Everland(43)

“This is as far as I go,” Dozer says. “About ten meters ahead, the tunnel ends at a hatch that leads into the city’s sewage system. Follow the right wall about a kilometer until you come to a ladder. From there, you’ll be about a half block from St. Paul’s Cathedral. Once you’re out on the streets, head south to the Thames. Follow the water’s edge until Big Ben, at least what is left of it, comes into view. Once you see it, the palace is about one and a half kilometers northwest of the river’s edge.”

“Great job,” Pete says, slapping Dozer on the shoulder.

“Sorry I couldn’t get you closer. We’ve been working on expanding the tunnel into the palace courtyard in hopes of tapping into some of their resources, but these things take time, and we’ve been short on supplies to stabilize the passageways.”

“You did well, Dozer,” Pete says. He takes the lead, with Doc, Pickpocket, Pyro, and Jack following behind. Mole steps behind Jack, but Dozer stops him.

“Take care of yourself, kid,” he says. “Stay close to Pete.”

Mole frowns. Dozer pulls his brother into him, wrapping his arms around him. “See you soon,” Mole says. He releases his brother and joins the other Lost Boys.

As I walk past him, Dozer asks, “Is she worth it?” I stop in my tracks. “I mean is one girl worth the lives of seven other people—eight, if you count Bella?”

“Let me ask you: If it was Mole who was taken, how many other lives would you risk getting him back?”

Dozer considers this for a moment before responding. “I’d risk the lives of every Lost Boy to get him back.”

“Me too,” I reply.

“Just make sure he comes back safe,” he says before walking away.

I move to join the other boys.

“Hey, Immune,” he says. I turn to him. His back faces me. “His real name is Michael.”

“Michael? That’s my brother’s name, too,” I say.

“I know. You look after my brother, and I’ll keep my eye on yours,” Dozer replies. I nod, but Dozer doesn’t see the gesture. He quickly disappears into the darkness.

Farther up the tunnel, I see Pete spin the wheel to the hatch leading to the sewer. The hinges squeal sharply and the boys duck as they step through the opening.

Pete pokes his head out from the opening. “Gwen, you coming?”

As I start to walk down the passageway, a loud crack to my left draws my attention. Dirt sprinkles down on me from the ceiling. My pulse quickens as another snap erupts to my right. I spin toward the noise. This time I see a fissure grow through one of the support beams.

Dozer reappears, sprinting back into the tunnel. He scans the support beams over my head and he blanches. “Run!” Dozer screams. He turns and runs in the opposite direction. “Get out of there, now!”

“Come on, Gwen,” Pete says, waving me toward him. “Hurry!”

A plank of wood falls from the ceiling, narrowly missing me as I dash toward him. The sound of lumber, mud, and metal crashing to the ground follows me. Dirt showers down on me, stinging my eyes. I know I have only seconds before the entire tunnel caves in. I leap in the air, grasping for Pete’s waiting hands.





The Steam Crawler rumbles down the crumbled remains of St. Margaret Street, followed by two dozen duplicate vehicles and fifty soldiers on foot. The long steel legs of the machines punch gaping holes into the street as they advance east, leaving behind a cloud of dust and tar pebbles in their wake. The few unbroken shop windows shatter and crumble to the concrete in a puddle of shards.

“Any word on the girl the soldiers found this morning?” I ask my driver.

“She’s on her way to the palace as we speak,” he says in clipped words that echo within his helmet.

“Good. Turn here,” I instruct. “Toward the bridge.”

“You mean what’s left of the bridge?” the driver says with a snicker. I glare at him, seeing only my own reflection in his dented helmet. I wish he didn’t have to wear the mask so that I could strike him. His laugh grates on every nerve, sending tingling sensations up my spine and down to the tips of my fingers and toes. This isn’t funny. There’s nothing amusing about the destruction and loss of life we are responsible for. Not we … me! I am responsible for the carnage before my eyes. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Drop a few bombs on key sites in London. That was all that I was directed to do. So what if a few buildings would be damaged; the point was to come in demanding the Queen of England hand over her crown. I had no idea what the targets were, just that my mother insisted on taking out specific ones. My fingers graze my eye patch, reminding me that I had no choice. I never have.

The Crawler turns south on Bridge Street, toward the ruins of the Palace of Westminster. Ahead, Westminster Bridge juts into the murky Thames water before severing off in broken fragments. As the military vehicles advance, a faint ping ricochets from the roof of my tank. I tilt my ear toward the steel ceiling. Again another ping rings off the top.

“Stop!” I shout, tipping my view toward the bulletproof window. The Steam Crawler comes to a halt, blocking the way of the other tanks. Another quiet ping pierces the night air.

“What is that?” I ask, sliding my door open. I stand on the frame of the Crawler, scanning the rubble scattered throughout the street.