Out of Exodia (6 page)

Amal shoved her into a musty room with
a single light in the ceiling. He cautioned her to keep away from
the door, then he closed it. She heard something thump against the
other side and assumed he barred it. She ignored his warning and
moved to the hinged edge of the door. She listened, heard nothing,
and ventured to put a shaky hand on the frame. There was a soft
vibration, like a cat’s purr. She reached for the knob, hesitated,
then stepped back and opened her belt sack. They hadn’t searched
her. She pulled out her oldest possession: an antique metal comb
with a long, narrow handle, wickedly sharp at the end. She tossed
it at the knob and sparks flew. The metal comb had saved her from a
nasty burn.

She retrieved the comb, examined other
parts of the room, and found nothing that could help her. The light
in the ceiling drew her attention last. When she stood directly
beneath it she discovered that it was a wide tube lined with
curving reflective material, bringing surface light deep
underground. Now she understood why the Exodian government had not
exterminated these outlaws: spotter planes had never seen this
town.

Her knees wobbled less and her heart
stopped racing. She drew in a thin breath and wondered how many
underground cities there might be in the ninety states. No, not
ninety. That lie had been exposed the year before last. Barrett had
told her.

A stab of regret pierced her heart as
she remembered the time they sat on her porch steps and he showed
her proof that only twenty-five states still functioned. He had put
his arm around her and told her she was pretty, but she’d cut him
off and moved away. That was when he told her that Bram, he was
called Dalton then, was rumored to be living in a secret town.
Well, here was another secret town. Would Bram find her
here?

She crumpled to the floor under the
light, rubbed her aching muscles, and tried to keep from crying.
When the light finally faded, she stretched out, and when sleep
wouldn’t come to her, Lydia gave in to the tears.

* * *

The clouds close over me.
My toe strikes an embedded rock. The force from the jolt catapults
me forward. My eyes adjust to the darkening way. I walk another
thousand yards silently repeating
I will
not lose her, I will not lose her.
I work
my way down a gradual incline and smell the unmistakable odor of
horse manure. I stop and listen. Far behind me my fellow rescuers
are less restless than I expected. Their muffled whispers kiss the
breeze, soft but audible to my special hearing. I can only hope
that their sounds remain unheard by Lydia’s abductors should they
be nearby. I silently dismantle the rod into its smaller sections
and tie all but one into my belt sacks.

A whistle draws my eyes to
the northeast. I drop to the ground as fluidly as I can. I catch
sight of a sentry taking his position and flashing a quick signal
light to the left. He climbs a tree and settles in to watch for
intruders
—
to
watch for me. The second sentry flashes back, but stays on the
ground. All the better to catch me, or rather all the better for me
to catch him. I rise only inches to crawl forward on my forearms,
gripping that middle section of the rod, adjusting my path to stay
in the blind spots of both the watcher in the tree and the man on
the ground.

I take my time. A tickle of
apprehension creeps up my mid-section and settles across my chest.
The muted sounds of the distant Reds readying themselves to come
after me are no longer subdued. I press myself into some taller
grasses and study the sentries. The one in the tree is alert,
cocking his head toward those suspicious sounds, but the one on the
ground has settled back against a tree, arms folded. An easy
choice: I angle my position to align my aim upward toward the alert
guard and set the rod’s countdown for sixty seconds. I begin my own
mental ticking as I creep closer to the lazy guard.

There’s a flash, bang,
scream, and I know the vigilant lookout has breathed his last as I
leap onto the unsuspecting guard and perform the appalling twist,
wrench, breaking moves I’d learned when I was fifteen. The
adrenaline that gushes through my veins adds a colored haze to my
vision and meets the heat that flushes me with shame. But
I will not lose her
. And
in the instant that I bear the awful ebbing of life from this poor
man’s body I see the letters of my simple promise move across a
mental screen. They flutter like violet colored symbols that change
into the phrase
till we honor lies
then fade into a lusty red that burns into my
brain and changes again. The final phrase foretells a useful
stratagem:
slit in lower
hole
. I trust this unlikely clue as if it
held a solemn promise. I know it will lead me to Lydia.

* * *

Lydia wiped away her tears and bolted
upright when she heard someone unbar the door. Amal held his finger
to his lips and gently pressed the door into place. He stuck a
yellow orb on the wall and gave it a turn; it began to glow, giving
enough light in the small room for Lydia to perceive the intention
in his eyes.

“
What’s your name, pretty
one?” Amal kept his distance, opened his hands palms up, and raised
his eyebrows.

Lydia wasn’t fooled by his innocent
act. She considered screaming since he seemed to want her silent,
but a second thought gave her a better plan.

“
I’m Lydia,” she began. She
worked a quavering sigh into her voice and moved her hands in
helpless gestures, waving them at her head and stomach as she
rambled as fast as she could. “I must look a mess. My hair. Oh, my
clothes. This … this is not my best look. Let me comb my hair.” She
went off on a tangent about dirt and snarls in her hair, the smell
of horse, her need for soap and water, clean clothes, anything she
could think of as she rose from the floor and slipped her hand into
the belt sack to retrieve the sharp metal comb.

“
Pretty enough.” Amal took
a step closer.

Lydia drew the comb through the ends of
her hair, keeping the tail of the comb hidden along her wrist.
Amal’s face contorted into an obvious leer and he took another
step, lowering his arms, unaware of his own
vulnerability.

* * *

The flash bang has alerted my fellow
Reds. I can hear them running my way. I backtrack a few yards and
retrieve the foot-long section of rod, grip it like a club and run
toward the guard who dropped from the tree. If he’s not dead I’ll
have to strike him or break his neck.

His body is sprawled beneath the tree.
No pulse. I search him as I did the other one and only find the
whistle and signal light. I stuff them both in my second belt sack.
Like the other guard he has no weapon. I don’t understand why these
people would post men to watch for us and not arm them.

The Reds are halfway here. I scan the
area. Is this a trick? Could all the men and horses and the rest of
their people be huddled in that single building?

I climb the tree and look
around from the guard’s perch. I see my people stumbling down the
slope, their lights bobbing. I climb higher still and squint in all
directions. There are dots of light scattered upon the earth
between my people and me and beyond toward the single building.
Small round lights blush upward in sly shades of pink or gold.
Holes. Slits in the earth. An underground city. My pulse
quickens.
I will not lose
her
. I look for a hole that is lower than
the others and spot its faint yellow glow.

* * *

As soon as Amal stepped into range
Lydia brought her knee up hard against his groin. He grunted and
doubled over. She stabbed at him, aiming for the soft tissue of his
neck, but instead slashing across his skull when he jerked
downward. Blood gushed from the head wound. Lydia circled toward
the door and held the comb up, ready to gouge at his eyes with the
pointed end that was now red to the hilt. Amal lifted his head and
straightened up slowly, keeping a wary eye on her.

Suddenly the ceiling shook and they
both looked up. A second tremor followed the sound of glass
breaking. Amal shook his head and sneered as if a punctured
skylight was a common problem. Lydia felt for the door knob, but
kept her eyes on Amal. He in turn lunged at her and slammed her
against the door, pinning her arm behind her and grabbing the wrist
that held the mock spear. A heavy plunk signaled that the bar had
fallen across the outside of the door and Amal was now as much a
prisoner as she was.

He cursed and squeezed her wrist until
the comb fell to the floor. Above their heads the center of the
ceiling rumbled and shards of glass pinged onto the floor. Amal
kept Lydia tightly restrained and nuzzled his wounded head against
her neck. She didn’t fight; she didn’t even pull away from the
sticky sensation. She began a loud rant in Amal’s ear to cover the
sounds of what she hoped was a rescue attempt and not some wild
beasts stampeding overhead. She watched over his shoulder and
endured the pawing of his other hand as he brought it up along her
side. Worn, blue-treaded boots abruptly hit the floor; Bram
appeared with feet balanced, arms out, brandishing a shortened
rod.

Before Amal could react to the new
sound behind him Bram struck him hard against the back of his head.
He crumpled to the floor.

“
Did he hurt
you?”

“
No. Is he
dead?”

“
You have blood on
you.”

“
It’s all right. Check and
see if he’s dead.”

“
He’s knocked out. He’ll
live. Unless … did he hurt you?” Bram rose up from checking Amal
and stretched a hand toward Lydia’s face. “You’re not bleeding? Are
you sure?”

Lydia could only nod her head before
the tears came. She tried to laugh it off, but her body betrayed
her. She trembled and sobbed. Bram took her in his arms and held
her tightly. When she finally spoke she sputtered out a few words
that were unintelligible. She tried again, “Comb … red … hilt.”
Bram reached down and picked up her meager weapon, wiped the blood
off onto his own pants, and handed her the comb.

“
It’s all right. It’s all
right,” he repeated. His own breathing was nearly back to normal.
He had raced across the field, found the slit near the skylight and
discovered the service access. He had removed the cumbersome belt
sacks and punched his way through the glass then dropped fearlessly
into her cell.

“
No. It’s not all right,”
Lydia said. Her voice grew stronger. “We’re still trapped.” She
jiggled the door knob and, as she feared, found that the door was
barred. “At least it’s not electrified. Maybe we can smash it
open.”

“
Too loud.” Bram thought a
moment and looked back up at the light tube. “I can boost you up.
You’re strong enough to work your way up and out pushing against
the sides.”

“
But how will you get
out?”

“
I’ll take your place.
You’ll be safe. That’s all that matters.”

Lydia shook her head and threw herself
into Bram’s arms again. She stared up into his eyes and touched his
cheek, drew her fingers through his dark beard, and slowly came up
on her toes until their lips were too close not to touch. She lost
herself in the softness of the kiss, the moment, the
nearness.

* * *

I don’t want this precious kiss to end.
It says all that I cannot. But there is an unconscious enemy at our
feet, an army close by—perhaps behind that door—and a danger right
above us.

I kiss her nose, her forehead, her
hair, and then I pull her back for a second kiss more powerful than
the first. More urgent. I never felt this with Kassandra. There is
a rightness here that fits. Lydia is my rhythm, my strength, my
comfort. I sink into the kiss and forget about all things as I
concentrate on only one thing.

She makes a little humming sound and
pulls away first, erasing the marked edge of our emotion and
bringing us back to our predicament.

“
Bram?”

“
What?”

Her eyes dart from the guard to the
door to the ceiling and back to me. “We should try to knock the
door down. There are stairs—a way out—close by. We could run for it
before they sound an alarm. I don’t want to go alone.”

I really don’t want her to
go alone either, but I see no better choice. I press my hands
against her shoulders and scan her for any other signs of injuries.
I notice the end of the metal comb protruding from her belt sack
and it comes to me—what she said: comb, red, hilt. The letters
swirl and spell
climb the
rod
.

So simple.

“
I can get out with you,” I
say. “You have to go first. I’ll boost you up and when you get
through find my belt sacks and toss me down the other pieces to the
rod. I can climb it to get out.”

* * *

The long trek back to the twelve
springs refuge took half the night, but as soon as they had put
sufficient distance between themselves and the underground city the
Reds began to sing. Though there had been no battle, they knew that
Bram had dispatched both sentries and wounded Lydia’s abductor.
That was victory enough for a group of people who had so recently
been slaves and so they sang. It was a new song, not the one Bram
expected—not that strange, cryptic song about him that was more
than a little embarrassing. He held Lydia’s hand, listened
carefully, and joined in when the chorus repeated. The lyrics
declared a victory, but like the other song there were
indecipherable words that he suspected foreshadowed real battles in
their future. Mira and the women who had come along danced around
Bram, but in the dark only those closest could appreciate their
enthusiasm. After a few minutes they melted back into the crowd as
the singing died down and their steps slowed.