Breaking Point (Article 5 #2)(77)
And three hash marks. Someone from Three had been here. I hoped they weren’t here now to call me out.
We came upon another station, which our tour guide named sick bay. Several train cars sat dormant on the tracks, crowded with towels, gauze, and medical supplies. Lanterns hung in the last compartment and a dirty-faced boy about my age sat on a large wooden stool and hugged his bleeding arm against his body. He hollered when a medic doused it with peroxide. The medic laughed. I cringed and jogged past a stack of white buckets to keep up with Chase.
The next stop on our tour—the Receiving Station, going by the faded paint on the wall—was much more open, and packed with people. Fifty at least. They sat in blue wool plane seats, using the trays from the row in front of them to hold plates of food. I could smell the warmth and the salt above the cold, dank mold and dirt of the tunnels.
Their glances turned to stares. Their conversations turned to whispers. Truck told anyone who lifted a brow my direction that I was the sniper. I reminded myself to stay aloof, but the lie had grown beyond my control, and I hated myself for ever mentioning it.
“How many people live here?” I found myself asking.
“About a hundred, give or take a few,” said Truck.
I cleared my throat against the rasp of cold air. We’d only had thirty in Knoxville, and who knew how many of those were left.
“If you keep going that way, you’ll hit the Loop,” said Truck. “That’s where the briefing is. Make sure you leave early, it’s a hike.”
We climbed out of the trench, and a full kitchen was revealed. A cafeteria-style counter, made of welded pieces of plane hull, ran along the length of the far wall. Behind it were a steadily humming generator and three mismatched refrigerators. Five workers, one of them a thick girl with cropped hair, were serving tubs of Horizons instant mashed potatoes and cooking burger patties—real meat—over a grill atop a flaming metal trash can. The smoke was wafted down the tunnels by some unperceivable current.
I thought of how much cereal and canned corn we’d eaten at the Wayland Inn. Food we’d stolen from the MM. These people had someone working inside at Horizons, that much was obvious.
Truck was kind enough to get us some food and damp rags with which to clean ourselves before leading us behind the mess hall. Despite my anxiety I was beginning to see double again. I thought if I closed my eyes, I could be asleep in seconds.
The farther we moved away from the tracks, the more debris cluttered the area, and the stronger the scent of rust and concrete dust became. Truck explained that the bombings during the War had taken out the city above us, but that the deeper tunnels, and some of the old elevator shafts to the surface, were still clear. When I pointed out the large crack in the ceiling, he only raised his lantern and shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal.
He led us around a cramped area with smaller rail carts filled with what looked like coal, toward a room that said ENGINEERING on the door. Inside were two young men, one with spiky blue hair, the other with porcelain skin and almond-shaped eyes. Their guarded demeanors turned eager as soon as Truck informed them they were in the presence of celebrities, and I was bombarded with questions again.
I pawned off their enthusiasm on Tucker while I explored the room. It was like someone had gone Dumpster diving in a Contraband Items bin. The walls were lined with stacks of clothing, both uniforms and otherwise, linens, and boxes of hair dye and electric clippers. Everything from jewelry to batteries to religious items, including crucifixes and menorahs, were laid out across three sturdy tables. Behind all this was an emergency exit sign, hanging pathetically on wires from the ceiling.
“Is that still a way out?” Chase asked. We all followed his line of sight to the back of the room, where a corridor stretched into darkness.
“Yeah,” said the guy with the almond eyes. “That’s where they bring supplies down. Guards keep watch up top to make sure no one unapproved gets in.”
Chase nodded and took a deep breath. This settled him only minutely.
“We’ve still got five hours until curfew,” Sean whispered to me while the others were rifling the inventory for stolen uniforms and blankets. “If we wait until the meeting, we’ll be stuck here until morning.”
I felt his urgency. The time had begun ticking through my bloodstream, weighing me down, but we had to play it safe. We weren’t going to get to Rebecca any faster if we broke the rules and got kicked out of the resistance. I should know.
“We’ll get her out, okay?” I said, trying to summon patience. “We need a plan and before we can do that, we need to crash.”
“All this attention wearing you out?”
His cynicism surprised me.
“You’re not the only one who wants her back,” I said, waving when one of the supply boys continued to stare at me.
He sighed. “I know. Sorry. It’s just, we’re so close.”
“We’ll get the roster soon,” said Tucker, inserting himself in the conversation. “And then I’ll get us in. Trust me.”
“Trust you. Great idea,” I muttered.
*
EXHAUSTION was taking over by the time we’d taken turns in the “showers”—nozzled bags of undrinkable water—and returned to the barracks. Chase chose two empty cots near the back where he could face the rest of the platform. The glow of our flashlight revealed a steady vein of water leaking from the ceiling that disappeared into a mound of mud wedged against the wall.