by Kevin George
Samuel muttered his thanks and hurried down the hallway, each step steadier than the last, gaining speed as the wind grew louder and the temperatures became colder. Along the way, he heard more yelling from the rooms he passed, more pounding on the locked doors. He glanced toward some of the doors’ small square windows and saw desperate-looking faces peering out at him, faces belonging to female family members of the men Samuel had ejected from The Mountain.
Samuel slowed to look at each of the women, wondering which one would be chosen next to have an Aviary-fertilized egg implanted into her womb. He wondered how many had already been taken, how many had survived the process and how many hadn’t. For far too long, he’d turned a blind eye to the atrocities in Weller’s lab. He didn’t want to imagine what the project would look like once The Board took over.
“I’m sorry,” he mouthed to every prisoner he passed, though more than one face flashed with recognition for him before pounding on the doors and screaming within became increasingly violent.
If The Board is going to destroy me, I may as well make amends to these poor women, Samuel thought. He stopped and turned to look for the maintenance worker—and, more importantly, for the man’s keys to these cells—but he was nowhere to be found. He considered rushing back to look for the man, but time was running out. The security center didn’t have the same camera coverage up here that they had in most of The Mountain, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before his two captors either woke up or were discovered missing. After I save Horace, I’ll come back for these women, regardless of what that might mean for me.
Samuel shivered, but not due to the inevitability of his capture and torture and whatever else The Board might have in store for him. The hallway was growing colder, temperatures dipping so low that steam came out of his mouth with every breath. Frigid wind seeped through his clothes, but the cold air smelled fresher and breathing it helped clear the fog shrouding his mind. Bright, natural light filled the hallway up ahead and he saw the silhouette of his son standing in front of The Mountain’s precipice, a swath of blue sky peeking through the heavy clouds beyond.
“Horace?” Samuel asked calmly, not wanting to startle his son. Horace turned his head just slightly but did not step away from the edge. “What are you doing up here?”
Horace sighed. “Wondering what else is out there. . . beyond these walls. . . beyond ISU-Ville and One Corp.’s lands. . . beyond the snows. . . if there’s anything beyond the snows. Looking at this makes me realize how stuck I am in this life, how alone we all are. I loved grandfather and his vision to save humankind, but none of this is going to work.”
“That’s why you have to leave,” Samuel said.
Horace craned his neck to see over the side, but not far enough to see the bottom of the sheer cliff face of The Mountain. He turned to his father, his face red and wind-blown, his eyebrows raised in confusion.
“Leave? Why?”
Samuel gave him the quick version of what happened with The Board and the 2.0, though he purposely left out the part about Martin LeRoque wanting the dangerous new version of Blast sent to the villagers.
“They’ll be coming after me soon and I’m afraid they won’t want any Jonas left to stake a claim to power,” Samuel said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to avoid them.”
Horace snorted, a quick, dragon-like burst of steam shooting out of his nose. He turned back toward the sky. “We could jump. . . together. . . take away their pleasure of destroying the final Jonases.”
Without looking back at his father, Horace held out his hand. Samuel couldn’t recall the last time he’d held his son’s hand—probably not since Horace was a small child—and it suddenly hit him how much of his son’s life he’d missed. He couldn’t deny there was something tempting about denying Martin LeRoque his revenge. Samuel inched forward until he could reach out and grab his son. He laced their fingers together but yanked Horace away from the edge.
“We can’t give up and let your grandfather’s legacy die,” Samuel said. “The Jonas family is still important. . . our bloodline is still important.”
“Where will we go?” Horace asked.
“Back to the tunnel where you came from,” Samuel said. “Get back to your ISU. I know it’s not a perfect existence, but it’ll be better than—”
“You don’t have to convince me,” Horace said, marching down the long tunnel without being told twice.
Samuel gained strength from his son and the two hurried toward the elevator, ignoring pleas from the prisoners, stepping over the guards that remained unconscious. Once inside the elevator, Samuel kept his head down and turned away from the cameras, though he knew he couldn’t avoid detection forever. Horace reached for the button to the lowest level hangar, but Samuel pulled his son back before he could push it. Horace started to ask why but quieted when Samuel shook his head. Samuel pushed the button for one of the upper level living quarter hallways and the elevator began its descent.
His pulse raced furiously and he worried that Mountain guards would be waiting for them no matter which level they stopped on. When the elevator slowed to a stop and the door slid open, Samuel hurried in front of Horace, hoping to shield him from whoever might be waiting for them. But the hallway was clear in front of them, only a few Mountainers coming and going from their living quarters, none that appeared particularly interested in the Jonas father and son.
“Keep your head down and turn away from the cameras, but try to be subtle about it,” Samuel whispered.
Together, they walked down the hallway, moving as quickly as they could without arousing suspicion. Samuel knew an eagle-eyed security monitor could spot them at any moment, but Moretti always complained about being understaffed and the entire security force was more than likely focused on the debacle in the boardroom.
“Better to take the stairs to the hangar bay to avoid detection,” Samuel said.
As he spoke, he spotted a guard approaching. Horace saw him as well and immediately stopped, but Samuel whispered for him to keep walking, to remain calm, that the guard didn’t seem to be moving with any sense of urgency. Still, Samuel kept himself between Horace and the guard, tensing his body to attack if the guard appeared ready to stop them.
“Get to the hangar, no matter what,” Samuel whispered.
“Not without you,” Horace said. “We’re in this together.”
“Only until we reach the tunnel,” Samuel said. “Regardless of what happens, I’m not coming now anyway.”
“But we have to—”
“Shh,” Samuel hissed just before they passed the guard.
The guard’s eyes immediately fixed on them and the bored expression on his face changed to surprise. The guard stood up straighter, but he merely nodded as the two Jonases walked past. Samuel fought the urge to glance behind them. A glance at Horace showed not a smidgeon of fear on his son’s face. When they finally made it to the stairwell and headed down the first flight of steps, Horace grabbed his father’s arm and stopped him.
“Why aren’t you coming?”
“We have a long way down,” Samuel said. “We can’t stop moving.”
As they rushed down floor after floor—Samuel anxiously watching at each level’s door along the way, afraid one might burst open at any moment—Samuel explained that he needed to stay behind to stop The Board from getting control of the Aviary Blast, as well as the vow he’d made to help the women held prisoner.
“But I’m ready to leave The Mountain after I take care of that final business. I promise I won’t be far behind you,” Samuel said.
Though Samuel mustered little conviction behind his assurance, Horace didn’t seem to notice his father’s doubts. He rushed down the steps so quickly that he nearly lost his balance several times.
“I wonder if enough time passed for the villagers to forgive me lying about my true identity,” Horace said. “Maybe they’ll even let me rejoin their society. If I can prove myself worthy to them, Carla might find it in her hear
t to—”
“I’m sorry,” Samuel interrupted, “but you have to push those dreams out of your mind right now. Once you return to the ISU, you have to keep it locked and underground as much as possible. ISU-Ville is about to become much more dangerous.”
Horace stopped so suddenly that his father nearly collided with him. Instead, Horace stared up at Samuel, his eyebrows lowered.
“What do you mean?”
Samuel frowned. “We don’t have a lot of time. I’m asking you to trust me on this and do as I say.”
For a moment, Horace’s shoulders slumped and he appeared resigned to follow his father’s orders. But he shook his head and crossed his arms, the sight of his defiance reminding Samuel of his own father.
“I want answers,” Horace said, “or I’ll march right to The Board and turn myself over.”
With little time to waste—and little energy to come up with a believable lie—Samuel unloaded the truth on him, from the development of the 2.0, to what happened in the boardroom, to Martin LeRoque’s plans to disperse it among the villagers.
“But that’ll kill them all,” Horace said.
Samuel frowned. “Dr. Weller strengthened the Blast hoping its effects wouldn’t be as severe on villagers who’ve already built up a tolerance from doses of the weaker version. Hopefully that’ll prevent the same thing happening to them that happened to Jason Nickal.”
“Hopefully isn’t good enough,” Horace said. “We have to stop it. Carla. . .”
“I tried to tell The Board no, but they didn’t listen,” Samuel said. “Nigel is doing whatever they say to save his own skin. I don’t see a way we can stop them.”
“Not from in here,” Horace said. “That doesn’t mean The Board can stop me from getting to ISU-Ville first and stopping the villagers from being injected.”
Samuel nearly pointed out the impossibility of Horace making it through the tunnel in time, but any excuse to keep Horace moving was a good one. They hurried down the rest of the stairwell, slowing as they approached the bottom, where noise echoed up from the hangar. Though the hangar teemed with activity, Samuel and Horace found the area near the steps devoid of guards.
The hangar doors were open, bright white light streaming in. Tarps had already been pulled off of several snow trucks and guards were gathered around, listening to orders. When Samuel looked closer, he saw Moretti and Martin standing at the center of the guards, calling out instructions. The sight of Martin made Samuel’s blood boil, but he quickly turned away, knowing what would happen if he were spotted. Horace didn’t share the same reservations.
Horace’s eyes narrowed and he started toward the men, taking only two steps before Samuel grabbed his arm and pulled him in the opposite direction. They ducked between the rest of the covered vehicles, sticking to the shadows while heading toward the rear of the hangar. Horace allowed himself to be pulled for the first few feet, but Martin’s voice echoed in the cavernous room.
“Inject them all!” The Board leader ordered. “I don’t care whether they want it or not. Tell them it’s the only thing that’ll keep them alive. Hell, shoot them if you have to, I don’t care.”
Horace pulled his arm free and turned toward the enemies again, but his father quickly cut him off.
“Don’t,” Samuel said.
“But we can stop them right here, right now,” Horace hissed.
“No, you’ll only ensure that we won’t have a chance to stop them,” Samuel said.
Horace huffed but did as he was told. Martin’s voice faded as they hurried toward the back, which remained shrouded in dim lights and shadow. When they reached the back wall, they found the large tunnel entrance, but it wasn’t the same as Horace remembered. He shook his head in shock.
“It can’t be.”
Samuel sighed, angry with himself for not knowing about this earlier. After Horace’s return to The Mountain, The Board had been angry that their home was infiltrated via the tunnel. They’d spoken of collapsing the tunnels from within, but had ultimately deemed that plan to be too dangerous. They’d also mentioned the possibility of covering the tunnel opening, though there’d never been a vote on that idea. It shouldn’t have surprised Samuel now that decisions were made without him.
A massive grate covered the tunnel opening. Horace rushed to it, grabbing hold of the metal, yanking it with all of his might, accomplishing little more than creating a rattling ruckus. Samuel rushed forward to quiet him but barely reached his son when a dozen guards emerged from the shadows. Samuel wanted to fight but knew that would give the guards a reason to hurt them both. Instead, he held onto his son’s arm to make sure Horace didn’t do anything foolish.
“We have them,” one of the men spoke into his earpiece before the guards dragged off both Jonas men.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Carla Corrigan shivered uncontrollably, her body desperately trying to generate the warmth that her extra fat and thin layer of fur could not. She exhaled sharply and her eyes crossed as she stared at the area just beyond her nose.
At least it’s not cold enough for me to breathe steam, she thought.
That relief didn’t last long. An explosion of coughing echoed down the small hallway of her ISU, a sound she’d grown as accustomed to hearing in life as the shrill wind or the deep, throaty grunting whenever she breathed. Still, fear gripped her heart whenever she heard the coughing, fear that grew harder to ignore as weeks and months passed. She closed her eyes and listened to the coughing for nearly a minute, whispering a tiny prayer that it would soon come to an end. When it didn’t, she sighed deeply and headed toward the bedroom. Behind her was another sigh, one filled with annoyance (a sigh that, in turn, filled her with annoyance).
As soon as she entered the ISU’s lone bedroom, the coughing began to ease. She stepped to the side of the bed and placed a hand on her mother’s head, careful not to touch her with her sharp, curved nails. Carla’s mother’s skin was whiter than the sheets that covered her frail body. Her blanket still rose and fell each time she breathed, but those breaths grew increasingly raspy and no longer had the steady rhythm of a normal person.
If that’s even what we’re still considered, Carla thought.
Another coughing fit—this time shorter and not as intense—caused her mother’s eyes to flutter open. Her body tensed and she began to sit up, moving so suddenly that she tore another hole in the sheets draped over her. She bared her teeth and snapped in the direction of her daughter but came up well short of Carla’s face. Carla frowned and watched her mother’s eyes focus on her and soften.
“I. . . I’m sorry, dear,” her mother said, her voice deep and raspy. “I don’t know what. . . what. . .”
Her eyes widened and she coughed again, her fit lasting longer this time, even as Carla patted her back. At one point, her coughs turned into choking and her eyes widened in fear, her face turning bright red. Carla tried to remain brave, but tears ran down her cheeks as she took her mother’s hand in her own. Her mother squeezed so tightly that her claws punctured Carla’s skin, but Carla did not react to the pain. She continued to whisper, afraid the coughing might not end until her mother’s breathing ended.
“It’s okay. . . it’s okay. . . I’m here for you. . . I love you,” she said over and over.
Her mother’s body began to convulse as she gasped for breath, but the coughing suddenly ended and she collapsed to her back, her eyes drifting closed as her breathing returned to normal.
“Dear God,” her mother rasped, “why won’t you bring me back to my Ronald?”
Carla didn’t know if that thought should make her smile or cry, but she did both anyway. She stood by her mother’s side until she drifted back to sleep. Carla stared at the sheet the entire time, watching it still flutter as her mother’s chest did the same. Guilt consumed her for hoping to see the sheet go still. When it didn’t and her mother rested peacefully—at least as peacefully as possible—Carla left the room, closing the door behind her.
S
he shivered in the hallway, almost forgetting how cold it was.
“Took you long enough,” a voice growled from the small sitting room. “We have bigger problems to focus on with the ISU.”
Adam Watts stood with his arms crossed and his back against the wall, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Carla. He loomed a foot taller than Carla and his face and head were covered with more white fur than most other villagers. Adam had always been a big guy—even before the Blast injections, he’d told her—but he’d grown bulkier with every injection since and was one of the most intimidating figures in the village. He used to be soft-spoken and kind—qualities that had drawn Carla to him when they’d first started dating—but each subsequent Blast dosage turned his general mood increasingly somber.
“Bigger problems than my mother dying?” Carla snapped with the lightest growl, the words flowing from her mouth before she had time to consider them. As much as she despised Adam’s ever-shortening fuse, her propensity for lashing out had also become harder to control. She opened her mouth to apologize but didn’t have the chance when Adam charged toward her, his head lowered and his shoulders severely hunched.
Carla recoiled so suddenly that she lost her balance and tripped, her back and head smashing against the metallic wall, pain instantly transforming to anger as she bared her teeth and fought the urge to lash out. She zeroed in on the back of his leg, planning to tear into his flesh and rip out his Achilles, at which point he’d hopefully go down and she could gnash at his throat. . .
Adam stopped and took a step back, the animalistic fury fading from his eyes. He clamped a hand over his mouth, pressing so tightly that one of his claws pierced his skin, causing a trickle of blood to run down his cheek. The sudden calm on his face extinguished Carla’s flames of rage and for the second time in a matter of minutes, shame flooded her for wishing death on a loved one.
