"Meaning we have running water," said Buck. Which would have been fine if he hadn't said it in such a patronizing tone.
"Thanks, Poopy."
Buck sputtered out his cookie. Mo handed him another one. Either being a good host who kept his guests fed or just staving off arguments.
"The other spokes contain living quarters, entertainment, supplies" continued the hunter.
"How many people live here?" said Hope, awed.
"How many people can live here?" said Maggie. Also awed. More awed when Mo answered.
"Twenty for ten years. Ten for twenty. And so on."
Christopher noticed that he hadn't answered the first question, but he skipped that in favor of the question that had been bugging him most, and for the longest time:
"How much did this cost? And how rich are you?"
17
The curls on Mo's face seemed to straighten. He was smiling, but the smile didn't cover his.... Christopher grasped for the concept. His countenance? His spirit?
Whatever it was, the smile was sincere. But it also guarded something beneath it. Just as sincere, just as real, but much less welcoming than that big grin was.
"The sweet potato does not say how sweet he is, young friend," said Mo. The lines stayed straight, and when Mo said it some of the smile disappeared from his eyes and Christopher knew he would get no more answer than this. He had seen that look before. Men and women who were used to power, who wore it like a second coat, who were used to seeking a thing and achieving it. They wore that look. Some were good people, who used that power to help others. Some were bad, and used that power for themselves, and damn anyone who got in their way.
But all were dangerous. All had discovered that true power lay not in money or lackeys or even those willing to live and die at their command, but in the strength of their own will.
Christopher nodded. It was nearly a bow. He hoped Mo was one of the good ones. Suspected he was. But he wasn't about to challenge the man. Because he himself didn't have that kind of power. Never had.
And didn't know if he wanted it.
"What about electricity?" said Buck. He seemed oblivious of the momentary impasse. Pointing at one of the grid-covered LEDs that sat in recesses every five feet along the ceiling. "How long can that last?"
"I have solar panels in the mountains. They are a long way away, and no one will find them. They power rechargeable batteries under the floors and even if the panels are destroyed we will have electricity for many days."
Mo smiled. "Now come. I will show you to the beds. I must sleep, I think."
He turned. Weaved. Christopher remembered suddenly that the man had been shot. It had been easy to forget; he wasn't acting shot. But suddenly he was on his knees. Hope was screaming. Buck rushed forward. Caught the big man under his good shoulder.
"Mo!"
Mo smiled. Slumped forward. Blood flowed onto the floor of the tunnel.
18
"Help me, dammit," roared Buck. "This guy's heavy!"
Christopher moved forward and grabbed Mo's other arm. The Māori groaned but did not open his eyes, did not regain consciousness. Christopher felt sticky warmth on his skin and did not have to look down to know: Mo's blood had saturated his bandages and was now passing through Christopher's own waterlogged shirt.
"What do we do?" he said. He looked around wildly. Lost. Then started pulling Mo down the tunnel the way they had been headed.
Maggie spoke at the same moment. "This way." She scooped up Lizzy with one arm, grabbed Hope with her free hand. She squeezed by the men – a tight fit between the sides of the tunnel itself and the still closer confines of the walls of food on either side – and took point. She nearly ran ahead of them. That irritated Christopher for a moment, until he realized he was keeping up. She was moving them along, faster than they might have gone without her. Whether she was doing that on purpose or just panicking he couldn't say. He thought it was the former.
Either way, she was doing the right thing. Again, someone in their group was stepping up when it was needed.
Maggie reached another hatchway. She put Lizzy down. The little girl didn't make a sound, and for a moment Christopher worried she was returning to that semi-comatose state that signaled a return to whatever creepy place she had found inside her little body.
But no. Hope was holding the toddler's hand now. Patting her shoulder, whispering in her ear. The toddler smiled.
"Why don't you ever whisper sweet nothings to me, Poopy?"
"I will kill you," Buck panted through gritted teeth.
Maggie was spinning the wheel lock. It clicked and she pulled the hatch open. She grabbed Lizzy and returned the two-year-old to her hip, then hauled Hope through the hatchway with them.
Christopher and Buck had a tough time negotiating the hatchway with the Māori. Christopher weighed about a buck-and-a-half, even soaking wet. He and a twin brother could have fit through the hole with room to spare. But Mo was a squeeze, and so was Buck. The first dragging the second, followed by the third? It was like watching a Gold's Gym version of The Three Stooges.
They finally got Mo through. Buck almost tripped on the lower lip of the hatchway.
They entered a room that was more or less circular. Maybe thirty feet in diameter. A few sinks along one wall, a curtained off area that Christopher supposed was for showers along another, and another curtained area that he could see a pair of toilets peeking out from behind, a partition between them. This area was definitely more utilitarian than the bachelor pad in the entrance had been.
A low hum could be heard in the room. Water? Batteries charging? He didn't know.
He was more concerned with the fact that he could no longer hear Mo breathing.
19
"Which way do we go?" said Buck. He was looking at the doors that led out of the central hub. One led back the way they had come. Then there were three more. No way to know what led where.
Maggie looked at Hope. "Honey, can you run down that one?" She gestured at the hatchway closest to her. "Don't touch anything, just look what's there, then come right back."
Hope nodded. Maggie opened the hatch. Hope disappeared. Lights flickered on as she entered; they must be on some sort of motion sensors.
Maggie hefted her other daughter then went to the next hatch. Spun the wheel. "I'll see what's in the other two."
Christopher shook his head. "We don't have time for you to do both." He shouldered his way out from under Mo. Buck grunted at the extra weight.
"What're you –?"
"I'll go down the last one," said Christopher. He ran to the last passageway. Spun the wheel on the door. Opened it.
As with Hope, when he stepped into the tunnel beyond the door the lights turned on. LEDs could be so bright they were sterile and forbidding. These, like everything else in the shelter, had been chosen carefully. They illuminated, but did not glare. Bright enough to see by, but they created comfort, not bleak despair.
The sides of the short tunnel were laden with food. A few quick steps and Christopher found himself in an eating area. A few picnic-style tables that he guessed could seat well more than the twenty guests Mo had mentioned. An large electric range sat in the back, a metal hood over it with ducting that disappeared into the ceiling. Christopher wondered absently where the fumes were piped off to.
Other than that: more stacks of food. A few cupboards and cabinets that, when he opened them, proved to hold flatware, plates, bowls, cups. A large refrigerator, a standalone freezer.
Nothing helpful.
He ran out to where Buck waited with Mo, the place Christopher was calling "the wet room" in his head. Giving it a name like this was his place. His home.
And he wanted that. Oh, how he wanted it. Wanted to stop running, to rest.
But could they? If Mo was dead? Probably.
Still, would it be the same? As good?
No. It never was. Every person lost was a loss for the whole world. How many people could be left at th
is point? Real people? A hundred? A thousand? When there were so few, each one mattered more than all the gold in the world.
All the riches of before had disappeared. Now there was only survival and family.
Maggie clanged through her door a moment later, Lizzy riding her hip and grinning like she had just found a new playground. The look on Maggie's face was anything but upbeat: she hadn't found anything helpful.
"Sleeping area," she said. "We can lay him down. Make him comforta –" she stopped. Kept herself from finishing a sentence that was the kind of thing you said about a person who was going to die, no doubt about it.
Still, laying Mo down was the best they had, unless Hope came up with better.
Little feet. She pattered her way into the wet room.
"Was there anything back there, honey?" asked Maggie.
Hope looked at Mo with wide eyes, her gaze never leaving his face as she shook her head. "Just a few beds and boxes on the walls and a little refrigerator."
"Okay," said Maggie. She gestured to Christopher and Buck. "Let's lay him down." They started toward the tunnel she had explored.
Mo was definitely no longer breathing. Christopher glanced at Buck over the top of the Māori's slumped shoulders. His friend was already looking toward him, shaking his head.
And Christopher jerked to a halt.
"What're you doing?" said Buck.
Christopher shifted. Started walking a different direction.
"We can save him."
20
"What are you –?"
"Come on, Clucky."
For once, Buck didn't bitch about the name. He just helped Christopher manhandle their dying host into the spoke that Hope had come from.
"She said there's nothing there," grunted Buck.
"Beds, boxes, a little fridge," said Christopher. He pulled Mo through yet another long pipe-corridor filled with supplies. "Sounds like…."
The corridor widened out into a room. Buck grumbled, "You're going to be a pill about this, aren't you?" as they angled for one of the beds.
Christopher levered Mo's feet onto the white cot. Buck lifted the man's torso and head.
It was a mark of his worry that he didn't bother with a rejoinder. Not even so much as to say, "Nah, Buck, I'm right like this way too often to gloat about it." Just up with the loose body in his hands, then looking around to take stock.
The room was a hospital. No other way to put it. There were four cots that looked straight out of the deluxe rooms at St. Luke's, lines of cabinets with frosted glass windows that shielded half-seen bottles and boxes, more bottles and boxes on top. Medical supplies. In one corner was a squat refrigerator that Christopher guessed would hold temperature-sensitive medications. Beside it was something that looked like an ultrasound machine.
On the wall: a familiar box. One that was on every floor in the Capitol building, in every classroom at the last boarding school he'd escaped from.
Christopher yanked open the door. Inside was a bright red box with "HEARTSTARTER – DEFIB" written across it in bold white letters.
He began tearing Mo's shirt off.
And that's when he felt the arrow jab at his cheek.
21
Maybe it was the creak of the bowstring. Maybe it was something about the edge of the arrow. But he knew without looking that that was what it was: an arrow.
"Where did you come from?" said Buck. He didn't sound demanding. Just surprised and scared.
Christopher put the defibrillator down on Mo's unmoving chest and raised his hands.
"Where did you –?" began Buck, his mouth shoved into "repeat" by the shock of whatever was happening.
"Shut up, Clucky," said Christopher. He turned, hands still reaching as high as he could get them.
The person holding the bow, holding Christopher's life in his steady hands, was a kid. He was also a younger version of Mo. Maybe fifteen years old. Eyes that were dark and capable, skin the color of tanned leather. He didn't have the tribal tattoos, but even without them Christopher felt strength roll off him. Different than Mo's. Less tempered, raw.
More dangerous, because it didn't have the wisdom of years behind it.
Christopher suddenly remembered Mo saying that behind the false wall to this place was where he kept his "greatest treasures," and suspected he hadn't been talking just about the tools and supplies.
The bow the kid held was a simple one. It almost looked homemade. Dark wood, a rough-twined bowstring. And Christopher suspected it could power an arrow right through a deer.
Christopher waited for the kid to say something. He didn't. He just stared.
"He's dying," Christopher finally said. "I have to save him." He pointed at Mo.
The boy still didn't make a sound. Nor did his eyes move. They remained pinned to Christopher's. A long moment.
Then he lowered the bow. Nodded at Mo.
Christopher nodded back, a quick "thank you." He turned to their benefactor. Wondering what would happen if Mo died on the cot.
He doubted it would turn out well.
22
No pulse at Mo's neck. At least, Christopher didn't think there was a pulse. He wasn't a doctor.
Hell, we didn't even think to check his pulse until now. Way to react under stress, Chrissy-poo.
Not important. Get to what's important.
What happened when you shocked someone who was still alive? Could it kill them?
He didn't have time to think too hard about it. Sometimes planning was necessary. Other times it just got in the way of what had to be done. His father had always said "plan" could be just one more four-letter word.
It was one of the few good pieces of advice Christopher had gotten from him.
He flipped open the latches on the case.
"Don't lay it on him, idiot."
Buck's voice penetrated a fog that had dropped over Christopher's thoughts. Panic setting in. Action being replaced by simple motion: the first guided, the second as rudderless and useless as a storm-tossed ship. He shook himself, literally. Looked down and realized Buck was right: the red case had somehow appeared on Mo's motionless chest.
"I thought you told me to do it," Christopher snarled.
Buck didn't answer. Maybe sensing what was happening, how close Christopher was to losing what remained of his wits.
(I buried the axe in her head I didn't save her how can I save this man?)
He pushed the case to the narrow strip of cot that remained unoccupied by Mo's bulk, then flipped open the clamshell case. The heavy plastic halves cracked with the distinctive sound of a waterproof seal letting go.
Inside the case, packed in foam rubber that had been cut to hold the pieces in place, were electrical leads; a few round pads; and a yellow-and-black box marked "AED" with an LED readout, one red button, and one green.
On the opposite side of the clamshell, various pictures showed exactly what to do with the apparatus. Christopher didn't feel reassured.
He realized that Mo's shoulder had stopped bleeding. Not because of any magic healing.
The man was simply dead.
The boy's arrow rose. He pointed it at Christopher. The string drew back. Wordless, silent, deadly. The creak of the string was the only sound, the tension the only thing standing between Christopher and a quick death in this near-tomb.
The boy gestured. Christopher moved.
23
Christopher left the machine in its packed position. He looked at the pictures. Skipped past the ones that showed a strangely androgynous figure –
(can't offend anyone, not when someone's dying before you, who knows if it'll be a man or a woman who saves them, so very PC!)
– checking another sexless form – this one recumbent – for clear airway and pulse.
Two of the pads were already attached to the leads, and he slapped the tacky sides down on Mo's tattooed belly and chest – a body that looked younger and stronger than the man's years. Hopefully that strength would serve him here.
Christopher replaced the pads. Waited.
Nothing happened.
The bowstring creaked behind him.
24
"You dope," said Buck. He stabbed a finger forward. Hit the green button on the AED itself. "Helps if you turn it on."
The LED glowed bright green, then a chirping came from the side of the machine. Christopher's finger stabbed toward the button automatically, but again Buck knew what to do. This time he didn't say a word, just took over completely, moving Christopher out of the way and taking his place beside Mo. But he moved without the brusqueness Christopher would have expected. The big man was gentle. Kind. He looked at Christopher and actually winked.
"Thanks, Clucky," said Christopher. His voice quavered.
Buck just nodded. Didn't bitch about the name. Too tense.
The boy swung his arrow over to Buck.
The AED's LED screen was blinking. "WORKING" scrolled across it in gray letters. "WORKING."
WORKING…
WORKING…
WORKING…
Christopher felt like screaming.
How long could a teenage kid hold back a bowstring that strong?
He looked at the boy.
The arrowhead was motionless. Pointed right at Buck's temple.
But the string fingers were shaking.
Buck didn't have much time. And Christopher wondered if the rest of the survivors could take the kid after he killed the big man.
The survivors were tired.
They were hungry.
They were wounded.
No, if the hunter died, so would all of them.
24
"PRESS GREEN BUTTON."
Buried.2015.03.04 Page 5
