Smeeth sighs and stands. “Sick, but better than most. I’d say early stages of the virus based on the information I have received. We won’t know until the Professor has a look at her.”
As if tied to a stone and thrown into the ocean, my hope sinks. She can’t possibly be the girl the Professor is looking for. I rally from my disappointment, reminding myself that sick isn’t dead and there’s still a chance she could be useful. I reach in my pocket, pull the rest of the bullets out, and refill the revolver’s cylinder. “Well done, Smeeth. You’re not completely useless. Do you or your men have any inkling of where Pete, Bella, and the others might be hiding?”
Smeeth’s chest heaves as he breathes a relieved sigh. “Not yet.”
“Find them!”
Smeeth spins, ready to bolt.
“One more thing, soldier,” I say.
He stops and hesitantly turns. “Yes, Captain?”
I stand and slide the door of the Steam Crawler open. Its hinges wail in protest. “Release the crocs.”
Smeeth’s face pales before he nods and hurries off, shouting orders at several soldiers.
My single eye takes in the view, searching for something, some clue I know I must be missing, before I climb into the Steam Crawler. When both doors close, the internal air is drawn out by the engine’s fans. When the whooshing sound dies down, alerting the driver that we are safely within the airtight vehicle, I snatch up a bottle of rum from the center console. Taking a long pull from the bottle, I welcome the warmth as it soothes my temper.
Looking through the windows beyond the gleaming chrome legs of the Steam Crawler, I scan the skeletal remains of homes and businesses. “Where are you, Pete? Where are you hiding those girls?”
The dark cityscape responds in silence, like whispers from lost souls forever trapped in the ruins of London.
Broken shadows dance on the cracked concrete walls as light flickers from the gas lanterns strung along the ceiling. The rumbling sounds of machinery and the ping of tools upon metal echoes through the small cavern. Pete leads me through the damp, dark channel. The tunnel descends into a rock and dirt passageway, leaving the cement walls and warped metal track behind. As we round one last corner, my breath catches.
The narrow corridor opens up into a vast, well-lit chamber the size of a small town and rises nearly four stories high. Copper pipes zigzag along the ceiling, steam billowing from some of the gears rotating at the joints. Other lines feed water into an underground river that flows into a large turbine. Buildings made of wood, stone, and brick line the circumference of the city’s center. Hanging from each crudely built structure is a wooden sign with words scrawled across it designating its purpose: STOCK ROOM, KITCHEN, APOTHECARY, and numerous others. Along one side of the cavern, dozens of caves, each large enough to fit a person, are carved into the dirt walls. Pulleys bolted to the ceiling are threaded with thick ropes attached to rickety lifts, which sit below the cave openings. At least seven other tunnels, not unlike the one we have traveled, are visible from where I stand. In the center of the city, a silver statue of a winged man with a bow is mounted on a large fountain. It takes me a moment to recognize the famous statue of Eros, which once stood in the center of Piccadilly Circus.
The entire city grumbles with machinery, steam hissing from boilers and pipes. In the gas lamplight, the copper and bronze tubes, wheels, and gears glitter, giving the impression of a city made of gold.
Most impressive are the young boys running about their business, repairing boilers, filling carts with supplies, and loading some sort of digging machine with coal. A child no older than ten, wearing a tan aviator hat and goggles, pedals past me on a wobbly tricycle. Attached to the bike is a wooden wagon with mismatched wheels. Tins of food and bags of rice threaten to topple the cart. Two boys hang precariously from ropes attached to the copper pipes as they swing from one gas lamp to the next, refueling as they go. In one corner, a bonfire roars beneath an enormous pot. Above it, pipes spill water into the container until a kid standing at the top of a staircase spins a wheel, shutting off the water supply. As the town buzzes with activity, each child appears to have his own job. The number of children gathered in this small underground city awes me. The last time I saw this many children was the final day of school when the first bombs dropped.
I take in the scene before me, drowning in a cacophony of hissing, grinding, and squealing machine parts. Bella sits on a copper pipe that spans the entire city. She reaches inside her satchel and withdraws a bag of chocolate chip cookies. Using her slingshot, she flings them down to a crowd of small kids, each child waving their hands in the air. “Bella, pick me! I want one!” they shout. My stomach clenches jealously.