Otto’s work, I hoped.
Bisch pulled himself through and disappeared. I followed, emerging into a low-ceilinged space that smelled of dust and machine oil. Pipes ran along the walls. Cables snaked across the floor. It was a service corridor, part of the invisible infrastructure that kept the fortress running.
Thomas came up behind me, his weapon ready, his eyes sweeping the shadows.
“Which way?” he breathed.
I closed my eyes and listened.
The voices were clearer now, coming from somewhere to our left. Another discordant sound drifted down. It was fainter, higher pitched.
Almost like weeping.
My blood went cold.
“Left,” I said. “Toward the voices.”
We moved into the corridor, three shadows sliding through the belly of the beast.
14
Thomas
Weeping.
Low, broken, the kind that comes from people who have forgotten why they started and can’t remember how to stop.
It filtered through the stone walls like something alive, growing louder as we moved deeper into the fortress.
Will heard it, too.
I saw his jaw tighten, his grip shift on his weapon.
“How many?” he whispered.
Bisch shook his head.
We found out soon enough.
The detention wing was a corridor of iron doors, each one fitted with a small barred window. I pressed my eye to the first and felt my stomach lurch.
The cell was ringed by stone walls. It contained a narrow cot and bucket in the corner. A woman sat on the floor with her arms wrapped around herknees, rocking back and forth. Her hair was matted. Her clothes were torn. She didn’t look up when light from my flashlight crossed her face.
I moved to the next door.
It was a man this time, older than the woman, curled on the cot with his back to the window. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.
The next cell.
And the next.
And the next.
Jesus Christ, I thought.There must be a dozen people in here. Maybe more.
Will was at another door, his face pale in the dim light.
“We have to help them,” I said.
