The gas gauge bounces upward until it points toward Full.
I can’t believe they’d leave it full. That they’d leave the key right here. I suppose it makes sense, that way any of them can access it if needed. They’re too trusting.
I head back inside and tuck the key to the SUV inside one of the shoes by the door. They’ll find it eventually, but that search will buy me enough time to get away without being followed. I don’t want to leave them stranded. On a whim I snag the candle from the bathroom. After rummaging through the drawers, I find a plastic lighter and go back to the garage.
I punch the garage door button.
Nothing happens. Of course not, there isn’t electricity. It takes a minute or two before I find the lock on the garage door, then I haul it open. It creaks and groans, screaming my betrayal to the silent cul-de-sac.
I jump into the pickup truck, turn the key, and back out. It’s an automatic. My right hand misses the tangibility of a stick. But without The Fire Swamp on the back, I feel like I’m flying backward out of the garage and down the driveway.
As I crank the wheel to turn around, I see her. Stranna stands in the open door of the garage. Not running after me, not hollering, just standing. With crossed arms and a furious look.
“Sorry,” I mouth.
Then I drive away.
The high-rise is as dark as the inky sky above it. It takes only twelve minutes to get there. It almost feels like God is making this easy for me.
I park the truck right outside the doors. This entire section of town looks ghostly without a single light. How many were affected when the town lost electricity? I think of all those families trying to bunker down in their homes during their last hours.
Did the Adelphoi even think about that when they cut the power?
I add it to the list of questions I still want to ask Stranna. If she’ll ever give me straightforward answers or talk to me again. I may not see her in the Real World again, but I hope to see plenty of her back in Tenebra and to make everything right.
The glass double doors of the high-rise lie shattered on the sidewalk, probably from whoever ransacked this place, either with the Adelphoi or after them. Or even before. There is no placing a timeline on the human reflex to fight for survival. I step over the glass, thankful I’m not in those ridiculous Roman sandals.
The lobby of the high-rise is littered with more glass, trash, cigarettes, and burned furniture from where some squatters probably tried to light a fire. I skirt around it all, recalling the numbers and instructions from when I was in Luc’s atrium. Dull moonlight gives some illumination to the lobby, but once I head toward the stairwell, blackness fills the space like it does in Tenebra. Except I don’t feel the weight of it. The shadows do not press or threaten . . . or hiss. That’s a relief.
I’m forced to slow my pace so I don’t trip and fall on my face, but my heart thunders with urgency. I light the bathroom candle from the Adelphoi house. It smells like artificial apple and cinnamon and burns tall. Cupping it in the palm of my left hand, I tuck the lighter back into my pocket to keep my right hand free for defense. Not that I have a weapon. Or nightmist. I’ll keep an eye out for something I could use if needed, but it might not be necessary since the silence of the building tells me I’m alone.
Except for Luc’s father who lies dying in a zero-battery LifeSuPod somewhere in this behemoth building.
I take the stairs quietly all the same. At the third floor, I follow a maze of carpeted halls and doors, through giant-windowed office spaces until I reach a wing that starts to look medical. Cream-tiled floors reflect my candlelight, making my path brighter but the shadows darker. The wing is separated from the offices by what would have been a wall of glass, except it’s smashed too.
My heart does a flip. What if someone got to Galilei before me? What if he’s already dead? Stolen by someone to use his LifeSuPod for themself? But if the Adelphoi couldn’t get to him, a looter likely couldn’t either.
I wander through the hospital-like setting. Much of it is either glass or steel, and looks like it was built in a hurry. Not because it’s cheap, but because it has one purpose: housing LifeSuPods. There’s no nurse’s station or closet filled with medical supplies or a check-in desk.
But a lot of glass. If this place was renovated after the virus, why so much glass? If Galilei wanted a safe place to live in his LifeSuPod, then why not make everything of secure steel? Why not have more security? He clearly had the money to do it. Maybe he didn’t have the time.
I pass three empty rooms and don’t even need to open their doors because half their walls are made of glass, and the blinds are left open. No people. No LifeSuPods. But in contrast, this glass isn’t smashed. I’ve entered a different part of the ward.
The fourth room has the blinds shut except for a small crack between the end of the window and the curtain. This should be the one. I hold up the candle, but I see only its reflection. I press my face to the glass and squint, holding the candle back.
I make out a LifeSuPod with a clear curved case. There’s a form inside it. I catch a glimmer of a bald head. No lights, no beeping, no sound of the Pod working. This has to be him.
I turn to the closed metal door, and that’s when I notice the dents on its face. Deep and shallow, like from a sledgehammer. Another section near the handle has scratches and burn marks as though someone tried to laser through it with a welding tool. An abandoned crowbar lies a few feet from me. This is definitely the room.
The glass, too, holds marks. Parts of it are cracked, but that’s all. It’s triple-paned and bulletproof. Glancing down the hall at the other rooms, I see they are likely the same but empty of occupants.
Above the door handle rests a keypad and lock system. It’s smashed. I try pressing some of the buttons, but nothing beeps or shows that the pressing makes any difference. I shake my head at myself. There is no power to this whole building, why would a programmed door code work?
Enter Plan B.
I pick up the crowbar. This was probably someone’s weapon of choice in trying to break through the bulletproof glass. Bummer for them, but a treasure for me.
I carefully pry at the keypad, getting under the edge and pushing until something gives way with a crack. I pry at another corner. My arms shake from the strain on my bullet wound.
Crack. Some of the keypad gives. I move to another corner. Crack. Then I start knocking the pieces off until the whole device finally succumbs and falls to the ground.
Beneath it sits a puzzle of gears, buttons, and sliding pieces, each made of metal and expertly fitted so the pieces are too small to tear off or crush. Interesting, but not surprising.
I don’t need to destroy it.
I only need to solve it.
I unwrap my final stick of orange gum and pop it in my mouth.
The lock mechanism is a slide puzzle that looks like a gray artistic globe. But it’s already solved. The globe forms a perfect mini replica of North and South America and parts of Europe. I slide some of the pieces around. They must form another picture of some sort—the globe can’t be the conclusion. It’s the start.
I fiddle with them, moving and sliding and feeling like I’m in a heist movie or competitive reality show. Sweat lines my forehead as the seconds melt away . . . calling for my end. My death.
My hands move faster, but not more efficiently. What am I looking for? What picture am I supposed to be making?
