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His pocket buzzed again.
We’re in the parking lot. Where R you?
Hunter turned the phone off.
He forced his senses farther. Water. Gas. Concrete. The air was stale down here, lacking current. He fed a little power into the water, pressing a hand to the wall where it dripped, begging for direction.
At first, nothing. Then . . . this way.
Another path through darkness. He must have passed below another hatch because the alarms became briefly louder before silencing. Another turn. Then another.
Then the air whispered that someone was nearby.
Hunter froze, his hand finding his gun.
This way.
He turned another corner, moving cautiously. He saw light, the very palest light, just around the next bend in the tunnel.
He kept his gun out and stepped around the edge.
And there they were. Half a dozen teenagers sitting under one lone penlight strung from the ceiling.
They froze when he appeared. Half looked like they wanted to run—and a few looked ready for a fight.
Michael had been wrong. They probably had been living in the tunnels all weekend. Maybe longer. Hunter could feel their hunger, the chill in their skin, their desperation.
And there, at the front of the group, was Noah.
He was one of the ones who looked ready to fight.
He was shivering. “Get out,” he snapped. He rolled a lighter across his palm and put a hand on one of the pipes. “Don’t make me do something you’ll regret.”
His voice was sharp, but he didn’t sound certain.
He sounded terrified.
“Where’s Calla?” Hunter said.
One of the other kids stepped forward with an ax. “She’s waiting for us to do our part against the Guides.”
Then he raised it to swing.
Hunter rushed forward to stop him. The kid was small, but the ax was heavy. Hunter caught his arm, driving him back. The kid tried to swing again. Hunter shoved him, hard, and the ax went clattering to the ground.
“Stop,” said Hunter. “You need to get out of here. You don’t know what you’re up against.”
“We know what to do to prove we’re serious,” said Noah.
“There’s a Guide coming. You need to run.”
“Let him come,” said one of the girls. “We’ll bring the school down on top of him.”
“Not if I take care of the problem first,” said an accented voice from the darkness behind Hunter.
Followed by the click of a gun.
Hunter’s training kicked in without thought. He was spinning, registering where the sound had come from, swinging a fist to send the shooter off balance. He didn’t want to shoot, not here, not yet, when gas lines were so close.
