(It's) Always There
Copyright© 2026 by Daniel Tors
Chapter 7
Navy’s clothes passed the threshold to being intolerably sticky and gross. Again. Brief release swept over different parts of her torso as she tugged at bits of vest and shirt with one hand, the wettest cloth sucking back to whatever fur it covered, accentuating what torment she’d just gotten away from and the futility of her efforts. And for the millionth time Navy reassured herself that it was better than letting them sit there untampered with until night – at least she’d have something to look forward to, even if it at the moment had her wishing even more that they were traveling in wintertime.
... Thankfully, as she’d hoped, Stratton signaled them to halt. The group’s break had finally arrived, the close knits of their arrow formation loosening as the tiger’s head drooped forward along with her back, one knee clutched as she took deep breaths. Within seconds, while the seven formed a haphazard circle with their bodies and things, the stopped rhythm of ever-advancing put a stitch of exertion in her legs and stomach, mild yet terribly embarrassing wobbles in her lower joints accompanying a strong urge to never use any of them for anything ever again. Navy resented the wound on her forearm as she begrudgingly restrained herself from scratching it, hope that her energy wouldn’t continue plummeting as slight encouragement.
Slumped half-controlled to the dirt, Navy then rested her head against tree bark, unwilling to bother setting up something better as moderation. Quickly, her eyes fell shut to the men, most of whom sat on the ground up to a tree while two of the constantly armed strangers were to a boulder at her side, sleep feeling both necessary and miles away – figurative and unfortunately literal meanings of that applied, thinking on it more...
The tiger suppressed a groan at the notion they weren’t even halfway through the weeklong trip to their home. Never know, though; could be longer.
Jolting a little, Navy found it was Henrik that tapped her leg with something metal; it was a partial can of the rations they brought – the ones he’d been passing out – and the dog offered it further as she roused.
“[Ahem] ... Thank you,” she expressed politely, Henrik then sitting beside her to eat.
Navy tried not to look ravenous as she scarfed the food, can between her thighs, and guzzled what remained of her water, the warm latter tasting better than ever but reduced to drips much too soon. Even with Hane instructing that she took in more than normal, a bit of shame prevented Navy from asking someone for theirs again so soon. She could tough it out for a while, so stuck to the meal.
Incoherent (extra so over the sound of scratching tins) murmuring started between Stratton and Carranco, or maybe her voracious appetite only then subsided enough to let her notice. After a minute of this, Hane interrupted their chat with a question. “So ... is Colm at the head still or did one of you off him yet?”
Unknown context aside, she thought that was rude, but they didn’t seem to mind. “Heh. Haven’t gotten to it yet. And, uh ... how do you know him? You were close enough to get his name then I ought to remember ... but I don’t.”
“Long time ago, and I never spoke to him,” Hane responded. “I was with Melanie.”
Stratton’s eyes searched the corner of his brow as he thought. Returning his gaze, Stratton smiled a bit and said, “Right.” She didn’t know what for, but there was a strangely prolonged hiatus from the conversation where the men just looked at each other – only some-odd seconds, but weird.
“That was the one about ... She wanted medical shit, yeah? That was, what...” He trailed off, trying to recall something. Carranco finished, “Couple-and-a-half decades ago, I think.”
Henrik motioned at them. “ ... And? Wasn’t with y’all when I was five.”
“Don’t rub it in,” the ginger dog sneered. Coming off a side-eye, he explained in a neutral tone, “Melanie traded with us to help out some group she found. Sure this one could illuminate us, but far as I remember she was a general – the real sort that had fancy medals and looked like she actually would pour acid down your throat. Can’t say I heard of ‘er Before, but she had about forty veterans backing her ten years in ... and was nothin’ but pleasant to negotiate with.”
His smile widened. “She had some thin-lookin’ doctor come up – probably never shot a gun even then – to explain what specifically they needed. Two of them were German Shepherds; all-black.” Glancing a moment at Navy, Stratton commented, “Like parent like child,” but she didn’t know what her presence had to do with Hane being a leader.
Red corrected in a tone she thought slightly more irked than usual, “Thomas had killed by then, and he killed after.”
“Apologies for the assumption ... And sorry as well if you find this personal, but ... can’t imagine what’d take a woman like her out; never saw it, but Melanie felt the sort that had a presence ‘cause she had the draw to earn it.”
Stated plainly, Hane answered, “She went with a bullet to the face. Same for Thomas; same as what’ll get all of us. But she didn’t go easily, if that’s what you wanted to know.”
... Whatever Carranco said – something about Hane and Red’s military service, most likely – Navy was distracted from it and watching them in general by Henrik tapping her with his elbow. Without interrupting the others, he asked Navy, “Ever been to Nashville?”
“I, uh ... haven’t been much of anywhere.”
The hound grinned a little. “Me neither – much of anywhere or Nashville.”
The tiger surely looked confused, and stumbled out, “I’ve been ... I-I’ve been underground for my whole life, pretty much, so ... if you’re referring to something, or that’s a joke, I won’t get it.”
Nonchalant, he replied, “Not a reference or a joke. Hane said he saw us near there, so I thought you might’ve actually gone.”
“No, I...”
She brought her eyes back to him from where they started staring off. “I’ve only been with them a month or so. But ... Well, I guess it makes sense going into a city would be really dangerous, considering...” Navy indicated ambiguously at their surroundings. “ ... I just thought since you’re The Nashville Gang you’d be ... in Nashville.”
Seesawing his head in contemplation, Henrik replied, “Could argue that we are technically, but not in spirit – you can’t even see it that well from the tallest roof near us. Any city is a guaranteed shithole, but they had to move further out ‘cause one of the Skin Men rigged a bunch of skyscrapers and hid out in them. As I’ve been told – bullshit, in other words – it domed people consistently at over five-thousand yards.”
He was heard, but Navy fixated on two words in particular. For a very brief period Navy was concerned this was something new, but controlled her mouth from going loose. Instead, she asked, “ ... Weird name, Skin Men.”
“Yeah, it’s from the group Colm was in and made the gang out of. Religious guy that led it told everyone God replaced their guts with a demon, or something, so there was just the person’s outside left. Nobody believes that anymore ... probably. But the name stuck.”
Henrik’s tail flicked. “ ... Don’t know why you’d care, but yeah.”
“I asked because I was curious, so ... explaining is fine.”
The other men almost drowned him saying, “ ... Sure. Okay,” even though none of them spoke above the volume of a formal house party. No confident guess could be made on if he was calm, uninterested, or retreating, nor could she tell if he’d been told not to talk to them because they were strangers, and he’d only just remembered. However, Navy felt – by the way he got to cleaning his utensils and how his eyes flitted between spots of nowhere – that Henrik thought he’d done something weird. It wasn’t, though.
... As Navy finished her food and Henrik took out his sketchbook like usual, the others’ conversation ending forced Navy to examine how strange it was – the sensation, not so much their chat itself, though it was interesting. Their time speaking, and hers with Henrik, wasn’t long at all, yet the absence of both showed the talking almost felt cacophonous in her ears, like it was too much at once. A bit pathetic to be bothered by that; but there she was.
There’d be plenty of time to think about that after her blink-sized window for sleep was gone, though. Navy closed her eyes, and dreaded when they’d have to be pried back open.
For being so close to a state’s capital she thought they would have passed buildings by then. Navy wasn’t exactly familiar with the layout of their destination, but surely she would’ve seen something manmade beyond road concrete, accompanying broken streetlights, and a rest-stop in the distance; other than that, it was all forest as usual. Nature was continuingly beautiful, which she didn’t want to complain about, yet Navy was disappointed the last twenty-or-so minutes to the city didn’t have much of anything new. Even understanding that they were at the outskirts of civilization, meaning she wouldn’t ever pass through downtown or anything like that, Navy wished there’d be at least a little splendor to gawk at. The early-evening light was perfect, too.
Nevertheless, Navy appreciated the excitement. While no one else seemed to share in it, the notion of being done walking and finally getting to let her arm heal normally overrode the breaks they skipped to more easily get there that day, legs carried forth in spite of the creaking and aching as her rampantly sapped energy only had to endure on fumes for one last stretch...
... Stratton stopped them, and Navy saw homes up ahead. They were close, yet blended into the distance, dense foliage and bark stalks making it almost seem like everywhere else while chipped, colorful paint on unnatural brick forms, defined streets, and triangular roofs set apart the suburb from what shaded it. Had he not stopped, Navy may well have needed to trek right through the area to notice.
There were hardly a few seconds to admire before Stratton ordered something with a gesture, and everyone got behind a tree. Evidently, she’d missed that part of the group’s discussion – probably dozed off a few seconds – so Navy quickly followed ... whatever they were doing.
The ginger dog went forward without them, gun raised, and came to the middle of the street. Crouching, his eyes darted to several different points in the environment as one arm reached to the ground and hauled a manhole cover from it.
... Why would she expect anything else...
Searching below for only a moment, he waved them over, and descended the ladder.
No one went onward, so she looked to the others to figure out what the plan was ... and everyone was looking at her. Hane seemed cross, and quickly swiped as though to shoo her off.
What Navy was supposed to do was no clearer than, “Go,” which is what she did, no questions asked. If there was something else she obviously wouldn’t be able to do it, so hoped as she speedily walked to the opening that there was nothing, sweating cold from the unexpected responsibility. Her task almost certainly not integral and the valley to travel only appearing lengthy because of the uncertainty, she hated not knowing for those multiple seconds anyway.
Navy got down next to the manhole and let her feet dangle into it, then took an especially firm hold of the ladder, its base unwelcomingly far down to her. To compensate for not being able to climb down as intended, the tiger leaned her back against the cement tube leading down and took very cautious steps, switching her good hand from one bar to the next only while she was planted “safely”.
Past the entrance cylinder and in the main tunnel, there wasn’t a method to go further on the rungs without temporarily letting go. She’d rather not do that, so kind of just ... hung there, shifting her arm on the rust while pondering what to do.
Someone arrived at the hole above her and slipped in, grabbing the ladder right before they fell, boots clanging into place. She didn’t have the luxury of indecision anymore, so pushed a short way off; except nearly managing to twist her ankle, falling around her own height went fine.
In an order she noticed alternated between one of her group and one of theirs (until the last two – ‘cause her group was larger – which made Navy wonder if there was a pattern at all) the other men joined them in the sewers, Case last and sealing off their only source of light; right as he did, Stratton ground two objects together, lighting a stout candle.
“Wouldn’t usually, but just for the guests,” their leader commented with a grin. Everyone except him, who was at the front already, shuffled around in the gray tunnel presumably so he could be followed, Navy hanging behind to let them get sorted in the few feet of width they had to, a sliver of glow all that parsed their bodies to her.
Unsurprisingly she ended up at the back, and was paired with Henrik, cramped rather close but not so tightly that they’d bump into each other – she’d never liked the thought of claustrophobic places, yet a few paces on and it didn’t bother her. It was odd too that the place had no pungent smell, just an odor of old stone and bad airflow ... And on that, there didn’t seem to be anything on the floor, either, though she could tell only by the feel of it through her soles as opposed to sight.
She could understand why they wouldn’t want to travel openly through a city especially if the sewers were so clean, but ... it’s a city. They seemed pretty confident and no questions were asked by Hane or anyone else (that she wasn’t asleep for), and they were The Nashville Gang ... But it’s a city, inevitably with miles of lines like the one they were in.
... Navy tapped Henrik, then his backpack. He reached back to it and gave her the sketchbook and a pencil, the tiger hoping as she opened it past the taped-shut drawing section and their other chats that he’d be able to see what she wrote – which, now she was trying to see the pages, it’d mostly be writing via muscle-memory.
As she precariously set the book on her sling and went to jot down her question, Henrik offered a candle, which she then held while he lit their own flame like Stratton had done. The hound took it and hovered the light close as she wrote.
Deciding to not beat around the bush, Navy said, “I may have completely forgotten what the plan is. Too tired, I think.”
They switched, and Navy waited as he expectedly took longer to write out his answer. She’d had trouble walking and talking, but doing it in the dark wasn’t making her handwriting any better ... It made her wonder if his would even be legible anymore, Navy smiling a bit when they traded again and she could barely read Henrik’s reply.
Through some context clues and knowing how he usually wrote, Navy figured out, “Heh, was wondering why you panicked. We learned and cleaned a bunch of routes down here, so we’re taking one to the office we live in. It’s about an hour to walk, but we’ve used them many times without light, so I promise we won’t get lost. Yep, no chance at all.”
Navy jokingly shoved him for the sarcasm and the smug face, and snarked back, “Hilarious.”
Walking in pitch-black for an hour sounding ... not great, she continued more sincerely, “Wanna keep talking, or no? Stratton might not like us using the candle for something not important, too.”
“Sure. And it’s my candle, so it’ll do what I want.”
Stifling a giggle so it didn’t echo, she wrote “yay” in all capital letters with an inordinate number of exclamation points; he seemed as amused as Navy and wrote the same thing, tail wagging.
Henrik rested his pencil’s lead on the page and took a moment to figure something out, asking eventually, “A sewer is obviously different than where you lived, but is being down here more comfortable than up there?”
... It wasn’t that being topside made her uncomfortable – open vistas still kind of did, which is probably why he asked – nor was it that being down there was better, though, now he mentioned it, the feeling was almost more normal. As unpleasant as being in a dark underground tunnel may have been, the confinement of surrounding gray and knowing there was feet of solid material separating you from everything above did come to her as a familiar sensation. She didn’t think it was a bad feeling, but...
“It’s alright. I don’t really want to talk about it.”
Navy didn’t like the reaction she got, but let him say what he wanted to first. “Sorry. I knew I shouldn’t have asked. Stupid fucking question.” She read the last part even though it was crossed out.
“It was just a question. Not a big deal. We can talk about something else,” Navy reassured, trying as well to match her words with an overt expression of fineness so he wouldn’t think otherwise. Henrik seemed to get the message, and relaxed. The tiger started writing something to better kick off their chat.
They rounded a corner as Henrik wrote, her left wondering what the confusing part was. “You sure this is a comedy?”
... Admittedly, all she really said was, “The pilots get severely ill from eating fish and a passenger nearly crashes a commercial plane trying to land it,” which, indeed, didn’t sound very funny.
“It is, but the movie’s a parody of...” Navy thought better of confusing him more by saying it made fun of a plane crash and that’s why it’s a comedy. She rephrased, “Crashing plane isn’t the point; that’s just the plot, and they use it to make jokes about other things. But also yes there are jokes about the plane crashing.”
He appeared skeptical, but requested, “Tell me a joke from it.”
Trying to find one that tied into the story, Navy went with the first good joke that fit. “So, when the main pilot guy is supposed to be flying the plane, he has flashbacks to the war, but the stuff they’re showing with explosion sounds are like, people in cardboard wings falling over and early airplane designs collapsing before they got off the ground.”
...”So the veteran is having flashbacks while he’s trying to save everyone and you’re laughing?”
Eventually, surely, Navy’s attempts wouldn’t flop out-the-gate. “It’s a parody of other movies, not of veterans. I’m not laughing at the guy, I’m laughing at them showing the guy in the plane suit falling over like it was something horrible. Kind of hard to explain why it’s not mean, but it isn’t.”
Still, the hound wasn’t convinced. “I can’t imagine making a joke about anything like that. I can’t believe you’d laugh at it.”
... Her eyes narrowed at the text. She turned the suspicious gaze to him, and kept it there ... until a smile creeped onto his mouth. The bit was over; she found him out. “Just because I haven’t seen a movie before doesn’t mean I don’t know what a joke is. Can’t believe I could fuck with you for that long.”
Correctly assuming she’d want the book – to tell him off, more precisely – Henrik then switched for the candle wrong enough that it was knocked off its holder. It landed with a soft [plap] and went out. The complete darkness she’d forgotten about closed around them, and the others, who they’d lagged behind somewhat, all stopped to look back at what caused the thud.
Henrik assured the small glow several paces from them that they were fine. “We’re good; keep going.”
The pat on her shoulder was probably a way of apologizing, and she waited for him to pick up what he’d dropped. Instead of lighting it again, he leaned into her ear and whispered all the way quietly, “Almost there. And do you mind holding the sketchbook for a bit?”
Apparently Henrik saw her nod in the blackness, and walked alongside her again, book clipped to her bag. And not to say she wanted to get lost, but holding her by the upper arm didn’t seem needed – the tunnel was wider than originally and the light from up front was even worse, sure, but their path was also a straight line.
... Regardless of their walk only being a few minutes more, total darkness was much worse than scolding Henrik for being a twat. True, she could do it later, but her faux indignation was highest right then, making any retribution sweeter. Although, it was also true that these minutes would give her time to figure out how best to make come around what went around. What would she even do for that, though? There were...
...
No, he was doing it too much. Henrik wasn’t only adjusting his hand, he was feeling Navy’s arm. It wasn’t blatant, but there was no good reason his fingers would move in the way they did, gently moving up and down at a long interval while squeezing her bicep. And what intent could he have other than to... grope her. Maybe he wanted to comfort Navy ... because of the dark? But she’d been okay up to then and didn’t think she’d appeared scared to him – it could be that, ‘cause she’s not got the best knowledge of how her expressions come off. Other than to ease her nerves, though ... Why? If he thought that would help, he could’ve asked first, too...
She didn’t want to think he’d use their friendship in a wrong way, but he was definitely doing something, and whatever it was discomfited her ... They were close enough to being out that she’d let it slide – just for a little bit – until she could see him properly. Maybe he wasn’t trying to do anything or could explain what he was thinking ... or Henrik could at least say sorry, and not do it again.
After a few minutes, the group ahead stopped at a turn that looked like it would tighten the corridor again. When she and Henrik caught up, Stratton was arm-deep through the only hole in a makeshift wall of scrap, likely to open its door. The prediction was proved right when there was a loud, metallic [chick], and he pulled a weighty padlock from the other side.
At the moment their way forward was opened Carranco made the slightest movement to step towards Stratton, and Henrik’s grip loosened, their split-second motion ceased by Hane as he budged the ginger dog’s shoulder aside with his own, powerfully striding past with the comment, “Sick of this place.”
Impolite as it may have been, the gang members didn’t continue into the tunnel. After another second, Red did the same as Hane minus the pushing, and jabbed, “Are you admiring his ass? Fuckin’ move. Christ.”
Henrik let go as Stratton gave him the key and they all filed in, the hound locking their entrance while everyone took turns climbing the ladder a few feet past the door, the removed manhole cover offering hardly any light, for whatever reason. Once she was supposed to give a go at it, Henrik, who would be the last to come up, got on one knee and offered to lift her up.
... It felt wrong to not say what she wanted to. It felt wrong not getting an answer from him. But ... despite them technically being alone, they were expected. That was a conversation she’d much rather have with him while they were properly alone ... She wasn’t even necessarily mad at Henrik; all Navy wanted was an explanation, and she’d be willing to understand. It wasn’t a great crime or violation ... but it hurt – if he was doing what she thought, that is.
“ ... Comin’?” the hound wondered.
“Hm? Uh ... Yep.”
Navy placed her weight on his hands, and let Henrik bring her up. Grating against rough stone a few too many times, Navy finally brought her good arm to the surface and could get the rest of the way normally.
They’d entered a tent-like pavilion, seemingly in an alleyway, that had sturdy barricades on either side, marginal amounts of daylight only coming through the gently billowing polyester roof. There was one exit – excluding the sewers.
They all circled by the building’s entrance as Henrik replaced the manhole cover and Stratton unlocked what looked like a blast door, it not matching the place whatsoever. Inside what Navy could only assume was their home they were met with yet further darkness, this area small – likely a janitor’s closet or a room for waste disposal, from what she could parse. Stratton waited for them to be locked in, then let two weird knocks on another hefty-sounding door reverberate.
... From the door’s side, a woman’s gruff voice demanded, “Speak.”
Stratton answered, “It’s me, Carranco, an’ Henrik. There’re four others here to trade. I need to talk to Colm.”
... A beam of metal was heaved out of place, the door slowly swung open afterward just enough for a Golden Retriever to look in; she eyed the seven of them with an apprehensive flare, but was sated enough by exchanged looks with Stratton that the woman let them in. Navy probably eyed her for weirdly long as they entered the dim hallway, seeing as ... well, she’d never met a woman other than December. The golden dog was clad in military gear like everyone else, shared their harsh expressions, and looked to be a similar middle-age like them – maybe a little younger – yet merely having her nearby for a few seconds alleviated a bit of the strangeness that was the growing mass of people she walked with. Didn’t know her, perhaps they wouldn’t get along, but her presence was oddly contrasting, and reassuring.
Distracted by a small table featuring solitaire and a journal halfway gone through loaded with scores, and later a brief view to the office’s main foyer which had is windows reinforced to near their very top, Navy’s attention returned and found the woman looking at her, as though biting her tongue. Assuming it would be fine since they were indoors, Navy greeted quietly after a minute, “Sorry if I was staring. I-it’s nice to meet you.”
The woman took a lengthy breath in and out, sounding almost like an exasperated sigh. She offered a civil handshake, greeting also, “Anna.”
Accepting it, all the tiger said back was, “Navy,” then left it alone.
Coming to the base of a flight of stairs, she peered up between the railings to see how tall the structure was. View wasn’t clear and trying to follow behind didn’t help, but she guessed less than ten floors to the top ... And yet, Navy didn’t hear much of anything beyond their rising footsteps. Total silence wasn’t the expectation she had for a gang’s headquarters.
At the second floor’s landing she saw through the doorway planter boxes lined to the windows and a mostly open floorplan without a lot else. The second had the same. And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth. Even considering her limited view, though, the place seemed big, so using all of it just wouldn’t make sense. Being in reach of a window, if tinted, likely didn’t help their willingness to hang around in the open.
A couple flights above them which led to the roof entrance, Navy knew they were at the top. The door was closed this time, and Stratton opened it for them after knocking in the same way as before. In the middle of the room was an oval conference table with about a dozen chairs on either side, and they approached lengthwise a man in its middlemost seat, his back to a row of windows. He was a Bluetick Coonhound, and appeared confused at their sight.
Stratton stepped ahead and spoke first. “Got these folk while searching for Uriel on his business trip, and they wanted to trade with hash. Tall black one is Melanie’s son; just like ‘er, too.”
The man, who must’ve been Colm, intoned, “Hm,” then called in no particular direction, “Get up. Guests.”
While the eight of them took up office chairs – her group opposite the elder man’s side and theirs on it – someone audibly woke in a close-by room, groaning to their feet and coming over to meet them. He had a bandage over the side of his abdomen and on his forehead, as well as a splint over the left knee, yet his posture was straightened and his face mute except for looking them over like Anna had. He joined their side regardless of his limped gait.
Next to Hane and with their gang’s ringleader almost straight across, Navy discerned easily that Colm wasn’t like the rest of them. He was old; most of those in her vicinity were middle-aged, but he was old – early seventies. Colm’s wide, black ears drooped further down his neck than Henrik’s but were similar in style, their color shared on much of his worn and loose face – which was in part normal for the breed – until his brownish-orange lower cheeks, off-white and further grayed muzzle with sagging but mildly-sized jowls that pushed his mouth into a perpetual frown, and ended at the top of his neck, switching to a purer white with spots that likely covered most of the rest of him. His puncturing stare gloomed between them, betraying that he thought, but not of what. Good or bad, the senior’s body would have no trouble carrying it out.
Right as he went to speak, leaning forward with his arms crossed on the table like an executive, the injured man focused on nowhere asked, “So he’s dead, then.”
They all eyed him, Hane answering, “ ... Yes, he’s dead. And unless they’ve coded to you, ‘These four took out the Skin Man that killed and buried your friend in a mass grave,’ then I guess that’s for me to inform.”
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