The Moon Dwellers

Somehow we manage to get down that first hall without getting shot, but we aren’t even close to being out of the mines yet. We start to turn right, to take the fastest route to the yard, but are forced to veer left when we see three more guards charging toward us. A few more bullets whiz past, shot by the original guard. I hope he hits the other guards by mistake.

The three new guards are yelling to the other guard to “Stop freaking shooting!” which gives me hope that perhaps they aren’t all so trigger happy. With a parade of slapping feet behind us, we take the long way around to the yard.

It is intense, I gotta say. More intense than anything I’ve experienced in my entire seventeen years of life. Especially because of the guard with the loose trigger finger. When you’re moving that fast and you know at any moment you could get knocked flat on your face by a bullet in the back—well, that’s pretty intense.

As we round the next bend, the sweat is dripping into my face and I have to use the sleeve of my gray prisoner’s tunic to wipe it away. I try to stay with Tawni, but her legs are longer than mine and her long, graceful strides soon edge her several paces ahead. Just as she passes a corridor on her right, a guard steps out, facing me. He is holding a thick black nightstick and looks ready to use it.

I leap, aiming a high kick at his face and hoping he will get the worst of whatever collision is about to occur. I catch him high, just above his left eye, but not before he is able to take a half swing with his club. Thank God he doesn’t have time to wind up the entire way. CRACK! I feel the rod slam into my ribs, sending shivers of pain through my stomach and into my chest.

There is a crunch as I land on top of him, one foot on his head and the other on his chest. I think I might’ve broken his sternum. Somehow I manage to keep my footing and stumble off of him, using my momentum to continue moving forward.

Tawni hears the commotion and stops, waiting for me to catch up. I try to yell, “Keep ru

Once out of the eatery, we cut sharply to the left and then push through the outer door in tandem, crashing each of the double doors into the stone wall outside. Compared to the air inside the Pen, the outer air feels fresh and quickly fills my faltering lungs. Perhaps if I hadn’t lived in caves my entire life, the air would feel thick, dense, but to me it is as fresh as it gets.

A dull light illuminates us for a moment, before we have a chance to duck against the wall.

Cole is waiting just outside, in the shadows.

“Could you be a little quieter!” he hisses. “Someone’s go

“Too late for that,” I choke out.

“They’re after us,” Tawni says, grabbing Cole’s hands and forcing him toward the fence.

We have no idea whether Cole’s guy came through for us, but by God we are going to try anyway. Cole finally seems to grasp the urgency and powers ahead, reaching the fence about five seconds before us. He uses the time to rip his prisoner’s tunic over his head and chuck it against the fence.

Nothing. No crackle of electricity, no smell of burning cloth, nothing. The fence’s power is off—but for how long?

We aren’t about to sit and place bets. Cole already has his tunic back on and is a quarter of the way to the top when Tawni and I start climbing. As usual, she gets in front of me immediately, using her long reach to skip as many rungs as possible. I hear a shout from the yard, but don’t risk looking back. I have to keep climbing. Stretching my arms over my head makes my stomach throb and I can feel my crushed ribs grating against each other. But I push through it, even when the pain grows so bad that I start seeing stars.

We are so close I can practically smell the freedom.

So close.

And yet so far.

Cole is straddling the barbed wire at the top of the fence, trying to avoid getting poked somewhere that will have a permanent impact, when I hear the next shout. It isn’t from the yard this time, but from the street outside the fence.

This time I look. I don’t even have to turn my head, just have to look down. Half a dozen guards, armed to the teeth with automatic weapons, which are pointed right at us, are shouting for us to get down.

We are trapped like rats.

Chapter Eight

Tristan

When we exit the transporter, it is getting very dark in subchapter 14. The day lights on the roof of the cavern—which are already dim to begin with—are nearly extinguished, simulating twilight. I am glad. It makes it easier to avoid being spotted.

Although most of the time the many subchapters in the Moon Realm blend together in my memory, becoming one continuous subchapter in my mind, I have a pretty good idea of the layout of subchapter 14 because we just visited it. Roc also has a map—he has a map for every place in the Tri-Realms—and we use it, along with our memories, to navigate our way from the transporter station, through the streets past the familiar government buildings, and into the light commercial district, near where the Pen is located.

I still haven’t worked out what to do when we get there.

We emerge from a crowded street, full of people bartering goods and services for their next meal, and see the intimidating fence surrounding the Pen. It is a formidable obstacle, complete with barbed wire and signs warning of “Electrified Fence—Keep Back!” It certainly makes you appreciate being on the outside of it.

The rock yard beyond the fence is empty. It’s getting late and the inmates are probably in their cells. I’ve never visited the Pen before—never had a reason to—so I don’t know their rules around prisoner visitation.

We have a choice to make. Hole up for the night and wait until morning to try to get inside the Pen, or give it a try now, at a time which will be considerably more suspicious. We decide to get a hotel room first.

The only option in near vicinity to the Pen is a ratty old building across the road. The ancient clerk at the front desk has a wispy white beard and pockmarks covering the whole of his face.

“We’d like a room for the night,” I say gruffly.

The guy doesn’t bother to look up from the newspaper he is reading. “Which one would ya like?” he says.

“Do you have anything available that overlooks the Pen?” I ask.

The man starts to chuckle, but then starts coughing—a heaving, wheezing blast of air from his mouth that reeks of disease. When he gets control of his lungs, he says, “We currently have one hundred percent availability.”

I guess I should’ve known, considering the number of people commuting out of the city every day. There is no reason for travelers to stop in the 14th subchapter.

“Top floor, dead center view of the Pen,” I say.

“Room twelve thirty-five,” the man says, handing me a key. He’d slipped the key from a peg on a board without even looking at it. Roc and I make eye contact; his lips are curled into a smirk that I am pretty sure mirrors my own.

The room is more like a closet, but is clean at least, with painted-white stone walls and slate floors. A single bed fills most of the room—we’ll have to duke it out for bed rights. There is a shared bathroom in the hallway, but with no guests other than us, we’ll have it all to ourselves. I close the door.

First we check the view. For someone wanting a view of the Pen—like us—it is a good one. The Pen is dark and quiet. I can picture the girl sitting on her bed in her cell, wishing to be anywhere but there. I don’t dare to picture her on a slab of rock in the morgue. She can’t be dead. Can’t be. If she’s alive, I wonder if she is thinking about me, whether she had the same strange feelings I did when our eyes locked. Probably not.