18. Chapter 18
When I get back out to the main room of the chamber, Spot is standing at one of the walls, sniffing, whining and scratching like he has to go outside. I take a closer look and find a door, a real one, not like the morgue-looking one. I didn’t notice this door before because it blended into the brickwork like it was meant to be part of the wall.
The placement of the handle is clever too. It’s recessed so it’s hard to see unless you’re looking. The latch is hidden within and for a moment I have the sinking feeling that it will be locked, but this time I have some luck.
As I depress the latch, I hear the click and the door pops open, same as any door when the knob’s turned. I yank the door open with a little less caution than before because so far no bodies have fallen out of the brick work and the beer has made me daring. A long dark tunnel yawns before me and I almost fall over as Spot bumps by me and races down it, disappearing in the dark.
“Spot!” I shout. I’m going to kill the dog. Drop him off in the forest. Feed him to some bears. Throw him into a roomful of cats.
I hear a distant woof and shake my head. Or maybe I’ll just follow him since he’s willing to go where I bet no woman or dog has gone before.
I take a careful step into the tunnel and look for a light switch. There isn’t one. Instead, on a metal shelf, I find several flashlights, a couple of keys that seem identical to each other and some gas masks. What the hell do they need gas masks for?
I stare down the tunnel deciding I might be claustrophobic after all. Dear God, I pray. If you get me out of this, I’ll never….” I stop. Never what? I make it rule not to make bargains with God, because, between my Catholic faith and my Italian upbringing, guilt is a side dish at dinner.
I pocket the keys, grab one of the flashlights and click it on, then decide to take a second one just in case the first one fails. I stare at the gas mask. Should I or shouldn’t I? I don’t want to but there must be a reason. “Spot,” I call.
He woofs. Distant, but he sounds okay. Isn’t barking like he’s inhaled gas.
Still. I shove a gas mask over my head and onto my face. I click on one of the flashlights, then hover uncertainly for a few seconds. Finally, courage gathered and all that, I take a deep breath and a few steps. For a brief moment, I debate whether to close the door behind me, but can’t bring myself to do it. This entire nightmare takes me back to my childhood, me waking up in the middle of the night, certain there are monsters under the bed. Pops soothing me back to sleep, telling me there was no such thing. Holy, I wish he were here. I could use some soothing.
I trudge down the tunnel, wanting to run, forcing myself to go slow. The flashlight bobs along and I examine the tunnel directly in front of me making sure there’s nothing to trip over. Or other hazards, like spikes on the floor or huge logs overhead that will fall and crush me when I stumble across a tripwire.
There are little sounds in the tunnel. Skitters. Maybe rats, which cause me to shiver. I not afraid of them, but the idea of me dying down here or tripping and breaking a leg and them feasting on me is almost too much to bear. I decide then and there that I’ll never watch horror movies again.
After another moment or two of walking, I think about turning back. What if this is a dead end? What if there’s a pile of bones at the end of it. What if the tunnel collapses? What if both flashlights die?
If I lose the light, I’ll have to feel my way along, touching the walls. There might be spiders on the walls. I shiver. For the most part, spiders don’t scare me but in the dark, where I can’t see them, the idea of them crawling on me makes my entire body shake.
I stop, take deep breaths to stop the panic.
In the near distance, Spot barks.
“Spot?” I whisper, then roll my eyes. Who else would it be? Maybe Rottweilers, Ximina. Trained to tear people apart. Except Spot’s not screaming. He’s barking loudly and happily. I hope he isn’t chewing on a bone.
A minute or two later, I reach the end of the tunnel. Spot barks with the excitement of a kid at Christmas. Then he cowers because he sees the gas mask. I pull it off. If Spot’s still alive, I’m guessing there’s no gas to kill me.
He’s so relieved to see that it’s me behind that mask, he practically bowls me over as he jumps on me and licks my face.
My arms slide around him and I bury my face in his fur as a few tears sting my eyes. I think the dog and I are having a moment, but he wiggles out of my hug and moons me. He doesn’t like getting wet I guess.
The good news is that there are no bones or rotting dead bodies. But there are some big crates and as I swing the flashlight upward, an overhead hatch. My body goes weak with relief. That hatch is my out. I know it.
The problem of course, because there’s always a problem, is that hatch is eight or nine feet up. I’m 5’2” on a good day and this isn’t one of them. My arm is maybe two feet long, so rounding down, I’ve got a seven foot reach. I’m still a foot or two short and I also need an extra half foot to thrust the hatch open.
Spot jumps on a crate and paws at me as if he has an idea.
“What is it, boy?” I say sarcastically. “What are you trying to tell me? Use the crates? Wow, you’re so smart, Lassie could learn a few things from you.”
Spot takes my sarcasm literally and wags his tail.
I try to move one of the crates away from the others, but it’s too heavy to maneuver under the hatch. I realize I’m going to have to empty whatever’s inside. I open the lid to discover a cache of guns. I don’t know much about guns, but that’s irrelevant. These ones are big, long, meant to maim and mostly kill. There are a few revolvers in there too, and as I empty the crate, I think about taking one of them with me.
I’m actually not worried about Hangman and the rest of those guys, even if deep down, I know I should be. I think it’s because of Reaper. I know he wouldn’t hurt me. It’s not instinct or a gut feeling. He hasn’t yet and probably has plenty of reason to. And that kiss back in his bedroom. Despite what he said after, there were a lot of unspoken promises made.
It seems so long ago, I think as my eyes get wet again. I wipe them away. I’ll cry later, in confession.
Back to the here and now, and setting aside the reputation of Hell’s Jury and the little House of Horrors I just escaped from, there are still bad guys walking around killing ex-boyfriends and trashing my apartment and I am definitely afraid of them. The first gun I pick up is bulky and heavy, but I find a smaller, lighter one that’s easy to conceal. I forget where I am as I examine the gun, figure out how to open it. It’s already loaded, which makes me happy, which is stupid, but also fortunate because I don’t have to find the right bullets to load the gun. Because, honestly, what if I used the wrong bullets and the gun jammed when I pulled the trigger and blew up in my hands.
Spot whines, bringing me back to reality. I probably wouldn’t pull the trigger anyway.
Yes, Ximina, you would, both mom and pops say in my head.
I sigh as I tuck the gun into the back of my jeans like Reaper did, then tug my jacket down to conceal it. Yes, they’re right. I would pull the trigger. It’s what I do. It’s why I’m in this mess in the first place.
Not really, mom says. The mess started with Miguel. You had nothing to do with it.
Spot whines again. “I know. You wanna go.” The crate is easy to move now that it’s empty and I wiggle it under the hatch, then jump on it. Spot jumps up on it too and almost knocks me off.
“Would you cut it out,” I snap at him. “I’m trying to rescue us.”
Spot seems to be onboard with the rescue plan and moves over an inch. I push on the hatch and it doesn’t move.
Why doesn’t it move?
Because it’s padlocked. That’s why.
There are keys in your pocket.
The lock is opposite the hinges.
Put the key into the lock and twist.
Miraculously, it gives way. I wiggle the shackle out of the clasp and drop the lock on the floor, then push on the lid and it opens… a couple of inches. God forgive me, but I have to say fuck! Just a few times. Fuck! Fuck! I push again with every ounce of strength I have and it heaves up, then crashes down. It takes me two more times to finally get it to stay open. Now I have to climb out of it.
Spot barks.
“Yeah, I know. Dogs and idiots first.” I pick him up in my arms, which isn’t an easy thing to do because first of all, he feels like he weighs more than a baby elephant and second he’s scrambling around, his nails digging into my face and arms. Why the hell didn’t Miguel get them trimmed?
“Jesus! Settle down!” I’m at the end of my rope, not even apologizing to the Father, Son, or Holy Spirit anymore. I feel abandoned by everyone. I heave Spot through the opening and his thanks is to scratch my cheek, deep enough to make me bleed. Then he’s gone and I’m rubbing the pain away, remembering the rats, thinking they’re coming to eat me.
Despite my tired arms, my imagination is enough to propel me through the hatch.
I’m free and never so happy to see the sand and sun in my life.