Resistance: The Gathering Storm

die. Get used to it.”

As luck would have it Walker drew the number 131, which wasn’t very good, since it was generally assumed that at least some of the earliest escapees would be caught. That would draw attention to the rest, which would bring the entire exercise grinding to a halt and a predictably bloody end.

Still Walker couldn’t help but feel excited as he went to retrieve the tape recorder and the evidence that would surely bring the Grace administration to its knees. Then, mindful of how demanding an escape from Chimera-held territory would be, Walker went to his tent to sort through the few possessions he had and load his pockets with those that were likely to be the most important.

Once that chore was complete, the only thing he could do was lie down and wait for darkness to come. At 10:00 P.M., the first person would leave the tunnel. Walker tried to sleep, but couldn’t, and was still wide awake when the time came to crawl out of the lean-to and make his way through pitch blackness to the point where the line had already started to form. Then, having located numbers 130 and 132, all Walker could do was wait.

Harley Burl had drawn number 23.

A very low number—and one that gave him a good chance of actually clearing the hole. What happened after that would be primarily a function of luck, although those who were smart and in good physical shape would have a definite edge. And Burl, who thought he was reasonably smart, had a plan. A crazy, audacious plan that was so counterintuitive it just might work. Especially against a bunch of stinks.

So when the appointed hour finally arrived, and a chiropractor named Larthy crawled out of the tunnel onto the snow-covered ground beyond the rim, Burl was tensed up and ready to go. And as the line began to jerk forward, and giant shadows oozed across the walls, Burl felt his heart bang against his chest.

Would one of the people in front of him make a stupid mistake?

Would someone get caught within a matter of minutes, leaving him trapped in the tunnel? All he could do was hope.

Time seemed to slow as the line crept forward—each passing second bringing additional risk of discovery—as those at the head of the tunnel forced themselves to count to thirty before leaving the relative safety of their burrow. The gap was supposed to space the escapees out in hopes that the thirty-second intervals would prevent the prisoners from bumping into one another in the dark. But each pause felt like an eternity.

Finally, as fresh air began to seep down into the tunnel, Burl was only one person away from freedom. Then number 22’s bloblike body was gone, it was his turn to count, and a light speared down out of the sky a quarter-mile in the distance. One of the escapees had been spotted. There was only one thing Burl could do, and that was to run.

Walker was about halfway up the tunnel when all the people who were still inside Tunnel I had no choice but to turn around and return to the pit. What ensued was a desperate scramble in which people swore at one another, a support beam was knocked out of place, and dirt rained down from above.

There were voices of reason however, including Walker’s, as he called on the people within earshot to slow down, and to be careful lest the entire tunnel cave in on them.

But most of the support beams held, which meant that it wasn’t long before people began to leave the tunnel and exit through the four-holer set up to hide it. And as they arrived, one after another, about two dozen Hybrids were on hand to receive them.

One of the stinks gave Walker a shove, and another growled at him as he was sent to join the others. All of the prisoners were huddled under the glare produced by three Patrol Drones. They hummed menacingly as they circled the crowd. “Do you think they’ll shoot us?” a woman wondered, her teeth chattering from both fear and the cold.

“Naw,” the man next to her replied dismissively. “We should be so lucky! It’s kinda like when some of my father’s chickens would find a way out of the coop. Pa didn’t kill ?em, not right away. That came later. When Ma had a hankering for fried chicken.”

Walker wasn’t so sure about that, but eventually the chicken analogy was proven to be correct, as the stinks left the prisoners unharmed but tore all of the four-holers apart looking for more tunnels. There were two additional shafts, both located on the other side of the pit, but went undiscovered because the Chimera couldn’t generalize beyond the example in front of them. Tunnels went with shitters, and vice versa, that was the extent of their reasoning.

The escape attempt did not go entirely unpunished, however. Once all the prisoners were out of the tunnel, and explosives had been used to seal it off, Walker heard a now familiar thrumming sound as a Chimeran shuttle drifted over the pit from the north. The wind generated by its flaring repellers blew snow, flimsy shelters, and bits of trash in every direction as the ship put down next to the poisonous-looking lake. Multicolored running lights strobed the entire area as the shuttle settled onto its skids.

That was when servos whined, a ramp came down, and roughly fifty prisoners were marched down onto the ground. They were newbies, all having been captured over the last few days, and completely unaware of the drama that was playing itself out around them. That wasn’t unusual, because newbies arrived every couple of days, though usually on foot. What caught Walker’s attention was the fact that rather than be allowed to take charge of the newcomers the way she usually did, Collins was being held in check, and judging from the expression on her normally impassive face she was terrified.

Then, once all the newbies were off the shuttle, two Hybrids took hold of the collaborator’s arms and dragged her up the ramp, where they forced her to turn around and face the crowd. And there she was, still standing on the ramp, as the shuttle lifted off.

The aircraft rose to a height of approximately one hundred feet, and all eyes were still on the ship as it began to hover.

That was when the Hybrids pushed Collins off.

The schoolteacher was expecting it by then, and screamed all the way down. The noise stopped when her body landed on top of a piece of rusty mining equipment, and blood splattered the ground all around it. The stinks were sending a message—and everyone understood it. Even if they didn’t feel any sorrow.

“Rot in hell, bitch,” someone said. It wasn’t much of an epitaph—but the only one that Collins was going to get.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Remember the Alamo

Denver, Colorado

Friday, December 21, 1951

The Denver Federal Center had its own detention facility—and that was where maximum security prisoner Susan Farley had been held during the days immediately following the attempt on President Grace’s life.

The transfer area was a drab space with green walls, slit-style windows, and furniture that was bolted to the floor. Ironically enough, the only decoration in the room consisted of three pictures: one of the Federal Center’s head administrator, one of Vice President McCullen, and one of President Grace.

Before being allowed to enter the transfer center, Hale was searched, not just once, but twice. Two armed guards stood side by side with their backs to a cement wall as he waited for Susan to appear.

The chains on her wrists and ankles made a rattling sound, so he heard his sister before the steel door swung open and Susan shuffled into the brightly lit room. Her hair had been shaved off and the spot where Hale’s bullet had nicked the side of her skull was concealed by a white bandage. Had the projectile been one inch to the right, she would have been dead. Susan was dressed in gray prison garb, including a coat with a hood that hung down onto her shoulders.

“You’ve got five minutes,” the prison matron said sternly. “Don’t touch, don’t whisper, and don’t exchange physical objects without permission. The clock starts now.”