Omega City (11 page)

LIGHT FIXTURES DANGLED FROM THE CEILING, LETTING OFF EERIE FLICKERS, and the halls were clogged with debris, loose paper, broken furniture, and some kind of unidentifiable black sludge.

“We're not going in there, are we?” Savannah asked. “It's disgusting.”

I glanced pointedly at the tattered, bloody remains of her velour pants and her vomit-spattered shirt.

“You're right,” she admitted. “Can't get worse.” She stepped inside.

We skirted the mess, trying to find our way through the tangle of hallways to a place where we could get our bearings.

The whole time I could hardly keep from squealing. Dr. Underberg had built this. And he couldn't have done it alone, either. There had to be hundreds of people: construction workers, electricians, plumbers. People put this massive project together . . . somehow.

And now, it was nearly destroyed. What had happened here? How did my dad not know any of this? How come no one knew? If people had helped Underberg build this city, there had to be lots of people who knew about it—unless the government had iced them, too.

And yet, we'd been to other war bunkers before. There was one under Parliament in London that was a museum now. There was another out in a hotel in Virginia that was originally built for Congress. The government kept a whole missile launch station in a hollowed-out mountain in Colorado.

If this was here, a little more than an hour from our house, how many more were there? And if we didn't know about them, then who were they built for?

We found the mess hall, which featured a smattering of metal folding tables and chairs scattered haphazardly—some overturned—on a wrinkled linoleum floor. Over-head, foam ceiling tiles lay crookedly around a grid punctuated by burned-out fluorescent lights. One wall featured a cafeteria-style opening and buffet stations, and from what we could see of the kitchen beyond, the industrial-sized
stainless steel ovens and refrigerators and storage containers were all open . . . and empty.

Eric pulled the first aid kit off the wall near the light controls. “Score.” While my brother started sorting through the bandages and ointments, I went with Howard to look around. In a pantry off the kitchen we found a jumble of items that must have spilled from the racks on the wall, including flashlights, whistles, water bottles, a few military-style freeze-dried foods, and, yes, some packages of patented, Underberg-brand astronaut ice cream.

But nothing that looked like the prototype for the Underberg battery. Oh, well. Probably a long shot that he'd keep it in the mess hall, anyway.

“Strawberry? Chocolate?” I called to the others.

“No vanilla?” Nate called back.

“Don't worry—you can have your pick.” I'd had no idea astronaut ice cream came in so many flavors. I gathered an armful of the stuff and went back to the tables.

“Is there anything else in the storage room?” Savannah asked, wincing as she dabbed a peroxide-soaked cotton ball against her arm. She was still clutching her clothes together with her injured hand. “Like maybe an extra T-shirt?”

“No shirts,” said Howard, emerging with a bunch of shrink-wrapped packages. “But I found something even better.” He tossed a pile of them on the table. “Space suits.”

I looked at the little folded packages, each about the
size of a cereal box. These were certainly not space suits. Across the table, Eric ripped one open, and shimmery silver material slid out of the package and into his lap. He lifted it up.

“No way,” said Nate. “We'll look like extras from a bad sci-fi movie in these.”

Howard read off the label of his. “Waterproof, fireproof, tear-proof, and soil-resistant.”

“Just resistant?” Eric asked. “Come on, Underberg, don't let us down now.”

I turned my package over in my hands. “Omega City Utility Suit” was printed at the top in bold black letters, right above another omega symbol. Below that was typed the following:

MADE BY THE ARKADIA GROUP

Below that was another symbol, like two upside-down Js crossed over a map of the world. Actually—I peered closer—they weren't Js at all. There was a little extra hook on the tail end of the J.

A shiver rushed across my skin that had nothing to do with my wet clothes. I'd seen that J symbol before, on Fiona's arm. At the time I'd thought it was an initial, but maybe it was her company logo. Maybe Arkadia Group was the name of the development firm where Fiona
worked. If so, then maybe Nate had been right that Omega City belonged to them and we were the ones who were trespassing.

But that couldn't be right. If Omega City was theirs, they certainly weren't taking care of it very well. And it didn't explain Dr. Underberg's diary or the treasure map we'd used to get here. My dad had never mentioned or written anything about an Arkadia Group. Underberg worked for the State Department and NASA.

Then again, Dad hadn't known about this city, either. Maybe he'd gotten all kinds of things wrong about Underberg's life.

No. I refused to believe that. No one knew about the city. Back at the boulder, Fiona had worried that Eric and I would find Omega City before she did. So she couldn't work here—she didn't have any idea where this place was. Even if the Arkadia Group had made these suits for Dr. Underberg, that didn't mean they knew what he'd done with them. Maybe he'd just bought them and put them here. My fingers trembled as I pulled open the packaging. What if Dr. Underberg had
literally
put them here? What if he'd touched this very suit?

“At least they're dry,” Eric said. He peeled off his shirt.

“Eww, Eric, don't change in front of me!” Savannah covered her eyes and grimaced.

“Would you say that if I were Nate?” he teased.

Nate looked scandalized by the idea.

Savannah didn't answer, just frowned down at the suit in distaste. “They look so baggy.”

“Beggars can't be choosers, Sav,” I pointed out.

She bit her lip. “I'll put it on if you do.”

I was on board with that. After all, silly or not, at least the jumpsuit was dry, and I couldn't say the same for my jeans and T-shirt.

Savannah and I retreated to a space behind the empty fridges in the kitchen area while the boys used the mess hall to change. It wasn't easy getting my damp jeans off, and I actually had to have Savannah help. She held up her pink velour outfit, which now looked like a giant used dishrag. “This was my big Christmas present,” she said. “I saw it in a magazine and spent weeks begging my mom for one.”

“I'm sorry, Sav,” I said. I mean, I didn't understand who'd spend a hundred dollars on a pair of sweatpants, but I did know how much she loved them. I'd done my fair share of begging for presents over the years.

She shrugged, balled it up, and tossed it in a corner. “I don't think Nate even noticed.”

The silver suit weighed practically nothing, and closed with a silent zipper. They only came in one size, and after you put it on, you folded and zipped portions near the ankles, knees, sides, elbows, and shoulders to make it fit
you perfectly. There was even a zipper near the neck, but I'm not sure what it was for since the collar didn't seem adjustable. Not to say they were skintight. Once we'd adjusted our suits to fit according to the directions on the package, they were still a little loose, more like a mechanic's one-piece suit and less like some kind of space-age leotard. Still, they were dry and warm, which was an improvement. I almost hated putting my wet sneakers on again afterward. Too bad there were no space-age boots lying around on the broken, dangling shelves. I did, however, find a toiletry set, and Savannah was able to brush her teeth and rinse her mouth out.

“How do you feel?” I asked her.

“Like I swallowed a bunch of water from an underground lake and then threw it all up again.” She stuck out her tongue. “I may pass on the ice cream.”

By the time Sav and I had gotten back to the boys they'd left a pile of crumpled ice-cream wrappers around their table, and on top of the jumpsuits, they each wore a rainbow mustache of sticky powder.

“Here,” Howard said to me, handing over another ice cream. “I saved you a lemon-lime. It's definitely the best flavor.”

“Thanks,” I replied, surprised. I guess he'd forgiven me for the whole “freak” thing. Maybe almost dying a few times makes name-calling seem like no big deal.

Nate shrugged. “I liked mint chocolate, actually.” He tore into another packet.

Savannah sighed, looking at her options. “Can you imagine actually living down here and eating freeze-dried food every day? It's disgusting.”

“I think it's awesome,” said Howard. He was hungrily eyeing the rest of the shelves.

“Better than pizza,” Nate said. “I think I could go the rest of my life without eating another piece of pizza. Especially that nasty sesame chicken one you guys always order.” He made a face.

“You say that now,” said Eric, his mouth full of freeze-dried ice cream mush. “But try a few months of this and you'll change your tune. Believe me, I thought I'd never get enough s'mores, but you go camping with my dad for a month or two and the very thought of marshmallows will make you want to vomit.” He shot a guilty glance at Savannah. “Sorry.”

After I was done with my ice cream, I pulled the comb out of the toiletry kit. “Come here, Sav. I'll braid your hair.” Right now it looked like it had been attacked by a particularly excitable rat.

“Ladies,” Nate said. “We don't have time for hairdos, okay?”

I glared at him. Savannah finger-combed her hair and looked down.

“Hairdos?” I snapped. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes,” he replied. “We have no idea when those people with the guns are going to show up again. We can't sit around forever. We have to get out of here.”

“You
so
don't have a sister, do you?” Eric asked wearily.

“It takes two minutes to get her hair safely out of the way of anything that might catch in it,” I said. “How long have you been sitting here shoving ice cream in your face?”

Eric held up his hands. “Look, we're fine. We're still resting, and everyone wants a snack, anyway, am I right?”

Howard was fiddling with something on the arm of his suit. “Yeah. I wanted to try one of those MREs.”

“What?” Savannah asked.

“Meals, Ready-to-Eat,” he explained. “They even have a chicken and dumpling.”

“Don't do the dumplings,” Eric warned. I had to agree with him. Dad made us eat the occasional MRE when we were off grid, and the dumplings tasted like burnt water. I could only force it down on nights when Dad's culinary experiments were worse than usual. “But if they have a beef teriyaki, that's not too bad.”

“Trust me, kid,” said Nate. “Howard won't eat anything labeled teriyaki.”

“I don't think he should eat too much of this stuff no matter what flavor it comes in,” I said. I was combing through Savannah's hair as we talked, the lemon-lime ice
cream tucked away in one of my utility suit's many zippered pockets. “We have no idea how long it's been down here. Maybe it's all gone bad.”

“I thought that was Dr. Underberg's thing,” Nate said. “Howard said he invented food that never went bad.”

“There's no food that
never
goes bad,” Howard said. “Except honey.”

“That's a myth,” I said, braiding. “Only if it's sealed and stored in dry conditions. And doesn't have botulism in it.”

“So the honey thing is a myth, but Tunguska was aliens?” Howard asked. “Maybe you should make up a list so we can follow which crazy theories you actually believe.”

I snapped a rubber band around the end of Savannah's braid. “We've now spent more time discussing food we don't need to eat than we have on girly hairdos. Satisfied, Nate?”

He laughed. “Okay, you win. But
now
can we go?”

“Sure.” I pulled the map and the lemon-lime out of my pockets and walked over to the table. “According to the diagram, the fastest route to an exit from here is like this.” I traced the line through three buildings and connected pathways to one of those little red Exit symbols.

Eric looked over my shoulder. “Look at all these rooms.”

Honestly, I was trying not to. The battery could be in
any of them, and we were heading straight for the exit.

“What do you think they're all for? A.T.R. . . . F.L.F. . . . E.M.O. . . . S.I.L.O. . . .”

“I don't know and I don't care,” said Nate. “Just find the one marked e-x-i-t.”

I pointed at another building marked Comm. “I wonder if this stands for Communications. Maybe we should try to call the police or something.”

“And say what?” Savannah asked. “Help! We're trapped in weird city a mile underground and being chased by creepy thugs with guns?”

“It's the truth,” Eric pointed out.

“I wonder if Omega City phones are unlisted,” Howard said. He was twisting in his suit now, running his hands along the seams and trying to reach for something at the small of his back.

“Do you have ants in your pants or something?” I asked him.

“This suit is wired,” Howard said. He held out his forearm. “Look: a control panel.”

“Does it have a silence setting?” Savannah deadpanned.

“I'm not sure. . . .” Howard started jamming buttons. Oh, great. More buttons for him to press.

“She's joking, bro,” said Nate.

“Oh.” He frowned. “It does have a warming setting . . . a cooling setting . . . water lines, I think?”

“Think later,” his brother said. “We should go, before those guys catch up to us. Everyone grab some of those flashlights and a bottle or two of water. The last thing we need to worry about is dehydration.”