Boneshaker (The Clockwork Century 1)

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Rudy almost snapped. “These houses, and these businesses—nobody owns them no more, or at least nobody’s coming back inside after them. Half the people who used to live here are dead, anyhow. So those of us who are left, we…” He hunted for a word that sounded less direct than the truth. “Scavenge. Or we salvage, anyway. We ai

n’t got much choice. ”

Something about the logic sounded wrong, but Zeke couldn’t put his finger on it. Rudy was looking to bargain, but Zeke didn’t have anything to counter with. This might be the perfect opportunity, if he played it right. He said, “I guess that’s fair. If you take me to the house, you could take some of the things you find left there. ”

Rudy snorted. “I’m glad to have your permission, young Mr. Wilkes. That’s mighty big of you. ”

Zeke knew when he was being made fun of, and he didn’t care for it. “Fine, then. If you’re going to act like that, maybe I don’t need a guide at all. Maybe I can find it on my own. I told you, I’ve got maps. ”

“And a gun, yes. I believe you mentioned it. That makes you a big man ready to take on the Blight, and the rotters, and all the other outlaws like myself. I’d say you’re all ready to go. ” He sat down on the roof’s edge as if he’d changed his mind.

“I can find it on my own!” Zeke insisted, too loudly.

Rudy made a hushing motion with his hands and said, “Keep it low, boy. I’m telling you for your own good, and for mine. Keep your voice low. There are worse things out here than me by a long shot, and you don’t want to meet any of them, I promise. ”

Six

There were two ways past the seamless wall that contained the downtown blocks of Seattle. Anyone wishing to breach the barrier could go over it, or under it. According to Rector, Zeke had gone under it.

Rector didn’t know everything Zeke had brought with him on the trip, but he was pretty sure Zeke had taken some food, some ammunition, and his grandfather’s old service revolver, which he’d stolen from the drawer in Maynard’s bedside table where it’d been sitting unused for sixteen years. He’d also taken a few of Maynard’s small things for bartering purposes: a pair of cufflinks, a pocket watch, a bolo tie. Rector had helped him procure a battered old gas mask.

One of the last things Rector had said before Briar had been thrown out of the orphanage was, “Look, I bet you a dollar he’ll be out again in ten hours. He has to be. The mask won’t protect him any longer than that, and if he doesn’t find his way to safety, he knows to turn around and come out. You’ve got to wait just a little bit longer. Wait until later tonight, and if he doesn’t come back—then worry about him. He’s not going to die in there, he’s not. ”

As she walked away from the orphanage in the dark, drizzling rain, Briar wanted to scream, but she needed the energy to walk. She was exhausted from the worry and rage, and she tried to tell herself that Zeke was prepared.

He hadn’t just climbed the wall and dropped down into the city center, filled with hordes of staggering rotters or roving gangs of criminals. He’d taken precautions. He’d taken supplies. There was always a chance he’d be all right, wasn’t there? Ten hours of time in a mask, and if he didn’t find safety he’d turn around and leave. He wasn’t stupid enough to stay. If he could find his way in, he could find his way out.

The entrance he’d used was down by the ocean, by the water-runoff pits, almost hidden by the battered rocks that shielded the drainage way from the pounding of the surf. It had never occurred to Briar that the old sewage lines might still go all the way up, underneath, and into the city. They’d been part of the underground system that collapsed and was later gated up just in case. But Rector had insisted that the remnant population on the other side had cleared the debris that the Boneshaker had left in its wake, that the gate could be opened with less trouble than it looked.

Ten hours ought to be up by nine o’clock, give or take.

Briar made up her mind to wait it out. It wouldn’t do her any good to go home—she’d only worry herself into a frenzy—and it wouldn’t be a good idea to go after him, not yet. If she went in now, there was a fair chance she’d get inside just as he was getting out, and then they’d miss one another and she still wouldn’t know what had become of him.

No, Rector had been right. The only thing to do was wait. There wasn’t so much time left, anyway—only a few hours.

It was plenty of time to hike out to the other edge of the sound and crawl over the rocks, around the thigh-deep tidal pools and past the jagged crags of cliff that hid the abandoned runoff system from the settlements on the Outskirts.

Night had settled down hard and wet, but Briar was still dressed for work, and wearing boots that were tough enough to protect her feet and flexible enough to let her toes feel their way over the rocks. The tide was out—and thank God for that—but the ocean spray still came in on the wind. She was nearly soaked by the time she rounded the last uneven strip of sand and stone and saw the seaweed-draped mechanisms that once had lifted and lowered the pipes out of the ocean.

And there, buried partly by the accumulated years of gravel, shells, and driftwood, lay the cracked brick cylinder that led back under the city streets.

Bleached by the ocean and the rain, worn by storms and battered by incoming waves, the tube was decrepit. It looked like it might collapse if Briar touched it; but when she leaned a hand against it and pushed, it did not move or settle.

She ducked her head underneath the overhang and let the lantern lead her. It still had oil enough for many hours, and she wasn’t worried about anything short of drowning or a downpour putting it out. But inside the coal-black extra-night of the tube’s interior, its glow felt weak and small. The sphere of light cast by the flame only traveled a few feet.

Briar listened as hard as she could, straining to hear anything other than the faint rush of water coming and going and the incessant drip of mist and rain slipping through where the bricks had broken.

This was as close to the city as she’d been since before Zeke was born.

How far was it? Half a mile at most, though surely it would feel longer and more strenuous, doubled over in a crouch and hunkering uphill in the darkness. Briar tried to imagine her son, lantern in one hand and gun in the other. Would he hold the gun? Or would he holster it?

Did he even know how to use it, if he needed to?

She doubted it. So perhaps he’d brought it to trade—and that was smart, she thought. If his grandfather was a folk hero, then small articles of clothing, personal effects, things of that ilk—they’d be valuable enough to buy information, perhaps.

Farther inside the tunnel, she found a patch of moss-covered wall, that was more dry than not, and she sat down. With the back of her hand she rubbed a spot on the bricks. She put the lantern there and wiggled it until she was sure it would stay upright. She leaned back, trying not to feel the chill and damp of the curved wall through her coat; and although she was frightened, and angry, and cold, worried to the point of being ill, she toppled into a rough-dreamed doze.