TWENTY-EIGHT
Razor had taken her underground.
Literally.
To Caitlyn, the tunnel brought back memories of her escape from
Appalachia. The mountain at the border had been honeycombed, a
result of generations of coal mining.
The width seemed the same, maybe five paces from side to side. And like the mountain tunnels, the height matched the width. The air too had the cool, wet stillness that seemed like a balm to her lungs.
In the mountain, however, the tunnel walls had been hewn from rock, shored with timbers in places, steel beams in others. Here the walls consisted of concrete blocks, forming a horseshoe arch that extended as far as she could see.
Wires ran along the top of the arch, obviously supplying electricity to the lights that were set apart every twenty paces or so. Many bulbs were dark, however, giving uneven, eerie shadows down the length of the tunnel.
Mossy green gravel formed the floor of the tunnel, except for the center, where a footpath had been worn so that the gravel had the color of sun-dried bone.
The significance of this was not lost on Caitlyn. Nor was the isolation of her circumstances lost on her. She was trapped in a place where Razor, or those who walked these tunnels often enough to keep the moss from closing together in the center, would have the leisure of attacking her without fear of interruption.
She said nothing, however. Expressing fear would make her more vulnerable. Surprisingly, she didn’t feel the fear with intensity. It was more like an undercurrent that kept her alert.
Caitlyn gave that some thought. She realized she wasn’t too concerned about Razor. Was it because if he did have malevolent intentions, he would have tried earlier, when she was in his room?
No, she decided, that wasn’t it. Her instinct told her that she could trust him to a certain degree. But could she trust her instinct?
She thought of the man who had threatened her on the rooftop. Everett. The one who had smiled hungrily because she was a freak. Then her instinct had shrieked warning.
She would relax around Razor then. And trust he knew what he was doing. It was Razor’s careless confidence. This tunnel was his escape hole. He wouldn’t have brought her here if it held danger. He walked as if he’d been here before, as if he knew where he was going.
She’d follow because what she now wanted most was to get to a prearranged location to meet Theo and Billy.
She carried two folded pieces of paper against her skin, held in place by her microfabric. One was the letter from her father. As a reminder of his betrayal. It fueled her anger. Kept her strong. We had decided, the woman I loved and I, that as soon as you were born, we would perform an act of decency and mercy, and wrap you in a towel to drown you in a nearby sink of water, like a kitten dropped into a river…
The other folded paper had directions to the address of a surgeon in the DC area. One of the Influentials. Dr. Hugh Swain.
She’d made her decision. Surgery. There was relief in it and relief that there really hadn’t been a choice. She needed the surgery to survive. She’d meet Billy and Theo, let them know she was ready to go to Swain. She’d live with Billy and Theo, protected by Billy among the Industrials and Illegals, until the surgery was arranged. Once finished, all three would take their chances and try to make it beyond, to the freedom of western territories. One freedom would be gone—her wings—and she’d exchange it for another.
It meant if she wanted to get beyond the city walls, to Billy and Theo, she would trust Razor to get her out of this tunnel.
Then she’d be finished with him.