CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

 

IT SOUNDED LIKE the rattle of old bones.

O’Shea turned to Ramos. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Like someone coughing.”

They’d been searching the tunnels for over an hour now; the water was nearing chest height. They’d passed the ladder to the warehouse some time ago, and Ramos was beginning to get nervous that they’d be trapped down here, kept from their exit by the rushing water. They were battling the flow with every step, and more than once, O’Shea had nearly gone over. It was only through sheer force of will that she kept going. Ramos was right, though—they’d have to give up soon. It was almost certain that Carrera was dead. For all she knew, they’d already stumbled past his submerged body somewhere back in the tunnels they’d previously explored.

Then she’d heard the cough.

“I didn’t hear anything,” said Ramos. “Look, I think we have to call it. We’ve given it our best shot, and we need to report those civilian bodies. If we catch hypothermia down here, Pellegrino will tear us both new ones.”

“I’m telling you, Ramos—I heard something. Just ahead, down there.” She jabbed the torch. It was starting to flicker, and she guessed water must have seeped into the workings, despite her best efforts to keep it above her head.

Ramos seemed to mull it over. “Okay. Let’s check it out. We head to the end of this passage, and then, regardless of what we find, we turn back. Deal?”

“Deal,” said O’Shea.

They pressed on.

A hundred yards further on, the sound of rushing water became a roar. It was streaming in, cascading in a thunderous downpour. They were, she guessed, directly under a storm drain. The weather was incredible; she’d never seen anything like it.

But it wouldn’t be her last—climate change had given birth to these super storms years ago and now they raged intermittently all across the globe, devastating cities, islands, communities. They were lucky the worst of it had blown itself out over the Atlantic, and this was just the tail end. At least the city would still be standing afterwards.

“Okay, time to turn back,” said Ramos. “The rate that water’s coming in, we won’t stay on our feet much longer.”

“Hold on,” said O’Shea. “Just another minute.” She passed the torch along the passageway. “Hello? Is anybody there?” The tunnel was empty. “Hello?” Something glinted in the torchlight: a metal spike, jutting from the brickwork on the curved wall. Connected to it was a thin metal chain. “Ramos. Over here.”

She passed the beam back and forth again, wading over. “Hello? Hello?”

“Look, O’Shea, we’ve got to get out of here, now.”

“I know. It’s just—” She stopped abruptly.

“What? What is it?” Ramos sounded worried.

A man’s head was bobbing in the water.

“Help me!” She said. She put the torch in her mouth and grabbed the man’s head, lifting it free of the water. His eyes flicked open; he looked panicked, disoriented. He coughed, his body jerking beneath the surface.

She wrapped her arms beneath his shoulders and hauled him up in the water. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken and bruised. His front teeth were smashed, reduced to jagged stumps.

Ramos was beside her, already getting to work freeing the manacles from the metal spike.

The man coughed again, and broke into a hoarse, spluttering laugh. “Judges,” he said. “Judges.”

“Carrera? David Carrera?” said O’Shea.

The man’s eyes flicked from side to side, and then settled upon her face. He grinned, looked utterly delirious.

“That’s not Carrera,” said Ramos, straining as he pulled the last of the chains free. “That’s Governor Walter Adams.”