Everland(24)

Looking through the windows beyond the gleaming chrome legs of the Steam Crawler, I scan the skeletal remains of homes and businesses. “Where are you, Pete? Where are you hiding those girls?”

The dark cityscape responds in silence, like whispers from lost souls forever trapped in the ruins of London.





Broken shadows dance on the cracked concrete walls as light flickers from the gas lanterns strung along the ceiling. The rumbling sounds of machinery and the ping of tools upon metal echoes through the small cavern. Pete leads me through the damp, dark channel. The tunnel descends into a rock and dirt passageway, leaving the cement walls and warped metal track behind. As we round one last corner, my breath catches.

The narrow corridor opens up into a vast, well-lit chamber the size of a small town and rises nearly four stories high. Copper pipes zigzag along the ceiling, steam billowing from some of the gears rotating at the joints. Other lines feed water into an underground river that flows into a large turbine. Buildings made of wood, stone, and brick line the circumference of the city’s center. Hanging from each crudely built structure is a wooden sign with words scrawled across it designating its purpose: STOCK ROOM, KITCHEN, APOTHECARY, and numerous others. Along one side of the cavern, dozens of caves, each large enough to fit a person, are carved into the dirt walls. Pulleys bolted to the ceiling are threaded with thick ropes attached to rickety lifts, which sit below the cave openings. At least seven other tunnels, not unlike the one we have traveled, are visible from where I stand. In the center of the city, a silver statue of a winged man with a bow is mounted on a large fountain. It takes me a moment to recognize the famous statue of Eros, which once stood in the center of Piccadilly Circus.

The entire city grumbles with machinery, steam hissing from boilers and pipes. In the gas lamplight, the copper and bronze tubes, wheels, and gears glitter, giving the impression of a city made of gold.

Most impressive are the young boys running about their business, repairing boilers, filling carts with supplies, and loading some sort of digging machine with coal. A child no older than ten, wearing a tan aviator hat and goggles, pedals past me on a wobbly tricycle. Attached to the bike is a wooden wagon with mismatched wheels. Tins of food and bags of rice threaten to topple the cart. Two boys hang precariously from ropes attached to the copper pipes as they swing from one gas lamp to the next, refueling as they go. In one corner, a bonfire roars beneath an enormous pot. Above it, pipes spill water into the container until a kid standing at the top of a staircase spins a wheel, shutting off the water supply. As the town buzzes with activity, each child appears to have his own job. The number of children gathered in this small underground city awes me. The last time I saw this many children was the final day of school when the first bombs dropped.

I take in the scene before me, drowning in a cacophony of hissing, grinding, and squealing machine parts. Bella sits on a copper pipe that spans the entire city. She reaches inside her satchel and withdraws a bag of chocolate chip cookies. Using her slingshot, she flings them down to a crowd of small kids, each child waving their hands in the air. “Bella, pick me! I want one!” they shout. My stomach clenches jealously.

Mikey rushes from the city center, his eyes bright with wonder. “Can you believe it, Gwen?” he asks, tugging my hand. “There’s so many of them.”

He’s right. There must be a hundred or more boys. The older boys tote peculiar gadgets on tool belts while the littler children do simpler tasks.

Two boys burst from an adjacent tunnel, not unlike the one we’ve just traveled. Sweat laces their brows while they gasp for breath, as if they’ve just outrun a monster or, worse yet, a Marauder. They drop their rucksacks to the ground and grip their hands awkwardly in what appears to be a secret handshake.

“Scavengers,” Pete whispers, leaning in close to me. “That’s Pickpocket in the waistcoat and Pyro in the jacket. Judging by their rucksacks, they’ve been out for a few days, scavenging beyond Everland’s borders.”

Smaller boys notice their arrival and surround them, mimicking the hand gestures and giddy with excitement. Pyro hefts the bulging rucksacks over his muscular shoulders and heads toward a building with STOCK ROOM scribbled in red paint on the piece of wood. The smaller boys squeal with delight as Pickpocket reaches into his pockets and hands out brightly colored marbles.

“Pickpocket!” His name echoes off the stone and concrete walls, drawing the attention of every boy. Another boy, with shoulder-length hair as black as ebony, storms from the stock room. He tosses a lit cigarette into the water at the base of the fountain as he picks up his pace, shoving past Pyro and sprinting toward Pickpocket.

“Uh-oh,” Pete says. “This can’t be good.”

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“I don’t know, but Jack’s the last person you want to piss off around here,” Pete says, starting toward the boys.

Bella watches with wide eyes from her perch, unmoving. Scout leans against the fountain, arms folded and head shaking.

Pickpocket’s smile fades as the little boys scatter.

“Thief!” Jack says before punching Pickpocket square in the jaw.

Pickpocket stumbles back, gripping his chin in his hand. Blood drips from a cut on his chin, leaving a crimson trail on his dark bronze skin. Shock fades to anger on his face. It only takes a second before Pickpocket tackles Jack and they are rolling on the floor, grunting and throwing punches. Pyro drops the rucksacks and attempts to pull Pickpocket off of Jack.