State of Nature: Book Three of The Park Service Trilogy by Ryan Winfield Page B

of our nine hundred years living underground. Jimmy looks with great interest at these artifacts, and I can’t help but think that he’s reminded of his own cave of treasures by the cove.
    Soon boisterous grunts and bellows echo through the maze, and then the tunnel opens abruptly onto a large den where the strangest sight I’ve ever seen lays before us like some nightmare painting come to life. Several behemoth tunnelrat mothers, too large to ever exit the tunnel we’ve just passed through, sprawl on junk-piled beds. They are nursing countless infant tunnelrats, hairless and helpless and squirming blindly against one another to get at their milk. Other young tunnelrats lie slumped drunkenly against the walls, sucking on bottles. One particularly plump mother opens a large, milky eye and watches us cross the den with only the mildest interest.
    Another tunnel leads us away from the den. Just as the squealing noise fades completely into the maze behind us, we step out onto a platform where a subterrene idles, its glowing nosecone pointed toward a wall of openings that might lead to any number of deep and dangerous mines. A tunnelrat leans against the contraption, feverishly smoking some kind of tiny cigarette. It sees us, drops the cigarette, and stomps it out with its bare foot.
    “Where ye been now, where ye been?” the tunnelrat asks, opening the subterrene hatch and waving us aboard.
    “Sorry if we’re late,” Bill says. “We really appreciate this.”
    “In ye go now, in ye go.”
    Once inside the subterrene, we take our seats and buckle in for the ride. Bill opens a cubby and produces lunch rations and passes them around. Jimmy and I swig our water and tear into our food, realizing just how long it’s been since we’ve eaten anything. Roger sits across from us, picking at his, a sour look on his face as if someone had purposely prepared him his least favorite food. Bill consults the tunnelrat at the controls.
    “Hey, Roger,” I say. “You ever ridden in one of these?” When he shakes his head no, I continue, “Well, we have, and if your stomach comes out of your mouth, be sure not to bite down on it. Just swallow it again and you’ll be fine.”
    Roger sets his ration aside and begins feverishly twiddling his thumbs. Jimmy elbows me in the ribs, but he still laughs.
    Eventually, Bill buckles in next to Roger, the tunnelrat winds up the subterrene, and we shoot off into the tunnels like some underground missile launched from a slingshot. As the initial inertia of its acceleration wears off, we settle into a smooth ride, lifting softly up and falling softly down, arcing gently left and gently right, as if winding our way through an underground amusement park like I read about growing up.
    The tunnelrat takes its seat next to Jimmy.
    “How fast does this thin’ go?” Jimmy asks.
    “Thousan’ kilometers an hour now,” the tunnelrat says, “thousan’ kilometers an hour.” Then it hauls a large bottle of milk from its pouch and begins drinking.
    Sometime later, as we’re all beginning to drift off to sleep, the tunnelrat gets up to check the controls. Jimmy nudges me and points to the milk bottle sitting in the tunnelrat’s vacated seat. I shrug. Jimmy picks it up, wipes the nipple off with his sleeve, and raises it to his lips. He suckles fast and furious, his cheeks pumping as he mimics the baby tunnelrats we saw, and he looks so suddenly ridiculous that I have to fight back the giggles. When he sets it down again, he has milk on his chin.
    “Not bad,” he mouths silently.
    The food in my belly and the motion of the speeding subterrene lulls me to sleep, and as I drift off I dream I’m being swallowed by a snake—
    I’m being swallowed by a snake, and it’s surprisingly comforting. The unhinged jaw stretches over my head and the throat of the serpent slides over me like a second skin, protecting me from the harsh realities of the world. I come to rest in the warmth of its stomach, our