Viral Airwaves

by Claudie Arseneault

  “How far is the exit?” he’d asked.

  Seraphin had shrugged. Who knew? Without something to eat they would not reach it. And where could one find food in these dead caverns?

  They rested for a few fitful hours, searched the area for another way out. All they found was a long spool of rope and a broken lamp. Vermen picked up the rope, just in case, and they started off. Neither of them said a word but as the hours trickled by, Seraphin leaned more and more heavily on Vermen. His directions became disparate, irregular. Sometimes he dozed off, only to wake with a start when Vermen jolted his foot against a rock. The captain tried to shake him out of his daze. Without him he could not get out. He needed Seraphin awake and for that, he would need to feed him.

  Then the voices drifted to him, distant. That was his chance—his only chance. He found a small alcove and propped Seraphin against the wall. The rebel leader opened his eyes. They could hear people talk, barely. Seraphin stared in their general direction.

  “The others are there,” he said.

  “They could be soldiers. I’ll check it out.”

  “It’s dangerous.”

  Vermen’s eyebrows shot up. Of course it was, but dying of hunger wasn’t much better. “Worth it, though.” He picked up the spool of rope and handed one end to Seraphin. He could use it as a guide for some distance, at least. “Stay here. I’ll be back. And if I pull hard twice, I ran into trouble. Pull the rope back and leave.”

  Seraphin grunted his displeasure. He reached for something at his belt, behind his back, and offered him a switch blade. “Don’t get killed, Hans.”

  Vermen snatched the weapon, grabbed the lamp, then hurried out, disturbed by the use of his first name. The rope slithered behind him as he moved through the tunnels, advancing toward the voices. Soon he ran out of rope and had to set it down. He continued, mindful of the turns he took. He hoped these were rebels, that he wouldn’t need to try something dangerous, but he could not identify a single voice. When he managed to make out the first words of their conversation, he forgot about other rebels.

  “No one’s left here,” a man said. “They got crushed by rocks or left. We’re wasting our time.”

  Vermen shut his lamp, put it on the ground and stalked forward, cloaked in the darkness. His empty stomach churned in excitement and he glanced around a corner. Five soldiers advanced through a large cave with a bright lamp. One lit the way a few steps ahead while another trailed behind. The three in the center argued about the pointlessness of their mission.

  “We ought to be up there in the sunlight with the others. These patrols are the worst.”

  Just as Vermen wondered why their officer tolerated their loud complaints, the older man in the center intervened. “Those are our orders and I don’t give a damn whether or not they please you. Keep complaining and I’ll stick you to dish duty for a month.”

  Vermen waited for them to pass his corridor before he emerged. He followed, careful not to scuff tiny rocks with his feet. All these men carried sacks, slung over their shoulders. The strap unclipped at three different spots, to free quickly should it get tangled during battle or retreat. The soldier trailing behind at the edge of the light listened to the argument, oblivious to his surroundings.

  A perfect target.

  Hans retrieved his knife, took a deep breath. Fear fought against excitement as he sprinted forward—a battle, however short, always caused this rush. He was in his element here, knew what to do and the risks involved. Nothing disturbing like kissing another man.

  He grabbed the sack, pulled hard once. The soldier yelped, began to turn and bring his arms closer. Vermen slashed at him—keep him unbalanced, disorganized—then freed the package. He dashed off, prize in hand, as the four others turned around. Vermen sprinted toward his corridor, ducked as the first shots rang out. They clipped the wall behind him and he reached the entrance. Safe. At least for a few seconds. His heart pumping, Vermen picked up his lamp and returned it at minimum light. It wouldn’t do to slam into a wall.

  The soldiers followed close behind—too close for his taste. He had to lose them, but no sound covered the regular slap of his shoes on the stones or his breathing, steady but loud. His strength, spurred on by the rush of adrenaline, began to wane. Not enough food, nothing to fuel a long sprint. A mistake, this pursuit.

  He wouldn’t get away.

  Vermen followed his path to the rope then skidded to a stop. He knelt, tied the sack and tugged hard, twice. At first nothing moved, then the bag snaked away, pulled by Seraphin.

  At least one of them might get out of this mountain alive.

  The soldiers’ light grew nearer. Vermen waited, poised, until one turned the corner. Then he darted left, away from Holt.

  “There!”

  Perfect. He led them through winding tunnels, his strides growing shorter, his heart threatening to burst. Dark spots flashed before his eyes, obliterating what little light he had. Vermen pushed further, as far as he could from Seraphin. A gunshot rang, the bullet whizzed past his arm. A hair’s breadth away. They wouldn’t miss the next shot. He stumbled into a side corridor, dropped the lamp. Nothing here but a chute plunging into darkness. Too small for him.

  Vermen spun on his heels as three soldiers burst into the tunnel’s entrance. His hands shot up.

  “I yield!”

  His voice was raw, breathless. Bile rose in his throat and he felt himself sway. Despite the sweat covering his body, he shivered.

  “Don’t move!” the older soldier shouted. He made a sharp motion and the two others approached while he kept his gun trailed on Vermen. They brought his hands behind his back, pulling hard, and he grunted against the pain that shot up his arm.

  Captured again. The ropes bit his wrists but he managed a half-smile. Don’t get killed, Seraphin had said, but since when did he listen to the White Renegade anyway? At least he would die answering for his treason instead of starving like a rat.

  * * *

  The soldiers woke him with a sharp kick in the side. Vermen groaned and turned over. His arms throbbed, pulled back because of his tied wrists, and he had no strength left to sit up. The sprint had burnt his energy and he’d allowed the others to drag him, half-conscious, since his capture. He did not remember a pause, or collapsing to the ground.

  “C’mon, get up.”

  They grabbed his arms and lifted him. Blood rushed to Vermen’s head with the sudden movement. The world spun, black stains marred his view, bile rose in his throat. He struggled not to faint and the cavern floor slowly stabilized under him. Already he felt hot, feverish. Famished.

  The men had set up camp in a smaller cavern. Beside their bright lamp was a fully-charged heater. They were opening cans of pasty meatballs in tomato sauce. The overpowering salty scent reached him and his belly retched. He might have vomited if there was any food for him to give back. He doubted his empty stomach would hold onto a heavy meal for long.

  The older soldier leaned over him. Vermen had to focus on his visage and the cooking preparations behind blurred.

  “Takes nerves to sleep at a time like this,” he said. “Or utter idiocy. You even realize the mess you’re in?”

  Vermen sketched a smile and squirmed into a better position. The cavern wall was cool against his back. “Of course I do.” His voice sounded distant, completely detached. He forced himself to concentrate. “Been in your shoes before, except my uniform had two stripes, not just the one.”

  The men behind froze and exchanged alarmed glances. Their leader, a corporal, clacked his tongue. “You’re the one who vanished this fall. Now that’ll disappoint Lieutenant Lungvist.”

  Lungvist. Vermen sucked his breath at the name and fought not to smile. If cautious, intelligent David was around, Hans might have a chance. Lungvist would always be on his side.

  “He’s in charge?”

  “I’ll ask questions, not you.” The corporal spat at Vermen’s feet. No point arguing further with him. “We never found our stolen pack. Wha
t did you do with it?”

  “Threw it in the chute. Would’ve followed.”

  “So its disappearance has nothing to do with possible companions?” The soldier’s mouth quirked. This one had brains.

  “What companions?”

  The blow came hard and fast. Vermen’s head hit the wall behind and he lost track of time. When he came to, the other soldier waited, still towering over him. Had his mind slipped seconds or minutes?

  “I’d answer, if you want to eat.”

  Vermen squeezed his eyes and held back a curse. He could take blows, but how long would they drag him around without food? Men had survived weeks without eating but they hadn’t starved beforehand, walked through endless caverns, or been chased by union soldiers. He needed to eat, now, not in another four days.

  “I’ll talk to David, no one else. Lieutenant Lungvist.”

  They couldn’t be far from the exit or the soldiers’ heater would not have been charged. They needed sunlight for that, which was hard to come by in the bowels of Mount Kairn. David would feed him first, perhaps ask questions after.

  The corporal laughed, snorted, turned to his companions. “Did you hear that, boys? Our traitor wants—”

  A bullet ripped through his throat and silenced him. The old soldier toppled over Vermen and warm blood drenched the captain as gunshots rang through the small caves, to and from the union soldiers. He held still, half-protected by the dead man, while the others scrambled into a circle and drew their guns. Most managed to shoot once at the darkness surrounding them before they crumpled to the ground, dead or dying. The fight hadn’t lasted a minute. Vermen took a deep, shuddering breath and squirmed out from under the corporal. There were meatballs just a few meters away, waiting for him.

  A pale figure walked out of the darkness—emaciated, short blond hair stuck to his forehead, bones jutting at his elbows. The man was halfway across the cavern before Vermen recognized Stern. He smiled, relieved, almost laughed at the sweet irony there, then realized there was only fury in his eyes. Stern grabbed him, his fingers digging in like claws, and slammed him hard against the wall. It crushed Vermen’s hands and sent another wave of vertigo.

  “You’ll talk, won’t you? Let me guess. You killed Seraphin and now you’ll sell all of us to buy your cursed life back, just like that.”

  Stern brought him closer, ready to shove him back into the stones. Outrage swirled inside Vermen and he smashed his forehead into the ex-soldier. They collapsed to the ground, both crying out in pain, and the fall knocked out what little energy Vermen had left. He felt Stern straddle him, groaned as the first punch connected with his jaw. With his tied hands he couldn’t defend himself.

  Other rebels rushed to his help and pulled them apart. Stern struggled while they lifted Vermen off the ground, but soon stopped. Jan and Joshua held him in place. Maniel had the captain’s arm. Vermen’s entire body shook, from anger and exhaustion. He wrested control of his breath and glared at the other.

  “Sell all of you? I saved your asses when they bombed your mountain! I could’ve pushed Schmitt off a cliff and escaped. Or I could’ve ditched everyone after Andeal gave me the keys to my shackles. I didn’t. You’d be dead, all dead, if I had.”

  Stern clenched his teeth. “You said—”

  “David Lungvist had a twin brother, victim of the Threstle Plague, and he almost followed him to the grave. Nothing will shake his loyalty to the Union—nothing except perhaps the idea that Kurtmann and Clarin didn’t save him, but rather killed his brother. Isn’t that what you guys are all about?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Schmitt told me.” He took a deep breath, trying to settle his thoughts. David needed to know, and Hans trusted him to understand. They had always been close. “David would have listened, and while he did that he wouldn’t ask about Seraphin, or anyone. I would never tell them anything that could harm him.”

  An uneasy silence followed and his cheeks flushed. He shouldn’t have said that. Especially with that intensity. His head hurt and while they stood wordless, confused, the nearby supper cooled. Vermen turned to Maniel.

  “I haven’t eaten since the bombs. Untie me…please.”

  She didn’t wait for anyone’s approval and undid his bonds. Vermen scrambled to the opened can and grabbed a large spoon with trembling hands. Too bad if his stomach didn’t keep it down. He shoved a first bite in his mouth and swallowed it.

  As the warm tomato paste made its way down to his stomach, Maniel crouched in front of him.

  “Hans…what happened to Seraphin?”

  He didn’t answer right away, finishing another spoonful first. “Crushed ankle. I dragged him until we couldn’t walk anymore and…” Vermen frowned, glanced at the caverns. He’d lost track of his location while the soldiers dragged him. “We need to backtrack. He has food but no light.”

  Stern scowled, grabbed a lamp, and strode toward the tunnels with a sharp “let’s move”. Fear laced his voice, forcing Vermen to pause in his meal. For the first time he realized there were less than a dozen rebels with them. Had half of them been buried by the collapses? And those left looked half-dead. Broken. No wonder Stern was so tense. Vermen struggled to his feet and turned to Maniel.

  “This isn’t over. We’ll find him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Henry scanned the storeroom full of radio transmitters and tried to fathom how he had ended up here in the middle of the night. How could their purpose for coming to Reverence transform from hiding to stealing government equipment and starting their own clandestine broadcast?

  Treysh’s fault, he decided. This was her idea.

  She strolled between the large machines, her hands waving to the rhythm of the military music streaming out of speakers in the wall. Sometimes she even twirled or lifted her hat in a sweeping gesture. Completely disconnected. They were in the basement of the National Radio Tower, guards could walk in on them at any time, but she danced. Why had they listened to her plan to begin with? The more he got to know Treysh, the more she slid from ‘eccentric’ to ‘dangerous lunatic’ on his crazy scale.

  Her initial reaction to the recording, however, had seemed so reasonable. She’d stared at the tiny disc, shook her head, and whispered, “Everyone needs to hear this.”

  Andeal nodded. “We just don’t know how.”

  “Easy. It’s an audio track,” she’d said. “Broadcast it.”

  Their gazes had met and excitement sparked in their eyes. Freshmen planning a bad trick. As they listed everything needed to start a clandestine radio show—what they could buy, what they had to steal, and where they’d steal it from—a terrified knot had formed in Henry’s stomach. He swore this would not lead anywhere good, or safe. And indeed, one dangerous truth soon imposed itself: no one kept old radio parts but the National Radio Tower.

  And here they were, thirty-six hours later, examining damaged transmitters.

  “This one?” Henry asked, pointing at one of the smallest models. Most old transmitters were too heavy. They’d keep his balloon aground.

  Andeal squatted in front of the device and examined it. He lifted loose cables to inspect them, played with the dials, and eventually carried the transmitter to the wall and plugged it in. Red and green lights turned on and as the engineer played with the switches, some turned off and others lit.

  Andeal smiled and pulled the cord out.

  “That one will do. It won’t broadcast far so we’ll need to travel a lot if we want to reach everyone, but most of it works. I can fix the rest.”

  Henry didn’t bother to hide his relief. The faster they left the Radio Tower, the better he’d feel.

  Treysh stopped her weird dance. “We have a winner?” she asked. “What time is it?”

  “Seventeen to midnight.”

  “Guard’ll be here any minute now. I say we hide behind the biggest machines and wait for him to go by.”

  They did and for the third time that night, Treysh’s estimation of the
security round proved accurate. Bored footsteps scuffled past as soon as they crouched behind the large transmitters. The guard didn’t bother to check their room. He moved on, his sweeping torchlight visible under the door. Henry hurried to their chosen device and lifted it.

  Time to get out.

  “Say, I have an idea…”

  Treysh’s words, addressed to Andeal more than him, sent his heart plummeting. Her ideas could not be good. His arms wrapped around the heavy machine, Henry waited for the blow.

  “Their broadcasting chambers are on the sixth floor. They don’t do many rounds up there, mostly because they figure they’ll catch intruders long before they get that far. If we’re fast enough we could reach them before midnight and interrupt this dreadful music.”

  Henry bit back a remark about her previous waltz to the so-called dreadful music. There were more pressing matters to address—like this suicidal plan. “Why on earth would we broadcast our presence here?”

  “To tell others.” Andeal began pacing around the storeroom, pensive lines marring his forehead. “What’s the point of a clandestine radio if nobody tunes in? People need to learn we exist. Then perhaps they’ll listen, talk about us. And…they’ll know we survived.”

  His voice softened toward the end and Henry realized the last ‘they’ referred to a very specific group. A very specific person.

  “How do we know they did?”

  “We don’t. We have to try, though.” He stopped moving in front of Henry. “There’ll be no safe way to spread knowledge of your father’s recording. The more attention we garner, the more dangerous it’ll become. You can’t escape this.”