Chapter 8: Hello, Wren

Wren had stopped counting the minutes. It was too hard. Every time she looked at the clock on the control desk, the red numbers seemed to crawl, and the crawling made her chest tight.

Nine hours and forty minutes. Nine hours and thirty-nine.

She forced herself up out of the chair and did a lap.

It was the only thing that helped. She walked the long middle corridor with her flashlight bobbing, past the numbered doors, past the big steel sign that said SECTION C: LEGUMES, and the smaller one under it that someone, years ago, had taped up as a joke. Beans, beans, the magical fruit. She'd laughed at that sign the first week. She hadn't laughed since.

She had a rule about the laps. Three trips, no more. Down the hall, across to the east tunnel, back along the air shaft. Then the notebook. Then the radio.

She had just reached the bend in the east tunnel when she heard it.

A knock.

It was far away and soft, and it came from somewhere inside the mountain. Wren froze with one foot in the air. She waited. Nothing. The air handlers hummed. A pipe ticked somewhere, cooling.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three, slow. Spaced like a person who knew how to wait.

Her heart started to pound. She turned off her flashlight, which was stupid, since it left her in the pitch black, but it felt like the right thing. Mr. Okafor had told her that once. If you don't know what's out there, don't let it see you. She backed up against the wall with her hand pressed flat against the cold steel.

It wasn't in the tunnel. It was in the pipes. The old maintenance pipes that ran along the ceiling, carrying air or water or whatever they carried. She could feel it through her palm, a tiny shiver in the metal. Somebody was knocking on the outside of the mountain, up in the valley, and the sound was travelling down.

Dad, she thought. Then, immediately, no. It was too early. The doors didn't open till midnight. Her dad knew that. He'd built it that way. He wouldn't be knocking.

She counted to sixty. The knocking stopped.

Slowly, slowly, she switched the flashlight back on. Her hand was shaking so hard the beam jittered all over the wall. She took a breath, held it, let it out, and walked, not ran, because running was how you tripped, back toward the control room.

The radio was still looping. This is Wren Holloway. This is Wren Holloway. If anyone can hear me. Her own voice is so small. She'd never realized how small. She almost turned it off.

Then she saw the light on the console.

It was a little green one, near the bottom left, and she'd never seen it lit. In all two hundred and eleven days. It was blinking now, steady, like a heartbeat.

She stared at it. She checked the binder, flipping to the index with fingers that didn't want to cooperate. Green light, bottom left, panel 4. She found the entry.

INCOMING TRANSMISSION: carrier signal detected on emergency band. Press LISTEN to receive.

There was a button. A big square one with a speaker symbol on it. Wren looked at it for a long, long time.

Somebody had heard her.

She pressed it.

The speaker clicked. Static washed over her, and for a second, it was just noise, and she nearly cried from the disappointment of it. Then the static smoothed, and a man's voice came through. It was warm. Calm. A voice like a doctor's, or a teacher's, the kind you could trust without thinking.

Hello, Wren.

She gasped. She actually clapped a hand over her mouth.

I'm sorry if I startled you. My name is Silas. I'm a friend. I heard your message, and I wanted you to know that you've been very, very brave.

"You heard me," she whispered. She didn't realize she'd said it out loud until the speaker answered.

We all heard you, sweetheart. Many of us. There are a lot of people out here who've been worried about children like you. We've been looking for a long time.

"Are you my dad?" The question came out before she could stop it, and she felt her face burn. "No. Sorry. I know you're not. I mean, are you with my dad? His name is Tobias. Tobias Holloway. He's tall, and he's, he has a beard now, maybe."

A pause. A tiny crackle.

Tobias. Yes. The voice softened even more. Yes, Wren. We know him. He's on his way to you right now. We're helping him.

Her whole body went light. She grabbed the edge of the desk. "He's coming? He's really, he's okay?"

He's fine. He's very eager to see you. But there's a little problem, and I need your help with it. Can you do that? Can you help us?

"Yes. Yes, of course."

Wonderful. You're a very good girl. A warm little laugh. Now, listen carefully. When we get to the mountain, the door will need to be opened from the inside. We're going to be a few hours early because it's cold out here, and your father's tired. I want you to find the red switch on the console. Do you see it? The one in the corner, with the cover on it?

The air went out of the room.

Wren turned her head, slowly, toward the corner. There it was. The red switch under its little plastic guard. The one she'd never touched. The one her father had told her about, in the very first line of the binder, in capital letters.

DO NOT PRESS THE RED SWITCH. EVER. NOT FOR ANYONE. NOT FOR ME.

Not for me.

Wren? the voice said gently. Are you there?

Her mouth was dry. Her hands had gone icy. Something inside her, small and cold and very old, had gone perfectly still.

"My dad never told me about you," she said.

I'm sure he was busy, sweetheart.

"He wouldn't send someone he didn't tell me about."

The line hummed. The silence stretched, and then, very softly, the voice came back. It was the same warm voice, the same gentle tone, but it had changed in some way she couldn't name. Like a smile that had stopped meaning anything.

That's a pityy, "said Silas Voss. I was hoping you'd be easy. We'll be at your door within the hour, Wren. You can open it, and no one gets hurt. Or I'll have your father open it for us.

The channel clicked and went dead.

Wren stood in the dark, very still, with the green light blinking and her heart hammering in her ears. Then she walked over to the desk, got down on her hands and knees, and ran her fingers along the underside until she found the little tally marks.

She added one more. Beside it, with the pencil stub, she wrote a single word, small, so only she would ever see.

Liar.