The Ward

5


2:00 A.M., SATURDAY


I keep on moving—the sound is so loud, it must be next to me—but the farther I walk, the farther away it gets. Where’d it go? I backtrack until I can hear it again, but there’s nothing in front, and nothing behind.

Next to me, maybe?

I press my ears to the tunnel walls. Sure enough, I find it: the spot where the sound is loudest. But what am I supposed to do, walk through walls? I shine the beam along the grime-covered tunnel looking for a crack, a crevice . . . anything.

Then I see it: a hole. Made from a different material than the tunnel walls.

The hole is, of course, filled in with bricks.

Ugh. I’m really starting to hate bricks—first the knock on the head, now this. I steady my foot and aim to kick the things, when I realize one crucial difference. This time there is no mortar.

These bricks were meant to be removed.

And who better to remove them than me? I get down on all fours and start hammering away at them with my flashlight. After each swing, it shakes on and off like a strobe light. The flashing makes me dizzy, so when I give the final blow that ends its life as a flashlight and turns it into an official hammer, I’m almost happy. Darkness coats the tunnel again.

I pull all my air tight between my lungs—hadn’t realized what a comfort the light was. . . .

You won’t get lost. . . .

There’s left, there’s right, and there’s up.

The segments loosen, and since I don’t want to have to crawl into a pile of bricks, I try to push them to either side of the hole using the flashlight turned hammer. When I’ve removed enough of the bricks that I can crawl through the opening, I take my coat off to get rid of some of my bulk.

My kneecaps crush into the gravel and whatever else is sharp and pointy underneath me. I slide forward, inch by inch. Without the light, I have no sense of how large the interior is. I whistle. The sound doesn’t carry far—it’s cramped in here. There’s a dripping, and it’s coming from a few different sources along the ceiling, but I can’t see where. I keep on inching, continuing the crawl. My palms pick up pebbles as I slide along.

An ache in my wrists tells me the ground slopes. I put my left hand down, then my right, then left. . . .

A slippery wet against my fingertips. My wrists, all the way to my elbows, sink down, and then—

It’s too late. More water. Hot water, and a little bit slimy, too—I’m in it headfirst, flailing around, splashing and kicking and trying to right myself. Out of habit I choke out the stuff, expecting sour, dank, brackish bitterness.

Only I find none.

This water, it’s sweet.

I get my head back to where the air is—tonight’s theme—still choking from the surprise of it all. It’s hot, and it’s sweet, with no trace of the saline that’s made the local reservoirs undrinkable. I bob around for a few moments, allowing myself to luxuriate. This is about as close as I’ve gotten to a bubble bath in years. Who cares that it’s made of ancient subway mud?

As I dog-paddle to get a sense of the space, I can tell it’s small. Not much wider than seven feet across. I can tell, because though the tunnel is mostly dark, a tiny orb of light is glowing neon just a few feet below the surface—my flashlight. It’s shining like new, clinging to a ledge. Great. Now it works—I reach for it, and then realize: It’s glowing. Not just glowing . . .

Neon purple. The thing is glowing neon purple.

I don’t believe it.

I dive down, thanking the subway gods for the warmth of the water. I don’t think I could’ve taken any more cold. Keeping my eyes open till I have the light in my hand, I find myself wincing out of habit, expecting salt water to burn my eyes. But no, nothing.

Soon as I have the flashlight back in my hand, the fact of what I have, literally, fallen into hits me. A hot spring would have been bizarre enough, though there is a fault line around these parts, somewhere. But that’s not all: freshwater.

I never really believed I’d find it. Hoped, sure. In a probably-not-gonna-happen sort of way. Do I even remember the procedure for what to do after finding it?

Wait . . . Yes, I do. My flashlight . . . I’d totally forgotten—that’s where the test tube is stored.

And I used the thing as a hammer. Brack—how could you have forgotten?

Hey, head trauma? I remind myself. If ever I deserved a little slack, it would be now.

I unscrew the back of the light. . . . A cork falls out, followed by teensy glass pieces. Wonderful.

To the canteen, then.

Removing the cap, I dunk the bottle into the spring. Once it’s filled to the brim, I almost can’t help myself . . . I have to taste it. I shouldn’t. Who knows what’s in the stuff? But I’ve already swallowed gulpfuls, thanks to falling in. If I’m going to get sick, the damage has already been done.

I bring the canteen to my lips. Pull it away before it touches. Then, I drink.

The fresh tastes so much better—cleaner, purer—than the rainwater from the dinky drainage systems everyone in the Ward has.

One gulp follows another. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was. I chug until my stomach feels jiggly as a water balloon, and when I’m done, I refill the canteen for Boss.

A slight nausea sets in and I want nothing more than firm ground beneath me, so I swim around the edge of the spring. Digging my fingers into the slippery, spongelike surface around the pool’s edge, I steady myself and with one push, pull myself from the pool.

Still heady with the taste of the spring water on my tongue, I begin the awkward, plodding wriggle back through the crawl space into the tunnel. Exhaustion has begun to settle in—thank goodness for these walls, they keep me balanced, but I have to remember to lift my feet or I’ll trip on the rails.

And then a tingling sensation starts behind my eyeballs.

Not uncomfortable. At first. The tingle soon becomes a prickle, which in turn becomes a burn. My eyes water. Salt tears coat my cheeks, the cuts—all of which have started to sting. But it’s worse than that. Across my entire face, the scrapes and the fresh cuts also begin to burn.

Like a bonfire, the fire grows and it grows, and soon enough the fire starts to itch, and hell, do I want to scratch. I don’t know what’s going on. My lips, my forehead . . . if I had nails I’d be raking them over my skin right now.

I’m about to rub at my cheeks, but then my hands, my arms, every microscopic cell in my body also feels like they’ve been doused in gasoline, then lit on fire. I think I hear myself calling out to the stairwell, but I know I’m alone. Lit on fire.

And here I am. Fifteen stories underwater, but with no way to quit the burn.