“Where’s the goddamn light switch?” Nick demanded. “I’m not going to do a Yosemite Sam down here and strike a match. There’s got to be one somewhere. ”

I spotted it first—a thin, dangling chain, like the kind that dog tags hang from. I gave it a yank and the old fashioned yellow bulb popped to life, drenching the basement storage with a sick-looking ochre light that was only somewhat better than none at all.

Inside we found stacks and stacks of junk, boxes, and dusty things that smelled a tad tart.

Nick wrinkled his nose. “Gunpowder. You smell it?”

“I guess that’s what it is. ” I gazed around and saw mostly things that looked like ordinary storage.

“We’re in the right spot. Jesus, look at this stuff. This has to be it—look at all these warnings. ”

“So maybe you should be careful about how you pick them up and shuffle them around,” I suggested.

“I am being careful. Don’t be such a worrywart—and holy shit, these are heavy. We’re going to need . . . huh. How many do you think we’ll need? You’ve seen the hole, I haven’t. What are we talking here? Major demolition? Minor cave-in?”

“A minor cave-in ought to do it. ” I tried to remember all the junk over the hole, and I had to believe that it wouldn’t take much to bring it all down and bring the earth down with it. “What do you think those old tunnels are, anyway? Mining tunnels? A lot of the kids out here think they’re part of an underground city, but that seems highly unlikely. ”

He wiped the side of a box, and gray dust coated his sleeve. “I couldn’t say. I’ve heard about it; it’s a popular little urban legend here. Maybe tunnels or earthworks left over from the war? I don’t think there’s any way to know, not anymore. No one has any records of making them, and all the folks without any imagination say that they don’t exist anyhow. ”

“Oh, they exist”

“I believe you. But for all you know, it could be a big unfinished basement. ”

“No way. I heard them down there—”

“You heard something down there. I want you to keep in mind that there’s an excellent chance we’re going to bury a whole bunch of rats and no shambling undead. ”

“I know what I heard. And they’re coming up from the river, so the tunnels have to go at least that far. Anyway, I’m not worried about it. This is a good idea, and it’ll work. As long as we can smuggle these things out and back downtown. ”

“All right then. But we’re not going to be able to do it by hand. We’re going to need bags, or backpacks, or something. Stay put and start picking out your poison. I’ll run upstairs and see about raiding the souvenir shop. ”

I did as he suggested and stayed behind in the smelly, dark room, while he went upstairs to see what he could steal. I ran my hands along the box seams and popped a few open, taking a peek inside and reading labels.

“Not intended for indoor use—well, no kidding. ’Five hundred foot minimum fallout area required. ’ Five hundred feet?” The canister was cylindrical and heavy, like an oatmeal tin filled with pennies. “Salute,” I read aloud from the label—apparently the name of the shell. I thought about trying to pry the shells open, but then remembered that my knife might well make a spark or two, and then we’d have our Yosemite Sam moment after all.

Nick returned with two duffel bags made of sturdy nylon. He’d thrown in a few towels, too, plus a smallish can of paint thinner and a roll of plastic wrap.

“Why the paint thinner? And plastic wrap?”

“We might need something flammable later on. Makeshift running fuse, or some such. As for the wrap, it’s raining again. And the towels, you know, to keep all this stuff separate. We’re basically going to be playing terrorist here—running around downtown carrying little bombs. I hope that this soothing mental image causes you to rethink this thing, but I bet it won’t. ”

“That’d be a safe bet. We’re here now, we’ve got the fireworks, and I say we load up and get the hell out of Dodge. ”

“How long are we going to have to carry this crap, anyway? It’s fucking heavy. ”

“Not far,” I said, but I had to think about it. “A few blocks. It’s back towards the Read House—practically across the street from it, come to think of it. Catty-cornered, anyway. We can’t let zombies arise from the earth right near a shelter, where there are old people, sick people, and kids. ”

He put down the shell he was holding, and looked at me with a fresh glare of disbelief. “But it’s okay to set off industrial grade pyrotechnics there?”

“It’s across the street. Not exactly across the street, but down it. Probably a thousand feet, anyway. ”

“You have no earthly idea how far a thousand feet is, do you? And that’s an awfully specific number; you wouldn’t have pulled it out of your ass because you’ve been reading these labels, would you? Because some of these labels say two thousand feet, not one thousand, and not five hundred. ”

“No. That’s not why,” I lied. “Look, Nick, it won’t take very much. A couple of these—the ones that say five hundred feet. ” I carefully hoisted one of the smaller shells, and damn, it was heavy. “We’ll start with these, and if it doesn’t work, or the place doesn’t come crashing down, then we’ll give up and call the SWAT team. Grab some directions, though. I haven’t the foggiest clue how to light one of these bad boys. ”

“Sure. Yeah. I’ll just grab this ‘How to Set Off Giant Fireworks’ pamphlet over here . . . wait, I see no such thing. ” He was getting frustrated with me, but that made two of us.

“Just . . . whatever paperwork you see. Take that. Stuff it in, and we’ll read it later, or on the way, or something. ” I started reading from the first sheet I found. “ ‘1. 3G fireworks, not intended for use by amateur consumers. Licensed pyrotechnic . . . ’ yeah, whatever. ”

Tags: Cherie Priest Eden Moore Horror
Source: readsnovelonline.net