The Power of Five Oblivion

tugging at one end. Pedro hurried over and took the other with his good hand. The manhole cover weighed a ton, and years of damp and filth had glued it in place. It wouldn’t budge. Pedro took his knife and ran a blade around the side, scraping through the mud. They tried again, pulling with all their strength, and this time the cover jerked free and, with straining muscles, they were able to slide it onto the floor.
    Pedro looked in, then reeled back as the stench of raw sewage hit him full in the face. He could see a chute leading into darkness and a ladder built into the wall. About five or six metres down, the last rungs disappeared into a pool of filthy, brown liquid. He knew what he was being asked to do. But he couldn’t. He would die down here.
    “Devi andare. In Fretta!” the boy urged him and pressed something into his hand. It was a small torch. He must have stolen it from the kitchen while Pedro was in the oven. “Sarò dall’atro lato…” Pedro had no idea what the words meant but the boy mimed with his hands. He would be waiting when Pedro emerged from the building. And his eyes added something else. There was no other way. They had no choice.
    “Thank you,” Pedro said. At the very least, the boy would be punished when they found the torch was missing. And if they suspected that he had helped Pedro escape, he would be killed. He was about to climb down when something made him stop and turn round. “Pedro,” he said, tapping his chest.
    “Giovanni.”
    Somehow it helped having a name. It made the boy feel more like a friend and not someone guiding him into a horrible trap.
    He eased himself over the edge and began to climb down. The closer he got to the sewage, the more overpowering the smell became. He had barely eaten anything in the past few days but still he felt his stomach churn and the contents begin to rise. And sure enough, a second later he had to twist his head to one side and throw up, the foul liquid splattering down into the equally foul pool below. It was almost as if Giovanni had been waiting for just this moment. Above his head, Pedro heard the metal cover grind against the stone floor and then there was a thud as it slid into place, and when he looked up he saw nothing. He was in a tomb. He was buried alive.
    A huge part of him was tempted to climb the ladder and push the hatch open again. But he doubted that he would have the strength on his own, and anyway, there must have been a reason for Giovanni to send him down here. The boy had already shown he could be trusted in the kitchen. The trick with the oven had worked. Pedro gripped the knife between his teeth and the torch in one hand. He couldn’t begin to imagine losing either of them. Still clutching the metal rungs as best he could, he continued down.
    His foot entered the cold, thick liquid. He felt it rise over his ankle. The rungs continued down. How far was he expected to go? Another step and the sewage reached his calves, two more and it was over his knees. He had no choice but to continue. The closer it got to his nose and mouth, the sicker he felt. He was retching with every breath but he had nothing left to throw up. The acid from his stomach was burning the back of his throat. The smell was hideous, overpowering. Pieces of filth bobbed against him and he felt the liquid stir as he climbed down into it. It was between his legs now, in his groin. Above his waist. How many more rungs? Was he expected to swim? But even as he lowered his stomach into the hellish river, his foot touched something solid, concrete, and he realized that at least he would be able to stand and that if he kept his arms up, his chest and hands would form some sort of barrier beneath his face.
    He flicked on the torch. A tiny, feeble beam revealed a passageway running in a straight line from the central shaft he had just descended. It also showed the surface of the brown river and the things that floated there and Pedro was forced to close his eyes, to turn his head away. At the same time, he turned the torch off. He could already see that the batteries were weak and he would need them later. He waited until his stomach had stopped heaving. Then gritting his teeth, trying not to let any of the fumes enter his mouth, he set off.
    The walls of the tunnel were close together and he pressed against them, the soft slime nudging against his shoulders. The lower part of his body pushed through the liquid and he could feel it separating in front