Tunnels and Planes: An Urban Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (The Night Blind Saga Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  PART I

  PART II

  Begin Reading

  Epigraph

  Dedication

  Thank You

  Acknowledgements

  Contact Info

  Other Books by Christina

  Copyright

  Quick Links

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Quick Links

  Begin Reading

  Epigraph

  Dedication

  Thank You

  Acknowledgements

  Contact Info

  Other Books by Christina

  Copyright

  As above

  So below

  For Jay

  one of my favorite catalysts

  PART I

  The Tunnels

  One

  The elevator has only two green buttons—G and ML—but we descend for what may be miles. Long enough to go through every fear, for every emotion to precipitate through my innermost rain clouds. Long enough for me to go through every goddamned M word I can think of to figure out what ML stands for. I don’t ask, though, for fear of showing any naïve weakness. But I can’t help questioning the things Gideon said in his letter, because all my inner nudges are screaming at me we’re in danger. Could be the PTSD fucking with me again. Still, I can’t help wondering if coming here was a mistake.

  We fall away, rattling deeper and deeper into the Earth, surrounded by a round, concrete wall with lights at intervals. Unnerved, and sick to my stomach, I replay my entire life up to this point five times over, hunting for clues, adding them up to find the sum, to make sense of this tangled mess. With Missy to protect now, and no idea what we’re walking into, I’m not prepared for this.

  When I get to my first encounter with Murray, something clicks, and why I didn’t think of it until now is elusive. He’d mentioned underground tunnels—and here we are, at the Tunnels.

  They go all throughout the city, he’d said. The government had them built two decades ago for emergencies like atomic blasts, or chemical warfare, to get the elite to safety. Only a select few knew about them. Very top secret.

  He was correct about the Tunnels, though whether they go throughout the whole city is a mystery. Could it be yet another coincidence? And if not, how’d he know? If I dreamed him up, wouldn’t I have the information he does? The evidence against his reality is as strong as the evidence for it, and it’s mind-bending, maddening.

  Deuce ties a rubber band around his dreads, then crosses his arms, giving me a serious inspection. “Are you okay? What happened to you?” He motions to the bandage at my shoulder where a dime-sized spot of blood seeps through. The exposed, smaller wounds on my arms, the tender, crusty canyon severing a butterfly wing on my bicep, where Logan had extracted chunks of glass, and the cut on my cheekbone, all need cleaning.

  “I was in an accident, but I’m fine.”

  “Hm. Well, we can get those bandages changed, at least. And get those lesions cleaned.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  One of Deuce’s guards, an awkward man with long legs, a beer gut, and lines shaved along the sides of his head, opens a magazine and sets it on the ground below him. He takes out an orange pack of Zig-Zags and a baggie of weed, and proceeds to roll a joint. When he’s finished, he sticks it behind his ear and crosses his arms over his chest, then whispers something to his buddy. The joint’s a good sign, but the secrecy reignites my uneasiness, making the descent into our newfound home even more ambiguous.

  “We’re standing right here,” I say. “If you need to say something, say it.”

  There’s a subtle surprise in Deuce and his guards that pleases me. We may be new here, but that doesn’t mean we’re weak.

  “My apologies.” Deuce raises a stern eyebrow at the two men. “That is very rude.”

  The shorter of the two, a stocky dude with a dark stain on the front of his uniform, tips his beret at me. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  The other one adjusts the joint behind his ear. “I was just telling him you might could volunteer in the dorms. Since you got the kid ’n all.”

  “D-dorms?”

  Deuce smiles as the elevator slows, and the pressure makes my ears pop. “We have a children’s area, yes,” he says, “among other things of interest. I think you’ll love it here.”

  Kelly kneels in front of Missy and touches a finger to her bear’s nose. “Does he have a name?”

  “She doesn’t talk,” Logan says. “Not since I found her a couple months ago.”

  “Aww . . .” Kelly frowns. “You poor thing, you’ve been through so much.” She pats her shoulder. “But don’t worry, you’ll love it here. We have over a hundred children now, separated into eight dormitories. There’s a play area, too.”

  Missy lights up and she peers at me as the elevator door opens.

  “Sounds great,” I tell her, despite the turbulence that stirs my stomach like a bad meal. There’s a greater than zero chance I’m being paranoid, though. Stranger things have occurred.

  Deuce leads us out into a narrow hallway lit by a single orange emergency light. He presses a button beside a silver door, and another elevator opens its mouth for us to enter.

  “Seriously?” I stop at the threshold.

  “Afraid so.” Deuce holds the door for us, and we hop aboard elevator number two, which is a near-replica of the first, except for the buttons which now read ML and LL.

  “The Tunnels were designed to withstand mass destruction,” Deuce says, punching the LL button. “We’ll be traveling well over a mile beneath the Earth’s surface.”

  Mass destruction. As Murray said . . .

  “Fuck.” Logan crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the yellow, paint-chipped safety railing. He rests his head against the Plexiglass behind it and peers into the abyss beneath us.

  I follow his gaze as we descend again, but my equilibrium fluctuates, making it seem as though we’re moving up instead. “Damn . . .” I close my eyelids against the dizzy spell, bracing myself on the railing.

  “You’ll get used to the sub-altitude after a few days.” Deuce picks at a cuticle.

  “What were the Tunnels built for?”

  “Original uses varied from transportation of illegals to and from the states, drug traffic, illegal goods, etcetera. The men who built them ran the region behind a wizard’s curtain for decades. They were ghosts, the government officials, their puppets.”
>
  “They even got to name the cities around here,” Kelly mumbles. “No wonder they have stupid names.”

  “Who runs this place now?” I ask.

  The three guards fidget, and Deuce wipes his palms before addressing me. “I’m sorry, that’s information I can’t give you.” He glances at his hands once more before continuing. “And . . . if I may be completely honest with you? Knowing Mr. Tyler, I’m surprised you ask these questions.”

  Again, Gideon’s lies churn, hot in my gut. “He kept some things from me because he said he didn’t want to hurt me.”

  “Oh . . .” Deuce sighs. “I see. I suppose that’s understandable.”

  Deuce retreats into his thoughts as the elevator sinks farther into the Earth. My itch to show him my scar is rebuked by my fear that I should keep it hidden. Like a trail of blood leading predator to prey, if they know the scar, they’ll identify my wounds, my broken pieces, my weak spots, and I don’t trust them with those access points yet. Until then, I wear the masks of strong, agile, and unbreakable. As best a shattered girl can, anyway.

  While I still have Logan’s narcotic courage coursing through my veins, I decide to bite the bullet—or, at least one of them. Questions asked a little at a time won’t seem as desperate.

  “So, how did you all meet Gideon?” I ask.

  Kelly gives a nod Deuce’s way, signaling he’s the one to answer that.

  “We worked together once,” he says. “Before all of this. He must’ve sent you here because he . . . well, he trusts me. Mr. Tyler is a great man. Unlike that brother of his,” he mumbles.

  From his tone, some of the dynamics of the two groups becomes clear.

  Gideon and Deuce were friends before the end. It was Gideon’s brother who sent those men to find him. The men from Riverbend. His brother was one of those men. Deuce doesn’t like him, and neither do I. So far, so good.

  But I’m not confident enough to lay all my cards out on the table yet. And maybe I don’t want anyone but Gideon to explain Gideon’s actions. It seems . . . wrong.

  “What did you mean by volunteering?” I address the joint-rolling guard.

  “Everyone who lives in the Tunnels has to pitch in and do their part,” Deuce answers for him. “We have a plethora of opportunities, from nurse, to caretaker, to cook, to mechanic, to bartender, to seamstress, to entertainer. A little something for everyone. You’ll find a place here, no problem.”

  “Entertainer?”

  He chuckles. “Once we get Missy settled down for the evening in one of the girl’s dorms, you two can check out the adult areas.”

  The way he says it makes my hairs stand on end. Fletcher—the guy we ran into at Wipeouts who first mentioned this place—comes to mind. The words he’d said, something about being an attractive couple . . . They piqued my curiosity then, but now it’s laced with uncertainty.

  The guard with the joint places it between his teeth with a wink. “Trust me, you two will fit right in.”

  Missy squeezes my hand, her bear, and buries her face in my side. The grip of her “magic sword,” twin to the katana Logan wears on his back, pokes at my ribs.

  “You okay, honey?” I pat her head, and she bats at her ears.

  “Oh—yeah, that’s from the pressure. Hold your nose, close your mouth, and blow. Like this.” I show her, and my ears release pressure in response. She copies me, then does a double-take, gives me a half-grin.

  “That work?”

  Nod.

  “Good deal.”

  “Almost there.” Deuce punches a code into a panel beside him. “In three . . . two . . . one.”

  The elevator slows, and the momentum gives me butterflies. Missy hugs her belly and moves into my side as we pull to a semi-abrupt stop, and Logan stumbles into me. I slip my arm around his waist to steady him, but remove it again when I catch wandering eyes observing the closeness. Until I find out who I’m dealing with, best for us to play it safe.

  “Welcome to the Tunnels, everyone.” Deuce squeezes through us to meet the doors as they part. “You’re in for a surprise.”

  Two

  Deuce ushers us to follow him through a narrow corridor with a low ceiling, and visible, shiny silver pipes that run its length. At the end is a man in green fatigues sitting at a desk by a wire gate, ogling a Playboy magazine. When he sees us, he drops it closed in front of him but doesn’t hide it. He chews on a toothpick, giving a half-assed salute to Deuce when we get close.

  “We’ve got some new ones to check in,” Deuce says.

  The man inspects us, spending a little too much time on me. “Lemme get the others through real quick,” he mumbles in what might be an Italian accent, before taking a black device from his belt. He places it over the first guard’s eyes, then there’s a beep, and a metal panel slides open in the wire wall beside the desk. He scans them one by one, and they disappear into the mysterious, bright fantasy land beyond the gate. Seeing peeks of it through the panel when it opens reminds me of Christmas morning with Eileen and Henry, and how I’d wake up early to peek out of my room at what magic had occurred while I was sleeping.

  Am I still asleep?

  “I’m going to the cafeteria to look for a bowl,” Kelly says, slipping through the panel as it opens for her. “I’ll stop by the laundry on my way and snag a blanket for Buddy, too.”

  “Thanks,” Logan says

  “Thank you so much.” I return her wave as she heads through the magical door, her reflection shining in the polished gray concrete.

  Deuce motions for Logan to step up to the desk, where the man asks him his name, types it into a screen, then summons him before the device.

  “What is that?” Logan asks.

  “It’s an optical monitoring program,” Deuce answers. “Or, an eye scanner, as we call it. It helps us keep track of everyone around here. We’ll do a basic scan now, but once you get to where you’ll be staying, you’ll have a few more questions to answer. Get used to these. You’ll be doing a lot of them around here.”

  “Bags,” Danny says.

  “Why?” Logan crosses his arms over his chest.

  Danny sighs as though he doesn’t have time for such an explanation.

  “I’m sure you can understand,” Deuce says, “that we keep our community safe by knowing exactly what comes in and what goes out.”

  With a huff, Logan strips his bag from his shoulder and pushes it across the desk. Danny removes one item at a time, making one pile with clothes and another with Logan’s toiletries, an array of pill bottles, and the zipper bag with the dope and syringes in it. A can of spray paint—of course.

  “We’ll have to hold onto the meds and toiletries,” Deuce says. “Because of our economics system here, we have to regulate outside products.”

  When Logan opens his mouth to object, Deuce holds up a hand. “Son, I promise you’ll have everything you need here. And if and when you do decide to leave the Tunnels, you’ll check out here, and you’ll have everything returned to you. Fair enough?”

  Logan grumbles something inaudible, crosses his arms, gives a stiff go-ahead, and Danny swipes all confiscated items into a blue, plastic bin. “Weapons, too,” he says.

  “Hey man, you people didn’t say anything about stripping our goddamned meds and shit. And now you’re taking our weapons, too? What the fuck?”

  I place my hand on his arm, a gentle reminder we’re guests here and that we need to abide by their house rules.

  “I know, son,” Deuce says. “I get it. But rest assured, you’ll be fine here. I promise you won’t need those.”

  Logan paces for a moment before surrendering his katana and his AR-15 to the desk. “Where are you putting them?” he tries to ask without sounding demanding, but his anger sloshes too close to the surface to hide.

  “Storage Locker B nine—not that it means anything to you,” Danny mu
mbles under his breath.

  “What the fuck does that mean, dude?”

  Deuce places his hand on the desk, giving Danny a cold stare that even gives me chills. “Storage Lockers are not accessible by civilians,” Deuce explains. “But Danny, here, can show a bit more respect to our guests, right Danny?”

  Danny rolls his eyes. “Sure. Whatever.”

  He scans Missy next, and she frowns when I take her magic sword from her, placing it onto the desk, followed by Logan’s M16. Though it’s hard for me to let go, because now we’re unable to defend ourselves, that Gideon said I’d be safe here brings reassurance.

  “Name?” Danny asks her.

  “Missy,” I answer for her, and move Missy closer to the intimidating gun-shaped thing he wants to place on her face. “It’s okay,” I tell her as she pushes against me. “Logan did it, and it was fine, right Logan?”

  He gives her hair a pat. “It’s fine, little sister. It doesn’t hurt, it’s just a light.”

  The thing beeps once he’s scanned her, and he re-holsters it, motioning me to the desk.

  “Name?”

  “Grace.”

  He types my name into his screen, and I place my stripper bag on the counter for him to inspect. A little piece of me dies when he sets my good shampoo, conditioner, and body wash aside, then holds up my clear zipper bag of minimal makeup to Deuce.

  “Is that just makeup, Miss Grace?” Deuce asks me.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let her keep that,” he tells Danny. “We do have an allowance for makeup only for women.”

  “Of course.” Logan scoffs. He might as well be saying I’m going to slit your throat in your sleep, motherfucker.

  “Thank you.” I move closer, and Danny places the device to my face. A horizontal, pink light starts at my forehead then moves down the bridge of my nose, and up again, before it beeps, and he sets it onto the desk.

  “Clear to enter.” Danny presses a button beneath the desk, and the door to Christmasland opens.

  “Right this way,” Deuce says.

  We grab our remaining items, and only when we’re following him through the gate, do I notice Deuce isn’t in fatigues like the rest of them. He wears simple, black dress slacks, a navy blue button-down shirt with black embroidery patterns on it, and two silver bands on his thick wrists to match the few scattered silver beads in his dreads. He’s put-together, coordinated, and from the way he saunters, hands clasped behind him, it’s obvious he’s running the show here. Something about him makes me uneasy, though, and I can’t place why. I’ll chalk that one up to Grace’s acute paranoia and trust issues.