That is, if the tunnel ended where she thought it might. Khalid had been a little vague about the exact spot, or what she could expect to find there.
Something shimmered up ahead, just past the beam of her flashlight. Anat’s heart leapt into her throat. The air was suddenly thick with a pungent smell that reminded her of burning plastic. Khalid had also promised that she wouldn’t encounter anyone else. The last thing she needed was to run into real smugglers.
Trembling slightly, Anat raised the flashlight beam. She frowned. The tunnel ahead had vanished, the dirt floor dropping into darkness. Had a section of the floor collapsed, maybe?
“Kus emek,” she muttered.
Her eyes widened as more of the floor slid into the void. Its advance picked up speed under her flashlight, like a fishing line being reeled in. Anat took a step back, then another. Seized by panic, she turned and sprinted back toward the trap door, the flashlight jerking crazily over the rough dirt. Her breath came in tight gasps. Her chest burned. The straps of her backpack slipped from her shoulders, but there was no time to retrieve it. She’d move faster without it anyway.
She’d nearly reached the stairs when she had the disconcerting sensation of being sucked backward. Anat fought to grab hold of something, clawing at the dirt with her nails. But she was drawn inexorably toward the encroaching void. I should have known better than to trust a smuggler, she thought. With that, the force swallowed her whole.
The Hospital
Sophie opened her eyes and frowned. Weird. She was still in a hospital bed. Of course, in most near-death experience stories, people woke up just like this. She hadn’t expected to be one of them, though. She really thought she’d died. But then, she’d always joked that spending eternity in a hospital was her idea of hell. Wouldn’t it be ironic if she turned out to be right?
Her wry smile faded to a frown as she took in her surroundings. If she was still alive, they must have moved her. This wasn’t the hospice room where she’d spent the last few weeks of her life. The fake ficus tree in the corner was gone. The cheap TV had been swapped out for a swanky flat screen. And instead of being hooked up to numerous beeping machines—via needles and sticky pads and probes—she was attached to nothing. At least, nowhere she could feel. Even weirder, she still wore her own pajamas—anywhere but a hospice would have insisted on an official gown. Why had they moved her?
The window curtains were drawn; it must be nighttime, even though the overhead lights weren’t muted the way they usually were. Which also explained why her family was gone.
Still, it was kind of strange for them to head home when she was at death’s door, after barely leaving her alone for weeks. Maybe something in her condition had changed. But she couldn’t have improved that much, right? Unless they’d suddenly developed a cure for her rare brand of terminal lymphoma that afternoon …
She scoffed. The doctors had made it pretty clear that nothing short of a miracle would buy her even a few more months. And Sophie wasn’t a big believer in miracles.
She felt alive enough, though: groggy and thirsty and irritated. Sophie sighed.
She was ready to be gone. She’d felt relief as that void had swallowed her whole. But she must have been dreaming, right?
Great. The last thing she wanted was to face more interminable weeks with her family hovering around maintaining a deathwatch.
Well, since she was apparently stuck here, she might as well try to get some real sleep. And for that, she’d need painkillers; after months of morphine, it was tough to sleep without it. But the stand that usually held the drip with its “magic button” was gone; the machine let her dose herself as needed and turned off automatically when she tried to take too much. She knew that from experience, having tried a couple of times to mess with it. She’d always found that fail-safe measure annoying; why not just let her make the decision? That way she could have spared her family weeks of their lives.
Well, a nurse should be able to get the drip set up in a couple of minutes, max. Sighing, Sophie fumbled around for the call button with her right hand. No sign of it. She tried with her left; sometimes the newer, more incompetent RNs moved it to the wrong side during sponge baths. Not there either. Crap. There was no way she was going to be able to sleep with fluorescent lights glaring down on her, it was like trying to nod off on the surface of the sun.
“Damn it,” she muttered. “I can’t believe they forgot to turn off the lights—”
Sophie yelped as the room abruptly plunged into darkness.
In the wake of the glare, it took a minute for her eyes to adjust. Not pitch black, she realized; there was a faint glowing seam around the circumference of the room at ankle height and another at waist level, casting the space in a watery blue glow. Sophie experienced the disarming sensation of having been suddenly submerged.
“Weird,” she said out loud. She’d spent a serious chunk of the years since her diagnosis in various hospital rooms. None had been this fancy. And as far as she’d seen, no one had entered the room to dim the lights. Something occurred to her. It was ridiculous, but maybe …
“Lights!” Sophie called, feeling silly.
She flinched as the lights flared back to life. “Dim lights?” she tried. Sure enough, they faded to a pleasant half-glow. She almost laughed.
“Wow,” she muttered. Wherever she was, it was pretty over the top. Dad’s health insurance had balked at covering the hospice costs, so how could they afford this place? She’d really love to ask someone. She groped among the blankets for the call button again, then peered over both sides of the bed.
A strange realization struck her. Slowly, Sophie drew back up to a seated position and held her hands in front of her face, examining them.
It had been at least a week since she’d managed to move so much as a finger. She’d grown accustomed to the slightest motion sending waves of pain through her, tortuous jolts that were only diminished by the steady pump of morphine. But not only was the IV drip gone, there was no scar where it had been attached. And nothing hurt. She almost felt like she’d never been ill. Suddenly, Sophie wasn’t tired anymore. If anything, she felt like jumping out of bed and turning somersaults down the hall.
But it would probably be a good idea to clear that with a nurse first.
Sophie took a deep breath, then called out, “Hello? Anyone?”
No response.
Here goes nothing. One at a time, she eased her legs off the bed. Wiggled her toes, then rolled her ankles. So far, so good. She lowered her feet to the floor, clutching the bed rail in case her legs buckled. She hadn’t walked in over a month. Her legs felt weak, wobbly, but they held up. She took one shuffling step forward, then another. Inch by inch, she made her way across the room.
By the time she reached the door, Sophie was panting, and her legs shook. She’d never exactly been an athlete, but this was pathetic, like being a toddler again. She clung to the handle and leaned against the wall, catching her breath. Summoning her last reserves of strength, she pulled the door open.
More weirdness: the corridor was dark and empty. Sophie braced herself against the frame and squinted in either direction. There was nothing but a long line of doors, no nurses’ station in sight. What kind of hospital was this? Besides being a) poorly lit and b) negligent about monitoring critical patients? She would have expected to find at least a couple of nurses hanging around, maybe a doctor on rounds or a security guard.
“Hello?” she called out again tentatively. “Anyone here?”
From somewhere behind the walls she heard a muffled exclamation, followed by the quick pounding of feet on linoleum. The door beside her suddenly flew open. A tall girl darted out, whirled, and spotted her. She was nearly six foot, and older than Sophie, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Wild black curls tumbled past her shoulders in waves. She didn’t look sick, and wasn’t wearing a hospital gown or pajamas. Instead she was dressed head-to-toe in a long-sleeved black shirt, pants, and combat boots.
Spotting S
ophie, her dark eyes narrowed. The girl lunged forward and jabbed a finger into her chest, barking something in an accusing tone. Sophie shied back. She wasn’t sure what language the girl was speaking, but it wasn’t English. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you,” she said meekly, holding up her hands.
The girl made a face and spat, “American?”
“Yes?”
The girl glared up and down the hall, as if someone who could understand her might be lurking in the shadows. She turned back to Sophie. “Let me out,” she hissed in menacing, heavily accented English. “I promise I won’t say a word. If the tunnel was built by the CIA, then we’re on the same side.”
Sophie blinked, thinking, I’ve accidentally been transferred to a psych ward. “Why don’t we try to find a nurse,” she said in a soothing voice, hoping that the girl wasn’t dangerous. “I’m sure they’ll help us sort this all out.”
The girl erupted in a rapid-fire stream of what sounded like invectives and stalked back to her room, throwing Sophie a final glare before vanishing inside.
“Great,” Sophie muttered. So much for finding the people in charge. She would gladly have traded the fancy room for a competent staff. She considered checking the adjoining wing for a nurses’ station, or maybe trying to see if there were any sane patients in the other rooms. But a wave of exhaustion swept over her.
With effort, Sophie managed to stumble back into her room. She collapsed on top of the bed, then flopped over and closed her eyes. The fatigue was like an anchor dragging her down. She gratefully succumbed to it. If this was a nightmare, fine. If not: also fine. After all, her family would probably be there when she woke up. They’d be able to explain what was going on.
Declan tried the door again. It was proving to be a beast. Ever since he’d woken up in this sodding hospital, he’d been working at the lock. He’d rarely encountered a bolt he couldn’t master given enough time and effort but was almost ready to declare this one a lost cause.
Well, at least he hadn’t been shot. Declan wasn’t sure what had landed him here, but there wasn’t a scratch on him.
As he squinted at the smooth metallic bolt, he puzzled over what had happened. Hard to say what had come over him, reaching out for that light. Simple survival instinct? It had felt like more as he was doing it. Like he’d been chosen for something, and had no choice but to accept.
Silly bloody nonsense, he told himself. He’d passed out, and for some reason the Russian had fled. Someone had probably stumbled across him unconscious and brought him here. As to his door being locked, and no nurses popping in to check on him … no matter. He was alive, he wasn’t hurt, and soon as this bloody latch gave, he was gone.
Last time he’d ever take a gig from a stranger, that was for sure. He’d whiled away more than a few hours wondering what inside that feckin’ box had been worth killing for. No knowing now, chalk it up to a life lesson and call it a day.
He wrestled again with the pin. Fortunately, his pick kit had still been in his pocket when he came to. All his clothes were still on, in fact: jeans, a Pogues T-shirt, and trainers. A bit strange for a hospital, but he was grateful for it. He’d hate to have to walk the streets of Galway with his arse hanging out once he broke free.
He thought of his mum. After the necklace, he’d have a few euros left to buy her something, too. Maybe that nice electric kettle she’d had her eye on. She’d like that.
Click. The door handle turned.
Declan cast a last glance around the room. Bloody strange place this was. He’d opened the curtains only to discover a solid cement wall—why put in a window, then seal it off completely? Probably built by Poles, they’d taken over all the construction jobs.
He stepped out into a dimly lit hallway.
It looked like a standard hospital. More doors like his on the same side of the hall: three to the right that ended in a wall, another two on his left that met a hook in the corridor.
“Hallo?” Declan called out, stepping forward. Funny, a small voice inside screamed for him to stay in the room where at least he knew what to expect. The Russian might be here too. But then again, he might not, he told himself. And there was only one way to find out.
Declan let the door latch shut behind him. He strode confidently down the corridor, repressing a nervous inclination to hum. First sign of a guard, he’d turn and head back the other way. Maybe they’d locked him in because they knew about the box. He’d been careful not to carry ID, but you never knew. Best not to take any chances. Right, then. Keep your head down, find the way out, and disappear. Declan turned at the hook and stopped dead.
Halfway down the hallway was a small folding table, set smack in the center. Two lads sat at it drinking from bottles of water. They both looked up, startled.
No one spoke for a minute. Declan sized them up quickly. Too young to be guards, and they weren’t in uniform, either. The blond one looked tall, even seated. He had the wide shoulders of a rugby player, a solid nose, blue eyes—the kind of fella girls always went for. He was clad head-to-toe in Gore-Tex and wore leather walking boots. The other was small, thin, either Paki or Indian with dark brown eyes and hair. Hard to say what he was dressed for, his oversized shorts and T-shirt looked straight out of a rag bin. He wore a shabby pair of sandals on dirty feet.
Declan broke out his best grin and walked over to them. “Howyas,” he said. “Wondering if you could direct me out of this kip.”
“Out?” The blond kid snorted and gave him a good once over. He had a thick accent, German or maybe Austrian. “There is no out.”
“Must be, mate,” Declan said reasonably. He directed his attention toward the Paki, who was regarding him curiously. “If there’s a way in, there’s a way out, aye?”
The smaller boy hesitated. “We’ve tried all day. Nico is correct. There is no way out.”
Declan frowned, wondering if they were having him on. He said, “Maybe I’ll just take a look myself, then.”
The blond, Nico, shrugged and drank some water. “If you like.”
They watched as he sidled past and continued down the hall. It hooked right and ended at a set of double doors. Declan looked them over, then stepped closer. Oddest set of doors he’d ever seen—no handle visible, no lock to pick. He gave one side a push, testing it. Nothing. He tried again, pressing harder, then leaned against it with all his body weight.
The door didn’t budge. He did the same on the other side, and finally stopped, panting and sweating.
A low chuckle behind him. He turned to discover both boys standing where the hallway hooked, watching him. The Paki looked sympathetic, but Nico was smirking. “We told you,” he said.
Declan ignored him. He ran his fingers all the way around the perimeter of the door. There was a tiny slit, it seemed nearly airtight. Still …
“We find something long and thin, we can run it along the seam, see? Maybe work it open that way.”
“We’ve already looked,” the Paki said. “There is nothing here but water.” He held out a bottle. “Would you care for some?”
Declan resisted the urge to smack it away; the kid was just being sociable, after all. “Thanks, but no.”
“My name is Zain,” the Paki said.
“Declan.” He glanced around. On the plus side, no security in sight. But maybe they didn’t need it, with doors like this. He pulled out his mobile; bloody Vodafone, the network never worked when you needed it to. “Any of you got a signal?”
“No,” Nico said, an edge to his voice. “Don’t you think we would have tried that already?”
“I don’t have a phone,” Zain said apologetically.
“So there’s no one else about?”
The two boys looked at each other. “No one,” Nico said grudgingly. “We checked every room.”
“Except the one you were in,” Zain added. “That door was locked.”
“Didn’t hear me calling out, though?”
They both shrugged and shook their heads. “The rooms must
be sound-proofed,” Zain said.
“That’s odd, isn’t it?” Declan mused, looking down the hall. A plain white linoleum floor, white walls, a white tile ceiling. Long, thin fluorescent bulbs cast them all in a greenish glow. It smelled oddly musty, lacking the overpowering ammonia stench of most hospitals. “No nurses or docs?”
“We told you, no one,” Nico grunted. “We’ve sat there for hours, waiting.”
“So you’re ill, then?” Declan asked. They looked chipper enough, even though the Paki could use a sandwich.
They exchanged another look. Clearly he’d arrived late to this particular party.
“We were discussing that when you came out of your room,” Zain finally answered. “Comparing notes, so to speak. I am from in New Delhi. I was in my room, studying. Everything started shaking, and suddenly, the wall, it just … it was not there anymore. It felt like an earthquake. Almost.”
“An earthquake, eh?” Declan furrowed his brow. He hadn’t felt anything like that. And there was no way they’d transport quake victims from New Delhi to Galway—wouldn’t make any sense at all. Maybe this one was a bit soft in the head. He turned to the blond and asked, “What about you?”
“I was hiking,” Nico said, examining his hands. “In the United States.”
Definitely mad, the lot of them, Declan thought. Brilliant. He’d been stuck in a bloody nuthouse. Best to humor them until someone who wasn’t completely crackers showed up. He nodded as if that all made perfect sense. “Of course. Declan Murphy, from Galway,” he said, extending a hand.
“Ireland?” As Zain shook, his voice was suffused with pleasure. “I have always wanted to see Ireland.”
Strangelets Page 2
