the squirming mass.
Incredibly, his fingers were still twitching, his fist clenching and unclenching.
"Steve!"
Quinn crouched on the edge of the service ledge, and reached for Steve's hand.
"Get off him, you little fuckers!"
The rats chattered angrily, and Quinn was sure he could hear words-formed by creatures that lacked the necessary equipment for speech. Attracted by his outburst, the human zombies turned, and raised their weapons.
Quinn grabbed Steve's hand. Steve's fingers curled around his. Quinn pulled. His friend didn't budge. He jerked harder, and suddenly, the arm came free. Quinn stumbled backward, knocking his head against the concrete wall. Steve's arm came with him, their hands still clenched together.
The rest of Steve stayed with the rats.
Gibbering, Quinn tossed the severed arm aside and turned to run. A rifle cracked. The first shot caught him in the leg, but he felt no pain. The second round punched the breath from him, and brought a muted burning sensation. Teetering, he fell backward, landing on top of the writhing masses. Hundreds of razor sharp teeth and claws ripped at his flesh. It felt like thousands of tiny needles piercing his skin.
Quinn opened his mouth to scream and a small rat scrabbled inside it, stretching his cheeks as it forced its body farther into the orifice.
Its nails slashed at his tongue. Blood welled in his mouth. He was unable to spit it out because the rat blocked his airway. He tried to move his arms and legs, but the creatures' combined weight kept them pinned. His lungs pounded, desperate for air. The last thing he saw was a large rat's misshapen, decaying head, darting for his eyes. Then there was a bright flash of pain, and then he saw no more.
Quinn sank to the bottom of the pile.
Forrest awoke in the dark, soaked to the bone. When he opened his eyes, the darkness did not dissipate. He grimaced, tasting blood, and spat. Gingerly, he explored his mouth with his tongue, and found a gaping hole where a tooth had been.
He was half-submerged in a pool of warm, stinking liquid. He shuddered to think what it was. Slowly, he rose to his feet, sloshing out of the foulness, and checked the rest of his body for injuries. No broken bones, but he was bleeding from at least a dozen different cuts and abrasions.
He stood there in the darkness, shivering and dripping with slime, and tried to get his bearings. He'd been crawling along the tunnel, feeling his way, when suddenly, the floor had disappeared beneath him. He remembered falling, so surprised that he hadn't even had time to shout a warning to Quinn-and then he remembered no more.
"Must have blacked out," he said aloud, and immediately wished he hadn't. His voice echoed off unseen walls, sounding strange and alien to him. When the noise faded, the silence was deafening.
He knelt, feeling around beneath the pool's surface for his weapons, but came up empty. He checked his belt and was relieved to find that he still had an unused glow stick and his knife. He grasped the hilt and pulled it from the sheath. The feel of the blade in his hands was comforting.
Forrest stood still as stone, snapped the glow stick, and waited for his eyes to adjust. The liquid came halfway up to his knees, clinging to him. He wondered again what it was. Finally, he dipped a finger into the pool and brought it to his lips, tasting it. Water- brackish and foul, but only water.
At least it isn't shit, he thought. Even so-I'm in a world of shit anyway.
He cocked his head, listening for anything that would indicate his location and whether or not he was alone. Water dripped, but other than that, the silence was as solid as the blackness around him. There were no shouts or footsteps or even gunfire, nothing that meant the others-or the zombies-were nearby.
When he could see, he edged forward. He was in an old, unused tunnel, left over from an earlier era. The walls were circular, and lined with crumbling, red bricks. Lichen and mold clung to the cracks, and a thin stream of brown water trickled along the floor.
He debated whether to call out for Quinn, or to remain silent. If there were zombies nearby, he didn't want to alert them to his presence. But what if Quinn had tumbled down after him, and was hurt or unconscious?
He couldn't just leave him here.
"Quinn?"
The darkness didn't respond.
"Yo, Quinn! Speak up if you're there."
His voice taunted him, transforming into something unfamiliar.
Forrest crept slowly forward, his body coiled and ready for anything.
The tunnel sloped downward at a steady decline, and he picked his steps carefully, not wanting to slip on the slime-covered bricks.
"Hello?" he called again, and thought he heard something rustle behind him.
Forrest turned and his feet shot out from under him. He landed on his back, his jaws slamming shut. His knife skittered away, and he slithered down the tunnel, desperately grasping for a handhold.
Then the tunnel disappeared, and suddenly, he was falling again. He splashed into a large pool of water, and sank beneath the surface. His feet touched bottom and he kicked for the top. He emerged, choking and gasping for breath.
Something brushed against his leg. Forrest jumped, and slapped at his thigh. He glanced down to see a small, white flash darting away beneath the surface-some kind of albino fish.
Treading water, he swam across the pool to a circular concrete platform.
He pulled himself up and collapsed, gasping for breath. He wished for his knife, and glanced back down at the pool. Albino fish teemed in the water by the dozens. Forrest wondered if they were some type of deformed goldfish, flushed down here long ago.
He tried to figure out what to do next. Climbing back up the shaft was impossible, yet he didn't see any other tunnels to escape through. He considered the possibility that the exit might be underwater, and surveyed the pool. The ripples had ceased, and the dark surface was still again. Something white jutted up from the center; a pipe or possibly a piece of wood, bleached from years of floating in this chemical soup.
He bent down and peered over the edge, studying the fish closer. One of them swam up to the concrete island, and Forrest froze.
Its left eye was missing.
"Dead. They're fucking dead."
The piece of wood began to move, slowly coming toward him. Something glinted in the darkness. Teeth. Rows of long, pointed teeth.
"Oh my God ..."
His conversation with Pigpen, when he'd scoffed at the bum's tales of what lay beneath the city, came back to him.
And there are alligators down there, Forrest. Big albino fuckers with red eyes and white skin. I had a buddy named Wilbanks. He lost a leg to one.
A baleful red eye glared at him, and then the alligator clambered up onto the platform. Pustulent, open sores covered its scaly hide, and its snout was a raw, red wound. Vertebrae poked out of the creature's side, and a chunk of flesh was missing from its massive tail.