Chapter 9 #2
“Hello little bug,” he said. His smile seemed more amused than sinister. “Do you know spying on others isn’t playing nice?”
“Get off me.”
“Not until you explain what you were doing up there.”
“I was installing air filters so we can all breathe clean air. Let me go.”
His round face was close to mine. He had light brown eyes with tiny flecks of yellow, a mustache, and short brown hair.
Another man’s head and shoulders appeared beside the bunk.
He gripped the safety rail, probably standing on the bed below us.
“Hey, Sloan, Wera said you wanted—” The scrub noticed me.
“Help me,” I said.
“Uh…what’s going on?” His voice almost squeaked.
“I caught me a blue-eyed bug,” Sloan said. “She claims she was installing air filters and is even wearing an air scrub uniform. Can you check the duct for me?”
“Uh…sure.” He climbed up to the vent and poked his head in. “It’s too dark to see.”
I huffed in frustration. “There’s a flashlight in my tool belt.”
Sloan shifted back so his friend could reach it. Now his weight rested on my upper thighs and wrists.
“There’s a filter…don’t know if it’s new or not.” His voice echoed slightly.
“What color is it?” I asked.
“White.”
I met Sloan’s gaze. “It’s new, otherwise it’d be gray.”
“Then why did you stop over my vent when I started talking about bribing the Mop Cops?”
“I had to fix my tool belt, it slipped. You heard it bang.”
He studied me and I kept my innocent expression.
“Hey! Look what I found.” The friend held the listening device I had planted above the vent. Damn! I had hoped he wouldn’t look directly up. He rolled it around his palm. “I think it’s a mic.”
“Care to change your story?” Sloan asked.
“I didn’t plant that. Someone else must have.”
But Sloan didn’t believe me and recognition flashed in his eyes. “You’re that scrub. And as I recall, your little group of uppers used those mics to listen to the Pop Cops.”
“So? it’s probably left over from before. Let me go or I’ll scream for help.”
“Go ahead and yell, no one in here will care. Cain check her belt for more of those devices.”
A cold and clammy fear spread through my muscles as Cain fumbled through my tools. He found the bag with the remaining few mics.
Sloan’s grip tightened as anger shone on his face. “Traitor.” He let go of my left wrist and slapped me across the cheek.
Pain exploded as my head whipped to the side. Tears welled. Sloan shifted off my legs. And before I could react, he shoved me with his feet. I slammed into the rail opposite of Cain. With another push from him, I went up and over, falling off the bunk.
The landing knocked the breath from me. I curled into a ball and gasped for air. My shoulder hurt. Sloan’s loud voice carried over the general din, informing everyone in the barracks about me.
No time to recover. Legs surrounded me on both sides and I suffered two hard kicks to my back.
When one clipped my head, I feared for my life.
I rolled under the bunk. Too narrow to provide any protection, I kept rolling, hoping to outdistance the scrubs chasing me.
Bunk, walkway, bunk, walkway, bunk, walkway.
Yells followed me. The floor vibrated with the rush of so many feet. As I drew closer to my goal—the far east wall, I noticed a line of scrubs waiting along that last walkway. Damn. I couldn’t stop and I couldn’t change my trajectory. Or could I?
Taking the biggest risk of my life, I paused under a bunk. The scrubs chasing me climbed over and through the bunk without checking underneath. I knew there would be stragglers, but I couldn’t wait too long. Changing direction, I rolled the opposite way toward the west wall. Yells erupted.
But after I reached an empty walkway, I jumped to my feet and ran toward the south wall. It didn’t take long for them to catch on, but I had a bit of a head start. I poured every bit of energy into my short legs. Feet pounded behind me. I yanked a screwdriver from my belt.
No heating vent was in sight so when I reached the wall, I dove under a bunk and rolled again until I found one. I popped the cover off and scrambled inside. A hand grabbed my ankle, tugging me back. I stabbed the screwdriver into the hand. It released me as its owner swore loudly.
The heating vent would not provide a safe haven yet. I slid, squirmed, pushed and pulled. Voices shouted and echoed. Once I was certain I’d escaped, I stopped. I had reached the connector shaft that led into waste handling in Sector H1.
Sweat-drenched and huffing for breath, I lay there.
As my heart slowed and my muscles quit trembling, my other injuries demanded attention.
My shoulder, wrists and hip ached. Sharp pain stabbed my back anytime I breathed in too deep.
Overall I felt like I’d been shoved through a pipe too small for me.
However, every stab of pain reminded me of my luck in getting out of there alive.
I didn’t blame Sloan and the others for being angry.
But I wondered if he had said those things about attacking the Committee because he heard me in the duct or if he had meant them.
If I hadn’t gotten away, would they have killed me?
I rubbed my cheek. It still burned from the slap.
Sloan had called me a traitor and by the fury in his gaze, I guessed that yes, they would have easily vented their anger on me.
Eventually, I continued into waste handling and exited the shaft at the first opening. I had no energy left to travel through the ducts. Leaning on the wall, I scanned the plant for scrubs from Sector F1. No one appeared to be searching for me. The regular plant workers milled about the equipment.
Emek spotted me, smiled and approached. “Haven’t seen you down here in a long time. Did you come to check up on me?”
“Yes. I’m making sure you’re fully recovered from the surgery.”
He inspected my appearance. “How nice.” Yet his tone implied he didn’t believe me. “Rough trip?”
“Yep. Installing air filters is hard work, I better get back.” I pushed off, but just then Rat raced into the plant like he’d been chased by an angry mob. Or it just could be my imagination.
“Emek! The scrubs in…” Rat slid to a halt when he spotted me talking to Emek. Two bright red splotches stained his cheeks and his short brown hair stuck up as if he had ran his fingers through it.
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Emek said.
“The scrubs in Sector F1 are rioting. They’re fighting with the ISF officers, claiming the Mop Cops are spying on them.”
Emek pierced me with his scowl. “Did you know about this?”
I suddenly wished to hide under the covers of my bed. “The riot? No.”
Rat’s gaze jumped from Emek to me and back. “I heard Trella’s name.”
Emek groaned. “Do the ISF officers need help?”
“Yes.”
“Go get the rest of the crew, Rat. They’re cleaning out the secondary sludge tanks.” He hooked a thumb, pointing toward another room. Rat dashed off.
“Do you need an escort back to level three?” he asked.
“No thanks. I’m fine.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Are you sure? You look—”
“I’m sure.”
Rat returned with a dozen people on his heels. They sprinted out the door. Emek’s gaze followed them.
“Go help the ISF officers,” I said.
“No one’s in the plant right now so you can use the small washroom in my office before you go.”
“Thanks.” I shooed him away.
Tucked into the northeast corner of the plant, Emek’s neat office seemed very organized.
When I considered the raw sewage that flowed into the plant, it made sense for him to have his own washroom.
It always amazed me how the machinery and bacteria transformed crap into fertilizer and cleaned our water.
Plus the process produced a special gas that was pumped into the power plant to be used as fuel.
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror.
Dirt smudged my face. Clumps of dust clung to my hair.
My bottom lip was swollen and bloody. And a bright red handprint covered my left cheek.
I cleaned up as best as I could, braiding my hair.
In my haste to escape I hadn’t noticed how dirty the barrack’s floors were.
Dirt and rust harmed our world. They weren’t as bad as sabotage, but they could do plenty of damage.
I left Emek’s office. The hum and whoosh of the machinery sounded louder without the workers.
I debated between the risk of walking the hallways or the effort needed to climb into the air shaft.
Scanning the ceiling for an accessible vent, I spotted one over the digester, which had a ladder up its side. Perfect.
Half way up the ladder a clang sliced through the mechanical drone. I hoped it meant the riot had been quelled. Leaning to the side, I peered around the digester. One man, wearing an off-duty green jumpsuit crouched next to the gas collector. No one else had returned.
I waited a few seconds to see if the others would arrive. The man kept glancing over his shoulder. Then he pushed something under the collector, straightened and hurried off.
Odd. Did he come back from the riot just to fix the machine? About to shrug it off, I paused, remembering all of Emek’s people wore dark blue coveralls.
Sliding down the ladder, I rushed over to where the man had been.
Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but I wouldn’t know.
I unhooked my tool belt before wiggling under the collector.
Yet another unique view of my world. At least the space was cleaner than under the beds in the barracks. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I peered up. Hoses, wires, pipes and a strange device wedged between the pipes.
The device had a short fat pipe about twenty centimeters in diameter that was sealed on both ends.
On top of the pipe were two glass containers of liquid.
Between the containers was a metal box with a digital display.
Each time the four numbers flashed they were one less.
Understanding hit me as hard as Sloan. I’d found a bomb.