Immurement: The Undergrounders Series Book One (A Young Adult Science Fiction Dystopian Novel) (3 page)

Kat dissects me with that laser beam look of hers, and I realize my hands are burrowed into Jakob's. I hurriedly untangle my fingers, thankful his father is too busy calming the clan women down to notice the sacrilegious bodily contact. I throw Kat a curious glance. Was she trying to save my skin? Or just staring?

“I’ll go with Big Ed,” Mason says. “And Prat needs to man up and help sort this mess out too. We don’t need Derry along.”

“She’s a better shot than any of you,” Owen says. “She’ll have your back.”

Mason throws me a dark look as he reaches for his gun.

I bite down on a smile. Whatever sway Mason has over Owen, he hasn’t totally torn us apart.

Jakob leans over and whispers in my ear. “Be careful out there. No one else plays a mean enough game of chess to take me on.”

I arch my brows. “That’s generous, considering you checked me in four moves last night.”

“Calls for a rematch at an undisclosed location,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he puts his trucker cap back on.

“Sweep Intelligence is adjourned,” Prat announces. “We leave in one hour.”

“I need to run something by Mason,” Owen says, as soon as we exit Prat’s bunker. “Be right back.” He whips off down the tunnel before I can stop him.

I wait for a minute or two, then follow him into the darkness. Whatever he meant about Prat not calling the shots, it felt like a loaded statement. Ever since he started mixing it up with Mason, he’s been hiding things from me. It’s time I got to the bottom of whatever it is they’re up to, especially now I’m going to be heading out on a mission with Mason. I don’t trust him.

I creep steadily along the tunnel, feeling my way along the damp, earthy walls with my fingertips. When I hear voices, I slow my pace and mold myself against the wall to listen.

Mason’s voice is low and strained. “You can’t charge up there until we know what’s going on.”

“If they’ve spotted ships, the camp’s already in trouble,” Owen says.

“We need to alert the Council before we make a move,” Mason says.

“If we wait any longer, we might be too late to help them.”

“Keep your voice down. I’m done arguing with you. I’ll find out what the Council knows about the ships. Now get out of here before someone sees you.”

I turn and leg it back down the tunnel to our bunker.

Inside, I pull my rucksack off the top bunk and assess the contents: compass, knives, fishing gear, whistle, ammo, water bottle, and jerky. Tucker plods over and lays a questioning paw on my arm.

“Not this time, buddy,” I say, scratching him behind the ears. “I’ll be back before you know it.” I zip up the smaller outer pockets on my pack, and stash my tactical knife and flashlight in my jacket pocket in case I get separated from my gear, just like Big Ed taught me.

A few minutes later, Owen returns and I hear him rustling around in the food unit. I sneak up behind him, and dig my fingers into his arm. “What’s this Council all about?”

He stops shoving dehydrated food into his pack and turns around, a guarded look in his eyes.

I cross my arms. “I heard you and Mason arguing.”

“I’ve told you before not to follow me. There’s things you’ve no business knowing.”

“Whatever you’re doing is my business.
I’m
your family, not some shifty stranger who shows up at the bunker out of the blue and starts throwing his weight around. I’m the one who always has your back.”

Owen stares at me for the longest time. “All right,” he says, resignedly. “But keep your mouth shut. If Prat gets wind of it, he’ll make a stink, blow the whole deal.”

I give a fervent nod, giddy from my unexpected success in cracking the code on Owen and Mason’s secret society.

Owen cinches the strap on his pack. “The Council coordinates efforts between the camps.”

I fight back a wave of disappointment. “That’s it? What does that even mean? Are we talking community vegetable gardens, or what?”

Owen throws me a withering look. “We’re planning an attack on the Sweepers.”

My fingers go limp. I stop patting Tucker’s head and stare at my brother in disbelief.
This
is what Owen's been hiding from me. My heart’s thumping so hard it hurts. It explains a lot, like why Owen’s always disappearing, and why Mason has a large stash of weapons and a tight-lipped wife. A ripple of excitement goes through me.

I inhale a deep breath. “I want in.”

Owen looks at me with an amused expression. “Tonight’s not about the Council’s plans. I have my own reasons for heading up to Frank’s camp.”

“Like what?”

Owen rubs his jaw and studies me for a moment. “You really like Jakob Miller, don’t you?”

My face flushes. I throw Owen an irritated look. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

He leans down and closes the flap on his fluorescent orange pack. “Would you wait ’til morning if you thought he was in danger?”

I catch a sudden whiff of Jakob's sawdust-and-worn-leather scent, and my chest heaves up and down. He’s been my safe haven since the first day we met in the bunker. I made up my mind a long time ago that I would lay down my life for him, if it ever comes to that, seeing as, being a Septite, he mightn’t see fit to defend himself.

Owen straightens up and swings his pack over his shoulder. I pick up his rifle and hold it out to him like a peace pipe. “So this is about a girl?”

He chuckles and reaches for his gun. He’s halfway up the metal ladder to the entry hatch when he stops and turns back around. He pulls out a dog-eared photo and hands it to me. “She was only twelve then, but it’s all she had to give me.”

“What’s her name?” I ask, studying the picture of a young girl sitting cross-legged on a beach. She’s laughing at something, head thrown back, blond hair tousled, her teeth startlingly white against her tanned skin.

“Her name’s Nikki.” Owen snatches the photo back out of my hands. “Now quit following me.”

I stand there, jaw askew, listening to the whoosh of air as the pneumatic entry hatch above me closes. My instincts about Owen's mysterious jaunts were halfway right. Now my curiosity is really piqued. Maybe I’ll get to meet this Nikki tonight. I might even make a friend. We have Owen in common, if nothing else.

I turn and tread softly back to the kitchen area. Da belches and reaches for his beer. “Where you off to now?”

I shrug. “Night watch.”

He swishes around a mouthful of beer. “
Night
watch. What you watching anyway?” He cuts loose with a laugh. “Go on, git.”

My heart pounds so hard it hurts as I make my way along the main tunnel, but it’s a good kind of hurt, a feeling of being fully alive—my first official mission up top that doesn’t involve cowsitting. A chance to prove I’m Owen's equal, and nowhere near as useless to the camp as Da.

To my surprise, Jakob's waiting for me at the main hatch. “I wanted to see you off,” he says, a shy smile pulling at his lips.

“I’ll be back before you know it.” I stick my thumbs in the straps of my rucksack so there’s no danger of him trying to hug me good-bye. I don’t want to feel his warmth pressing up against me right now, weakening my resolve, and I most definitely don’t want him to know how much I’m trembling.

Jakob heads off down the tunnel, turning to wave briefly, just as Big Ed rounds the corner decked out in his standard checked shirt, Wranglers jeans, suspenders, and tactical boots. He tilts his hat at me and reaches for his custom stock rifle with the silver stag inlay. He makes for an imposing figure. I don’t pay heed to most of what Da rambles on about anymore, but he could be right about the mountain men being fugitives.

It takes all of our concentration to move in the darkness at a steady pace through the dense undergrowth of bristly-tipped, swordtail ferns and tree roots braided across the trail. Prat’s heavy breathing adds to my unease. Mason barely exchanges a word with Big Ed or me as we traipse along to the beat of the trills and caws radiating through the firs. My senses are hardwired to the forest’s every whisper, the threat of Sweepers front and center in my mind, even though it’s still too dark out for their ships. The Sweepers may have habits, but, as Big Ed likes to remind me, predators adapt to the patterns of their prey.

We reach the perimeter of Frank’s camp shortly before midnight and hunker down behind a cluster of ponderosa pines to watch for any sign of movement around the camouflaged entry hatch. A pair of red squirrels tear up and down a nearby tree trunk, jabbering a protest at our presence, before they disappear. I throw another glance around to make sure we’re alone. There’s no sign of Owen anywhere, so I figure he’s already inside the bunker. Prat’s going to go ballistic when he finds out Owen beat us to it.

After a few minutes, Mason waves us forward. We close in and carefully remove the brush and rotting logs that conceal the bunker entry. I hold a flashlight for Prat as he jiggles the hatch, his face glistening in the yellow halo of light.

“Hey! Over here,” Big Ed yells, a ragged edge to his voice.

I turn and point the light in his direction.

He peers into a thicket, muttering under his breath, and then reaches down and grabs what looks like an old boot. He grunts, then pulls on it, slowly easing a body out of the brush.

Prat moans in my ear when I shine the light on Frank’s bloody face. My skin erupts with fear.

Big Ed drops the boot, stumbles backward, and cocks his gun.

Mason crouches down and pans the area, before moving off silently into the brush. I throw a panicked glance after him, and then grab the pistol grip of my rifle and whip it off my shoulder. It hadn’t even occurred to me that whoever did this might still be lurking around. I’m kidding myself to think I know what I’m doing out here. Maybe the clan women have more sense than I give them credit for.

I swivel on my heels, eying the warped shadows beneath the ghostly moon. My heart clatters against my ribs. I was up for surveillance for Sweepers. I never imagined things taking a turn like this.

Prat kneels down beside Frank and checks for a pulse. “He’s dead,” he says, choking out the words.

I shine my flashlight over Frank’s chest, half-expecting to see a Sweeper dart, but instead there’s a red sinkhole and a glob of pine needles stuck to it. A tremor runs through me. I don’t get queasy hunting, but Frank’s eyes are open and staring, flickering in the moonlight like haunted orbs.

“Do you think it was Sweepers?” Prat asks.

“Sweepers don’t leave bodies, they’re snatchers.” I swallow hard as a dreadful thought creeps into my mind. Could Owen have had something to do with this?

Prat glances nervously over his shoulder in the direction of the entry hatch, almost jumping out of his skin when a field mouse scurries over his foot. “What about someone from Frank’s camp?”

I shrug, unwilling to voice my suspicions about Owen.

“All clear,” Mason says, coming up behind us. “There’s a trail headed south, several hours old. Whoever did this is long gone.”

Big Ed squats beside us and removes his hat. “Rogues I reckon. Likely ambushed Frank on his return.”

Prat drops the flashlight. A sheen of sweat glistens on his upper lip.

I look back and forth in confusion between Big Ed and Prat. “What are you … what’s he talking about?”

Big Ed stands stiffly and puts his cowboy hat back on. “Tell her. Girl has a right to know what’s out there.”

Prat blinks, fumbles around for the flashlight.

Mason kicks it toward him. “The Rogues are a gang of escaped subversives from the maximum security reeducation center. They must have made a run for it when the fireball hit
.
”

My eyes widen. The reeducation centers were instituted by the sovereign leader to contain anyone deemed subversive or a threat to world unity. The only way out was in a body bag. Until now.

“They’ve attacked the Undergrounder network down south,” Big Ed says. “They’re well-armed with M16s. By all accounts they’re killing machines.”

I peer over his shoulder into the gloom and shiver at the spooky clacking of a screech owl. Would a killing machine even make a sound? Frank never had a chance. My pulse ratchets up a click. What if the Rogues found Owen too?

Prat gets to his feet and throws his pack over his shoulder. “We need to get out of here.”

“Wait!” A sickening bubble forms in my windpipe. “We can’t just leave Frank lying here on a pile of roots. We have to bury him.”

Prat shrugs. “We don’t have shovels.”

“We’ll come back later and lay him to rest,” Big Ed says, pushing up the brim of his hat. “Do it right. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, and all that.”

We settle on pushing Frank’s body back into the thicket and covering it up with some broken boughs as best we can. I’m not optimistic he’ll be there later for his own funeral, but it’s a chance we’ll have to take. I know what a pack of wolves can do to a grown man. Big Ed said they never used to bother mountain folk before the meltdown, but wild game’s scarcer now, and the wolves have become man-eaters.

“Mason and I will take a quick look inside the bunker,” Big Ed says. “Derry, you and Prat keep watch up top for a few minutes. I’ll holler if it’s safe.”

Prat fidgets nervously at my side while Mason and Big Ed hoist open the hatch and climb down into the bunker.

“Chill, Prent,” I say, with a smug grin. “I got your back.”

He casts a skeptical eye over me, then jumps up and hurries after the others, leaving me alone in the moonlight.

All around, moss rises in thick folds over mysterious shapes. I catch my breath at the sudden whoop-whoop-whoop of a grouse in the brush. I’m not feeling as brave now that I’m alone out here. All I can think about are
the killing machines.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead, and start cranking my flashlight.

Five, ten minutes go by, and there’s no sign of the others returning. I take a deep breath to steady my nerves, then make my way over to the main entry hatch and quietly descend the ladder.

Clutching my flashlight, I tread softly along the tunnel, following the faint blotch of yellow bobbing in front of me. When I reach the first bunker, I stash my flashlight and squint through the four-foot-square opening.