Authors: Norma Hinkens
I
crouch
and take aim into the darkness, my breath coming in short stabs. “I’m going in,” I hiss over my shoulder to Jakob and Trout.
“Are you crazy?” Jakob whispers back.
“We should get out of here,” Trout mutters.
“It’s not subversives,” I say firmly. “We’d be dead by now if it was. We’d never have made it past the perimeter fence.”
“You don’t know that,” Jakob says. “They could be trying to lure us in there.”
“Or maybe someone’s trying to hide from us.” I brush a strand of hair out of my eyes and turn to Jakob. “Are you willing to go back and tell Izzy we didn’t even try and get the medication for her brother?”
Jakob furrows his brow. “I suppose you’re right. It doesn’t make sense that subversives would leave the place unprotected.”
“Even if it’s not subversives, it doesn’t mean whoever’s inside isn’t a threat,” Trout says.
“So we’ll stick together instead of splitting up, just in case,” I say. “Our first priority is still to locate the weapons. If we have enough time, we’ll head for the infirmary after that.”
Jakob gives a resigned shrug. Locating the medication was his main priority, but now that we have unidentified company, I’m not about to let him go off looking for it on his own. He’s carrying a gun, but I suspect he’d only use it if it were my life on the line.
I turn up the beam on my flashlight and carefully step through the mangled entry cage into the main concrete corridor. Patches of peeling paint cling to the gouged and cracked walls. The floor is strewn with ragged mattresses, steel doors torn from their hinges, abandoned slip-on shoes and broken glass. On the ground in front of me, moonlight puddles in rectangles, shaped by the windows that line the corridor. I hunker down and shine the light directly on a spot on the dusty floor in front of me. “Check this out!” I say, lowering my voice. “Footprints!”
Trout leans in for a closer look. “Judging by the size of those boots, this guy’s nothing short of six feet.” He straightens up and looks directly at me. “Let me take the lead for now. I may have to tackle him if he jumps us.”
Jakob's expression is strained, but he says nothing. All my rationalizing hasn’t entirely convinced him the place isn’t crawling with subversives, but he’s willing to risk it—desperate to find the medication Izzy’s brother needs.
I pull the makeshift map out of my pocket and check our position. “We’re here now,” I say, pointing at the main artery leading from the entry. “The strong room is halfway down the second corridor on our left.
“Let’s pick up the pace,” Trout says. “We need to get back to the riders before they leave.”
Guns cocked, we tread forward as soundlessly as possible over the debris littering the corridor. I’m not convinced moving in like a SWAT team is the right approach. If it does turn out there’s someone hiding in here, we’d be better off alerting him that we’re not a threat. I don’t want him firing off a round, or whacking one of us over the head with a pipe when we round a corner, or worse. Whoever those footprints belong to, he’s a lot bigger than any of us.
Glass crunches beneath Trout’s boot, and we freeze into three shadowy statues shrouded in moonlight. The sound echoes off the concrete walls before dissipating into an ominous silence. After a few agonizing moments, I slowly release my breath.
“Keep moving!” I urge Trout from behind. He doesn’t budge.
“Uh … Derry,” he says, in a loaded whisper. “Don’t look down.”
I can tell by the tone of his voice that it’s bad. I shine my light in front of Trout and at first I don’t see anything other than a jumble of debris peppered with glass from the smashed windows along the corridors. I arc the light around Trout one more time and then I spot it—a skeletal hand sticking out from beneath a slit mattress. I take an unsteady step backward and bump into Jakob.
“What is it?” he whispers.
“It’s a body,” I say.
Slowly, Trout edges the mattress upward with the toe of his boot, and peers beneath it. He lets it drop back down, and leans against the wall. “Reeducation guard,” he pronounces.
I swallow hard. We’re standing on a site of desecration. I remember Blade telling me how the Rogues butchered the guards on their way out—
Reds went down first
. He said it without emotion, like it was warranted. My stomach churns. No matter how much I long for a new beginning, I can’t imagine a world in which Blade doesn’t have to pay for what he’s done.
“We need to keep moving,” Jakob whispers to me. I step around Trout and shine my light down the first corridor to our left. Whoever left those footprints has vanished. I point my beam into the first doorless room. Mostly administrative offices in this area, if Rummy’s map is to be trusted. We creep forward along the main hallway, single file, casting the occasional glance behind us now that we’re susceptible to attack from both directions.
When I reach the second corridor, I raise my hand to halt the others. “Unless Rummy was lying through his teeth, the weapons strong room is halfway down on the left,” I say. “There’s a chance the guards left it open when they fled. If not, we’ll have to shoot our way in.”
“We can’t do that,” Jakob says, an edge to his voice. “Whoever’s in here will know exactly where we are. We’d never make it to the infirmary after that.”
“Looks like it’s shovels we’ll be needing, not bullets,” Trout interjects, shining his light farther down the corridor.
I follow the line of the sallow beam. Thirty feet in front of us, a wall of rubble blocks our way to the weapons’ strong room. My heart drops. It’s completely caved in. Even if we could dig our way through the wreckage with our bare hands, we’d never be done before dawn.
“Now what?” Trout asks.
Jakob grips my arm. “Forget the weapons. We can still get the medication we need and get out of here.”
I sling my rifle over my shoulder and stride past him. “I’m not giving up yet.” I make my way up to the wall of debris and shine my light over it. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” I say, peering through. “I can make out a few patches of corridor on the other side.”
Trout comes up alongside me and examines the wall more closely. “There’s something’s odd about this,” he says, pulling at a piece of loose concrete.
“What do you mean?” Jakob asks.
“It almost looks like someone built a part of this wall. The top section isn’t rubble, it’s carefully positioned chunks of concrete, layered on top of the original cave-in.” Trout reaches above his head for a wedge-shaped piece and wriggles it free. Several adjacent pieces slide toward him and he jumps back before they crash to the ground. Cement dust tickles my nostrils. I bury my nose in my sleeve and sneeze loudly.
Jakob glances around nervously. “We might as well be shooting for all the racket we’re making right now.”
“Sorry,” I whisper.
Trout pulls another piece of concrete free, then peers through the opening. “I see the weapons strongroom,” he says, a note of excitement in his voice. “I think we can get through here easily enough.”
“Trout and I will work on the wall,” I say, turning to Jakob. “You keep watch. We don’t want any surprises while our backs are turned.”
I lean my rifle against the rubble and begin heaving at the closest chunk of concrete.
“Easy!” Trout says, grabbing my arm. “Take it one piece at a time from the top. I know we’re under a time crunch but I don’t want to end up buried alive.”
We work steadily for ten minutes or so, dismantling the manmade upper section of the wall. “Take it down to waist level,” Trout says. “That way we can crawl back out in a flash if we have to.”
Every so often I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one’s sneaking up on us. From the back, Jakob looks like an old man, his hair flecked with cement dust, white as Big Ed’s. I smile sadly to myself. I don’t know if any of us will get the chance to grow old like that. So much has been lost, I’m not sure we can ever find it again.
“That should be far enough.” Trout says. He straightens up and arches out his back.
The gap we’ve created is more chest level than waist level, but the rest of the wall beneath the opening appears to be part of the original cave-in—several feet deep, too much to dismantle without shovels and tools.
I pick up my gun and reach for the duffle bags. “I’ll go first.” I toss the bags through the opening and scramble up. A quick scan with my flashlight reveals nothing unusual. I wriggle through and jump down on the other side. “All clear!” I call through to the others.
Jakob's head appears in the opening and I reach up and help him down. Trout follows a moment later, huffing and puffing. “Dang! About ripped the palm off my hand getting through,” he says. “I caught it on a nail or something. Stings like crazy.” He shakes his wrist and blood sprinkles the concrete dust.
“Let me take a look.” Jakob peers closely at Trout’s palm. “It’s a bad gash, and that nail was rusted. I saw it when I was climbing through.” He pulls out a bandanna and wraps it tightly around Trout’s hand, then turns to me. “We’re going to have to make time to find that infirmary now.”
“Soon as we’re done here,” I say. I shake out the duffle bags we brought for the weapons and toss one to Trout. He catches it with his bandaged right hand and winces. I grimace. I hope his injury won’t become a problem before we make it out of here safely.
I pull back the charging handle on my rifle and slowly approach the weapons strong room. The bulletproof glass window appears intact, although it’s half-buried behind rubble. I walk around to the steel door and reach for the handle. Taking a deep breath, I pull down. The door creaks and swings inward. I shine my flashlight around the room. A wave of relief washes over me. At least two-thirds of the weapons are still upright in their racks. Boxes upon boxes of ammunition line the shelves at the back of the room. I hurry back out and grin at the others. “Good news,” I say. “The weapons are still here.” We high five each other all around. I notice Trout uses his left hand, and another flicker of apprehension goes through me. He won’t be able to shoot straight if we encounter trouble on the way back.
“Let’s get busy packing this stuff up,” I say.
For the next ten minutes we work in silence in the musty, cellar-like space, loading up the duffle bags with all the weapons and ammo we can squeeze in. Then we drag the bags outside and pile them up beneath the opening we crawled through.
“There’s enough ammo here to shoot up the Craniopolis several times over,” Jakob says.
“We’re gonna need every last round,” Trout says, his expression grim.
“I’ll grab a couple more boxes of ammo, I can stash them in my pack,” Jakob says and heads back inside the strong room.
I lean down to zip up the duffle bags just as a jagged chunk of concrete goes flying past my ear.
“
G
et down
!” I yell, yanking my rifle from my shoulder as I dive awkwardly to the ground. I bite my tongue on the way down and the salty taste of blood fills my mouth, reminding me of Trout’s injured hand. If he can’t fire his weapon, it’s going to be up to me to hold off our attackers.
Trout narrowly dodges another concrete missile that comes flying through the opening. He rolls over, and fumbles with his rifle. “What are you waiting for?” he hisses at me.
Jakob peers around the doorway of the strong room and I gesture frantically at him to stay put.
I raise my gun in the direction of the opening and rest my finger on the trigger. For some reason I can’t bring myself to pull it. It doesn’t add up. If someone’s trying to kill us, wouldn’t they be shooting at us instead of hurling lumps of concrete at our heads? Unless they’re trying to provoke us—waiting for us to stick our heads through the opening so they can get a clean shot. I grimace when I remember the size of the footprints in the main corridor. “Do you think there’s more than one of them?” I whisper to Trout, my eye glued to my scope.
“Dunno,” he says. “But they’re hostile.”
For several agonizing minutes we lie motionless in the debris, listening for movement, or voices, on the other side of the wall. I try desperately not to cough, even though the dust feels like it’s clogging my lungs. Just when I’ve decided it’s safe to adjust my position a notch, another slab of concrete sails overhead. Trout ducks and covers the back of his head with his bandaged hand, inadvertently pulling the trigger. The blast of the bullet ricochets around us. On the other side of the wall I hear the unmistakeable sound of footsteps running away. A burst of adrenalin floods my system. I jump up and clamber through the gap in the wall.
“Wait for me!” Trout yells.
The muted light of my flashlight picks up a shadow disappearing around the corner into the main corridor. Abandoning all attempts at tactical movement, I take off running after it. I hope I’m not heading straight into a trap.
I round the corner into the main corridor at full speed and catch my foot in a tangle of metal. My rifle slips from my grasp as I fly forward and plant face down on a discarded mattress. A storm of dust swirls into my face. Eyes watering, I push myself up with my palms. My arms wobble beneath me at the sight of the large, steel-toed boots planted in front of my nose. I dart a glance around for my gun. It’s just out of reach to my right, wedged in the debris. Hesitantly, I peer up through the shadows at my captor.
I let out a gasp.
A boy!
I blink in confusion, then slowly get to my feet and stare curiously at the disheveled kid in front of me. He can’t be more than eleven or twelve years old, heavily-freckled, dark smudges beneath his guarded eyes. His scrawny legs rise out of boots five or six sizes too big—duct-taped around his ankles, presumably to keep them on. He stares back at me, his sullen eyes narrowed like a cat about to spring.
I chance a cautious smile. “Smart thinking,” I say, pointing at his duct-taped boots. “You were running pretty hard back there and they stayed on.”
The boy’s expression softens. For the first time I notice the chunk of concrete in his right hand.
I gesture at it, smiling. “You really don’t need that. I’m an Undergrounder.”
He peers around me at the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, renewed suspicion on his face.
“They’re with me,” I reassure him.
He edges backward, still staring intently down the corridor.
“It’s okay,” I call out to Jakob and Trout. “It’s an Undergrounder. A boy.”
They pull up short, wary of trusting what they see. For all they know, the child could be a decoy, and someone around the corner could be pointing a gun at my head.
I turn my attention back to the boy. “What’s your name?”
He toys with the chunk of concrete in his hand for a moment. “Brock.”
“I’m Derry Connelly.”
He cocks his head to one side, as if waiting on me to continue.
I hesitate, struggling to frame my next question. “Is your family here?”
His eyes shift to Jakob and Trout, and then back to me. “They’re dead. Our bunker got raided by Rogues.”
I blow out a heavy breath. “How’d you get away?”
He chews on his bottom lip. “One of the Rogues hid me in the bushes, told me to stay put until they left.”
I raise my brows and glance at Jakob and Trout. I can tell by the looks on their faces they’re thinking the same thing I am:
the bad guy what told me to run away fast.
Somewhere in that murderous bunch, there’s a man with half a conscience saving kids’ lives.
Jakob walks over and introduces himself. “How long have you been living here, Brock?”
He shrugs. “Couple of months. Plenty of beds, if you want to stay. And canned food in the kitchen. Want some?”
Jakob smiles. “Sure, but first I need to find some medicine for my friend. Do you know where the infirmary is—the hospital?”
Brock glances hesitantly at the concrete grenade in his hand and then drops it. “I can show you.”
Jakob turns to me with a lopsided grin. “You and Trout go back and get the guns. I’ll be perfectly safe with my six-foot-tall guide showing me around.”
I pull a face at him. “Maybe, but I’d feel better if we stick together just the same.”
W
e follow
Brock around the corner, through several more corridors and down a hazardous flight of busted-up stairs with metal tube handrails that have come unfastened from the wall in places.
Brock stops outside a door with a wired glass inset. “This is it.”
Jakob pushes the door open. “Be right back.” I watch through the glass as he hurriedly scans the medication shelves at the back of the room. He smashes a locked case with the butt of his rifle and rummages through the supplies, then grabs a box and spins around, holding it high. “Got it!” he mouths. He pulls his pack from his shoulder, snatches up several other items from the shelves and then stuffs everything inside his pack before rejoining us.
“Quick and painless,” he says, winking at me. The relief in his voice is palpable. Izzy’s brother will have a fighting chance after all. “Let’s take a quick look at that hand,” he says, turning to Trout. He pulls out some wipes, then expertly cleans the wound, and rubs some antibiotic ointment on it before wrapping it in a sterile bandage. “Keep an eye on it,” he says. “We need to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”
Trout nods his thanks. “Let’s grab the guns and go.”
“Don’t you want something to eat first?” Brock asks, a wistful note in his voice.
My heart softens. I can guess what’s going on in his head. “Just for the record,” I say, squeezing his shoulder, “we’re not ditching you. You’re coming with us.”
“Cool,” he mutters, his eyes moistening.
I reach inside my pack and glance at the wind-up clock. “We’ve got time. Let’s check out that kitchen. Been a while since I tasted canned anything. Got any fruit?”
Brock’s face brightens. “Peaches and mandarins.”
“Lead the way.” I make a sweeping gesture with my hands. “I’m all over a high octane sugar rush.”
T
he kitchen is in shambles
, partially caved in, the appliances mangled beyond recognition, but true to his word, Brock leads us to a relatively unscathed pantry. Most of the shelves have collapsed, but unopened cans of food, some as big as paint cans, are piled up along the back wall.
“I’ve been sorting them out,” Brock says. “Organizing them into food groups.
“Look at all this stuff,” Jakob says, examining the labels. “We should make another run out here and load up on these.”
I pick up a badly dented can of green beans and rub the dust from the faded label. I never much liked green beans, but I’d be willing to give them another shot.
I press down on the top of the bulging can and release it. “Hear that popping?” I say. “This one’s a goner. Seal’s broken.”
Brock looks crestfallen. “Most of them fell off the shelves and got dinged up.”
“If it’s a small dent, they’re probably fine. Just check them first. Trust me, you’ll know it’s off if it sprays you like a hose when you open it.”
W
e can’t agree
on any one fruit so we settle on splitting a catering-sized tin of cocktail fruit. Brock places it on the floor in front of Jakob. “You first,” he says, his face lighting up with the first real smile I’ve seen from him. Funny how every kid gravitates toward Jakob. It’s as if they instinctively know they can trust him.
Jakob reaches into the can and takes a generous fistful of soggy fruit, then sucks on his fingers for the longest time. We wait in silence, breath on pause, until a tiny moan of pleasure makes my saliva swim. I scramble up and grab the can. “That’s it! I’m going in!” I plunge my fingers into the thick syrup, scoop up a handful of cubed pears and peaches and pack them into my mouth as fast as I possibly can. I groan at the back of my throat. The juice ignites my senses like someone’s flicked the lights back on. The syrupy concoction drips down my chin, and I frantically swipe at it with my palm, loathe to lose a drop. Reluctantly, I pass the can to Trout. He hunches over it and digs in, grunting his approval in-between mouthfuls.
“Hey,” Jakob says, prodding him with his boot. “It’s Brock’s turn!”
Trout wipes his sleeve across his mouth and grudgingly hands over the can.
Brock eats sparingly, apparently getting more enjoyment out of watching our reactions than sharing in the spoils.
“I honestly can’t remember the last time I tasted sugar,” I say, leaning back against the wall after we’ve gorged our way through the entire can.
“Me neither.” Trout burps loudly. “And to think I used to live for the stuff. First thing every recess—hit the vending machine.”
There’s an uncomfortable beat of silence. The mention of school, together with the long-forgotten taste of the canned fruit, has dredged up memories we don’t often pass around anymore.
“We should go,” I say. I pull out the wind-up clock and stare at it. My stomach twists. I shake it once, then toss it back inside, trying not to panic.
“What is it?” Jakob asks, picking up on my unease.
“Clock’s given up,” I say, frowning. “I thought we had plenty of time, but … I can’t be sure when it stopped.”
Trout jumps to his feet, a leery expression on his face. “We need to go right now.”
“This way,” Brock says, kicking into gear. “I know a short cut.”
As if compelled by some unspoken agreement, we break into a run after him, dodging past metal tables and chairs riveted to a dining hall floor, and back out into the main corridor.
“Think the riders will wait for us?” Jakob yells.
“Hope so,” I yell back. I don’t remind him I was adamant Jody and Ida leave in exactly two hours. If they took off without us, we’ll never make it back to the city before dawn. Our best bet will be to hide out somewhere and wait for nightfall again. And we can’t carry all those guns back without the pack horses. Which means another dangerous mission for Jody and the other riders to retrieve them.
I pick up my pace behind Brock who, despite his clunky footwear, is as light-footed as a deer in the shadowy corridors, leaping effortlessly over piles of debris. No wonder we couldn’t catch him earlier. He’s probably had nothing better to do for the past few months, in between gorging on canned fruit and green beans, than tear up and down these corridors chasing shadows. He’s a tough kid, holding it together alone all this time.
When I reach the cave-in, Brock is already scrambling up to the opening we made.
“No! You stay here!” I say, yanking him back down, as the others come running up behind us. “Trout and I will climb through and hand up the duffle bags. You help Jakob lift them down.”
I wriggle back through the gap in the wall and jump down on the other side.
“You good?” Trout calls through to me.
“Yeah.” I raise my hand to swat away a few crumbs of cement dangling from my hair, and freeze. For a long moment I stand rooted to the spot, my mind laboring to make sense of it. I swivel slowly, doing a quick mental recap of our steps earlier to make sure I’m not mistaken. Then the fear takes hold, squeezing the breath from my lungs.
The duffle bags are gone.