Ruby in the Rough

by Emily Shore

  Ensuring the backpack is secure over my shoulders, I start my descent into the sewer. Big Sis was explicitly clear that the item be transported in the backpack. Once I’ve hit the bottom, I strap on the gas mask Big Sis’s crew provided me with since I’ll be traveling a good half mile before I reach the other side of the Hotel. After all, it would be such a shame if I happened to expire from the noxious gases drifting back and forth down here. Even if the city doesn’t run the way it used to, feces are still feces. They always carry disease.

  Double checking the map, I break into a fast-paced canter, steadying myself on one of the brick walls every now and then. At one point, I make a wrong turn and almost fall headfirst off a drop-off point. If there was still a waterfall there to betray the rushing sound, it would’ve been a dead giveaway. Now, there’s just a five-foot-high pool of rotting sewage and rats the size of rhinos. Backing away slowly, I pause to peruse the map. Shit. Both metaphorically and literally. I’ve been going in the wrong direction. Can’t afford to waste valuable time. Big Sis’s warning echoes in my head like an omen:

  Bring me the item by dawn or we’ll start on your boy toy. I’ll make sure it’s slow to give you more time if you need it.

  I growl at the memory before starting back the way I came. But just as I do, the sound of voices and footsteps as well as a steady glow ricocheting off the brick walls sends me nearly catapulting back toward the drop off. The voices are getting closer. Whether sweepers or gang members or even squatters, I can’t take the risk of anyone seeing me. Even if it feels like a hundred needles jam into my spine, the drop off is my only option. Maybe I can make it around the wall and to the iron ladder rungs on the opposite side. Hugging the far wall, I stretch my arm around as far as I can, getting my head around the corner to try and find the closest rung. Just as the light swipes along the drop-off entryway, I grab hold of the rung and swing my body over, just narrowly dodging the flash.

  I’m not out of danger yet.

  My shoes tread lightly as I climb the ladder rungs as high as I can just as the light floods the entryway. I look down to see several soldiers packed into the tunnel. What are soldiers doing this far into the Ghetto? They always camp out near the bridges. You rarely see them around these parts. Maybe they’ve run out of kids to press.

  “Come on, Avery,” one shouts from the back of the line. “Sarge said we need to make the rendezvous point by sunrise.”

  “Just a minute,” Avery responds, raising a hand for silence while shining the flashlight beam around the tunnel. For a moment, it hits my leg, and I’m thankful I’m wearing slate gray to match the walls. “Thought I saw something.”

  “Nothing here but the rats.”

  “Aww, he’s still searching for those long-lost relatives of his,” another mocks him with a jab.

  “Better long lost than immediate,” Avery fires back at him. “Alright, come on. Move out.”

  “Or move in,” the one in the back jokes just before receiving a hail of scorn from the others for the bad joke.

  I blow out the breath I’m holding. Fortunately, they’re moving south, and I have to go back north. Just as I hit the ground, I learn the hard way about not letting my guard down. Though I’m safe from the soldiers, I’m not safe from everything else in these sewers including rusted iron. Fighting back the urge to yelp when it eats through my pants and takes a chunk out of my knee, I lean back against the wall and clamp down on it with my hands instead. That’s going to make it harder to climb. For a building like the Hotel, there are no simpler routes. And I highly doubt Big Sis is going to compromise on the timing. So, I tear off a scrap on the hem of my pants and wrap the wound as best I can. At least it’s not bleeding too much. More a flesh wound than anything from how well I can see in the sewer light.

  Maybe it’s the adrenaline coursing through me, but my injury doesn’t seem to give me any trouble as I run back the way I came, finding the familiar ladder rungs from where I started. Now that I have the correct route, my canter turns into an outright sprint, especially since I must make up for lost time and reach the Hotel before the guard change. At one point with my flashlight etching the damp bricks, the sewer almost has a beauty to it. After all, it took the sweat and blood of hundreds to build these manmade tunnels that extend for miles like a network of roots beneath a tree. Somewhere in the underground infrastructure, there must be neglected train tunnels and mines. They are the underbelly of the Ghetto. The layers underneath its skin. Even now, they still keep the Ghetto operating, and that should be treated with respect. Considering my brush with the rusty iron, I haven’t done too good a job of that.

  I navigate through the rest of the tunnel with ease until I reach the grate on the backside of the Hotel. Removing the gas mask, I hang it on one of the rungs, saving it for the return trip. Then, I check the watch Big Sis gave me. Two minutes and twenty-one seconds. Just in the nick of time. I hear one set of boots pass by the grate and continue down the road until disappearing around the corner of the hotel. Now is my chance.

  I push on the grate as quietly as possible, squeeze my body out of the narrow opening and hoist myself onto the road before positioning the grate back into its place. Then I hunch, keeping as low to the ground as possible and plunge into the bushes while hunting for my first handhold. Thankful it hasn’t rained lately or this would be a whole lot harder, I climb until I reach the first balcony and grip onto the iron railing. The muscles in my arms pulse to life as I hoist myself up. Fortunately, the balcony railings are close enough together that I can scale one and stretch my arms out to the next one. It still requires concentration, and the further up I go, the more tired I get.

  By the time I’m halfway up the hotel, I need to take a break on one of the balconies. My limbs feel more like stretched pie dough. Leaning up against the balcony, I take a moment to close my eyes and catch my breath, harnessing the wind around me for oxygen. When I look around again, I find it hard to believe the Ghetto is so quiet. Photographs from old times made it seem like an army of glittering fairies going to war. Now, the light comes from fires and street lamps, which paints a more artistic scene. It’s like Starry Starry Night but reversed. The flames come from the city while murky clouds spread across the sky like a giant gray tent. It’s my lucky night. Lack of moon and stars creates more shadows, concealing my figure.

  After dragging in a few deep breaths, I start again. I shouldn’t rest my limbs too long as I’m depending on adrenaline to get me through this. Climbing down is just as difficult as climbing up and requires just as much concentration if not more so since my load will be heavier with Big Sis’s item. Well, I’m assuming so in any case. Some lights are on in the Hotel rooms, but most of the curtains are closed. However, as I climb higher, I finally hit a snag when my hands latch onto a railing only to discover a couple strolling right out onto the balcony, pausing inches from my hands. I almost consider climbing down, but if they hear me, I’ll be finished. And so will Ink.

  I hear the high-pitched giggle of the girl, the low rumble of the man as he pushes her up against the balcony, tipping her head back, but her eyes are closed. If he tips her much more, she will see me.

  “How does that feel?” He murmurs low in her ear. “To know I control everything? Your very life is in my hands,” he coos.

  “I’m yours,” I hear her whisper, giving him what he wants even as his hands slide all along her front.

  Bile, hot and thick, rises into my throat, and I need to concentrate on holding on more. Despite the wind roaring across me like a herd of horses made of ice and snow, I can feel sweat collecting on my brow and rolling down the sides of my head. For now, the chalk is keeping my palms from sweating too much, but this is still the tallest building I’ve ever climbed. Just have to make it up a few more balconies. If this couple ever goes back inside. More than anything, I wish I could reach up, grab the man by his collar, and yank him over. It wouldn’t take too much.

  “You’re going to give me what I want now,” he growls into
her ear just before his nose travels along her arched neck.

  “Anything,” she whispers. She’s a good actress. They all are. Especially since their biggest act is to themselves.

  A moment or two after she whispers, the man takes her by the wrist and pulls her back inside. She follows as if in a trance.

  Free to climb again, I start rolling up and down to give myself more momentum. There’s a certain thrill in knowing that my fingerprints will have made homes up and down the entire Hotel. Maybe I won’t scream like a banshee, but at least I’ll have fulfilled my one goal before saying good riddance to the Ghetto.

  Up and up I go, wondering how on earth I’m going to manage to climb down once I’m done securing the package. It’s one thing to climb a building this high, but climbing down right after seems impossible even if my legs would do more of the work going down. The clock tower was one of my more difficult endeavors, and even with that, I took time to rest once finished. There will be no opportunity to rest in the Penthouse. Ironic since it’s probably the most ideal place to rest. My imagination strolls away with thoughts of what it will be like. Gold chandeliers. A bed, plump and overripe with cushy pillows and blankets as deep as a pool. A waterfall shower ― any shower would be paradise.

  My hand slips, but I grip onto the railing even tighter with my other and bite down on my tongue hard, urging myself to stay focused. Only two balcony railings left till I reach the Penthouse. At first, I consider curling up into a ball once I reach the balcony and resting for a while. But the threat of discovery is too great if I linger. Exposure to the elements is another concern as it is still the dead of winter. With the height bringing me face to face with the wind, I wouldn’t last too much longer with the chill ransacking my clothes and going right for my skin.

  One last great effort and I reach the Penthouse balcony. Planting my hands on my thighs, I resist the urge to bend over because it’s the worst thing I can do right now. My lungs need as much oxygen as they can get. Instead, I arch my neck back and inhale a few deep gusts of wind.

  This is my slice of freedom. Up here, the wintry wind carrying bits of snow and frost tackles my hair and face, but I wouldn’t know it. Instead, there’s a warmth spreading through me like a vapor. My heart has turned into a drum the size of a building, my blood racing to match the synapses in my brain. But everything else is quiet. All the sounds of the city perish. At this height, I can almost see the cliffs beyond all the buildings and the bridges. Amazing to think how the Hotel outlived all the dilapidated skyscrapers around it. It’s still breathing while they are mere shells, crumbly and ruined.

  If I could, I’d linger up here longer. Save a few breaths and store them away for when I’m back on the ground, but Big Sis is waiting. Ink is waiting. I do this, and I cancel out my life debt to him. And Big Sis will get me out of the Ghetto. With the blood exchange, I trust her to keep her word in this matter. Fortune is on my side because all is dark inside or at least in the bedroom attached to the balcony. With how large the Penthouse is, there could be multiple rooms.

  So, I touch a hand to the handle, relieved when it opens just as Big Sis predicted. After all, why bother locking your Penthouse balcony? Tiptoeing through the door, I keep my breaths steady and even as my eyes try to adjust to the inner darkness. Just this room, she said. I wouldn’t need to search any others.

  Suddenly, I bump right into something hard. My hands reach out for balance, my fingers feeling a soft, sturdy wood the height of my waist. I look down, narrow my eyes, and curse. I curse again. And again and again. No. Fuck this. I won’t do this. Not even for Ink. Bringing a fist up to my forehead, I grind my teeth together, hisses caught behind them as I wrestle with the groans that want to rise, the scream building like a beast woken from hibernation. My heart blazes so much, it burns whatever holds it in my chest.

  I will not steal a baby.

  Gritting my teeth, I stare down at the sleeping baby once again. The soft, pudgy cheeks. A curly nest of brown bear locks. Nose no bigger than a sparrow’s egg. Neck hidden by chubby folds. The blue clothes hint that it’s a boy. He looks like a boy, too. His breathing isn’t what I expected. In, out, in, out. Quick as winking. I’ve never seen a baby. At least not like this. Faded photos in clinics I’ve raided don’t count. Too many infants are sold on the black market today, harvested for organs. Some are ripped right from the womb for this. I’ve never held a baby before either.

  He stirs, a little coo squeaking out of his mouth while his chubby fist wiggles up and down, fingers opening. Slowly, I stretch a finger out and nestle it inside his palm. He closes all his fingers around my one, clutching tightly. For a moment, I think I see a phantom of a smile; it’s probably just wishful thinking. I try to rationalize it. Consider what he might become. A Hotel hustler. A gang member. A sweeper. None of it helps. Right now, he’s just a baby. He deserves to giggle, spit up, bounce, roll over, crawl, and take his first steps. Not get sold on the black market. Or get stuffed into a backpack, dangling 300 feet high.

  Not even Ink’s life is worth all of that.

  The baby’s coos turn into full-fledged cries.

  So, I take a step back, wincing a little from the pain in my leg because the adrenaline has begun to ebb. I don’t make it one more step before the door opens, and a young woman emerges. She wouldn’t need the instant reaction of pulling a gun on me for me to recognize her as the mother. The bags holding shadows like bruises under her eyes and the bit of plumpness in her face and belly are two telltale signs. Not to mention his mouth is a carbon copy of hers. And the pale as spun sugar skin. The hickory brown hair did not come from her.

  “Get. Away. From. My. Son.” Each word of her order pecks into me like a vulture’s beak gnawing away at flesh.

  Raising my hands, I step back again, but I know there’s no climbing down now. Without letting go of the gun or dropping its aim, she reaches inside the crib, making a soothing “shhh” sound just before hoisting the baby into her arms. What is her connection to the Hotel? Is she a prisoner here? Are they both prisoners?

  I almost flinch when she begins bouncing the child and the gun barrel follows.

  “How the hell did you get in here?” she demands, her words almost as pointed as her bun. Even the couple loose strands, each one a bit of shorn white lace, still nestle close to the rest.

  “I uh...” I tip my head back toward the balcony and then point to my bag of chalk.

  She pauses and tilts her head, surveying me before concluding, “You’re the Fox, aren’t you?”

  I roll my eyes, suppress a groan. “I really don’t care for that term.”

  “What are you doing here?” She takes her eyes off the gun for one moment to peek down at her baby, but that mere glance alone proves she already suspects.

  “I was just leaving actually. Climbed up to enjoy the view. Now I’ve seen it, and I think it’s time for me to go.”

  “Which one?”

  I pause, one foot out the door already. “Excuse me?”

  “Which gang leader sent you? Sawyer of Big Sis?”

  Uncomfortable by how much this young woman knows, I shift my weight and reply, “Big Sis.”

  Her grimace is strong as a charging bull’s horn. “I should have known. Last month, one of her crew came to us, claiming she’d left the gang and wanted to work for the Hotel. She’s been a plant all along. Now...”

  She cocks the gun, and the click causes me to flinch. I roll on the balls of my feet, my flight instinct battering my chest ― a restless bird in a cage.

  “Why on earth would the Fox join Big Sis’s crew?”

  I wiggle my fingers nervously. “Technically, I didn’t.”

  Her brows lift, but she’s still hesitant. “They finally got you,” she concludes.

  I sigh with a shrug. “It’s a long story.”

  “And what does she have on you?”

  “More like who,” I correct.

  When the baby lets out a discontented squeal, she peers down, rubbing her lip
s across his forehead and murmurs, “Shh...Charlie. Shh...”

  She lowers the gun just a hair. “You were walking away. You were leaving without him.” She taps the baby’s forehead.

  “I’m not a kidnapper. Or a child trafficker.”

  “You were going to return empty handed. To Big Sis?” She drops the gun to her side, brows lifting higher, but the crease in her forehead betrays concern because she knows what would have happened as well as I.

  “I’m not a kidnapper,” I repeat again.

  She glances down. “You’re bleeding.”

  My leg. I step forward and cringe at the pain budding there just as I feel the warm drip oozing from the wound. I guess my injury from the sewer was worse than I’d thought. Or maybe I aggravated it more while climbing. For all I knew, I could have opened the wound even more and not even realized it due to all the adrenaline and concentration.

  “You won’t be doing any more climbing tonight,” the young woman confirms before directing me to the door on the opposite side of the room. “Go on. We have some things to discuss. You can rest while I feed him.”

  “You’re not going to call the sweepers on me?” I wonder, dubious at her sudden generosity.