by Rick Yancey
“Don’t press it,” I say. “I’m not going to hurt you.” I squat down, hands open, palms toward her. “Seriously, you really do not want to press that button.”
She presses the button.
Her head snaps back, and she flops down. Her legs kick twice, and she’s gone.
I leap forward, snatch Bear out of her dead fingers, and race back through the jumpsuit room and into the hallway beyond. Evan never bothered to tell me how long after the alarm sounds before the Stormtroopers are mobilized, the base is locked down, and the interloper captured, tortured, and put to a slow and agonizing death. Probably not that long.
So much for Plan B. Hated it anyway. The only downside is Evan and I never drew up a Plan C.
He’ll be in a squad with older kids, so your best bet is the barracks that ring the parade grounds.
Barracks that ring the parade grounds. Wherever that is. Maybe I should stop someone and ask for directions, because I only know one way out of this building, and that’s the way I came in, past the dead body and the old fat mean nurse and the young thin nice nurse and right into the loving arms of Major Bob.
There’s an elevator at the end of the hall with a single call button: It’s a one-way express ride to the underground complex, where Evan says Sammy and the other “recruits” are shown the phony creatures “attached” to real human brains. Festooned with security cameras. Crawling with Silencers. Only two other ways out of this hallway: the door just to the right of the elevator and the door I came out of.
Finally, a no-brainer.
I slam through the door and find myself in a stairwell. Like the elevator, the stairs go in one direction: down.
I hesitate for a half second. The stairwell is quiet and small, but it’s a good, cozy kind of small. Maybe I should stay here awhile and hug my bear, perhaps suck my thumb.
I force myself to take it slow down the five flights to the bottom. The steps are metal, cold against my bare feet. I’m waiting for the shriek of alarms and the pounding of heavy boots and the rain of bullets from above and below. I think of Evan at Camp Ashpit, taking out four heavily armed, highly trained killers in near total darkness, and wonder why I ever thought it was wise to stroll into the lion’s den alone when I could have had a Silencer by my side.
Well, not totally alone. I do have the bear.
I press my ear against the door at the bottom and rest my hand on the lever. I hear my own heartbeat and that’s all.
The door flies inward, forcing me back against the wall, and then I do hear the pounding of boots as men toting semiautomatics race up the stairs. The door starts to swing closed and I grab the lever to keep the door in front of me until they make the first turn and thunder out of sight.
I whip around into the corridor before the door closes. Red lights mounted from the ceiling spin, throwing my shadow against the white walls, wiping it away, throwing it again. Right or left? I’m a little turned around, but I think the front of the hangar is to the right. I jog in that direction, then stop. Where am I most likely to find the majority of Silencers in an emergency? Probably clustered around the main entrance to the scene of the crime.
I turn around and run smack into the chest of a very tall man with piercing blue eyes.
I wasn’t close enough to see his eyes at Camp Ashpit.
But I remember the voice.
Deep, hard-edged, razor-sharp.
“Well, hello there, little lamb,” Vosch says. “You must be lost.”
76
HIS GRIP ON MY SHOULDER is as hard as his voice.
“Why are you down here?” he asks. “Who is your group leader?”
I shake my head. The tears welling up in my eyes aren’t fake. I have to think fast, and my first thought is Evan was right: This solo act was doomed, no matter how many backup plans we concocted. If only Evan were here…
If Evan were here!
“He killed her!” I blurt out. “That man killed Dr. Pam!”
“What man? Who killed Dr. Pam?”
I shake my head, bawling my little eyes out, crushing my battered teddy against my chest. Behind Vosch, another squad of soldiers races down the corridor toward us. He shoves me at them.
“Secure this one and meet me upstairs. We have a breach.”
I’m dragged to the nearest door, shoved inside a dark room, and the lock clicks. The lights flicker on. The first thing I see is a frightened, young-looking girl in a white jumpsuit holding a teddy bear. I actually give a startled yelp.
Beneath the mirror is a long counter on which a monitor and keyboard sit.
I’m in the execution chamber Evan described, where they show the new recruits the fake brain-spiders.
Forget the computer. I’m not about to start hitting buttons again. Options, Cassie. What are your options?
I know there’s another room on the other side of the mirror. And there has to be at least one door, which may or may not be locked. I know the door to this room is locked, so I can wait for Vosch to come back for me or I can bust through this looking glass to the other side.
I pick up one of the chairs, rear back, and hurl it against the mirror. The impact rips the chair from my hands and it falls to the floor with a deafening—at least to me—clatter. I’ve put a large scratch in the thick glass, but that’s the only damage I see. I pick up the chair again. Take a deep breath. Lower my shoulders, rotate my hips as I bring the chair around. That’s what they teach you in karate class: Power is in rotation. I aim for the scratch. Focus every ounce of my energy on that single spot.
The chair bounces off the glass, throwing me off balance, and I land on my butt with a teeth-jarring thump. So jarring, in fact, that I bite down hard on my tongue. My mouth fills with blood, and I spit it out, hitting the girl in the mirror right in the nose.
I yank up the chair again, breathing deep. I forgot one thing I learned in karate: your eich! The war cry. Laugh at it all you want; it does concentrate your power.
The third and final blow shatters the glass. My momentum slams me into the waist-high counter, and my feet come off the floor as the chair tumbles into the adjoining room. I can see another dentist chair, a bank of processors, wires running across the floor, and another door. Please, God, don’t let it be locked.
I pick up Bear and climb through the hole. I imagine Vosch returning and the look on his face when he sees the busted mirror. The door on the other side isn’t locked. It opens into another white cinder-block corridor lined with unmarked doors. Ah, the possibilities. But I don’t step into that corridor. I hover in the doorway. Before me, the unmarked path. Behind me, the one I’ve marked: They’ll see the hole. They’ll know which direction I’ve taken. How long can I stay ahead of them? My mouth has filled with blood again, and I force myself to swallow it. Can’t make it too easy for them to track me.
Too easy: I forgot to jam the chair under the door handle in the first room. It won’t stop them from getting in, but it would drop some precious seconds into my piggy bank.
If something goes wrong, don’t overthink, Cassie. You have good instincts; trust them. Thinking through every step is fine if you’re playing chess, but this isn’t chess.
I run back through the killing room and dive through the hole. I misjudge the width of the counter and flip off the edge, somersaulting onto my back, smacking my head hard against the floor. I lie there for a fuzzy second, bright red stars burning in my vision. I’m looking at the ceiling and the metal ductwork running beneath it. I saw the same setup in the corridors: the bomb shelter’s ventilation system.
And I think, Cassie, that’s the bomb shelter’s freaking ventilation system.
77
SCUTTLING FORWARD on my stomach, worrying that I’m too heavy for the supports and that at any second the entire section of pipe will collapse, I scoot along the shaft, pausing at each juncture to listen. Listen for what, I’m not really sure. The crying of frightened children? The laughter of happy children? The air in the shaft is cold, brought in from the
outside and funneled underground, sort of like me.
The air belongs here; I don’t. What did Evan say?
Your best bet is the barracks that ring the parade grounds.
That’s it, Evan. That’s the new plan. I’ll find the nearest air shaft and climb up to the surface. I won’t know where I am or how far I am from the parade grounds, and of course the entire base is going to be in full lockdown, crawling with Silencers and their brainwashed child-soldiers looking for the girl in the white jumpsuit. And don’t forget the teddy bear. Talk about a dead giveaway! Why did I insist on bringing this damn bear? Sam would understand if I left Bear behind. My promise wasn’t to bring Bear to him. My promise was to bring me to him.
What is the deal with this bear?
Every few feet a choice: turn right, turn left, or keep going straight? And every few feet a pause to listen and to clear the blood from my mouth. Not worried about my blood dripping in here: It’s the bread crumbs that mark my way back. My tongue is swelling, though, and throbs horribly with each beat of my heart, the human clock ticking down, measuring out the minutes I have left before they find me, take me to Vosch, and he finishes me the way he finished my father.
Something brown and small is scurrying toward me, very fast, like he’s on an important errand. A roach. I’ve encountered cobwebs and loads of dust and some mysterious slimy substance that might be toxic mold, but this is the first truly gross thing I’ve seen. Give me a spider or a snake over a cockroach any day. And now he’s heading right toward my face. With very vivid mental images of the thing crawling inside my jumpsuit, I use the only thing available to squash it. My bare hand. Yuck.
I keep moving. There’s a glow up ahead, sort of greenish gray; in my head I call it mothership green. I inch toward the grate from which the glow emanates. Peek through the slats into the room below—only calling it a room doesn’t do it justice. It’s huge, easily the size of a football stadium, shaped like a bowl, with rows and rows of computer stations at the bottom, manned by over a hundred people—only to call them people is doing real people an injustice. They’re them, Vosch’s inhuman humans, and I have no clue what they’re up to, but I’m thinking this must be it, the heart of the operation, ground zero of the “cleansing.” A massive screen takes up an entire wall, projecting a map of the Earth that’s dotted with bright green spots—the source of the sickly green light. Cities, I’m thinking, and then I realize the green dots must represent pockets of survivors.
Vosch doesn’t need to hunt us down. Vosch knows exactly where we are.
I wiggle on, forcing myself to go slowly until the green glow is as small as the dots on the map in the control room. Four junctures down I hear voices. Men’s voices. And the clang of metal on metal, the squeak of rubber soles on hard concrete.
Keep moving, Cassie. No more stopping. Sammy’s not down there and Sammy is the objective.
Then one of the guys says, “How many did he say?”
And the other one goes, “At least two. The girl and whoever took out Walters and Pierce and Jackson.”
Whoever took out Walters, Pierce, and Jackson?
Evan. It has to be.
What the…? For a whole minute or two, I’m really furious at him. Our only hope was in my going alone, sliding past their defenses unnoticed and snatching Sam before they realized what was going on. Of course, it hadn’t quite worked out that way, but Evan had no way of knowing that.
Still. The fact that Evan had ignored our carefully thought-out plan and infiltrated the base also means that Evan is here.
And Evan does what he has the heart to do.
I edge closer to their voices, passing right over their heads until I reach the grating. I peer through the metal slats and see two Silencer soldiers loading eye-shaped globes into a large handcart. I recognize what they are right away. I’ve seen one before.
The Eye will take care of her.
I watch them until the cart is loaded and they wheel it slowly out of sight.
A point will come when the cover isn’t sustainable. When that happens, they’ll shut down the base—or the part of the base that’s expendable.
Oh boy. Vosch is going all Ashpit on Camp Haven.
And the minute that realization hits me, the siren goes off.
X: A THOUSAND WAYS
78
TWO HOURS.
The minute Vosch leaves, a clock inside my head begins to tick. No, not a clock. More like a timer ticking down to Armageddon. I’m going to need every second, so where is the orderly? Right when I’m about to pull out the drip myself, he shows up. A tall, skinny kid named Kistner; we met the last time I was laid up. He has a nervous habit of picking at the front of his scrubs, like the material irritates his skin.
“Did he tell you?” Kistner asks, keeping his voice down as he leans over the bed. “We’ve gone Code Yellow.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “You think they tell me anything? I just hope it doesn’t mean we’re taking another bunker-dive.” No one in the hospital likes the air raid drills. Getting several hundred patients underground in less than three minutes is a tactical nightmare.
“Better than staying topside and getting incinerated by an alien death ray.”
Maybe it’s psychological, but the minute Kistner pulls the drip, the pain sets in, a dull throbbing ache where Ringer shot me that keeps time with my heart. As I wait for my head to clear, I wonder if I should reconsider the plan. An evacuation into the underground bunker might simplify things. After the fiasco of Nugget’s first air raid drill, command decided to pool all noncombatant children into a safe room located in the middle of the complex. It’ll be a hell of a lot easier snatching him from there than checking every barracks on base.
But I have no idea when—or even if—that’s going to happen. Better stick to the original plan. Tick-tock.
I close my eyes, visualizing each step of the escape with as much detail as possible. I did this before, back when there were high schools and Friday night games and crowds to cheer at them. Back when winning a district title seemed like the most important thing in the world. Picturing my routes, the arc of the ball sailing toward the lights, the defender keeping pace beside me, the precise moment to turn my head and bring up my hands without breaking stride. Imagining not just the perfect play but the busted one, how I would adjust my route, give the quarterback a target to save the down.
There’s a thousand ways this could go wrong and only one way for it to go right. Don’t think a play ahead, or two plays or three. Think about this play, this step. Get it right one step at a time, and you’ll score.
Step one: the orderly.
My best buddy Kistner, giving somebody a sponge bath two beds down.
“Hey,” I call over to him. “Hey, Kistner!”
“What is it?” Kistner calls back, clearly annoyed with me. He doesn’t like to be interrupted.
“I have to go to the john.”
“You’re not supposed to get up. You’ll tear the sutures.”
“Aw, come on, Kistner. The bathroom’s right over there.”
“Doctor’s orders. I’ll bring you a bedpan.”
I watch him weave his way through the bunks toward the supply station. I’m a little worried I haven’t waited long enough for the meds to fade. What if I can’t stand up? Tick-tock, Zombie. Tick-tock.
I throw back the covers and swing my legs off the bed. Gritting my teeth; this is the hard part. I’m wrapped tight from chest to waist, and pushing myself upright stretches the muscles ripped apart by Ringer’s bullet.
I cut you. You shoot me. It’s only fair.
But it’s escalating. What happens on your next turn? You stick a hand grenade down my pants?
That’s a disturbing image, sticking a live grenade down Ringer’s pants. On so many levels.
I’m still full of dope, but when I sit up, the pain almost makes me black out. So I sit still for a minute, waiting for my head to clear.
Step two: the bathr
oom.
Force yourself to go slow. Take small steps. Shuffle. I can feel the back of the gown flapping open; I’m mooning the entire ward.
The bathroom is maybe twenty feet away. It feels like twenty miles. If it’s locked or if someone’s in there, I’m screwed.
It’s neither. I lock the door behind me. Sink and toilet and a small shower stall. The curtain rod is screwed into the wall. I lift the lid of the commode. A short metal arm that lifts the flapper, dull on both ends. Toilet paper holder is plastic. So much for finding a weapon in here. But I’m still on track. Come on, Kistner, I’m wide open.
Two sharp raps on the door, and then his voice on the other side.
“Hey, you in there?”
“I told you I had to go!” I yell.
“And I told you I was bringing a bedpan!”
“Couldn’t hold it anymore!”
The door handle jiggles.
“Unlock this door!”
“Privacy, please!” I holler.
“I’m going to call security!”
“All right, all right! Like I’m freaking going anywhere!”
Count to ten, flip the lock, shuffle to the toilet, sit. The door opens a crack, and I can see a sliver of Kistner’s thin face.
“Satisfied?” I grunt. “Now can you please close the door?”
Kistner stares at me for a long moment, plucking at his shirt. “I’ll be right out here,” he promises.
“Good,” I say.
The door eases shut. Now six slow ten-counts. A good minute.
“Hey, Kistner!”
“What?”
“I’m gonna need your help.”
“Define ‘help.’”
“Getting up! I can’t get off the damned can! I think I might have torn a suture…”
The door flies open. Kistner’s face is flushed with anger.
“I told you.”
He steps in front of me. Holds out both hands.