Misty whistled while she worked, retrofitting pilfered parts to fit Dobson’s machinery. The task itself was fairly easy, Misty insisted. Dobson already had the mechanical bones, so to speak. All Misty needed to do was rewire the severed mechanics back together and add the elements necessary to make things go ‘boom’. She had both hands squeezed inside the narrow panel behind Dobson’s left shoulder, wriggling a fuel canister into place when Florence finally stopped beating the devil around the stump.

  “Help us,” she said. “Please. We’ve got thirty women and children holed up deep inside the town. Without you, they die.”

  Misty’s nimble hands didn’t falter. She tightened the connector between the fuel tank valve and the regulator until it fit snugly, unfazed. “No dice, love. Dobsy and I already have a plan, and it doesn’t involve dying a hero’s death.”

  Realizing her attempt to appeal to human compassion had been woefully misguided, Florence switched tactics. “You think you’re getting out of this alive?” she scoffed. “Not without help. You might have skill on your side, but you don’t know the lay of the land.”

  Misty offered a simple rebuttal. “Don’t need to.”

  “The town runs half a mile into the rock, connected by a mazework of unlit tunnels. You’d get lost in a heartbeat.” Florence stood, as if physical stature would help prove her point somehow. “We can help each other. Your skill and my knowledge. It’s the only way either party walks out of this alive.”

  “Well, there’s your problem right there, miss. We don’t aim to walk out of here. We’re going to be hitching ourselves a ride aboard the fancy train out front.”

  Dobson twisted her head around, glaring over her shoulder at Misty for omitting such vital information so freely.

  “The train?” Owen interjected, still on the floor, leaning against the base of bar. “Are you mad? You might be able to put a cyborg back together with scrap parts, but not a train.”

  Florence was a hair faster on the upswing. She voiced her thoughts, one by one, processing each revelation out loud as they came to her. “She means the private train. The one the Company Men took to get here. It runs on a separate track.” There was a thoughtful pause followed by a head tilt. “Sure, steal the train and you could take it all the way to the surface, but then what? There’s no way off-site.”

  “That’s not necessarily true,” Owen admitted hesitantly, as if wary of contradicting his sister-in-law. “The prison vessel the sheriff and I came in on is still docked. Theoretically, it could be hijacked and flown out of here.” He was omitting the part about needing a particular skillset in order to do so. A moot point, considering Misty had already proved her override skills once already.

  The smile dripping from Misty’s words was so strong Dobson practically felt it. “I suspect they’re starting to catch on, Dobsy. What do you think?”

  “I think you should stop stating our plans out loud.”

  “I didn’t state anything. They figured it out on their own.”

  Dobson grunted her disagreement.

  “Alright,” Misty conceded. “I might have given a helpful nudge or two, but is that such a crime? It’s nice to feel recognized for my strategic brilliance every now and then.”

  “In the future, I would prefer it if you didn’t breadcrumb our entire strategy for the sake of your ego.”

  Misty sucked her teeth. “And I’d prefer if you appreciated me more. A little ‘good job, Misty. Well done’ goes a long way, you know.”

  Florence interrupted, venturing a daring step forward. She clasped her hands in front of her pleadingly. “Take us with you. Not just Owen and me, but the whole town. The train’s big enough for everyone.”

  Dobson and Misty answered together, unified in their response. Dobson’s reply was a straightforward “no”, whereas Misty went with a more colorful “not an ice cream sundae’s chance in hell.”

  At least they finally agreed on something, Dobson supposed.

  “Forget it, Florence. It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Owen cut in with a flippant wave of his hand. “Their plan won’t work. They could commandeer the prison ship, sure, but not the train. That locomotive sitting outside is synced to one person and one person alone. These two won’t even be able to turn on the lights without the conductor.”

  Balling her hands at her hips, Florence swiveled around and glared down at him, silently demanding how he, of all people, knew such pertinent information.

  Owen flinched. Sheepishly, he looked away and then flinched again, realizing Dobson and Misty wore similar expressions of doubt. Owen folded his arms over his chest and scowled. “This may come as a surprise, but yes, I did look into some things before committing to this suicide mission.”

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  “And yet,” Misty remarked, “you still came anyway. Remarkable.”

  Dobson wasn’t interested in foolishness. She focused on the information Owen had yet to reveal. “Synced how?”

  “You’ll need a retina scan and a thermal handprint just to access the locomotive cab,” Owen said.

  Misty slammed Dobson’s access panel shut without warning. The impact rocked through Dobson’s core, reverberating along her titanium spine until the very tips of her fingers tingled in protest. “Easy on the merchandise,” she grumbled, tugging the corner of her prison jumpsuit back over her shoulder and buttoning it into place. Her attention returned to Owen, asking, “And once you’re inside?”

  “Not so fast.” For a law-abiding citizen, Florence had the natural intuition of an outlaw in the making. She shot her hand out, signaling for Owen to keep quiet. “That information isn’t free. Agree to my offer, and then he’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  Owen’s blood-spattered face turned ashen. He grabbed Florence’s hand and squeezed, attempting to convey the importance of not strongarming the two deadly killers that had, thus far, generously abstained from murdering them.

  Florence’s annoyed expression read, ‘Shut up and let me handle it’.

  Whereas Owen’s expression, quite convincingly, replied, ‘But I don’t have any other information!’

  A craftier person would have done the same—kept the information to themself all while playing the fool to strike a deal, albeit more convincingly. In this case, however, Dobson suspected Owen wasn’t playing. The fact that he hadn’t bothered to work out an escape plan prior to barging his way underground told her that his research on the train had started and ended with accessing the locomotive cab.

  “No deal,” Dobson told Florence. “We’ll figure it out on our own.”

  “Yeah, and don’t be scheming to steal our idea, either,” Misty added with a stern finger wag. “Don’t mistake my friendliness for weakness. I’ll gun both of you down if you so much as look longingly at my train, ya hear?”

  Owen and Florence said nothing.

  “So we’re all in agreement then? Dobsy and I get the train, and you lot buzz off out of the way, yeah?” Misty’s unnerving gaze swept from Florence to Owen and then back again, searching their expressions for signs of objection.

  Owen’s blood-drained face assured them that he would have agreed to just about anything to save his skin. Florence was less amenable. She had the sense to keep it to herself, however, and bit back her lashing tongue.

  It was good enough for Misty. With an approving nod, she moved on to more pressing matters. “Now,” she said, cracking a pleasant smile, “where do they keep the vittles around here, huh? I am famished.”

  Florence said nothing. She held her arms at her sides, clenched fists tightening as her face reddened with rage.

  “Lower cabinets next to the sink well,” Owen replied hastily, before his sister-in-law could utter something neither of them could take back.

  Misty tipped her imaginary hat in gratitude before ducking behind the bar to rummage through the bare shelves

  Florence spoke at Owen through clenched teeth. “How can you just stand there and do nothing while they take advantage?”

  “And what would you rather have me do? Die over a plan that’s doomed to fail?” Wincing, hand held to his side, Owen slowly gathered his feet beneath him. He stood on unsteady legs, managed half a step, before collapsing against the bar for support. “You don’t know who you’re messing with here, Florence. Believe me, we’re better off on our own.”

  “Rude,” Misty called from below. Her voice was muffled by the inside of the cabinet she was currently pawing through.

  Florence’s frown deepened. “We’re dead on our own.”

  “Don’t lose hope.” Owen tried, and failed, to come across as optimistic. “The derailed train split Stillwater’s attention. The heat’s off for the moment, at least. That’ll give us time to think.”

  Florence’s expression disagreed. Loudly.

  He pretended not to notice. “What about the service tunnel? Tommy mentioned it once, back when we were still talking. He claimed there was an old commercial lift built near the end of the tunnel, used for moving equipment in and out during the initial construction.”

  “Stillwater boarded up all the lifts once the trains got up and running,” Florence replied. “They didn’t want us townsfolk shipping our own goods in and out. They made us reliant on them and their stupid train.”

  A glimmer of hope lit Owen’s eyes. “And if it’s still usable?”

  “Ah-ha! Looky what I found!” Misty popped back up in view from behind the bar, holding a dusty can aloft as if it were a priceless artifact. “Clam juice.”

  Up until this point, Dobson had been leaning casually against the bar, pretending to clean her gun, all while gleaning what information she could from Owen and Florence’s private conversation. For having such a large presence, it was a wonder the sorts of secrets people divulged around her when they assumed she wasn’t listening.

  Misty’s interruption proved that Dobson was paying attention to everything going on around her.

  Dobson turned around and watched, face twisted in disgust, as Misty popped the tab and took a long draw. The smell was an assault on the senses—the unholy matrimony of ocean brine and fermented fish paste fused together. Misty drained nearly half before remembering her manners. “Holy smokes, that’s good.” She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and offered the open can to Dobson. “Here, pumpkin. Fifty-fifty of all spoils, just like we agreed.”

  Dobson resisted the sudden urge to shoot the offending can from Misty’s outstretched hand. Swallowing her repulsion, she utilized her partner’s own words against her. “Not an ice cream sundae’s chance in hell.”

  Florence cared not for their petty squabble. “It’s not possible,” she said to Owen with a despairing shake of her head. “It’s too long a journey to make on foot. We don’t have enough water, and the little ones barely have the strength to make it out of town as it is.”

  “What about machinery then?” Owen replied. “Do you have loaders? Skiffs? Anything to make the journey faster?”

  “Most of the equipment was destroyed in the collapse. What’s left was shut down by the company the moment we failed to pay.”

  Owen wracked his brain for unlikely solutions. “I could hijack one.”

  Despair flooded Florence’s grim expression, washing away all former traces of anger. The fiery pissant who’d had the guts to shoot Dobson point-blank was gone. In her stead stood a broken woman.

  Owen slammed his fist against the counter. “Will you have some faith in me? I got here, didn’t I? If I can weasel my way into a government system, then I can sure as hell override a simple loader.”

  “Even if you could, the lifts have all been shut down. They’re ancient, Owen. The plan’s not feasible.”

  “But—”

  Boom!

  A thunderous explosion stole the last of Owen’s protest from his open mouth. The blast sent ripples through the stone. The surrounding walls trembled as clouds of chalky dust shook loose from the cracked ceiling.