Ben Dover's Arc

Chapter 68 of 150

Ben woke to a smell like hot pine. The sap seal on the crate had gone soft. A bead of it sat on the lid, gold and slow. He touched it. His finger came away sticky. The garrison held heat like a kettle. Two bodies and a closed door had done what the ridge cold could not. Eileen was already up, knife across her knee. "How long?" "An hour. Maybe less." Ben pressed his ear to the wood. Under the sap he heard it start, a thin note climbing. "If it opens in here, the stone throws the sound. They'll walk right to the door." "Then we cool it." "With what." Eileen pointed her knife at the far wall. A narrow slot cut the stone above the bench, no wider than a hand. Gray light came through it. Cold air with it. "Garrison vent," she said. "Runs to the north face. Won't fit a man. Fits a crate." Ben measured the slot with his palm. The crate was longer than the opening was tall. "It won't pass through." "Not through. Under." She was already at the bench, dragging it aside. Beneath it a stone plate sat flush with the floor. She jammed her knife in the seam and pried. The plate lifted on a hinge of rust. Below, a shaft dropped into black. "Escape hatch," she said. "For when the door wasn't an option." Ben looked down. The shaft was tight. It smelled of old rope and mice. "Where does it come out?" "Behind the north face. In the scree." The hum climbed a step. The sap on the lid ran to the edge of the wood. Ben made the call. "You first. I'll lower it." Eileen went down the shaft on her elbows. When her boots hit stone she reached up. Ben tipped the crate onto its end and fed it into the hole. The wood scraped. The hum jumped, loud enough to fill the room for one breath. He shoved the crate the last inch. It dropped. Eileen caught it against her chest. Ben followed. He pulled the plate shut over his head. The rust groaned and set. The hum, sealed now under stone on all sides, went thin as a wire and then gone. They crawled. The shaft opened onto broken rock under a lip of hillside. Wind off the north face hit the crate and cooled the sap in seconds. Ben pressed his ear to the lid. Nothing. Eileen crouched, scanning the slope below. Her face changed. She lowered herself flat. Ben looked where she looked. On the scree fifty paces down, a woman sat on a stone with her elbows on her knees, waiting. Short dark hair. A gray jacket. She lifted her head and met Ben's eyes like she had counted the minutes it would take him to arrive. "You know her?" Eileen breathed. "No." The woman stood. "Ben Dover," she called up, easy. "Your sister's shortcut isn't a secret. Not to me."