by Kevin George
“I do know what he would’ve done to me eventually,” she said. “I had an impossible decision, but I still thought it would be better for you to have a mother that disappeared instead of a mother that was beaten to death by your father.”
Olly wished he had something witty to say, something to dig into his mother’s soul and make her feel worse for leaving. But as much as he hated to admit it, he sympathized with her and appreciated her will to live by any means necessary. She survived and my father didn’t. Who does that make me more like? Olly wasn’t about to forgive his mother—or, at least, he wasn’t about to admit that aloud—but he also didn’t like the silence that lingered.
“Bronwen Upton? She never struck me as the helpful type,” Olly said. “I would’ve sworn the Wellers would be the defiant ones.”
“There was never any love lost between Martha Weller and me, not that I blame her,” Liv said. “The Wellers and Jonases hated each other for generations, even if neither side would admit it.”
Olly couldn’t help but chuckle at the memory of the Sky Person’s revelation to Emma and him. He still didn’t understand how Emma was the real Jonas—the real ‘Descendant,’ as the Sky Person had put it—but he felt deep down that it was all true.
“What?” Liv asked.
Olly shook his head. “I’ll tell you some other time.”
His mother frowned but continued. “Bronwen Upton didn’t help only me. She also escorted the Wellers to The Fourth on the day you battled her son. I saw the Upton boy that day when he was escaping through the tunnels,” she said, a shadow descending over her face as her voice lowered. “Had I known the two of you nearly fought to the death. . .”
“A challenge I made to him,” Olly said.
Liv nodded. “Regardless, I’m glad our camera access didn’t extend beyond the Main Tunnel. Had I seen too much from One and the Colisseo, I wouldn’t have been able to show restraint to stay away from trying to save you.”
Olly sensed she was being genuine but was unsure if that made him feel better or worse about their years apart. Either way, thinking of the Wellers—the City Below’s Wellers—made him instinctively turn his eyes skyward again.
“Martha and William Weller were separated from their daughter during their escape from One,” Liv continued, as if reading her son’s mind. “They seemed to think their daughter wanted to stay behind.”
Olly knew that reason was Artie Peters. He was surprised to still feel a pang of jealousy about it. Before he could think about his wife and Artie for too long, the vehicle’s radio chirped to life. A driver from one of the vehicles sent back to the Dome reported only two survivors were found: one that lived Above, and another that used to live Below but had been living Above for quite some time. Olly’s jaw clenched. When his mother turned to him, he quickly looked away, not wanting her to see how upset the news made him. He hadn’t expected everyone to have miraculously survived, but only two people he didn’t know?
“Copy that,” Liv said. “It wasn’t a popular decision to search for survivors, but I appreciate your efforts. Please lead the rest of the vehicles toward The Mountain. The weather hasn’t been great, but we’re making good time and should only arrive a few hours before you. Lead vehicle out.”
Liv replaced the handset and turned to Olly, who continued to stare out of his window. He glanced back at the other small vehicle behind them, the only other vehicle that had pushed forward while the rest waited for those searching for survivors. They drove in silence for the next few minutes, the outside wind and vehicle’s whirring engine the only noise.
“I know I left the City Below years ago,” Liv said, “but I realize how important some of those people were to you. I’m very sorry that—”
“What’s the next part of the plan?” Olly interrupted, his voice shaky. He cleared his throat before continuing. “What’ll we do at this Mountain place? What is it we’ll find there?”
“Truth is, we don’t know if the facility is still intact, or if anyone is still alive there,” Liv said. She pointed out the front window. “We think this is the general area where ISU-Ville was once located, but obviously there’s nothing here.”
“What if it’s not out there? What if there’s nothing left outside of the city, like the Lord and Jonas always claimed?”
Liv’s frown was all the answer Olly needed, a frown also shared by Irving and the vehicle’s driver. Before Liv could say anything, the vehicle dipped over an unseen embankment, a steep drop that sent them careening for several tense seconds. Olly held his breath and grabbed on tightly for the ride, but the driver regained control and steadied the vehicle. It wasn’t until Olly exhaled that he looked down and realized he’d grabbed his mother’s hand. He started to pull away, though his mother tried to hold on tighter. He allowed her to do so, but only for an extra second.
Less than a minute passed when the driver cut power and they skidded to a stop. Everyone squinted into the storm, which had picked up in intensity. Olly thought he’d spotted something within the falling snow but couldn’t be certain.
“Anyone else see something out there?” the driver asked. “A silhouette of something big. . . and I think it was more than just one something.”
“Beasts,” Olly whispered, though anything out there had faded into the falling snows ahead.
“Maybe I was seeing things,” the driver said.
Liv shook her head and instructed him to drive a wide berth around the area where he’d spotted movement. She proceeded to radio the other vehicles and warn them about keeping a watch for creatures potentially patrolling these lands. Most drivers simply radioed back ‘copy that.’ One had something more to say.
“This might be nothing, but my passenger says he thinks he spotted something, too,” the driver said. In the background, a second man could be overheard insisting he’d seen something. “Except he says he saw it in the sky, heading in the same direction we’re traveling.”
Olly leaned forward in his seat to stare above, as did the others. Besides heavy gray clouds and falling snow, they saw nothing else, at least directly above. Within minutes of continuing forward, another silhouette appeared in the distance, this one for certain and looming so high that it seemed to stretch into the clouds.
“The Mountain.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Damon Moretti listened to the giant blast door squeal open, the sound echoing in the cavernous space behind him, bouncing off rocky walls. The howl of freezing wintry wind joined the squeaking a moment later, engulfing Damon in cold, a feeling simultaneously invigorating and unpleasant. If anyone had lived within five levels of him, he was certain they would’ve heard the noise. There’d been times in his life when he’d worried about the squealing door, which had grown louder over the years. After all, if the blast door ever malfunctioned, the other way to reach the outside world would be less than ideal.
Not that anyone goes outside anymore, Damon thought, tightening his jaw to fight off a frown. At least not since. . .
He turned to the giant hangar behind him, which still held dozens of The Mountain’s surface vehicles and construction vehicles, all of them draped in heavy tarps with several inches of dust covering them. But it was a pair of smaller, bunched-up tarps splayed across the ground that always attracted his eye, a pair of tarps that had once adorned common snowmobiles. Damon swallowed hard and tried to quell the rage growing in him, only able to do so when he turned back to the outside world and let the cold air overwhelm the heat of his anger.
Another blizzard raged, like so many other times he opened the hangar. Whipping winds blew snow against Damon, the cold cutting through his thick beard and stinging his face. A small snowbank—which had formed against the closed blast door—suddenly collapsed and spread around Damon’s face. His heavy parka and other snow gear sat in a drawer inside his office/sleeping quarters across the hangar, but he didn’t bother retrieving them before taking a few steps outside.
He inhaled deeply, the air cold and cri
sp and refreshing even though it made his lungs burn. Damon fought the urge to cough. He walked forward, the snow getting deeper with each step, a pair of snow-covered rocky embankments on either side of him, the path having been cut into the side of The Mountain generations ago. Damon raised his right arm directly in front of him, his entire body shivering except for the gun in his hand, which stayed completely steady as he swept it from side to side. He searched for any sign of danger, human or beast, but saw nothing, as usual.
Damon sighed, lowering the gun. He walked for another minute until he was clear of the embankments and had a wider, sweeping view of the barren landscape in front of him. He scanned the emptiness despite the cold, hoping to see life, more specifically hoping to see life atop a snowmobile. He didn’t. He turned and headed back in, The Mountain’s opening no more than a hundred feet away yet barely visible within the storm.
Another week with nothing, he thought, trudging along the path between the embankments. He’d started checking the Nothingness every day, and then every few days, and then once a week; the result was always the same. Damon nearly made it inside when he felt the ground quaking. Barely noticeable at first, he might’ve thought he was imagining it had the shaking not gradually intensified. He turned toward the Nothingness and saw the pristine white snow begin to splinter, though the shaking lasted only seconds before the ground settled.
Then, cracking, sharp and short, the sound starting above him but rushing across the snowy landscape. Damon heard scraping and looked up, where he saw a small avalanche of snow rushing down the side of The Mountain, plunging straight for him. He ran as fast as he could, slipping and sliding along the way, diving at the last moment. The snow crashed to the ground, missing him by feet. He stood, breathing heavily, looking at the pile of snow that may or may not have crushed him. His pulse raced and he hurried inside, rushing straight for the blast door controls, mashing the button to close the hangar off from the snowy wasteland.
He leaned against the wall and slid to the floor, where he sat for several minutes, breathing deeply, listening to the blast door grind its way closed. Once the outside wind was silenced, Damon hurried to the door, leaning his ear against it to listen for any potential danger. He heard none. He shook his head, embarrassed for overreacting. He had a job to do and couldn’t allow fear to influence him.
“Don’t be a damn fool,” he said aloud, his voice croaking from lack of use. Though he’d been the one to speak, those words belonged to someone else, someone who’d spoken them countless times to Damon over his life. Damon always hated those words—and for years hated the man who’d said them—but now he wished he could hear those words from that voice one last time. He turned to the pair of tarps and the empty spot where snowmobiles should’ve been. “Now who’s the damn fool?”
He’d told his father not to leave The Mountain, told him he couldn’t trust Kap, warned him he was getting too ill to leave. To this day, Damon wondered if his father had ultimately gone after the mysterious orange glow because he’d warned him not to. He never liked being told what to do, Damon thought with a smile. Stubbornness had been one of Moretti’s strengths and weaknesses, a trait that had helped him succeed in life, yet a trait that had more than likely ended that life. What could’ve happened to him out there?
Damon didn’t have long to ponder. He heard a crackling across the hangar, followed by the tiny echo of a whiny voice. Walda Lamb, he assumed, rolling his eyes, wanting to ignore her call but knowing that might lead to a visit from her or—he swallowed hard—other Mountain guards. He hurried across the hangar and grabbed the walkie-talkie sitting on his desk in the corner.
“Moretti here,” he said. No response. Damon sighed and looked toward the bottom of the staircase, as if Walda might’ve shown up already. She didn’t, and he pushed the transmit button again. “Walda, are you there? Copy.”
Nearly a minute passed before a voice responded.
“Moretti. . . sir. . . Ms. Lamb was called into a meeting with the Board. Is there something you. . . I mean, can I help you with anything?”
Damon looked at the walkie and sneered. His instinct was to ignore this other guard and put the walkie down until he heard from Walda, but curiosity got the better of him.
“Did you feel that a moment ago?” Damon asked.
Another minute passed. Damon tapped his foot over and over, his hand clenching the walkie tightly.
“Feel what, sir?”
Damon stared at the floor and saw no sign of shaking. He put a hand against the concrete and felt nothing. Still, he had no doubt the ground had shaken, no doubt others in The Mountain must’ve felt it. He could only think of one reason why this foolish guard would lie to him.
He’s jealous, just like the others, that Walda keeps me as second-in-command, he thought. They’ve always been jealous of the Moretti name, like Father said.
“Have Walda radio me the moment she’s done with the Board,” Moretti said, his foot tapping so quickly that his ankle began to ache.
The walkie shook in his hand and his heart nearly beat out of his chest. Sweat had formed on his brow though the hangar’s temperatures dropped significantly after the blast door had been opened. Damon looked around at the emptiness of the hangar, a calming sight that allowed him to breathe slower.
“You’re alone. . . you’re safe,” he whispered to himself. At first, this made him feel better, but shame soon burned his cheeks red. When he spoke again, his voice was louder—higher-pitched—and echoed throughout the cavernous space. “Don’t be a damn fool.”
Damon opened his eyes and stared at the walkie in his hand, feeling his pulse race faster with every second he stood there watching it. Finally, he couldn’t bear to stand around any longer. He marched through the hangar, slammed the walkie onto his desk and headed into his living quarters. Once an office, his room contained an old mattress pushed into one corner, shabby clothes and outdoor gear piled in another corner, and scattered cans of food littering most of the floor.
Damon dug through the pile, pulling on several layers of his heaviest clothing. Once dressed for the cold, he hurried back into the hangar, heading for the control systems. He was just about to open the blast door when he thought he heard a distant echo of noise across the hangar. Though his body perspired within his parka, he couldn’t help feeling a chill rush through him.
“Walda?” he called out. His voice cracked, echoing a reminder of his cowardice. The muscles in his face tightened as he scowled. “Who’s there? Nobody’s supposed to come down here without calling first.”
But the area near the bottom of the staircase was empty. Damon stared deeper into the recesses of the hangar, a large portion of which he spent very little time in. The lighting inside the hangar was dim at best, but the very back—where the largest, most useless construction equipment was parked—was cast mostly in shadows and darkness. He listened for other sounds and looked for any sign of movement, but there was nothing. He shook his head in disgust.
“Don’t be so paranoid.”
He pushed the button and the blast door squealed open again. This time, the incoming wind didn’t chill his skin. The shaking outside had come to a stop, but the snowy ground was cracked in more places and several other piles of snow had fallen outside the door. He grabbed the walkie from his desk.
“Tell Walda I’m heading outside to check on the stability of the security embankments,” he said.
This time, a response came almost immediately. “Why? Those security posts haven’t been used in years.”
Damon squeezed the walkie within his gloved hand and lost his grip. He cursed to himself as the device clattered to the floor. By the time he picked it up and transmitted again, he raised his voice to a yell.
“Are you second in command?”
He stared at the walkie, smiling as seconds of silence ticked by, smiling wider when the guard’s voice returned, quivering with nervousness.
“I apologize, sir. I’m still awaiting Ms. Lamb’s return fr
om her meeting. Should I check to see if Quentin Bowie wasn’t in the meeting?”
The mention of that name wiped the smile from Damon’s face. He had to resist the urge to smash the walkie.
“Bowie isn’t one of us anymore, no matter how much he tries to pretend,” Damon growled. “I don’t need to explain my decisions to the Board’s puppet. My whereabouts should be given to Walda only.”
He shoved the walkie deep into his pocket without awaiting the guard’s response. On the way out, he stopped at the weapons rack and grabbed the only rifle inside. He wasn’t sure how many bullets were loaded—if any—but the scope might come in handy. Slinging the gun’s strap over his shoulder, he headed out, climbing over the mounds of snow that had slid off the side of The Mountain. The cold inevitably seeped through his clothing, but it wasn’t unbearable. He was alone with the wind and the snow but felt relaxed as he stopped to stare into the Nothingness. Not for the first time, he thought about leaving; he thought about marching back into the hangar, taking one of the vehicles and driving off to search for his father or anything else left out in the world.
Anything to get away from The Mountain and those in charge, he told himself, the thought of the Board making him sneer within his face mask.
His status as security’s second-in-charge had undoubtedly been granted due to his family’s legacy in The Mountain, but the disappearance of his father left him without any true allies. He hated the Board’s crazy talk about finding the Descendant and reestablishing proper Aviary bloodlines; the freakish faces and bodies of Board members were all the proof he needed that they were the truly damned fools. Damon had heard tales of The Mountain’s forbidden level with its sealed, secret room; he had no desire to know what was held inside. His father had told him plenty about failed experiments he and Kap had overseen, about the facility’s highest level where those experiments were kept. Damon had no desire to visit that place, either.