Tunnels and Planes

by Christina Rozelle

  Then, Missy’s ghostlike words, pleaded in a whispered breath replay in my mind: Don’t go.

  Was it a dream? Did she really speak?

  Where is she?

  The door slides open to Sheryl-Dean, whose somber expression brings more alarm.

  “Where’s Missy?” I demand.

  “I let you sleep because I thought you needed it,” she says in a low voice. “You . . . were in pretty bad shape last night.”

  “Where. The fuck. Is Missy?”

  “She’s in the playroom, Grace. Relax. You’re in dorms C and D today. Do you need any breakfast or anything? Coffee?”

  Still in my clothes and shoes from last night, I push past Sheryl-Dean and into the hallway, semi-comforted by the fact that I’m prone to paranoia. She wouldn’t lie to me—would she?

  “Grace, wait.”

  I screech to a stop in front of the closed playroom door and press my face against the scanner. When the pink light turns red, then beeps, and the door doesn’t open, my fear and panic combust. “Open the fucking door.”

  “Grace, I—”

  “Open the goddamned door!”

  ““She’s . . . not here, Grace,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, I lied to you.” And she breaks down in tears, pivoting away from the nearby spying bubbles.

  “What do you mean she isn’t here? Where is she?” I take her by the wrists. “Tell me where she is! Please, Sheryl-Dean, she—” The words buckle under the weight. “She needs me. I was supposed to protect her. Please don’t let them take her from me . . .”

  “She was sick.” Her sudden change of tone gets my attention. She flicks her eyes right, then left, telling me they’re watching.

  “Sick?” I sniffle.

  “Yeah. They took her to the Shield so she wouldn’t infect the others. She’ll be back before you know it. Coffee?”

  Her deepened gaze tells me there’s more she wants to tell me, but not here.

  “Y-yeah.” I wipe my tears, release her wrists, and try to compose myself. “Coffee sounds good.”

  §

  My hands shake around the warm cup. I can’t drink it, but I pretend to, spotting two bubble cameras at the far end of either side of the hallway. Sheryl-Dean leans farther inside the coffee bar closet, stirring with a trembling hand, too.

  “Tell me where she is,” I say in a low voice.

  “She’s safe—for now. They have her in a holding cell where she’ll be until her . . . buyers . . . come to collect her.”

  “Buyers?”

  She nods. “The cameras you see around aren’t just for security. A lot of them are positioned specifically for the buyers to . . . ‘shop.’ The feed is broadcast to them, and they then find other potential buyers across the globe—areas still not yet affected by the epidemic. Our buyers are a go-between of the Tunnels and the rest of the world.”

  “What the—? Who are they? Why are they buying people?”

  “Not people—women. Women and girls.”

  “So, like . . .” The words fall from a tremble. “Sex slaves?”

  “You could say that. Yes.”

  “Oh . . . fuck.” I double-over the coffee bar, setting my cup down to slosh all over it. I brace myself against the rickety counter, seeing all the faces of those little girls in my mind. As it turns out, there were strings attached to coming here, because the ones attached to my heart are about to snap.

  “Who are they?” I ask, about to break.

  “A group called . . . ‘Y.’”

  With these answers, these next pieces of the puzzle slam into place. But they come with more questions, more fears, more memories. I retrace my escape path through the vents at Riverbend, the crying and the screaming through the walls, the men laughing, and end up there in that bed again, hands bound.

  I squat and hurl into the trashcan. It’s all too much. But I can’t give up. I can’t let my Missy end up at that place, or any other like it. I don’t know how I’m going to do this, but one thing is clear—I have to.

  I stand and wipe my mouth, shaking with fury. “You say they’re in a holding cell, for how long?”

  “It depends on how quickly they get someone from Y over here to pick up the next shipment. They come for ten at a time—no less.”

  “How the fuck do you know all of this, Sheryl-Dean?”

  “My ex-husband is one of ’em. Shortly after he joined them, we separated, and after the end, he called me one last time. He told me everything like . . . like he was proud of it.” She shakes her head. “And that’s when I knew I had to get here and help in whatever way I could. As it turns out, I’m just caring for them in Purgatory while they wait for the shuttle to hell.” She sobs into her hands.

  I wrap my arms around her shoulders and we squeeze each other tight.

  “I have to get Missy back.” Even if it means returning to the place I dread most in the entire world. “We have to get all of them out of here.”

  “I know.” She nods, but her face tightens as it turns to a shake. “But it’s not possible, honey. They’ve got this place on lockdown, not to mention it’s heavily guarded and monitored. Those little girls are worth the equivalent of about five thousand dollars apiece.”

  I sip my coffee, dredging up the courage for my next question.

  “What’s the quickest way to be sold?”

  She does a double-take at my words, but when she studies me, she can see the workings of a plan. “Entertainers always go within three days. That’s the quickest way.”

  “How does one become an entertainer?”

  “You’d have to go talk to Deuce. Tell him . . . it’s too sad here, and you feel like you’d be more comfortable there. Those are words he likes to hear. And he’ll probably just replace you here with one of the Unwanteds. It’s who he . . . usually has working down here.” She gives a sad chuckle. “Lucky for me.”

  “Unwanteds?”

  “Women who’ve been here longer than ninety days and haven’t sold yet. They have limited privileges.”

  “This place is so fucked.”

  “It is. But you gotta play the game if you wanna get your girl back. So, that’s what you’re doin’, right?” Her lip quivers; she thinks she’ll never see me again. And though I have my doubts, I hug her neck and offer her some reassurance.

  “I’ll be back for all of you as soon as I can. Once I get out . . . somehow . . . and get Missy, we’ll find Gideon, a-and we’ll figure out how to get you all out, okay?”

  But my weak attempt at formulating a midair plan ends in collision at her sad, peaceful grin. “It’s all right, honey. You just take care of you and get that little girl back. I’ll keep these angels warm and fed. Go. Grab your stuff, and I’ll send a message to have him meet you in the Cross.” And she shoos me off toward dorm B.

  “Thank you. I’ll see you soon.” I turn, but she’s already headed toward the desk, wiping at her eyes.

  Determined to steer my crazy train back onto its track, I resolve to keep my emotions at bay. I have to think about this rationally, logically, and with a clear mind, which means no more getting fucked up. Nothing.

  Next, find Logan and tell him what happened—

  Or would that jeopardize everything? If he panics, overreacts, that would be bad. My chances of pulling this off are better if I try to fool everyone, including him. That way, if they question him or anything, he won’t have any information to give.

  It’s the only way.

  §

  I meet Deuce beneath the jumbotron in the Cross, offering him my best warmed-over smile.

  “Hey there, Grace.” He waves, flanked by the same two guards who were with him when we came here. “Sheryl-Dean said you had a request?”

  “Yes. I can’t volunteer in the dorms anymore, I’m sorry. Is there something else I could do instead? Cleaning or cooking, maybe? Or
, I don’t know . . . the dancers looked like they were having fun.” I grin, but let it fade, dramatically. “I just can’t do the dorms anymore—it’s too sad.”

  “Understood, Grace.” He moves closer, and so do his guards, and he lays a hand on my shoulder, pulling me closer still. “And, considering your . . . audition . . . in the Wet Room, I’d say you’ve got yourself a new position.”

  My cheeks warm with embarrassment, but I manage to cough up a nervous giggle. “I was pretty fucked up.”

  “Indeed.” He brushes a fat thumb across my bottom lip, and I considering biting it. “Boys, take Grace here to the dressing room,” he says. “Tell Mom to give her whatever she needs.”

  “Aye.” The one I’d seen roll the joint in the elevator waves me on behind him, and I haul my stripper bag to its ironic destination. Who the fuck could’ve known? Not only that the bag would be used for its intended purpose, but that I would be the one carrying it there.

  But I’m stronger now than I was last night. Missy’s gone, but with her disappearance came light, and a plan. The determination to get her back—in any way possible—has lit a fire in me so massive, I’m worried if others might catch sight of it and blow my cover.

  If I do this right—if I’m smart, despite my past mistakes and insanity—they may have just helped me get Missy out of here alive, and reunite with Gideon.

  Twenty-Eight

  The dressing room is amazing—I won’t lie. Everything is luxurious, but comfortable, with colorful feather bouquets in multicolored jars around a long countertop. Red velvet chairs sit a few feet apart alongside it, and above each is a sphere of light in a decorative holder of curled, gold claws.

  There are only two other women in here, though I’d say one can’t be over sixteen. Deuce’s guard walks me through the room, past a row of fake ficus trees wrapped in white Christmas lights. A stone fountain trickles water from the smaller top bowl, and lining the outer rim of the huge bottom bowl is a countertop dotted with wine glasses.

  We end up at a doorway, and on the other side is a woman with curly gray hair. She hits her vape, then tucks it into her apron before going back to whatever it is she’s doing. Organizing supplies, it looks like.

  “Mom, this is Grace,” the guard says. “She’s starting tonight. Deuce said to give her whatever she needs.”

  She glances up at me, then slides her glasses from her head to her nose to get a better look. “You need a T-back? Shoes?”

  “Shoes.”

  “What size?” She heads to the shadows at the rear of the storage closet.

  “Eight.”

  She digs around for a minute or so before grabbing two pairs and, after squeezing her way toward us, holds them out in front of me. “Pick one.”

  I choose the ones on the right, but only because the eight-inch spectacles on the left are a walking death trap.

  “Pick a spot along the counter and get ready,” she says, hitting her vape again. “You got twenty minutes.” She blows a giant cloud of smoke, then goes back to whatever she was doing before.

  This isn’t the type of mom I’m used to.

  With the sudden influx of grief over how much I miss Eileen, I pivot in the doorway. The guard has already left, and I’m thankful for that, but there are an alarming number of black bubbles on the walls and ceiling here. I’m guessing the cages aren’t the only place we’re being watched . . . and auctioned like cattle.

  I need strength, now more than ever, but a pentacle and a wish don’t seem like enough anymore.

  You can change who you are at any given moment, to be whoever you want to be. You can be someone else tomorrow if you want to.

  Gideon’s words. As if he were preparing me for this moment, or one like it. He left a message there with unsaid breadcrumbs. He was telling me to bluff. Play the game. Have self-control, be smart, strategic. He was telling me to be strong, to fight, and not to become complacent. He was telling me to do whatever it takes to survive.

  I dig around until I find what I need—that wall Ophelia built that was impenetrable for years. I erect it with ease, and smile as I strut to the fountain, because all eyes are on me. And because Missy’s life depends on it.

  §

  The sharp edges of unfiltered reality mutilate me as I remove my clothes in one of the red velvet chairs. Turns out the fountain is called Champagne fountain, and its bubbling trickle is calling me from across the room. Everything is so screwed. Back in the day, when things were fucked, Ophelia ran from them, even if it was just to the bottom of a bottle. I can’t run from reality anymore, though. It’s where Missy is, and it’s the closest I can be to her now.

  I manage to clean myself up and put makeup on, with nothing but a black lace thong and my borrowed shoes on. I may never see my boots again, which makes me sad. I love those damn things. But I’m willing to sacrifice whatever I have to, if it means finding Missy. Boots are just boots, replaceable. Maybe they’ll let me grab them on the way out, though?

  Right. Somehow, I doubt it.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in a full-length mirror as “Mom” leads me toward the bar area doorway. I almost disappear in the glass, I’m so thin. Hopefully, plump B cups and nearly-healed wounds are what these guys are looking for tonight..

  The thoughts of what to do once I find Missy circulate through my mind, but it’s impossible to know what I’ll do next until I see where I end up. If it’s Riverbend, I’m putting all my eggs in the basket that says Gideon will—somehow—save us both.

  When the music grows louder and the air shifts, my stomach lurches from nerves. Showtime.

  But I’m not ready for it.

  “Have fun,” Mom says, stepping aside to let me pass her.

  “Thanks.”

  She holds the black curtain open for me. “Choose an open stage. Any one of ’em is fine.”

  “Okay. Can I smoke on stage?”

  “If you want, sure. Cigarette machine’s right over yonder.” She points to it.

  “Thank you.” I take a giant breath, exhaling slowly as I walk out into the bar. The shoes she gave me are too tight, so I hope this doesn’t take long—especially since Logan will be here in a few hours, and I really don’t want him to see me up there. Three days would be far too long, so I’ll have to do whatever I can to get out of here as quickly as possible . . . while camouflaging the reason for it.

  Goosebumps rise all over my body from the cold air on my bare skin, followed by a full-body tremble. It could be the dope and alcohol cycling through me though because a cold sweat follows. Though the bar is relatively empty, the few men in the room gawk as I make my way to the cigarette machine, acting as though this sort of thing is all fine and dandy and perfectly natural.

  There are four rows of cigarettes in packs, then labels at the bottom for singles. I lean closer to the glass to see past the glare from the lights, and feel eyes on my ass. Better get two packs. I’m going to need them.

  I choose a light blue and a dark green pack of American Spirits, mainly because I’d never spend the fifteen bucks a pack back in the day. Now, just fourteen RPs at your friendly neighborhood underground sex slave operation. What a deal.

  After punching the green button in front of both of the packs, the 14 RPs flashes on the side panel near the scanner. I press my face against the contoured shape, and when the light that scans my eyes is green, I almost jump back. What the hell? Maybe it’s just different on this machine?

  It beeps, then delivers my cigarettes through the slot at the bottom, along with a complimentary red crack lighter. Nice. I collect my loot, then scan the perimeter. The young girl I’d seen in the dressing room sits on the stage by the bar, drinking, and the other woman is in the cage next to her. Not feeling like being social—at all—and also not wanting to be too close to Logan at the bar if I’m still here when he arrives, I choose the caged stage closest to the ramp.
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br />   There’s a step up to the platform, encased by an actual metal cage, with a narrow doorway that automatically downsizes on entertainer positions for big girls.

  Assholes. The soberer I get, the more I hate these motherfuckers.

  They keep everyone fucked up so they stay docile, compliant, and if they notice I’m avoiding their tonic, it may raise a red flag . . . Suddenly, and ironically, the very absence of substances from my system has made my thoughts clearer, enabling these insights to occur at rapid speed. I have to figure out how to make it appear as though I’m the same fucked up Grace I’ve been since I got here. It shouldn’t be too hard.

  I pack my menthols and peel off the cellophane, breathing in the smell of fresh tobacco. Mmm . . . At least there’s one good thing. I light it, take a drag, then set my two packs and lighter to the side of the stage. What the hell do I do? I’ve never even been to a strip club in real life; I’ve only seen strippers on movies—and here. And the music—ugh. Who the hell put Justin Bieber on the jukebox? I’m literally going to punch them.

  A man approaches me, arms folded over his chest, and he winks at me. I give him my Hollywood smile, then grab the pole, giving him a twirl around it. I feel stupid, but he seems to like it, so let’s see what I can get from this pervert.

  “Hey there,” he says when he gets to me. His brown hair is slicked back, and his tan suit jacket covers a plain white T-shirt. Middle-aged, not attractive, but not dog-faced ugly, either. That helps the charade a little.

  “Hey there,” I say. “How are ya?”

  “Better now. Wow. You’re really hot.”

  “Aww, you’re sweet. Thank you.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Uh . . . sure. Thanks.”

  “What would you like?”

  I move closer. “Surprise me.”

  “I can do that.” He grins.

  “And . . . would you mind doing me a big favor?”

  “Okay? Shoot.”

  “You see that jukebox over there?”

  “Yeah?”