Unbreakable

by Will McIntosh

  “Janine, look at me.”

  Janine glanced up, but didn’t seem able to focus.

  “Stop. This isn’t worth it.”

  Janine reached for another hot dog.

  “Stop!” Celia swept the tray of hot dogs off the table.

  The stadium went silent as Janine went on reaching for a hot dog that was no longer there. She felt around blindly, her gaze still on Celia. She began to tilt, as if the dais was a ship on a rough sea, and went on tilting until she toppled over.

  “Janine!” Celia dropped to her knees, lifted Janine’s head. Janine’s eyes were rolled up, a piece of hot dog still in her open mouth.

  “Medic!” Celia screamed.

  One of the chefs dropped to a knee beside Celia. “Somebody get me a stomach pump!”

  Chapter 5

  Celia’s shirt was damp with sweat from racing behind the two runners who’d carried the stretcher to the hospital, and also from fear. As she and Molly hovered behind the medic doing what little he could for Janine, Molly clung to her, adding tears to the sweat.

  The chef (Marco, he’d said his name was) was still wearing his white chef uniform, which included a red sash and two rows of vertical gold buttons. He’d pulled off the ridiculous hat at some point on the run from Telco Stadium to the hospital.

  How anyone referred to this facility as a ‘hospital’ without bursting out laughing was a mystery. Celia had seen hospitals in movies. They were huge places with wide hallways and shimmering, elaborate equipment. What they had in Record Village was a bed and breakfast that happened to have an X-ray machine.

  “She’s made of steel,” Molly said into Celia’s neck. “She’ll be okay.”

  Celia nodded. Janine didn’t look unstoppable lying in that cot, her face gray, her stomach resembling a partially-deflated balloon.

  Marco stepped close to them. “The stomach pump got her out of immediate danger, but her stomach is perforated. Eventually peritonitis is going to set in.”

  Peritonitis. Celia had no idea what that was. “What does that mean?”

  Marco looked Celia right in the eye. “It means she’s dying. She has a week or two at most.”

  Molly began to sink, her legs giving out. Celia clutched her tighter, holding her up. If she was ever going to cry, now was the time. But despite the searing anguish, no tears came. She’d been trained too well to crack in any way.

  “What if she didn’t eat, just took IV fluids? Could the perforation heal?” Celia asked.

  Marco shook his head. “Peritonitis is still going to set in.” Celia hated his face, his frizzy hair, his little square nose. She knew she only hated him because he couldn’t help Janine, but she still hated him. “She’s bleeding internally. We can give her transfusions, but in the end, it’s a losing battle.”

  Internal bleeding. She’d just seen a movie, a newly-released biopic about a woman soldier who’d been injured fighting in Antarctica. She’d suffered massive internal injuries and had been given a new drug that healed her from the inside. Detrium, the doctor in the movie had called it. “What about Detrium?”

  Marco frowned, shook his head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  Celia pulled out her phone and scrolled until she found the scene. She showed it to Marco while Molly watched over her shoulder.

  “That’s just something in a movie,” Marco said when the scene ended.

  “It’s a serious movie—they’re not going to make up a drug that doesn’t exist to solve the problem. Would it help Janine?”

  “That’s not—” Marco closed his eyes and took a breath. “I have aspirin. I have antibiotics. I have antacids. That’s all we have to work with here.”

  “Can’t we get some? We’re talking about her life. If there’s something that could save her, shouldn’t we figure out how to get it?”

  Marco gave her a flat look, somewhere between impatient and angry.

  “Could we ask someone from the audience to bring some in from outside?” Celia blurted.

  Marco reacted as if he’d been slapped. “I’m sorry. I wish there was more I could do.” He left.

  How uncouth of her, to suggest that they actually speak to an audience member to try to save a life. Celia lived in a lunatic asylum. If you got sick or injured on the outside, there were doctors, emergency rooms, medicines. In Record Village, you got two aspirin and a chef with two weeks of first aid training. But you didn’t talk about that. No, you were supposed to suck it up, because people in Record Village were tough. They didn’t complain, or ask embarrassing questions.

  #

  Celia ran along the gravel trail beside the reservoir, heading nowhere, trying to dull the pain in her heart. As she crossed a wooden bridge, black water lapping against the pilings beneath, she picked up speed.

  I’m going to make everything okay again, so you’ll stop worrying, Janine had said. And then she’d pushed herself past the limit for Celia. Now she might last a week. A week. How could that be possible? Losing Max, and soon Molly, to retirement was one thing. This... This was too much.

  Celia eyed the black water, feeling a sudden urge to fling herself into it and sink to the bottom. That would be an ironic way to die, since Celia’s biggest record was for holding her breath—

  She stopped running as a cold clarity seeped in.

  The water came from outside. It flowed under the wall, maybe through pipes. She’d once held her breath for seventeen minutes and forty-six seconds. That might be enough.

  Celia’s phone vibrated. It was Molly.

  “Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m at the reservoir. And no, I’m not okay.”

  “Stay there.”

  Celia stuck her phone in her pocket. It was kind of Molly to be worried about her, but there were no words that could console her. When Janine had collapsed on that stage, her stomach looking like she’d swallowed a beach ball, something inside Celia had broken.

  She eyed the wall, which towered just beyond the reservoir, taller than the trees and smooth as glass. Was there a city outside? Suburbs? Was Max standing on the other side right now, his fingers pressed to that smoothness? Had someone told him Janine was dying? If Celia could get outside and find him, Max would get that medicine for Janine, or die trying.

  “Celia.” Molly jogged toward her wearing a cutoff t-shirt, her dark ponytail swinging.

  They met in a hug, Molly’s wet cheek pressed to Celia’s ear.

  “I’m getting that medicine,” Celia whispered. “If no one else will bring it, I’ll go and get it.” It felt good to say the words aloud.

  Molly leaned back to give her a puzzled look. “What are you going to do, grow wings?”

  Celia shook her head. “Gills. Swim under the wall, through a water pipe.”

  Molly looked toward the reservoir. “How do you know where the pipe comes up on the other side?”

  “I don’t.” She shrugged. “If I drown, I drown.”

  “In which case, you’d both die. That makes tons of sense.” Molly frowned as she studied Celia’s face for a moment. “You’re serious.”

  “If I hadn’t tripped on that backpack, there wouldn’t have been any pressure on Janine.”

  Molly folded her arms. “So it’s your fault your teammate is dying?”

  “It’s my fault our mother is dying.”

  “You didn’t ask her—” Molly began, but Celia raised her hand.

  “I don’t want to debate this,” she pleaded. “Help me. Help me save her.”

  “This is insane. You can’t just leave.” Molly glanced around and lowered her voice. “We shouldn’t even be talking about it. It’s bad luck.” She wiped sweat from her forehead. “People die, Celia. Janine knew the risks. We all know the risks. But we push on anyway, we never give up, because that’s who we are.”

  Yes, they were special. They were better than the people outside—tougher, both physically and mentally. Celia had heard that since she’d been in the nursery.

  “How many tim
es did Janine hold you and tell you everything was going to be okay?” Celia asked. “She and Max were the only people who were always there for us, no matter what.”

  Molly looked at the ground, her eyebrows pinched.

  “Yes, people die. But I don’t want Janine to be one of them, and I’m going to do everything I can to save her. I’m not going to give up.”

  Celia watched the struggle play out on Molly’s face. You didn’t talk about the outside, let alone help someone get there. It was wrong, it was bad luck. But she loved Janine, and when you couched something in terms of giving up to a Record Villager...

  “How can I help?” Molly asked.

  Celia clutched Molly’s arm and pulled her toward the water. “We need to find the pipe that feeds this reservoir.”

  As they waded into the cool water, Molly said, “They posted your next challenge, by the way.” She waited a beat for dramatic effect. “Buried alive.”

  Celia could only laugh. Buried alive. Plenty of food, water, and piped-in air. You just couldn’t move much. Or see. It was the sort of record Celia thrived on, where all you had to do was suffer. Breaking it wouldn’t pay as much as going without sleep, but it would pay well.

  “It’s scheduled to be the featured attraction, six months from now.” A hundred and eighty days. Thirty days to train, followed by a hundred and fifty in a coffin, which would break the record of one hundred forty-seven, held by Robert Ellis. “You can have the team out of the slums and back into our house in seven months.”

  “They’re throwing us a bone, because of Janine.”

  “Celia.”

  Oh, right. The challenge selection process was another thing you didn’t talk about. It was all completely random, according to the competition coordinators. Only it so obviously wasn’t. The best record-breakers always got the choice challenges.

  Chapter 6

  Mask pressed to her face, Celia breathed deeply, filling her lungs with pure oxygen as frigid reservoir water lapped against her chest. Her heart was tripping wildly, which wasn’t optimal for holding your breath, but she couldn’t help it. A few minutes from now she’d either be outside, or dead. Both prospects made her heart beat faster, for different reasons.

  “Can you at least call to tell me you made it?” Molly stood on the path above, hands on hips, keeping a lookout.

  Once Celia was outside she didn’t want to leave any hint of her whereabouts, including a phone record. “No. No phone calls... except, you know.” Except if Janine died, in which case there’d be no point in bringing back the medicine. And then Celia wouldn’t come back at all. She hadn’t told Molly that part of the plan.

  “It’ll haunt me the whole time you’re gone, if I don’t know you’re okay.”

  Celia took another hit of oxygen, and pulled the mask away from her face. “Pardon me if I’m focused on not drowning. Not that you being haunted isn’t a huge concern.”

  “As it should be,” Molly said, laughing.

  Celia went back to the oxygen. The canister was almost empty; if she was going to do this, it had to be soon. She checked the waterproof bag taped to her stomach, where she’d stashed clothes, a hooded jacket, phone, energy bars, and tennis shoes. Besides a knife strapped to her calf, and the underwear she was wearing, that was it.

  Enough procrastinating. Celia let the oxygen canister and mask sink to the bottom of the reservoir. She blew Molly a kiss, then swam a couple yards to where the ground suddenly dropped out beneath her feet. She took the deepest breath she possibly could, then closed her throat and forced another half-dozen gulps of air—what they called “lung-packing” in the breath-holding biz. After the final gulp, she dove under and swam like hell.

  The water pipe was right where she’d left it—ten feet under, set in the wall of the reservoir, angling downward.

  It was a tight fit, and as soon as she was inside it was pitch-dark, but she’d known all that from the brief reconnaissance trips she’d made into the pipe. What she hadn’t anticipated was how utterly, bone-jarringly terrifying it was to swim down into that pipe in the dark, with no intention of turning around and swimming back up.

  It was too tight to swim freely. Celia pulled herself along, her fingers and palms scraping rough concrete, her legs kicking in a tight arc. She had no idea how long she could hold her breath while exerting herself like this; it was one thing to squat in a pool, immobile, and hold your breath, and another to do it while swimming for your life. An image flashed in her mind’s eye: her body, bloated and lifeless, trapped in this pipe. She pulled harder.

  The pipe leveled out, or at least seemed to. Celia was losing her sense of up and down in the dark water.

  No more than six or seven minutes had passed when the first real craving to inhale hit her. It was sickeningly familiar from her days training for the record. She figured she was clear of the wall by now, but as far as she could tell the tunnel wasn’t angling upward. Her arms and legs were burning. Celia ignored the pain, refusing to allow her limbs to ease up. Her chest hitched, then hitched again as pinwheels of color exploded behind her eyelids. The exertion was taking a serious toll.

  Trying to distract herself, Celia imagined the outside. Cars motoring down paved roads that went on and on past the horizon. Everywhere you went, new people to meet. Max, running to greet her, grinning. The tunnel just kept going. Her fantasy evaporated, replaced by cold darkness. She clawed the walls, driving on.

  She would give anything for a sip of air. A cupful. A thimble full. Mouth-to-mouth from a gnat. Nothing, nothing she’d ever wanted compared to how much she wanted to breathe. Screw the outside. Screw Janine. Just give her some air.

  It was too late to turn back, though. She’d never make it. She pulled herself along, trying to tamp down the rising panic that accompanied the pain in her lungs. Only it wasn’t just in her lungs anymore; every cell in her body howled for air.

  Wait—was the tunnel tilting upward, or was it her wishful imagination? Celia dug her fingernails into the concrete, dragging herself forward. It had to be soon. It was still pitch black, though; if she were close to the end it would be getting lighter.

  Bubbles of air escaped her lips. It was a mistake to exhale, but she couldn’t help it. Her arms and legs had stopped moving, she realized. Celia didn’t remember deciding to give up.

  More bubbles escaped. Once her lungs were empty she would inhale reflexively, and her lungs would fill with water. It would hurt.

  No. She heard Janine, Molly, even Constantine, shouting in her ears to move. Celia lifted her arms, though each weighed a thousand pounds, set her palms on the walls and pushed. This was what she did. It was the one thing she did well. Pushing on no matter how much it hurt, no matter how tired she got. Her legs were too tired to kick, so she used them to walk along the floor of the pipe, driving forward. Another two feet, and another. The pinwheels in her vision had morphed into fireworks.

  Her fingers brushed something hard. A steel bar set into the concrete. The bottom dropped out from under her and she was sinking. Frantic, Celia grasped at the bar, but missed. As she sank, her hand brushed another bar, lower down. It must be a ladder.

  Celia’s bare foot found a rung, and she climbed as phantom teammates urged her up, up. The last of the air burst from her mouth and nose in a flurry of bubbles she could see, if barely. There was light coming from somewhere.

  Her head collided with something hard. She reached up and pushed, but it didn’t budge.

  Opening her mouth to shriek in frustration, she inhaled water. Agony ripped through her, as if someone had shoved a pitchfork down her throat and into her lungs. She couldn’t die now, this close to the outside. Celia pushed at the steel plate, but she had no leverage, no strength left—

  Her fingertips were out of the water, she realized.

  Celia bent her head back, hoisted herself until her lips touched the steel plate. She inhaled, coughed out some of the water in her lungs and inhaled again.

  She sucked in air, taking whooping,
wheezy breaths that turned into laughter. Maybe she would die here, trapped under what was probably a manhole, but if she did, at least she’d die breathing air.

  Then it hit her: she was outside. It was right above her. People could be walking right past her.

  “Help.” She coughed violently. “Help me! I’m in here.” She listened.

  Nothing.

  There was a hole in the steel, just large enough that she could poke her index finger through it. That’s where the light was coming from. It also meant she wasn’t going to run out of air.

  She tried calling again.

  After her journey through the pipe, she had nothing left. Her arms were trembling with exhaustion; her lungs felt as if they’d been pulled inside-out. It occurred to her that she really didn’t have much time. She would drown when her strength gave out if she couldn’t find a way to escape.

  If the steel plate above her wasn’t locked down, only heavy, her best chance was to use leverage. Inhaling a few times first, she ducked under the water, positioned herself in a crouch, her back and shoulders pressed against the steel plate, her heels on the top rung of the ladder.

  She tried to stand, driving upward.

  The plate lifted a quarter of an inch before snapping back into place. It wasn’t locked down, but it must weigh three hundred pounds. She had to give it everything she had left, in one shot, before she lost what little energy she had left.

  Exhaling sharply, she drove upward with all her might. It felt as if her back was going to snap, but the plate clunked loose and rose, shifted horizontally a few inches, then a few more. Her face came out of the water.

  Her heels slid off the rung, and Celia plunged into the water. The plate came crashing down. Thrashing, she found a rung and clung to it. Her entire face was out of the water, and she squinted in sunlight. She’d opened up a five- or six-inch slit.

  “Almost there,” she said aloud, eyeing blue sky through the crack. She perched her butt on the second rung, reached up and shoved the edge of the plate with all her might. It nudged a half inch.