[Urban Fantasy] Fist Full of Clay [Scene Three]

The Underneath.

Talk to any New Yorker out there and they’ll tell you that a majority of the stories about the abandoned tunnels under the city are nothing but a load. That in all reality, the only thing people can expect to find in the tunnels are homeless, spider webs, and maybe the sleeping body of Walt Disney. What they fail to realize, however, is that the underneath isn’t a part of their ‘reality’. Not completely.

I’m walking the tracks of the old subway, my cut of the haul slung over my shoulder. I pass graffiti, homeless, and discarded ruins that most people don’t realize still exist down here. It’s been said that if you can’t find it in the Underneath, you aren’t looking hard enough, and I would believe that. From subway cars to actual automobiles, you’ll find it down here. Some were simply abandoned when the old stations were closed. Some were brought down here when the Trolls decided to move in. Whatever the history, it was a yellow brick road of junk.

You have questions- Understandable.

First, the Veil. Not many people  can hear about the Veil and fully grasp it. Truth be told, those who can see through it and use it don’t fully fathom it. The Veil is that layer of understanding that people can’t fully understand without something in their heads snapping.

You see, somewhere down the line of evolution, humans sort of developed a nice ‘switch’ in their heads that caused their brains to block out those things that were beyond their precious logic.  Way it’s been described to me is that a normal human looking at the Veil is like having a fish watch a television. It’s seeing the images but it isn’t exactly understanding it. So, its mind messes around until it brings enough understanding to the surface to make it fit in to the fish’s reality. A troll becomes a slob, a nymph becomes Miss America, and a talking donkey could become a president.

A little political humor in there for you.

And you are probably wondering who I am. First, yes, I’m not human. I suppose the shotgun blast proved that.  I might look the part, talk the part, but I’m not the part. Not fully. You see, I’m what you call a golem. Or perhaps I’m -the- golem. I‘m the only one I know. Jewish myth? Man made from clay? Protector of his people and all that noble stuff? Well, fine, maybe I don’t match that description to the letter but it’s the closest thing I’ve read up on that describes me .

Oh- Right. No, I don’t have the jewish word for life written on my body. I’ve checked. Secondly, you can’t kill me by writing the jewish word for death on my body- I’ve tried. A better solution would  be water or shotgun shells- lots of either. I don’t really know how I was created, I’ve never met any of my kind, and the only memories I do have prior to the 1950’s are enough to make me realize I have daddy issues. There- Now we know each other. Mozel Tov.

I move deeper into the Underneath. At first, the tunnels grows darker as I go further from the surface. An occasional flicker from a dying light occasionally activates to scare the shadows away, but this was darkness domain. Around me, I feel eyes on me. Some are human, some are not. Neither are bothering with me though.

It only takes about ten minutes until the lights start appearing. A subtle glow of flames. Soon, I’m moving past the tired, the sick, the huddled masses. They stay near their trashcan-fires, warming themselves. They toss a glance my way and I meet them with a subtle nod of my head. I continue along my way, leaving them to their hopelessness.

I pass the homeless as I continue down the tracks. Each step takes me further away from the cluster of humanity that has survived down here. I duck under a fallen beam, enter another tunnel, and I’m crouching as I head home. I hear a hiss through the tunnels, either steam or goblins, and do my best to ignore it. Occasionally, I spot a darting shadow, a set of glowing eyes, but I’ve proved myself in the Underneath. No one is really looking to start anything anytime soon.

I wonder through the tunnel, past some pipes, hobble up a stair case or two before finding my way back to my domain: Grid Eight. I’m greeted first with music as I pull myself through the grating, the sound of laughter and families following. For a place like the Underneath, these things are uncommon. Not for Grid Eight, though.