Chapter 14 #2
The tunnel was carved from rock, the walls rough and uneven. I kept one hand on the wall to keep from stumbling, following the sound of Roone's breathing ahead of me.
We walked for what felt like hours. Down. Down. Down into the earth, the air growing colder and damper with each step. The tunnel branched multiple times, but Roone never hesitated, navigating by some internal map I couldn't fathom.
"How do you know where we're going?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"These tunnels connect to the old mining operations," he said. "Before Palaydium became a prison, they mined rare minerals here. The tunnels go everywhere—under the city, under the wasteland, all the way to the mountains if you know the right paths."
"And you know the right paths?"
"I've had fifteen years to explore."
Finally—finally—the tunnel began to slope upward. Fresh air filtered down from somewhere above, carrying the scent of dust and stone.
We emerged into the wasteland.
After the vents and the tunnels, this vast emptiness should have felt like relief.
Instead, it terrified me.
The desert stretched to the horizon in every direction.
Flat. Featureless. Nothing but packed dirt and scattered rocks and the occasional skeletal remains of some long-dead machine rusting into the ground.
No lights. No buildings. No cover. Just endless, exposed nothingness beneath a sky so vast it made me feel like an insect crawling across the surface of a dead world.
The cold air bit at my skin, sharp and clean after the stale recycled atmosphere of the city. I could taste it—mineral and dust and something ancient, like the bones of the planet itself. The wind whispered across the wasteland, carrying no sound but its own lonely voice.
"Not far now," Roone said quietly, his voice almost swallowed by the wind.
The darkness seemed to go on forever. My legs ached. My lungs burned from the cold air. My whole body trembled with exhaustion and fear and a bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with temperature.
And then, finally, I saw it.
A shape in the darkness. Small. Angular. Barely visible against the black horizon.
My heart stuttered in my chest.
A shack.
We crossed the remaining distance, and as we got closer, I could make out more details.
It was small—barely more than four walls and a roof—constructed from salvaged metal sheets and weathered planks of wood that had been scavenged from who knows where.
The pieces didn't quite fit together perfectly, leaving thin gaps where the wind could whistle through.
A single window, dark and empty, its glass long since shattered or stolen.
A door that hung slightly crooked on its hinges, the bottom corner scraping against the packed dirt whenever it moved.
It looked fragile. Temporary. Like a strong wind could blow it apart.
"Ahrick's place," Roone said, his voice low as he glanced around the surrounding area, checking for threats I couldn't see. "He built it years ago, back when he first came to this sector. Piece by piece. Carried every scrap of metal and wood out here himself."
He paused, his dark eyes distant, like he was remembering something.
"He doesn't like the city," Roone continued quietly. "Says it makes him feel trapped. Caged. Like he can't breathe with all those walls pressing in. Out here..." He gestured to the vast emptiness surrounding us. "Out here, he can breathe."
My throat tightened.
I understood that. God, I understood that more than I wanted to admit. Most of my adult life had been spent in cities, with first college and then work. But my Grandpa's ranch, under the clear Texas sky was the one place I felt truly at home. Free.
Roone pushed open the door with one clawed hand. The hinges groaned in protest—a low, rusty sound that seemed too loud in the silence.
The smell hit me first. Not unpleasant, but distinct. Dust and metal and something earthy, like dried grass or old wood. Underneath it, faint but unmistakable, was the scent of him. That warm, clean smell I'd come to associate with safety. With protection. With Ahrick.
The space was small. Smaller than I'd expected. The walls seemed to press in from all sides, and for a moment—just a moment—the claustrophobia from the vents surged back.
But this was different.
This wasn't a trap. Wasn't a prison. This was a refuge. A sanctuary. A place Ahrick had built with his own hands so he could escape the suffocation of the city and breathe.
I forced myself to take a slow breath. Then another. The panic eased, replaced by something else. Something warmer.
It was sparse. Utilitarian. A cot in one corner, its thin mattress covered with a faded gray blanket.
A small table, rough-hewn and uneven, its surface scarred with knife and burn marks.
A few supplies stacked against the wall in neat rows—water containers made of dented metal, sealed ration packs with faded labels, a thick woolen blanket folded precisely into a square.
But it was clean. Organized. Safe.
A cold thought struck me. "Does Persico know about this place?"
Roone glanced at me, his expression unreadable.
"Many know Ahrick lives in the wastelands," he said carefully.
"It's no secret he keeps to himself, that he has places beyond the city walls.
" He paused, then added with quiet emphasis, "But only a select few know this location. Persico isn't one of them."