by Rachel Aukes
Joe held up a finger. “In my defense, Kit was driving Monster when that happened.”
“All the more reason I’m not letting anyone behind Beatrice’s yoke.”
“Then how am I going to get from Cavil to Clearwater?”
Rex’s features tightened as he thought for a length, and Joe wondered if thinking actually hurt him. Finally, he said, “Let me get my shield put back together. Then I’ll get you something.”
Chapter Seven
Nick Swinton raced down the gently sloping spiral walkway of the silo he was living in, along with his family and sixty-plus refugees. His dog, Champ galloped at his heels, her tail wagging in its special, happily erratic way. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed.
When he turned back, a man had stepped out of a door and into his way.
“Hey, watch it!” the man yelled, nearly dropping the large box in his hands.
Nick swerved, missed him (barely), and kept running. “Sorry!” he called, and Champ echoed him with a yip. She rarely barked, but seemed to think that if Nick yelled, she could, too—especially when they were having fun. But their current mission wasn’t about having fun. He was panting, and his heart was pounding, but he didn’t dare slow down. You’d think a massive underground silo would have plenty of places for a nine-year-old boy and his dog to hide, but nearly every door was kept locked aside from the common areas, and those were the worst places to hide. Any adults in those areas would surely give him up.
But today, he had a plan. He’d found the perfect place—he just needed to get there in time. At least running downhill was easier than running up the silo’s winding walkway. He continued down the levels, past the deepest of the apartments, past the levels of off-limits rooms his mother had told him housed the silo’s mechanical operations, and came to a stop at the point where the walkway ended. The silo went deeper, but there were only pipes and machines down there, and the entire section was sealed off with metal grating.
His armlet beeped; his time was up.
He jumped on the grate. Champ whined. He turned to the mutt, to find her looking at the floor and then up at him. “It’s okay. You won’t fall through,” he said. “Come.”
She touched a paw to the grating and then pulled it back.
He sighed and went back for her. “All right, you big baby. I’ve got you.” He picked up the dog. It was a struggle because she weighed nearly thirty pounds and he hadn’t yet broken a hundred. Fortunately, it was just a few feet to the nearest hunk of metal. The label on the gigantic machine read Water Pump, and there were four giant contraptions, each paired with a walk-in box for the operator. He stepped into one, dropped Champ on the rubberized floor, and sat down. There was no door, and the three walls were covered in switches and lights. He shimmied against one wall to be as concealed as possible. Champ sniffed the perimeter before lying down next to him.
He grinned. “She’s never going to find us.”
Champ watched him when he spoke, but didn’t seem to care much about what he had to say. She laid her head on his lap and closed her eyes.
He settled in, petting the dog’s always-ruffled, mottled fur, and took in the equipment around him. His mom had been born in a silo, and he wondered if she’d ever played hide-and-seek—or “hide-and-bounty-hunting” as Nick liked to call it—with her brother and hid in a room just like this one.
“Got you!”
Nick jumped, Champ shot to her feet with a yip, and he found his adopted sister, Romy, pointing at him, laughing.
“You should see the look on your face. Your eyes are as big as chicken eggs!”
He pulled a face and climbed to his feet. “How’d you find me?”
“Easy,” she gloated. “When we walked through here yesterday, you looked at that machine—that one right there—and you got that look in your eyes.”
“I didn’t get a look.”
“Yeah, you did. You always get that look when you think you’ve won. It’s like you want to brag about something, but you zip your lips so it can’t get out.”
His sour expression didn’t change. He picked Champ up and trudged back to the main walkway. “I thought I had you beat this time. It’s not fair. You always win.”
She shrugged. “You need to get better at hiding.”
He plopped Champ onto the floor. “You’re not even out of breath,” he grumbled
“I took the elevator, duh.”
“Oh.” He mentally kicked himself for not thinking of the shortcut.
They strolled up the walkway in an easy silence. They were both nine years old, but everyone assumed Romy was at least two years younger. Nick was big for his age—just like his father had been, according to his mother—while Romy was scrawny. Between the size difference and the stark contrast of Nick’s Latino complexion and Romy’s pasty-white skin, anyone could tell Romy had been adopted. That she wasn’t Nick’s sister by blood never bothered either of them. Both had been only children, and both had always wanted a sibling. Much like how Champ had found an instant family in the Swintons when Joe had brought Romy to stay, they’d become a family at first sight.
A sound caught his attention, and he stopped. “You hear that?”
“Hear what?” She cocked her head, then pointed. “Wait, I hear it. It’s coming from that way.”
They headed in the direction of what sounded like someone crying. Champ bounded beside them, oblivious to the sound. Where some dogs were natural hunters with insatiable curiosity, she seemed content to tag along on whatever adventure Nick and Romy were on.
They found the source of the crying on the freight elevator. A young boy, whose name Nick hadn’t yet learned, was sitting in the corner, crying and hugging his knees.
Romy stepped into the elevator. “What’s wrong, Jicama?” she said, speaking softly.
He wiped his face with his forearm as though trying to hide evidence of his tears. “Bubo took Teddy.”
“Teddy?” she asked.
He sniffled. “My bear. Teddy’s all I got, and Bubo took him because he’s mean.”
Nick and Romy shared a look. They knew Bubo. Every kid in the silo knew Bubo. You’d think, since they were all refugees, everyone would try to get along, but some kids were bullies, plain and simple. Bubo was the worst Nick had ever met, even though he was only five—the same age as Jicama.
Champ crept closer and sniffed the kid’s face. He sniffled again and petted her. There was something therapeutic about petting a dog, and Champ seemed to perceive that. Ordinarily skittish, she rarely let strangers touch her, but now she allowed the boy to run his hands through her ruffled fur.
Romy bent down to get closer. “How about you come with us, and we’ll get Teddy back for you.”
Fear widened his eyes. “I can’t. He’ll beat me up.”
Nick said, “I’ll protect you.”
Jicama’s reddened eyes filled with hope, then doubt.
Bubo and his friends avoided Nick, not just because he was older, but also because he was so much bigger. It was the only reason they hadn’t picked on Romy yet, but he had no doubt they’d go after his runt of a sister if they caught her alone.
“I promise I’ll protect you, and I’ll get Teddy back for you,” Nick said.
The doubt in the boy’s eyes faded, and he nodded.
Romy helped him to his feet. “Let’s go get Teddy back.”
Nick led the way, walking taller to give Jicama the confidence he needed. Most of the kids in the silo had already been through enough rough times that they’d struggle with trusting people for the rest of their lives. Nearly everyone who was in the silo had come from Clearwater, after being forced to work on Roderick Sloan’s farm.
That’s what had happened to Romy’s parents, but Sloan had killed them rather than take them to his farm. He’d put Romy to work as a cleaning girl, scrubbing floors, dusting knickknacks, and doing whatever the older cleaning girls told her. One of Sloan’s guards had caught Romy stealing. They’
d have killed her, but Joe had rescued her.
The others hadn’t been as lucky. They’d had nowhere to go after Sheriff Vane busted them out of the farm one night, so they’d hid outside Clearwater until the sheriff discovered this silo, sitting in the middle of nowhere. The sheriff was talented like that—she could do pretty much anything short of a miracle—and in Nick’s eyes, she was a hero, though just a smidge below Joe in that regard. Because no one could reach Joe’s level. Joe was a superhero.
Nick led the way to Common Room F. The space was below the apartments in use, so Bubo and his posse had turned it into their private clubhouse.
Like all common rooms, the door to F was never locked. Bubo had likely tried to override the door settings to secure the room, especially from any adults who might notice that nearly everything that had ever gone missing was in there. Nick found it odd that the adults let Bubo and his friends run wild. Maybe they felt bad for what they’d suffered; maybe they were just too tired to monitor kids. Either way, it allowed Bubo’s gang to make life harder for all the kids in the silo.
Before they went in, Nick turned to face Romy and Jicama. Even though she was four years older, she wasn’t much taller than the little boy. Nick’s mother had told him that Romy didn’t get enough food when she was younger, so it would take time for her to catch him—if she ever caught up. Seeing her slight frame—even knowing how quick and tough she was—made him fiercely protective of his sister. “Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” Romy said confidently.
Jicama took his cue from her. “Ready,” he said timidly.
Nick gave them both a reassuring smile and entered.
Common Room F was identical to every other common room. It was equipped with long tables that folded down from the walls. Benches folded out from the tables in turn. In this room, only a few tables and benches were out, leaving the rest of the room an open space. Tape lines marked goal boxes, and there was a soccer ball on the floor.
In one corner stood a big box emblazoned with the words LOST AND FOUND. It was crammed full of random stuff. Things they’d stolen, from the younger kids mostly, but also from adults not paying attention. Property of the Snitch Killers was scribbled roughly on the box. A teddy bear lay on top of the pile. It was missing a button eye and looked to have mange, but it was otherwise in one piece. Having found the prize, Nick headed toward the three boys sitting huddled around a game.
Romy joined him, holding Jicama’s hand. Champ started in with them, but had the sixth sense all dogs have and dropped back as they entered dangerous territory.
Empty food and drink containers were scattered around the room, and it stank of rotten food. Nick’s mother would grab these boys by their ears and make them clean up if she saw this place. She said that living in silos was a constant war against the rats, and that the cleaner the environment, the less likely rats would invade the space. Seeing the bullies, all of them dressed sloppily in dirty clothes, Nick wondered if his mother was talking about rodents or boys.
One of the boys noticed them. “Hey, this is a private room. Get out,” he said. All three stood up.
“No. It’s a common room, so I can be here,” Nick said.
Two of the boys were about the same size at Jicama and Romy. The biggest was a couple of inches shorter and at least ten pounds lighter than Nick. Bubo. The bully crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you want, Swinton?”
“I’m here for Jicama’s bear,” Nick announced.
“There’s no bear here,” Bubo replied.
Nick jerked his head at the box. “Then what’s that over there?”
Bubo threw an exaggerated look over his shoulder. “I don’t see nothing.”
Nick glared. “Give me that bear.”
“No.”
The trios faced off. Nick really didn’t want to fight, but he had no idea what to do next. As he racked his brain, Romy took charge.
She strode around the gang to the box in the corner. She’d surprised everyone, and no one moved until she had the bear in her hand. The bullies closed off her escape route.
“Look what we’ve got here,” the runt to Bubo’s right said. “I think we got ourselves a prisoner.”
Romy pursed her lips. Nick called that expression her annoyed-bored look, but he’d seen her use it before when she was putting on a tough act.
“You will not touch her,” Nick growled, stepping closer to them, fists clenched.
“What are you going to do about it, Nicky-boy?” Bubo taunted.
“I’m going to kick your butt.”
Bubo wiggled his fingers in the air. “Ooh, I’m so scared.” He chortled. “I bet you’ve never even been in a fight in your life.”
“Have too,” Nick lied and raised his fists.
“She stays. She’s our slave now, and she’s going to cook and clean for us, just like she did for Mr. Sloan,” Bubo said.
Rage boiled up within Nick. “If you even try—”
“You’ll do what?” Bubo interrupted. “It’s three of us against you, a girl, and a crybaby.”
Jicama whimpered.
“I’ve got this,” Romy said, and tossed the bear to a startled Nick.
The bully to Bubo’s left said, “Hey there, girly. You’re gonna stay here and take care of us now.”
“It’s your lucky day. I think I’ll make you my girlfriend,” Bubo said.
“Yeah, you’re going to be his girlfriend,” the one to his right sniggered. “Bubo’s the toughest kid in this silo. He’s hung like a ten-year-old.”
Romy’s nose wrinkled. “Gross. How do you know what his schlong looks like? What do you guys do in here? Play with each other’s schlongs?”
The kid’s face turned red. “No. Take that back.”
“You have three seconds to get out of my way,” Romy said.
“No,” Bubo said, loud enough to draw a growl from Champ. He grabbed a racquetball racket from the table and swung it at the dog. “If that mutt comes near me, I’m gonna give it a beating.”
Nick handed the bear to Jicama, and took a position between Champ and Bubo. “You will not lay a finger on my dog.”
Nick was bringing his fist back to punch the bully when Romy, forgotten, snuck up behind him and knocked him to the ground. Bubo’s two friends spun to grab her, but froze because Romy was down on a knee, holding a steak knife to Bubo’s crotch. “If you even think about hurting my brother, dog, or any of my friends, your balls will never get a chance to drop. Got it?”
Bubo’s face paled. She pressed the blade harder. “Got it?”
He cried, “Yes! I got it!”
“Good.” She glared at him, then at each of his friends, before jumping to her feet and walking boldly through them. Bubo hastily wiped at his tears, but Nick made a point of watching.
Once outside, Jicama wrapped his arms around her waist. “That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. You’re even tougher than Sheriff Vane!”
“No one’s tougher than Sheriff Vane,” Romy said. “Now, you get home and try to stay away from those bozos, okay?”
He nodded, hugged her again, then ran to the elevator.
Nick and Romy took the walkway and were silent for a couple of minutes. He’d thought he was her protector; he’d just learned that his runt of a sister was his.
He was the one to break the silence. “Remind me never to tick you off.”
She grinned and stood a little taller. He wondered if that was what he’d looked like when he found the perfect hiding place yesterday.
“But you’re wrong. Joe’s tougher than Sheriff Vane,” he said.
“Is not,” she said.
“Is too.”
She tripped him, and he fell back, caught unawares.
She grinned, ran ahead, and called behind her, “Is not!”
Champ agreed with a yip.
Chapter Eight
Joe circled the cutter the junkyard owner was leaning against. His exoshield protected him from the harsh sunlight that was m
aking sweat run down the rail-thin stranger’s forehead. He peered under the hull to find at least two leaking batteries. He lifted a peeling solar panel near the wheel well, and the entire panel fell off.
He took a step back. “I can’t drive this heap. It looks like it should be put out of its misery, not driven.”
Rex, in his exoshield, jumped down from a wreck. “Didn’t your daddy ever tell you to never look a gift horse in the mouth?”
Joe cocked his head. “Does it even run?”
The owner of the junkyard, a man aptly dubbed Smelly Pete, spat on the ground. “It’ll run all right.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” Rex climbed in and ignited the power. The starter groaned piteously before the cutter powered up. The engine ran badly, with iterations of choking and smoothing out. He grinned. “See? She runs, which is more than I can say for your cutter. This one might be a little rough around the edges, but I bet you’ve dated uglier women in your time.”
“Yeah, your sister, for starters,” Joe snapped.
Rex chuckled. “You’re lucky I don’t have a sister, or I might take offense to that.”
“With your looks, I’d say we’re all lucky you don’t have a sister.”
“What are you talking about? I’m gorgeous underneath this armor,” Rex said.
Joe pictured the gruff man’s face and roughly shaved head. “Whatever you say.” He turned to Smelly Pete. “I’ll take the cutter. What do I owe you?”
Pete held up a hand. “Your credits are no good here. Whatever you need, it’s yours. It’s the least I can do for a friend of T-Rex.”
Rex shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a likable fellow.”
Joe belted out a laugh and went to collect two bags stuffed with weapons, gear, and food from Rex’s cutter. He set the bags on the passenger seat of the junked cutter and settled into the driver’s seat. “Thanks for your help. I’ll be in touch once I know more.”
Rex nodded. “You’d better, especially if there’s a chance for some money to be made. Things have been a little too tight since the Haft fiasco.”
