The first time was the hardest - ignoring the other passengers, forcing the doors open between stations, waiting for the flicker - and then timing your step out with that flicker of whiteness. A little hitch, a stutter, in which the world seemed to go white. You’d started to notice a hesitation between the seconds on your watch down in the tunnels of the regular subway. And since you haven’t aged much, you might technically still qualify as a bored teen, though you certainly don’t feel like one anymore. Certainly, you did, once you figured out the trick of it. ![]() ![]() The eyes so clear.īored teens sometimes explore the system. Easy enough to discount the ramblings as madness, lunacy, drugs, and yet, the words had been so sharp. I’m one of the fools who’s looked for them for a lifetime or three.”Īnd then the figure had shambled off. The ones who figured out how to travel time. “Don’t get obsessed with finding the ones who built the secret tunnels. If you’re not careful, you’ll turn out just like me, you hear?” The hands had trembled. You’d pulled your hand back, detesting this invasion of your space. Bright eyes suddenly peering from beneath that curtain of unkempt hair. Set a step wrong, and you’ll find yourself far from home.” “You’d best be careful which stations you get off at, down there. The clothes, the miasma of homelessness, erasing, effacing, all signs of identity.īut tight fingers caught your wrist. An overcoat so weathered its original color had faded to gray, swallowing the figure. A checked shirt, probably picked up at a Goodwill, or from an unmonitored donation bin - you’ve worn the same, many times. Wild, disordered hair, concealing the face beneath a nondescript hat. You remember it as if it were yesterday, and in a real way, it was - a yesterday that’s lasted a thousand years. It’s from one of them that you first heard about the abandoned tunnels. The few homeless that have broken past the locked access doors never make it far into the system. No debris, no crumpled beds of old newspapers used by rats or bums. You can’t see signs of anything more recent than 1955. It’s a piece of the past, locked down forever. This station’s been unused for decades, or so it seems. You’ve done it yourself, once or twice.Īnd of course, some destinations that used to exist, don’t anymore. Give false information, to keep others away from what they’ve really found. Some trackers are like that - they set up false trails. Others trail off towards destinations that might not even exist. They’ve left paint on the map, sketching in the track lines that they’ve mapped. The actual metro line map wouldn’t have been a help, but others have been through here. Check it against the faded map on the wall. Past and future, twining around each other. You check the red line against the violet one. As frayed around the edges as your duster. You dig out the map you’ve been working on. They always do, except when you’re on the trains. The gold of the ancient brickwork warms to your touch, and the tunnel curves off into the distance like the spine of a living creature.īut the tracks lead into darkness. Sunlight streams in through skylights overhead, leaded panes set in loops and whorls like fleur-de-lis. Fingerless gloves, a frayed duster, steel-toed boots, the tread of which echoes back dully from the walls. Heavy backpack of gear digging into your shoulders. You’ve been in many such stations before you’re ready, prepared. ![]() Here, the subway station is silent, the kind of silence that comes deep underground, isolated from the hum of the human hive overhead. You’ve snuck through doors that should have been locked to get here. A Thousand Echoes in One Voice by Deborah L.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |