I wince at the implication. How can someone be so simultaneously rude and so generous? I mean, he isn’t wrong; the satchel would significantly slow me down if he hadn’t offered to carry it. But wouldn’t most people keep that deduction to themselves? I glance at the stranger, whose arms are full with Gem’s prone body and her bag, then shake my head. Most people wouldn’t have bothered to help.
“Where to?” he asks.
My head twists to the side. There’s a metal mile marker a few feet down the wall with two lines of text. The first denotes a distance of three and a half miles between this check point and Caligo. The second shows four and a half miles to reach Deor. Blood rushes to my cheeks at the realization that we hadn’t even made it halfway.
Wishing I didn’t have to make this decision alone, I point to the east, towards Caligo.
Gem’s going to be pissed when she wakes and discovers we backtracked, but I won’t prolong her receiving medical care for the sake of escaping the Hunt. She has so much more potential, more value, than I’ll ever have. If it’s her life or mine, I’ll choose hers. Every time.
We carry on in silence, and I try to keep up. Even with the added weight of a grown woman, the stranger’s stride doesn’t falter. If only I could say the same for myself. By the time the first mile marker returns to view, I’ve long since given up on matching pace. Instead, I busy myself with staring at the gruesome scars cutting along the left side of his back and disappearing around his rib cage. Perhaps I was wrong to assume he’s not a guard, though I’ve seen the unclothed backs of several guardsmen and not once have I seen wounds so grim. Despite their role as primary protectors of Caligo, the Guards of the Gate rarely see battle. Thanks to their dependence on direct sunlight and wariness of the underground, Sols seem to reserve their attacks for the Hunt, when their prey is more easily available. So, where did this stranger earn such a fierce wound, and how did he survive?
Distant voices break our wordless progression. We rush to push our backs into the wall. The guards must finally be coming to inspect the commotion. It’s a miracle it took them this long, but it seems our good fortune is running out. I lean further into the wall, my arm pressing into the chilled, metal sign denoting we’re a mile from thetransport tunnel’s main entrance, which means . . .
“There’s a utility stairwell a quarter mile down from here on our right.” My words are barely louder than a breath. “If we hurry, maybe we can get to it before the guards.”
Problem is, hurrying means no more being quiet on our feet.
We’ll need to run.
“Don’t wait for me,” I urge, knowing there’s a chance I won’t be fast enough. “Even if they catch me, go down the stairwell. Look for the doorway marked R1. Hook a right and follow the bend. There’s a cabin with three constellations painted on the front door. Knock six times.”
There’s more I want to tell him, but the voices grow louder, so I shove the stranger’s arm with the unspoken plea tomove.
He bolts.
I follow, clutching my stomach and begging in vain for my useless legs to go faster. But I’ve already pushed my body well past its usual limit. The adrenaline from the earthquake abates, allowing my prior fatigue to come barreling back, more prominent than before.
The guards shout something, no doubt alerted by our rapid footfalls. But I keep moving, eyes fixed on the fading figure ahead. The stranger soon disappears into the alcove of the utility stairwell entrance, and a hopeful smile tugs at my lips.
Gem’s going to make it. He’s going to get her to Taur, and she’ll make sure Gem gets the medical attention she needs. Maybe I will, too. A few more seconds and I’ll be ducking into the doorway before the guards get close enough to spot me.
I nearly convince myself it’s true when three guards round the corner, jogging in my direction. They’re on the opposite path, across the rail lines. They’ll have to cross the trench to catch me. A small mercy—one I can’t let go to waste.
I dive forward, swinging my arms back and forth more aggressively, as if that’ll increase my speed.
“Is that a lady?!” one guard calls as they jump into the trench.
“Ma’am!” They break into a sprint, and another yells, “Stop right where you are!”
The first is already at the ledge when he warns, “In the name of the chancellor, stop or we will arrest?—”
The door to the utility stairwell clicks into place behind my back, and I’ve never been so happy to be greeted by the scent of mold.
Without pausing to savor it, I dash down a flight of steps and barge through the doorway markedP1for the first level of the water purification system. I won’t make it to the secondary utility stairwell on the opposite side of the five-hundred-acre reservoir. Instead, I aim directly for the bridge that divides the two basins, eyes wildly scanning the steel ledge until I find it—the ladder I once followed a boy down what feels like a lifetime ago.
I tighten the straps on my satchel before grabbing onto the ladder’s slick rail. Cool water chases off some of the escalating fatigue as I partially submerge into the reservoir. Using the ladder to keep from plummeting the twenty-foot depth, I tuck myself behind the bridge’s support beams. A purple sheen from the suspended tube lights glistens off the water’s lapping surface while I fix my attention on the door and wait.
One . . .
Two . . .
Three hurried breaths later, the door slams open.
I squint through the perforated platform and hold as still as possible to avoid disturbing the reservoir’s natural current.
It’s a small relief to see that the guard is by himself. They must’ve taken the divide-and-conquer approach. But a second look at hisbrawny frame tamps that relief.
He won’t need the helping hands of his fellow guardsmen if I’m caught.
