Steven dos Santos - The Sowing

Then consciousness tears through the tattered vestiges of my nightmare. It was a dream. I’m in my cell. Must be after lights-out.

I sense breathing and my hands find the face near me, cupping the smooth, cool cheeks.

“Tristin?” I whisper back.

“Yes, it’s me.” Her hand touches mine. “When I got brought back, you were already passed out. Then they turned off the lights for the night. Looks like you were having some kind of bad dream. Heard you calling for ‘Digory.’”

I let go of her face and grab her hands, anxious to change the subject. “The others, did you see them? Are they okay? Who did we lose? Was it Dahlia?”

She sighs. “I’m not sure. I only caught a glimpse of some of the others—Corin, your friends Leander and Arrah. That’s about all I remember seeing before they switched off the juice. Sorry.”

I nod, forgetting for an instant that she can’t see me. The last image of Cage’s face on the platform hovers into my memory. “Your brother. I’ve seen him.”

“Cage? Is he okay? I couldn’t tell from those monitors, and then they went blank, and—”

“He’s okay. Asked how you’re doing,” I try to inject a little levity into my words. “How long was I out for?”

“Maybe an hour, hour and a half. Why?”

Good. That means I still have several hours before the morning guard shift arrives.

“Tristin, I’m going to need your help. There’s something I have to do if we’re all going to get to see the people we care about again.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to get out of this cell and find a way out of this complex. If we don’t get out of here soon, we’re all dead—you, me, your brother, everyone. That’s the Establishment’s endgame. No survivors this time.”

There’s nothing but silence for a few moments. I feel the weight on the cot shift. If she doesn’t cooperate, there’s no way I’m going to be able to pull this off.

“I’m in. What’s your plan?” she finally whispers back.

“I’m going to try and get through one of the ducts.”

Groping against the wall to orient myself, I reach into the crevice where I’ve hidden the bone fragment and pull it out. I climb back onto the cot and feel my way up the corner wall until I can feel the rim of the ventilation grate. My fingertips probe the metal slats on one side of it, finally finding the grooves.

From the mental blueprint I’ve been able to piece together, it seems our holding cells move vertically and horizontally on some type of gear system, so this grate must lead to a ventilation or maintenance shaft that runs parallel to the track system, at least when our cells are locked in their default ground-level position, as they are now.

Unless my theory’s totally wrong.

I guess I’m about to find out. That is, if the bone fragment is thin enough to fit into the screw head. The fabric wrapped around my makeshift tool rustles as I unfurl it.

“What’re you doing?” Tristin whispers into my ear.

“It’s just a little gizmo Leander slipped me to help loosen these bolts.”

The next couple of hours are an exercise in frustration and jangled nerves. While I’m able to wedge the bone fragment into the screws without being able to see, actually turning the heads to loosen them requires repeated attempts. I’m only able to turn them a millimeter at a time before my tool pops out and I have to repeat the process over again.

I’m all too conscious of every single creak from the grinding bolts, which pierce the muffled sounds of our breathing and the thudding of my pulse in my ears.

Twice, Tristin and I are forced to abandon the project and fling ourselves into our bunks when Imps making their rounds approach and shine a light into our cell.

The second time, the guard lingers and I keep my eyes squeezed shut, trying to control my breathing. I grip the sharp utensil like a weapon, hoping the guard doesn’t decide to come into the cell and take a closer look, forcing me to use it.

But it’s Tristin who breaks the tension by releasing a stream of soft snores, mimicking the sounds of deep sleep to perfection.

Moments later, the glare of the flashlight disappears and the guard’s footfalls echo down the corridor, leaving us in the thickness of black silence once again.

We spring back into action.

“Nice work,” I whisper into her ear.

Finally, I’ve released all of the screws on the grate except for one. The last thing I need is for the grate to clatter to the ground and alert the guards. Also, I need to be able to slide it back into place in a hurry and not worry about securing it to the ceiling. Gripping the loose edges, I shove the vent to the side, having to push real hard against the rust holding it in place.

Without needing a cue from me, Tristin fakes a coughing fit to cover up the sound of the creaking metal. The sound makes me break out into gooseflesh as if it were nails scraping across an old chalkboard.

There’s no way they can’t hear this.

Once the grate is moved sufficiently, I pause, slumping against the wall, my ears straining for the first chords of booted feet heading our way.

Each second seems like an hour.

But no one comes.

“I think we’re good,” Tristin murmurs. I can hear the anxiety tingeing her words.

Releasing my breath, I whisper to her. “I need you to help boost me up.”

It’s awkward in the dark, but in a few minutes, she’s cupping my foot in her hands and pushing me up and through the open duct and into the shaft. There’s a panicked second where I don’t think I’m going to be able to squeeze through, but after a little pushing and some scraped flesh, I’m in.

I poke my head back through. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Hurry,” she mutters. This time there’s no mistaking the fear in her voice. She slides the grate back into place.

Taking a moment to orient myself, I start to crawl through the duct, feeling my way past the transport mechanisms that connect to the pulleys and rails at the top of my cell. Once I’m into the network of ventilation shafts, I reconcile my direction with what I’ve already memorized of Purgatorium’s floor plan and fit this journey to my mental schematics.

Up ahead, shafts of light illuminate my way as I pass by the mess hall, the showers, the other prisoners’ cell blocks. I peer through the slats of each vent as I go by. There must be a skeleton guard crew on duty since I only spot a couple of Imps, silent wraiths haunting the corridors below.

It took so long to get up here. How much time do I have left? Surely it won’t be long before the morning shift takes over and the entire facility’s flooded with activity—

And my absence in the holding cell is discovered.

My pace increases. I ignore the pain in my bare kneecaps as I forge on. By my calculations, what I’m really looking for should be just around the next corner. A few feet away, I reach an intersection with a vertical shaft.

This has to be it. A way to access the upper control rooms located on the catwalks overlooking our cells. Fortunately, there’s a maintenance ladder leading up, and I’m able to skirt the rungs in seconds and emerge into a horizontal shaft parallel to the one I just left.

As I start to crawl toward the nearest vent grate, I can hear the steady hum of machinery mixed with the murmur of voices. Being as careful as possible not to make any noise of my own, I inch my way toward the grating, staying as much in the shadows as I can while still being able to peer down into the control center below.

There are only two Imps that I can see, Renquist and Echoes. They’re both kicked back in their glossy black chairs, feet resting on the console, staring absently at the monitors that flicker around them and create strobing patterns on their disinterested faces.