The Prey (15 page)

I heard her open her mouth, but she hesitated before speaking. “Thanks for . . .” She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.

“Don't mention it,” I said.

More silence. We were serenaded by a steady
drip
of water.

“Is anyone digging?” she asked.

“Not that I can hear.”

“Do you think they've given up?”

“I don't know. You know them better than I do.”

She didn't respond. “I'm so thirsty,” she finally said.

I was too. It wasn't just the lack of water, but all the dirt in the air. Every breath tasted of grit and sand.

I placed a hand on the ceiling, slapping at the dirt.

“What're you doing?” she asked.

“Feeling for dampness. If I can locate that drip . . .”

My fingers flayed against the walls and ceiling until they fell on a root as thick as a rope. I gave it a tug and the dripping increased. I yanked again and even more water came down: a steady trickle off a ceiling panel. It was like I'd found a faucet.

“Here,” I said.

In pure darkness, I reached for Hope and brought her forward, positioning her face beneath the mini-waterfall. She drank and drank, and when she'd had enough, her fingers gripped my arm.

“Your turn,” she said.

I leaned forward and the water splashed against my nose and chin and eventually I got my mouth under it. It was gritty and bitter and thick with sludge . . . but water never tasted better. I drank until my stomach bulged.

“So what do we do?” Hope asked.

I shrugged. “Keep digging.”

“Is there enough air?”

“I'm more worried about the drool.”

She slapped me again, and this time I was the one
who smiled, but her question was real. And I honestly didn't know the answer.

I found our knives. “Put out your hand,” I said.

She did, and I placed the tool in her palm. Even though we were cold and shaking and covered in dirt, I still felt a spark of something between us as our fingers touched. Skin against skin. I wondered if Hope felt it too. We pulled our hands away and began chipping at the earth.

We dug and dug, stopping only to catch our breath or get a drink of water. Although I had the urge to talk to her, to find out all about her, it felt suddenly strange. Awkward, even. Like my holding her had created an odd kind of tension between us.

We worked in silence.

Still, whenever our arms accidentally rubbed against each other, I felt a tingling shock. If our lives hadn't been at stake, I could've stayed there for eternity: alone with Hope, in the dark, as we worked as one.

She suddenly stopped.

“What's this?” she asked.

“What's what?”

“The floor.”

I didn't know what she was talking about so I went to pat the ground. It wasn't the sound of hard-packed earth; it was splashing. It was all mud and slime . . . and a good two inches of water.

“What's going on?” I said aloud.

But I knew the answer as soon as I asked the question. A steady stream of rainwater was flowing into the tunnel. It was no longer a single drip but a dozen drips. A
hundred
.

And it wasn't the lack of oxygen that was going to kill us; it was drowning.

We attacked the mound with a sudden urgency, striking it with the dull knives and flinging the dirt behind us. Blisters on my palm erupted until the knife handle was slick with blood. Our breathing was fast and heavy.

In no time the water reached our waists, turning our world into a pit of mud. My muscles began to tighten, cramp, spasm. I wondered if Hope was feeling the same. Was it my imagination or were we slowing down? Giving up? I needed to do something to revive us.

“Tell me about yourself,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Tell me about yourself. I want to hear everything.”

“Now?”

“Of course now. What else are we doing?” There was more to it, of course. If this was it for us—our final living moments—I wanted to know who she was, who would go with me to the grave. And I had to distract us. “Like where'd you learn to sing?”

“My mom. She taught us hymns.”

“And your dad?”

“A scientist. He did the hunting, chopped the wood, that kind of thing.”

“Favorite memory?”

“Huh?”

“What was your favorite memory?”

“Are you sure you really—”

“Just tell me.”

We continued to fling thick shards of earth away from the cave-in. The more focus I put on Hope, the less I thought about my bloody hands and the rising water and the stifling air.

“Autumn evenings,” she said, panting, her sentences choppy from exertion. “Sitting around the fire. My mom playing piano. Dad telling stories. Faith playing with her dolls.” She stopped talking.

“What?” I asked. She didn't respond. “What is it?” I asked again.

“Then the soldiers came,” she whispered.

Her tone changed, and it was suddenly dark, sinister, joyless.

And she began digging harder. It was like whatever shift happened in her head caused her to find some extra reserve of strength. She thrust at the earthen mound with a newfound energy. As if the dirt itself was memory and her knife some magic force that would make it go away.

The water was chest level now, nearly to our necks.
It was all we could do to keep digging.
To keep breathing.
We both inched up toward the ceiling—to the last pockets of air.

Our breaths were rapid and shallow, in unison.

“Tell me about the soldiers,” I said.

Her digging increased. Once more she was attacking the cave-in with a kind of ferociousness: slicing, slapping, tearing at the dirt and mud, ripping away large rocks.

And was that a shard of light poking through the top of the mound?

“Tell me about the soldiers,” I said, more forcefully than before. The water was rising and our faces were angled upward and if we didn't do this now—at this very moment—there would be no second chance.

Hope clawed at the barrier with a sudden intensity, like some out-of-control beast, even as she shouted
“No”
over and over.

Suddenly there was a thrashing on the water's surface. Four hands, haloed by light, emerged from a narrow opening at the very top of the cave-in mound.

“Come on!” a voice cried out.

We blinked, adjusting to the sudden illumination, and for the longest time we just stared at the outstretched fingers, trying to make sense of them.

“Grab our hands!” the voice cried again.

Dumbly, as if commanded by some otherworldly
presence, we raised our arms and grabbed the hands, fingers interlocking, only to be pulled forward by Scylla and Athena, yanked through to the other side of the tunnel—a side with flickering candlelight, where the water was only a foot or so deep.

“Let's get out of here!” Athena shouted, and we all rushed to the tunnel ladder as water began pouring in behind us.

“Y
OU WANT TO DO
what
?” Faith asks.

“Switch jobs,” Hope says. “Just for tonight.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

The answer's simple. By taking her sister's place on the cleaning crew, Hope can get access to Thorason's office in the Administration Building. But the less Faith knows about all this, the better.

“Is it because of him?” Faith asks. She points to Book, who stands alone in the corner.

Hope's eyes dart in his direction. Since they escaped the cave-in they've yet to really speak to each other. The things they said—the way they touched—felt natural. Felt
right
. But now, in the light of day, she's not so sure.

The only thing they've agreed on is the need to find
out what Gallingham and Thorason were talking about. And Hope has to know one last thing: how her father fits into all of this.

“I hurt my shoulder in the cave-in,” Hope lies. “I need a break from the barn.”

“But I can't take over for you there,” Faith says.

“You don't have to. I got Scylla to cover.”

“So why are you—”

“I thought you could use a night off.”

Hope can tell Faith likes the idea. She's growing weaker by the day, dark circles paint the undersides of her eyes, and even though Hope is smuggling much of her own food to her sister, it seems to be doing little good.

“What if the guards realize you're not me?” Faith asks.

“They're not going to. I'll walk like you, talk like you, I'll even wear Mom's pink shawl. They'll never know the difference. And look.”

She rolls up her sleeve. Their tattoos are only one number off—738 for Faith, 739 for Hope—and Hope has taken a bit of coal and altered her 9 to an 8.

“Are you sure?” Faith asks.

“Positive. And wouldn't you rather rest than work?”

So that night Hope joins the three other cleaning girls trudging across the parade ground.

The Admin Building is short and squat and made
of cinder block, and there is nothing about its frumpy appearance that suggests it houses the offices of the camp leaders. But it's where Hope is convinced she'll find out what Thorason is up to . . . and her father's connection to Dr. Gallingham.

Two guards stand waiting at the entrance. The first Sister in line is a girl named Iris with spiky black hair. She tugs up her sleeve and flashes her tattoo. The lummox of a guard—no older than nineteen who reeks of BO—glances at the number and makes a checkmark on his clipboard. Iris passes. The second girl steps forward; the guard glances, checks, and nods. Hope's heart is pounding as she moves up in line. To hide her trembling fingers, she clutches the sleeve's edge with a tight fist.

The guard takes in her number, staring at it longer than he did the others. Hope's heart rises in her throat, and when the guard's gaze drifts up to her face, she drops her eyes. A moment later she hears the pencil scratch of a checkmark and she passes by, cold sweat bathing the back of her neck. The guards shut the door behind them. No turning back now.

Iris goes to the supply closet and brings out cleaning supplies. Hope pretends to accept the materials with weary resignation.

But the fact is, Hope has never been inside this building before. So while she tries to give the impression
she's done this a thousand times, her eyes probe the narrow hallways, attempting to figure out which one is Colonel Thorason's office.

A kick to her shin sends an excruciating pain up her leg.

“Pay attention,” a guard snaps. He is tall with a jutting chin—the same guard who tattooed her number on her arm.

Hope realizes Iris is holding out a bucket, waiting for Hope to take it. Red-faced, Hope grabs the bucket and moves to the side.

Concentrate,
she tells herself.
Pay attention.

The girls begin marching off to their stations, but when Hope turns to go, a voice stops her.

“Not so fast,” Jutting Chin says. He strolls closer, boots clicking on linoleum. “Aren't you forgetting something?”

Hope's mind scrambles.

“You planning on using water or don't you believe in it?”

The guard laughs and Lummox joins in.

“Right,” Hope mutters under her breath and shuffles back to the supply closet, placing the bucket under the spigot.

“Not the sharpest knife in the drawer,” Jutting Chin says, guffawing.

“All foam, no beer,” Lummox replies. Both guards
are having a laugh fest.

Hope says nothing. She turns off the faucet and carries the sloshing bucket. She can't get away fast enough.

From what she's been told, Thorason's office is down this first hallway. Once she gets away from these two goons she can slip inside.

“One more thing,” the guard calls out. “The overseer's office is off-limits tonight. Don't bother to clean it.”

Hope's heart sinks. She has managed to gain entry into the camp headquarters only to be told there's no access to the very place she wants to see.

She tries to hide her despair, even as she passes a nameplate on a door that identifies the overseer's office. She doesn't stop until she reaches the end of the hallway, where she makes a show of mopping. The guards are still in sight, but they've ceased to watch her. A game of cards has stolen their attention.

She leans the mop against the corner and flicks out a dust rag. Stepping into the open office bordering Thorason's—someone named Major Hart—she lights a lantern, aware of the rectangle of light that lands in the hallway.

Returning to the bucket in the hallway, she noisily dips the rag in the water, wrings it out, and reenters Major Hart's office.

After her fourth visit to the bucket, she approaches
Colonel Thorason's office instead, placing her sweaty palm on the brass doorknob. To her relief, it's not locked. She quickly steps inside, pressing the door shut behind her.

Hope waits for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. A shaft of moonlight creeps past the window's blinds, tinting the floor a blackish blue. She goes to the window and slides it open. Book pops his head up from outside.

“Good?” he asks.

“Hurry,” she says.

He slides into the room and she pulls the blinds shut. It's just the two of them in the dark room. Hope remembers the tunnel—how Book held her. Even as her body tingles with the memory, she tries to shake it away. Now is not the time.

On a far table stands a half-melted candle in a pewter candlestick. A box of matches rests nearby. Book picks out a match and prepares to strike it. Hope stops him at the last moment.

“Wait,” she whispers, and points to the door.

Its bottom edge is a good inch above the floor. If they light the candle, yellow light will seep beneath the crack: a dead giveaway someone's inside.

“So what do we do?” he asks.

She shrugs, pulling the shawl tight around her shoulders.