"Ha!" shouted Buck. He pointed at Christopher. "Honored, sucker! You hear that?"
"Though, there are those who also use the word for a man who is...." He looked at the little girls, still holding onto Maggie. Grinned at them, then grinned even wider at Buck. "Well, overly affectionate with his brothers."
It took a moment for that to sink in. Buck got it first. He shook his head, then turned away just as Christopher understood. He crowed and pointed. "Would you prefer Poopy?" he said.
"Shut. UP."
Mo chuckled. "What you are about to see is the place I have hidden my greatest treasures."
He pulled another pipe. Something clicked, and the entire wall – pipes included – swung aside. Not like a door: everything rolled to the side and simply disappeared. One moment a wall blocked the way, the next there was no indication that it had ever existed.
Buck gasped. Mo shrugged in embarrassment. "Because I try to be good, I want to help those in need. But there is still the part of me that does not trust."
"I guess that's why you need all this in the first place," said Buck.
At the same time, Hope gasped and shouted, "It's WinCo!" Lizzy started clapping and shouting "Me candy!" in a never-ending refrain.
WinCo was a Boise-based supermarket chain that specialized in family-size boxes of groceries, famously popular with kids for having barrels of bulk candy they could pick through. Christopher knew this because he'd been briefed on the place once before a photo shoot that took place in front of the oldest WinCo store in Idaho.
He'd never actually been in one. He'd never gone grocery shopping for himself, in fact. But he suspected that it probably did look a lot like what the girls were seeing right now.
There were piles of supplies stacked on top of each other. Pallets that supported huge cans of peanut butter sat atop more pallets of honey, and those atop more pallets that held industrial containers of rice and whole wheat. It was all stacked neatly, creating a new wall built up a good five feet in from the original wall of the pipe.
On the other side of the hallway created by continuation of the underground pipe, there were neat stacks of MREs in a variety of colors and sizes. Each was marked clearly, some saying things like Chicken Noodle Soup or Pot Pie, others reading BBQ Beans and Franks. The variety was astonishing. Christopher doubted any of it tasted anything like it said it would, but he doubted you could starve eating it, either.
"Me candy!" Lizzy shouted again.
"Shhh," said Maggie. "There isn't any candy, here, sweetie."
Lizzy stuck her lower lip out so far that it could have been used as a helipad. She inhaled, a deep, deep breath that left little doubt as to what was going to happen next.
"Oh, geez," said Buck, already covering his ears.
"Lizzy, no candy. No candy, Lizzy," said Hope, patting her little sister's back. Christopher couldn't help but smile in spite of the upcoming screams. Hope sounded crestfallen herself, but she submerged her sadness in concern for her little sister.
"Lizzy, we just don't –"
Maggie went silent so fast Christopher worried something had happened to her. It took a moment to realize that Mo was holding something out. Something round. A hole in the middle.
"It is not candy," he said. "But does the little girl like lemon cookies?"
Lizzy's response – to grab the cookie and gobble it down before shouting, "Me more!" was answer enough.
"Where'd you get that?" demanded Buck.
Mo laughed. "To survive is one thing. But I intend to live, my friend."
He walked between the stacks of food, gesturing for the group to follow. "Come."
16
"WE ARE IN ONE OF FOUR spokes, leading out from the center of the installation," said Mo. He had grabbed a plastic tray of lemon cookies from off the stack of supplies and now fed them to the girls in a steady stream. Maggie did not complain. Buck did, but only because he hadn't been offered one. Once provided with his own stack of six cookies he was silent save only the occasional grunt as he wolfed them down. Crumbs spread across his broad chest.
"Manners, Clucky," whispered Hope at one point.
"Shut up and eat, Chicken," he whispered back. Mo handed her another cookie, the plastic wrap crinkling loudly in a way that Christopher remembered from early childhood: a maid sneaking cheap cookies to him between meals. That was before his parents shipped him off the first time. The maid's name was Consuela.
She was probably dead.
"The spokes," continued Mo, "lead to a central chamber where the pump is held."
"Wondered how you dealt with that," said Buck. His voice was muffled by a mouthful of lemon. Mo handed him another cookie as well. And took one for himself. The two men chewed in unison, grinning at one another like fools.
Maggie spoke, "Do you have toothbrushes?"
It was a ridiculous question. Toothbrushes. Stupid. Strange. The kind of thing only a determinedly good mother could possibly ask. Christopher thought of Consuela again. Knew he should be thinking of his own mother, but that would just remind him of how he had last seen her, and he didn't want to think of that.
Not wanting to think of something was impossible on its face: no sooner did Christopher think, I don't want to go there, than his mind catapulted him to just that forbidden place. Teeth and knives. Blood and bone. His parents locked in a battle it seemed they'd been fighting all his life, fighting quietly and politely, now at last given the permission they had always longed for, the permission to do what they had wanted to do since their marriage began. The permission to kill one another.
Mo's voice saved him. Drew him out of the river of memory, just as the man's hand had pulled him free of the canal. Unlike with Ken, Christopher let his remembrances slide away from him. Opened his mental grasp and let them fall into the flow. Disappear.
"I do have toothbrushes," said Mo. "And toothpaste."
"Is the pump safe?" Buck again.
Mo nodded. "The water comes from an underground river, four hundred and twenty-three feet below us, so likely safe from radioactive and biological contaminants for the foreseeable future."
"Meaning?" said Christopher. He had stopped paying attention some time ago. If not to the words, then at least to their meaning.
"Meaning we have running water," said Buck. Which would have been fine if he hadn't said it in such a patronizing tone.
"Thanks, Poopy."
Buck sputtered out his cookie. Mo handed him another one. Either being a good host who kept his guests fed or just staving off arguments.
"The other spokes contain living quarters, entertainment, supplies" continued the hunter.
"How many people live here?" said Hope, awed.
"How many people can live here?" said Maggie. Also awed. More awed when Mo answered.
"Twenty for ten years. Ten for twenty. And so on."
Christopher noticed that he hadn't answered the first question, but he skipped that in favor of the question that had been bugging him most, and for the longest time:
"How much did this cost? And how rich are you?"
17
THE CURLS ON MO'S FACE seemed to straighten. He was smiling, but the smile didn't cover his.... Christopher grasped for the concept. His countenance? His spirit?
Whatever it was, the smile was sincere. But it also guarded something beneath it. Just as sincere, just as real, but much less welcoming than that big grin was.
"The sweet potato does not say how sweet he is, young friend," said Mo. The lines stayed straight, and when Mo said it some of the smile disappeared from his eyes and Christopher knew he would get no more answer than this. He had seen that look before. Men and women who were used to power, who wore it like a second coat, who were used to seeking a thing and achieving it. They wore that look. Some were good people, who used that power to help others. Some were bad, and used that power for themselves, and damn anyone who got in their way.
But all were dangerous. All had discovered that true power lay not in money
or lackeys or even those willing to live and die at their command, but in the strength of their own will.
Christopher nodded. It was nearly a bow. He hoped Mo was one of the good ones. Suspected he was. But he wasn't about to challenge the man. Because he himself didn't have that kind of power. Never had.
And didn't know if he wanted it.
"What about electricity?" said Buck. He seemed oblivious of the momentary impasse. Pointing at one of the grid-covered LEDs that sat in recesses every five feet along the ceiling. "How long can that last?"
"I have solar panels in the mountains. They are a long way away, and no one will find them. They power rechargeable batteries under the floors and even if the panels are destroyed we will have electricity for many days."
Mo smiled. "Now come. I will show you to the beds. I must sleep, I think."
He turned. Weaved. Christopher remembered suddenly that the man had been shot. It had been easy to forget; he wasn't acting shot. But suddenly he was on his knees. Hope was screaming. Buck rushed forward. Caught the big man under his good shoulder.
"Mo!"
Mo smiled. Slumped forward. Blood flowed onto the floor of the tunnel.
18
"HELP ME, DAMMIT," ROARED Buck. "This guy's heavy!"
Christopher moved forward and grabbed Mo's other arm. The Māori groaned but did not open his eyes, did not regain consciousness. Christopher felt sticky warmth on his skin and did not have to look down to know: Mo's blood had saturated his bandages and was now passing through Christopher's own waterlogged shirt.
"What do we do?" he said. He looked around wildly. Lost. Then started pulling Mo down the tunnel the way they had been headed.
Maggie spoke at the same moment. "This way." She scooped up Lizzy with one arm, grabbed Hope with her free hand. She squeezed by the men – a tight fit between the sides of the tunnel itself and the still closer confines of the walls of food on either side – and took point. She nearly ran ahead of them. That irritated Christopher for a moment, until he realized he was keeping up. She was moving them along, faster than they might have gone without her. Whether she was doing that on purpose or just panicking he couldn't say. He thought it was the former.
Either way, she was doing the right thing. Again, someone in their group was stepping up when it was needed.
Maggie reached another hatchway. She put Lizzy down. The little girl didn't make a sound, and for a moment Christopher worried she was returning to that semi-comatose state that signaled a return to whatever creepy place she had found inside her little body.
But no. Hope was holding the toddler's hand now. Patting her shoulder, whispering in her ear. The toddler smiled.
"Why don't you ever whisper sweet nothings to me, Poopy?"
"I will kill you," Buck panted through gritted teeth.
Maggie was spinning the wheel lock. It clicked and she pulled the hatch open. She grabbed Lizzy and returned the two-year-old to her hip, then hauled Hope through the hatchway with them.
Christopher and Buck had a tough time negotiating the hatchway with the Māori. Christopher weighed about a buck-and-a-half, even soaking wet. He and a twin brother could have fit through the hole with room to spare. But Mo was a squeeze, and so was Buck. The first dragging the second, followed by the third? It was like watching a Gold's Gym version of The Three Stooges.
They finally got Mo through. Buck almost tripped on the lower lip of the hatchway.
They entered a room that was more or less circular. Maybe thirty feet in diameter. A few sinks along one wall, a curtained off area that Christopher supposed was for showers along another, and another curtained area that he could see a pair of toilets peeking out from behind, a partition between them. This area was definitely more utilitarian than the bachelor pad in the entrance had been.
A low hum could be heard in the room. Water? Batteries charging? He didn't know.
He was more concerned with the fact that he could no longer hear Mo breathing.
19
"WHICH WAY DO WE GO?" said Buck. He was looking at the doors that led out of the central hub. One led back the way they had come. Then there were three more. No way to know what led where.
Maggie looked at Hope. "Honey, can you run down that one?" She gestured at the hatchway closest to her. "Don't touch anything, just look what's there, then come right back."
Hope nodded. Maggie opened the hatch. Hope disappeared. Lights flickered on as she entered; they must be on some sort of motion sensors.
Maggie hefted her other daughter then went to the next hatch. Spun the wheel. "I'll see what's in the other two."
Christopher shook his head. "We don't have time for you to do both." He shouldered his way out from under Mo. Buck grunted at the extra weight.
"What're you –?"
"I'll go down the last one," said Christopher. He ran to the last passageway. Spun the wheel on the door. Opened it.
As with Hope, when he stepped into the tunnel beyond the door the lights turned on. LEDs could be so bright they were sterile and forbidding. These, like everything else in the shelter, had been chosen carefully. They illuminated, but did not glare. Bright enough to see by, but they created comfort, not bleak despair.
The sides of the short tunnel were laden with food. A few quick steps and Christopher found himself in an eating area. A few picnic-style tables that he guessed could seat well more than the twenty guests Mo had mentioned. An large electric range sat in the back, a metal hood over it with ducting that disappeared into the ceiling. Christopher wondered absently where the fumes were piped off to.
Other than that: more stacks of food. A few cupboards and cabinets that, when he opened them, proved to hold flatware, plates, bowls, cups. A large refrigerator, a standalone freezer.
Nothing helpful.
He ran out to where Buck waited with Mo, the place Christopher was calling "the wet room" in his head. Giving it a name like this was his place. His home.
And he wanted that. Oh, how he wanted it. Wanted to stop running, to rest.
But could they? If Mo was dead? Probably.
Still, would it be the same? As good?
No. It never was. Every person lost was a loss for the whole world. How many people could be left at this point? Real people? A hundred? A thousand? When there were so few, each one mattered more than all the gold in the world.
All the riches of before had disappeared. Now there was only survival and family.
Maggie clanged through her door a moment later, Lizzy riding her hip and grinning like she had just found a new playground. The look on Maggie's face was anything but upbeat: she hadn't found anything helpful.
"Sleeping area," she said. "We can lay him down. Make him comforta –" she stopped. Kept herself from finishing a sentence that was the kind of thing you said about a person who was going to die, no doubt about it.
Still, laying Mo down was the best they had, unless Hope came up with better.
Little feet. She pattered her way into the wet room.
"Was there anything back there, honey?" asked Maggie.
Hope looked at Mo with wide eyes, her gaze never leaving his face as she shook her head. "Just a few beds and boxes on the walls and a little refrigerator."
"Okay," said Maggie. She gestured to Christopher and Buck. "Let's lay him down." They started toward the tunnel she had explored.
Mo was definitely no longer breathing. Christopher glanced at Buck over the top of the Māori's slumped shoulders. His friend was already looking toward him, shaking his head.
And Christopher jerked to a halt.
"What're you doing?" said Buck.
Christopher shifted. Started walking a different direction.
"We can save him."
20
"WHAT ARE YOU –?"
"Come on, Clucky."
For once, Buck didn't bitch about the name. He just helped Christopher manhandle their dying host into the spoke that Hope had come from.
"She said there's nothing
there," grunted Buck.
"Beds, boxes, a little fridge," said Christopher. He pulled Mo through yet another long pipe-corridor filled with supplies. "Sounds like...."
The corridor widened out into a room. Buck grumbled, "You're going to be a pill about this, aren't you?" as they angled for one of the beds.
Christopher levered Mo's feet onto the white cot. Buck lifted the man's torso and head.
It was a mark of his worry that he didn't bother with a rejoinder. Not even so much as to say, "Nah, Buck, I'm right like this way too often to gloat about it." Just up with the loose body in his hands, then looking around to take stock.
The room was a hospital. No other way to put it. There were four cots that looked straight out of the deluxe rooms at St. Luke's, lines of cabinets with frosted glass windows that shielded half-seen bottles and boxes, more bottles and boxes on top. Medical supplies. In one corner was a squat refrigerator that Christopher guessed would hold temperature-sensitive medications. Beside it was something that looked like an ultrasound machine.
On the wall: a familiar box. One that was on every floor in the Capitol building, in every classroom at the last boarding school he'd escaped from.
Christopher yanked open the door. Inside was a bright red box with "HEARTSTARTER – DEFIB" written across it in bold white letters.
He began tearing Mo's shirt off.
And that's when he felt the arrow jab at his cheek.
21
MAYBE IT WAS THE CREAK of the bowstring. Maybe it was something about the edge of the arrow. But he knew without looking that that was what it was: an arrow.
"Where did you come from?" said Buck. He didn't sound demanding. Just surprised and scared.
Christopher put the defibrillator down on Mo's unmoving chest and raised his hands.
"Where did you –?" began Buck, his mouth shoved into "repeat" by the shock of whatever was happening.
The Complete Colony Saga [Books 1-7] Page 65