The Tunnel War

by Kevin George

  Oliver took a deep breath, lifting his helmet before he could talk himself out of it. In one way, removing the helmet felt like a hundred-pound weight lifting from his neck. Not a single worker reacted, but Oliver still saw the shock in their eyes, the disgust in some others. He didn’t let them stare at his burns longer than a few seconds before he donned the helmet again.

  “I wanted to see what else was beyond our walls and this happened to me,” Oliver said. “But I did it for all of you, to show all of you what happens when you try to leave. If the Lord would do this to the Jonas Heir. . .”

  He shrugged, allowing the others to fill in the blanks. Any awe or wonder the workers may have shown about stories beyond the city suddenly faded from their faces.

  “We’d never want to leave,” said one of the workers.

  “Especially now that The Third and Fifth are so open,” another added. “Now that we have more freedom than ever, thanks to you.”

  Oliver nodded and grabbed the sledgehammer leaning against the wall beside the old story-teller. He slung it over his shoulder and started toward the dig site. The others began to join him, but he shook his head to stop them.

  “Please, rest until you’re ready,” he told the workers, before focusing on the old man. “Continue with your stories. The idea of passing along spoken history is very important.”

  He cut to the front of one of the worker lines, where he waited less than a minute before the next shift switch. After a few quick stretches, Oliver gripped the sledgehammer tightly, slung it over his shoulder and swung with all his might. The metallic head slammed into the rock wall, chipping away a large chunk of rock, sending twin jolts of pain rushing up his arms and into his shoulders. His hands stung, the pain growing worse for the first few swings, but eventually lessening until he barely felt it. He broke away more of the rock wall, proud of himself for how far he’d come since first picking up a digging tool. He felt stronger every day.

  Just like Artie got stronger doing this work, he thought. Oliver frowned, telling himself not to think about his former friend, a subject his wife made him swear to never discuss. He swung harder and faster, unleashing great big grunts with every attack, those grunts eventually changing to heaves for breath. As he grew tired, he thought about the king. . . he thought about the queen. . . he thought about his mother’s disappearance and Walter Capshaw’s betrayal and being made a fool of in front of all of One. . .

  By the time he couldn’t lift the sledgehammer, he was doubled over in fatigue, struggling to take a breath inside his helmet. Much of the noise around him had silenced and he glanced up to see workers staring at him, a few asking if he was okay. He saw genuine concern on their faces. His eyes welled and he nodded, afraid he couldn’t speak a word without his voice cracking. Though he’d worked tirelessly to find—and destroy—every micro-camera in The Fifth, he suddenly wished there was one right above him.

  He wished his father could see the adulation of his fellow men; he wished his father could see that Oliver didn’t need to rule the same way the Jonas family always had. He wished his father could see that Thirders and Fifthers were working because they wanted to, not because they were being forced, not because there were One guards screaming threats at them to work harder; One guards were no longer allowed in either of the back sections at all.

  These people are working because they’re following my lead, he told himself, a thought he would’ve loved to scream at his father if the king were—

  His mind was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat. Oliver turned and saw the only One guard in The Fifth. Oliver smiled, dropping his sledgehammer and approaching Kalford, patting the young man’s arm, but not too roughly.

  “It feels okay?”

  Kalford snorted. “Some days better than others.”

  “Again, I can’t tell you how—”

  “Please, enough of that,” Kalford said. “I hurt others in the combat trenches and never apologized to them. At least you remembered me. . . requested me for this duty. . . gave me this life here and an important position I never could’ve imagined. You even made sure I got a wife, one far more important and beautiful than I ever could’ve—”

  Oliver’s teeth clenched and he held up a hand to stop him, quickly lowering it when he saw how much it was shaking. The sight of Kalford suddenly annoyed him, though common sense reminded Oliver that he himself was to blame for lingering anger toward his personal guard.

  “Why have you interrupted me?”

  “Oh,” Kalford said, retreating a step, clearly taken aback by Oliver’s sudden abruptness.

  Oliver sighed as he waited for Kalford to get ahold of himself. “Is there a problem in the tunnels?” Oliver asked.

  Kalford blinked hard and shook his head. “Of course not. Aytyn and the guardsmen are holding the line, as you ordered,” Kalford said. “But another guard showed up. . . a One guard. . . asking for you to have an audience with your father.”

  Oliver laughed a bit too loudly. “My father will never learn,” he said. “There’s no way I’m going back to One. He’d never let me return here.”

  Kalford kept shaking his head. “No, Your Illus. . ., I mean Oliver. What I meant to say was that your father intends to travel here for a meeting. He will come to you.”

  It was Oliver’s turn to be taken aback. He crossed his arms, desperately wanting to remove his helmet to scratch an itch on his forehead. As far as Oliver knew, King Edmond had never traveled to The Fifth, so the king coming to him might prove to the rest of the citizens in The Fifth that Oliver was as powerful as—

  Oliver shook his head. I’m not playing those games any longer. The people have already accepted me for who I am, not for an image I’ve tried to portray. . .

  “Tell Aytyn and the guardsmen that nobody—my father included—is to be permitted beyond the tunnel entrance to The Third,” Oliver said. “I have nothing to say to him, and nothing I want to hear from him.”

  Oliver’s next breath was the sweetest he’d ever taken, especially since he realized how much he’d meant those words. He felt stronger and picked up the sledgehammer for his next round of digging. He no sooner reached the rock wall than Kalford caught up and cleared his throat.

  “Yes?” Oliver asked.

  “King Edmond also wanted you to know the queen will be accompanying him.”

  Oliver’s hands shook so suddenly that he lost his grip on the sledgehammer. Rather than pick it up, he sighed deeply and nodded, knowing his work for the day was done. Without another word, Kalford turned and led Oliver away from the dig site. Oliver’s head remained down, his mind deep in thought, already regretting what he expected to be an unpleasant—and unwanted—interaction with One’s ‘royal couple.’ A few friendly workers said hello as he passed, but the only response Oliver could muster was a quick nod.

  Oliver took the long way through The Fifth, circling around Tent City to avoid interactions with the orphans. He and Kalford said nothing as they made their way toward the entrance of the Main Tunnel, but both young men looked toward the former Peters’ home as they neared it. The mansion glowed orange from the lava flowing through the lines encircling it. Oliver rarely made it to this section of The Fifth, and he rarely looked toward the mansion, which brought up too many bad memories. But he happened to glance at it as a beautiful young woman emerged from its large front door.

  Paige Blake’s unexpected appearance caused a jolt in Oliver’s chest. He watched Paige turn her head in their direction. She came to a sudden stop, as surprised to see him as he was to see her. Even from afar, he saw the sadness in her eyes, but that sadness didn’t stop her from waving in their direction. Oliver quickly turned his head, pretending not to see, and ordered Kalford to put his hand down and keep moving.

  Can’t have those thoughts, not with what I’m about to deal with, he told himself as he entered the Main Tunnel and turned in The Third’s direction.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The shadow in the HASS doorw
ay didn’t remain a shadow for long, nor did it—he or she, Carli reminded herself—remain still for long. Before the gusting wind and swirling snow died down, Carli watched the shadow materialize into a human form and rush in her direction, the spear looming large in the figure’s hand. Though Carli’s feet felt frozen to the ground—especially since she didn’t want to step on any of the dead bodies littering the courtyard—her hands reacted without thinking.

  She mashed the power button and her jetpack responded immediately, shooting her skyward, allowing her only a split second to see the shadowy figure clothed from head to toe. The figure waved its arms wildly, swinging the spear in a wide loop. At first, Carli assumed it was a sign of aggression; when her brain had a moment to register the gesture, though, she could’ve sworn the figure was trying to signal for her to come back.

  Or is that the figure’s way of telling me to never come back?

  Either way, Carli continued shooting straight up, reaching the lowest clouds in time to spot a second figure emerging into the HASS courtyard. She shivered and tilted her body forward, speeding back in the direction of the Comm HASS, not wanting to see how many other shadowy figures might emerge. She felt bad that her HASS ancestors had had no such means of escape from the shadowy figures, but she couldn’t concern herself with the past any longer. For months, Wyatt had been promising that they had no reason to fear living on the ground, that they were totally alone in the snowy emptiness, that as long as they could coax a small amount of food out of the Comm HASS’s green room, they could survive. Now, Carli wasn’t so certain.

  As she flew away, she ascended higher into the clouds than normal, the coldness creeping through her thick clothes, filling her lungs with air almost too frigid to breathe. But she dealt with the discomfort, no longer wanting to see the ground or be seen by someone on the ground. She searched the sky for the Main HASS, wanting more than ever to find it and leave the insanity of her new life behind. But there was still no sign of her family’s home and she had no doubt that part of her past would forever be hidden among the clouds.

  Carli thought she was heading back in the direction of the Comm HASS, but she was no longer certain. For that matter, she was no longer certain of anything, except that this was the farthest she’d ever been from Wyatt and the HASS, and probably the farthest she’d ever been from anyone she knew. When the jetpack began to sputter, she was also certain that power to its engine was running low.

  Carli remained airborne but dipped beneath the clouds, again spotting the empty white world below. The occasional gust of wind soon turned into a steady gale, pushing Carli across the sky, engulfing her in swirling snow that limited her visibility to less than ten feet. She didn’t know if she was still headed in the right direction or how high she soared. She considered landing somewhere to ride out the worst of the storm, but spotting a cave or any sort of temporary shelter would be impossible in these conditions.

  Maybe I could’ve hidden in the abandoned HASSes. . .

  She looked back, the four HASSes already long gone from view. Though she doubted she would’ve found anything significant in the other two HASSes, she wished she could’ve explored them, if only to search for an answer about how they’d ended up pushed together. She imagined the ingenuity of her ancestors to find one another after surviving being severed from the Main HASS, not to mention the ability to move the HASSes across the snowy terrain to join forces at—

  Carli suddenly spotted something in her periphery, a flash in the sky far behind her. Her heart nearly exploded from her chest. She turned her head more, trying to spot what had caused the flash. She stared toward an area of heavy clouds where the flash had disappeared. The wind gusted, blowing more snow into her face, making it harder to see. A single terrifying thought filled her mind.

  What else in this world could know how to fly?

  Still finding no trace of the flash—and being tossed about the sky as if she weighed no more than one of the falling snowflakes—Carli finally turned forward and focused on flying. She assumed her eyes had been playing tricks on her, but she still pushed the jetpack beyond its safety limit, praying the engine wouldn’t sputter again.

  Wyatt grunted, rubbing his hands across his head so roughly that he felt like half of his hair pulled away from his scalp. Throwing something would probably ease his frustration—and it would hurt a lot less—but he resisted the urge; he couldn’t take the risk of breaking something.

  Not that any of this junk is working, he thought, looking around at the room full of tiny parts he’d hoped might be of use, none of which actually were.

  Wyatt stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. He walked through the Comm HASS hallway, silence filling every room he passed. Wyatt wasn’t certain what time of the day it was, nor did he know if he was alone. He stuck his head into each room, searching for Carli, suddenly worried about her being out on another fruitless search. He ignored the rumbling in his stomach and made his way outside, where the wind whipped and the snow fell as heavy as he’d ever seen it. He scanned the sky but saw no sign of her.

  I can’t keep letting her put herself in such danger, Wyatt thought. She’s never going to find anything out there. . . unless it’s not only materials she’s looking for. . .

  Each time Carli left, she seemed to stay out longer and longer. Wyatt often kept busy with his projects, but he’d spent months pulling apart every piece of equipment in the radio room, trying to rig the GPS with different pieces, every effort failing as miserably as the last. He’d started with a nearly endless number of possibilities for fixing the GPS; now, he’d exhausted them all and was back to trying things that already hadn’t worked. He tried to stay hopeful and perky whenever Carli was around—he didn’t want to worry her with how dire their situation had become—but he was certain she’d lost faith in him weeks ago.

  He was also certain she wasn’t giving him the entire story about what she was doing—more specifically, what she was searching for—while out on her flights. They rarely spoke about the Main HASS or any other part of their old life, but whenever the topic was broached, Carli seemed a little too anxious to talk about how she didn’t miss any of it. The sadness in her eyes often told a different story. Wyatt wouldn’t have been surprised if she was looking for the Main HASS. For that matter, he found himself doing the same thing more and more recently, though he doubted his return would be met with the same level of acceptance as Carli’s would be.

  You took Stephen Ellison’s daughter away from him, Wyatt reminded himself. If you ever went back with Carli, Ellison would certainly let you fly away again. . . but without the jetpack.

  Wyatt’s doubts aside, he had no other choice but to succeed. Anything else would result in him losing Carli forever, if that hadn’t already happened. With that thought in mind—with the ever-present sense of desperation rearing its ugly head—he took a deep breath of freezing air, gave a quick whisper into the wind for Carli’s safe return and headed back inside. After a quick bite to eat, he headed back into the radio room and his table full of spare parts.

  For a long time, he stared at the wires and circuits and transceivers and data links, trying to piece together a puzzle that seemed to have no answer. The harder he thought, the fewer answers came to him. Frustration mounted. He closed his eyes and rubbed them hard, as if that might allow him to see better. It didn’t. Rather than waste time thinking, Wyatt got to work, connecting wires in the GPS, changing circuits, though most of the pieces didn’t fit into the GPS’s case. When a sudden spark shocked Wyatt, he leapt backwards and massaged his hand, cursing his misfortune.

  Until he realized that shock had been caused by a spark of power to the GPS locator, something it hadn’t had since he ransacked it for parts to Carli’s jetpack. The locator momentarily flashed a message on its screen: ATTEMPTING TO CONNECT. Wyatt’s breath caught in his throat and he shook his head in shock. This was the moment he’d been obsessing about for months, the moment he’d spent every waking moment—and m
ost of the sleeping ones—focusing on, the moment he could finally learn the coordinates to where he and Carli would have to travel to continue their future in the world of snow and—

  The message flashed off, the GPS going dead again. Wyatt swallowed hard to avoid becoming sick. He thought it strange that he didn’t feel anger or panic; instead, his chest felt hollow, his mind empty. Wyatt had stumbled upon a fix in the first place and knew the GPS had no right to start working, but something had made it work and therefore something had made it stop working.

  It’s like it powered off, he thought. He tightened the cable connecting the GPS to the power source on the jetpack (the only part of the pack still fully intact). Wyatt had spent months rerouting the wires in the Comm HASS to sustain power to the heating system, the emergency lighting and the radios, but cloudy weather had limited the amount of sunlight reaching the outer solar panels. For that reason, he’d used the power source on the jetpack—

  A power source I haven’t recharged in days, he suddenly realized. Wyatt hurried toward the radios, about to hijack their power source to connect to the GPS, when another worry hit him. What if unplugging the GPS from the jetpack ruins whatever connection it made in the first place?

  Wyatt wasn’t exactly superstitious, and he knew electrical systems weren’t predicated on ‘luck,’ but he didn’t want to disrupt a single thing on his table. Knowing he couldn’t carry the jetpack and the GPS without risking one or the other, he was left with a single option, one that made him chuckle when he realized it. He secured both machines in the center of the work table—and boxed up the rest of the parts surrounding them—and moved to the edge of the metal table, which he slowly dragged toward the radio room’s door.

  The table’s feet squealed as he dragged everything down the hallway, the noise grating to his already fragile nerves. But the hallway was perfectly clear, a result of Carli’s countless hours of cleaning, which made the trip easier. As he approached the HASS exit and heard howling wind, Wyatt knew he’d have to wait until the worst of the storm passed. The wait would undoubtedly be torturous—he already felt the tingle of impatience plucking away at his mind—but having time to clear his mind of this problem and think about something else might—