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Chapter 2

He crept along the edges of buildings, running from cover to cover. There he'd wait to catch his breath, always alert to signs that he was being watched. His progress was slow, and night time didn't provide the level of protection he had been expecting. Every parking lot and roadside blazed with streetlights, the sodium lamps casting a harsh yellow glare. To momentarily pass through the light would cast a disproportionately long shadow behind him, a moving black line that would advertise his position more glaringly than had it been broad daylight.

Even with the late hour, Roger encountered his first Big Folk of the trip. He had come within a few paces of one and entirely by accident. Sneaking along a fallen gutter pipe, he had emerged beside a low fence. There, leaning against that fence, was a monolithic Lynx. The giant's paws were close enough to throw a pebble to. Aware of the danger, especially around a feline, Roger was cautious and quick. He chose his path well and moved as swiftly as stealth would allow. Dodging into a shattered cinder block, he saw the giant cat's head turn and looking down to where he had been a moment ago. Two eyes flashed in the twilight, shining their pale glow. Roger didn't wait around to see if the cat would lose interest in finding him; he pushed on ahead.

Before dawn he had reached the suburbs. Despite the proximity of Big Folk, the suburbs would be safer than the outlying commercial areas by far. Well acquainted with the design of suburbs, Roger knew he could reliably travel underground through the storm drains. Diving in through the first grate he came upon, the mouse found himself in a large winding corridor of concrete and connected piping. The masonry was rough enough to easily climb and had several molded grooves that made easy ledges to walk or rest on.

Underground was where mice felt safest, and Roger was surprisingly free to move in the suburban storm drain. Light was plentiful enough during the day, shining in through the many grates and intermittent manhole perforations. The grates were themselves the most advantageous part of his route. The gaps in each grate allowed him to regularly peek out and gauge his position and heading, while the narrowness of the storm drains meant protection from any Big Folk who might spot him. He was free to come and go, but nothing larger than a mouse could enter his damp, winding fortress.

The storm drain was not perfect, however; varying layers of muck and debris choked the bottom, and the high water marks showed that when heavy rains fell, he would be driven out or likely drown. Still, it was the safest he had felt since he had left the company of his old Forager companions. Thinking of them and the work he had come to do, the under reaches of the suburbs became the subject of his first map. Each adjunct was noted if not explored and several trail markers were cleverly and dutifully placed.

After two days of mapping and traveling, Roger had reached the end of the suburbs and the start of the real city. His peeks above saw the towering buildings grow closer and taller while the houses were fewer and older. The storm drain system he had been in, well thought-out and uniformly constructed, now emptied into its older urban counterpart. As roger was about to find out out, this was not one system of drains but dozens, intersecting and connecting in endlessly unplanned ways, one built upon another.

Rather than delve into the deeper lines where the darkness was absolute, Roger strove to stay close to the surface. This was not always easy with how frequent the turns and drops were. Here, though, he could hear the city above. The rumble of automobiles and the thunder of footsteps caused the walls around him to vibrate. Just placing a hand against the a wall or pipe could confirm that this was no illusion or imagined feat.

So close to so many new things, his curiosity was at a dangerous high. Several times he was drawn to root in the debris that collected in the drains by some object or item that grabbed his interest. How he longed to be able to venture to the surface, but the danger was too great. In the city there was no night; the traffic lessened but never stopped, and light was ever-present. As much as it pained him to remain below where he needed his precious electric light to write in his journal, it was the safest place to be.

His first night beneath the city streets was spent in a small alcove created by a missing brick. While not terribly comfortable, it elevated him above flow of water and filth, and elevation was becoming increasingly important. It had started raining, or Roger could guess, judging from the water that was streaming down the drains and pipes. In a few hours the water level had rising to half of the storm drain's height, and it rush by with a muted roar. Huddled beside his light and writing in his journal, Roger wondered how long his resting spot would remain dry. He hoped it would last him the night so he could move on in the morning. With any luck, the rain would stop; and soon, he quietly hoped.

Taking a breath, Roger looked up from his notes. Scanning the gloom around him, he settled his gaze on an old iron pipe rising vertically just past his damage-caused alcove, held to the wall with brackets. His Forager instincts told him that the base of the pipe was a good spot for his next marker. He'd been placing them more frequently since he'd entered the confusing drainage tunnels, but knew it was better to place more than less.

Setting his light and journal aside and leaving his pack behind, Roger jumped to the edge of the alcove. Peering out, he focused on the closest metal bracket. Taking a half step back he swung out, landing on the bracket with ease. It rang dully with the impact of his landing. Beneath him, the loud rush of water drowned out that sound and any others he made. Adjusting his footing on the cold, semi-corroded metal, Roger knew it would take only one mistake for him to fall and be washed away. Despite the precariousness, or perhaps because of it, it was all-the-more ideal a spot for a marker.

Brushing away some grime off the rough pipe to clear a space for his marker, Roger was ready to start etching but could only stare dumbly at the already completed marker his cleaning had revealed. Squinting in the darkness and then gaping wide, the mouse moved with urgent quickness.

He jumped back to the alcove, covered the length of it in three steps, and skidded to a stop by his gear long enough to grab his electric light. In less than a second he was back on the pipe bracket, balancing and holding on with one arm. In the blueish hue of the LED, Roger saw plain as day what he'd inadvertently discovered. It was a marker, and one that he didn't put there. Adjusting his grip to free up a hand, he ran fingers over the symbols, feeling the grooves and lines. This marker was old, but not as old as some he'd defaced on the way to the city.

Roger couldn't believe it. To find something like this, all the way down here, so far from any other known warrens, was astounding. As he began to study it furiously, Roger realized that it wasn't a Forager marker; not entirely, at least. It contained several symbols and marks that were unfamiliar to him, while others were identical or otherwise very similar to one's he knew. Out of reflex, Roger swung the light around, illuminating the half-flooded pipe around him. Part of him expected to find eyes peering back, but just like the past several days, he seemed entirely alone. Clearly he wasn't the first to be here, though.

It took a couple trips to the marker to get it fully recorded. Unwilling to tempt the fates, Roger chose not to write in the journal while balanced on a pipe bracket over fast water. Back and forth he would go, memorizing details and then recording them in the alcove until he felt like he'd gotten it all. Huddled in his alcove, the light propped by his shoulder, Roger looked at the image he'd drawn of the mysterious marker. It was so like the one's he'd been learning about since his youth, and yet new at the same time. Among the symbols he thought he recognized were directions, indicating the path to follow to find the next marker.

Closing the book and leaning against his pack, Roger faced a dilemma. This marker had been something he hadn't expected to find, but perhaps he was not the first to attempt opening a path into the city. Perhaps some past explorer had come before, seeking the same wealth of knowledge and technology that he himself sought? Perhaps the treasures discovered lay at the end of this newly uncovered trail. Roger's unknown predecessor might have died on this trail, as no word of any successful journey had been heard in the warrens back home.

Roger couldn't fight his curiosity any longer. The mouse immediately packed up his gear and prepared to move. Though he could have used rest, the sudden discovery had filled him with enough energy and drive to make sleep near impossible. With his pack slung and cloak tightened, the young male jumped onto the pipe and checked the marker one last time. From there, he jumped to the wall of the pipe and and climbed his way along above the rushing water.

The marker directed him onward with a turn to be taken. With momentary flashes from his light where needed, Roger used his instincts to guide him. When a jutting overhang appeared, Roger knew that he would have put a marker there. That meant it was a good place to find one. It took some careful climbing, but sure enough, once he was up there it took only a moment to find the next marker, etched into the stone. Roger felt giddy enough to laugh. Hoping to decipher these unknown symbols in time, Roger took the time to record this second marker and notes about the path he'd taken to reach it.

Like the first, this one's directions seemed clear. He started looking around, flashing his light to try and spot the landmark. According to the marker it was very close. Just ahead there was a widened opening; a manhole shaft, water trickling down through the perforations on the cover. Stepping carefully and climbing slowly, Roger made his way to to that part of the tunnel. His observation focused on the walls, and with a flash of his light, he spotted what he was looking for.

Emptying out into the manhole shaft was an old pipe, small and narrow, barely tall enough for him to stand in. What was concerning about this pipe was the steady flow of water cascading out of it. Roger fought back worry and decided to follow the path as directed. As the saying went, 'come pred or high water'. Climbing his way over, Roger braced himself beside the water-disgorging pipe before jumping in. Immediately the cold water surged around his legs in the narrow pipe, trying to push him back out. With a careful stance and forceful grip, Roger could withstand the onslaught.

Onward he pushed, his arms bracing the walls of the pipe with his feet trying to keep purchase beneath the chilling water. The pipe stretched for a decent length, then turned; not to to the side, but upwards. Water roiled at this sudden bend, churning at the bottom of the slanted pipe. Carefully peaking in, Roger saw that the pipe wasn't vertical but rose at a steep slope. The interior of the pipe, through age or cheap manufacture, was rough enough to grip.

Trying to protect his pack from as much moisture as possible, Roger dove under the icy spray and started to climb. The water shot down his chest and limbs, splashing into his face and causing him to gasp. Above, through a perforated grate no bigger around than he was tall, Roger could see the harsh light of nighttime street lamps. This became his beacon and goal. His body was trembling from the cold by the time he was halfway up, having been in the freezing rainwater for several minutes. Digits stiff, still he pushed on, finding himself getting tantalizing close to grate. His arms were getting tired, his feet numb, and just within reach of the grate, Roger slipped.

He caught himself with one arm, a yell escaping his lips before his body landed flat against the slope, water now pouring over his head. Sputtering, Roger struggled to free his face from the icy flow, but that only made him lose his grip. He slipped down only a little before catching himself, but Roger knew he wouldn't be able to hold himself for long. If he fell and couldn't stop on the level portion of the narrow pipe, he would be dumped into the rushing flow of the storm drain and that would be the end of him.

Suddenly Roger was aware of an increase in the light. Daring to lift his face into the waterfall, he looked up. The small grate was gone, and in it's place was a face; a mouse's face, looking down. Disbelief momentarily flared on the stranger's muzzle before fading into resolve. An arm was thrust down towards him.

"Take hold!," the stranger shouted. Waving one of his arms up through the water, Roger felt a strong grip on his wrist. Hand's locked, the strength of another plus his fading own was enough to pull him free. Up through the last few inches of the pipe he dragged himself before he tumbled out of the pipe and into the open air. Roger lay there on the rough pavement, gasping and shivering as the stranger moved the small grate back into place. Around him water was pooling unevenly, and raindrops pattered down atop him.

"You're nuts to be down there with rain like this," the other figure declared in a stern but feminine voice. Roger could only wheeze in response. The other mouse put her hands momentarily on her hips before reaching out to help Roger to his feet. "C'mon, you can explain yourself by the fire," she added with a touch of sympathy. Roger found his footing quickly enough, and together they walked through the rain of a darkened city alley.