Thirty-Five #2
Nadiya cried out; so did Julian. Unbalanced, Giselle stumbled so hard against the wall that it knocked the breath from her, though she managed to keep her grip on Nadiya’s hand.
After several interminable, nauseating moments of descent, the elevator shuddered to a halt.
The grinding noise stopped. Giselle gulped down air, her throat tight as a vise.
The doors to the elevator opened.
A long corridor stretched out before them, illuminated by guttering fluorescent lights. Another tunnel, not unlike the one
beneath the statue, only this one looked in disrepair: Water trickled from the ceiling and onto the gritty, concrete floor,
and cut wires littered the ground, humming like flies.
“So this is it,” Nadiya whispered.
Crispin stepped out of the elevator. “You’re close now.”
“Well.” Julian coughed. He was still holding Klaudia’s hand. “I suppose there’s nowhere left to go but . . . forward.”
Klaudia dropped Julian’s hand, and Giselle wondered if she was imagining the slight look of disappointment on his face. “Let’s
be careful,” Klaudia said. “I’m sure Deckard still has plenty of tricks left.”
“I’ll go first,” said Nadiya, and this time it was Giselle who felt bereft as Nadiya’s fingers slid from hers. “Stay behind
me.”
The five of them set out through the tunnel. Giselle tried to stay as close to Nadiya as she could. Her gaze kept darting
around, from one wall to the other, searching for any clue Deckard might have left for them. But there was nothing—no numbers
or letters stamped onto the wall. In fact, as they walked, the metal itself seemed to be eroding, vanishing beneath the cold,
packed dirt.
After several minutes of walking, they came to a heavy steel door. It looked like a bank vault. Klaudia stepped forward to
examine it, frowning.
“This seems like the locking mechanism,” she said. “But it’s . . .”
“Strange,” Nadiya finished.
Julian turned toward Giselle. “Why don’t you take a look?”
Her brow wrinkled. “Me?”
He nodded.
Still uncertain, Giselle stepped forward. Instead of a traditional lock, or the biometric scanner from earlier, there was an analog panel with sixteen tiles. Each tile had an intricate pattern of curling, weaving lines. It seemed as though the tiles could be moved, slid around within the panel.
“Well?” Klaudia asked. “Does this mean anything to you?”
Giselle closed her eyes briefly. Yes, the pattern of the lines was familiar. She concentrated hard, and the memory revealed
itself, a perfect likeness.
“The vines,” she said, opening her eyes. “On the trellis.”
She stepped forward and began to slide the tiles into place. It took only a matter of seconds. As soon as they were arranged,
there was a loud creaking sound that shook dirt from the ceiling, and the vault door ground open.
“Incredible,” Julian murmured.
Giselle flushed. The tunnel before them was narrower and darker, the fluorescent lights few and far between, the walls pressing
in close. There seemed a novel sense of perilousness. Nadiya drew her pistol.
As they walked in silence, moisture gathered on Giselle’s skin, cool droplets like morning dew. A month ago, she was being
draped in a Miss Teen sash, mascara from her false lashes making her eyes sting. With every moment, it all seemed more and
more surreal. What was she doing here? She didn’t have what the others did, be it their competence or their family names.
And yet—she had solved puzzle after puzzle. Maybe they did need her, after all. Maybe she did belong.
“Stop right there!”
The voice rang out from ahead, echoing through the corridor. The five of them froze. Footsteps thudded as black-clad men suddenly
swarmed the tunnel. They dropped down seemingly out of nowhere, like spiders from their webs.
There were six, masked and Kevlar-padded; they looked like the men who had taken Nadiya and Julian from the lodge.
They trained their guns on the five of them, red lasers darting and flickering in the dark.
Only Nadiya had taken out her pistol, but she was still frozen in place, and Giselle could feel the race of her pulse.
“Put your hands up!” one of the men shouted. Giselle barely registered the fact that it was English—English?
“Shit.” It was Julian’s voice, a whisper. “I mean . . . they’re just holograms, right? They can’t really hurt us?”
He turned to Crispin, but Crispin’s face had gone pale and blank.
“Hands up!”
Giselle was too gripped with fear to move. Even Klaudia looked lost. And then, without warning, something flew past their
heads. The five of them ducked, huddling to the ground, pressed together in a single, silently panicking mass. There was a
thud as something embedded itself into the wall behind them.
Slowly, Giselle turned to see a small hole in the metal.
“Nadiya,” Julian said, between breaths, “was that a real fucking bullet?”
Nadiya’s eyes were shiny. “I think so.”
“Oh, fuck you!” Julian’s voice rose to a shout. He pounded his fist once against the wall. “I know you’re listening, Deckard, you rat fuck—”
“Stop!” Klaudia said sharply. “We have to go; we have to run—”
Run where? Giselle thought in despair. But Nadiya was already hauling her to her feet.
They bolted—more like crashed—through the tunnel the way they’d came. Bullets cracked the air overhead. Real bullets—real
agents. Deckard had lied to them. Giselle’s vision blurred; her heart was lodged in her throat.
The door materialized before them, cold and shining steel. Closed. Locked. Deckard had shut it behind them.
Giselle all but collapsed against it. Klaudia, Julian, and Crispin all pressed their backs flat against the door, still and wild-eyed.
But Nadiya—Nadiya slipped her hand from Giselle’s and stepped out in front of them, arm raised.
Her pistol was held aloft, aimed. Her fingers shook as her thumb brushed the trigger. As the men lurched toward them.
No. The word burned, unspoken, on Giselle’s tongue. There were six men, too many for Nadiya to shoot. If she could even bring
herself to do it. These men were real, not holograms, and if Nadiya could aim her bullet in the gaps between their Kevlar padding—which Giselle was very much certain
she was capable of—then it would make her a murderer.
Nadiya had to know that, too. That had to be why she hesitated.
But Giselle didn’t hesitate. She pushed past Nadiya, standing between her and Deckard’s men. Her mind was a jumble. All she
wanted was for the men to vanish, for no one to kill and no one to die. She just wanted Nadiya to be safe.
Her eyes squeezed shut. The world behind them exploded with color. A half scream, half sob ripped from her throat.
When she opened her eyes again, there was only silence. The tunnel before them was empty. The men were gone.
The first sound came from Nadiya, a choked gasp.
“Did you—did you do that?”
“No!” Giselle blurted. “I don’t . . . no, I . . .”
“It’s not possible.” Klaudia stepped away from the door. Her voice was trembling. “They were real. They can’t have just . . .”
Julian’s voice quavered, too. “Is Deckard just messing with our heads?”