Surely if there was ever a time for not hesitating, this was it.
She drifted along the cars, ignoring the snow crumbling around her ankles. How much snow was there now? A few inches? She had been walking for an hour, maybe two, but time had thickened to syrup and seemed unwilling to move along. She supposed she ought to be grateful, but it felt just then like nothing more than a prolonging of the inevitable.
Gradually her cheeks and ears numbed. Snow gathered on her eyelashes. She hid her hands beneath her armpits, a small victory against the cold, and her mind began to drift unmoored. The fear did not break free, as she might have expected. Instead there was only a mental dullness, a lethargy like that of a cat lounging in a sunbeam on a late spring day. Her thoughts came and went as easily as they did in dreams. Numbness, having already seized her toes, slowly overtook her feet and then climbed her legs.
Her foot struck metal. She had bumped into objects numerous times by now, lampposts and parking meters and trash bins. She was an old pro. But when she made to walk around this object, she found it extended itself.
It was a fence.
She moved along the inside of the fence, and the first step was nearly the end of it all. She pitched forward, her body impossibly slow to respond, and threw her hand desperately toward the fence. Her numbing fingers wrapped themselves around one of the bars. Somehow they held.
The near-fall was enough to shake her mind free of its cold cocoon.
“That was almost it for me,” she murmured aloud. “I would have been a goner.”
Shadow did not respond, but she sensed him beside her because that was where he had been all along, trusting her to lead them to safety.
And had she been warm as well as optimistic about her chances aboveground, she would have gone around the other side of the fence and kept walking down the street. It would have to lead her somewhere. But the snow was on her shoulders, in her pockets, seeking to bury her like grave-dirt, and the appeal of shelter of any kind swelled to enormous proportions.
After all, why should a blind person fear the darkness?
So she went down the steps with Shadow beside her, a glowing ember of hope in her breast, shifting gold and red, alive but fading fast.
___
Underground places had always frightened her. Darkness, as she had once pointed out to Victor, changed people. It masked their deeds and weakened their inhibitions, leading them to commit acts they would never attempt in the light. Had Jenny been alone, she would have feared what person might emerge from the shadows like a shark from the depths of the sea.
But she had Shadow with her, and he had already demonstrated what he was capable of.
The first thing was to brush away the snow before it could melt (it felt marginally warmer below ground, if only because she had escaped the wind). Afterward she did the same for Shadow. He was shivering—only a little, but enough to remind her of the ticking clock that was their survival. As if she needed reminding.
The second thing was to find a wall.
The wall was made of small, smooth squares. There were benches against this wall, papers taped to the squares, a fire alarm resting high and almost out of reach. One of those papers could very well be a map, she thought bitterly, but she did not allow herself to dwell long on how different things could be if only she could see. That game had lost its fun long ago.
She sat on one of the benches. Shadow hopped up beside her and she hugged him again, trying not think about how wet her clothes and his fur were. How long could they rest on the bench? Long enough for the storm to pass? And then what? More wandering, more hoping she would stumble into a Wendy’s and discover a cheeseburger with fries and a Sprite, all of which had miraculously not gone bad?
Make that six cheeseburgers, she thought. Two for me, four for Shadow.
It was the worst kind of fantasy: One so tempting that she followed it into a daydream. She was sitting at a corner booth, eating a burger and tossing crumbs to Shadow, who waited obediently beside the table on the tiled floor. Allen sat across from her, sipping his water and watching her, a smile in his eyes. Electric yellow light washed over them. Heat blew from a vent nearby, while outside the window snow continued to fall, the harmless, beautiful snow visible only to those safely tucked behind four walls.
The daydream fled as Shadow slipped from her arms and onto the platform. He trotted only a few steps before halting.
“Shadow?” she asked, the name trailing to a whisper at the end. Suddenly the idea that they might not be alone asserted itself like a great big neon sign coming to life.
The dog was silent. Jenny rose and moved toward where she thought he had gone. She listened. Her nose picked up a scent, and now that she smelled it, she wondered how she had not noticed it earlier.
Smoke. Coming from one of the tunnels, perhaps? Sooty-faced survivors huddled around a small fire like a band of traveling hobos? And if there were survivors, what kind of people were they? Good or bad? The kind who saw weakness as an opportunity to help, or an opportunity to harm?
Better just to leave them alone, she thought, but the notion had no sooner entered her mind than Shadow trotted off into the darkness.
___
She called him once, then quit for fear of being overheard. With the wall on the right as her guide, a buoy line in an empty ocean, she plunged into the tunnel. The smell of smoke grew thicker. She didn’t smell food, but the smoke itself was enough to conjure images such as the meat (Horse steaks?) she had eaten with Meatloaf.
No time for such thoughts now. She had to find Shadow, and she had to go back. She was not sure if she would return to the surface just yet, but she had to get away from this tunnel and whatever people occupied it. She had become like one of those children in the movies who, after months or years of surviving alone in the wilderness, can only respond in fear to the presence of other humans.
If only Allen could see me now.
Forward. Shuffling. The clip of Shadow’s nails ahead of her, just out of reach, as if stringing her along. Voices growing louder, rising and falling on the violent cadence of conversation, banter and questions and bored musings.
The tunnel took a sudden curve, opening - she supposed - into a wider room, and that was where she bumped into Shadow. There was no longer a wall between her and those voices. They were just on the other side of the room, a fire crackling softly, someone teasing a few notes from a guitar.
Slowly, Jenny raised her sunglasses and searched the darkness. A jolt of adrenaline shot through her veins because she could see it, a splash of red in the blackness, the only color her blasted eyes were capable of showing. A shadow passed between her and the fire. The dog growled low in his throat and Jenny seized his coat, trying to convey by touch that he should remain silent.
“Think it will ever go back to the way it was?” a man asked, shifting the tone of conversation to something more serious. The banter faded. The guitar went silent.
“Now why would you say something like that?” a woman answered, chiding.
“It’s just a question.”
“No, it isn’t. Maybe the human race as a whole will recover. Maybe years from now this will only be a footnote in history, kids on Mars reading about one of the worst ecological disasters Earth ever faced. But for us, this generation? You’re either callous or stupid to think we can move on from this.”
“Why?” the man challenged. “Why can’t we move on?”
“You haven’t lost anyone, have you?”
“Everyone has lost someone. I just don’t think it has to end this way.”
“Oh, yeah? Look around! Where are you planning to start over, since you’re in such a hurry? Last I checked, the list of possibilities isn’t very long.”
“Some day,” the man answered quietly, “I’m going to head down that tunnel and go right into Kassel.”
The silence that followed this pronouncement was deeper than any of the silences before. Jenny could feel it.
“You’d never
make it,” a third voice replied. “Even if you got past the guards, how would you explain yourself? You’ve heard how it goes: If you don’t work—”
“You don’t eat. Yeah, I know. I didn’t say I’ve wrinkled out all the details yet.”
He fell silent. Jenny supposed he was one of those people always talking in hypotheticals: What if I had taken that job? What if I had told her how I feel? What if, what if, what if. But it didn’t matter, because once you made your decision you could never go back, never wipe the slate clean and start again. Those questions did nothing except nurse your guilt, an ugly little monster you couldn’t quite part with because it was your monster, your regret, your mistake.
What if I had pulled Allen with me into the house instead of leaving him out there? What if I hadn’t been standing by the window when the glass shattered?
Go ahead, another voice answered. Take a heaping helping of self-doubt. See how it settles in your stomach.
Then another thought, shooting through the gap before she could close her mind:
What if I stopped being afraid?
The guitarist had started playing “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” He began well, but all that talk of home and memories and mountains seemed to sap the joy from his voice, and the notes faltered, his voice fading, and soon he was experimenting with a finger-picking pattern instead.
Jenny heard the rustle of blankets and the whine of zippers as they reminded one another who was to take the watch. Jenny thought it was early to be turning in, but this did not completely surprise her. The sun didn’t have much say about what went on here beneath the surface.
“Hey,” someone said, “does anyone else see that pair of eyes over there?”
“Probably just a rat. They’re everywhere.”
“It’s too big to be a rat. Man, I can’t go to sleep with that thing watching me.”
Jenny’s heart rose and lodged itself in her throat. The Basement Dog was barking and throwing itself violently against the door, and Jenny could feel herself slipping across the floor, giving ground inch by inch.
Suddenly a white light was glaring into her face.
“Hey,” the man said, “it’s a little girl!”
Shadow growled. Jenny grabbed him—not to stop his growling but to keep him close. Could they be trusted? Could they help?
“How long have you been down here, little girl?” the man asked. He was a little closer now.
I’m just a rat. Just a wild animal. I live down here.
“Frank, she’s terrified,” the woman said. “Get that light out of her eyes.”
“Sorry.” The beam drifted away. Jenny’s eyes registered its glow at her feet.
“Is that your dog?” the man asked.
“What’s your name?” the woman asked.
Shadow’s growls deepened.
“Easy, boy,” the man said. Then to Jenny: “I don’t want to have to hurt your dog, but unless he cools it, I will.”
“We’re not going to hurt you,” the woman said. “You look lost. We can help you. Are you alone?”
Someone, maybe the musician, was creeping around to Jenny’s left, sealing her off from the way she had come.
Two choices, she thought. And you’d better decide quick, or else it will get decided for you.
Trust, or run?
She had trusted before. It hadn’t turned out all bad. But if anyone had really meant to help her, why was she in this situation now? Why wasn’t she sitting on a sofa with a cup of hot chocolate, deciding whether to watch a movie or read a book before bed? Why couldn’t she be a child again?
It happened fast. The musician stepped forward and Shadow lashed out at him. Jenny bolted on instinct, the Basement Dog finally free of its imprisonment and chasing her from one floor to the next. She ran deeper into the tunnel, remembering to hug the wall as it curved, and the shouting voices and protests dimmed behind her until she was alone with her heaving lungs and galloping heart.
Eventually the momentum stopped and she sank along the wall and cried. She had no control over the tears. Minutes later, Shadow caught up with her. He was limping.
___
She imagined, with thoughts that leaned deceptively toward waking dreams, that she had stumbled into the Mines of Moria. Whenever something tripped her, it was a shriveled goblin or an arrow-studded dwarf. She went on long past the point of exhaustion, no longer hoping for help but stubbornly clinging to life because it was all she had left.
A rumble filled the tunnel behind her. She sank against the wall as an amorphous shape barreled past her, red light blossoming as it curved around the bend. Then the noise receded like the echoes of a stone dropped into a well, smaller and smaller, fading to nothing.
Jenny rose and followed.
Chapter 61
Dante watched the detonator hit the rocky ground. Some part of him - maybe it was the rational section of his brain - had detached itself since his argument with Victor began, like the responsible kid walking away when the others start playing with fire. He knew he shouldn’t have said half the things he had, should have concentrated on finding common ground with Victor instead of focusing on their differences, but the anger was like a wildfire within him and he would just have to wait until it burned itself out.
He dove for the detonator. He had never seen one of these devices before, but it seemed simple enough. All he had to do was wrap his hand around the trigger and squeeze.
Victor fell on him, knocking the air from his lungs as he grabbed the detonator. The ground was slippery and sharp. Dante squeezed the trigger, noticing too late the metal clip holding the trigger in place. As he flipped the clip back, Victor’s arm wrapped around his throat and jerked his head up. Foggy black patches appeared in his vision.
“Let me have it, Dante,” Victor growled, his hand reaching for the detonator.
Dante threw his arm back. He felt his elbow connect with Victor’s shoulder and heard Victor grunt with pain. Dante pushed against the ground, rolling on top of Victor with the trigger held above him. Drops of sleet splashed into his eyes.
Victor’s arm released Dante’s throat and wrapped around his thumb as he tried to press the trigger, pulling it back, bending it toward his wrist. The thumb suddenly gave with a loud pop, sharp pain burning along Dante’s arm, and he screamed and dropped the detonator.
He rolled off Victor and stood, cradling his broken thumb. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he shouted.
Victor said nothing as he raised the detonator. He didn’t need to say anything. Dante knew what his brother was planning to do, and he wondered, briefly, how long Victor had been planning this. Had this been a spur-of-the-moment decision, or had Victor intended to do this from the moment he understood what the explosives were for?
Walter was on his feet. With a ragged cry, he rushed at Victor. Calmly, with measured patience, Victor drew his pistol and shot Walter through the head. Walter stopped, his jaw hanging slack, and fell to the ground.
“I didn’t want it to be this way,” Victor said in a subdued voice, looking at Dante now, his face suddenly clouded. “But you forced my hand.” He turned and threw the detonator deep into the river.
___
He stumbled up the bank, the sense dawning on him that he had gone too far, much too far. But he couldn’t go back now.
A dull pain throbbed in his arm. This was, he sensed, the ending of something, the breaking of a bond that he and Dante had shared since childhood. Could it ever be repaired? He had his doubts, and just now the anger was still strong, a fire reaching its fever pitch, and he could not say whether he ever wanted to see his brother’s face again.
The snow had turned to sleet and it slipped into his eyes, caused his clothing to cling to his skin as he crested the bank and made for the bridge. Gunfire ripped past him—Scarlett and Gabriel exchanging bullets with the bridge’s defenders. None of that mattered to him, not whether they lived or died, not the victory of one side or the fall of another, because all his lif
e had been leading him to this moment, all the doubts and disillusionment, all the years spent serving his betters, every drop of blood he had given to a cause not his own.
Now it was his time, his turn, and if he could only cross the bridge without getting shot, his future would begin.
“Victor!” someone shouted at him. It was not Dante’s voice.
He craned his neck, the Colt still in his hand, as a grimacing ghoul emerged from the gloom. The face, the clothes, the hair—it was all different now, yet Victor could not fail to recognize the man who had both imprisoned him and set him free.
“Missed me?” Meatloaf asked.
Victor raised the gun and fired twice as Meatloaf dove behind a hot-dog stand. The third bullet clanged off the steel side of the cart.
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