by T. K. Malone
“Ain’t no good, Joe,” Sticks said, though Connor could tell the words weren’t coming easy for him.
“Water, you got water?” Joe pleaded.
Sticks felt for his canteen but couldn’t find it. He cupped his hands into the stream and offered the water up to Joe’s lips. The man’s head was just a few inches above the water, in which his reaching arm now trailed.
“Thanks,” he muttered. “It’s gettin’ cold, Sticks, real cold.” Sticks nodded, holding Joe’s head up.
The sound of his whimpering filled the small passage, fading for a while before it suddenly grew stronger. Sticks bent closer, placing his palm over Joe’s nose and mouth and holding him down. The whimpering stopped, Joe’s arm splashing for a moment in the water until it too fell still. Sticks released Joe’s head, and both soldiers turned away.
“You’re on point, Gino.”
“But, Sticks—”
“I know.” Sticks crawled past Connor toward Byron, Kenny and Molly. “Let’s take it slow. Ain’t no turning back now. Byron, you next, then Molly, Kenny, Connor. I’ll take the rear. Leave any guns, it’s all about surviving now.”
Gino’s lights barely pierced the gloom, the passage’s low roof forcing him onto all fours. Connor waited for Kenny to pass, then fell into line. The stream had become shallower, petering out to a mere trickle, no doubt held back by the rockfall—under which lay Joe. Shock at the soldier’s grisly death at first numbed Connor’s claustrophobia, but it was soon back, lurking at the edges of his mind.
“Did the explosives detonate?” he asked Sable.
“I can’t answer that definitively, but I do not believe so. That would have created a much greater shock. The twists and turns of the shaft have indicated we’ve come back on ourselves a number of times. I surmise the Hell’s Gates were directly above the cavern in which we rested. It would make sense. Had the explosives we passed blown, I would have expected our demise to have been suffocation at best.”
“So, Croft could still be okay.”
“That is my best conclusion.”
Connor gritted his teeth and carried on. The farther they managed to progress, the clearer the air became. The shaft also began to widen, the bed of the stream now weaving through smoothed rocks and below rounded stone shelves. Before long, Gino was no longer crawling but had pushed himself up into a crouch, soon after which he began to walk with a stoop. He signaled for them all to stop.
“Feel that?” he asked, holding his finger up.
Connor held his own up but could feel nothing. Sticks unbuttoned his tunic and took out a plastic container. Flipping its lid off, he took out a new packet of smokes and a lighter. “Can’t be too prepared,” he said, and lit one.
Byron shuffled close and took one. “Yes,” he said, “and we’re still in with a shout.”
“We rest here,” said Sticks.
Connor found himself a dry rock and sat.
“You must continue. The cold and wet combined will see hypothermia setting in.”
“Just a few minutes,” Connor said.
“What?” Molly asked, her voice already shivering with the cold.
“Sable says we need to keep moving.”
Sticks looked up. “Tell Sable we’re having a break,” and Sticks’ voice had a certain finality to it.
“She’s right, of course,” Byron said. “But nonetheless, a break is certainly needed. I must say, though, the airflow appears constant—like before—so I believe we’re still in with a chance. We have to accept that, in all likelihood, Croft is now dead.”
“Sable doesn’t think so. She thinks we were circling under the Hell’s Gates when Banks blew them.”
Byron came and sat next to Connor. “So… So, the second explosion could well have been Croft finally using his ordinance against Banks. Makes sense, I suppose. Maybe he was ready for him this time.” He offered Connor his smoke. “Here, take this, I need to think.”
Byron handed him the smoke and slumped forward, cupping his chin in his hands. His head jerked randomly, his lips mouthing unspoken words. “Feasible,” he eventually said, intelligibly at last. “We know the entrance to Hell’s Gates is in one valley—the one over from Morton Deep—if I remember rightly and we know it curves around. That would put the second set of gates right in the heart of the mountain ridge. You all saw the feeds, about three hundred yards between each set of gates. So, assuming that’s the case, this spring should come out from the mountain somewhere near Morton Deep.”
“That’s good, then?” Kenny asked.
Byron shrugged. “Just as long as I’m envisioning everything right.”
“Let’s hope so. It’s getting bloody cold down here,” Kenny muttered through chattering teeth.
“At least you ain’t getting crushed by a loada rocks,” Gino growled, and then he got up.
They carried on in silence, the seemingly endless stream now beginning to grow again. For how long, Connor had no idea, but they spent some time crawling down short falls and through narrow gaps which were almost impassable. They walked through small caverns where milky water dripped from the plethora of stalactites, and where rock pools seemed to confuse the stream’s course. They trod on and on, until Gino finally raised his hand and pointed.
“Sticks,” he shouted, and Sticks went to join him, a smile growing on his face.
“I think we’re back in a mine shaft,” Sticks reckoned, and beckoned them over.
Sure enough, where Sticks had pointed, stood a wooden mine prop. There were more farther along, evidence of crossbeams just visible in the poor light. Molly grabbed Connor’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s so damn cold,” she said, then urgently pulled him forward. “If there’s a way, let’s get out of here.”
A few hundred yards farther and it was clear they were back in a mine shaft, the tunnel once more cleanly cut to shape, the stream running down its middle and what looked like daylight seeping in some way ahead. Gino let out a cry of joy, soon taken up by Byron and Kenny, but Sticks, who’d fallen in behind, raced past Connor and pulled Gino against the wall of the tunnel.
“Everyone, keep to the side.”
The two soldiers then led them cautiously toward the light, their pace quite naturally quickening as they got nearer, until they were all suddenly scrambling out into the bright reward of sunlight. They were out, free at last, and all they could do was sit, stunned, and soak up what was clearly the warmth of a bright morning sun.
9
Connor’s Story
Strike time: plus 9 days
Location: Morton Deep
Sticks let them drink the sunlight in, the press of the underground, while not forgotten, being pushed to the back of their minds for now. Connor looked up in awe at the vast redwoods towering around them. He’d been among them before, seen their majesty, but the bullets which had been whistling past him that day had kept his astonishment at bay. Now that very wonder and an immense relief swirled through him as he sat on the rich, brown earth, his back against one those wonderous trees, and wished for a god to thank.
He looked over at Sticks, no longer the young-looking soldier he’d first met. The man had taken to command with incredible ease. Leading, cajoling and helping, he’d stepped up to all these things seemingly without a second thought, but most of all, he’d done right by Joe, done the best he could. And now, like all good leaders, his shoulders seemed to be carrying the weight of his choices with apparent ease.
“Morton Deep,” Gino eventually said, staring down into the valley. “I know this place. Me ‘n Joe…” but then he kicked at the dirt at his feet. “Me ‘n Joe used to go fishing on its lake, drinking at its bar.”
“Me ‘n you,” Sticks said, “we’ll go have a sniff around.”
“No!” Molly blurted out, and everyone looked at her. “No, we should all stick together. We’ve gotten through all it took to get out, we should now stay together.”
“I agree,” said Byron. “There’s little point in splitting up
. We have no weapons left, apart from your sidearms. We need to get out of these wet clothes, so we need to scavenge, and fast, before the chill sets in. It’s best we stick together—whatever it brings.”
“Connor?” Sticks asked.
“I’ll do whatever you tell me, Sticks. You’re in charge.”
“But?”
“But…well, if it’s up for discussion…I agree, we should stick together.”
“I need some more painkillers…” but then Kenny seemed to think better of it.
Sticks looked at them each in turn. “Fair enough. But remember, Connor, you’re the one with the supercomputer in your head, so whatever you say, you’re the important one.” He grunted a laugh. “But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Gino stood and began to walk along beside the small stream which flowed out from the mine shaft. It seemed now to have become their trusty guide, as though it had consciously led them to safety. Connor took a moment to drink in the forest, the blue sky, the vastness of it all. Through the trees, he could see the shimmering blue lake below, the lower ridge which formed the far side of the valley. When he set off after Sticks, his boots squelched with every step and his fatigues chafed against his legs, and though the breeze was only slight, it felt as chilly as a bitter wind.
Before long they came to a ledge where Gino stopped. Sticks went and stood by him, and one by one they lined up along its edge, the ruins of Morton Deep now plain to see.
“Bar’s gone,” said Gino, pointing at a mass of black ash filling the scorched shell of a building. “Why’d they have to go and do that?” He slowly set off toward it, picking his way down through the undergrowth. “Let’s see if there’s anything left,” he shouted back.
When Connor came to stand on the edge of the road by the remains of the bar, he watched with some disappointment as Gino and Sticks picked through the ruins. “Nothing,” Sticks hollered, and then came back, shoulders slumped. He looked farther down the valley. “They’d have come straight up the road, straight to Aldertown. We need to find a place away from the road, maybe in the trees, a track or something. They can’t have gotten everything.”
They set to searching—and for some time—but just as they were about to give up, Molly cried out and pointed. Away from the road, about a mile along the lakeshore, stood a remarkably intact-looking cabin, one which seemed to have survived the wrath of the army. They followed a path along the water’s edge, finally approaching the cabin with caution. Sticks then halted them and hailed the cabin, but no answer came back.
Inside, it was gloomy and dusty, as though it had only recently been abandoned. Two plates still sat on a table, scattered with crumbs. A sink in the corner was full of cold, gray water, a ring of fat clinging to its edge. There was a half-set fire, its kindling still in place, and a pair of sweats discarded on the floor.
“It’s like they just vanished,” Molly whispered.
“I’m going to take me a wash,” Gino said. “Get out of this wet shit and see if I can rinse that mountain outta them,” and he left.
“Him ‘n Joe, they was close,” Sticks commented. “But it ain’t a bad idea. Who’s up fer gathering some wood ‘n getting a fire started?”
“Should we?” said Kenny. “What about the smoke?”
“Only a dick makes fire that smokes.” He checked himself. “Sorry, keep forgetting you’ve never been out here before—out of the city. Gonna take you some gettin’ used to.”
“Sure will,” Kenny had to agree.
“Let me start by teachin’ you how to gather the right wood and how to make a smokeless fire, big man,” and Sticks shot him a grin.
Molly followed them out.
Connor looked at Byron. “What about you?”
“I think I’ll root around the bedroom for some old clothes. Bound to be something.”
“Tell me, Byron: you were full of predictions about how it would or wouldn’t be out here; did you expect this? So deserted?”
Byron snorted. “Hypotheses are just that. Deserted? I believe I foretold of a banding together, and I believe I foretold that ordinary folk would be well and truly buggered. And by my reckoning, Connor, you don’t just hang around waiting for it to come. No, we need to get rested up, dried, fed if possible, and then vanish.”
“Where to?”
“We have to pick a side or die in the crossfire. No one will survive the next few months on their own—Sticks or no Sticks.”
“Do you know much about out here?”
Byron looked out from the wardrobe in which he’d begun rifling. “Here, try these on,” and he threw Connor a pair of jeans. “Out here?” he went on to say. “No, no, nothing about ‘Out here’ crossed my desk. The power plants, the logging, that type of thing—yeah, had plenty of reports about those, but real life, no, nothing. Why would they have been interested? The walls were up. We had our Utopia, Connor.”
“Except it wasn’t…”
“Remember the bird in the cage? He can’t fly, but he thinks he’s safe.” He looked down at Connor’s new legwear. “They fit?”
“They’ll do. Throw us your fatigues, I’ll lay them outside in the sun. Was it all bad? You know, in the city.”
“All? No, not all, but then I don’t suppose it’s all good out here, either. Well, is it?” and he smiled, throwing Connor his damp clothes.
“That I doubt.”
Sticks had now gotten a fire going in the hearth, and as he’d promised, it was virtually smoke free. Molly, Kenny and Gino were sitting around it in various states of undress, their fatigues steaming away in the growing heat of the flames. Connor couldn’t help but think it was possibly both the strangest thing he’d ever seen and also the most beautiful. If nothing else, life had been quite real since he’d met the soldier from Madison County.
He sat next to Molly, having draped his own wet clothes over a couple of nearby chairs. “Everyone okay?” he said, then, “May I?” as he pointed at Sticks’ cigarettes.
“Sure. Say, Connor, your AI…Sable, she got any thoughts on what next? Cos I’m clean out of ideas.”
“We should go up the valley,” Gino said.
Sticks glanced at him. “You know that, hell, I know that. I’ll throw my hand in with the preppers in a blink, but I was just wondering what that AI of Connor’s thought. But then, does she think? I s’pose she must. It is a she? Baffles me, it does. All stumps me cold.”
Connor lit the smoke. “She’s mostly silent. Only seems to talk when something’s going awry. She’s not saying anything at the moment, though.”
“What’s it like, having her in your head?” Gino asked.
“Like? Well…you ever have arguments with yourself?”
“What, like in my head?”
“Yeah.”
Gino shrugged. “Hell, yeah, beat myself up all the time. Specially if I’ve messed up on something.” He stared into the flames, more than likely still blaming himself for Joe’s death.
“It’s like that, except there’s no arguing. It’s just plain she knows far more than me.”
“Not quite right, Mr. Clay,” said Byron, coming over from the small kitchen area. “I’ve found some salted beef and the like. Seems okay.” Byron squeezed in next to Molly. “I’ve found some clothes that might fit you,” he said to her.
Molly smiled. “No, thanks, I’m good. Kinda like these,” and she looked down at her combat trousers. She took the strip of beef Byron offered her, though. “Thanks.”
“Oh, and Gino, didn’t you say you fished?” Byron asked. “If you’re up to it, there’re rods and all that back there. This beef isn’t going to last more than a day. Foraging: I know a bit about that, if it helps, Sticks.”
Sticks smirked. “Getting into country life, Doc… Now, why do I always think of you as a doctor? Maybe it’s cos you’re a learned man, seeing the only type of those you get in the army are the docs. There’s foraging and there’s foraging. Truth is, there should be stuff around here; the army clearly haven’t tor
ched any of the gardens I’ve seen, nor the few veg plots. Now, if it was just what the trees let live under them, then it’d be mighty harder. Like it or not, we gotta look up the valley. We gotta look to the preppers or we won’t survive the winter.”
“When are we going to set out?” Connor asked.
“Tomorrow; can’t be no later. We’re too close to Banks fer my likin’. Way too close. But I think we’ll risk it for today. After all, he’s pretty preoccupied at the moment.”
“So,” Kenny said, “what are we going to do for the rest of the day?”
Sticks looked across at him. “Whatever you want, Kenny. You ain’t in no city no more.”
“I think… I think I’m gonna look for a tree and carve Joe’s name into it.”
“Why?” Gino asked him.
“Cos he won’t get a grave…but mostly because he pushed me through—probably saved my life. You said he fished here, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why not?”
Gino smiled. “Yeah, why not. But, you know, Joe never did like to be alone, so you gotta carve everyone’s name with his; he’d-a liked that.”
Kenny nodded. “Have you got a knife?”
Getting up, Gino unsheathed his knife and made to hand it to Kenny but then clearly thought better of it. “Tell you what, big man, you pick the tree, I’ll do the carving. Wouldn’t want you to cut your fingers off.”
Molly and Byron had taken the sole bed. Kenny had bagged the sofa on account of his broken arm. Gino had hunkered down by the fire, but Stick’s was now taking his turn keeping watch at the window. They’d let the fire burn down, not wanting to attract any visitors, best to be on the safe side, Connor mused. Earlier, Connor had taken a walk along the lakeshore and had sat for a while, unable to accept the wide-open space which now surrounded him. The star-filled sky was so vast that even the mighty redwoods couldn’t reach it, something he just couldn’t comprehend. After the press of the city, the claustrophobia of the underground compound, and the sheer hell of the mine shafts, it all seemed just too surreal.
