or MTA employees walking the subway tracks.” He throws me a grimace. “Getting arrested isn’t going to help us save your sister.”
Unfortunately his words make a lot of sense, so I suck in a breath and prepare to dive in. Sunny better be damned grateful for this rescue attempt, that’s all I can say. Like, “letting me borrow her Tiffany heart necklace for at least three special occasions” grateful. Especially since my brand-new, not-so-waterproof Doc Martens boots are never going to be the same after this little spelunking mission. (Yes, I know, I know, one should never buy and wear new boots when embarking on an undercover mission through the sewers of New York City. But you didn’t see Bertha’s hot slayer outfit and experience the pains of wardrobe inferiority.)
Of course now, I’m just experiencing the pains of foot blisters, so what do I know?
Doing my best to sidestep the waterfall, I plunge into the narrow, squared-off tunnel, crouching as to not hit the low ceiling. The freezing water splashes over my ankles as I press forward, dodging slimy purple plant tentacles that drip down from the occasional metal grates above. Radioactive or not, the water smells foul and I try not to breathe in too much as I hug the tunnel’s left side, dodging rusty, mold-covered pipes sticking out from the concrete.
After about a hundred feet, the square tunnel widens out and the concrete gives way to a rounded archway of brick and stone. It’d be kind of pretty, if it wasn’t so smelly.
“This is the older part of the sewer,” Jareth explains. “It’s going to split off in a bit and we’re going to take the right fork. It should be a little easier going from there. Or dryer, at the very least.”
“Sounds good to me.” I pick up the pace and soon come to the split he mentioned and take a right. The good news? Not only is it dryer, but the ceiling is higher, allowing me a chance to straighten up and give my aching back a break. The bad news? The absence of rushing water allows my ears to pick up not-so-distant squeaking noises. I try to push them out of my mind and press onward through a twisty tunnel that dead-ends at a wooden barricade. Jareth pulls out the crowbar again and rips the wooden planks away, revealing an entrance into what appears to be a subway tunnel.
I step through the gap, peering up and down the tracks. “Um, we’re not going to get run over by a train, are we?”
Jareth chuckles. “Don’t worry,” he assures me, tapping on one of the rails with his crowbar. “These particular tracks are no longer used.” And sure enough, upon closer examination, I can see heavy rust caked on the rails. No train has been through here in years. Okay, well, that’s something at least.
Less comforting? The wooden log ceiling that shakes violently every time a car drives by on the surface roads above. As we head down the tunnel, I shine my light on the extremely rotted-out support beams with growing concern. I mean, is that really all that’s keeping the heavy New York City traffic from crashing down into this underground world? I try to remind myself that these tunnels have been here for more than a hundred years—no need to think they’d pick today of all days to suddenly give way and collapse. But the thought isn’t as reassuring as it should be, especially after another car drives by and crumbling dirt rains down on my head.
We walk in silence, our journey sound tracked by an occasional dripping sound and a host of squeaking in the distance that I do my best to ignore. But though the tunnel is mostly dead empty, there are some strange signs of life poking out here and there. At one point we even pass a little bricked-in room just off the tracks, with a table and chairs and a couple of cobwebbed milk crates serving as furniture and a pile of ratty blankets made up as a bed. Fascinated, I abandon the tracks for a closer look, finding a notepad wedged between two stones.Someone’s diary? I try
Unfortunately his words make a lot of sense, so I suck in a breath and prepare to dive in. Sunny better be damned grateful for this rescue attempt, that’s all I can say. Like, “letting me borrow her Tiffany heart necklace for at least three special occasions” grateful. Especially since my brand-new, not-so-waterproof Doc Martens boots are never going to be the same after this little spelunking mission. (Yes, I know, I know, one should never buy and wear new boots when embarking on an undercover mission through the sewers of New York City. But you didn’t see Bertha’s hot slayer outfit and experience the pains of wardrobe inferiority.)
Of course now, I’m just experiencing the pains of foot blisters, so what do I know?
Doing my best to sidestep the waterfall, I plunge into the narrow, squared-off tunnel, crouching as to not hit the low ceiling. The freezing water splashes over my ankles as I press forward, dodging slimy purple plant tentacles that drip down from the occasional metal grates above. Radioactive or not, the water smells foul and I try not to breathe in too much as I hug the tunnel’s left side, dodging rusty, mold-covered pipes sticking out from the concrete.
After about a hundred feet, the square tunnel widens out and the concrete gives way to a rounded archway of brick and stone. It’d be kind of pretty, if it wasn’t so smelly.
“This is the older part of the sewer,” Jareth explains. “It’s going to split off in a bit and we’re going to take the right fork. It should be a little easier going from there. Or dryer, at the very least.”
“Sounds good to me.” I pick up the pace and soon come to the split he mentioned and take a right. The good news? Not only is it dryer, but the ceiling is higher, allowing me a chance to straighten up and give my aching back a break. The bad news? The absence of rushing water allows my ears to pick up not-so-distant squeaking noises. I try to push them out of my mind and press onward through a twisty tunnel that dead-ends at a wooden barricade. Jareth pulls out the crowbar again and rips the wooden planks away, revealing an entrance into what appears to be a subway tunnel.
I step through the gap, peering up and down the tracks. “Um, we’re not going to get run over by a train, are we?”
Jareth chuckles. “Don’t worry,” he assures me, tapping on one of the rails with his crowbar. “These particular tracks are no longer used.” And sure enough, upon closer examination, I can see heavy rust caked on the rails. No train has been through here in years. Okay, well, that’s something at least.
Less comforting? The wooden log ceiling that shakes violently every time a car drives by on the surface roads above. As we head down the tunnel, I shine my light on the extremely rotted-out support beams with growing concern. I mean, is that really all that’s keeping the heavy New York City traffic from crashing down into this underground world? I try to remind myself that these tunnels have been here for more than a hundred years—no need to think they’d pick today of all days to suddenly give way and collapse. But the thought isn’t as reassuring as it should be, especially after another car drives by and crumbling dirt rains down on my head.
We walk in silence, our journey sound tracked by an occasional dripping sound and a host of squeaking in the distance that I do my best to ignore. But though the tunnel is mostly dead empty, there are some strange signs of life poking out here and there. At one point we even pass a little bricked-in room just off the tracks, with a table and chairs and a couple of cobwebbed milk crates serving as furniture and a pile of ratty blankets made up as a bed. Fascinated, I abandon the tracks for a closer look, finding a notepad wedged between two stones.Someone’s diary? I try
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