Immurement: The Undergrounders Series Book One (A Young Adult Science Fiction Dystopian Novel)

by Hinkens, Norma

  For the most part, Da’s always too drunk to care where we’re at. Drinking’s all he’s really cared about since Ma died. Jakob told me the other Undergrounders are secretly hoping the Sweepers extract him before he does something to endanger the entire camp. Which seems harsh for Septites, although I kinda get it. The greater good principle and all that. But Da will never get picked up. The Sweepers only come for the young.

  Owen sets out spoons and plastic tumblers of water on our camping table and I fill two bowls of stew.

  Owen slurps a spoonful of broth. “What did the Sweeper ship look like up close?”

  “Long, gunmetal gray body, shaped like a bullet. Like I said, I couldn’t see in. The glass looked weird, like it would glow in the dark.”

  “Mason says it’s to absorb radiation.”

  I throw Owen a disgruntled look. “How would he know that?”

  “He knows a lot about military stuff. He taught us how to defend the bunkers properly, didn’t he? How to secure an area, identify escape routes, assess a threatening situation. He knows what he’s talking about.”

  I roll my eyes. “I think he makes half of it up.” I study a piece of carrot in my bowl, my insides working their way into a familiar jealous knot. Owen and I grew close after Ma died—Da being mostly out of it and all. Until Mason came along.

  “How old do you think he is?” I ask.

  Owen shrugs. “Dunno. Twentyish. He doesn’t talk much about himself.”

  I chase the last piece of rabbit around my bowl. Mason’s tight-lipped about most everything, including his large stash of weapons. Which is why I’m suspicious of him—ripped like no man I know, surly, with dark, brooding brows and the biggest feet I’ve ever seen. I’m sure they never made shoes that size before the meltdown. I don’t trust him, or his wife, Kat. When they first arrived, I tried to befriend her, but her glassy eyes look right through me like one of us isn’t there, and it gives me the creeps.

  I take a swig of water. I hope I’m wrong about Mason. Maybe he was in the Marines. How else would he know the windows in the Sweeper ships are designed to absorb radiation?

  Inside Prat’s spacious bunker Jakob pats a spot on a metal bunk beside him. A fluttery feeling races through my ribcage as his steel blue eyes appraise me, unsmiling tonight. Even Big Ed looks unusually somber. He nods at me as I pass him, his cowboy hat with the snakeskin band crammed on his head, balancing out the grizzled beard that sprawls from his jaw.

  Big Ed’s the oldest person in our camp, and the wisest. Kind of like having a live encyclopedia around when you need to know something. He was living off-grid for decades before the meltdown. Next to Jakob, he’s my closest friend. He listens to what I have to say like it’s important, which is more than Owen does. His left hand is all messed up and Da says it’s an old bullet wound. He’s convinced Big Ed’s on the run. Not that it matters anymore. We’re all running now.

  I glance around the room and frown when I see Frank, the bunker chief from Sam’s camp. “What’s Frank doing here?” I whisper to Jakob as I slide onto the metal seat next to him.

  “Must be about the sweep,” he says, fiddling with the trucker cap in his lap. His parents stare with drooped lips at us from across the room and we instinctively edge an inch or two away from each other.

  Prat barely acknowledges us with a curt nod before he calls the meeting to order. “Frank Packer has joined us tonight,” he announces. His pale, protruding eyes scan the room as the Undergrounders murmur a greeting. “As you all know, Sam was extracted a week ago.” Prat runs a finger around the inside of his collar. “Frank thinks one of us had a hand in it.”

  The collective hiss of breath around the room sends a shiver down my spine. For months now, there have been rumors of Sweeper snitches in the camps. It’s ludicrous of course. Why would anyone help the Sweepers?

  Frank slides forward in his chair, arms barred across his chest. “Tell ‘em straight, Prentice.”

  Prat rubs his hands down his shirt. His eyes flick nervously around the bunker. “They’ve seen more ships. Frank thinks one of us is a snitch.”

  I look around at the stunned faces, lips slung wide in silent protest.

  “This is baloney!” I say, jumping to my feet. “How dare you accuse anyone in this camp of being a snitch if you can’t prove it!”

  Frank leans over and rummages around in his pack. He pulls something out and tosses it onto the table. “We found this close to where Sam was extracted. Zero-two-five on the handle.”

  My insides turn to ice. It’s a hunting knife with our bunker code on it.

  Frank peers around the room, slit-eyed. “Belongs to someone in this room.”

  Mason snatches up the knife and holds it under the light. There’s an uncomfortable moment of silence, then everyone is talking at once, shouting at Frank, arguing with one another, faces twisting like ghouls in the subterranean light. Mason spins the blade back across the table to Frank, his dark, canopied brows drawn tight. I bite down on my bottom lip. There’s no mistaking the curved antler handle on the knife. I sneak a glance at Owen. He gives a subtle shake of his head. When I look away, Kat’s glassy eyes lock with mine.

  Chapter 3

  “Dang knife means squat.” Mason slams his fist hard on the steel side of the bunker. “Sam could have helped himself to it—he hung out here plenty.”

  “The kid weren’t no criminal,” Frank growls. “It’s folks from this camp what can’t be trusted.” He takes a step in Mason’s direction. “Strangers what have no business being here.”

  Prat runs the tip of his tongue over his colorless lips, throws a skittish glance around. The clan women shrink back, eyes wide with fear. For once, I’m with them. The stale air in the bunker reeks of mutiny. I can hear my heartbeat ringing inside my chest like a fire alarm.

  “The knife’s mine,” Owen says, breaking the white-knuckle silence.

  I gasp, vaguely aware of my nails slicing into flesh. Jakob lets out a muffled yelp. “Sorry!” I mouth to him.

  Frank turns to Owen, a vein bulging in his temple. “So you’re the scumbag got him extracted.”

  Owen pumps his fists at his sides, and I sense what’s coming. I slide forward on the bunk so I can grab him before he takes a swing and starts a war.

  “Sam was Owen’s friend,” I say. “He would never betray him.”

  “Sam and I went hunting together last week,” Owen says, after a long pause. “He lifted my knife on accident.”

  “Well whadda ya know, Frank?” Mason bars his arms across his chest, a smug expression on his face. “There’s a simple explanation after all. Looks like you owe us all an apology, you two-faced snake!”

  I can almost hear the charged air snap. Frank wheels and reaches for Mason’s throat. The muscles in Mason’s arm inflate and his meaty fist connects with a crack. Blood spatters from Frank’s face over his shirt. He moans and staggers backward clutching his nose. Undergrounders scramble left and right. Jakob's mother lets out an ear-piercing scream, sending the rest of the clan women into a frenzy.

  Prat yanks open a drawer and fishes out a ratty towel. “You’d best get going now,” he says, tossing it to Frank.

  Frank presses the towel to his nose, his eyes flickering with rage. “This ain’t over, not by a long shot. Someone’s gonna pay for what happened to Sam.” He hurls the bloody rag across the room at Prat, and then reaches for the ladder leading up to the entry hatch.

  He’s halfway up the first rung when Mason pounces on him, slams him up against the bunker wall like a bear with a kill. The clan women scream again in unison. Mason leans into Frank’s twitching face. “Threaten me or anyone in this bunker ever again, and I’ll rip you limb from limb and feed you to the Sweepers.”

  “Let him go, Mason,” Owen says, laying a hand on his shoulder. “If we turn on one another now, we lose everything we’ve built. The entire Undergrounder network.”

  Frank glares at him. “You’ve already lost it.”

  “Don’t do
this, Frank. We’re not the enemy,” I plead.

  “Long as you keep a Sweeper snitch in your camp, you are.” Frank shoves past me and throws Owen a jagged look. He adjusts his pack over his shoulder and quickly disappears up the ladder. A moment later, I hear the hiss of the pneumatic lift strut as the hatch opens and then closes.

  Mason scowls across at Prat. “You shouldn’t have let him spring that on us.”

  Prat slams the drawer shut. “A man from his camp was extracted. He wanted answers, and he’s entitled to them.”

  “Just remember who calls the shots around here,” Owen replies.

  Prat squints in Owen's direction, a wary look on his face.

  Owen turns to Mason. “Frank’s camp will be up in arms now that you’ve rearranged his face for him. There’s no telling what he’ll say happened. One of us will have to go up there and reassure them we had nothing to do with Sam’s extraction.”

  “I’ll go.” The words are out of my mouth before it registers that my lips have moved.

  Jakob turns to me, a startled look on his face. “It’s too dangerous,” he whispers. I know what's going through his mind. It’s going through mine too. The Sweeper ships.

  I take a deep breath and remind myself that there are worse things than dying, like living in the dirt for the rest of my life. “I’ll take my chances,” I say, fighting the quiver in my voice.

  “You can’t go with her,” Mason says to Owen. “If Frank’s camp is after blood, they’ll start with yours.”

  I flash my brother an awkward grin. I’m trying not to gloat, but this is my chance to show him he’s not the only one who isn’t afraid to do what needs to be done.

  Big Ed winks at me. “No better woman for the job. Count me in.”

  I smile back at him. It’s just the kind of thing he would say because he’s Big Ed. We both know Owen should be going. If things turn ugly, he’ll know what to do. I’ll be learning on the fly, but no one else seems inclined to step up.

  Kat dissects me with that laser beam look of hers, and I realize my hands are burrowed into Jakob's. I hurriedly untangle my fingers, thankful his father is too busy calming the clan women down to notice the sacrilegious bodily contact. I throw Kat a curious glance. Was she trying to save my skin? Or just staring?

  “I’ll go with Big Ed,” Mason says. “And Prat needs to man up and help sort this mess out too. We don’t need Derry along.”

  “She’s a better shot than any of you,” Owen says. “She’ll have your back.”

  Mason throws me a dark look as he reaches for his gun.

  I bite down on a smile. Whatever sway Mason has over Owen, he hasn’t totally torn us apart.

  Jakob leans over and whispers in my ear. “Be careful out there. No one else plays a mean enough game of chess to take me on.”

  I arch my brows. “That’s generous, considering you checked me in four moves last night.”

  “Calls for a rematch at an undisclosed location,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he puts his trucker cap back on.

  “Sweep Intelligence is adjourned,” Prat announces. “We leave in one hour.”

  “I need to run something by Mason,” Owen says, as soon as we exit Prat’s bunker. “Be right back.” He whips off down the tunnel before I can stop him.

  I wait for a minute or two, then follow him into the darkness. Whatever he meant about Prat not calling the shots, it felt like a loaded statement. Ever since he started mixing it up with Mason, he’s been hiding things from me. It’s time I got to the bottom of whatever it is they’re up to, especially now I’m going to be heading out on a mission with Mason. I don’t trust him.

  I creep steadily along the tunnel, feeling my way along the damp, earthy walls with my fingertips. When I hear voices, I slow my pace and mold myself against the wall to listen.

  Mason’s voice is low and strained. “You can’t charge up there until we know what’s going on.”

  “If they’ve spotted ships, the camp’s already in trouble,” Owen says.

  “We need to alert the Council before we make a move,” Mason says.

  “If we wait any longer, we might be too late to help them.”

  “Keep your voice down. I’m done arguing with you. I’ll find out what the Council knows about the ships. Now get out of here before someone sees you.”

  I turn and leg it back down the tunnel to our bunker.

  Inside, I pull my rucksack off the top bunk and assess the contents: compass, knives, fishing gear, whistle, ammo, water bottle, and jerky. Tucker plods over and lays a questioning paw on my arm.

  “Not this time, buddy,” I say, scratching him behind the ears. “I’ll be back before you know it.” I zip up the smaller outer pockets on my pack, and stash my tactical knife and flashlight in my jacket pocket in case I get separated from my gear, just like Big Ed taught me.

  A few minutes later, Owen returns and I hear him rustling around in the food unit. I sneak up behind him, and dig my fingers into his arm. “What’s this Council all about?”

  He stops shoving dehydrated food into his pack and turns around, a guarded look in his eyes.

  I cross my arms. “I heard you and Mason arguing.”

  “I’ve told you before not to follow me. There’s things you’ve no business knowing.”

  “Whatever you’re doing is my business. I’m your family, not some shifty stranger who shows up at the bunker out of the blue and starts throwing his weight around. I’m the one who always has your back.”

  Owen stares at me for the longest time. “All right,” he says, resignedly. “But keep your mouth shut. If Prat gets wind of it, he’ll make a stink, blow the whole deal.”

  I give a fervent nod, giddy from my unexpected success in cracking the code on Owen and Mason’s secret society.

  Owen cinches the strap on his pack. “The Council coordinates efforts between the camps.”

  I fight back a wave of disappointment. “That’s it? What does that even mean? Are we talking community vegetable gardens, or what?”

  Owen throws me a withering look. “We’re planning an attack on the Sweepers.”

  My fingers go limp. I stop patting Tucker’s head and stare at my brother in disbelief. This is what Owen's been hiding from me. My heart’s thumping so hard it hurts. It explains a lot, like why Owen’s always disappearing, and why Mason has a large stash of weapons and a tight-lipped wife. A ripple of excitement goes through me.

  I inhale a deep breath. “I want in.”

  Owen looks at me with an amused expression. “Tonight’s not about the Council’s plans. I have my own reasons for heading up to Frank’s camp.”

  “Like what?”

  Owen rubs his jaw and studies me for a moment. “You really like Jakob Miller, don’t you?”

  My face flushes. I throw Owen an irritated look. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  He leans down and closes the flap on his fluorescent orange pack. “Would you wait ’til morning if you thought he was in danger?”

  I catch a sudden whiff of Jakob's sawdust-and-worn-leather scent, and my chest heaves up and down. He’s been my safe haven since the first day we met in the bunker. I made up my mind a long time ago that I would lay down my life for him, if it ever comes to that, seeing as, being a Septite, he mightn’t see fit to defend himself.

  Owen straightens up and swings his pack over his shoulder. I pick up his rifle and hold it out to him like a peace pipe. “So this is about a girl?”

  He chuckles and reaches for his gun. He’s halfway up the metal ladder to the entry hatch when he stops and turns back around. He pulls out a dog-eared photo and hands it to me. “She was only twelve then, but it’s all she had to give me.”

  “What’s her name?” I ask, studying the picture of a young girl sitting cross-legged on a beach. She’s laughing at something, head thrown back, blond hair tousled, her teeth startlingly white against her tanned skin.

  “Her name’s Nik
ki.” Owen snatches the photo back out of my hands. “Now quit following me.”

  I stand there, jaw askew, listening to the whoosh of air as the pneumatic entry hatch above me closes. My instincts about Owen's mysterious jaunts were halfway right. Now my curiosity is really piqued. Maybe I’ll get to meet this Nikki tonight. I might even make a friend. We have Owen in common, if nothing else.

  I turn and tread softly back to the kitchen area. Da belches and reaches for his beer. “Where you off to now?”

  I shrug. “Night watch.”

  He swishes around a mouthful of beer. “Night watch. What you watching anyway?” He cuts loose with a laugh. “Go on, git.”

  My heart pounds so hard it hurts as I make my way along the main tunnel, but it’s a good kind of hurt, a feeling of being fully alive—my first official mission up top that doesn’t involve cowsitting. A chance to prove I’m Owen's equal, and nowhere near as useless to the camp as Da.

  To my surprise, Jakob's waiting for me at the main hatch. “I wanted to see you off,” he says, a shy smile pulling at his lips.

  “I’ll be back before you know it.” I stick my thumbs in the straps of my rucksack so there’s no danger of him trying to hug me good-bye. I don’t want to feel his warmth pressing up against me right now, weakening my resolve, and I most definitely don’t want him to know how much I’m trembling.

  Jakob heads off down the tunnel, turning to wave briefly, just as Big Ed rounds the corner decked out in his standard checked shirt, Wranglers jeans, suspenders, and tactical boots. He tilts his hat at me and reaches for his custom stock rifle with the silver stag inlay. He makes for an imposing figure. I don’t pay heed to most of what Da rambles on about anymore, but he could be right about the mountain men being fugitives.

  It takes all of our concentration to move in the darkness at a steady pace through the dense undergrowth of bristly-tipped, swordtail ferns and tree roots braided across the trail. Prat’s heavy breathing adds to my unease. Mason barely exchanges a word with Big Ed or me as we traipse along to the beat of the trills and caws radiating through the firs. My senses are hardwired to the forest’s every whisper, the threat of Sweepers front and center in my mind, even though it’s still too dark out for their ships. The Sweepers may have habits, but, as Big Ed likes to remind me, predators adapt to the patterns of their prey.