Chris Jordan - Torn

All the more reason to hurry. Shane, crouching and in constant danger of bumping his head on the tunnel lights, is having trouble keeping up, despite his long legs.

“I feel like a bug in a straw,” he complains. “How much farther?”

“We’ll take a short break to catch our breath,” Weems announces, halting. “To answer your question, there are more than three miles of tunnels. One branch goes to my bunker, the other to the Pinnacle.”

“Your bunker?” I ask. “What, like Hitler’s bunker?”

“Most assuredly not,” he says huffily, turning to look me in the eye. “And what would a woman your tender age know of Hitler and his bunker?”

“The History Channel.”

“Of course.” He nods to himself. “What we have long called our bunker, for lack of a better term, was originally constructed in Arthur’s paranoid period, like these very tunnels. Built mostly underground, as an impregnable fortress-although nothing is, of course, truly impregnable. Later he moved to the Pinnacle, which is higher up the mountain. The Pinnacle is quite spectacular, really. A great cathedral of glass and steel and stone, and unlike the Bunker it looks outward. Arthur liked to say it greets the world. He thought of it as a great ship sailing upon a sea of clouds. Of course this being Colorado, most of the time there aren’t actually very many clouds, but you get the idea.”

Shane, resting his long body against the curve of the pipe, says, “You’re sure the boy is in the Pinnacle?”

“I’m sure.”

“You have spies there? Someone from the Evangeline faction who reports to you?”

“I have my sources.”

“We need to call in the cavalry,” Shane says emphatically.

“The cavalry. How very romantic. By all means, alert your colleagues.”

“You have no objection?” Shane asks, sounding surprised.

“No. The time has come. As I say, the clock is ticking, and Eva herself is the time bomb. No one knows when she might go off, what she might do, but I have no doubt she’s capable of unleashing great violence, if she thinks that is what it will take to secure her position.”

“And you’d like her out of the way,” Shane points out.

“Absolutely. She’s been a disaster. We are a small organization. There are less than ten thousand full-fledged, dues-paying members. We can’t afford to be divided, fighting amongst ourselves.”

Shane nods, studying Weems, whose face always seems to be averted, conveniently shadowed. Partly it’s his simian, jutting brow and his deep-set eyes, but I can’t help thinking that the strange little man reacts to light like a creature who doesn’t want to be seen.

Shane says, “So Evangeline gets arrested and you become the big cheese, the ultimate Ruler.”

“What I will do,” Weems responds, with great dignity, “is see that things continue as Arthur would have wanted. Strengthening the organization. Building connections into the mainstream. Continuing to interpret Arthur’s writing and teach Arthur’s lessons. Spreading the word.”

Shane says, “And you’ll do the interpreting. You’ll decide what words get spread.”

“Who better than me?”

Shane stands up, as best he can. “We’ll need a phone, an Internet connection, or a radio. Some way to make contact with the outside world.”

“Kavashi will have cut off landline and broadband by now,” Weems says. “There’s a satellite phone in the Bunker. You can use that.”

Shane takes a deep breath, touches my shoulder. “You hanging in there?”

“Yup.”

What else can I say? My fate, and my son’s fate, is in Shane’s hands now. His and the FBI, if we can make contact.

“I thought you were delusional,” Shane confesses. “That first day. Bonkers with grief.”

“Why did you stay?”

He shrugs his big shoulders. “Something about you, I guess. You looked so ferocious.”

“Me?”

“Like a little bulldog. I knew you’d never let go, never give up.”

“Bulldog, huh? Is that meant to be a compliment?”

His eyes slide away from mine. “Just an observation. I certainly didn’t mean you look like a bulldog.”

Weary and frightened for my son as I am, I can’t help but grin. “Whatever,” I tell him. “That was a lucky day. The best in a while.”

Weems clears his throat. “We need to keep moving, folks. It’s only a matter of time before Vash figures out the tunnels.”

We trudge along for what seems like a great distance, the tunnel inclining steadily upward, then abruptly switching to double back in the opposite direction. Weems suggests we think of it as an underground switchback road, which doesn’t mean much to me. Every yard is bringing me closer to Noah. That’s what I cling to.

At one point we come to a vertical shaft. It contains an open elevator car that has the size and heft of an oversize toy, but Weems insists that it has been rated for a thousand pounds, considerably more than our combined weight. It is, he assures us, perfectly safe.

“How old are these tunnels?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Twenty years or so. Something like that.”

“So the last time this perfectly safe elevator was inspected was twenty years ago?”

“It’s the only way up,” he says. “I’m afraid there’s no alternative. If you like, we’ll send you up in the car alone. Mr. Shane and I will follow.”

“No way!”

There’s barely room for the three of us in the car, which sways a little as it slowly ascends, bumping the shaft walls. Shane notices my complexion going green and says, “So you’re not fond of elevators.”

“Not little swingy ones, no.”

He takes my hand. “Try closing your eyes.”

That makes it worse. My hand is sweaty, his hand is cool and strong.

“We’re going to be fine,” he says, his voice calm and reassuring. “We’ll make a call to my friend Maggie and she’ll make sure that help is on the way. You’ll be safe in Mr. Weems’s Bunker, won’t she, Mr. Weems?”

“Most certainly,” Weems says. “I’ve taken every precaution. Vash can’t touch us.”

“And where will you be, while I’m being all safe and cozy?”

“I’ll be having a look around the Pinnacle.”

“Searching for Noah.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m coming with you.”

He shakes his head, dismissing the idea. “I’ll bring him to you. That’s a promise.”

“He doesn’t know you. He’ll be scared.”

“We’ll discuss this after we make the call,” Shane says, sounding stubborn.

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

He grunts. We come to the top and the little elevator bumps to a stop, rises an inch, and settles at the correct level. Back in the relative stability of the tunnel, my knees stop trembling and the relief makes me almost giddy.

“Wait here,” says Weems. “I have to disable Vash’s cameras.”

He climbs up a set of rungs protruding from another, much smaller vertical shaft-remarkably agile for a man of his age-and a moment later he’s gone, having sealed the hatch at the top of the shaft.

“I’ll be moving fast,” Shane says, continuing the conversation while we wait for our strange little guide to return. “There’s no telling what I’ll run into.”

“La-la-la-la-la.”

“What?”

“Means I’m not listening.”

“Bulldog,” he mutters.

Above us the hatch opens, and Weems calls down for us to come on up.

To be truthful, I don’t really recall much of that History Channel show about Hitler’s bunker. Jed was the one with an interest in World War II, not me. But I do remember the Spartan interior and, of course, the total lack of windows. My sense is that Hitler and his cronies were living in a concrete hole in the ground, with air supplied by a ventilation tower that looked like a witch’s hat. In the end it was cyanide and pistols, and the bombproof bunker became a gruesome tomb, with death coming not from above, but from the people themselves.