Phantoms

flashlight over the walls of the tunnel, looking for the power company’s insignia.
    The junction box was on the left, five or six feet this side of the intersection of the two conduits. Billy walked past it, to the Skyline Road drain, leaned out into the passageway, and pointed his light to the right and to the left, making sure there was nothing lurking around. The Skyline Road pipe was the same size as the one in which he now stood, but it followed the slope of the street above it, plunging down the mountainside. There was nothing in sight.
    Looking downhill, into the dwindling gray bore of the tunnel, Billy Velazquez was reminded of a story he’d read years ago in a horror comic. He’d forgotten the title of it. The tale was about a bank robber who killed two people during a holdup and then, fleeing police, slipped into the city’s storm drain system. The villain had taken a downward-sloping tunnel, figuring it would lead to the river, but where it had led, instead, was to Hell. That was what the Skyline Road drain looked like as it fell down, down, down: a road to Hell.
    Billy turned to peer uphill again, wondering if it would look like a road to Heaven. But it looked the same both ways. Up or down, it looked like a road to Hell.
    What had happened to Sergeant Harker?
    Would the same thing happen to everyone, sooner or later?
    Even to William Luis Velazquez, who had always been so sure (until now) that he would live forever?
    His mouth was suddenly dry.
    He turned his head inside his helmet and put his parched lips on the nipple of the nutrient tube. He sucked on it, drawing a sweet, cool, carbohydrate-packed, vitamin-and-mineral-rich fluid into his mouth. What he wanted was a beer. But until he could get out of this suit, the nutrient solution was the only thing available. He carried a forty-eight-hour supply—if he didn’t take more than two ounces an hour.
    Turning away from the road to Hell, he went to the junction box. Ron Peake was at work already. Moving efficiently despite their bulky decon suits and the cramped quarters, they tapped into the power supply.
    The unit had brought its own generator, but it would be used only if the more convenient municipal power were lost.
    In a few minutes, Velazquez and Peake were finished. Billy used his suit-to-suit radio to call up to the surface. “General, we’ve made the tap. You should have power now, sir.”
    The response came at once: “We do. Now get your asses out of there on the double!”
    “Yes, sir,” Billy said.
    Then he heard… something.
    Rustling.
    Panting.
    And Ron Peake grabbed Billy’s shoulder. Pointed. Past him. Back toward the Skyline drain.
    Billy whirled around, crouched down even farther, and shone his flashlight out into the intersection, where Peake’s flash was focused.
    Animals were streaming down the Skyline Road tunnel. Dozens upon dozens. Dogs. White and gray and black and brown and rust-red and golden, dogs of all sizes and descriptions: mostly mutts but also beagles, toy poodles, full-size poodles, German shepherds, spaniels, two Great Danes, a couple of Airedales, a schnauzer, a pair of coal-black Dobermans with brown-trimmed muzzles. And there were cats, too. Big and small. Lean cats and fat cats. Black and calico and white and yellow and ring-tailed and brown and spotted and striped and gray cats. None of the dogs barked or growled. None of the cats meowed or hissed. The only sounds were their panting and the soft padding and scraping of their paws on the concrete. The animals poured down through the drain with a curious intensity, all of them looking straight ahead, none of them even glancing into the intersecting drain, where Billy and Peake stood.
    “What’re they doing down here?” Billy wanted to know. “How’d they get here?”
    From the street above, Copperfield radioed down: “What’s wrong, Velazquez?”
    Billy was so amazed by the procession of animals that he didn’t immediately respond.
    Other animals began to appear, mixed in among the cats and dogs. Squirrels. Rabbits. A gray fox. Raccoons. More foxes and more squirrels. Skunks. All of them were staring straight ahead, oblivious of everything except the need to keep moving. Possums and badgers. Mice and chipmunks. Coyotes. All rushing down the road to Hell, swarming over and around and under one another, yet never once stumbling or hesitating or snapping at one another. This strange parade was as swift, continuous, and harmonious as flowing