Читать книгу The Release - Tom Isbell, Tom Isbell - Страница 20

“FREEZE, FLUSH!” I COMMANDED, and he could tell from my tone I wasn’t kidding around. “Now, slowly step away. No big movements.”

“Is it …?”

I gave a nod.

“What’ll happen if it goes off?”

“Let’s not find out, okay?”

I knew what TNT could do. And with that many pounds of explosives—and all those cans of gasoline—the Brown Shirts weren’t just looking to blow up a single chamber; they meant to destroy the entire Compound. Leave no trace. If we didn’t get out of there, we’d be buried beneath tons of rock and earth. Not an image I wanted to dwell on.

Flush backed up, eyes wide. His feet guided him through the maze of explosives. At a turn in the path, his foot accidentally nudged a can of gasoline, and we inhaled sharply. The can teetered but stayed upright. We let out a long, slow breath.

“What now?” Red asked, when Flush finally joined us.

“Forget the food,” Flush said, still breathing heavily. “We gotta get out of here.”

It was hard to argue. We’d come here hoping to find something to eat, maybe even recruit an army. It was obvious neither wish would come true. We had to get out while we could.

Still, there was maybe one thing we could salvage.

“You go on ahead,” I said. “I’ll join up later.”

Flush looked at me like I was crazy. “What’re you talking about? They’re going to blow this place to smithereens. We’ve gotta get out of here.”

“I know, but there’s something I need to do.” He was about to protest, but I didn’t let him. “I’ll be quick. Promise.”

Shaking their heads, they eased back down the tunnel and were swallowed by black. I took a deep breath, then scurried across the chamber.

There had been a time when I’d worked in the Compound. Not just the Wheel, but also the library. It was where I was headed now.

Like a rat in a maze, I raced down one tunnel after another, backtracking whenever I ran into a dead end. I’d never approached the library from this direction, and it took me a while to get my bearings. Every so often I heard the two soldiers’ voices, and I flattened myself against the damp limestone walls, praying for invisibility.

When I finally found the library, I yanked a torch from the wall and lit it with my flint, and the flame cast a flickering light on the countless shelves of books. A thick layer of dust coated everything in sight: books, tables, chairs. My eyes darted across the titles. In the background, the soldiers’ voices grew louder. I had to work fast.

Twenty years ago—following Omega—the country that was formerly the United States of America established a new government. They created new borders, wrote a new set of rules, and confiscated all the maps. It was a new country, they told the citizens. The Republic of the True America. There was no point living in the past. No place for old geography.

For nearly a year, we had been blindly traipsing across the Western Federation Territory, trying to get from one point to the next. But if we actually knew where we were going, wouldn’t we stand a better chance? If the Compound couldn’t give us food or armies, it could at least give us knowledge.

My eyes landed on an oversize book. Its jacket was torn and faded, but the title was clear enough. Atlas of the World. Even though it was decades old, it was exactly what I was looking for.

I slipped the torch into a holder and then pulled the atlas from the shelf. As I laid it on the table, an explosion of dust mushroomed up. My fingers raced through the pages, not stopping until I reached the desired page.

The United States of America.

Poring over it, I took in the green of the South and East, the rugged browns and purples of the West, the five enormous lakes at the top of the page, the vast expanses of blue to the east and west. There was something about it that seemed so different from the world I knew. Organized. Unified. Serene.

I knew it couldn’t have been as idyllic as it looked on the page, but a part of me ached for a return to that life, when everyone was a part of the whole and there weren’t men on ATVs hunting down the weak and different. A return to a world without Less Thans.

Soldiers’ voices broke me from my reverie. I had to hurry.

The book was way too big to take with me, so I ripped out the map’s two adjoining pages, then folded and stuffed them into a back pocket. For good measure, I found a map of the entire world and tore that out as well. Maybe there would come a day when we could safely explore other parts of the planet.

Yeah, right.

Retracing my steps, I made my way back through the Compound, easing around corners to avoid being seen. Despite the cold of this subterranean world, perspiration dotted my forehead, slid down my jaw.

I had just reached the far side of the central chamber when I saw them—the two Brown Shirts whose footsteps we’d trailed here. I ducked behind a boulder and watched as they strode toward the center of the room, joking and laughing. As long as they were there, I was stuck. The tunnel I needed to exit from was on the very opposite side of the chamber.

The soldiers inspected the gas cans and dynamite, taking their time.

Come on, I silently pleaded. Get out of there. Go away.

While I waited, my eyes took in my surroundings. As in the rest of the Compound, there were bodies scattered everywhere, resting atop pools of dried blood. Their stiff limbs were splayed in multiple directions, as if they were reaching for one last gasp of life.

And that’s when I saw her.

Miranda.

She was curled on her side as though she’d just lain down to take a nap—like I could nudge her shoulder and she would wake. But of course she was dead, and had been for some time.

I bent down beside her, easing her body over until she rested on her back. Her hair was pulled back in its customary ponytail, and her face was pale and gaunt. Smudge marks dotted her cheeks, just as they had when I’d seen her last in the Wheel, running off down the tunnel to distract the Crazies.

Even though death had bloated her body, and dried blood smeared her chin and neck, she was still recognizable, her metallic pendant around her neck.

It was Miranda and at the same time it wasn’t. Without her jokes and smile, she was just the empty shell of a body. Not the same Miranda at all. And then it hit me—I would never fully know whether she had actually liked me or if that was just an act. She took those answers with her to the grave.

I have no idea how long I knelt there, taking in Miranda’s face, waiting for her eyes to flutter open. They never did.

It was the sound of the soldiers’ footsteps that brought me back to the present. I peeked around the corner and watched as they made their way to a wall sconce. One of them grabbed the torch and then they left. Silence followed.

I waited for the echo of their footsteps to fade away before I emerged. They were gone. If I hurried, I could carry Miranda through the chamber and back down the tunnel, laying her to rest at her father’s side. It seemed the right thing to do.

I took her cold, stiff hand in mine, and was just preparing to lift her lifeless body into my arms when I heard a new sound. It was distant and faint and oddly urgent, and its muffled quality made it hard for me to identify. I froze in place, trying to figure it out.

When the sound emerged from the tunnel—the very one the two Brown Shirts had departed through—I could suddenly hear its high-pitched crackle. Its racing sputter. Its snakelike spit and sizzle.

It was a fuse … making its way to the cans of gas and TNT.