“Come on, Mommy,” he yells.
Has she told him? Does he know what happened to his father? I don’t know, and now isn’t the time to find out. It only turns my thoughts to Khabri. What if he doesn’t come back?
Is there even a what if? All the Zmaj are on a suicide mission. No one is labeling it that, but it is. A dozen Zmaj warriors against what looks like thousands of Invaders? What chance do they stand?
Our one hope at survival is to follow these tunnels out beyond the City and hope that they’ve caused enough of a distraction to allow us to slip past. If not… I’m not going to think about if not.
BLAM! BOOM!
Another bomb drops. It’s too soon. They shouldn’t be bombing yet. The entire plan hinged on getting the Invaders close enough so that they wouldn’t use their ship to bomb us. Does that mean they’ve already fallen?
Tears run down my face, mixing with the sweat and dirt. The ground rumbles, louder and louder, not stopping now. The tunnel fills with dust, making it hard to breathe.
There had to be a better way. He’s going to die. They’re all going to die. It’s not right or fair. I could love him. Now I’ll never know.
“We’re almost there, keep running,” Rosalind yells.
“See Mommy, we’re doing good, keep running!” Illadon says.
My heart breaks looking at him. He’s a small man, well not all that small. He’s past Calista’s waist in height and already he looks muscular. He dresses like the rest of the Zmaj men, only wearing a loose pair of pants, cinched at his waist. His chest is muscled and his stomach flat and tight. He’s not fully grown into his body yet, obviously, but looking at him I see the man he’s going to become.
The mix of human and Zmaj shows so clearly on his face, more than anywhere else. His horns are small nubs, at least right now. But his face is Calista’s. Round, wide set eyes, a high forehead, and he has her nose. His chin and jaw must be Ladon’s, strong and almost sharp but the rest of him is his mother.
I could have a baby like that. It’s the one thing Khabri has made clear since the moment we met. He wants babies, and he wants them with me. I’m still not sure about that, even if we survive this and end up together.
I’ve heard the tales. Twelve months of carrying a Zmaj baby, the last three of those on strict bedrest. Doesn’t sound like a good time or something I’d want to do.
But… Illadon tugs at my heart, singing of possibilities. Futures that could be, any one of which would be better than the reality we’re living in.
BOOM! CRACK!
Another explosion rocks us. More dirt falls from the ceiling but that crack sets my nerves on edge, jerking all my attention back from the daydreams. I step to the sidewall of the tunnel to let the people pass. Studying the ceiling, it’s hard to see through the dust, but I need to see the structural integrity of the tunnel.
There. One of the thick beams that defines the structure has a long seam running the length of it. It’s not going to hold for another round of bombing. I look down the tunnel and my heart races. There are too many people still. We need to move faster.
“Rosalind!” I yell, fighting my way through the crowds.
I pass by Calista and Illadon and Illadon glares but I don’t have time. I call for Rosalind again and she looks over her shoulder frowning. When I wave to show her I’m the one calling her name, she steps to the wall.
“We have to get them out of here,” I say. “Now.”
“We’re moving them,” she says.
“If another explosion hits near us, this section will collapse,” I say.
“What?” “Here?” “Now?”
Panic rises among those close enough to hear. It’s infectious, spreading like a virulent disease. The fear of the herd swamps rationality. People push against each other, trying to force the persons in front of them to move faster.
In moments, the crowd becomes a mob. Shouting, screaming, pushing, and pulling. It’s a flat-out riot in an enclosed tunnel only big enough for four humans abreast. Horror washes over my senses as I realize what I’ve done.
I did this.
Screams split my ears, stomping feet, and everyone fights to move but little progress is made. The crowd surges, and I’m smashed against the wall. I can’t draw a full breath—a mass of bodies makes it impossible.
Horror edges towards terror as understanding comes of how bad this is going to be. Rosalind’s disapproving frown makes it worse. I want to meld into the wall and hide. She exudes an aura of being austere, almost cold, but in control. Her sharply intelligent eyes look over the panicked crowds. Her pursed lips part and she inhales as she draws herself up to her full height.
“ENOUGH!” she yells.
Her voice is a slicing blade. It pierces through the panic, cuts the confusion, and drives into each person. Almost instantly, everyone stops, their heads turning to her.
“We are better than this,” she says.
She doesn’t yell but the pitch of her voice reaches easily up and down the tunnel. A low murmur hums through the crowd, and then people are helping the fallen and they’re moving. They become a flowing river, moving faster than they did before, but in harmony. Each person helping another person, no one pushing or crowding.
“How did you do that?” I ask, shaking my head to make sure I’m not dreaming.
“Experience,” she says. “Don’t do that again.”
I drop my eyes to the ground, and my cheeks burn. “I’m sorry.”
“Fine. Now tell me what you see.”
“The support beam is cracked. One more bomb, and this section at least will cave in,” I say, pointing up to the beam in question.
“Then we need to move,” Rosalind says.
“Everyone, we need to move faster,” Rosalind calls out. “Help each other, get us out of this tunnel. Follow me!”
She pushes her way to the front and people let her pass without her saying another word. Her presence alone creates room as she moves. I follow in her wake.
When she arrives at the front, Amara is there with Malcolm on her hip. Malcolm smiles as we arrive.
“It’s going to be okay,” he says.
I smile, but the butterflies in my stomach and adrenaline making me feel like my skin is buzzing tells a different story. He’s being reassuring, which is cute, but doesn’t calm me down in the least.
My heart is pounding, and we’re all but running, but still, it’s not fast enough. The back of my neck tingles, and the hair on my arms is standing on end. Imminent danger so close it’s a pressure pushing against me, making it hard to breathe, hard to even think.
Something touches my arm and I look down. Malcolm’s small hand rests on my forearm. His hand has tiny scales which dance with an almost iridescent color ending with sharp black claws instead of nails for his fingers.
“I know,” he says, when I look up to his face. “It will be okay.”
“Thank you,” I say, unsure what else to say.
Amara is haggard too. Her hair is a mess, her eyes sunken, but she forces a smile when our eyes meet.
“Trust me, he knows things,” she says, huffing as she shifts him from one hip to the other.
“I can walk Mommy,” Malcolm says.
“Not yet,” Amara says.