The Runaway Alien (The Lost Planet 9)

My frustration mounts, and I bang my fists and kick my feet against the wall until they’re bruised and bloody. Then I press my forehead against it and let the angry tears course down my cheeks. When I’m all cried out, I straighten. We’ll do what we have to do. I’ll carry him back through the tunnels if I have to.

I’ll do whatever it takes to survive.

I’m about to turn around when the arc of light from the flashlight catches on something shiny. At first, I think it must be a puddle of water—the source of the dripping sound, but when I investigate closer, I realize it’s not water at all. It’s metal.

Metal.

A door!

I rub my battered fist over its surface and more metal appears. Giddy laughter bursts from my chest. This has to be it. We found it!

Using the flashlight, I find a notch that must be the handle. My heart thuds heavily in my chest. Please let something go right for once. Just give us this one good thing. Just this one.

With a knife I stole from the prison, I dig around what I think is the handle and hope to god the damn thing doesn’t require a key or a passcode. If we’re lucky, the years of wear and disuse haven’t rusted it shut.

Minutes pass as I toil and sweat pours down my face. I scrub it away with the back of my hand and take a step back. It’s definitely a handle. The door itself is coated in a thick layer of grime but should still be useable. I hope.

I consider going back for Henry and decide to check on him before I investigate more instead. Finding him still sleeping, I hurry back to the door and begin the slow, arduous process of getting it open wide enough for me to fit through. The hinges emit a god-awful creeeeeeeeak that must be heard from miles away, but it finally opens.

We did it. We’re going to make it.

I hurry back to where Henry is sleeping and gather up our things. After I shoulder the backpack full of our meager supplies, I kneel by his side and shake his shoulder gently.

“Henry, wake up, baby.”

A loud crack like the sound of two boulders smashing together comes from the opposite direction. Maybe a rock tumbling down from somewhere? These tunnels are old and haven’t been maintained. I’m sure the terrain changes all the time. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I give up trying to wake Henry and scoop his weight into my arms.

Whatever that sound was, I don’t want to wait around to find out.

The squeeze through the door is tight with both of us and our belongings, but we make it through. Finally. I lay Henry, who’s still snoring, on the floor in a corner and go back to the door to pull it closed. Then I shed the backpack and explore.

The room is fairly untouched by the elements. In fact, the dirtiest occupants are Henry and me. The walls are identical to the prison’s. There’s a control panel to the right, similar to the one in the command center, a door that leads to a room with a couple of small cots and a closet-sized bathroom. Another door leads to more tunnels, but I close and lock it for now.

After fiddling with the controls on the long counter, I manage to hit the right combination to turn on the lights. They’re so bright compared to the tunnels and my dinky flashlight. I have to squint until my eyes adjust. It’s more than I could have imagined. It’s perfect.

The only thing we need is food.

I move Henry from the floor in the main room to one of the musty cots in the bedroom. I leave the door cracked as I open all the cabinets in the main room. I find weapons with ammo, more flashlights with batteries, walkie-talkies, and what I imagine are bullet-proof vests. Practically a gold mine.

In the last cabinet, I strike pay dirt. It’s not much, but it’s food. Packets of crackers and dried meat. Dried fruit and fruit leather. Dehydrated milk. Dry cereals. Enough to last us a week, if we stretch it, but maybe there’s more in the additional tunnels on the other door. For now, this is good. Henry is going to be thrilled. He hasn’t had anything more than water in days.

He should be waking up any moment, so I plate up a tray of a little of each and mix together some milk. He’s so small, even for three. A growing boy needs milk like this.

I set the tray on the table in the bedroom for when he wakes up. No use in disturbing his rest quite yet. We’re both exhausted. I’m starving, too, but I want to wait for him, make it special. We’ve had so few causes for celebration, this is important. If I’ve learned anything over all these years of hardship, it’s that you have to enjoy the little things. Even in the darkness, there’s always a crack to let in the light.