Mindstormer Page 11

  Below the glistening ad, tiny letters appear next to an asterisk: May cause temporary paralysis, short-term memory problems, and nerve damage. Use only for self-defense.

  A pair of laughing women walk out of the store, carrying NDs and waving them around like sparklers. Instinctively, I flinch away.

  We keep walking. Rhee leads us away from the bright, glittering, store-lined streets, down narrower and darker roads lined with drab gray and brown buildings.

  “Here we are,” she says.

  We’re standing in front of a narrow brick building sandwiched between a shuttered restaurant and a grimy-looking store called VR-SEXXX. Bits of broken glass litter the sidewalk.

  The building is featureless except for a door and a single window. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it had been abandoned for years. The window is covered with taped-up newspapers, and the steps leading to the front door look like they might collapse at any moment. “This is it?” I ask.

  “This is a safe house,” Rhee replies. “But we won’t be staying here. It’s a gateway to the Underground.” The way she says it seems to imply a proper noun.

  The wooden stairs sag and groan beneath our feet as we ascend. Next to the front door, a spray of red paint wanders across the bricks. It might be a random zigzag. It might also be a Z. Gracie, one of the rebels back home, told us that all the safe houses in Canada are marked this way.

  Rhee knocks on the door in a complicated rhythm. There’s a pause, followed by the slow clomp-clomp of approaching footsteps. The door opens a crack, and I find myself staring into the mouth of a double-barreled shotgun. Instinctively, I put up my hands. A dark, bloodshot eye stares at us from inside. “Password?” asks a deep voice.

  “Sovereign,” Rhee replies.

  The door opens, revealing a dark, musty-smelling foyer and a man, small and hunched, with the head of a beaver. His huge, yellowish incisors look like they could bite through bone. His nose twitches as he peers at us through beady, bloodshot eyes. “You coming in or not?”

  I hesitate, then step through the door.

  “This way.” The man leads us down a narrow, dimly lit hallway and down a set of stairs, into a boxlike cement basement. He flicks on a light. There’s a huge, circular metal disc sitting in the center of the floor, like an oversized manhole cover. The beaver-man crouches, grabs the iron ring on top, and heaves the disc aside with a grunt. It slides slowly, metal grinding against cement, exposing a circular hole leading straight down.

  Another tunnel?

  The man holds out a hand clad in a dirty, fingerless glove, and Rhee hands him some pastel-colored paper which I assume is money. We haven’t had cash in the URA for decades. “Safe passage,” the man says, inclining his head toward her. The words have the ring of a formal saying, or maybe a blessing.

  There are rungs on the side of the hole. We descend. The manhole cover slides back into place overhead, blocking out the light.

  I have no idea what we’ll find down here. I should probably be more scared, but I feel like my brain is wrapped in gauze. I’m overloading. I can’t make sense of it all, and there’s nothing to do except keep moving.

  Below, I glimpse a dim light. We climb toward it. Finally, my feet touch cement.

  We’re standing in what appears to be a subway tunnel, but one that hasn’t been used for years—at least, not for its original purpose. Graffiti covers the walls, and bits of trash—broken bottles, cans, used needles—glint on the cement floor. The tracks are hidden beneath a layer of dark, grimy-looking water, sluggishly flowing.

  The light comes from a small fire a short distance away. A group of people huddle around it, warming their hands, talking and laughing. As we approach, they fall silent, their expressions going blank. Several pairs of wary, alert eyes follow us as we pass. All around us are crude lean-tos, tents, shelters pieced together from scrap metal and wood. A man roasts a spitted rat over a grill, whistling a cheerful tune. A shaggy dog sits near his feet, watching attentively.

  So, this is the Underground.

  “Who are these people?” I whisper.

  “Some refugees. Some homeless.” Rhee steps over a sleeping man bundled in blankets.

  Two dirty children chase each other around, laughing. Someone has strung up a clothesline with pairs of long underwear and shirts hanging out to dry—though how anything can dry in this damp air, I’m not sure.

  I see a teenager sitting outside a tent made of blankets and poles, eating hash from a can with her fingers. When we pass, she hugs the can to her chest and curls around it protectively. A woman sits next to her, sharpening a knife, watching us with a guarded expression. Nearby, a small girl is huddled against the wall, clutching a stained, floppy toy monkey. She’s painfully thin, her arms and legs little more than sticks.

  The girl smiles at us, showing several missing teeth. If she’s at all frightened by our strange animal masks, she doesn’t show it. “Hi.” She sticks a dirty palm out. “You got any money?”

  “Lacy,” the woman hisses. “What did I tell you about begging?”

  “Not to do it.” The girl chews on her toy monkey’s foot. “But—”

  “You just hush now, you hear?” She casts a nervous glance in our direction.

  I stop. We may not have money, but we have food bars and water bottles. I cast a glance at Steven. I don’t even have to speak; he understands. Rhee waits as he takes off his pack.

  The woman stands up, fingers clenched tight around the hilt of her knife. “Leave us alone.” Her voice is firm and clear.

  “Wait,” I say. “I just want to give her some food.”

  “She already had her supper. We don’t need your help. Or your pity.”

  I hesitate. “Are you her mother?”

  The woman looks away. “Her mother’s dead. I look after her now.”

  The older girl with the can of hash stares at us, mouth slightly open, a lump of half-chewed food still inside.

  “Becca, what have I told you?” the woman growls. “Eat like a goddamn lady.” The girl snaps her jaw shut, swallows, and licks her fingers.

  “Please,” I say. “You need this food more than we do.”

  The little girl sucks on her toy monkey’s foot and casts a hopeful glance in the woman’s direction.

  The woman sighs, tense shoulders loosening. The lines in her weathered face deepen, and she waves a hand at me. “Fine. Do what you want.”

  I rummage through the pack and pull out a handful of food bars. When I extend them to the girl, she flinches. “Here,” I say quietly. “It’s all right. They’re protein bars. A little dry, but they’ll fill you up.” I smile and unwrap one, showing her.

  The girl grabs the bars from me and starts ripping off pieces with her fingers, stuffing them into her mouth.

  “Make them last, okay?” Steven says.

  The girl nods, cheeks bulging.

  As we keep walking, a dull ache fills my chest. How do all these people survive down here? How can they possibly have enough? “Do all refugees end up here?” I ask. “I mean, aren’t there any opportunities for them?”

  “Not many have the resources to become Canadian citizens. If they don’t come here, they usually end up in Area 9.” At our puzzled silence, she adds, “Refugee shelter. That’s what they call it, anyway. It’s actually more like an internment camp.” Our footsteps echo through the tunnel. Water drips somewhere in the darkness.

  The ache in my chest deepens. If people knew it was like this, would they even try to cross the border?

  A rat scurries away from my feet. A few yards ahead, a boy lunges forward and impales it with a sharpened stick. The rat flails, squealing, then goes still. He holds up his catch, smiling, and another boy whoops in excitement.

  “It’s not an easy life, in the Underground,” Rhee remarks. “But it could be worse. I lived here for two years before Zebra found me.”

  “Zebra?” I repeat.

  “Our leader. Your leader, soon.”

  “Who is he?
I mean, what sort of person is he? What’s his real name?”

  “He’s Zebra. That’s the only name he needs.”

  I frown. “So you don’t know his real identity. And yet you trust him?”

  “With my life,” she replies calmly. “I owe him everything. If not for Zebra, I’d have been rounded up and sent to Area 9 a long time ago. Or maybe shipped back to the lab for IFEN scientists to dissect my brain.”

  My pulse speeds. Next to me, Steven stops walking. I can’t see his face under the mask, and its avian features aren’t very mobile or expressive, but his hands are suddenly balled into white-knuckled fists. “What do you mean?” he asks.

  She faces him. “Did you think that you and the other children at St. Mary’s were the only victims of IFEN’s experiments?”

  “I don’t know,” Steven whispers. “I—I guess I did.”

  “What happened?” I ask. “What did they do to you?” She doesn’t answer. And only then does it occur to me that I just asked a very personal, very intrusive question. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Let’s keep moving.” She turns away. Tense silence fills the air between us as we follow her through more abandoned subway tunnels.

  “You can deactivate your masks now, if you want,” Rhee says. “It’s safe.”

  I push the tiny button on the side of my collar. Steven does the same. He’s pale, his gaze unfocused and glassy.

  I lean toward him. “Steven?”

  He doesn’t answer, and I know he’s thinking about St. Mary’s. His eyes jerk back and forth in tiny, involuntary movements. He’s drifting into the past, falling into a hole inside himself. I lay a hand on his arm; he gives a start. He’s shaking.

  “Stay with me.” I squeeze his arm.

  He nods. Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead. I start telling him some random story about a time I tried to bake brownies from scratch and ended up nearly setting the kitchen on fire. The words don’t matter; I’m just trying to keep him anchored in the present. I know from experience how easy it is to slip into memories. They can rise up and drag you down like quicksand, if you’re not careful. So I keep talking, even knowing that I must sound like a complete airhead to Rhee. My hand slides down his arm until my fingers interlock with his. He gives my hand a light, grateful squeeze. Gradually, his rapid breathing slows.

  She’s watching us over her shoulder—looking at our intertwined hands, I realize. Her eyes aren’t quite blank. There’s something in them, beneath the surface, something I can’t quite read.

  We keep walking for a long time. Rhee seems to know exactly where she’s going; she makes turns without hesitation, taking us down branching tunnels, and I quickly lose track of how to get back to the point of entry. We’re at her mercy.

  She fishes a flashlight out of her jacket and flicks it on, then leads us down another, narrower tunnel of brick. She sweeps the flashlight beam over the wall until she finds a small alcove. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I won’t go far. There’s something I need to take care of.” She tosses us the flashlight and takes another one out of her pack. Then she hands me the rifle.

  “Wait,” I say. “I don’t—”

  She turns and jogs down the tunnel, back the way we just came from. The shadows reach out and engulf her.

  Steven and I sit huddled in the tiny alcove, shivering. The air down here is damp and foul. Gingerly, I grip the rifle and rest the butt on the ground, keeping it pointed at the ceiling. It’s cold and heavy. Water drips in the darkness—a steady plip-plip-plip.

  “So,” Steven says, “what do you think of her?”

  “She’s very…” I trail off, fumbling for a polite word. “Intense.”

  He gives a short laugh. “Yeah, that’s for sure. I mean, wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone kick so much ass in a single day. If all the Blackcoats are like her, IFEN’s going to have its hands full.”

  For the hundredth time, I see Rhee walk up to the wounded border patrol woman and put a bullet through her head. A shudder runs through me. Rhee said freedom is a contract signed in blood. Apparently, she meant other people’s blood.

  What’s wrong with me? She saved our lives. If not for her, Steven and I would be sitting in white-walled cells, waiting for a Mindwalker to erase our identities. So what if she’s a little cold, a little harsh? So what if she carries a huge gun and probably has a massive body count to her name? Are those reasons to be afraid of her?

  Well, all right, those do seem like sensible reasons. Then again, what was I expecting? She’s a Blackcoat. Maybe I’m just being prissy.

  Steven frowns. “Hey. You all right?”

  “Yes.” I can’t meet his gaze. “Well, no. I’m just… overwhelmed, I guess.” I chew my lower lip. I’ve been doing that so much lately, it’s starting to feel raw. “Are you sure that joining up with these people is a good idea?” The words slip out of me before I can stop them.

  “That’s the whole reason we came here. Isn’t it?”

  He’s right. More to the point, what other options do we have? Seeing my face on that WANTED billboard made it clear that wandering around above ground isn’t safe. I hug my knees to my chest and lower my voice to a whisper. “I was thinking… maybe we could find somewhere to hide out while we decide what to do? Like a safe house. There are lots of them up here, right? There’s got to be some other way, even if we can’t see it right now.”

  His expression hardens. “I didn’t come here to hide. I want to fight back.”

  “So we start blowing up buildings, then? Or shooting people? How will that help?” I keep my voice low. I don’t want to risk being overheard.

  “When did you start having second thoughts? I thought you were on our side.”

  “This isn’t about taking sides.”

  “Oh, I think it is.” His voice is cold, but there’s something else there, too. Hurt. Betrayal.

  We shouldn’t be arguing about this now. I don’t want to alienate Steven. He’s my friend. More than that. I need him; we need each other. If we start fighting, there’ll be no solid ground to stand on, and we’ll fall into a deep abyss where nothing means anything. “I just… the way she talks and acts… it’s like she accepts violence and killing as natural. Ian told me that this movement is supposed to be about hope, not fear, but maybe he’s wrong. Maybe they are just terrorists. And if that’s the case, then I can’t see anything good coming out of this.”

  “Jesus, I can’t believe—after all we’ve been through—”

  “I told you before that I don’t agree with the Blackcoats’ methods,” I reply, a little more sharply than I intended. “Why are you surprised?”

  “You know what I think?” he says quietly. “I think you’re afraid.”

  I try to ignore the thick knot in my throat. “Yes, I’m afraid. And you ought to be, too. Sometimes fear can stop you from making mistakes.”

  He stares straight ahead, silent. A rat sits a few yards away, nibbling on a crust of moldy bread.

  Where is Rhee? Has she abandoned us? No—she wouldn’t have left her gun, if that was her intention. What if something happened to her? My breathing quickens, and my fingers tighten on the rifle.

  Scuffles and grunts echo down the tunnel. “What’s going on?” I whisper.

  Steven leans forward. “Dunno. Sounds like a fight.” His jaw tightens. “Get ready.”

  A loud thud reverberates through the cement, then another. Then silence descends. Steven mutters a curse under his breath. “I’m gonna go see if she’s okay.” He stands. “You keep the gun.”

  “Steven, wait!” But he’s already jogging off into the shadows, leaving me huddled in the alcove. I sit, fingers clamped around the grip of a rifle I’m not even sure how to use, wondering what will happen to me if they never come back. My heart jerks in my chest, sharp staccato beats. I try counting them for awhile, but that just makes me aware of how fast my pulse is.

  After
what feels like an hour of waiting—though it’s probably closer to a few minutes—Rhee and Steven reappear in the entrance to the tunnel, Rhee holding her flashlight in one hand. As they approach, I stand. “What happened?”

  “Some men were following us, carrying baseball bats and clubs. Probably hoping to sneak up on us, knock us out and steal our food.”

  “She’d already taken care of them by the time I got there,” Steven says with a half-smile. “She didn’t need my help.”

  With her sleeve, she wipes blood off the flashlight.

  “Did you kill them?” I blurt out.

  “Of course not. They weren’t much of a threat.” After a moment, she adds, “Though one of them is going to be eating meals without his front teeth from now on.”

  I exhale, the tension running out of me. Maybe I’m judging her too hastily, after all. Still, the back of my neck tingles as she brushes past.

  ‌

  11

  We keep walking. There’s a thin layer of water over the ground, and it seeps into my shoes, soaking my socks and numbing my feet. The air smells like garbage and other, fouler things. I want to ask where we’re going and how much longer we’ll have to walk, but there doesn’t seem to be much point. We’ll get there whenever we get there.

  The narrow corridor opens up into another, wider tunnel with curved cement walls, which ends in a pair of towering, rusted metal doors. Rhee takes off her glove and presses her thumb to a biometric scanner on the wall. A green light blinks. The doors open with a low, grinding whir.

  Beyond lies a cavernous room. The walls are constructed from sheets of metal, bolted together and rusted to a dull, coppery red. Electric panel-lights hum on the ceiling, and rows of doorways lead off into hallways. On the wall facing us is a huge silver plaque engraved with words: MY MIND IS MY ONLY SOVEREIGN. REASON IS MY ONLY COMPASS. EVEN IF FETTERS BIND ME, IN MY THOUGHTS I AM FREE.