Breaking Point (Article 5 #2)(76)

I scanned the debris-covered field, but he was right. This was the only plane. If the airport had been attacked during the War surely more of them should have found their graves here.

I didn’t consider it further. At that moment we turned toward a mausoleum-like hole in one particularly large pile of rubble. Three armed guards hunkered nearby. They’d been expecting us, based on their lack of affect.

“Welcome to Chicago,” said Jack. As Sean went to move past him, Jack slapped a hard hand in the middle of his chest. “You scram and squeal, we hunt you down.” He grinned viciously.

“Good to know,” grumbled Sean.

Jack pulled back a large piece of sheet metal—the hatch on the side of a plane—and descended a ladder secured to the wall. We all followed.

It was dark, cave dark, when the last man in closed the hatch. The fear contracted in my belly as we dove deeper into the well, rung after rung, feeling our way blindly toward the bottom. Sweat slickened my grasp, and the bars groaned under our combined weight. Just as my arms were beginning to shake, my feet found solid ground. I listened for Tucker, more wary of him than all these strangers and their dark tunnels combined. There was a whirring noise, and then the light built steadily from a wind-up lantern. Tucker was still feeling his way down the ladder.

“Guess you all aren’t too concerned about heatstroke down here.” Sean’s voice echoed off the low, dome-shaped ceiling. He was right. My skin alighted with goose bumps. It was easily fifteen degrees cooler than the surface.

“What is this place?” I asked. “The sewers or something?” I wrapped my arms around my body. The dark was like a palpable thing; everywhere the light didn’t stretch seemed to stroke my skin with its icy tendrils.

“The tunnels,” corrected Jack. He shined his lantern down a long corridor that faded to black. My foot bumped against a metal rail, and when I looked down I saw two parallel lines of steel.

“I thought the subways were blown up,” said Chase.

“They were,” said Jack. “And it must have shaken something loose, ’cause that’s how Mags found this place. The Bureau never thought to check that something might exist below the subway.”

Black cords ran overhead, breaking into a fray of dusty wires at every crack in the cement ceiling. The air was stale, and brittle, as though a fresh breeze hadn’t swept through in a hundred years.

“How old is this place?” I asked.

“Older than you and me,” said Jack.

While he and the other rifleman led the way, Truck recounted the gory details of some of Chase’s fights to anyone close enough to hear. I eavesdropped with morbid curiosity. This wasn’t something Chase liked discussing, and though I wanted the guy to shut up, I couldn’t bring myself to stop him.

What I heard sounded brutal. Broken limbs. Blood, dripping from wounds gouged by fists and teeth. Matches that weren’t called off, even when they should have been. My heart broke for the little boy within him that was afraid of haunted houses, who kept pictures of his family in a box beneath the floorboards. I was the only witness of his existence. These people only knew a fighter.

Chase walked just before me, back straight, eyes flicking from side to side. I wondered what was going through his head. He didn’t like places where he couldn’t readily access an exit.

“Those stories aren’t all true,” he said quietly to me, and then swallowed.

“Neither are mine,” I said. His shoulders lowered a full inch.

We walked what felt like a long way before we came to a raised, open area. Up atop the platform, I saw what had happened to the other planes. Luggage racks had been rigged into bunk beds and bolted to the walls. Below them on the chipped tile floor were army cots, lined up like those at the Red Cross Camp. A dozen or more people were laid out sleeping as we passed. There was at least one girl in the mix.

“Barracks,” said the third guard, who hadn’t spoken very much. A rusted tin sign on the platform wall said CHICAGO TUNNEL COMPANY. Beside it was a metal door, and the words BOILER ROOM—EXIT could barely be deciphered through the corrosion. We were heading right underneath the city. I began to feel claustrophobic. What was above us? Burned-down buildings? The base? Rebecca?

Our path widened as other tracks converged with the central line. Small hanging lanterns were rigged to the cords that ran along the ceiling, low enough that Truck could wind them up as we approached. Chase had to weave around them to avoid hitting his head.

We continued on past the latrines—airplane lavatories taken straight from the planes. They were pressed against the wall of the tunnel, but not particularly evenly. A shovel was leaning against the last open stall, and when I glanced in I saw my distorted reflection in the shadowed aluminum mirror.

I tried to picture the resistance dismantling planes, lowering piece by piece of scrap metal down to the tunnels, but the task seemed too daunting. They were planes, thousands of pounds. And yet, the proof was all around us.

“When will we have the roster for the rehab facility?” I heard Sean ask.

“When you stop whining like a little girl,” answered Jack. Apparently association with Three didn’t buy us good manners from everyone. Sean fell into place beside Chase and me.

We walked farther. A mile, it felt like. My eyes were already adjusting to this grade of darkness. I began to see details more clearly, even without the assistance of a flashlight or the lanterns hanging from the low ceilings. There was graffiti on the walls here. One Whole Country, One Whole Family, but other signs, too. The flag and the cross—the insignia of the MM—X’d out. Swear words. The names of the deceased with the dates they died.