Unbreakable (Unraveling)

by Elizabeth Norris

  Whatever it is, they don’t give us a second glance as we pass them.

  But they still put me on edge. My legs quiver with each step, the burn spreading throughout my body from my hamstrings to my chest.

  Barclay passes the fourth floor a few steps ahead of me, and in between us the door opens. I know the second I see his face that this guy coming through isn’t like the rest of them. He knows something is up, and when he sees me running toward him, his eyes narrow in recognition.

  The air seems to freeze in front of me, and I can’t get a breath, but instead of going for me, he looks up the stairs at Barclay.

  It takes me even less time to see what’s in his right hand.

  “Gun!” The scream is automatic, and thankfully Barclay hears me over the fire alarm and reverses direction, heading straight for the guy.

  But he’s going to be too late.

  I do the only thing I can. It doesn’t take any thought. I just react. I throw myself up the remaining stairs and against this guy I don’t know, effectively ramming him into the wall.

  His right arm is pinned momentarily before he gets over the surprise and knocks me off him.

  The distraction is enough, though. Barclay is there, and the heel of his palm comes up directly into the guy’s nose. Blood rushes from his face, and Barclay brings down his gun on the back of the guy’s head, knocking him out.

  I knew Barclay was good with hand-to-hand combat—he’d have to be. But even I’m impressed.

  People are staring at us now. This whole incident, only seconds long, has managed to attract a lot of attention. Barclay grabs a passing guy—he’s skinny, his tie is crooked, and he looks young, little more than a kid. “Get him out of here,” he says, pointing to the unconscious body. The authority in his voice is unmistakable. This is a command, delivered with urgency, the kind people don’t question, not when there’s a fire alarm blasting in their ears. “When you’re outside, get him in restraints and have him detained.”

  Skinny Kid nods, and as I head up the stairs after Barclay, a couple of people are helping him lift the unconscious guy up.

  We keep going, to the fifth floor. Barclay grabs the door and holds it open for me.

  The fifth floor is empty. Everyone has either cleared out or they haven’t reported in to the office yet to begin with. I follow Barclay as he makes his way through the floor, past the cubicles to the empty corner office. I don’t ask where he’s going. I know the plan.

  The corner office belongs to Special Agent Ian Bachman, who is clearly someone important. And someone who works the night shift, so he’s not here right now. He’s also the guy with the gruff voice who broke into Barclay’s apartment. Or at least Barclay seems sure that it’s him.

  We’re going to email the proof to everyone from Bachman’s computer.

  I slide open his desk drawers, pulling out their contents, scattering his papers on the floor. I’m sure there’s nothing he’d keep here to imply that he’s in on the conspiracy, that he’s working for Meridian, and even if he did, we wouldn’t have the time to go through it all without getting caught, but we want to make him—and anyone else who’s involved—think we’re on to them. If they’re scared, they’ll be more likely to make mistakes.

  While I’m destroying his desk, the zip drive is in the computer, uploading the files, and Barclay is prepping for our escape, with the one step that I don’t want to think about—despite how necessary it is.

  He’s using a small, handheld heat laser to cut through the glass of the corner window.

  There are only two exits in this building—the one we came through and the one Ben and Cecily used—and there’s no way we can get out of either now. Which means we have to make our own.

  Breaking the window is something Barclay has assured me will register on IA’s building security system. It will bring security running to this floor—this office. Which should let Ben and Cecily get out easier the way they came.

  Only it requires that we slide down a rope for five stories.

  The cool air from the broken window flows through the room, rustling the papers I’ve littered across the floor.

  Because, of course, a five-story drop from IA headquarters is actually a lot more than that. It’s five stories to the platformed walkways, then a hundred feet to the street of the underground. Which means we’re a lot farther off the ground than I’m comfortable with.

  Barclay ties the rope to the desk. A desk he’s assured me is bolted in place.

  I look at the computer. “It’s almost done,” I say.

  Barclay pulls up the email program and addresses it to the “All IA” mailing list. He types a short note.

  Eric Brandt was murdered. Because he uncovered this.

  And then he attaches the files.

  While we wait, he says into the com link, “We’re uploading now. Abort and get out of the building.”

  I breathe a little easier, knowing Ben and Cecily will be able to follow the crowd of people evacuating the building because of the fire alarm.

  From the hallway, I hear the elevators ding.

  00:17:42:57

  “It’s going to be fine,” Barclay says as he wraps the rope around one of his hands and one of his feet.

  Across the floor, I can hear the shouts and orders of some kind of task force coming for us. They’re fanning out, advancing on us so there’s no way back to the stairs.

  I look at Barclay and the iridescent sky peeking through the window. The wind moves through my hair and chills travel down my spine.

  “Tenner,” Barclay says, his voice calm. “We have to go.”

  I know we do, but it’s like everything in my body is refusing to move forward. Climbing out a window this high off the ground—the real ground—just isn’t natural.

  But I take Barclay’s outstretched hand, and he pulls me the few feet to him. From behind, I wrap my arms around his chest. I’m holding on to him, he’s holding on to the rope, and the rope is attached to the desk, which is bolted to the floor.

  I tell myself Barclay knows what he’s doing, that he’s done something like this before.

  “It’ll be over before you know it,” he says.

  And we go down the side of the building.

  00:17:42:02

  The air is cold, and it burns as it whips past my face.

  But worse is the feeling of gravity. The sensation of jumping only lasts a split second, and then I can feel gravity take over and begin pulling us down. My heart lurches in my chest at the lack of control, and my feet start to cramp from the fear.

  My ears pop, something stings my shoulder, and I look down in time to see the white platform rushing toward us. I open my mouth to let loose a scream, but I don’t have time.

  Barclay does something to the rope, and we lurch, not to a complete stop, but slow enough that the sounds of the world—people, traffic, general noise—come rushing back to my ears, and I can breathe again.

  We’re about five feet off the platform when Barclay says, “You have to jump.”

  Instead, I let go of him and just sort of fall to the ground. I keep my legs loose so that when I hit the concrete platform, my feet sting from the contact, but my knees bend, and I end up in a crouch with my hands on the ground to steady myself.

  I don’t wait for Barclay, though I know he’s right behind me. I just start running. We have to get away from IA headquarters—as far away as the city will allow.

  I think of the map Barclay drew for me last night, and I head in the direction we planned, essentially to the opposite end of the city.

  We slid down the building in full view of the cameras, so IA will know where we’re headed, but at least that will help Ben and Cecily slip out unnoticed.

  I push past people on the platform, ignoring the gasps or the way they stumble after I knock into their shoulders. I don’t have time to do too much dodging or weaving. I’m moving fast, and they need to get out of my way.

  When I knock into the shoulder of a girl a
round my age, she swears and yells after me. I glance back out of habit and realize she’s with a bunch of friends, all dressed in matching white polo shirts and plaid skirts—a school uniform for sure. One of them gives me the finger and the rest of them start to laugh.

  I don’t spare them another second—I need to keep running—but something pinches in my chest. I should be with friends, laughing and being stupid, not running from the cops.

  Barclay catches up with me, pressing his palm into my back. We’re about to hit a crossroads at the platforms. Right would lead us back around the way we came, and in front of us is some kind of upscale mall.

  I go left because that leads away. The alarm from IA headquarters is still blaring in the background.

  “Shit!” Barclay swears.

  “What is it? Is it Ben and Cecily?” I ask. Just the question tempts me to turn around and head back.

  “Keep running,” Barclay says.

  We turn left and run through the people on the platform. Barclay is in front of me now, and I keep my eyes focused on his back and push myself to keep up.

  I know IA has teams of people following us—they have to—but they won’t shoot at us since we’re surrounded by civilians, and everything else, all of the details we pass, are a blur. My feet pounding against the pavement, my lungs pulling in air, the way my whole body throbs with the burn of too much exertion, and Barclay’s back in front of me—are obvious. The rest of my attention is focused on looking for a threat and being ready to avoid it.

  00:17:34:18

  I’m not sure how much time has actually passed when we hit the major monorail station that will get us on the train out of the city and to safety. It feels like we’ve been running for hours, and my legs are aching with exhaustion.

  But I don’t slow down or stop.

  I know that once I do, I’m going to collapse.

  The station, completely made of glass, looms in front of us, reflecting the bright sun. Running up the stairs makes pain shoot up my hamstrings, and I feel like my legs might not continue to hold me.

  Barclay glances over his shoulder and calls for me to hurry.

  The plan is to get on the train. If we were fast enough, we’ve timed it right so that the train doors will be open, and we’ll be able to get on before they close. But anyone trailing us won’t.

  Only Barclay stops short in front of me.

  I barrel into his back.

  The train isn’t there.

  I’m too short of breath to ask what we’re going to do, but I don’t need to. Barclay grabs my arms and pulls me toward the edge of the platform.

  Behind us, I hear the shouts of pedestrians, and I know IA is close on our trail.

  “Ben and Cecily?” I ask, because I can’t help it.

  He shakes his head, and for a second I can’t breathe. My hands are shaky and I feel unsteady from the panic rising in my chest.

  “What happened?”

  “We don’t have time for this now,” he says.

  “Barclay!” There’s no way I can do anything without knowing what’s going on.

  “They got caught in the hallway. They ran into the deputy director, and he recognized Ben. They’re in his office telling him everything right now.”

  I feel something inside me relax. They’ve been caught, but they’re alive. They have the proof on them, and Barclay got the email out. I remember the faces of the two little blond children on Struz 2.0’s desk. He might be better dressed than my Struz, but he’ll hear Ben and Cecily out.

  He has to.

  The bell signifying the coming train starts to ring, and an announcement comes over the loudspeaker saying that everyone should step back from the edge of the platform.

  But there’s another announcement too.

  People behind us are screaming, “Get down on the ground!”

  I look over my shoulder and see that the order isn’t necessarily directed at us—it’s directed at everyone else, and behind the throng of commuters are guys with guns. They’re IA agents and security forces, dressed like the guards at the front of headquarters, and there are some guys in regular clothes, too—agents who’ve joined the chase.

  The oncoming train is approaching, but by the time it gets here, IA will be on top of us. Even if we get on the train, we’ll just be giving ourselves less room to run.

  We’re essentially backed into a corner.

  Closest to us is a guy in his late twenties with a military-style crew cut, khaki pants, and combat boots. His gun is trained on Barclay. “You got nowhere to go, Wonder Boy,” he says, and I recognize his voice as the guy who couldn’t stop chuckling when he broke into Barclay’s apartment.

  It’s over. We’re trapped.

  We can only hope the proof we emailed is enough.

  Right as I’m about to raise my hands and surrender, Barclay’s fingers dig into my shoulder, and I hear him say, “Trust me!” but I don’t have a chance to say that I do or ask what that means.

  Because he pushes me.

  I stumble off the platform and fall onto the thin rail track.

  My legs throb from the impact. The track vibrates with the approach of the train, and below me, all I can see is air.

  Over the roar of the train, I hear a few shouts across the platform, and suddenly Barclay is next to me, pulling me up to my feet so we’re both standing on the track. He winces and clutches his side, and I hope the vest has kept him from actually getting hit.

  He says something to me, but I can’t hear him. The train is too loud, but he throws himself forward, his hands catching the edge of the opposite platform, and I know that’s what he wants me to do.

  I hesitate. If I jump for the wall and slip, I’ll fall over a hundred feet down to the underground. And I won’t have anything to break my fall.

  But a rush of warm air envelops me—the heat of the train bearing down on me—and my palms are slick with sweat. I do what he says.

  I jump.

  My hands hit the concrete platform edge, and my whole body—even my face—slams against the wall with a thud so painful it’s almost blinding, and then the heat from the train is singeing my back as it pulls into the station and screeches to a stop.

  Next to me, Barclay presses himself straight up. I try to imitate him, but I just don’t have the strength, and the train is too close to me, restricting my movement. My fingers feel slippery, and the fact that there’s nothing below me except sky makes the arches of my feet start to cramp.

  I don’t want to die this way.

  But Barclay is there, grabbing my arms and pulling me up.

  Once my knees hit the cement, I scramble to my feet.

  Another train is pulling into the station. It’s headed in the opposite direction, and it’s at least a hundred yards away. And I know the new plan before he even says anything.

  Barclay grabs my arm. “We have to get on that train!”

  We run.

  All around us, I can hear people yelling. The IA agents are shouting orders. They know what we’re going to do and they’re trying to get to the platform and its train before us. The ordinary people trying to go to work scream when they’re caught off guard by the sheer amount of guns and excitement.

  My whole body hurts. My ankles sting in pain every time one of my feet hits the ground, my shoulder and back throb from where the bullets are lodged in my vest, and my lungs feel like they’re ready to burst because I’m not getting enough air.

  Heart pounding with the same furious rhythm as my legs, I narrow my focus on the open train doors. Like I’m in a tunnel, leading only to those doors, I block everyone else out. Getting there in time is the only option.

  I push harder, move my legs faster, and when we’re about ten feet away and the bell sounds to signify the doors are about to shut, I hold my breath.

  Barclay reaches the train just before I do, as the doors are sliding shut. His hand pushes against one of the doors, leaving a six-inch gap and giving me an extra second.

  Out of
the corner of my eye, I see Chuckles coming down the stairs to this platform, several agents behind him.

  The bell sounds again, and the doors push against Barclay.

  I throw myself into the train and collide with Barclay, throwing both of us into the back wall. A metal pole runs into my shoulder, and I groan at the pain because that’s definitely going to leave a bruise.

  The doors are closed. I release the breath I was holding, and suddenly I feel dizzy with relief. Barclay smiles at me, pulling me to my feet, and we stare at each other, breathing heavily.

  Then I see Chuckles.

  He’s barely ten feet away, running toward us at full speed and screaming at someone—probably the conductor of the train. If the doors open again, he’ll be able to get on. I turn and grab Barclay’s arm, trying to pull him toward the next door. If Chuckles gets on the train, we can get off. But Barclay stands his ground, smiles, and gives Chuckles the finger.

  And the train starts to move.

  00:17:31:25

  Barclay’s face is flushed from running, and I can’t help it, I throw my arms around him. Because we made it. We’re still alive.

  Barclay hugs me back, his arms tight, pressing me into his chest. I know he feels it too.

  “Ben and Cecily?” I ask, pulling away.

  “He believes them,” he says. “He’s asking a couple questions now, but . . .”

  He doesn’t need to say anything else. The weight of this conspiracy has just been lifted off our shoulders, because it’s over now. We’ll portal back to the hospital, gather up the Unwilling, wait for IA, and then we’ll be able to go home.

  We’ve won.

  It’s enough to make me come undone. My eyes sting, my shoulders droop, and my body starts to quiver. I’m so relieved that all I can do is cry.

  “Good plan, Tenner,” he says, but then I see his smile falter.

  For a second I wonder if someone’s behind me, if one of the agents managed to make it on the train. If we’re not really safe.

  But Barclay raises a hand to his earpiece, and I realize it’s something else.