while the other reached into the sky like the arm of a dying man. The tail end was missing completely, but the hull was still largely in one piece. Its smooth, silver metal was tarnished by black burn smudges. It filled me with both awe and a kind of sad nostalgia. There was so little left from the time before.
“Strange that there’s only one,” Chase said.
I scanned the debris-covered field, but he was right. This was the only plane. If the airport had been attacked during the War surely more of them should have found their graves here.
I didn’t consider it further. At that moment we turned toward a mausoleum-like hole in one particularly large pile of rubble. Three armed guards hunkered nearby. They’d been expecting us, based on their lack of affect.
“Welcome to Chicago,” said Jack. As Sean went to move past him, Jack slapped a hard hand in the middle of his chest. “You scram and squeal, we hunt you down.” He grinned viciously.
“Good to know,” grumbled Sean.
Jack pulled back a large piece of sheet metal—the hatch on the side of a plane—and descended a ladder secured to the wall. We all followed.
It was dark,
“Guess you all aren’t too concerned about heatstroke down here.” Sean’s voice echoed off the low, dome- shaped ceiling. He was right. My skin alighted with goose bumps. It was easily fifteen degrees cooler than the surface.
“What is this place?” I asked. “The sewers or something?” I wrapped my arms around my body. The dark was like a palpable thing; everywhere the light didn’t stretch seemed to stroke my skin with its icy tendrils.
“The tunnels,” corrected Jack. He shined his lantern down a long corridor that faded to black. My foot bumped against a metal rail, and when I looked down I saw two parallel lines of steel.
“I thought the subways were blown up,” said Chase.
“They were,” said Jack. “And it must have shaken something loose, ’cause that’s how Mags found this place. The Bureau never thought to check that something might exist below the subway.”
Black cords ran overhead, breaking into a fray of dusty wires at every crack in the cement ceiling. The air was stale, and brittle, as though a fresh breeze hadn’t swept through in a hundred years.
“How old is this place?” I asked.
“Older than you and me,” said Jack.
While he and the other rifleman led the way, Truck recounted the gory details of some of Chase’s fights to anyone close enough to hear. I eavesdropped with morbid curiosity. This wasn’t something Chase liked discussing, and though I wanted the guy to shut up, I couldn’t bring myself to stop him.
What I heard sounded brutal. Broken limbs. Blood, dripping from wounds gouged by fists and teeth. Matches that weren’t called off, even when they should have been. My heart broke for the little boy within him that was afraid of haunted houses, who kept pictures of his family in a box beneath the floorboards. I was the only witness of his existence. These people only knew a fighter.
Chase walked just before me, back straight, eyes flicking from side to side. I wondered what was going through his head. He didn’t like places where he couldn’t readily access an exit.
“Those stories aren’t all true,” he said quietly to me, and then swallowed.
“Neither are mine,” I said. His shoulders lowered a full inch.
We walked what felt like a long way before we came to a raised, open area. Up atop the platform, I saw what had happened to the other planes. Luggage racks had been rigged into bunk beds and bolted to the walls. Below them on the chipped tile floor were army cots, lined up like those at the Red Cross Camp. A dozen or more people were laid out sleeping as we passed. There was at least one girl in the mix.
“Barracks,” said the third guard, who hadn’t spoken very much. A rusted tin sign on the platform wall said CHICAGO TUNNEL COMPANY. Beside it was a metal door, and the words BOILER ROOM—EXIT could barely be deciphered through the corrosion. We were heading right underneath the city. I began to feel claustrophobic. What was above us? Burned-down buildings? The base? Rebecca?
Our path widened as other tracks converged with the central line. Small hanging lanterns were rigged to the cords that ran along the ceiling, low enough that Truck could wind them up as we approached. Chase had to weave around them to avoid hitting his head.
We continued on past the latrines—airplane lavatories taken straight from the planes. They were pressed against the wall of the tunnel, but not particularly evenly. A shovel was leaning against the last open stall, and when I glanced in I saw my distorted reflection in the shadowed aluminum mirror.
I tried to picture the resistance dismantling planes, lowering piece by piece of scrap metal down to the tunnels, but the task seemed too daunting. They were
“When will we have the roster for the rehab facility?” I heard Sean ask.
“When you stop whining like a little girl,” answered Jack. Apparently association with Three didn’t buy us good manners from everyone. Sean fell into place beside Chase and me.
We walked farther. A mile, it felt like. My eyes were already adjusting to this grade of darkness. I began to see details more clearly, even without the assistance of a flashlight or the lanterns hanging from the low ceilings. There was graffiti on the walls here. One Whole Country, One Whole Family, but other signs, too. The flag and the cross—the insignia of the MM—X’d out. Swear words. The names of the deceased with the dates they died.
And three hash marks. Someone from Three had been here. I hoped they weren’t here now to call me out.
We came upon another station, which our tour guide named sick bay. Several train cars sat dormant on the tracks, crowded with towels, gauze, and medical supplies. Lanterns hung in the last compartment and a dirty-faced boy about my age sat on a large wooden stool and hugged his bleeding arm against his body. He hollered when a medic doused it with peroxide. The medic laughed. I cringed and jogged past a stack of white buckets to keep up with Chase.
The next stop on our tour—the Receiving Station, going by the faded paint on the wall—was much more open, and packed with people. Fifty at least. They sat in blue wool plane seats, using the trays from the row in front of them to hold plates of food. I could smell the warmth and the salt above the cold, dank mold and dirt of the tunnels.
Their glances turned to stares. Their conversations turned to whispers. Truck told anyone who lifted a brow my direction that I was the sniper. I reminded myself to stay aloof, but the lie had grown beyond my control, and I hated myself for ever mentioning it.
“How many people live here?” I found myself asking.
“About a hundred, give or take a few,” said Truck.
I cleared my throat against the rasp of cold air. We’d only had thirty in Knoxville, and who knew how many of those were left.
“If you keep going that way, you’ll hit the Loop,” said Truck. “That’s where the briefing is. Make sure you leave early, it’s a hike.”
We climbed out of the trench, and a full kitchen was revealed. A cafeteria-style counter, made of welded pieces of plane hull, ran along the length of the far wall. Behind it were a steadily humming generator and three mismatched refrigerators. Five workers, one of them a thick girl with cropped hair, were serving tubs of Horizons instant mashed potatoes and cooking burger patties—real meat—over a grill atop a flaming metal trash can. The smoke was wafted down the tunnels by some unperceivable current.
I thought of how much cereal and canned corn we’d eaten at the Wayland Inn. Food we’d stolen from the MM. These people had someone working inside at Horizons, that much was obvious.
Truck was kind enough to get us some food and damp rags with which to clean ourselves before leading us behind the mess hall. Despite my anxiety I was beginning to see double again. I thought if I closed my eyes, I could be asleep in seconds.
The farther we moved away from the tracks, the more debris cluttered the area, and the stronger the scent
