by Katie French
“Cole!”
His face appears over the truck bed as they pull away. “I’ll come for you!”
He hollers back, but I can’t hear him over the truck’s engine. They pull away, kickin’ dust into my face. I bat it away, tryin’ to see Cole’s face one last time. In the taillight’s red glow, he stares at me, growing smaller by the second. “Cole!” I call, not carin’ that I might be alertin’ enemies to my position, not carin’ that I sound weak, but only that it feels like the last time I will see him, my brother, the only thing I care about in this world.
Within minutes, the taillights are red dots in the distance, and Cole is long gone. I hump my pack and head west.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Riley
I watch Doc dig around in the solar car’s compartments with my sleeve over my face. Subject Seven—if it really is Seven—is starting to stink like meat left out on a hot day. From where I sit on the curb, I can see the back of her mud-caked calf, her long toenails curling over the filthy toes. I don’t know how Doc can stand to be in there; I can barely stand it out here in the fresh air.
“Going to take a piss,” I call as I stand.
Doc looks over his shoulder. “Be careful. Don’t go far.”
I pat my pocket. “Still got the Taser.”
He nods and goes back to digging around. I walk off, skirting around the handmade wall of billboards, car husks, and plywood that once stood to barricade this city. A black van is tipped on its side about twenty yards down, and it looks like the perfect spot to take care of my business. I need privacy from Doc and anyone else who might be looking, though it seems this city’s main residents are the huge black crows that watch me from the peaks of broken buildings. As soon as I’m out of sight, I drop my pants. But I haven’t started my period. There’s no blood, no telltale sign that my suspicions are wrong.
“Shit.” I lean my elbow against the van’s side panel, warm from the day’s sunshine.
Once again, I search my body, trying to feel the baby growing there. But I feel… nothing. I do feel tired, sore, hungry, gritty, exhausted, angry, and foolish. What I don’t feel is pregnant. But then, how the hell would I know what that feels like?
Now more than ever I miss my Mama. The longing is a piano on my chest.
Doc would know more about this than me. I lean over until I can see the solar car and his head inside. If I told him my suspicions, he’d be able to tell me if I’m pregnant or not. I watch his head through the car’s dusty window. Doc has such confidence, such knowledge. Even though I’ve only known him for a couple of months, he’s my best friend. I wanted Clay to be the first one to know, but Clay’s not here. Clay might never be here. Tears streak down my nose, but I wipe them away. Christ, now is not the time to fall apart.
I pee, straighten my clothes, and walk around the van’s front end. The sun just peeks over the horizon, and the heat of the day has eased up. My thoughts flit to Bran. Lord knows what’s happening to him. Here I am worrying about a problem that won’t impact me until months and months from now. What I should be worried about is how to stop those monsters.
Doc sees me coming and trots forward with a small box in his hand and a huge smile on his face.
“What is it?” I ask, jogging up. The red box with a bald eagle on the side fits in his palm. When I’m three steps from him, he flips the lid back, and I see the gold cylinders. “Bullets!” I say, elated. “Where’d you get them?”
He can’t stop smiling, showing off his straight white teeth. “Before we left, I was helping Corra load the car, and I found these at the bottom of a box of field rations. Then I just carried the box of field rations to the car and slid it in the back. I knew I’d be dead if they checked the boxes, but they were too busy.” He looks up from the shells and into my eyes. His gray irises reflect the overcast sky. “I guess it worked out.”
I stare at Doc, confused. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
His smile falls. “Didn’t know if I could trust Bran, so I was going to tell you when he wasn’t around, but I never got a chance. Plus, I thought your gun was loaded when we went in to find those creatures.”
I frown, but I run a finger over the bullets’ round tips. Why didn’t he tell me? Does he think he can’t trust me anymore? “Will they fit the gun?”
He nods. “Already checked. We got lucky. I guess that’s a first.”
“Let’s hope our luck keeps up.”
“Everything okay? You were back there a while.” He looks at me with that way he has, as if he’s seeing into me.
My heart speeds up. This is my chance.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Right as rain.”
He frowns briefly, but then nods, folding the lid down on the box. “We should hurry. It’ll be dark soon.”
I glance at the sinking sun. “I’m ready.” Ready to fight maybe. Not ready to face facts. That’ll have to be another time.
We grab what we need from the car—the gun, shells, a military-style flashlight—black, small and high-powered—the Taser, the satellite phone, two water jugs, and a few MRE meal packets. It’s pretty much everything we have, though Doc keeps digging around like he might find a monster trap if he just keeps looking. I finally have to tug him away. Together, we set off, back to the mall, as, above us, the setting sun smears the sky as red as blood.
We find the strip mall easily and stand in front of the open window, the boards pried back from where we busted out. From the sidewalk looking in, the darkness inside looks alive. Doc heaves a big sigh. He pulls out the loaded gun and checks the box of shells in his pants’ pocket. The semiautomatic is small, silver, and much newer than any gun we’ve ever had. It isn’t one of ours, but one Corra gave us after I insisted and Dennis nearly blew a gasket. That must’ve been when he decided to relieve us of our bullets. Motherless bastard.
I pull out my Taser and the flashlight. “Shoot to wound, not to kill.” I take a deep breath of my own. “Dennis has Auntie. We don’t have the luxury of killing these things any longer.”
“No killing.” Doc stares at the window. The broken glass around the frame looks like jagged teeth. The big sheet of displaced plywood creaks with the breeze as the remaining two nails keep it dangling from the sill.
Instead of saying the millions of things swirling in my head, I walk forward, grip the sill, and heave myself up.
Dropping inside the room feels like falling into hell. I creep forward, inching toward the back of the store and away from the window’s comforting light. I hear Doc drop in behind me. My flashlight illuminates signs of our struggle—the clothing racks knocked askew, the trail of blood on the trash-littered floor. Shining the light around shows no monsters, and no Bran, either.
Beside me, Doc’s labored breathing is loud as he points to the hole in the floor.
We walk over and kneel beside it. The tile, wood, and subfloor have been ripped up until there’s an opening big enough for a full-grown human. With Doc aiming his gun at the dark space, I take my flashlight and stick my head in. I half-expect Subject Eight to rip it off.
The flashlight shows a dark basement—a concrete floor and walls of a large room that goes on farther than my light can penetrate. When I angle my light around, I find a makeshift platform made of wooden pallets directly beneath the hole. It’s a messy pile, but someone could stand on it and pull themselves up to the main level. It also gives Doc and me something to drop onto.
“There’s a platform,” I whisper, putting my Taser in my pocket and clamping the flashlight between my teeth. “Cover me,” I manage to say with my teeth around the flashlight.
“You’re going in there?” He shakes his head. “Riley, I don’t think—” He stops as I begin lowering my legs into the hole. “God, just… be careful.”
Slipping into the hole with no view of what I’m dropping into is terrifying. Any minute, one of those things could snatch my legs and yank me screaming into darkness. And Doc would do what? Shoot blindly? Come after me? It could
tear me apart before he— I stop and grit my teeth around the metal flashlight, sliding on my belly until my chest is the only thing resting on the top floor. My lower half dangles in open space.
Locking eyes with Doc, I push back and drop.
The fall is short. My feet smack the stack of pallets and I lurch forward, catching myself on my hands before I face-plant on the shaky platform. The flashlight in my mouth shoots straight down, giving me a view of two inches of dirty particleboard. I swivel around, shining my light toward the open throat of the room, my heart hammering.
“Riley?” Doc calls, peering down, but I don’t answer, scanning my surroundings. My heart continues to pound in my ears as I make sure nothing waits to grab me.
The basement is concrete, low ceilinged, and mostly empty. There are a few dusty shelves hugging concrete block walls and piles of pallets like the one I’m crouching on. The massive cobwebs and layers of dust make it pretty clear no one comes down here. Shining my light farther, I can see the basement seems to stretch back as far as the strip mall above. Metal pillars run in pairs every fifteen feet, but there are no walls, no places for Bran or the monsters to hide. But my beam of light doesn’t go far enough to show all of it. If they are still here, and if I’m going to find them, I’m going to have to go in. Into the dark. Away from any escape route.
“I’m coming down,” Doc says from above.
I flash my light up at him. “Are you sure? Maybe one of us should stay and guard the hole.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “And leave you down there alone?” His feet appear, and I hear him scraping his stomach over the hole’s lip as he scoots. When I clamber down and light his path, he drops with a thud. Once again, I fight the feeling that something is going to come out of the dark and grab me from behind. I’d hear it coming. At least, I think I would.
“Riley,” Doc says, “did you hear that?”
“What?” I say, whirling my flashlight toward the dark. There’s nothing.
“Listen,” he says, crouching where he landed.
Faint and far away, someone or something is banging on metal. A long pause, then two quick taps, then a mix of pauses and taps.
“It’s Morse code,” Doc whispers.
Our eyes meet. “Bran.”
Doc climbs down, pulling out his gun. I grab the Taser and the flashlight. My throat constricts until I can barely swallow. Stop it, I think. Keep your head.
Walking forward, I shine the flashlight around. The metal beams throw long shadows around, making everything seem unreal. Near us, a line of shelves looms high, stacked with boxes. We tiptoe up to it and whip around, aiming our weapons, but there’s nothing but spiders. Still, the banging keeps up, that clink of metal on metal in long and short intervals. In my ear, Doc whispers, “I think it’s SOS. Save our souls.”
“Jesus,” I whisper.
After a few minutes, it’s hard for me to tell how far in we’ve come, but when I slide the flashlight back, it’s clear we’re in deep. “How far does this thing go?”
“As long as the mall, probably.” Doc’s shoulder brushes against mine. He’s the only thing keeping me anchored. The farther we walk, the longer we’re down here, the more I start to doubt. The more I’m starting to lose it.
“It has to be there,” Doc says, pointing.
Our hallway is ending. I can see the concrete wall, dripping with cobwebs, only a dozen feet away. To our right, another dark passageway runs perpendicular to ours. I look at Doc, and, together, we walk up to the branch and peer around.
It isn’t as long as the hall we just came down, not even by half, but it’s crammed full of large shelves on either side and stacked full of boxes until it’s barely passable. There are many places to hide, but my eyes aren’t drawn to them. They are drawn to the figure slumped against a steel pillar about twenty yards away.
All the hairs on my arms stand up. It’s a man with his back to us. His long, shapeless shirt seems familiar. Bran.
We watch, but he doesn’t move. Is he alive? Is he the one who was tapping Morse code?
And if he’s here, where are the creatures?
My muscles clenched, I lead the way through the narrow corridor between the shelves.
I take a step and flick my light down each shelf, my anxiety building. Bran hasn’t moved. The tapping has stopped. Did we find him just as his body gave up?
When we’re six feet away, I put my hand on Doc’s chest and hand him the flashlight. “I’m going in.”
Doc takes the flashlight. I suck in a breath and walk up to the body.
It’s… a child. A filthy, wide-eyed child with long, tangled hair, wearing the tattered remains of Bran’s shirt. I thought it was a man sitting, but it’s a little girl standing. The huge, shapeless shirt and the dark threw me off.
She looks up at me with huge, black eyes.
“W-what are you doing here?” I ask.
Blinking gaunt, black eyes, she opens her mouth. And hisses like a cat.
I pull back. “What the hell?”
She darts left, scampering toward Doc. I’m too stunned to fire my Taser.
“It’s one of them!” I smash into Doc, the flashlight dancing wildly.
“It’s a kid!” Doc yells.
A loud crash draws my attention back toward the exit. The shelves are toppling one by one in a domino effect. They’re slamming down on top of each other, shaking the ground and sending boxes flying.
Doc and I crouch down, covering our heads as objects fly.
“They set a trap!” Doc yells over the rumble of falling debris.
The shelves stop falling, but the dust keeps on choking us, making us tuck our faces into our shirts and suck ragged breaths through the fabric. I cough so hard I can’t keep my flashlight beam steady, and yet, I’m still able to catch movement through the dust as something darts toward the huge pile of debris. I stand up, aiming my light, and squint into the dust.
Small feet are visible through a tiny crack between boxes. I shine the beam in and watch as the child claws her way out.
Doc comes up behind me, coughing. “Only a kid could fit through there.”
I watch her shimmy through faster than a snake slithering through tight rock. “They must’ve known she could find her way through. And that we couldn’t.”
“So we’re trapped,” Doc says.
I shine my flashlight around, looking for another opening, hopefully one bigger than that, but the shelves and boxes have fallen on top of one another, blocking the whole hallway. Climbing over the stack looks too dangerous. If we’re going to get out, we’ll have to dig, and it’s going to take some time.
“Let’s get started.” I pick the closest shelf, and Doc helps. We lift, bringing more boxes tumbling down on us. “This is going to take forever.”
I lift again, but realize Doc isn’t hauling his share. “Come on, lazy. We gotta get out of here.”
I swing the light toward him. His eyes on the ceiling, he stands stock-still.
“What is it?”
He watches the dust collecting in coils along the ceiling. I’ve never seen dust do that before.
“Smell that?” he asks, sniffing and then coughing.
I watch the dust doing that strange, coiling dance, and finally realize where I’ve seen that before.
I grab Doc’s arm. “That’s not dust. That’s smoke. They’ve set the place on fire!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Clay
When I get to the exhaust pipe, it’s nothin’ to look at, just a three-foot-wide metal cylinder stuck in the ground. The hike wasn’t nothing, but findin’ the pipe in the dark was the bitch of the thing. Mike’s men told me where to find it, but hell if I could spot it in the scrub and rocks. I musta circled around this goddamned tube thirty times before smashin’ my shinbone against it. After I was done cursin’, I ducked low and checked out the scene. At the summit of this great round hill, the rest of the land stretches out in the moonlight. The scrubland, dirt, and tr
ees are quiet. The little road that runs up from the base’s entrance and north to the main road is empty. If there are men beneath me, there’s no trace, like an anthill at night. But I know enough about anthills to know that once I stir up their nest, they’ll come spillin’ out, and I need to be long gone when they do.
I wish I had my guns.
I gently set my pack beside the pipe and examine this entrance point. The ventilation duct looks exactly like I thought it would—a metal tube topped with a wider, pointed cone on top. It doesn’t take me long to pry off the cone and the metal grating with the rusty tools Mike gave me. I stare down into the black abyss.
Mike’s men have assured me the clawed hook and rope they’ve provided will reach to where the pipe angles inward, giving me a place where I can let go of the rope and crawl as the pipe starts to run perpendicular. But I don’t trust Mike’s men any farther than I can throw ’em, so I slide a handful of sand down the pipe and listen. It hits resistance quickly, but how far down? I try a small rock next. When I hear it hit and continue to tumble down, I know the pipe does indeed slope. Still, I don’t know if this rope will reach.
I pull the rope and grappling hook out of my pack. Once I’ve made sure I’ve secured the heavy metal hook over the pipe’s lip, I drop the rope down, hoping to hear it hit the bottom. But all I hear is the rope scraping against the sides. There’s no way to know if I will get to the end of my rope, literally, and have to drop into the dark. I stare into the pipe and try to decide what to do.
But I ain’t got time to hem and haw. Cole is with that bastard, Hank.
I strap the pack on as tight as I can, grab the rope, and begin to lower myself in.
The space is tight, so, with my hands on the rope, I slowly lower myself in feet first, bracing my back and feet against the side, slowing my descent. I inch my way down, my labored breath filling up the space, my muscles straining. Sweat runs down my face, my arms, and chest.
