by Kyla Stone
The tunnel walls closed in on her. She felt every pound of the tons of concrete and rock and earth bearing down on her head.
“Are you okay?” Finn asked quietly.
Her chest tightened. It was hard to breathe. “I don’t like closed-in spaces,” she muttered. “Especially not underground.”
“So, you despise heights, but the depths aren’t working for you either?”
She took several ragged breaths. The darkness was oppressive and smothering. “Finn Ellington-Fletcher, are you making fun of me right now?”
“If I said yes, would you hate me?”
“A little.”
“A little I can live with.”
She craned her neck to search behind them, scanning her light along the scarred walls. No furred bodies. No gleaming eyes. “Are you trying to drive me insane?”
He shrugged, then winced, drawing in a sharp breath. “Everyone needs a hobby.”
She turned the light on him. He was walking normally, his pallor still an unhealthy shade, though the bleeding seemed to have slowed. “I should be the one asking if you’re okay.”
“I feel about as useless as tits on a boar,” he said wryly.
“That’s an apt description if I ever heard one.”
“You know I always try my best.”
She tried to smile, but it came out like a grimace. She pushed down the anxiety roiling in her gut. Finn would be okay. His arm would be fine. They were all going to get out of this hellhole. She would make sure of it.
Benjie stumbled. Willow gripped his hand. “Be strong, kiddo. Just a little further.”
He shivered. “I’m scared. I want Mom.”
“I’m going to get you out of here,” Willow said, ignoring the pang in her belly. She shot Finn a sidelong look. “This princess can save herself and you, too. I promise.”
Cleo pointed to a solid wall. “The subway tunnel is this way.”
“I don’t see any doors,” Celeste said.
“Did you get us lost?” Silas sneered. “Why am I not surprised?”
Cleo only laughed. She pulled something small, round, and metallic from her pocket and pushed it against the wall. “I’d step back if I were you.”
There was a low rumbling sound. The ground shivered beneath Willow’s feet. The wall itself vibrated, quaking with tiny tremors. A three-foot radius of concrete broke apart, crumbling into a thousand small, jagged chunks. A hole in the wall appeared, surrounded by rubble and swirling white dust.
“How’d you do that?” Silas asked, trying to hide his surprise. “It barely made a sound.”
“Techy stuff from the Sanctuary. They’ve given all kinds of wicked gear to the Pyros.” She ushered them through the hole in the sewer wall into a larger tunnel.
Amelia and Celeste hobbled through the narrow, jagged opening, then Finn and Benjie, followed by Silas and Li Jun. Willow entered last, sweeping her light behind her, checking for movement.
Their lights bobbed over the walls, revealing old rusting tracks and pipes of all sizes running along the low concrete ceiling.
“This section of MARTA was abandoned, what, ten years ago?” Li Jun said. “Too expensive to maintain and everyone used the AirRail anyway.”
The concrete floor was damp but not wet. Their soaking boots squelched with every step. The darkness rippled all around them, thick and heavy.
They came to a fork in the tunnel. Cleo chose a path and slapped a blinking tagger on the wall for Gabriel and Micah to follow. Hopefully it would be just Micah and Gabriel chasing after them, not a horde of vengeful Pyros.
Deep shadows flickered outside their diminishing circles of light, the cold, impenetrable blackness beyond hiding any number of monsters, real and imaginary. A looming sense of doom filled the dank air around Willow, like sharp-fanged, leather-winged creatures hovering just out of sight.
It felt like a tomb.
Another sound came from behind her. A whispery skittering. A scuffling, shuffling noise.
She spun, flamethrower up, searching wildly. There was nothing. Only rounded concrete walls, more pipes, grates, tunnels, and darkness. Always the darkness, crouched like a living thing just outside the light.
She kept walking, her feet thudding against concrete, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. They were being watched. She could feel it.
After several minutes, they came to a series of three circular openings, three tunnels branching in opposite directions. Cleo hesitated.
“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” Finn asked. “Because it feels like we’re wandering around like lost farts in a perfume factory.”
Cleo shot him a murderous look. She took the center tunnel, first slapping another tagger against the wall. They walked on in silence, the tension mounting like the turning of a screw.
The longer they spent in here, the heavier the tons of concrete pressed against her chest. And the more time the miniature monsters had to find them. She tasted acid in the back of her throat. Her breaths came shallow and ragged.
Zia wouldn’t have been shaking and terrified like Willow. She’d loved heights and thrills and faced whatever life threw at her with joyful exuberance. She pushed the thoughts out of her mind. Zia couldn’t help her now.
A quarter of an hour later, they passed another tunnel on the left, the opening a gaping black maw. Deep inside it, dark shadows seemed to shift and solidify.
She strained to hear over their echoing steps, the slow drip of water, and the blood pounding in her ears. Her heart leapt into her throat. “Do you hear that?”
“What?” Benjie asked, his voice quavering.
Willow raised her finger for silence.
The sound came again. This time it was unmistakable. The scratching of tiny claws.
She aimed her light into the tunnel, her hands shaking.
Eye-shine. Hundreds of pairs of beady, flashing eyes. A thousand furry, squirming bodies. A horde of rats flooded the tunnel like a raging river.
They were coming.
Benjie screamed. Willow screamed with him.
One rat scrabbled ahead of the others. Before she could react, it launched itself at her and clawed up her leg. She lifted her hand to block it and shove it away.
But the thing latched on, clinging to her fingers, tiny claws digging into the thick material of her gloves. She shook her arm frantically. It wouldn’t let go.
Her muscles threatened to lock in terror. One bite. One nibble. One set of jaws sinking into flesh anywhere on her body, and it would all be over.
Yuan knocked the rat away with the butt of his flamethrower.
“Die, you little bastards!” Silas spun and faced the sea of rats, spraying them with bullets. Dozens of rodents burst on impact, blood spattering everywhere. The light from his flailing weapon spun crazily over the concrete walls.
“I’ll cover you!” Li Jun yelled to Cleo. He lifted his flamethrower. “Take them and go!”
“Hurry up!” Cleo cried over her shoulder.
Celeste stumbled. Amelia wrapped her arm around her waist and propped her up. “Come on!”
“Get out of here!” Silas shouted as he shot a dozen more rounds into the writhing sea of rats. The others fled, rapidly disappearing into the darkness of the tunnel ahead.
Finn seized Benjie with one hand and swung him over his unhurt shoulder. Blood oozed through his bandage, but he didn’t even flinch. “I’ve got him.”
Panic thrummed through Willow, vibrating in her bones. She fought it back. “Are you sure? What about your—”
“Never been better. Hurry up!”
She hesitated, torn between fleeing with the people she loved and staying to help Li Jun fight off the swarms of infected rodents.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave someone else behind, not when they’d left Gabriel and Micah, not when they’d already lost Nadira and Jericho.
One person couldn’t fend off the demon hordes of hell. Li Jun needed backup. If they couldn’t stop t
he rats here, the beasts would hunt her friends down—Benjie and Finn and everyone else. She had to protect Benjie, no matter what. “Keep him safe.”
“With my life.” Finn met her eyes for an agonizing moment. She couldn’t read his face in the flickering shadows. “Don’t you dare die on me.”
“Just go!” She watched Finn flee with Benjie safely tucked in his arms, then spun back to Li Jun. She kicked two screeching rats against the wall and lifted the flamethrower. “Show me how this bad boy works.”
30
Micah
“What’s the plan?” Micah asked, so low his voice was a breath against his brother’s ear. They huddled side by side, their backs pressed to the marble pillar. Their rifles lay beside them, empty and useless amid the spent shell casings littering the carpet.
“We need to get lower,” Gabriel said.
Micah nodded, though he wasn’t sure how that would help. But in matters of combat, he trusted his brother implicitly.
They crawled silently down the curving ramp as it gradually lowered from three stories to two, to one-and-a-half as they circled back around to approximately the same position, though lower and much closer to the action now.
He could hear every word of Sykes and Horne’s conversation.
“I’m sure we can come to an understanding,” Horne whined weakly. “I can still offer value.”
Sykes laughed, an eerily pleasant sound that raised every hair on Micah’s neck. “I seriously doubt that.”
“You have a rat problem,” Horne said.
Sykes made an irritated sound. “I’d say we all have a rat problem.”
There was about two inches of space between the floor and the railing’s brass panel. Micah pressed his face to the plush carpet and turned his head. He could barely make out the figures below.
Sykes was still turned away, his black trench coat sweeping his shins. He gripped that deadly, curled scythe in his left hand, his bandaged right hand limp at his side. Horne knelt before him, sniveling and pleading. Two Pyros flanked Sykes, their guns trained on Horne.
“I know who helped us escape,” Horne said. “Let me go, and I’ll tell you everything.”
Acid burned the back of Micah’s throat. He felt sick with anger. Horne never stopped. He’d betray his own grandmother if it kept his sorry butt alive.
Was this the right thing? Should he really risk his life for Horne? His brother’s life? Was it worth it? Horne wasn’t worth it. Horne had betrayed them. Jericho was dead because of Horne.
But to abandon him to the cruel torture of the Pyros? It felt wrong. This brutal world had already taken so much from Micah, from them all. Trying to force him again and again to be something he loathed.
Be good. Be brave. He repeated his mother’s mantra in his head. He wasn’t doing this because of who Horne was. Micah was doing it because of who he was. Everything was a choice. In the end, he had to make the choice he could live with.
Horne didn’t deserve to be saved. Micah was going to save him anyway.
“I can help you,” Horne whined to Sykes. He squirmed wretchedly. “I can tell you who the rat is.”
Sykes only smiled in cruel amusement. “You don’t think I already know? I know everything that happens in this place. You don’t think I know what that girl’s up to? Who she’s affiliated with? Moruga is too enamored with her hideously burned face. He can’t see clearly. But I can. I’ve just been waiting for her to make her move, to reveal herself as the rat she is.” He spat on the floor. “Judging by the wreckage surrounding us, I’d say she has.”
Horne deflated. He’d played his last card and lost. He shuffled forward on his knees, groveling. “Moruga should be the one who metes out my punishment. Let him decide—”
Sykes recoiled in disgust. “Don’t touch me, you filthy beast. Moruga isn’t here now, is he? We don’t bother him with such small, unsightly matters. He trusts his people to take care of business, which we do. As for you, little piggie, it’s time we had some fun. Right, boys?”
Beside him, Gabriel stiffened. Micah turned his head and met his brother’s gaze. Gabriel pulled out the hunting knife Cleo had given him and gestured for Micah’s. Micah handed it to him without a word.
Stay here, Gabriel mouthed. He crouched, every muscle tensed, his jaw bulging, his eyes cold and calculating. Getting ready.
“Wait!” Horne gasped, cringing. “Don’t kill me! I know where the escaped prisoners are going and how they plan to get there. I’ll tell you everything—”
Gabriel leapt onto the narrow lip of the railing. Micah inhaled a single sharp breath as his brother sprang from the railing and plunged over the edge of the balcony.
He dropped silent and deadly. He landed on Sykes’s back, sending them both sprawling to the floor. As they fell, Gabriel sank one knife deep into the man’s upper back. Sykes’s scythe went spinning across the marble floor.
No sooner had he landed then he was on his feet again. He spun and hurled the second blade at the startled, gaping guard to his left.
The blade struck the guard in the throat. He clutched at his neck, gurgling, sputtering, eyes wide and astonished at his own death.
Protect him, God, he prayed desperately. Keep my brother safe. Micah watched from behind the safety of a pillar, his mouth moving in a flurry of silent prayers. But it didn’t look like Gabriel needed them. He’d seen his brother fight, but he was usually waist-deep in the battle with him. He’d never seen Gabriel like this, a deadly, skilled killer.
Gabriel was raw, vigorous power. He moved with precision and control, his muscles bulging, sinews straining, his body a well-honed weapon.
He didn’t waste time to grab a gun. He leapt over Sykes’s writhing body and hurled himself at the second guard, a thickly muscled white man with a bulldog face.
Gabriel was a streak of lightning coming at him, impossible to stop. Bulldog shot but missed. A crackling blue ball of death smashing into the base of the fountain behind him, marble shards exploding everywhere.
Gabriel barreled into Bulldog with every ounce of his considerable force, his lowered head slamming into the guard’s soft gut. Bulldog cursed as he stumbled.
Gabriel took him to the ground, wrestling for the pulse gun. The guard struck him in the face and neck with his free hand, but Gabriel was undaunted. He grunted, absorbing the blows like they were nothing.
Bulldog managed to lift the gun, aiming unsteadily at Gabriel’s head. Gabriel spun on his hands and knees and lashed out with his leg, kicking the gun out of the man’s hands. Bulldog landed a savage punch against Gabriel’s jaw. He fell back.
Micah flinched as if he could feel the pain himself. His lungs constricted. He was too terrified to breathe. It didn’t matter how strong Gabriel was. A tiny mistake, a second of misjudgment, or a single bullet could still take him down.
What was he thinking? How could he allow Gabriel to risk everything for Horne? Gabriel was worth a hundred of the likes of Tyler Horne. Jericho would never have allowed this, would never have sanctioned so great a risk for so little reward.
Abruptly he remembered the girl whose hand he’d held as she died in the middle of the highway, slaughtered by the Headhunters. Jericho had forced him back, refusing to allow him to intervene, for saving the girl meant certain death for the rest of the group. All bravery and valor have a cost, Jericho had said. Be damn sure you weigh the cost before you act.
Jericho was dead. Micah had to step up, to be a man now, not a boy. To be the leader Jericho said he could be. To weigh the risks and benefits of every choice, to make the difficult decisions, both for himself and for the people he was responsible for. To somehow balance mercy with justice, compassion with self-preservation. A good leader needed to do both. Micah needed to do both.
Right now, it was his brother who needed him. He forced himself to breathe, to act. He shoved his skewed glasses into place and pulled himself to his feet. Crouching, he scrambled down the curving walkway, not yet sure what he would do but knowing he
had to do something.
In the lobby, Gabriel punched Bulldog’s gun-hand hard just above the wrist, then forced his hand inward at an excruciatingly unnatural angle until the guard bit out an ugly scream and dropped the weapon.
Bulldog headbutted Gabriel, sending him reeling backward. The guard rolled out from beneath him and stretched for the gun.
Gabriel shook his head, momentarily stunned.
“Gabriel!” Micah hit the lobby floor at a dead run. “The gun!”
He glimpsed Sykes staggering to his feet out of the corner of his eye. Micah swerved left and went for the other guard, the one Gabriel had stabbed in the throat. A pulse gun lay a foot from the man’s limp, open palm.
He bent, grasped it, and whirled, his finger already on the trigger. “Don’t move!” he shouted.
Horne had tried to run, but he’d slipped in a puddle of Sykes’ blood. He was flat on his back, moaning, clutching his knee.
Sykes picked up the scythe. He loomed over Horne, the wickedly curved blade pressed against Horne’s heaving stomach.
Another pulse blast crackled through the air. He hoped with all his being that it was Gabriel who shot the guard and not the other way around, but he didn’t dare risk a glance.
“Don’t move!” he shouted again at Sykes. “Back away, now! Drop the knife!”
Blood filmed Sykes’s lips and spattered his chin. His pale eyes gleamed. “Which is it, little piggie? Move or don’t?”
Micah’s hands were slick on the gun. His arms trembled. It was suddenly the heaviest object in the world. “Drop the scythe!”
“You and I both want this filthy pig dead,” Sykes said, his lilting voice taking on a heavy rasp. The back and shoulder of his coat were slick, drenched with blood. “How about you let me do the dirty deed and we both walk away from this?”
“Just kill him!” Horne screamed, sputtering incoherently. “What are you waiting for?!”
“I can’t let you do either of those things.” Micah’s finger twitched on the trigger. He was willing to fight. He had killed in the heat of battle. But this was different. He’d never killed someone face to face. He didn’t want to do this.
