Behind her Astoria pushed over a begging woman, while Dirk mumbled an apology.
They passed another floating sign: It’s Your Civic Duty.
An old man grabbed Astoria by the shoulder. She whirled on him, knocking him down with a fist to the head. H124 rushed over and helped him up. “You didn’t have to do that!” she shouted at Astoria.
Astoria narrowed her eyes. “These people don’t have to live like this. They choose to.” She regarded the old man with contempt. He clung to H124, asking her if she had any water.
“I don’t. I’m sorry.” The old man shambled off.
“They could leave if they wanted to,” Astoria grumbled. “Fucking sheep. It may be hell here, but it’s what they’ve grown up in, and they’re too afraid to leave. The hell is familiar, and that’s all they care about.”
Frowning, H124 pushed past her and caught up with Byron, who was halfway down the block. It was then she saw the PPC tower, looming so high she had to crane her neck to see the top. She’d never seen a building so tall. He’d picked a good place for them to enter the city. They were close to the communications tower.
She glanced around as she pushed through the teeming elbows, hands, and pleading faces.
Byron gazed up at the tower. “Reaching it will be comparatively easy.”
“To what?”
“Getting inside.” She remembered pounding on the glass of the PPC building in her home city. In New Atlantic, a person on the street was a novelty. The guard had been shocked and let her in. But in this place—she studied the swarming masses—there would be no way a guard would just let them in. “And that’s where I come in?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Any ideas?”
“I’ve got a plan.” He put out his hands, parting his way through the crowd. She got in behind him again. Glancing down the alleys as they passed, she asked, “Do Repurposers wander around?”
“Not out here. Too dangerous. They’d get torn apart.”
A large group of curious bystanders was now following them. Then came a voice, twisted and desperate: “Look! Badlanders! We can exchange them for food!”
A murmur swept through the crowd, and H124 felt a flash of fear. The crowd pressed closer, and someone grabbed her arm. She flung them off.
“Just keep moving,” Byron urged softly.
The murmur grew louder, then someone started shouting.
“Where do you think you’re going?” shrieked a woman.
“Stop! Get them!” cried another.
All around people started to stand, advancing on them.
“Stop them!” someone shouted. “Alive or dead, they’re worth tons of food!”
The crowd ahead seethed forward, their mad faces filling H124’s view. One pushed through the group. His clothes hung in dirty rags around his scrawny shoulders. “You have food?”
“No,” she said. “I gave it all away.”
He gritted his teeth, and his eyes flashed with rage. “To who? I’ll kill the son of bitch. WHO HAS FOOD?” He pushed past her, wading into the mounting crowd behind her.
“Who cares who has that scrap of food?” called out a barely clad old woman. “If we bring them in, the PPC will give us enough for two days!” Then a fight erupted, the man in rags punching in every direction, knocking others to the asphalt.
Byron gripped H124’s arm. “We have to get out of here.”
But already the crowd ahead had closed ranks. A rabbling mob encircled them. H124 felt someone seize her hair, as hands pulled at her garments. Shrugging them off, she clutched her bag to her side as someone tried to rip it off her shoulder. There was no way she was going to let it out of her possession again.
“Get off!” she yelled, tugging it free.
“She’s got food in there!” a woman screeched.
“I don’t!” H124 insisted. “Get away!”
Byron grabbed her again, but she didn’t need the cue. She was already darting through the crowd next to Astoria, who violently shoved anyone who stood in their way. Someone hit H124 in the back of her head, and another tripped her. She staggered back to her feet, feeling the weight of dozens trying to rip at her and pull her down again.
She threw punches and kicks, but the desperate sea kept rising. She elbowed someone in the ribs but realized it was futile. Greedy hands grabbed her ankles and arms as she thrashed helplessly.
A burly man grabbed her by the throat. She felt the life oozing out of her. Then a fist collided with his face, shattering his cheekbone.
Byron took her hand. “Run!”
“I’m trying!” she shouted, twisting free. She gave a final kick to her last assailant, and sprinted onward. She was free. Nothing could stop her now. She thought of the broadcast. Of the asteroid.
Chapter 20
Byron pulled her down an alley through a break in the crowd and descended a long staircase below street level, Astoria and Dirk racing behind. The throng tried to follow them, but they were so emaciated and exhausted that they quickly gave up.
Byron ran down, farther and farther, the others in tow, until even the orange glow from the floating lights barely penetrated the dark stairwell.
H124 clicked on her headlamp. “What is this?”
“There’s an entrance to the tunnels down here. Delta was built on top of an older city, which was built on one older yet. No one uses these tunnels anymore. They sealed them up long ago.”
Astoria caught up. “Fortunately we’ve opened one of the entrances, and put our own lock on it.”
H124 jogged down the steps. “Where do they lead?”
“Straight to the underbelly of the PPC tower.”
They caught their breath at the bottom of the stairs. Byron stopped in front of an antiquated door. He pulled out his PRD and entered a code. The lock clicked open. H124 could see where they’d cut through ancient welds around a rusted doorframe. It was the oldest-looking door she’d ever seen, more rust than door. Like some of the old doors in New Atlantic, it too had a manual handle. As Byron turned it, a musty smell blossomed out. Dirk
