Coiled Snake (The Windstorm Series Book 2) (19 page)

She nods. “I can let you in. Let’s go up there now, before I have to go.”

We travel through the congested tunnels up to the shooting range. Miri unlocks the cabinet and lets me pick out my gun and ammo. This time, there are several people there. I stand in front of a target and fire a few rounds. Miri gives me some pointers then says she has to go to the control room.

“You’re doing well, Kit. I’ll try to put in a good word for you.”

“Thanks, Miri.”

After she leaves, I practice for an hour or so and then wander back to my room. When I step inside, I’m surprised to see an envelope with the Manaia-shaped seal lying on the floor. I had forgotten I’d be getting an assignment.

I quickly slide my finger under the flap and break the seal. Then I pull out the piece of paper and read the words printed on its surface.

“Kitchen staff,” I say dully. The idea of being stuck here washing dishes while my brother and sister die in a prison camp …
No, I can’t let that happen.

I stay in my room until at last hunger prompts me to go to the dining hall. They’re serving shepherd’s pie for dinner. I take a piece and sit by myself at one of the tables, watching the flames flicker in the fireplace. When I return my plate and glance inside the kitchen, the thought occurs to me that staying here and serving food would be a lot safer than trying to break into a high-security prison, but I quickly dismiss it.

Pressing my way through the noisy crowd, I return to my room, grateful that I at least have my own bathroom. I shut out the excited chatter in the tunnels and curl up on my bed. And for the first time in years, I pray.

I wake up the next morning still wearing my clothes from the day before. I take a shower and then pull on a t-shirt and jeans, transferring the items in my pockets and sliding Stephen’s handgun into a holster on my belt, before heading toward the dining hall for breakfast.

I’m making my way through the tunnels when someone rams into me hard, bumping the bandage on my cut leg.

“Hey!” I say, my hand flying instinctively to Stephen’s Beretta.

“Sorry!” a young man apologizes. He’s carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder and something in his hand that resembles a map. “It’s bloody crowded in here, ain’t it? I’m looking for
Poro J
. Can you point me in the right direction?”

“Two levels up,” I tell him. “Just stick to this tunnel, and it’ll get you there.”

“Thanks. Watch your back!” He flashes me a grin and keeps walking.

“Watch yours,” I say.

I continue to the dining hall, but breakfast was a mistake. I pick at my eggs for only a few minutes before I give up on eating and leave the crowded cafeteria.

As I make my way down to the dock, I curse under my breath at all the people clogging up the tunnels.
I can’t wait until Tane’s funeral is over.
The sooner it’s done, the sooner they’ll all leave—hopefully me with them.

There are even more boats tied to the pier than there were yesterday.
How many people can this place hold?
I wonder as I climb into a kayak. I untie the rope and push away from the dock.

When I emerge onto the fiord, I’m disappointed to see dark rain clouds rolling in from the sea. My kayaking trip will have to be brief.

I strike out for a nearby island, working the paddle hard in order to get there and back before the storm hits. It takes me a good twenty minutes to reach land. By then the wind has picked up, making the water choppy and miserable.

“I might have gone too far,” I mutter as the rain starts to prick my skin and the scar on my arm begins to throb. “Better get back.” A sudden crack of thunder confirms my decision. I turn the kayak around and point my bow toward the
Wakemaunga
.

But then I stop paddling and squint at the mountain. Something’s wrong. A heartbeat passes before I lock onto a black cloud of rock and dirt swelling out of the summit. Before I can process what’s happening, there’s another rippling crash of thunder, and a second cloud of dirt bursts out of the mountain’s side. A third roar. A third cloud. Dust swells out of the hidden outlets, billowing like a morning mist over the sea. And I scream.

I gape at the
Wakemaunga
, refusing to believe what I’m seeing. Explosions. Inside the mountain.

“No, no, no, no, no!” I shout. This can’t be real. Not again.

I don’t know how long I stand there, frozen in place, while the rain slicks my hair across my brow. But as the wind clears away the dust, my brain snaps back into place. I jump to my feet, tipping the kayak sideways as I reach for the wind. Forming
honga
, I speed toward the mountain.

There are thousands of people in there
. Miri’s there. Mokai. Stephen. I want to vomit.

The wind is blowing inland, and it’s strong, so I make quick progress. I aim for the explosion site that’s closest to me—the tunnel entrance where the second bomb went off, the one that leads to the dormitories. When I land on the ledge, I pull aside the remaining vines and plunge into the tunnel.

I make it about twenty feet before I realize that there’s no light in the passageway. I feel along the wall for a torch but can’t find one. Cursing, I turn around and sprint out of the tunnel. I pause on the lip of the ridge. All of the currents are tearing toward me on the mountain; nothing’s going back the other way. Setting my jaw, I reach for the wind and ask it to change.

For a heart-stopping moment, the current slows its course. But then the wind is ripped violently out of my grasp, sending me reeling backward.

I shake it off and try again. Again, the wind refuses to be tamed. I try again. And again. To no avail. The storm is too powerful.

It’s like I’m wearing a bloody staying stone
, I curse. Only I’m not. And that means I can still windwalk.

I don’t give myself time to think about it; I just leap off the ledge and form
honga
. Immediately, the current tries to push me back toward the mountain, but I strain against it. It’s exhausting, and I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep it up.

Hang on.
Just long enough to reach the water.

And then I’m there. I release the bond and drop into the roiling fiord. The impact knocks away my breath, and the angry water pushes me under. I fight my way to the surface and look around for my kayak. Luckily, the storm has blown it closer inland, and I see it bobbing frenziedly about ten yards from me.

I swim toward it, but I have to fight just as hard against the waves as I was against the wind. I dive beneath the next swell and stay under as long as I can. When I come up for breath, I’m only a few feet away.

I dive again, kicking hard until I’m under the kayak. I swim up and heave my shoulder against the shell, pushing it out of the water and slowly rotating it right side up. When it’s floating in the water, I break the surface and gasp in oxygen. The pelting rain and growing waves slosh down my throat, making me choke. I cling fiercely to the bobbing kayak until I can breathe again. The cut on my leg throbs.

Feeling along the slick shell, I find the cargo compartment and slide my fingers under the lid. It pops open, and I reach inside.

I breathe a sigh of relief when my hand closes around a waterproof bag. I pull out the bag and inspect the contents. As I hoped, there’s a flashlight.

Clutching the bag, I swim for the island I had paddled to before the storm broke. When my hand touches shore, I pull myself onto the wet grass and roll onto my back. I take another deep breath and climb to my feet. Then I reach for the wind and form
honga
for the third time.

The ride back is swift, and it’s only a matter of minutes before I’m back on the ledge. As I step toward the tunnel entrance, I realize my arms are shaking. But I ignore them and move into the passageway, switching on the flashlight. At first the light from my trembling beam reveals only small amounts of debris. But as I move deeper into the earth, the ground becomes littered with rocks. In some places, the walls are gouged and the ceiling caved in, and I have to scramble over huge, jagged boulders.

I force my way through a pile of rubble, and suddenly the air becomes thick with smoke. The fumes make me gasp and cough. Eyes watering, trying not to panic, I lift the collar of my shirt over my mouth and breathe through the fabric. And then I come across the bodies.

They’re all over the tunnel. Stretched across the ground. Pitched against the walls. Crumpled in heaps. Pinned under rocks. Faces scorched. Limbs at awkward angles. Clothing and flesh still burning. Burning. Burning.

I stumble to the side and retch. The little I ate for breakfast comes up quickly, followed by stomach acid and then nothing at all. Still, my body continues to convulse, heaving up emptiness.

When I finally stop, I direct my gaze at the ceiling and stare at the cracked, scorched stone as I try to control my breathing. More than just my arms are shaking now.

In the distance, I hear muted alarms. People shouting. But they sound miles away.
What are they doing? Why hasn’t anyone come to help?

Steeling myself, I look back down the tunnel. The bodies haven’t moved, and it only takes a quick glance to determine that they’re dead. But there might be survivors somewhere. I take a step forward and another, drawing blood as I bite down on my tongue. I walk haltingly past the corpses, fleetingly shining my light on their broken bodies, scanning for signs of life. I find none.

In front of me is a fork in the tunnel. Left will take me down to another level; right, to the first common area. Dizzily, I go right.

As I round the bend, the carnage grows worse. I try to look without seeing, to assess the bodies without lingering on their distorted features and unmoving eyes. But I can’t keep myself from checking for familiar faces, holding my breath each time I see long gray hair or a tattooed arm.

The smoke makes it hard to walk. Hard to breathe. I step over broken glasses and watches, a blackened doll and baseball cap, other objects I don’t allow myself to identify. Bile burns my throat. I try to swallow it down, but I only gag. The edges of my vision grow fuzzy. The pounding in my head spreads down my chest.

Keep it together. Keep going.

“Is anyone there?” I force myself to say. My voice sounds weak and distant.

I shine my light down the tunnel and stop walking. The entrance to the common area, only a few feet away, is completely caved in. Rocks and dirt fill the entire passageway. I can’t go any further.

I turn back, despair mingled with relief. I can leave this hellish nightmare behind. But all of these people … how many lives were lost?

A soft scratching sound from behind me makes me pause. “Hello?” I call. “Is anyone there?”

“Help.” The voice is faint. Smothered.

“Where are you?”

“Help.”

I swing my light back to the mound of rocks. “Keep talking,” I shout, shining my beam into the rubble.

A moan comes from my right. I follow the sound and tap on a rock. “Tap back to me!” I yell.

A muffled tap responds, a foot further to the right. I prop up the flashlight on a rock and pull away some of the debris. As I pick up a medium-sized boulder, the pile shifts, and a river of small stones cascades toward me.

“Kava!” I curse. “Are you okay?”

No response.

“Hang on!”

I pull away another rock, working more carefully. Every few seconds I stop and shine the flashlight on the debris so I can inspect it more closely, see which rocks are safe to remove and which are supporting the rocks above. It’s slow work, and I feel tension grip my shoulders as sweat slides down my face and neck.

“You still with me?” I call.

I hear a tap. It’s louder now. Close.

I heave a large stone off the pile and shine my light in the space it left behind. The beam illuminates the pallid face of a young girl. As she looks up at me, face crinkled in pain, I’m stricken by how much she looks like Maisy when she was young. Anguish crushes my chest.

“I’m going to get you out of there,” I say, doing my best to speak calmly.

As I shine the flashlight on the pile of rocks, I feel the mask of confidence slide off my face. It’s bigger than I realized.

The girl slumps back, eyes closed, her strength clearly exhausted.

“Hang on,” I say, more to myself than to her. I look down the tunnel. Do I have time to go for help? I glance back at the girl. Her face seems even paler. I can barely make out the rise and fall of her chest. If we wait much longer, she might not make it.

I prop my flashlight up and set to work carefully shifting some of the rocks, doing my best to leave enough support in place to prevent the rubble’s collapse. As I clear the stones away, I discover a larger rock hidden beneath. I take a deep breath and wipe my wet palms on my wet jeans. Then I grasp the stone with both hands and pull.

The rock shifts a few inches, and tiny pebbles rain on my head.
Kava, kava, kava.
I wait for them to stop rolling before I try again. The boulder moves another inch, and the girl screams in pain.

This isn’t working
, I think desperately.
I’m just crushing her even more.

I grab the flashlight and run back down the tunnel, swiveling my head to look at the corpses. I scan their broken bodies, forcing myself to take in every detail. And then, at last, I find what I’m looking for. A spear.

I ply the
tao
from the dead woman’s fingers, grateful for once it’s made of metal instead of wood, and sprint back to the trapped girl. When I get there, her screams have stopped. Her face is painted with tears, but she looks unconscious.

Moving quickly, I grasp one end of the spear and jab its blade under the rock. I force it in as far as it can go then slowly push down. The lip of the rock rises slowly. I push down more, and the rock rolls off. I place it at the base of the pile to help keep the rocks propped up.

The girl doesn’t move as I finish pulling off the stones. When I’ve succeeding in removing all of them, I shine my light on her still frame. It’s then that I see her leg is crushed.

Struggling to keep my panic in check, I grip the flashlight in my right hand and then scoop the girl into my arms. Fortunately, she doesn’t weigh very much and I’m able to hurry back down the tunnel.

When I reach the fork, I turn down the other passageway. If I have my bearings right, this tunnel will take me to a flight of stairs that leads directly to the dining hall. I remember seeing an emergency station near there.

I can’t see the girl’s face as I walk—the flashlight is pinned under her body, lighting only the path ahead—but she hasn’t made a sound since I picked her up. I know carrying her like this will damage her leg further, but I’m more worried about trauma to her head or internal injuries. She needs medical attention immediately.

I soon discover why there have been no rescue efforts in this section of the mountain. The stairs to the dining hall are also caved in, completely unusable. So are many of the side tunnels, and to my ever-growing frustration, I’m forced to take a much longer route than normal.

There are casualties down here as well. Piles of bodies, people who were probably on their way to breakfast or stopping to catch up with an old friend in the hallway. Silenced forever.

I tighten my grip on the girl, my only thought to get her to the medical station. Concentrating on this objective keeps the nausea and terror at bay.

But as I stumble over more debris and upheaved earth, my arms begin to feel the strain, and my desperation mounts higher. It’s taking so long to get there. Longer than I anticipated.

Just keep going. Don’t stop. Keep going.

I round a bend and nearly trip when I see what’s in front of me. More bodies, but alive. Wounded. Moaning and crying. The shrieks and sobs make them almost worse than the corpses.

“Help!” a woman cries. Her face is raw and red. “Please help me!”

“I’ll come back,” I stammer as I stumble past. “I have to help this girl.”

“Help my child,” a man pleads. “His eye …”

“I’ll come back,” I repeat, looking away.

Most don’t say anything. They just watch me with vacant expressions.

Keep going
.

After an eternity of stepping over outstretched hands, I have to blink twice when I see people further down the tunnel who are actually standing upright. They’re wearing gas masks, holding bandages, carrying off the wounded.

“Hey!” I call, my voice hoarse. “Is there someone who can help this girl? She has a broken leg.”

“Take her to Tova,” one of the gas masks says. “She’s set up triage in the dining hall. Follow this tunnel—it’s clear.”

I nod and walk around them. My shoulders and back are burning, but I don’t dare put the girl down to take a break. I’m so close.
Keep going.

As I near the dining hall, torches reappear on the walls—their flames relit—and the passageway is mostly clear, as I was told it would be. In fact, if it weren’t for the wounded being carried in from other parts of the mountain or the alarms ringing in my ears, I wouldn’t know there had been an explosion at all.

At last I reach the dining hall. My arms are trembling and slick with sweat, but I don’t slow down as I carry the girl toward the person I assume is Tova. She’s standing in the middle of the cafeteria, shouting orders while assessing the injured people brought before her.