Kristen Simmons - Breaking Point

A smile cracked my lips.

He grinned reluctantly. “Glad you’re not dead.”

“Me, too.”

“Get the medic.” At Chase’s order, Sean rose and darted away.

“What happened?” I rasped.

He’d begun a full inspection, feeling my arms, forcing me to sit back, and then lifting my pant legs and cringing at the bloody bruises on my shins. He shifted to feel his way down my back. Any other time I might have laughed at the diligent expression on his face.

“Bombs,” he muttered. “I’m starting to feel unwelcome.”

Once was enough, but Chase had been here during the War, too, when the Insurgents had flattened the city.

Truck took a knee, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Someone gave us up. They bombed it from topside, sent the ceiling down near the Loop. Got fifty people, maybe more. Mags was there.”

His once carefree face filled with sorrow. The number was staggering, and somehow unreal at the same time. So many people gone, so fast. And Mags, their leader, wiped away just like Wallace.

“We have to go,” I said, suddenly aware of the still-prevalent danger.

Chase’s expression was grim. “We’re blocked. There’s an exit near the barracks that lets out near the lake. Scouts are working on clearing it now.”

No way out. I shuddered.

“But what about the others?” I said. “I was trapped under a table, who knows how many people are still alive!”

“We’ll find them,” said Truck dutifully. “It’s not like the Bureau’s going to come down here anyway when the ceiling might buckle.”

In response to his words, I looked up, noting the way the dust sprinkled down like snow. We didn’t have much time.

The medic arrived a moment later, carrying a blue canvas FBR bag over one shoulder. He looked flustered.

“Thought you were toast,” he said. He felt around the back of my head and I hissed as a new bright pain ricocheted behind my brows.

“Keep the wound clean,” he said. “Let’s see that wrist.”

I held it out, and Chase’s jaw tightened.

“Look at that!” the medic shouted, staring over my shoulder behind us. The moment I turned my head he grabbed my hand and jerked it toward him, hard.

A crack as the bones in my wrist realigned. I gasped, then blinked, feeling nauseous and a little faint again. Chase supported my back. My fingers regained movement, although they now tingled painfully.

“Well, it’s not dislocated anymore,” the medic said, then disappeared without another word.

Chase held me for a moment while my vision cleared, and the sounds from the tunnels filtered back through the ringing in my ears. Then he pulled me up, sending a challenging glare toward the creaking ceiling. Truck left to help another group digging into the collapsed side of the mess hall with Sean.

“Can you stand?” he asked, the conflict playing over his face. And when I nodded, he said, “Then let’s get these people out.”

MOSTpeople were clustered together. I moved from group to group, hastening them to carry the injured toward the exit route immediately. That way when it was cleared, we’d be ready to evacuate the city. They grabbed what provisions they could carry—weapons mostly, but uniforms, blankets, and medical supplies, too. The thick scent of mud and sewer water hung in the air, gagging me in some of the more stagnant spaces.

Some recognized me, and those that didn’t followed those that did. They believed me when I told them Truck, the carrier, would be ready to transport them to a nearby checkpoint. They believed me because they thought I was the sniper, and how could the sniper lead them astray? But my confidence was as hollow as my identity. I was deceiving them even now, when they were most frightened. I didn’t know if any of us would live through the night.

I moved toward the cave-in that blocked the mess hall from everything behind it, and raised the lantern I’d picked up off the ground. The sight before me stole my breath.

The way was blocked completely by a wall of concrete and pipe. Water sprayed from one corner. On the opposite side, several guys were struggling to put out a fire, but every time they got close, the rock base they climbed upon gave way, and they all crashed back into one another. Those that were digging nearby had to abandon the area on account of the heat.

A boy about Billy’s age was screaming. His leg was trapped beneath a hollow pipe with a greater circumference than his core. Sitting against the wall in the shadows I spotted a tall, slender man and shouted my plea for help. He stared into space, unmoving.

“Clear!” shouted someone. The call was infectious. “Clear! The exit’s clear!”

I wanted to run, follow them toward the tunnel that led to the lake, but couldn’t. Not with this boy here, staring at me through pain-glazed eyes. Trapped, as I had been.

Sean, having been close at the cave-in, came sprinting toward me. He assessed the situation with a tight grimace and bent down to help.

I planted my shoulder against the pipe, favoring my sore wrist against my chest.

“On three,” he said.

The boy began to pant. “Wait,” he begged. “Just wait…”

On three we pushed. The boy passed out, but we got the pipe off of him. His leg was bent at an awkward angle. A sharp piece of bone from his shin stuck out through his denim pants.

I covered my mouth, biting back the bile climbing my throat. Sean hoisted him over one shoulder. The boy’s head bobbled limply to the side.

When I hesitated, Sean glanced toward our exit. “We’ve got to go.”

I caught sight of Chase then, digging into the rock with his bare hands, calling out orders to those around him. Something about the desperation in his movements finally brought reality home. The MM had done this. They weren’t just skulking around prison cells taking out defenseless individuals. They were attacking on a large scale now. Like with the fire, they meant to destroy us all. Today, they’d done a pretty good job.

Get out, I heard with each thump of my heart. Get out, get out, get out.

Sean followed my gaze. “Hurry up,” he said, and took off.

I limped toward Chase, but on the way tripped over a man’s long legs, splayed out from where he sat against the tunnel wall. His arms were down loosely at his sides. His face was almost completely blackened by dirt.

“Jack?”

I touched his knee, unsure if he was dead or in a trance.

“Jack!” I shouted. He clawed at his ears, smearing the trickle of blood that veined down his neck. He couldn’t hear me.

I moved closer to his face. “Jack! It’s me, Ember. We need to go, okay? We’ve got to get out of here!”

He blinked. His mouth was moving slightly. I leaned close to hear him.

“Run,” he whispered. “We’ve been hit. Mags is down. Run.”

I touched his hand. It was ice-cold. Vaguely, I recalled someone once telling me this was a sign of shock. I rubbed his arms rapidly, hoping this would help. My swollen wrist sparked with pain. I pulled him to a stand and he sagged back against the wall.

Finally a sound interrupted his mumblings. He began to laugh. It was a highly disturbing sound given the shouts and moans of pain.

“The sniper,” he said. And then laughed again. “The sniper, from Knoxville.”

“Okay,” I said. “You’re right. It’s hilarious.”

He stopped laughing and shook his head as if to clear it. “We need to evacuate.”

“Yup,” I said, shoving him down the hallway. “I’m two steps ahead of you.”

WORDtraveled fast down the tunnel. Thirty minutes after I’d emerged from the rubble, a scout up top radioed down a sighting of soldiers on the airfield. They were combing the area looking for a safe entrance to the tunnels. The signal didn’t need much interpretation: they knew how we got in, which meant that someone had snitched, like Truck had said, or been followed. I hoped that it had not been us.