Alain watched the port of Saint-Suaire recede with a knot in his stomach, seeing it rise and fall to the rhythm of the waves hitting their zodiac. Despite the gray sky and the fine curtain of rain blurring his view, an exceptional panorama unfolded before them: the coast, mainly torn by black rock cliffs, highlighted the city's only white sand beach next to the port, where tourists flocked when the rain retreated to make way for summer. To the west, near the old lighthouse, the sharp reefs lost their edge, blending into hills rich with biodiversity - oaks, beeches, and ash trees. In autumn, when the fog wasn't too thick, the leaves set the sea ablaze with their vibrant colors, a treat for fishermen. On the other side, to the east, the terrain flattened out for hundreds of kilometers inland, offering verdant meadows on land not exploited by farmers.
Beyond nature, the town of Saint-Suaire was just as pleasant: a mix of well-preserved historic buildings like the famous lighthouse - or infamous, for long-time residents with long memories - and the cathedral around which the historic city center had been built, along with infrastructure constructed to develop tourism, such as the seafront, or the Luminous Lagoon, an abomination in Alain's eyes.
Of course, while the town was adept at showcasing its wonders, it was equally skilled at hiding its darker aspects: notably, its history with oil. There was a time, before the era of tourism, when the endless blue horizon was torn by the oil platform and the shadows of tankers following each other like worker ants. When the resources were depleted, the platform was quickly dismantled. The underwater pipelines were repurposed as if they had always served the inhabitants, and the old storage terminal was left to rust, well hidden at the edge of the forest, far from tourist areas.
“And then,” Alain thought, “there's that fucking body farm, far inland like some hideous family secret...”
He was abruptly pulled from his contemplation when Romuald, at the helm of the zodiac, shouted something at him, pointing at the water. Alain looked down, and his heart clenched in his chest when he noticed a shadow under the sea, a black line like a meridian drawn by some ancient god of darkness. They were following the underwater pipeline that was beginning to disappear under the mass of water: they would soon reach the end.
Alain felt his fingers starting to tremble, so he tried to distract himself by inspecting his equipment once more: if he focused on his old diver's rituals, his habits and protocols that his muscle memory knew by heart and executed like a reflex, a sort of meditation, then he wouldn't think about the POP that must have been made by the instant decompression of his former colleagues' cabin.
“Calm down, you bastard,” he thought, “no pressure delta today. We go into this pipe, we inspect, we get out... Easy.”
The boat's engine stopped abruptly, just in time for his next thought to resonate within him with mystical clarity:
“Fucking sick kid...”
His face crumpled with shame as the sea applauded him by lapping its waves against their boat.
“Romuald to control, come in!” said a voice behind him.
He turned around: his partner, in an old-fashioned yellow raincoat, had brought his walkie-talkie to his mouth.
“Control here...” came a crackling voice barely audible under the raindrops bouncing off the synthetic rubber of the zodiac.
“We're on site,” Romuald continued, “ready to dive. Confirm that the pumps are off and secured.”
The desalination operations had been stopping and starting for weeks due to water quality issues, but it took complaints from the Luminous Lagoon's clients – ‘The Luxury Marinades’, as he called them in front of his daughter, or ‘The Golden Cod’ when she was already in bed and the pastis was out - about black water in their baths for the city to finally react.
For his part, he had no idea what could have happened, but he couldn't care less: all that mattered was completing his mission and being able to cross off a few lines on his hospital tab.
“Control to team,” the voice resumed, “the installation is secured.”
Alain sighed: it was time. His stomach was starting to hurt, and all he wanted was to go home. And yet, this mission was as mundane as it gets: he was only a hundred meters from the coast, and he had to dive to reach the end of the pipe barely twenty meters deep. He had welded platform legs in the middle of the ocean hundreds of meters below the earth!
“Besides,” he said to himself, “it's not like you're discovering anything! You're the one who sawed this fucking pipeline to turn it into a giant straw for yuppies...”
They had chosen this spot because it was far enough from the coast not to disturb the underwater fauna and flora, deep enough not to catch surface debris. The area was safe, without traps, without surprises.
And yet...
POP
... Alain was scared shitless.
“Ready?” Romuald said behind him.
Alain didn't respond. He simply stopped thinking, put his regulator in his mouth, and let himself fall backwards.
The impact with the freezing water was brutal. His veins contracted, his skin tightened. The cold bit his fingers, cheeks, and nose as a cloud of bubbles enveloped him like a swarm of piranhas.
At first, his lungs remained blocked: if he inhaled, he was sure he would drown. He was convinced that water would enter his throat and flood him; but his old reflexes took over, and he sucked in a huge gulp of oxygen that seemed to infuse his entire being like a wave of serenity. The bubbles dissipated in front of his mask, and he found himself face to face with the unfathomable darkness of the depths.
He looked up: he was under the shadow of the boat, hidden from the halo of light surrounding it as if he were face to face with an end-of-the-world solar eclipse. Each golden ray that touched the water seemed alive, dancing to the rhythm of the currents and weaving a luminous carpet that sank towards the sea floor until it disappeared.
He let himself be carried for a moment in a current of water, marveling at the impeccable silence that reigned around him. Nothing could reach him anymore, time had stopped. He let himself be cradled beneath the surface, his face warmed by the soft undulating light and the current licking his back, transporting him like a cool, soft carpet: there it was, he was back.
He turned to face the void. A warmth developed within him, until it became a blaze: more than enjoying these incredible sensations - a fullness a thousand times superior to what the Luxury Marinades could feel in their miserable golden bowl - he had only one desire, to get as far away from the surface as possible and explore the unknown.
He raised his hand to his forehead and turned on his flashlight: the beam, temporarily painting the water a brilliant white, revealed a long black shadow far below him, drawing a clear path through the transparent liquid, inviting descent.
Now pumped up, Alain pushed with his legs and descended slowly, gradually regaining his former sensations. The absolute silence accompanied him in his dance with the various ocean currents, but the natural light progressively abandoned him, as if leaving him on the doorstep, too fearful to follow him into the underwater world.
Somewhere to his left, a movement caught his eye. He turned his head and was immediately blinded by a mass that reflected the glare of his headlamp: the sphere with hundreds of silver reflections metamorphosed before his eyes to take the shape of an arrow, then the school of fish that seemed to form a single being contorted, turning on itself to flee.
Letting himself be distracted for a moment by this spectacle, he nevertheless resumed his descent: already, the pipeline was taking shape before him. He looked at his old watch, the needle having passed the fifteen-meter depth mark. His gaze returned to the pipeline entrance: his lamp now diffused a blue-green veil, its once crystalline clarity melting into a marine mist that enveloped him.
It was like wandering in a tourist town and realizing too late that you had taken a wrong turn and fallen into the seedy neighborhoods, not listening to your instinct screaming and warning you about the sideways glances and barricaded windows.
The pipe was clothed in a mantle of marine life: covered with algae of different colors, shells, and crustaceans that had made their homes in the crevices and niches of the structure. Alain noticed that some bars were missing at the opening.
With a kick of his legs, he approached the relic: the pipe was wide, plenty big enough for him to enter, and the opening created by the detached bars was large enough to slip through. He tried to illuminate the bottom of the pipeline: his green and granular light was lost a few meters in front of him, reflecting back a black hole that seemed to have spat out rust during its years lying hidden in the darkness.
Alain turned around abruptly: his instinct had shouted something at him. With a circular motion of his head, he slowly scanned his surroundings, revealing only the dirty water around him. What had his subconscious whispered to him?
“Something is watching you.”
Yes, that was it. He hadn't realized it, but he had indeed fallen into the seedy neighborhoods, he had been followed by sideways glances. Suddenly, his breathing seemed too conscious, and it sounded like an uproar in the silence of the depths. If he continued, he would wake something still partially asleep.
“Bullshit...” he reassured himself.
There was only him here. He turned around and carefully entered the pipe, being careful not to snag his tank. He ventured into the conduit, illuminating only the rusty walls in front of him - he repeated to himself that the sooner he found something, the sooner he could get out of here and get paid. He advanced for a few more moments before stopping dead:
“Something is in this pipe with me,” a voice in his head said.
He peered into the depths of the pipeline with his lamp: the blackness was complete, it was impossible to see anything.
“Get a grip, old man...” he replied.
Nevertheless, he turned around: the exit was now just a tiny greenish circle, far in front of him, and he now had the unpleasant impression of having fallen into a well. Or even, he was beginning to believe that the hole was shrinking. His heart began to beat faster, and he now had the conviction that something was wrong. His breathing accelerated as well, and he was now pumping air from his tank like an asthmatic. He turned his head slightly, and he didn't immediately understand what he was seeing: the pipeline wall was moving on its own. At first imperceptibly, then more and more rapidly.
“No, fuck,” he realized with horror, “I'm moving backwards.”
Panic rose in him, and he began to swim frantically towards the exit: but to no avail, it was always moving away from him.
“Shit!” he screamed internally, “those fucking pumps have been reactivated, I'm being sucked in!”
His tank hit the pipe, and he lost his balance. He began to wobble, and his legs hit the walls several times. He continued to sink into the pipeline, the exit now completely disappeared. He tried to stay straight and centered to avoid injury: if he ended up sideways, he could get stuck, and with the force of the current, break something or worse, damage his breathing system.
“And if you keep getting sucked in like this, where are you going to end up, you idiot? In one of those fucking pumps?”
Panic overtook him, and his head hit the metal. The shock resonated throughout his skull, stunning him for a moment. His vision blurred, but he saw a small red cloud floating in front of him: blood. He shook his head trying to regain his senses, and he noticed that the walls were no longer moving. Had the pumps stopped? He wanted to breathe, but he realized his mouth contained only water. Where had his regulator gone?
He contorted, groping his body to try to find the cable of his oxygen tank. Terrified and out of air, he fought against an irrepressible urge to open his mouth and inhale. If he lost this battle against his organism, he was dead. He turned around, and the regulator appeared for a moment at the edge of his field of vision. He felt like his lungs were about to explode, that the need to open all the valves was too strong for him to hold back. He prayed to God, on the verge of losing his mind, when he threw his arm behind him and managed to get his hand on the regulator. He shoved it into his mouth and inhaled a large, life-saving gulp of air, which had the effect of, he supposed, a first hit of heroin.
He focused on his breathing, his heartbeats pounding in his skull, trying nonetheless to calm down. It took him a few seconds to regain his senses, and that's when he looked ahead: a few dozen meters away was the plug. A black, shapeless mass, almost completely blocking the pipeline. He couldn't determine what it was: maybe a mass of dead fish, algae, or mud, but the thing seemed to almost pulse in front of him, radiating something evil, and his instinct ordered him to get out of here as fast as possible. He told himself that the pumps could reactivate at any moment, and that it was wise to get the hell out of here without delay.
He then abandoned his discovery and used all his strength to swim and climb back up the old oil pipeline as quickly as possible.
His relief was intense when the exit appeared before him: first a tiny pinhead barely brighter than the rest, then a half-barred hole of light. He managed to extract himself without damaging anything - a feat given his state of panic - and ascended as quickly as possible: he felt a little better when his lamp changed from an anguishing green to a luminous white and he saw the first rays of natural light, and he accelerated even more.
“To hell with the safety stop,” he raged internally, “I'm not staying here five fucking minutes longer...”
And he rose to the surface.
***
Alain and Romuald stood before the entrance to the sewage network, both skeptical.
When Alain had resurfaced, he'd found Romuald screaming into his walkie-talkie, berating the city employees at the pumping station controls: according to them, the pumps had reactivated on their own, and they'd had to trigger an emergency shutdown on the control panel to deactivate them. In response, Romuald had explained the basics of maintenance and safety, punctuating his speech with all sorts of colorful expletives.
Alain had simply made his report, describing his discovery as best he could. On the way back, he'd estimated swimming about two hundred meters, which placed him under the city. Their employers had pulled out maps and located the site of the ‘blockage’: they'd discovered that this section of the pipeline could be accessed from the outside, via a gallery in the underground sewage network, by opening a maintenance hatch. According to them, they'd only have to travel a few dozen meters in the pipe to clear the blockage.
Romuald had turned red and demanded a salary plus compensation, to which the city had replied that the mission stipulated that the cause of the problems had to be resolved and nominal functioning restored for it to be concluded. Alain, emerging from his strange muteness since he'd surfaced, had agreed to carry out their mission via the maintenance hatch: he needed money too badly to be picky. The agents had simply given them an access plan and keys to one of the underground network entrances, refusing to accompany them, and during their journey, Romuald had monologued about how he was going to file a complaint and how they were going to make money; Alain didn't believe it much, since he thought he'd exhausted all his luck when he'd avoided death by spontaneous decompression with his former colleagues, and he'd be content to receive his salary once the contract was fulfilled.
No, Alain's mind wasn't on planning the financial returns from Romuald's supposedly guaranteed lawsuit, but rather he was disturbed by what he'd seen in the water: he couldn't tell if what he'd seen was something living, dead, or just mud. He thought he'd seen something move, but he wasn't sure. Moreover, with the current created by the pumps, algae could well have come to life. What he remembered very clearly, however, was that sensation. Being watched.
He'd managed to negotiate with Romuald for him to go into the pipe this time - they'd be at ambient pressure, so no need for his diving skills - and he'd accepted, as worried about Alain's head injury as his muteness since they'd returned to dry land. In the end, Alain didn't know what he was more afraid of: finding himself in the water without oxygen, as when he'd lost his regulator, or facing the thing blocking the pipeline, that sensation of pulsation and death that would still radiate from it.
“Are you ready?” asked Romuald, repositioning his big backpack full of tools on his shoulders.
Alain nodded, and they descended underground to find the old oil conduit.
They traversed long corridors of raw concrete battered by humidity: some doors were hard to open due to rust, rainwater sometimes dripping directly onto the hinges in a dark, cold trickle. The walls were cracked, even holed, and puddles of stagnant water sometimes flooded the corridors. They managed to find their way through this maze of pipes and drainage networks thanks to their map, before hitting a snag.
They walked along a corridor until they faced a wall. In front of them, stairs descended underground, the corridor continuing for fifteen meters before other stairs made them climb back up to about the level where they were, probably to pass under a major obstacle.
Except this section was half submerged.
The water that reached up to the seventh step below them gave off a nauseating odor. Even the air emanating from it had a tainted taste on the tongue, and Alain nearly threw up his breakfast. Romuald directed his flashlight towards the flooded stairwell: completely motionless, the murky, dark liquid nevertheless revealed suspended particles, as if time had stopped beneath the surface. He bent down and illuminated below: there must have been a meter of free air in the corridor, so the water would probably reach their waists if they decided to cross. Alain leaned in turn, and the light revealed floating layers of foam and films of white particles.
“Stagnant water...” he said, and the amplified echo of his voice made them both jump.
Stagnant water was something Alain had encountered more than once: when a body of water remained stagnant for too long, unable to be evacuated, colonies of bacteria and all other filth, like toxins or toxic gases, developed in abundance. In this kind of situation, just disturbing the water's surface could very well kill you. Usually, he was fully equipped for this kind of mission, but here, they had nothing adequate to throw themselves into the soup of death.
“No other passage, it seems,” confirmed Romuald, examining the map.
Alain felt like he was facing a corpse. Even if it wasn't crawling with maggots, the things patiently waiting to be released at the slightest splash made the scene even more terrifying. The only logical thing to do would be to turn back.
“Do you think...” Alain began, letting his sentence hang.
“...Maybe if we're really careful,” he continued, “if we move slowly, and take a good dose of antibiotics tonight at home, we'll be fine, but damn, old man, I really don't like this...”
“We put our suits back on,” Alain replied, contemplating with bitterness how much he needed money, “and if the water reaches our chests, we'll just have to keep our hands up and we should be good, right? We just need to avoid splashing to not breathe in any crap...”
Romuald sighed and nodded, seeming half-convinced.
“Finally,” thought Alain, “I'd be ready to lap up this fucking water like a fennec in the middle of the desert if it could make me sick and stick some juicy lawsuits up their asses...”
They equipped themselves with their suits, each trying to do it as smoothly as possible so as not to disturb the water, even though they weren't in it yet.
“Hey, buddy, I have an idea,” Romuald whispered. “We only have one bottle, but I have two regulators, maybe we can cross this damn section breathing oxygen from the bottles?”
The idea was good, but not enough to reassure Alain: there was still a chance that gases would pass through the regulator, or that they'd catch diseases through skin contact, but at least it improved their chances.
“Or else,” Romuald continued, “we give up. It's a lot of money, but is it worth taking this risk?”
“No, we go all the way,” replied Alain, who had stopped at ‘It's a lot of money.’
Romuald took the equipment out of his big backpack, installed the bottle on his back and passed the second regulator to Alain.
“Ready?” he asked with a hand gesture.
Alain replied with the typical diver's gesture, forming a circle between his thumb and index finger, and he went first.
They descended the first steps in slow motion until they reached the water's edge. From here, they could see the entire corridor: there were indeed about fifteen meters at most to cover, and they could climb up on the other side. The water should reach their hips, but up close, the putrid broth was even more intimidating.
Alain took a long breath of fresh oxygen and placed his foot in the water with a delicacy he didn't know he possessed. He placed his heel on the first submerged step, and a perfectly shaped wave appeared, propagating throughout the corridor. Alain held his breath, his heart accelerating: the ripple of death crossed the foam areas, but no bubbles burst. The particles just below the surface danced very slightly, almost imperceptibly, but none rose. He placed his second foot, producing another undulation, but a little less strong than the first. He warned Romuald with a hand signal, and he began to descend each step as if he were walking on mines.
They managed to descend all the steps and painfully advanced the first few meters, each movement creating ripples on the water's surface that they just observed with horror, helpless. The air was starting to become humid, and Alain became alarmed when he felt salty sweat beading on his wound from earlier, an element he had completely forgotten:
“Maybe finally, the complete idiot that I am will manage to compete with his daughter's medical bill...” he thought bitterly.
They reached the middle of the corridor, which discouraged them when they saw what remained to be covered. Alain nevertheless resumed walking, slowly lifting his leg, and that's when he stumbled.
He managed to catch himself, but he stared in horror at the wave he had just created: much stronger than the previous undulations, it made the particles dance in its wake and lifted a mass of foam strong enough for some bubbles to burst. The wave hit the walls on each side of the corridor and reverberated, shaking everything in its path. Alain's heart sank in his chest, and he heard Romuald let out a groan in his regulator. He had only one desire: to flee. To start running in the water, splash everything and send it all flying. Could he cross the rest of the corridor before the particles rose into the air?
“It's not the time to lose it, you prick,” he told himself.
He waited for the water to finally become flat again, to pretend to be dead once more. He took a step forward with the greatest care, without encountering any obstacle. He froze, watching the black water: a simple ripple, nothing serious. He was about to resume when something hit his foot. He stopped again, an electric shock climbing up his spine to reach his neck, making him shiver. He slowly turned his head: had that idiot Romuald just bumped into him? He finally met his gaze, but he fell apart when he saw that he was a good meter behind him, out of reach of his legs. Romuald questioned him with a look, but Alain distractedly shook his head: what had just touched him? Had he stumbled on a pebble that had turned over, before rolling to his leg? He peered into the water between his legs, but the light from his headlamp died in the darkness before having a chance to reveal its secrets.
He refocused on himself, trying to concentrate and regain control over his body; he looked at his fingers, they were trembling. Worse, they felt stiff to him. The sensation spread throughout his body like a curse: his muscles began to scream, as if under the effect of intense soreness, and his joints turned into wire. He grimaced under the pain that radiated through his entire being, nearly releasing his regulator:
“Alain, you asshole,” he thought, “you didn't want to do that safety stop earlier, and now you're having a decompression sickness...”
Romuald remained motionless behind him, but Alain knew they had to hurry. He raised his head towards their objective, the stairs in front of them, and he tensed when he thought he received knife stabs in his back. His head became light, and for a moment he thought the corridor was spinning around him. He regained his balance with a start, triggering a new potentially deadly wave, and gathered all his will to pull himself together: after several deep breaths of oxygen, he managed to push the pain to the background and regain his calm.
He continued to advance over the last few meters before being able to climb up, trying to keep calm and concentrate on his movements, when underwater, a hand tried to grab his leg.
No, impossible. Something had just brushed against him, that's all. It was an iron bar, a branch, anything, but not a hand. No, he hadn't felt fingers trying to grip him, it couldn't be that. His mind was playing tricks on him, or it was the decompression sickness messing with his senses...
“Alain?” Romuald whispered.
Alain snapped out of his stupor: he had finished crossing the corridor and had stopped at the top of the stairs, dry and with the regulator hanging on his chest. He looked at Romuald, who looked worried, and he wanted to tell him that everything was fine, but he realized his mouth was too dry to speak.
“It should be on the other side of this door,” announced Romuald, pointing to the end of the corridor.
“No,” Alain was still thinking, without listening to him, “it couldn't have been a hand.”
***
They now found themselves in an immense tunnel of reinforced concrete. Networks of pipes and valves ran everywhere like the roots of an invisible tree, their vibrations resonating through the room in an almost soothing hum. Trenches allowed water to flow freely - no trace of stagnant water in sight - and a large canal had been dug along the gallery, housing the pipeline.
Alain jumped onto the large pipe and headed towards what appeared to be a pressure gauge. With the back of his hand, he wiped away the accumulated grime on the indicator: 1 bar. Atmospheric pressure. He walked along the pipeline, stepping over the maintenance hatch while shouting to Romuald about which socket size to use to open it, and continued until he found another pressure gauge further down. Less than one bar. Something between the two instruments was forcing the pumps to create a vacuum: they were in the right place. The blockage was somewhere in the twenty or thirty meters separating the gauges.
He retraced his steps and found Romuald already unscrewing the bolts. He lent a hand, and they used all their strength to open the hatch with its rusty hinges: they were splashed by seawater - an incredible sensation after wading through putrid water - and they shared a nervous laugh.
“Now we just have to do it,” Romuald said.
The water was calm: city officials had locked the pumps with padlocks, preventing them from restarting.
“I want us to get out of here as fast as possible,” he continued, “can you get me the saw?”
Alain nodded and bounded over to their tool bag. He pulled out a kind of chainsaw and a long cable. He headed towards the various connections until he found one to his liking, with a plaque indicating:
Water intake - 20 PSI
Caution: Controlled Pressure
Industrial Use Only
He connected one end of the hose to it, the other to the saw, and strained to turn the connector's opening valve.
When he returned to Romuald, he was already fully equipped and standing in the pipeline. Alain handed him the tool, checked his equipment, and Romuald plunged into the water to reach the blockage area.
Alain thought back to what he had felt when he first saw the blockage - he must have been not far from where he was now - and that feeling of unease.
“Stop overthinking, in a few minutes we'll be out of here,” he thought naively.
A few moments later, he felt the pipeline start to vibrate faintly: was Romuald already attacking the blockage? He noticed that the water it contained began to move, heading towards Romuald. Had he already succeeded? Impossible, if he had started the saw, he would have seen the hose he had connected contract, or at least tremble: something wasn't right.
He got up and headed towards the distant pressure gauge, feeling the pipeline vibrate more and more strongly under his boots. When he reached the instrument, he had to strike it several times to be sure the needle was working correctly: 0.5 bar, it was impossible.
That meant the pumps had restarted and were creating a vacuum.
He bounded in the opposite direction and reached the maintenance hatch: the pipeline was shaking as if it were about to explode. He grabbed the saw's power cable and violently tugged it several times to signal to Romuald that something was wrong: if the pumps continued to create a vacuum without engaging their safety mechanisms, in the best-case scenario, they would break.
“But in the worst case,” he thought, “the blockage will give way and the area between the pumps and the blockage, in a vacuum, will suck in all the sea water, at one bar. And in the middle of that, we're going to suffer...”
“...A delta-p accident,” he finished aloud.
Around him, it was as if the entire gallery was seized by spasms. He couldn't see it from where he was, but he was convinced that the pressure gauge needle was only going down.
“Why aren't these fucking pumps engaging their safety mechanisms?!” he screamed.
He pulled on the cable again, hoping Romuald would understand, but it seemed to have no effect: he wanted to run as far away as possible, but stuck his head through the opening to shout his colleague's name one last time.
But at that moment, his voice was drowned out by a sound of phenomenal force. A...
POP
...that seemed to come from the depths of the earth: the blockage had given way, and the vacuum created by the pumps sucked Alain in like a dead leaf.
He had no coherent thought, he didn't understand what was happening: he just felt an inconceivable force pulling him in. The world turned black, and he was tossed around in the pipeline like a rag doll. He seemed to swallow water, but the force with which he was thrown about made him lose any notion other than helplessness, as if he were being beaten by an entire village, or trampled by a herd of horses. Instinctively, he tried to grab onto something, but the current carrying him stopped abruptly.
Completely disoriented, he coughed up water and cried out in pain and despair: the muffled echo of his voice assaulted him as it bounced all around, indicating he was in a confined space. It was completely dark around him, but he could breathe, so he wasn't underwater, that was something. His entire body was in excruciating pain, but he no longer knew what came from his decompression sickness or from the implosion.
“ROMUALD!!” he shouted, deafening himself with his own voice.
But there was no answer.
He felt around him, still blind: he was in something concave, made of heavy, cold metal. He was lying down, but immersed in freezing, salty water up to his shoulders.
He was in the pipeline.
He then touched each part of his body, grunting in pain. He probably had a bunch of bruises, some bumps, but miraculously, he didn't seem to have any fractures.
Now, he began to think about his situation: he had been sucked into the pipeline because of those damn pumps. The blockage had given way, so he could be anywhere under the city. Where was Romuald? He could be anywhere too. Was he even alive? In any case, he had to get out of here:
“Those motherfucking sons of bitches from the city must have realized their mistake,” he raged, “but my time is running out, and maybe help won't come in time.”
He reached out in front of him, grasping at the darkness at random, until he jumped when his hand touched something. He took the object in his hand, manipulated it a bit, and his face lit up when he realized he was holding a headlamp. He turned it on, blinding himself with the harsh flash, then managed to orient it to illuminate his surroundings: no doubt, he was indeed in the pipeline, as evidenced by the rusty concave wall. He shone the light in front of him and discovered that the pipe sloped slightly upward, his field of vision stopped by the curve descending. He painfully turned onto his back and illuminated his feet: below, the pipe descended, and it was filled with water.
Something terrifying was beginning to germinate in his mind. A horrible idea that was inconceivable. He dragged himself out of the water, eyes wide. He continued to crawl, climbing along the curve, until he reached the top: with a flash of the lamp, he saw that the pipeline sloped down slightly again, that side completely flooded. He struggled to formulate his thought, as if avoiding it could give him a chance that all this wasn't real, and that just stating it, even in his head, would seal reality and condemn him.
“I'm trapped in an air bubble in the middle of the pipeline, surrounded by seawater. I'm already dead,” he thought.
And he began to cry.
***
Alain had regained his composure through a controlled breathing exercise. After realizing that pounding against the thick metal, calling for Romuald, and screaming obscenities like a madman only depleted the oxygen reserve in his air bubble, he managed to regain control of his mind.
His body still ached, but that was secondary. He concluded he had two choices: stay put and pray for the rescue team to arrive before he ran out of air, knowing it would take them time to understand the situation and search in the right place, or take matters into his own hands and get out of here. He didn't know where he was, probably a hundred meters from the maintenance hatch, but it could be half that or triple. He also didn't know which direction to go: he had been sucked in headfirst, and if he had turned around while being sucked in, he would certainly have suffered fractures all over, so he assumed he needed to turn back to reach the maintenance hatch, because towards the pumps, the most likely thing he'd find was a grate.
He began to tremble, but he no longer knew if it was fear or the fact that he was soaked to the bone with cold water. He thought of his family: maybe they would be able to manage. In the end, he had been too proud and stupid to sell the house, but Léna wouldn't hesitate to do it, and that could keep them safe for a while. Perhaps he was more useful dead than alive. He let out a sad sigh, thinking he wouldn't have the chance to say goodbye.
An unpleasant sensation rose within him like a whisper, completely eclipsing the pain of his battered body and seizing him with its clawed fingers. In a hurried motion, he illuminated the water in front of him with a trembling light.
“Romuald?” he whispered, his voice uncertain.
Again, the same feeling of being watched, but he was convinced it wasn't him. He was sure, deep down, that the thing hiding in the dark water wasn't human.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up: the submerged pipe concealed a horror, that was certain. And it was approaching: the stench of decay slowly rose until it enveloped him like a thick veil. The air in his mouth had the bitter, metallic taste of an old coin, and a vile foam began to appear before his eyes. He remembered the thing that had tried to grab his leg earlier, in the corridor, and Alain turned to flee.
He reached the top of the pipeline curve that had trapped the air bubble: in front of him, the pipe descended again and was submerged in seawater. He glanced behind him: at the bottom, a black shadow began to appear, floating on the water. The putrid air began to suffocate him, and he was convinced that if the horror reached him, he would die.
“How many meters until the next air bubble?” he thought. “Will I even find another one?”
But fear enveloped Alain with its dark wings, and he heard the nightmare behind him slowly crawling to meet him: he took a deep breath that tasted of rotting corpse, attached the lamp to his head, and plunged into the water.
He swam as best he could, hindered by the narrow conduit and his muscles that screamed in agony. He was terrified at the thought of not finding another place to breathe, but the contact with the cold, salty water gave the impression of cleansing him from his proximity to the abomination. He suppressed a first spasm of his body seeking air: this damn pipeline kept descending. He attempted a look back: he saw only water, but he was certain the monstrosity was on his heels. A second spasm, more powerful than the first, ran through his entire body: he had no air left in reserve. He let out all the carbon dioxide polluting his lungs until they were completely empty, but that only left him a few more meters to travel before his body urged him to reopen his mouth. As he continued, he realized that the pipe had become flat again: even better, it seemed to rise a few meters ahead of him. He summoned all his energy and began to swim even faster, banging his arms against the metal walls. Another spasm came, and he couldn't help but open his mouth. Water entered his throat, and he almost let himself be surprised and open all the floodgates. With iron will, he managed to hold on, even though he felt like his entire body was imploding. He finally reached the upward slope, and the halo of his headlamp widened as he came into view of the surface: he leaped and emerged from the water, opening his mouth to welcome the life-saving air.
He coughed and spat for a moment: it was like when he vomited after his worst binges, only the experience was a good thousand times more painful. He managed to expel the water from his body, which fortunately didn't seem to have reached his lungs. He concentrated on trying to catch his breath, which was still irregular and difficult. Black spots danced before his eyes, and he could no longer feel his fingertips. He focused on the halo of light dancing on the steel floor to the rhythm of his ragged breathing. Gradually, the contours of his fingers became a bit sharper, and his breath became a little steadier. He inhaled through his nose, and it was only then that he realized the smell that invaded the air bubble: copper.
He lowered his head to illuminate the water between his legs: it was red. The metallic taste now assaulted even his tongue. He raised his head to shine the light in front of him, and that's when he discovered Romuald.
He threw himself at his colleague, screaming his name, before freezing: he discovered with horror that Romuald lay motionless on the ground, in two distinct parts. Something had torn him apart during the decompression. Maybe the suction effect, maybe the saw had turned against him, or even that he had caught on something sharp in the blockage.
“Poor old man,” he lamented, “the pumps reactivated, you got sucked in and stuck against the blockage.”
“What gave way first when this section was pulled into the vacuum,” another voice in his head continued, “the blockage or your intestines? The water could have punched through anything to find its way...”
But his reflection was short-lived: he let out an exclamation of surprise when his brain finally registered that the corpse was still wearing the oxygen tank on its back. He approached on all fours to get past the body, screamed in surprise when he placed his hand on a piece of organ still warm and spongy, and began to remove Romuald's equipment. He had difficulty removing the bag while trying to pass the loop over a protruding bone of his fractured arm - seeing Romuald's condition, Alain realized how miraculous it was that he himself wasn't seriously injured - but he managed to transfer the diving gear onto his own back. He glanced at the oxygen reserve: enough to get out of here.
He took one last look at Romuald: his head was covered in blood, and he couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed. A bone was sticking out of his arm, and his legs were folded upon themselves. As for his internal organs, they were scattered on the concave floor like a street vendor's assortment. Then, he raised his head a little to see a bit further, where he had come from: black particles danced in the red-tinted water, and a dark cloud appeared slowly like ink. He placed the regulator in his mouth and plunged into the water, swimming for his life.
He slithered along the conduit for several meters: a layer of algae and marine matter lined the pipeline, and some particles of the dissolved blockage danced in the water. He continued until a square of light appeared in the distance. He saw the hydraulic power cable of the saw still hanging from the maintenance hatch, which remained open - the saw itself had been torn away in the force of the implosion. He let out an underwater cry of victory, sending a cloud of white, round bubbles that came to tickle his cheeks, an absolutely incredible sensation. He pulled himself through the hatch and finally exited the pipeline, letting out an intense sigh of relief: he couldn't believe it, he had been sure he was going to die in that damn pipe.
He jumped to reach solid ground and started running to find the exit: when he passed through the corridor half-submerged in stagnant water from earlier, he wasn't surprised to find it completely dry. He emerged from the reinforced concrete labyrinth to find natural light, still in his diving suit, and welcomed the rain that caressed his face with an exhilaration he didn't think possible.
***
