Tunnels and Planes

by Christina Rozelle

  We pass through the sliding metal partition, and I soak up my surroundings like a thirsty sponge. With all the bustle and life, the lights and the people, a memory seeps back . . .

  During my Junior year in high school, my New American History class took a field trip to Grand Central Station in Old New York. I was excited to go, but alas, Officer Martinez busted me with weed on school property the day before and I had to spend the next day in In-School Suspension. I saw pictures of their trip online, bummed that I missed out on it over something so stupid, so Evie promised we’d go there together one day . . . a day that will never come.

  Oh, how I wish she were here to see this place. It puts Grand Central to shame.

  The shine from the floor meets the chalky gray, pockmarked stone walls, curved to an egg-shaped dome at the top of the enormous space. Rows of hanging white LED lights that dot the high ceiling along the center meet the biggest jumbotron-type-thing I’ve ever seen in my life, hanging from a cable that must weigh tons. It’s literally as big as a house, with blinking numbers and scrolling messages that make no sense at first glance, but it takes my breath away.

  Signs above cut-out doorways—some of them neon, even—mark what appear to be business establishments. There’s an escalator to a second floor with more of the same, yet the bottom floor holds an enormous archway at each end, sealed off with metal doors with stenciled numerals above them—all except for one, which appears to have a huge black curtain hanging from it.

  Logan, Missy, and I gawk at the unbelievable scene. It’s a mini-city, a mile beneath the Earth’s surface. Across the open space in the crowd of bustling people, I spot Kelly’s blonde bun and green beret. She disappears beneath a neon sign that says “Laundry” in pink cursive, outlined in yellow. A moment later, she reappears, flipping a blanket over her shoulder. She passes another doorway, waves to us, then takes a left between two glass doors propped open with a sign that reads: Now serving: Potato Soup and Rice – 3 RPs. We follow in her trail, past what must be the gift shop Deuce had mentioned, loaded with different colorful things.

  Sparkling things and lights, sounds, and aromas tease my senses, and I can’t stay focused on one thing too long without getting pulled away by something else. The people seem laid back, and though not outwardly happy or friendly, they are at least civil, clean, and cared for. They aren’t running for their lives in fear, so that’s a good start.

  My apprehension lessens with every old-world thing I rediscover, that I thought I’d never see again. Holy shit, a library. And right next to the “cinema.”

  This is all too good to be true.

  But with that thought, there’s a swift return of anxiety, cradled by full-blown dread. I can’t let myself get too comfortable here—at least not until I’m one hundred percent positive that what we see is what we’re getting, no strings attached.

  Three

  “There are four sectors,” Deuce announces. “This is sector one, or ‘The Cross,’ as it’s now being called. It’s the hub of the Tunnels, where they all come together. This is where you’ll find the cafeteria, the laundry, the salon, the cinema—”

  “Did you say ‘cinema’?” Logan perks up, and Deuce stands taller, motioning to it.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wow . . .”

  “We also have a library,” Deuce continues, “an infirmary, a gift shop, and many other things you’ll find that will make your stay here . . .” He scratches his manicured chin fur. “Well, as close to home as you can get nowadays.”

  We stand in stunned silence taking it all in, until Deuce chuckles, and nudges me with his elbow. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I exhale and loosen my grip of Missy’s hand. “It’s a lot to take in after months of darkness and death.”

  “Understood. And I bet you three are starving and exhausted, on top of sensory overload. I’ll take you to Peggy at the Dormitory desk. She’ll get you signed in, and after a quick scan, she’ll take you to the dorms.” He motions to Missy and me, then addresses Logan, who pulls a cigarette from his pack. “I’m sorry, but there’s no smoking in sectors one through three.”

  Logan returns the cigarette to his pack with a sigh.

  “Smoking is permitted in sector four.” He points ahead of us to the archway with the hanging curtain. “The ventilation there is better. We believe it was once a hangar for small planes—”

  “What is it now?” I ask.

  “Well, that’s the adult area I was telling you about. They call it ‘The Lounge.’ It’s where you’ll be able to mingle with other members of the community. You can go there tonight if you’d like. You could pick Logan up from sector three on the way to four—”

  “What do you mean? He’ll be with us, won’t he?”

  “I’m sorry, Grace, but men aged thirteen and up, and most women over eighteen are not permitted in the children’s dorms, which are here in the Cross. We have to put the safety of the children first as they are . . .” He gazes off into the distance. “Our future.”

  Missy sticks out her lower lip in a pout. She hates the idea of being separated from Logan, and I’m not crazy about it, either. And by the looks of him, hands crammed into his pockets so he doesn’t punch someone, maybe, I’d say he’s pissed.

  “So, I can stay with her?” I ask.

  “Yes.” Deuce holds a fist up to his mouth and coughs into it. “Yes, of course. That’s what my men were saying. If you volunteer there twelve hours a day, four days a week—the standard for all volunteer hours—you’ll be able to sleep there, as well as earn your ration points for the week.”

  “Ration points?” My head is spinning on its axis.

  “It’s our ‘money,’—how you get paid for the work you do, and how you purchase items of necessity.”

  To our right, across the wide-open lobby area, two shiny red curtains trimmed in gold ripple on either side of a dim entrance. A brown, wooden sign with cursive, red-painted lettering reads: Cinema – 5 RPs. A woman with a hoodie stands in the doorway, and when a couple approaches, she scans them each before giving a nod. They disappear inside, down a short aisle, and toward a lit-up big-screen.

  “Is that why they’re doing eye scans there?” I ask Deuce.

  “Yes. It’s how Ration Points are added and subtracted. You’ll understand it all soon.”

  In awe of this new world, I’m entranced, and can barely feel my feet on the floor. How could things change so drastically—and then again—in such a short time? Ration points? Eye scans? Beside the cinema, the library is quaint and packed to the brim with shelves and stacks everywhere, and people seated around the place on the floor, reading and chatting. How is there such life here when we’d thought all was lost for so long? I’m on Mars, and I’ve just discovered water.

  “It’s a lot to take in.” Deuce leads us to the left, and turns to flash a smile. “But you’ll get it all down soon.”

  There are no doorways in this hallway except for the one ahead of us, about a hundred yards. Deuce lets his guards go ahead so he can walk with us.

  “When we get to the end here, I’ll have my guys escort you back to sector three,” he says to Logan. “I wanted you to see where the dorms were so you’d feel better about leaving them. I can understand your apprehension. Really, I can. But I assure you, they’ll be safer here than anywhere. This is as close to The Shield as you can get.”

  At our confusion, he adds: “The Shield—sector two. It’s our operations center. We have a task force and a team of medics on watch at all times.”

  We follow him to the end of the hallway, where he pauses at the gray, metal doors. He nods to Logan before scanning himself. The door clicks open, and he holds the handle so it won’t close again while we say our goodbyes.

  “I’ll see you every day, I promise.” Logan crouches before Missy, takes one of her little hands, kisses it, and she throws her arms around his
neck, eyes shimmering with tears. Logan pets her hair, squeezes her tight before taking her gently by the shoulders. “Be brave, little sister. You’re safe here, and I’m not too far, okay?”

  She nods, and her fingers search for something to hold on to. I can tell she’s missing her bear, so I crouch and unzip my stripper bag, removing the worn ball of fur with ears. Her face lights up when she sees it, and she welcomes it into place in her arms with a death grip.

  “There you go.” Logan stands, emotions ready to cave. “See, you got your bear, and it’s all good. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Make sure he gets checked in with no issues,” Deuce says to his guards, who salute him in return.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Logan gives me a quick hug, and though I can tell he doesn’t want to, he lets go, trailing the guard back the way we just came. I don’t want him to go, either, but perhaps it’s for the best, anyway. Until I figure out what they know here regarding Gideon’s lies, and where I stand amidst it all, I should keep my personal life to myself as much as possible. If there’s a game here, I need to learn the rules, how to play it, and whose team I’m on.

  But I guess there’s more than that. The guilt I thought would fade is still there, growing strong, the soberer I become. Why did I fuck Logan? And on top of that, I let him cum inside me. I must be an insane person. I mean, I’m that already, but—here I thought I’d grown, become someone who could see wrong from right, who could care for others and make wise choices. Someone who could commit to someone she loved.

  A glance at my ring is a knife to the chest. I’m a horrible, wretched person. Now that the drugs are leaving my system, my pain and senses are returning to normal, and I’m not running for my life, my clear thoughts return like a bad case of herpes.

  Wow. I went straight bonkers when Gideon left. There was the miscarriage, then the thing with Murray and burning down the church, then him leaving me, the drones, and the people chasing me . . . and the scary part is, though I’m pretty sure Murray is a figment of my imagination, in my memories, he’s as real as the things I believe to be real and true. So, what if they aren’t? How many other things have I imagined into existence without even realizing it? Did all of that actually happen? In my trauma and dope-induced daze, it seems like a string of nightmares doused in inhalants, narcotics, and liquor.

  Perhaps it’s time for me to give it a rest. At least with the hard stuff. With Logan, too, because he’s a bad influence in more ways than one. I need to stay focused on the task at hand, which is to figure out what this place is, how to get word to Gideon that I’m here, and to keep Missy safe. I can’t do that if I’m all fucked up.

  Now I understand more of where Gideon was coming from with the not drinking thing. Not that there will be much opportunity for that here, anyway. This place has weed, obviously, but doubtful if there’s an abundance of anything else. I hope. That would be one way to keep me safe from myself.

  Four

  We take a sharp right and are met by a Black woman with short, sculpted hair and a purple cardigan. She places her glasses on, gold chains draping down and around her neck, and rests her elbows on the metal desk in front of her.

  “Well, hello there, Mr. Man,” she says to Deuce.

  “Good evening, Miss Peggy.” Deuce bows, then winks at her. “Everything quiet tonight?”

  “Oh, yes, things are quiet. A few of them were putting on a skit for the others in the commons area, I believe. They might still be in there, or Sheryl-Dean might’ve taken them back to their dorms already. Want me to radio her?” She picks up a two-way radio and clicks the button on the side.

  “Nah.” He waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s get little Missy here checked in, and then I’ll leave you to show these two new ladies around. Grace is interested in volunteering, so she’ll be staying with Missy. Could you go over the required duties when you get a chance? Also, fill her in a little on community rules, ration points, and anything else you think she might need to know.”

  “I sure will. Sheryl-Dean can follow up tomorrow with anything I missed. She was in C and D today, but she’s back in A and B tomorrow.” She taps something into a handheld device in front of her. “And apparently, Grace showed up at the right time—says here Rhonda just quit?” She rolls her eyes.

  “Ah, yes,” Deuce says. “I heard. But we kind of knew that one was coming, eh?”

  “Mmm-hmm. But it’s for the best.”

  “Why’d she quit?” I ask.

  “Same reason most of them do, honey.” Peggy frowns at her screen. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” Her lips curl upward at the corners when her eyes meet Missy’s.

  “She doesn’t talk,” I say. “She hasn’t since Logan—my, uh, friend—found her a couple months ago. But he named her Missy.”

  “Ah, I see.” She regards her with pity. “Poor, sweet little thing. We’ll take good care of you, baby. Okay?”

  Missy glances at me, and I coax her acceptance with a nod, which she copies.

  “I’ve got her in the system.” Peggy purses her thin lips, then rises from her seat to shake Deuce’s hand. He cups it with his own.

  “Thank you, Peggy.” He turns, hand outstretched, and I give it a shake. “Oh”—he faces Peggy again—“and have a nurse come and check her out. She has wounds that need cleaning and speed-healing cream.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll message them now. I believe there’s a wait.” She clicks on her device and taps the screen. “Yup, two people ahead of her. It’ll be forty-five minutes or so.”

  “Sounds good.” Deuce points to me. “You all right? If you need anything, Peggy and Sheryl-Dean will be more than happy to assist you.” He gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Okay. Thanks. What’s speed-healing cream?”

  “Oh, it speeds up the healing process. It’ll have those cleared up in a day or two.”

  “No shit?” I really am on Mars.

  “Yes, ma’am. We have a skilled team of biomedical scientists here.”

  “Wow, awesome. This place is . . . amazing.”

  “It is that, my dear.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “It’s past dinnertime here, but I’ll have food sent over. Potato soup and rice sound okay?”

  “It sounds delicious, thank you.”

  “No problem. And if there’s anything else you need, please, let Miss Peggy know. We’ll do what we can to accommodate.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  “You bet. Have a great night, ladies.” And he heads down the hallway at a brisk pace as if he were late for something.

  “Well, now.” Peggy removes her gold-rimmed glasses and lets them fall to her breast, dangling from the delicate chain. “Let’s get you ladies to your room.”

  §

  “This is the girls’ wing,” Peggy says. “You two will be in dorm B, which is ages four through eight.”

  We turn right, and the gray concrete becomes gray indoor-outdoor carpet. Doorways dot the length of the hall, with light gray stone walls streaked with grime. Mounted black bubbles with red lights beneath them rest on the wall above each door. Cameras?

  On the other side of the first door to our left is the sound of a baby crying—no, two, maybe three babies crying.

  “As you can hear,” Peggy says, “dorm A is where the infants are. Ages zero to three years. Sheryl-Dean has her hands full; the twins came in a few days ago, and they’ve been bawling ever since.” She frowns at her hands, then peers up at me, adjusting her glasses on her nose with her pointer finger. “You gotta be strong to volunteer here, Grace. It’s . . . well, we try to keep things light and fun, but the truth is, dear—” She peers down at Missy. “Most of them have similar pasts to this one. It’s sad. That’s why most of the volunteers leave. It’s just . . . too sad.”

  “That doesn’t sound promising.”

  “I’m sorry.” She pats my arm. “It’
s a lot to take in on the first day, but I don’t want you ill-prepared. Anyway, now on to the fun stuff.”

  Past the first two doors on the left, we come to a third, on the right this time. “This is one of our play areas,” Peggy says. “We have two. The other is for the boys in the boys’ dorm area a few halls away.”

  Missy bounces beside me, excited by the large, tidy room filled with toys.

  “Wow.” I give her a nudge. “That’s pretty cool, huh?”

  She gives me a quick nod this time. It’s been a while since she’s had toys, or anyone to play with.

  Peggy ushers us across the hall and back one door, then aligns her face with a contoured space in the wall beside a black letter B. A pink light scans her eyes from top to bottom, then up again, there’s a beep, and the door slides open to the sound of a girl’s voice, reading aloud.

  When we enter, a group of little girls comes into view, sitting around another in a chair, a book open in her lap. She stops reading when her audience notices us and spins around on her stool to greet us.

  “Hey, Miss Peggy,” she says. “I just finished, then I was going. Is that a new one?”

  “Yes ma’am. This is Missy, and that’s Grace.”

  She stands and sets her book in the chair, tucks her short brown hair behind her ears, and walks over, hand outstretched. “I’m Joy. Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too.” I shake her hand, which is surprisingly rough for a girl her age—as if she’d never missed a day of work in her short life.

  She crouches in front of Missy. “Hello. Do you like stories?”

  Missy nods.

  “She doesn’t talk,” I say. “At least . . . not yet.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s okay.” Joy smiles. “You can just listen to the stories. I read one every night before bed.” She stands and stretches.