Clock City by Rebekah Dodson
Author:Rebekah Dodson [Dodson, Rebekah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rebekah Dodson
Published: 2019-05-14T22:00:00+00:00
Book III: Clock Princess
Chapter Nineteen: Mines
THE ROOM STARTED TO fall out from beneath us.
The pain ripped down my arm, starting from my shoulder and spreading to my fingertips. I cried out, I couldn’t help it. I hadn’t heard the gun go off again, but I was too worried about Sebastian to notice. My fingers came away clean; I hadn’t been shot. But how was I in this much pain?
I clung to him as we dropped into the depths below the city in this makeshift elevator. Down, down, down, we were colliding with who knew what. Would the doors open and reveal a monster, some hidden metal relic of the Keeper’s? Would we find the children who seemed to be missing from the town? I was terrified to think about it.
Sebastian was choking. I tried to pull him up, but his eyes rolled in the back of his head, and he lost consciousness. I wasn’t strong enough, but I tilted his head back and tried to keep him awake. My own breaths came just as ragged as I struggled to help him sit up. I felt like I was drowning.
“Sebastian!” I cried, my voice barely above a choke. Tears ran freely down my cheeks. “Please, stay with me. Don’t leave me here alone!”
We landed with a thump, the whole elevator shaking. Sebastian stirred, and moaned my name.
The doors opened into darkness. I shut my eyes, scared of what we might find.
“We might die here,” I whispered to him.
He grabbed my hand; his touch was so weak.
A light floated across my vision. It was small and slight, nothing but a candle. A dirty face appeared in front of the open doors. The light suddenly flashed so bright I covered my eyes. “Who’s there?” I called.
The face disappeared, then reappeared, followed by several others. They were whispering, anxious, hiding their words behind their hands.
“Let me through!”
A young boy, but nearly as tall as Sebastian, was pushing through the sea of black-streaked faces. He knelt at Sebastian’s feet. “Bash? Is it you?”
He was dirty like the rest of them, cheeks stained with dirt and a black soot. He wore only a torn vest and badly ripped make-shift shorts and was barefoot. A mat of once blond hair was plastered to one side of his head, the other side was devoid of hair, and badly scarred. Wrinkled and angry red flesh clung to his head and spread down around his eye, which was blackened and bruised.
His black eye. I remembered the first time my father had struck me.
The recollection blurred my vision. He was drunk again, with a fist heading toward me. My last thought before I fell was I somehow deserved it. I had back talked, I remembered, by insisting to go out with my friends, and he didn’t like it. That monster of a man didn’t like anything I did, and he always answered with his fists.
But now I knew. I didn’t deserve it, and neither did this nameless boy in front of me.
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