Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(50)

I clutch the railing, gasping out choking sobs. My trembling knees threaten to fold beneath me. The dead stare of the Census guard on the floor is more than I can take. Before I know what’s happening, though, the elevator stops. The doors open. I force back tears and turn, raising my fusionmag and pointing it at an empty hallway ahead of me. Nothing moves.

Is this the same bunker?

I pause, listening. My foot slides forward and I take a tentative step from the lift. Water in my boots makes squishing noises. I sweep the fusionmag, its aim following the path my eyes take as I scan the area. The sound of heavy breathing to my left rattles my nerves. I swing my weapon in that direction. The door to the dark room beside the elevator is ajar. I creep to it, peeking inside. The two unconscious soldiers stunned by Flannigan are still sprawled out on the floor. I back away quietly.

Shoving the fusionmag into my jacket pocket, I strip off the wrist communicator and toss it back into the elevator. The car descends into a watery grave. The fake moniker frees me from the bunker’s prison. I stand between the open doors and covertly stow the copycat back into its lead sleeve and drop it in the bag.

The buzz from the stingers makes my heart thrum wildly in my chest, but my own moniker remains covered in the leaded glove, undetectable. Crossing the warehouse floor, I leave a trail of dripping water in my wake. I take a heartwood up to the laundry. The welcome hum of washing machines drowns out my footsteps.

My trembling hands strip off the wet uniform. Slipping on Flannigan’s orange jumpsuit, I find that we’re virtually the same size. I keep the flat cap, pulling it down once more over my hair to shadow my face. Retrieving the fusionmag from the Census coat, I shove it in the bag.

The heartwood line looms ahead. I stumble from the laundry and jump on one. About midway to my floor, a blaring siren rings, accompanied by a robotic, feminine voice: “All personnel, please report to your air-barracks and to your capsules until further notice. We are on lockdown. Please report to your capsules immediately.”

By the time the heartwood reaches my floor, I’m a trembling mess. I take the corridor used by Stone-Fated workers. The orange-uniformed personnel don’t give me a second glance. Posted signs lead me to my air-barracks. Soldiers guard the door to Tritium 101.

A worker ahead of me tries to scan his moniker, but a soldier stops him. “You’re getting new monikers in your designated areas. Report to your capsules, and you’ll be summoned throughout the evening.” I pull my gloved hand inside my sleeve so only my fingers show. When I reach the soldier, he waves me through.

Before I reach the underdeck capsules, I branch off and take the staircase up to Section Black, open the door at the top of the stairs, and find myself in the back corner of the locker room. An eerie silence greets me. No one is about. They’ve all returned to their capsules. My wet boots echo on the tile floor.

Finding my locker, I’m about to strip off my leaded glove when I stop. The clock on the wall indicates that it’s half past two. I can’t open my locker yet. I can’t take the risk of my moniker showing up here while I’m supposed to be in detention. My scheduled release is five thirty. I have to wait.

Seeking a hiding place, I go to one of the individual toilet rooms and close the door. The moment I enter it, I begin to retch. Leaning over the steel commode, I vomit until there’s nothing left in me. When I’m finally able, I rise and lock the door. Then, I sit and wait.



Jolting awake, I look around. Bathroom. Bag. Orange uniform. Panic. I jump to my feet. My head spins and I see spots. With my forearms against the wall, I wait until the world rights itself, then I open the door. No one is in the locker room. I listen, but the thundering of my heartbeat is all I hear. Gathering the courage to leave the bathroom, I step out with the bag. The clock on the wall reads five twenty. Close enough! I strip off the leaded glove and shove it in the bag.

I hurry to my locker and scan my moniker. The door pops open. Dropping to my knees, I pull apart the false bottom and cram the bag inside it, on top of the outfit that I wore to the news conference. I strip off Flannigan’s orange uniform and the flat cap and thrust them into the hollowed-out bottom. Covering the hole with the piece of metal, I rise to my feet. I tug on my beige pajamas, warm against my cold skin.

Rising up on my tiptoes, I reach and search the top shelf, knocking things over in my haste to find the welding tool that I’m too short to see. It’s there in the back. I drop to my knees again. A golden flame ignites when I pull its trigger. I put it to the floor of my locker and weld the seams. The melting metal blows curls of smoke up. I try not to look directly at it, but I’m partly blind when I finish.

Easing my locker door closed with a soft click, I hurry back to the toilet closet, shutting the door and locking it. With trembling hands, I begin to take the welding tool apart. Footsteps sound outside the bathroom door. The first part of the tool unhinges. I drop it in the steel bowl. My fingers work furiously on the next part.

Someone beats on the door. “Come out of there!” a deep voice shouts.

I take a deep breath. “Just a minute!” My voice is raw and raspy.

“You’re not supposed to be out of your capsule!” The door rattles on its hinges. Gut-wrenching fear squeezes my heart. A fist hammers again. Another piece of the welding tool slides free. I drop it in the toilet. Sweat slips down my face.

“It was an emergency!” I call back. My fingers bleed, cut by the sharp edges of the tool.