Chapter Seventeen The Purge Line
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Purge Line
The equipment-room lock opened into a corridor lit by one Tollhouse lantern.
No guard.
Rhett listened.
Voices came from the main chamber. Sabra was arguing with someone about the maintenance book.
Eden touched his sleeve and pointed to the control panel across the hall.
They moved.
Rhett's ribs hurt where the rifle stock had landed. His shoulder had become a separate, angry creature. Neither mattered yet.
Eden opened the panel.
"Fuel cell."
He took one from the pack.
"You know the voltage?"
"No."
"Excellent."
"The actuator is pre-Burn industrial. It can take abuse."
"That's not voltage."
She gave him a look that said the wasteland had already rejected precision.
Rhett stripped two wires with his teeth and connected the cell.
The panel sparked.
A red indicator glowed.
PURGE VALVE ARMED.
Eden's face sharpened.
"Second cell."
"Why?"
"Pressure accumulator may be dead."
He connected it.
The light brightened.
Footsteps came down the corridor.
A guard rounded the corner.
Rhett hit him with the empty fuel-cell case.
Not elegant.
Effective.
The guard went down.
Eden caught his rifle before it hit the floor.
"Now?"
"Now."
She slammed the purge lever.
For one second nothing happened.
Then the entire station kicked.
A deep mechanical hammer traveled through concrete.
Sabra shouted from the main chamber.
Rhett grabbed the fallen guard and dragged him clear as metal shutters dropped over the pump galleries.
A siren wailed.
Old emergency lights came alive.
Then a pipe ruptured overhead.
Not from failure.
By design.
A horizontal jet of mineral-heavy water blasted across the main chamber at waist height, hard enough to knock two Tollhouse riders from their feet.
Sabra cursed.
Eden smiled.
"Caro marked the wash."
"You could have mentioned this."
"I wasn't certain it worked."
"Your favorite lifestyle."
They ran.
Sabra appeared through the water, pale coat plastered to her body.
"EDEN!"
A shot hit the wall near Rhett's head.
Eden fired back once, not aiming to kill, forcing Sabra behind the cistern.
They reached the west service passage.
Locked grate.
Eden used Caro's key.
It stuck.
"Come on."
Rhett heard boots behind them.
"Move."
"It turns."
"Move."
She looked at him.
There was nowhere else.
Rhett took the key, braced the wrench through the bow, and pulled with his good arm.
The key bent.
The lock opened.
Eden shoved the grate.
They entered.
Rhett pulled it closed behind them.
Sabra's riders reached the passage.
A rifle barrel pushed through the bars.
Rhett slammed the wrench down on it.
The weapon dropped.
They ran into darkness.
The passage descended steeply toward an old overflow channel.
Water from the purge line chased them, ankle-deep.
Eden stopped.
"Wait."
"What?"
Her hand went to her coat.
Empty.
The survey slate was gone.
She checked again.
Then the inside pocket.
"Caro's film."
Rhett's stomach dropped.
"You had it."
"I had it before they locked us in."
Sabra.
During the confrontation.
Or a guard.
"Can you remember it?"
Eden's expression became furious.
"Yes."
"All?"
"Enough."
"Then move."
She stared at him.
"She has the route."
"Not the route you have in your head."
"She has Saint Mercy."
"And so do we."
The water rose to their shins.
Rhett pulled her forward.
They emerged through a culvert half a mile west of Pump Six.
Night covered the salt flat.
Tollhouse lanterns moved around the hidden hatch behind them.
No vehicle.
No rifle except the one Eden had taken.
No food beyond two ration bars.
Three canteens.
Two fuel cells.
Forty-seven miles to Saint Mercy Gorge.
Eden stood very still.
"We can't walk forty-seven."
"No."
"Sabra has vehicles."
"Yes."
"She has the film."
"Yes."
"You could vary your answers."
"Saving energy."
She turned on him.
"This is not funny."
"I know."
Something in his voice stopped her.
Rhett looked back at Pump Six.
"My people are running out of water. Sabra now knows where the bypass is. We can stand here and measure how bad that is, or steal something."
Eden blinked.
"What?"
"Tollhouse came with six bikes and the armored pickup."
"You want to go back."
"Around."
He pointed south.
The salt flat dropped into old drainage channels that circled the station.
"If Sabra leaves a vehicle guard—"
"Rhett."
"What?"
She was staring at him as if reassessing a structural defect.
"You're insane."
"Mechanic."
"Not a synonym."
"Close."
Eden laughed once, helplessly.
Good.
Fear became easier to move when it had somewhere else to go.
They circled.
Tollhouse preparations were efficient.
Two bikes remained at the east ridge.
The armored pickup idled near the access hatch with one guard.
Sabra's people were loading water canisters from the cistern.
Rhett's anger sharpened.
Not because they took water.
Because Sabra had threatened thirsty people with water she was now carrying away.
Eden crouched beside him.
"Guard walks to the hatch every three minutes."
"You count too?"
"I learn."
He looked at her.
She looked back.
No time to understand the warmth that moved through him.
The guard turned away.
Rhett ran.
He crossed thirty yards low and fast.
Eden followed.
At the truck, Rhett opened the passenger door instead of attacking.
Inside, keys.
Civilization had ended before people stopped making stupid decisions.
He climbed behind the wheel.
The guard turned.
Eden lifted the stolen rifle.
"Don't."
The guard froze.
She did not shoot.
"Walk."
He backed away.
Rhett started the truck.
Sabra appeared at the hatch.
Her face changed.
"Really?"
Eden climbed in.
"Invoice us."
Rhett drove.
Bullets struck the tailgate.
The armored pickup bounced across salt crust.
Eden turned in the passenger seat and fired one round above the pursuing bikes.
Not at riders.
At the slope.
The shot hit a stack of old road barriers.
Concrete blocks tumbled into the track.
One bike swerved.
The other stopped.
They reached the dark west flats.
Pump Six vanished.
Rhett grinned.
Eden looked at him.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're enjoying this."
"I just stole a Tollhouse truck."
"Child."
"Navigator."
She laughed again.
Then leaned her head back against the seat.
The adrenaline left her face.
Exhaustion followed.
Rhett looked west.
Forty-seven miles.
Sabra had Caro's film.
They had her truck.
Not equal.
Enough to continue.
For now, the road belonged to whoever reached the next turn first.