The subway was running behind today—always a bad sign. The stations would be hot and stuffy, crowded with angry people. Worse, trains would be forced to stop mid-tunnel so they didn’t run into other trains ahead. The whole thing caused a cascading effect, a feedback loop of pissed off passengers and angry drivers.
It was especially dangerous for underkids, who depended on knowing the precise subway schedule so they could know which tunnels were safe to cross when. The whole damn system broke apart when the schedule slipped.
Rylan poked his head out of a tiny service door in the F-Line tunnel under New Market and 6th. The air in the tunnel was hot and stale, smelling of tar and rubber. He put his hand against the cement tunnel wall and held it there for a moment. Nothing.
It was safe to go.
He jumped out of the door, landing softly next to the tracks. Then he set out to his right, moving northeast, avoiding the electrified third rail. He whistled a jaunty song as he skipped up the tunnel, something he had heard Gin sing last week. It was a catchy tune, even if he didn’t know the words. Gin was cute, too.
After running his errand for Shock Crew, Rylan had taken shelter for the rest of the night with the Haight Crew at the Waller Street runoff center. They were one of the nicer Crews in the Under, always willing to shelter a lost boy—providing he had some scratch to pay for it.
Rylan didn’t have a Crew to call his own just yet. Not that he hadn’t been trying—nobody wanted him until he’d earned his undername. It was a shame, it was. He’d been trying for years, but no name. Nothing stuck.
Maybe rescuing Trey had been enough for a name.
What would they call him, though? Toilet? They damn well better not. Any name was better than nothing, though. If he had to be called Toilet his entire life, so be it.
At least he’d have a name.
He was still whistling and skipping when the vibrating started.
It was a train, and they were fast. The only problem was, he was nowhere near an exit.
He broke out into a run, shoes clattering on the rough tunnel floor. He heard the rumbling start, that sound before a train comes up on you. Then the wind arrived, fast and hot, the train pushing air out ahead of it as it moved. Rylan sped up, pushing his legs as fast as they would go.
The rumbling grew louder, and over it he could hear a high-pitched whine, the sound of wheels screeching along the track as the train turned a corner.
It would be on him soon.
He kept running, his legs aching. Then he was there: a dirty steel doorway was ahead on his right. He ran up and tried to open it, fumbling with the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. The rumbling and screeching and whining became deafening, and the wind blew at a feverish pace, blowing his hair about wildly. He wasn’t going to make it.
He was going to die here in the subway tunnel.
He pulled with all his might, and suddenly the door gave way, swinging open and banging against the tunnel wall. He darted inside and pulled it shut just as the train passed, hurtling through the tunnel like a bullet from a gun.
Then he stood there, leaning back against the closed door, breathing heavily. That had been incredibly close. Maybe they’d call him Bullet, after the train that almost got him.
That’d be a cool name.
“The fuck you doing here, peanut?” a voice called out from the shadows nearby. Peanut. No, that wasn’t a good name.
Rylan aimed his flashlight in the direction of the voice. Some spike-head girl was standing guard a few steps away, looking at him threateningly. Her short hair was stuck straight up with grease, face dark with dirt, small breasts pointy underneath her shirt. She was leaning back against the wall of the tunnel, holding a large, rusted crowbar up against her shoulder.
He could tell she knew how to use it.
“Ho there,” Rylan said. “Job for Dill. He’ll want to see me.”
“He never wants to see you,” the girl said, looking him up and down. She stepped forward, slapping the crowbar into her other hand as if to demonstrate what she’d do to Rylan’s head.
“He will this time.”
The girl looked like she very much doubted that was the case.
“Come on then,” she said, her voice gruff. She took off down the tunnel with Rylan close behind. He began whistling again, watching her walk ahead of him. He didn’t like spike-head girls much, but she did have a nice ass.
He hoped Dill wouldn’t be too unhappy to see him.
They went down the short passageway and encountered a steel door with the Department of Public Works logo on it. The girl opened the door and motioned Rylan to go ahead of her.
He went through the door, emerging into chaos.
The first thing that hit Rylan was the noise: whoops and hollers, whistles and shouts, and underneath it all the whirring of endlessly running engines. Then there was the smell: shit and urine, body odor and grease, plus a myriad of other scents he couldn’t identify or didn’t want to. The lighting was dim, the thick air sweltering. Rylan felt sweat break out instantly on his forehead and under his arms.
He loved it down here.
The room he had entered was huge. Rows of water tanks lined the floor on either side of him, great pipes leading in a maze between and around boxes of machinery that rumbled noisily. A mess of catwalks, bars and beams threaded through the air overhead, glistening with moisture.
This was the Water Treatment Plant under Mary and Howard, where sewage and drinking water were processed for the South of New Market and Central Planning districts. Dill’s Crew—Shock Crew, so named because of their propensity for stealing electricity—had taken up residence here. Hammocks and blankets and tents were placed wherever there was room amidst the plumbing and pathways. Trash was piled in corners next to pisspots and water buckets. Boys and girls swung across the room on ropes and ladders connected to pipes high above the ground, taunting and laughing as they went. The hammocks and ropes and ladders created a kind of rigging in the air.
Strictly speaking, Rylan wasn’t allowed in here.
He still wasn’t quite sure why.
The largest tent was at the end of the room, on the floor. It was cleaner than the others, made out of bright green fabric. A crude sign was sewn onto the front of it, showing a picture of a pickle.
This was Dill’s tent. As captain of Shock Crew, he garnered the most important sleeping quarters. Two large boys a few years older than Rylan stood guard outside the tent.
He stood there for a moment, just inside the door to the chamber. Dill hated him, for reasons he couldn’t fathom. Rylan had been in the Crew when he was a child. Back when he had had a mother. But Dill had kicked him out, sent him into the Under to fend for himself, and he’d never told Rylan why.
It had happened the same day his mother had died.
Rylan felt a tear threatening to pull loose. He took in a deep breath, steeling himself against the emotions he couldn’t let free. Now was not the time. He needed to remain strong. He needed to prove himself. Maybe if he could do that, Dill would let him back into the Crew.
Maybe Rylan could finally earn a name.
The spike-head girl tapped his arm hard with her crowbar. “Move it,” she said.
“Ow!” he replied, rubbing his arm. “Alright, alright, I’m going.” Looking up nervously at the swinging mass of raucous kids, he swallowed and started walking.
It was a gauntlet, one he had to pass every time he met with Dill. The crew overhead saw him coming and swung over to jeer at him, throwing wads of paper and bits of trash as he passed underneath them. He dodged what he could, and tried to avoid grimacing at what he couldn’t, keeping his eyes on the tent at the end.
The Crew overhead saw they weren’t going to intimidate him by throwing things, so they assembled behind Rylan as he reached Dill’s lair. The room grew quiet.
The two guards ignored him as he approached.
“Ho,” Rylan said. “Come to see Dill.” The guards didn’t react, so he tried again. “Got something he might want.”
He walked up to the guard on the left. Crow, he thought his name was, no doubt named after the crowbar that was Shock Crew’s weapon of choice. Crow’s crowbar was big; his arms were even bigger.
When Rylan had gotten within three paces of him, Crow finally shifted his gaze. He looked at Rylan menacingly. “Dill don’t see no one with no fucking name,” he growled.
Rylan sighed inwardly. Dill always invented some reason he wouldn’t see Rylan. He would never say the truth—that he hated Rylan, that he didn’t want to be anywhere near him.
That he blamed Rylan for his mother’s death.
“Get outta here,” Crow said. “Save the air for the kids with names.”
Rylan grinned at him.
“Undername’s Bullet,” he said. Some of the kids behind him laughed. “Tell Dill he can call me that or give me one himself.” He stepped closer to the guard, staring up at him, trying to look menacing. This largely failed, seeing as how Rylan was a good foot shorter than Crow. Still, he held his ground.
He had no choice.
“An impressive name,” a voice said from inside the tent. A boy a little taller than Rylan—and a few years older—came out of the tent, ambling confidently over to where Rylan stood. He had blondish hair and gray eyes, and he wore a dirty green t-shirt.
Dill.
“Far too good a name for a little shit like you,” he said, smirking. He was hiding something, holding it behind his back. “I wonder, pukeface”—that got a laugh from the Crew—“how you got that name?”
Dill pulled his hand out from behind his back, and in it was a small pistol. He brought the pistol up, touching the cold metal muzzle against the side of Rylan’s head. “Shall we find out?”
Rylan didn’t move. Where the hell had Dill gotten a gun? Something about it seemed strange, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. “Captain,” he said, “I finished the job. Got that topsider out like you asked.”
Then he stood there, hoping this would be enough. Dill didn’t usually kill people for no good reason—but you never knew what Dill would consider a good reason. He hated Rylan. He didn’t even need a reason.
Dill looked out at his Crew, all gathered up on the floor behind Rylan. “You wanna see some pukeface brains?” he asked, and the Crew cheered. Then he turned back to Rylan, leaning in closely, still holding the gun to his head. “Give me a reason not to.”
“I’ve got money,” Rylan said. “Got that topsider’s wallet out of lock-up. Came to give it to you.”
Dill laughed loudly. “He’s got money!” he cried, pulling the gun away and waving it around. Suddenly he slapped Rylan’s face hard with his other hand. Rylan fell to the floor, tears coming instantly to his eyes. “You think you can buy your way into my Crew, shit-for-brains?”
Rylan shook his head. “Just trying to help.”
“Do you think,” Dill said, kicking Rylan in the stomach with a booted foot, “that you can give yourself an undername, walk in here, and pay me off?” He looked down at Rylan, who was crying in earnest now. Snorting in disgust, he turned to the guards. “Get this piece of shit out of my sight,” he said, and walked back into his tent.
The guards beat him, then, right in front of everyone else in the Crew. Some of the other kids joined in too, using rope whips and chains and whatever else they had laying around. When they were done, they kicked Rylan out and left him lying in a dark tunnel outside of the treatment plant, bruised and bloodied and crying.
Just another day in the Under.
