The Descent

Allison walks away, makes three quick turns. She tries to bury herself inside the tangle of downtown streets. She makes another left and wraps a wall of junk parlors and parking meters and newspaper stands around her. She starts in with the I am the ice queen and I tear holes in the sky but gets disgusted with herself and takes a breath and holds it like May Petroski taught her. It’s just you and me, she thinks. You need to act like a smart person. This has gone on plenty long. They can get at you and you need to keep them from figuring that out long enough to run this errand. Let’s run this errand, amigo. You and me. We’re all we got.

She takes a salaryman by the arm and he recoils, raising his briefcase. “Trying to get to Old La Garra,” she says, and he slips away and slouches into a bar, a faded whitewashed sign identifying it as The Embers. She starts to follow, hesitates, stops hesitating.

The place is absolute black until her eyes adjust and she can make out the low ceiling, the wall of postcards, the lightbulb’d board showcasing available cocktails. She takes another step in and hears a coach’s whistle from deep in the gloom. Then there’s a sigh from a nearby table, the scrape of wood against wood, and from the darkness limps an old man with whiskers, gin blossoms, a loose suit and bolo tie. “I must ask you to leave, young miss,” he says. “Don’t like to be bossy but I drew the short one and gotta be bouncer ‘til eleven-thirty.”

“I’m just looking for the way to Old La Garra,” Allison says.

He says pshaw. He says: “You got less business being there than here.”

“Never mind about my business, gramps. Just give me some directions.”

The old man says: “I remember fondly a time when a young lady would get smacked ‘til her teeth were bloody for talking that way.”

Allison says: “I remember when we’d put down any old-timer who didn’t do anybody any good except taking up space in shitty scary bars.”

The old man jingles the change in his pockets. He says: “That was a long time ago.”

“So let’s talk about right now,” Allison says.

“Ain’t nothing good waiting for you in Old Town,” he says. “Just trying to do my civic duty here.”

A waitress circles with an empty cork tray, asks them if they need anything. The old man shoves her away, says: “I’m bouncing the underaged here, you mind?”

Allison slides between them, says: “I can’t wait to be out of everyone’s hair, if you’ll just give me some goddamn directions.”

“Where at, sweetheart?” the waitress says.

“She’s gunnin for Old Town,” the old man says.

The waitress grimaces. “I’d steer clear,” she says.

“I was fixin to tell her!” the old man says.

“But there’s entrances all over town,” the waitress says. “One right over on Willoughby where the street is kinda crumpled up.”

“I got stories to tell!” the old man shouts.

“I know,” Allison says. “Willoughby and what?”

“I dunno,” the waitress says. “A few blocks. Fifty-fifth, sixth, something.”

The old man cuts his voice down to a hoarse whisper, and Allison and the waitress are disappointed to find themselves leaning in when he says: “Most folks fear the miscreants and rapers, but that ain’t the problem.”

The waitress says: “That’s pretty much the main problem, you ask me. Criminals and unsavory types, they all head to Old Town where the law can’t get at them.”

“Hate to break it to you,” Allison says, “but I’ve seen basically nothing but unsavory types since I set foot in this city.”

The old man nods. “That’s right. Them’s nothing. Thing is this city got dropped right on old Fort Black and—you know this?”

Allison nods.

“Dropped right down and killed the whole town. That’s a million dead right there, and their ghosts choke the halls of whatever’s left down there. Angry. Vengeful. Green phantoms, demon childs, cold folk. Haunts that sing you songs you ain’t heard since you were a tot. Things with unnatural long limbs. Creatures looking like ones you loved, saying things nasty and hateful. Many times I seen a man stumble up the stairs from Old Town, hair gone white, soul left behind down there in the dark.”

The waitress takes him by the arm. “Hush now, Wyatt, sit down. There’s a #8 waiting for you with extra hot sauce. Estra made it up just how you like.”

The old man won’t budge. “My own brother Emmett,” he says. “Went down chasing after some woman, all lovestruck. A spider got in him down there. Got in where he sleeps. Don’t even know the look in his eye anymore.”

Allison nods again. “Willoughby and like Fifty-fifth?” she asks the waitress.

“Round those parts, honey,” the waitress says. “You have a fun night now.”

Allison heads back outside and winces against the cold. She follows the streets, head finally empty. She shrugs off a man who says he’ll keep his sad story brief and to the point in return for some money. She spies the crumpled road and an open door there in an alleyway, blue and white sign proclaiming Historic Old La Garra with a stylized fish icon and arrow pointing south. Her shoes scrape shattered concrete as she makes her way down the stairs and into the blackness, gone.