Forsada: Volume II in the New Eden series

by Peter J Dudley

  I already know the answer, but I’m a little angry that he didn’t tell us what we were getting into.

  “You haven’t guessed?” He tints his words with sarcasm, but he’s amused, not upset. “Warm in here, isn’t it?”

  For the first time I realize I’m sweating just a bit. I’ve been so focused on moving blind that I haven’t noticed the warmth. Or the dead smell of gravel dust and rotting wood. Or the growing pain in my thighs from crouching. “Not as warm as Micktuk’s house right now, I’ll bet,” I say, and sudden sadness fills my heart as I think about all his books, all those ancient artifacts of civilization and knowledge, burning to ashes under Southshaw torches.

  “Good point,” he says, and his paleness floats upward. “Why are you crouching?”

  He knows I can’t see a thing. I try not to look perturbed with him. Can he see my expression? I paint confidence on my face and say, “I’m admiring the flowers.”

  If such a thing is possible, I hear Tom smile.

  Maybe there’s a thick, oaken beam inches above my head, but I stand up like I know there isn’t. And I try not to show my relief when I don’t crack my head.

  Unfortunately, Ginger had no warning, so she stayed crouched, with her hand tight on my belt. Which means that while I stood up, my pants did not. I fumble to grab them as she tumbles backwards into one of the girls with a whoof of breath and a little squeak. Tom snorts a stifled laugh as I yank my trousers back into place, grateful for the first time that it’s so damned dark in here. At least none of the others saw that.

  From the scramble of gravel behind me comes Ginger’s indignant protest: “What the?”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, and I turn to reach back for her. “You can stand up here. I think.” I find her shoulder, or what I think is probably her shoulder, and gently lift.

  “Yup,” says Tom, his voice low but not a whisper.

  Rough, slender fingers grip mine, and I realize Tom is pressing the rope into my hand. “You dropped this. It was a good idea, for the little ones.” When I grasp the rope, he releases my hand. I am still surprised by the warmth and softness of his flesh. When I look at him in the light, he looks so much like he’s made of stone that I expect his touch to be cold and hard like granite.

  “Just a few steps. Straight ahead.”

  I press forward standing up, with slow but confident steps.

  “Okay, stop,” he says after five steps. “Stretch out your left hand.”

  I keep the rope gripped tight in my right hand as I reach out into the darkness. Where I expect dirt and shale and scrappy weeds, I find warm wood. It’s vertical and flat, a thick, square pillar. I run my fingers along it and feel its grain, sanded smooth but not to a fine finish.

  “That’s the doorway,” Tom says. “Here, wait a moment.”

  Air wafts by, and Tom’s footsteps pass me into the blackness. At first it sounds like he’s walking on a rocky beach, but after a few steps his feet pad on a solid surface. He doesn’t go far before the footsteps stop. There’s scraping and clunking, like someone rearranging a pile of firewood, and after a few seconds he mumbles, “Ah, yes. Good.”

  He says in a regular voice, “You might want to tell them to cover their eyes.”

  “Ginger,” I say, “pass it back. It’s going to get bright in a moment.” The voices pass the message back along our rope. When I feel a tug on the rope, I say to the doorway, “Okay. Go ahead.”

  A scrape, a spark, and a quick little flame. In an instant, a torch floats before him. Its thick smoke stings my eyes, but it’s so welcome. I’ll breathe pure smoke all night if I can have a little light.

  I glance back to see the flickering faces of Ginger, Daisy, and Honey. Then the light fades, and the others are lost as if our rope disappears into an abyss. Ginger looks scared but stands with her feet solid in the dirt. Her grim, tight lips tell me she’s ready for whatever we need to do.

  “Come on in, the air is fine,” says Tom.

  I drop the rope and step forward to take the torch. On the floor by his feet lie a dozen more, next to a closed, wooden box.

  Tom shrugs. “Locked. I can’t get into it. But probably whatever’s in there is rotted or eaten by mice already anyway.” I give him a question with my eyes. “Emergency supplies. Some basic food. This,” he says as he stretches his arms out at the blackness extending into the side of the mountain, “is an emergency shelter. Of sorts.”

  A few steps in, and I’m walking on a smooth, stone floor. Subterrans. They do know how to make caves. I remember the dining hall with Fobrasse and am secretly glad that we can’t get at whatever food might have been in that chest. I doubt it was eaten by mice. Not even mice would touch Subterran food, I’m guessing.

  Tom puts his hand on my shoulder. “Take them in. About a hundred yards, you’ll find a cavern. It’s not like Subterra. This was built for… exploration. And defense. It’s rough. But don’t use all the torches right away. If it’s like I left it when—if it’s like I left it, there will be lanterns, and blankets. Not much else. But it’ll be safe.”

  “Where are you going?” I don’t want to be left here without him. The torch is a good friend, but I’d rather have a guide.

  “To get the others.”

  Oh. Micktuk, Dane, Freda, the Lodgeholm men. And the families they’re bringing.

  He pats my elbow and starts off.

  “Tom!” My voice echoes louder than I expected in this narrow hall. The granite is unforgiving.

  “Yeah?”

  “What about… Fobrasse?” I wanted to ask about the demon dogs. Does this place have watchdogs like Subterra had?

  “Fobrasse has no interest in this place,” Tom says, and he sounds certain. Even a little bitter, or regretful. “Don’t worry,” he adds. “It’s not defended.” As he turns to go, he pauses. “But I haven’t been here in a long time. Bears or coyotes might have discovered it. So be careful.” With a quick nod, he disappears along the line of girls into the blackness beyond the torchlight.

  Ginger comes up to me, and her frightened eyes flicker orange. “I heard,” she says.

  Daisy and Honey bustle up beside her, each one grabbing tight onto her side, squeezing her like bear cubs. Ginger peers into the darkness of the mountain: our future. Behind us, our past is burning to ashes. The two little girls stare, wide-eyed, up at me.

  “Well,” Ginger says.

  “Well what?” I start to ask, but I already know what she’ll say. “Never mind. Come on.”

  “For the nine thousandth time, I don’t have any food.” I don’t want to snap at the little girl, but what does she think anyway? That my pockets are magic and somehow after a thousand tries, maybe this time I’ll reach in and pull out a snack? Or that I’m hiding it all for myself?

  Calm yourself, Lupay. She’s just a kid. And she’s hungry. And scared.

  “God,” I say as I wrap my arms around her in an apology-embrace, “it’s chilly in here, isn’t it?”

  Like in Subterra, there’s no way to tell how far below the surface we are. Unlike Subterra, this cavern is enormous and unfinished. Parts of it have been carved away and smoothed, but most of it is rough rock, a natural empty space created who knows how many thousands of years ago.

  We sit near where we came in, waiting for Tom and the others to show up. If they ever arrive. There’s no way to tell what’s going on outside. I’ve walked the perimeter of this cavern three times. In places it squeezes so low I have to crawl, holding the torch out in front of me. In others it rises so high the torch’s light doesn’t even illuminate the ceiling.

  The air is cold and stale. Old. The smoke from our lanterns drifts off to our right, but I can’t feel the air currents. A constant, fast drip-drip-drip in the darkness is driving me nuts. Water drips from the ceiling into a small well. I have no idea where it drains, if it drains anywhere, but at least it tastes clean and pure.

  Honey pushes me away, and I let her escape my hug. She retreats to her mother, who is already holding the l
ittlest girl, and she climbs up and forces her way onto the crowded lap. The little one slips her thumb into her mouth, and her head rolls back against Susannah’s shoulder. Her eyes shut as her mouth sucks on her thumb, and in a few seconds she drifts to sleep.

  Where is Tom?

  As if answering my unspoken question, Ginger appears behind me and says, “I’m sure he’ll be back any minute, Lupay.”

  In the next instant, Tom stumbles in from the hallway, his shirt torn and a thin line of blood dripping from his eyebrow, down his cheek. His eyes almost glow like a raccoon’s in the torchlight, and he blinks several times as he leans on the cavern wall, breathing hard and not speaking.

  Ginger rises from where she sits behind me and brings Tom a leather flask I’d filled at the dripping well. He grasps it but stares at it a moment, bewildered, before taking a long drink. Ginger lifts her finger to Tom’s cut. His skin is bluing there with a bad bruise, and his brow is swelling. No wonder he looks dazed.

  I stand. “Tom,” I say. He looks at me, a little unfocused. “Are there any others?”

  He frowns, then slowly nods his head. “Yes,” he says in one long syllable. “Others. Out. There.” He blinks a few times, and his eyes clear a little.

  Ginger and I exchange a glance, and I yank my torch from where I’d planted it in the ground. Together we sprint up the hall, back toward the ruins outside. We get only about halfway before figures form at the edge of the torch’s orange glow. People, moving slowly in the darkness.

  Oh, crap, we took all the torches. They’ve been in the dark. We didn’t leave any for the others.

  We slow up as we approach them. I can only see the two in front. Steven, one of the men who joined us from Lodgeholm and has been with us all summer. And a younger boy—the boy who was among the prisoners we rescued. Was that just earlier today?

  They stop and wait for us to reach them. When we do, I hold out my hand and Steven grasps it. It’s not so much a handshake as a proof that we’re both here. Even with light, I’ve learned that even just ten minutes in a Subterran tunnel is enough to make you need another person’s touch. Just to make sure you’re still real.

  Steven looks grim. The boy watches us, and Ginger holds her hand out to him in the same gesture. When he takes it, I see a maturity in him that no ten year old should have. My skin prickles as the new arrivals gather into the ring of torchlight. I count. Not enough. Only ten. There should be sixty. Or more.

  “Lupay,” a rough-cut voice growls. I look for the source, and I see Shem Shiver. Shack’s father. When our eyes meet, he gives a little shake of his head. I think he’s asking me to step aside with him so he can tell me something. I already noticed Micktuk is missing.

  The last of the new arrivals steps into the light, and I recognize the slender figure and brown hair and light skin of Freda. Her jaw quivers when I look in her eyes, and she looks to the floor. I watch her a moment more, until Shem clears his throat.

  I hand the torch to Ginger. “Take them to the cavern, get them some water. Then bring the torch back. I’m going to the opening to lead the others in when they get here.”

  “Ain’t no others,” Shem says, his voice suddenly clear and cold. “Ain’t nothin’ out there.”

  Freda sways and falls to her knees, drops her face into her hands. Her heavy sobs are silent, but we all know what she’s lost. I know only too well. I feel bad about Dane, and I try not to think of Shack. I hope Shem is also trying not to think of Shack.

  “Even so,” I say with equal coldness and twice the determination, “I’ll go wait.”

  “Whole valley’s in flames,” Shem spits, throwing his hands in the air. “If any of ‘em’s alive, they ain’t coming here. They’d have to be over the hills into the desolation to have any hope.”

  We all know there’s no hope there. Which means only one thing.

  “Even so,” I repeat, “I’ll go wait.”

  “Lupay,” says Steven, “don’t. He’s right. We can only hope they got away somewhere else. Come with us inside. Get some rest. Then we’ll plan—”

  “Plan!” I can’t take this anymore. The dark, the dank air, the drip-drip-drip, the cold, the smell of thick smoke from the old oil lamp… “We’ve planned. We’ve waited. We’ve—”

  I don’t even know what to say. Anger and frustration, pain and sadness are the only things in my head right now. Everything we were is gone. Darius has won.

  “No.” A thin voice rises from where Freda kneels. She stands and looks at me, her face streaked with soot and tears and dirt. “Steven is right. We need to move on.”

  Very strong of her. And very weak. “Dane may be out there,” I say, and I regret it immediately. But I keep going anyway. “You want to move on? Knowing Dane might be out there hiding, or hurt?” I can’t stop the anger inside from erupting out. “Or fighting back?”

  A brief flicker of something like hope flashes across her face, but it’s quickly drowned in more silent tears. “You’re right. Go wait out there. Go outside and get killed. Go see—”

  Suddenly a rumbling roar fills the hallway, and a hot wind blows through and almost douses the torch.

  “Come on,” yells Steven, and he grabs my arm and yanks me toward the cavern, pushing Ginger before him.

  A few seconds later another roar, this one deafening, blasts us with a wind so hot I’m afraid my clothes will catch fire. We all sprint the last hundred yards into the cavern to find everyone there standing and staring at us with wide eyes.

  “What the hell was that?” asks Garrett as we careen into the cavern.

  Another roar echoes off all the walls, and this time the rumble is so heavy we can feel the floor shake under our feet. Garrett grabs my arm, and I hold him. The rumble lasts a few seconds, then dies away.

  Shem gives me a rough look before puffing himself up full. “Like I told you,” he says so everyone can hear. “Whole valley’s in flames.”

  I look hard at him, waiting for the explanation.

  He doesn’t make me wait long. “What you just heard—what we all just felt—was that old building collapsing.”

  He looks at each of us in turn, and I look at Tom. Tom’s head is down so I can’t see his face.

  “You!” he barks at Tom. “I hope to hell,” Shem says, “there’s another way out of here.”

  CHAPTER 16

  I’ve walked that cavern enough. “There are two other tunnels,” I say. “One goes that way, northwest I think.”

  “North,” Tom says, and he stands up straight. “That’s the one we want. The other…” He shakes his head and looks me in the eye. The daze he had moments ago is gone, but his cold eyes tell me the other tunnel leads straight to Fobrasse and his demon dogs.

  That seems good enough for Garrett, who steps between Shem and Tom. “Where’s it let out? The north one.” He thinks a moment. “That would take us straight to Upper.”

  If he says so. I was proud I didn’t say west. Outdoors I can tell my way around, but in here I have no idea what’s where.

  “That’s right,” Tom says. “We should go now. Or, as soon as everyone gets a little rest.” He sits down and slumps back against the rough stone wall, drops his chin to his chest.

  The rumbles and crashes have stopped. I’m antsy, agitated—I feel like I’m trapped in a building with its roof on fire, and I have to stop myself from glancing up at the ceiling every few seconds.

  “Why now?” Garrett towers over Tom, who looks up at him.

  “Outside,” he starts to say, but he trails off as he shakes his head.

  “Outside what?”

  Freda, kneeling just at the edge of the firelight, says, “Outside was hell.”

  Ginger is stroking Freda’s hair. I feel sorry for her, a little. She never asked for any of this any more than I did. Still, her family and home are just fine. Quiet and peaceful, a hundred miles away in Southshaw. The beekeeper lady out tending her bees. Her father stitching up clothes. No one burning their houses, killing their children, m
aking them slaves. So yeah, I feel a little sorry for her. But not that much.

  Garrett touches my elbow. He has a knack for knowing when I’m about to mouth off with something I shouldn’t say, like you don’t know what hell is. I could tell Freda about being dragged ten miles through mud and horse shit on a half-broken ankle. I could tell her how it feels to hear people scream as a burning building collapses around them. I could tell her about watching my father throw up his arms to stop a hatchet from splitting his head open. Hell? Hell is the memory of watching Shack die.

  Shem breaks the silence that’s been building around us.

  “Hell. Yeah,” he growls. “Frickin’ Southshawans all over the hills like maggots on a rotting pig. Hundreds. Hell, thousands maybe. Whole hill’s on fire. Them running around like crazy demons.” He frowns and shakes he head. “Let ‘em all burn in that inferno.”

  The description seems enough to bring Tom’s voice back.

  “Lupay,” he says, ignoring Garrett standing before him. “They blocked the road. We had to go through the woods, but they were everywhere. We ran right through a line of them once. It was the only way.”

  He looks at Shem, who is watching him closely with hands knotted into tight fists. Shem’s jaw works like he’s chewing gristle, and the wildness is creeping back into the corners of his eyes. Garrett stares hard at his father, and I put my hand on his elbow and squeeze. Don’t hate your father, not now. I need your strength to keep me going. If you lose it, so will I.

  Tom looks up to me but keeps some of his attention on Shem. Only a fool would trust that drunkard.

  “As we snuck around,” Tom says, the dull edges of his words now sharp again, “we saw that leader guy from earlier today. Remember him? The one you talked to by the prisoners.”

  “I remember.” I won’t ever forget his face, or the strange look in his eyes. I still don’t know what it meant. Respect? Fear? Not hatred. Not like the apes with him.