by Katie French
However, when I pull open the door, the smoke billows in, acrid and foul. I push the door shut, coughing. Looking around the room tinted red by the alarm lights, I find the only other door all the way across the room.
“Well, poop,” I murmur.
I hike my shawl over my shoulders and start back the other way.
When I’m three steps from the concrete door and ready to give it another try, the door pushes open. A man on the other side stumbles in, panting and staring. His shirt is covered in sweat, ash, and blood from a cut on his right shoulder. This pudgy middle-aged fellow, balding and wearing smeary glasses, gapes at me as he tries to catch his breath.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“Who in this fresh hell are you?” I say, drawing my blanket tighter around me. “And why are you staring at a lady in her unmentionables?”
He takes his glasses off and wipes them on his filthy shirt. “It’s bad out there. Terrible. We’re all going down. This is it.”
Setting his glasses back on his face, he looks at me again. “We need to get out of here. They’ve blown a main support beam. The whole thing is probably going to come down.”
I squint at him with my good eye and say, “Then why are we jawing? Let’s roll.”
A smile breaks across his face for the first time. He reaches for my hand. I consider his offer for a moment and shake my head. “Lead the way,” I say, holding my shawl.
There’s as much smoke on this side of the door as the other. I pull the shawl over my mouth and try to duck low while still keeping up. The narrow, concrete hallways pulse with red alarm lights. Thick smoke swirls in the beams, making this all seem hellish, the stuff of nightmares. I hope Pudgy here knows how to get us out.
He takes a left and then a right, skidding to a stop when he finds a corridor blocked by huge chunks of concrete. It looks like the ceiling has caved in. Above us, cracks splinter through the remaining concrete. Any moment, huge boulders could rain down on us. Pudgy looks up, too, nervously rubbing his hands together. “That was the main exit,” he shouts. “We have to go back!”
“Back?” I squawk. “Thought you said you knew where you were going!”
He shakes his head, turning around and heading back down the hallway. “This way.”
I roll my eyes and follow, cursing under my breath.
A few more turns and our corridor opens up into the large, domed room I remember from when we first got here. The ceiling rises up thirty feet, rounding into a concrete dome. The dome is cracked like an egg, and half of it has tumbled in smoldering piles on the far side. One of their vehicles is buried in chunks of concrete and brown dirt with only the nose sticking out. Half of the dome has collapsed, letting in ash-choked moonlight and a little bit of fresh air. It’s a way out, but I’d never be able to climb it. Even as we stand gaping, more heavy concrete separates from the dome and crashes to the floor, smashing into bits and knocking equipment to the ground.
“It’s all coming down,” Pudgy says, shocked.
Behind us, several pops sound before another loud crash shakes the floor. Hot air rushes out of the tunnel behind us, blasting our backs with grit and small bits of concrete.
“Christ on a donkey,” I say, covering my face with my shawl. “If we’re getting out, now would be the time!”
Pudgy flicks a glance at me like he’s forgotten I exist. His glasses are covered with so much filth, I’m not sure he can see. The grime makes his hair and face the same sandy color, darkening the wrinkles around his eyes and the lines in his forehead. Still, he takes my hand without asking and pulls me down the only corridor that isn’t covered in hunks of concrete. “We’ll be safe down he—”
His words are drowned out by a terrible rumble. The walls, the floor, everything shakes. I lose my grip on Pudgy’s hand. Pebbles rain on my head. Above, huge cracks chase down the concrete and across the walls, splitting the stone in a spider’s web of fissures. Stones pelt my head and shoulders. They smash on the floor around us. One strikes Pudgy in the head, driving him to his knees. As I reach for him, something smashes into my back. I fall as stones rain on my body.
Chapter 25
Ethan
Up on the moonlit hill, with Hank yanking me around and Betsy whining somewhere in the distance, it’s all I can take. I kick my foot back, looking for Hank’s shins. He dodges me and hooks his boney fingers tighter into my shirt. “Let me go, you bastard!” I scream.
Hank knees me in the kidney and shoves me on the ground. I land face down, my hands digging into the dirt. I start to get up, but he puts his foot on my back and presses me down.
“Keep struggling, you little shit,” Hank’s voice says from behind me.
I could kill him. I could kill this kid.
After we dropped Clay off, I knew something wasn’t right. I expected them to take me back to Mike’s compound to wait for Clay to return. Instead, Hank told the driver to circle around and park at the base of the hill. When I asked Betsy what the hell we were doing, she wouldn’t look at me. She just stared at her white, dimpled knees and shrugged. She was acting like a kid who stole a pie off the window ledge, so I knew she was in with Hank. With the truck parked and the engine idling like a grumpy bear, I jumped off the truck bed and took off in the direction I thought Clay might be.
The driver caught me after a short chase and dragged me back to the truck. When he wrestled me back, Hank split my lip with a backhand and tied my wrists together with twine. Betsy still wouldn’t look at me.
After all the trouble they took to catch me, those idiots drove us right back to where I wanted to go—the big hill where we left Clay. From this height, I can spot Mike’s army coming down the road—every man on the compound walking with bats, shovels, knives, and guns. They’re gonna kill the people who come spilling out of that hill once Clay blows it up.
Now, with Hank’s foot on my back and my face in the dirt, I hope they kill Hank. I hope Clay shows up, sees what Hank’s doing, and knocks him a good one. Betsy, too, for all I care. She can go to hell for not helping me.
“Do you have to step on him?” she whines.
When I look up, she’s staring down on me like she’s sorry. But she don’t do nothing to stop him from grinding me into the dirt.
He ignores her question and talks to the driver with the gun. “When Clay comes up, I want you to grab him. I want him to see what I’m gonna do to this maggot. Then you can shoot him. That’s what he gets for trying to replace me.”
What did he just say? He’s gonna kill Clay?
I push up, bucking against his foot. Hank teeters back, his foot slipping off me. I scramble forward, clawing in the dirt to get away. A hand clamps my ankle. He falls on my back, grabbing and clawing. I flip over, trying to face him. His white teeth and dark eyebrows make him look like an evil doll in the dark.
“You’re not gonna kill Clay!” I shout, punching with my bound fists, hitting, kneeing him wherever I can. Hank rips out a handful of my hair, which hurts like hell, but I pull both fists back and punch him in the nose. The crack is loud, and the blood, spilling down each nostril, is bright red. He lets go of my shirt, his hands flying up to his nose. When I reach back to punch him again, I hear the sound of a gun cocking.
“Tha’s about enough of that,” the driver says, aiming his gun at my face. “Y’all can stop squabblin’. Get up, Hank. You,” he says to me, “keep your ass in the grass.”
I lay on the ground, panting as Hank pushes off me and stands, holding his bloody nose.
“You little bastard,” Hank says, kicking dirt at me. But the blood running down his face makes it worth it, even if he is gonna kill me.
“I’m not gonna let you kill Clay,” I say, spitting grit from my mouth. “’Sides, he’s too damn quick for you.”
Hank snorts, and then holds his nose like it hurts him. “Get him up,” he says to the driver.
The driver pulls me up, holding onto my shirt in his balled fist. In the other hand, he aims the gun, a small
revolver like the ones Clay used to have, only Clay’s were way nicer. And I bet Clay can fire ten times better. If Clay can get here and grab the gun, he’ll make both these dummies sorry. I look for the spot where Clay was supposed to show up, the dull metal pipe with its lid ripped off. Any minute, he’ll come popping out of the tube like a gopher coming up from underground. Then he’ll take care of this.
So where is he?
Minutes tick by, and Clay doesn’t show. Betsy, who’s been shifting from foot to foot, sits down in the dirt, looking miserable. Hank pinches his nose and stalks back and forth. When he makes another pass, Betsy holds her hand up to stop him.
“Thought you said I could have Clay,” she whines. “You promised.”
He looks down on her like she’s a bug he wants to step on. With his fingers clamped on his nostrils, he sounds even more stupid than usual. “Changed my mind.”
“I changed my mind about you being cute. You look like a toad!” she shouts.
Hank narrows his eyes, takes his hand off his nose, and slaps her.
Betsy yelps. Her hands find the rising red welt on her cheek and tears begin streaming down her face. Hank flashes a grimace. “Shut up.”
The guard, who’s been watching this all quietly, shakes his head. “Cheese and rice, Hank. You beat up girls now, too? Mike ain’t gonna like that.”
“You shut up, too!” Hank whirls on the driver. “I tell you what Mike will like. I tell you!”
The guard shakes his head, but he does nothing. Betsy sobs into her knees.
Somebody has to do something about Hank. If Clay doesn’t show up soon, that somebody is gonna be me.
Suddenly, there’s a boom deep in the earth. The ground starts to rumble. Betsy jumps up, looking down at the shaking soil. My eyes flick to the pipe. Did Clay set off the bomb? Why isn’t he out? He was supposed to be here by the time the bomb exploded.
The dirt starts to shift beneath our feet. A huge crack zigzags across the surface of the hill. Pieces of earth fall away. Giant dark holes appear where the ground was just seconds ago. The whole earth is disappearing, and we’re all going down with it.
I turn and bolt.
The bomb is caving in this part of the hill. And it’s gonna take us down with it.
Hank runs beside me. I don’t see the driver, but I see Betsy running, her whole body flopping. The ground disappears, falling away in chunks. It sounds like thunder as pieces fall and smash below. Smoke billows out of the hole in a huge cloud. Somewhere below, an alarm blares. I try not to cry, but I’m scared as hell.
Is Clay alive?
The rumbling stops. I skid to a stop, turn, and stare at the giant hole and what’s left of the hill. The ground has stopped falling, finally. Below, an alarm blats and smoke pours out, blocking out the stars. It looks like the bomb craters I’ve seen in comic books. Except now, there are real people down there. Are they blown to bits? Maybe no one was down there. Maybe they all survived.
A hand grabs my collar. Hank drags me roughly back, toward the dome’s fallen edge. I yank away, fighting, but the guard digs the gun in my side.
“Clay’s dead,” Hank says in his nasal, broken-nose voice.
“He’s not dead!” I manage to pull away from Hank, but the driver grabs me, and picks me up in a bear hug. I kick and struggle, but he holds me tight. “Clay’s not dead!” I scream again. I’m crying. I don’t wanna be. The tears are hot. They taste bitter.
They drag me to the edge of the collapse. Below, a sheer rockslide tumbles down into a dark hole. Through my tears, I see flashing red lights, frayed wires, and crumbled concrete several stories below. I can’t see the bottom of the crater, but the drop here will probably kill me. Smash my skull to bits. I whip around, looking for Clay, but find Betsy instead, tears streaming down her face. She’s not crying for me. She’s crying for her boyfriend. She’s crying because it’s her damn fault he’s dead. Tears spill from my eyes, too. Everything has been awful since I lost Riley and Mama. And now, I’m about to die.
Hank pulls me right to the edge of the crater, his boots dislodging rocks that tumble down and smash on the concrete twenty feet below. Even if I survive the fall, I’ll be stuck in a crater that’s on fire. I can’t see from all the smoke, but the red light down below lets me know something, maybe everything, is on fire.
“Stop!” I scream. “Let me go!”
Hank lets go of me and waves the driver over. “We don’t need him blabbing to Mike. Push him in.”
I turn and look at them, snot dribbling down my lip. The guard hesitates. “I didn’t sign up for killin’ no kid.”
Hank growls, “Then I’ll do it, you maggot.”
I feel his rough hands on my arms, but turn away. I don’t want his ugly face to be the last thing I see. “I hate you,” I say. “Go to hell.”
“You first.” He leans so close to me I can feel his breath on my neck.
Nothing happens. Then everything happens.
The driver oomphs as if someone has punched him. When I whirl around, he’s on the ground in a lump. A very dirty man has his gun. I can’t see his face underneath the grime. Nothing except his blue eyes.
Clay’s blue eyes.
Chapter 26
Riley
The basement fills up with smoke faster than I ever would have imagined. I still can’t believe a creature that was supposed to be as primitive as an animal lured us down here. Like we’re the dumb animals. And maybe we are.
Beside me, Doc yanks off boxes, coughing until he wretches. His body curves into a C-shape and shakes with each cough. It reminds me of Ethan during his asthma fits. When the dust was bad enough, he coughed until blood speckled his lips.
I push the throbbing pain of that thought away and focus on being useful. Ripping the sleeve off my shirt, I pour water from the canteen on it and tie it around my face. Doc does the same, but it only helps a little. My eyes burn and tear. Clouds of smoke billow in my flashlight’s beam. And the hard labor it takes to clear a path makes us breathe in more smoke. We hack and cough, dig and pull.
Clambering up on top of the stack of shelves and boxes, I pull a box of rusty metal hangers down, scattering them on the floor behind me. Next are two-gallon containers of cleaner. Doc starts to yank down a box but is stopped by another round of coughing. Dropping my box, I climb down.
“Okay?” I ask, stooping low. The smoke is worse the higher you go.
He coughs and holds a finger out to tell me to wait a minute. We might not have a minute. The ceiling above us might collapse in a shower of sparks and flaming beams. We can hear the crackle of fire and the crashing of walls as the building burns above us. How much time do we have?
“This is… taking too long,” he says through gasps.
I adjust my makeshift mask and glance at the pile that separates us from the only exit we’ve seen. “What choice do we have?”
Doc looks up at me with bloodshot eyes. “Stairs?”
“What are you saying?” I ask before a coughing fit hits.
He grabs my flashlight and aims it around the basement. Cobwebbed corners, bare concrete walls, and scattered garbage are all it shows. “Why would they build a basement,” he coughs, “without stairs?”
“Does that matter? It would be on the other end of that pile if there was one.” I nod at the stack of boxes and shelves that imprison us.
“Don’t think so,” he says, still shining the flashlight around. “There’d be one on each end if they used this for storage.”
“We didn’t see one,” I say.
Standing up, he shines the light along the far wall, walking down it, stopping to cough. He comes to the first bookshelf, tipped on its side. It looks like a beaver dam of cobwebbed boxes and old trash. He angles the light until he can see through a section of shelf that lies open along one wall. “There!”
I look where he’s pointing. Though it’s blocked by a few feet of bookshelf, I can see a doorframe and hinges.
Above us, an awful crash rumbles
the whole building. I stand next to him, put my shoulder against the metal frame, and shove.
When we push together, the shelf scrapes back inch by inch with a screech. Boxes tumble down. One hits Doc, but luckily, it’s only a quarter full of small plastic bottles. He shakes it off, leans down, and pushes his shoulder against the frame.
We shove until the frame won’t budge, no matter how hard we try. We lean against the metal, panting and coughing. I can barely see from the tears streaming from my burning eyes. The smoke has thickened. Above us, the building sounds like it’s on the verge of collapsing.
Doc looks up. “Everything’s coming down.”
“Bran isn’t even down here. Shit.” I sit, defeated, my back against the shelf. “We might never get out.”
Doc sits beside me. “Doesn’t matter. I haven’t been alive since Nada died.” He puts his face in his hands.
I watch his shoulders shake, feeling the dam that’s holding my own tears back start to crumble. “Everything’s gone wrong,” I say between coughs. I lean my head on his shoulder. When I throw my arms around him, he wraps his around my waist. I think about someone finding us like this, two charred corpses sharing one final embrace. No, not two. In all likelihood, three lives will end if we don’t get out of here. The child inside me will never see a single sunset.
“I didn’t tell you. I should tell someone.”
Doc looks up at me. His face is grimy, and the cloth mask obscures most of his face. But nothing can hide the kindness in his eyes. “Tell me what?”
For a moment, I can’t speak, but I find the words. “I think I’m… pregnant.”
He stares at me for a long time. Finally, he pulls down his mask as if what he needs to say can’t be obstructed. “You sure?”
I shake my head, hot tears winding down my face. “Pretty sure, though.”
Suddenly, he gets up and starts wildly yanking on the bookshelf. I stand up. “We tried that already. What’re you doing?”