Sam
“Turn right here, Simon,” she directs and points to a road intersecting their own.
“Which way?” Simon asks.
“Left. Go left.”
He maneuvers the Jeep and heads in that direction. They are skirting most of the city of Clarksville because it has proven dangerous in the past. They are to hole up in an apartment complex across the river and spy on what they can see from there. The camp is located down by the Cumberland River in a dense section of wooded acreage.
“Got it,” he answers.
“Now turn right,” she says. “We need to go north but stay away from the city. Derek said this is the best way to get there.”
“Except there’s a roadblock of cars in the way,” Simon announces and presses on the brake.
“Oh, crap,” she states when she looks up from the map. “Um, I guess we need to find another way.”
“Let me back up,” he says and puts it in reverse.
“Simon!” she nearly shouts. “Headlights!”
He calmly whips the Jeep in a tight circle and gets them moving in the opposite direction without the headlights on.
“Crap, who was that?” she asks with hysteria rising in her voice as he puts distance between them and whoever was in the only other moving vehicle they’ve seen tonight. Avoiding people is essential to their safety and something the family always tries to do when on any sort of mission.
“Not sure,” he states. “Don’t worry. They wouldn’t have seen us.”
“How can you be so sure? We saw them!”
Simon drives back east until he can pull over and consult the map. Then he studies the map of Clarksville that Grandpa gave them.
“Here,” he says, indicating a road. “We should take this. It’ll bring us right back there if we come in from the north.”
“Simon, what about that car?”
“Probably passing through,” he says. “If we see it again, we’ll ditch the Jeep and go on foot until I can get you hidden. Don’t worry. If it’s a threat, I’ll deal with it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, it’s more important that we get information on this camp than if we have a run-in with someone tonight. Let’s just avoid them and be watchful.”
She sits quietly contemplating what he’s said but would still rather leave the city. She’s been to Clarksville. Sometimes it’s worse than Nashville. She knows others in the family have also had problems here.
They don’t see the car again but somehow manage to find the apartment complex. Navigating from maps is difficult because many of the former road signs lie on their sides, are bent or broken, or have rusted, all of which makes them hard to read and nearly impossible to find the way around.
“This is better than I could’ve hoped for,” he comments.
“What is?”
Simon looks at her and points out the front windshield, “Underground parking. Best way to conceal the car.”
“Great,” she comments as he pulls onto the ramp leading down to the parking garage beneath the apartments.
“What’s wrong?” Simon asks as he drives forward and parks the vehicle against the farthest cement block wall next to a tall SUV, which will conceal their smaller vehicle.
“I was worried that this wasn’t going to be sufficiently creepy,” she says dryly and is surprised when Simon actually laughs loudly. It causes her to smirk. He’s usually so serious.
“Never fear, my dear,” he jokes. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Speak for yourself,” she blurts as he does a second check of their guns. “And don’t call me ‘dear’.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he says as if remembering. “I forgot we never finished discussing that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What endearment you’d like for me to use.”
Sam doesn’t answer but turns in her seat to face him. And glare at him. He blows through his nose and grins crookedly. She raises one eyebrow.
“Sorry. No endearments. I promise.”
She huffs and exits the Jeep, closing the door as silently as possible behind her, which sounds extremely loud in the desolate garage. Simon does the same and joins her at the hatch, which he opens. He hands her night-vision goggles and an M4. Then he removes his sniper rifle, an M16, and grabs two extra mags for their rifles. In perfect unison, they turn to go.
“Ready, cutie?” he asks.
Sam doesn’t need light in the underground garage to tell that he is smiling.
“Not finding the humor right now, Simon,” she mumbles.
He slings his sniper rifle and the M16 and carries his pistol out in front of him. Then he takes her hand. Sam doesn’t dare pull back. She’s scared witless. She really didn’t want to take this intel trip as Derek had called it. But, then again, the only other option was going to be for Kelly to go in her place, and she didn’t have the heart to make him go instead of her. When K-Dog and Paul from the condo community found out about it, they’d volunteered to check out one of the places on the map. They will be closest to them tonight in proximity, but she’s positive that the headlights they’d seen had not been from them. They were supposed to be searching a place northeast of the city. K-Dog had let Derek know over the radio that should Simon need help, they could reach them in fifteen to twenty minutes. Sam really hopes they don’t have to make that call.
She releases his hand when they come to the set of glass entry doors leading to cement stairs. The elevator has long since ceased to operate. Sam has to step over an orange traffic cone right past the door before reaching the stairs.
“Let me go first,” he whispers and stays her arm.
Sam nods. She doesn’t want to go first anyway. Then again, as she looks behind her at the vast darkness as they go up the stairs, going last isn’t preferable, either.
“Let’s get as high as we can,” he says quietly.
She giggles, which makes him stop on the landing of the first floor where doors push inward to what is probably the lobby.
“What?”
“Simon, you’re so clueless,” she points out.
“Why?”
Sam rolls her eyes but knows he can’t see them. “Let’s get high? Really? You don’t see how that sounds strange?”
He chuffs through his nose. “Oh, yeah. I guess I do now that you say it that way.”
They keep going until they’ve reached the seventh floor, which is supposed to be the top one. Besides a rat she saw through the open doorway to the fourth floor, nobody resides here. It doesn’t really matter. It’s still eerie.
Simon pushes the steel door, then has to shove at it once with his right shoulder to get it to swing inward on what are probably stiff or rusty hinges.
“This way,” he says, leading her down a long corridor where many items have been abandoned including chairs, papers, personal belongings, and general debris. Most places that used to house a lot of people look like this now. It’s sad really to think that people left everything they owned and fled, maybe even on foot.
He goes to the last door on the left and tries the knob. It’s locked.
“I’ve got it,” Sam says and squats. Then she opens her pack, removes her lock picking kit and gets to work. Within a minute or two, she has the knob turning.
“I could’ve just kicked it in,” he says wryly.
Sam groans softly with irritation. “Simon, we’re trying to be stealthy, remember?”
“I don’t really think anyone would hear. This place is a ghost town.”
“Not the whole city,” she reminds him. “Remember the headlights?”
“Right,” he says and closes and bars the door behind them with a chair under the knob. He also sets the deadbolt and chain.
“This must’ve been a nice apartment at one time,” she notes as she walks around the large living room.
“It probably overlooked the river,” he says, checking rooms quickly and then setting up shop near the wall of windows. The moon is nearly full, and the sky cloudless, which gives them ample light by which to work. “Would’ve been a nice view.”
“Yeah, maybe,” she comments.
“Did you come to Clarksville often with your family?”
“Sometimes,” she replies and follows him around the apartment as they review the floor plan.
There are three bedrooms, two of which were being used as home offices, and a master bedroom. The master also has its own, large bathroom. A walk-in closet is attached to the master bath and has what seems like an attic access panel or something.
“Strange,” she comments aloud.
Simon walks into the closet and asks, “What is?”
Sam points up. “What is that for?”
“Perhaps the people doing maintenance work in the building needed access up there. It was probably built like this so that they could get to heating and cooling, electrical, plumbing, that sort of thing. Not sure, but there is a half bath in the hallway at the other end of the kitchen. And beyond that is a utility room,” he explains as they return to the living room.
Sam drops her pack near his and joins him in scanning the neighborhood outside for signs of life. “See anything?”
“Not yet,” he answers, spying through his binoculars, having removed his headgear.
Sam also places her night-vision goggles next to her pack and picks up her binoculars.
“My dad came here a lot,” she tells him.
“Yeah? What for?”
She sighs, remembering her beloved father and his strong hugs and the scruffiness of his five o’clock stubble when he’d come home from work at the end of the day and embrace her. “Work. He had projects going over here, construction.”
“Right, he was a builder,” he says. “Custom homes?”
“Mm, yep. He always said the house he built for my mom was the best design he ever did, though. They loved that house.”
“Yes, it was something,” he says and then lowers his binoculars to look at her. “What kind of house would you want someday?”
“Why?” she asks, instantly wary. “I live in a cabin with my uncle on Dave’s compound. That’s all I need.”
“I know, but if you didn’t have to live there,” he says. “And don’t worry. I’m not going to build you a house. That’s Cory’s grand gesture for my sister.”
“I’m not worth a house?”
Simon chuckles, “You aren’t hooking me like that, Samantha Patterson. I was just beating you to the punch. You’re worth ten custom homes. Or the Windsor Castle if you wanted. I just know that’s not your thing.”
“No, I suppose not,” she concurs.
“I’d be better off to find you some rare breed of horse or something.”
She chuckles. “Ooh, yeah. That’d be cool. A Friesian. Or an Andalusian. Or an OTTB so I could jump again.”
“Right, like I’d know what those look like or what any of those are,” he teases, to which she laughs.
“You’d probably bring me something gross like a dissected lizard organ,” she razzes.
He makes a funny noise as if contemplating it. “That would be more interesting.”
“Simon!” she blurts and playfully slaps his shoulder. “Yeah, just what every girl wants. A goat stomach or something. Real sexy, Simon.”
“Or a microscope,” he suggests, making her laugh. “What? That’s not sexy? Science is sexy. Science can be sexy. Maybe. It could be, I think. Actually, a lot about science is the study of sexual attraction, mating, reproduction, that sort of thing. Yes, I conclude that science could be sexy.”
Hearing the word ‘sexy’ come from his mouth so many times in the span of thirty seconds does something to her insides. The muscles low in her stomach jump. She feels a blush stain her cheeks and is thankful for the darkness that conceals it from him. She has to swallow hard and clear her voice.
“What? Did I say something to upset you?” he asks with concern.
Her voice comes out in a weird squeak, “What? No. Just thinking we should be searching more carefully.”
“Alright, Samantha,” he says quietly and turns his attention back to scanning out the window. A few minutes later, he says, “So, not a horse or a dead animal part. Or a house.”
“No, nothing,” she corrects, regaining her self-control, which is vital to containing and locking down those old feelings from bubbling up again. She lifts her chin. “I don’t want anything from you.”
A long time passes, so much that she’s pretty sure he didn’t hear her at all. Then he finally remarks on her statement.
“Hm, we’ll see,” he comments as if he has something up his sleeve.
She doesn’t like this new and improved and more confident Simon. It’s so much better when he’s awkward and unsure of himself. This behavioral change in him makes her feel like she’s the one who’s awkward and unsure. It’s not a flip she likes. That’s for sure.
“I’ve got something,” he announces. “I think I see it. Yes, this is the camp.”
“Where? I don’t see anything.”
“We’re just south of it still,” he says and steps very close behind her. “Turn just slightly, Sam.”
He rotates her by placing both hands on her shoulders. One hand drops, and he raises his binoculars again. He lowers them and waits for her to locate the camp, which she does not. Then Simon places his hand beneath her chin and turns her face slightly to her right. His fingers don’t leave her, though.
“See it yet?” he asks, his mouth just inches from her ear, his breath touching her skin in a feather-light caress.
“Um…” she replies unsteadily and draws in and holds a deep breath. Then she sees what he means. “Wait. Yeah. I think I see it.”
“Lights, lanterns likely,” he says and finally lowers his hand from her chin. “Looks like tents and small buildings illuminated.”
He hasn’t moved away, so Sam dares not turn her head, or she’ll bump her face against his. She can still feel his breath hitting her cheek.
“I’ll have to go down there,” he says.
His statement shocks her, which causes Sam to jerk her head toward him. They nearly collide, but he doesn’t step back. Sam isn’t about to back down, either.
“What do you mean you’re going down there?” she hisses. “No way!”
She jumps slightly when he runs the backs of his fingers down over her cheek. Sam slaps them away.
“Simon!”
“I can’t tell what we’re looking at,” he says and finally steps back. “I’m gonna have to get closer.”
“No,” she orders firmly and plants both feet.
“No choice, Sam,” he says and lifts his sniper rifle with the big scope. Then he taps his throat mic. “Got me?”
“No!” she says more loudly, the hollow sound of her voice causing her to jump in the echoey room. She heard him in her earpiece just fine but doesn’t want him to leave.
“I’ll be right back,” he says and heads toward the door.
Sam rushes in front of him and literally presses her back to the door to prevent him from leaving.
“Sam,” he says as if he’s talking to one of the younger kids at the farm who is misbehaving.
“Don’t leave me here,” she orders, gritting her teeth.
He reaches out and cups her cheek. “I’ll be right back. No reason to worry.”
“Yeah, right!” she says in a huff of impatience. “There was just a car down there in the street, Simon.”
“It’s gone now,” he reassures her. “I’ll be back quickly. I can go faster without you.”
“No,” she says, pouting and actually crosses her arms over her chest in frustration.
He blows through his nose the way he does when he’s smiling at her, which he is now.
Sam is truly afraid he’s going out the door and never coming back. Near tears, she pleads in a whisper, “Simon.”
He slings his rifle and raises his other hand to mirror the right. “I’ll be right back.”
“Famous last words.”
“This isn’t a horror flick,” he lectures her, which pisses Sam off more. “One hour. I’ve got you on coms. We’ll be fine.”
“I’ll tell Derek,” she threatens, not caring if it sounds childish.
“He’s the one who told me to do this,” he tells her. “Neither of us felt comfortable with the idea of you getting close to their camp in case it really is Parker in charge of it. If it’s not, it could be something even worse.”
She screws up her features in anger and defiance and feels tears brim in her eyes.
“One hour,” he repeats and pulls her closer, his hands still on either side of her face. “Just one quick thing first.”
“What…?” she asks and cannot stop it before it happens when his mouth touches down against hers.
Simon kisses her softly, leisurely, as if he has nowhere else to be, not even on direct orders from his commanding officer. His mouth moves on hers as if he’s done it a thousand times. Then the kiss deepens, and he pushes his tongue between her lips and his hands shift from framing her face to settling on either side of her waist. Sam lets out a soft cry against his mouth, which seems to encourage him. His hands slip beneath her short, wool jacket and grip her waist as if he is afraid she’ll fall backward. The way he’s kissing her, exploring her mouth so thoroughly, she just might.
He ends their kiss as abruptly as he started it, which leaves her just as stunned.
“One hour,” he says and moves her out of his way by squeezing her waist, his hands having never left it. “Lock this door. Double lock it, Sam.”
She is too stunned to answer, so Sam just nods and does what he says after he has gone through it. She also props the chair back under the handle the way Simon had it. But she stands there with her back against the heavy, metal door still reeling from their kiss. How can he be so unaffected? He seemed so cool as if it was nothing moving for him at all. Is that true? Perhaps Simon has been sewing his wild oats with other women since she left the farm. It has been a long time, months. He could’ve had a girlfriend for a while. In the time she’s been gone, he could’ve had many. For some idiotic reason, that thought makes her cheeks burn but not from embarrassment this time. They burn from irritation and jealousy. Plus, he has no right whatsoever to kiss her like that. She has let him know how she feels about him. It’s ridiculous to think he has so much confidence in himself that he feels it’s just fine to kiss her apparently whenever he wants, as if she belongs to him, as if they are a couple. Henry doesn’t even do that. She’s glad for it, too. He has also never attempted to kiss her the same way Simon does. She has to stop herself from wrinkling her nose at the idea of kissing Henry like that. Henry is a good man. He is patient and kind and shares his feelings with her openly. She just really hopes he never tries to kiss her like Simon just did. Simon kisses her as if he is tattooing his very own brand on her lips. It makes her angry, extremely angry. And something else, too. After a moment of thinking about Henry kissing her like that, Sam shoves away from the door and crosses to the window again.
She consults her watch, marking the time of half past midnight so that she knows when he should be back. After staring through her binoculars for sight of Simon, Sam doesn’t find him.
“Where are you?” she blares into her throat mic, not caring if it hurts his ears. Good. “I can’t see a damn thing out there.”
His smile is evident in his voice when he answers, “Language, young lady.”
She’d like to say something worse but doesn’t.
“Where are you?”
“Down to your right. See me in the intersection?” he asks.
Sam spots the green laser he’s waving around in a circle.
“I see you now,” she tells him.
Simon asks with humor still lingering in his deep voice, “Like what you see?”
“Don’t be an ass,” she reprimands.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “No more hanging out with Cory for you.”
Sam smirks despite her annoyance. Simon has a way about him that irritates and humors her at the same time. He’s so frustrating.
He keeps going, and every once in a while, she’ll catch a glimpse of him moving through the parking lots and down streets. He crosses the river, using a bridge that she hopes is still safe and disappears into the woods. Then she cannot see him at all, which makes her uneasy.
“I’m getting close,” he says softly into his mic. “I see the lights.”
“Be careful,” she warns and strains to see any sign of him.
Time passes slowly as she waits to either see muzzle flashes or Simon running back toward her. He goes silent, which she knows is a must in this sort of situation. Just a visual on the laser would be good. Or one of him heading back across that bridge. Neither comes, and the tenseness of the situation starts getting to her. Sam glances over her shoulder more than once.
“Simon,” she whispers.
He doesn’t answer, which heightens her anxiety, so she begins pacing between the rooms glancing out the various windows facing the river. It feels like hours have gone by. She looks at her watch again. Nearly one-forty. He’s been gone already the full hour. He should be back any minute now. She should see him any second. However, when she says his name again into her mic, he still doesn’t answer.
“Damn it,” she swears to the empty room and nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears a noise out in the hallway. “Simon?” she whispers again into the mic. And again, no answer.
“Crap,” she says under her breath and creeps cautiously toward the door. He must be back. His coms must be broken. Maybe his earpiece was lost on the trip out there. That happened once to John. Maybe he fell and doesn’t even realize yet that he lost it.
Another noise, a shuffling or awkward stumbling jog of someone sounds off in the hallway again, this time closer. A man’s voice cries out, and he sounds like he has run into or fallen over something. It causes a tremendous crashing sound like it would if someone were stumbling into a medical cart or a hotel maid’s cart. Then silence. Her heart beats so hard she can feel it pounding in her ears. Is Simon out there hurt? Is he injured? Knocked out? Lost blood and has passed out? Was he shot?
“Simon?” she tries her throat mic again to no avail. He needs her.
This thought causes her to rush to the door and open it. She takes one step into the hall and freezes. Sam peers out just in time to see a flash of movement near the same door they came through from the service stairs. It is someone in a long black coat that swirls and billows as the person moves. It’s definitely not Simon; he wore a short, black jacket. Sam sucks in a breath of surprised terror and holds it trying to be silent and still so the person doesn’t spin around and spot her.
“Hey!” someone else yells from the other end of the hall.
Too late. The person in the long coat is not alone.
“Behind you!” the man screams, causing the trench coat man to swing her way.
Sam jumps back and slams the door. They’ve both seen her. There’s no sense in being quiet now. She locks the door and also sets the deadbolt and jams the kitchen chair back under the knob again. Then she sprints to the window and grabs her rifle and pack. She pulls on her backpack and clips the front snaps to hold it still against her back. She slams her 9 mill back into her hip holster and brings the rifle up in front of her and flicks off the safety. Then she pulls back the charging handle and allows it to snap forward, chambering a round. She’s not worried about noise. She also slings Simon’s M16. Thank God he took his sniper rifle. That thing is so heavy.
“Simon, where are you?” she asks, pressing her throat mic and trying not to acknowledge the fact that she hears fear in her voice.
When she doesn’t get an answer, Sam runs to the other end of the apartment and locks the door. It’s the utility room with a washer and dryer, water heater, and electrical panel. An access door leads to an exit, and she slides the deadbolt to the left to disengage it right as she hears pounding on the main door. She has to get out of this apartment and find somewhere to hide and wait for Simon.
Just as she is about to turn the knob and make a sneaky escape, Sam hears several sets of feet running toward her. Quickly, she re-engages the lock and takes a step back as someone crashes into the door on the other side, heedless of injury. She has to hold down a yelp. At the base of the door is a rubber, flip down doorstop, so she uses her foot and engages it, as well. It will definitely help keep them out. Another crash of a person’s body against the door proves her right, and it holds.
Sam turns and sprints out of the utility room, shutting and locking the door to the small room from the kitchen space. The pounding at the main door has stopped, but she knows they won’t leave. They’ve spotted her. They definitely intend to rob or hurt her. When the men in the family encounter people, they either leave them be or try to offer help. They don’t do this at all. They don’t try to break down the door, not unless they are after someone.
She jogs to the other end of the apartment again and into the master bedroom. Once inside the long room, she locks the door. It’s not much of a lock. It won’t hold anyone out for long. She tries to ignore the fact that her hands are shaking.
“Simon!” she hisses again, hoping he’ll hear her this time.
She remembers there is a balcony off the bedroom, so she jogs over to it. The sliding glass door is stuck, but she manages to push hard enough to get it to move. Once out on the balcony, Sam realizes there’s no escape to be made here. However, when she goes back inside, she leaves the slider door open in the hopes that they’ll think she went this way. She calls him again.
Again, no answer, so she runs to the bathroom locks the door, goes through the bathroom and into the closet. She looks up at the access panel above the highest shelf of the luxury closet organizer. She’ll never be able to reach it. She’s way too short. But she does spot a bench that the former owners probably used to sit and put on their shoes. She drags it over, but even standing on it, she can’t reach the panel in the ceiling.
“Crap!” she whispers, her hysteria building as the pounding at the main door begins again. This time it sounds like they are kicking it. “Think, think, think! Nobody’s coming. Get yourself out of this.”
She rushes to the bathroom and picks up a vanity stool from the small space where the lady of the apartment would’ve sat and applied her makeup and styled her hair before heading out to work. Then she takes a minute to go back to the bedroom and drag a heavy, tufted chair to the door and wedge the back of it under the handle. That should buy her a few extra minutes, too.
She carries the small vanity stool into the dark closet and lowers her night-vision gear. Without the aid of moonlight from the windows in the living quarters, she can’t see much at all. She turns and looks down at the closet door and finds another lock. It looks sturdier than the bedroom door’s lock surprisingly enough, so she twists it. Then she kicks shoes out of the way and positions the stool on top of the wooden bench under the access panel and stands on it, hoping she doesn’t fall and shoot herself or something else ridiculous and, in all likelihood, plausible. Using the stool to get herself mostly there, she tests the sturdiness of one of the wooden clothing shelves and finds it will hold her weight. She hopes she doesn’t pull the whole thing out of the wall, but she remembers her father installing something similar for her mother in their master walk-in closet, and it was all mounted into studs behind the drywall to hold the weight of shoes, purses, sweaters, and various other items. Stretching hard, she’s able to reach the ceiling. When Sam has found a secure balance with one leg on a shelf and the other foot balanced on the stool, she easily pushes up on the access panel and shines her small flashlight into the space. It’s not just metal ductwork, but it’s also not tall enough to stand completely erect, either. It is definitely a space meant for service workers, though.
Something in one of the outer rooms crashes loudly, probably the front door. It’s enough to boost her courage and give her enough strength to do what she needs to do. She hefts the rifles into the space and lays them flat and out of her way. Then Sam pulls herself up into the hole, straining from the effort. She doesn’t have the upper body strength of the men on the farm, but fear propels her. It can be a great motivator. Her pack gets caught, but she’s able to yank it free. Once she’s in place, she kneels and slides the panel back into place again. Then she gets moving.
She has to go slowly at first until she is familiar enough with the narrow tunnel to move more quickly. Within twenty seconds, she’s jogging. The sound of a gun being fired spurs her to move even faster. She really has no idea where she’s going, but she just keeps making forward progress in her stooped over position. There isn’t enough room to sprint, but she manages a strange, shuffling run.
“Sa…,” Simon’s voice sounds in her ear but cuts out halfway through her name.
“Simon?” she whispers and gets static in her ear as an answer.
They must not be able to communicate while she’s in this tunnel. She has to find a way out. The idea of going backward from where she came is out of the question, but the thought of being stuck in this narrow space starts freaking her out, too. She’s not necessarily a claustrophobic person, but she’s also never been tested. This is one test she might not pass if she doesn’t find an exit soon.
“Calm down!” she whispers at herself angrily.
Sam keeps going forward and comes to an intersection. It seems as if she’s on the entire other side of the building, she’s gone so far. So, she turns left, hoping it ends somewhere that puts distance between them. A noise behind her in the distant part of the tunnel scares her, which does elicit a yelp from her this time. She hopes the clatter wasn’t coming from inside the tunnel but from those people ransacking the apartment. It pushes her to turn into the left tunnel too quickly and pick up the pace recklessly. She swings to peek behind her when suddenly, the floor goes out from underneath her. She falls backward landing on her back and simultaneously hitting her head. Then she starts sliding downhill and cannot stop, cannot control her fast descent. Crying out, Sam tries to keep hold of the rifles and her pack and slow herself down. It doesn’t happen, and she ends up crashing to a sudden stop after what seems like forever.
Sam cries out again, this time because when she tries to stand, her ankle feels slightly sprained.
“Damn it,” she swears in a whisper and tries to right her headgear.
She resets her night-vision goggles and pushes up onto her elbows, using the wall of the tunnel beside her. Looking up, she realizes that she has fallen down some sort of chute.
“Idiot,” she chastises as static sounds off in her ear again.
No time to sit and baby herself, Sam rises onto her feet and winces at her stupid ankle. Nothing’s broken, but she’ll probably be sore tomorrow. She has to keep moving. Movement is safe. Movement is staying alive. Sitting in this chute is going to get her killed if it was those men in the tunnel behind her making noise. She spots her handgun a few yards away and retrieves it. Then she keeps going, more mindful this time of chutes.
Sam comes to another slide chute and this time carefully holds herself against the sides as she shimmies down it. She figures these go between floors, so she has to be down to the fifth floor or lower now. When she comes to the bottom, she keeps moving and takes a right-hand turn at the next intersection. A few feet further and she trips over something. She turns and looks down to find another handle sticking up like the access panel from the closet she found. Above her somewhere a loud bang startles her. She wonders if someone is apprehending her through the tunnels and has also fallen down a chute. Hoping to throw off her pursuers, she slides the panel back and leaves it open. She keeps going.
When she reaches another chute, Sam goes down it much faster this time. For some reason, she feels as if she needs to get out of this building as soon as possible. Voices below her feet, however, cause her to come to an instant halt. If someone were following closely behind her, they would’ve run into her back. Two men are exchanging words that sound heated. She strains to hear and kneels to press her ear against the floor of the tunnel without clanging the guns against it.
“It was a woman, jackass!” one says.
“I didn’t even see anyone,” another says, a woman this time.
Swearing ensues. Then a man says, “You weren’t even there, so shut the fuck up! The President wants us rounding up anyone we see, so unless you’re going against his orders, shut the fuck up!”
The woman doesn’t respond. Someone else does, though. “She’s somewhere in this building. She can’t have gotten that far.”
“I still say she climbed down the balcony. She’s gotta be on the sixth floor.”
“Fine, you two, go search it again,” the mean one orders. “I’m searching this floor.”
As soon as she feels it is safe to keep moving, Sam starts out again, this time much faster. Her feet feel like they are keeping pace with her heart. She makes it down two more slides and then turns to the left at a dead-end. It’s not exactly a dead-end, though. It’s a door that reads, “electrical room” on a faded, dusty red sign. She grips the door handle but thinks better of bursting through it and instead waits and listens for a few moments. When she is greeted by silence, she proceeds with great caution. Her hand shakes as she turns the knob.