The Descent

The service elevator shuddered and died between the sub-basement and the sea level maintenance tunnels.

The lights went out, replaced by the red glow of emergency strobes.

"Damn it," Silas swore, kicking the metal wall. "They must have triggered a sector lockdown."

Elian looked at the panel. "We’re stuck."

Silas looked up at the ceiling hatch. "Not stuck. Just delayed."

He jumped up, grabbing the edges of the hatch and pulling himself up. He disappeared into the shaft above.

"Silas?" Elian called out.

Silas’s face appeared in the opening. "Come on. Grab my hand."

Elian looked at his legs. "I can't."

"You have to," Silas said. "Leave the chair."

"I can't walk, Silas. I can't climb."

"You have arms, don't you?" Silas snapped. The mask of the charming lover slipped, revealing the impatient sociopath beneath. "Pull yourself up, Elian. Do you want to rot in this box?"

Elian looked at his wheelchair. It was his legs. It was his freedom. Leaving it felt like cutting off a limb.

But the red light was pulsing. The guards were coming.

Elian grabbed the edges of the hatch. He strained, his biceps burning. He was strong—his upper body compensated for his lower—but lifting his dead weight was agony.

Silas grabbed his wrists. He pulled, not gently, but efficiently. He hauled Elian up through the hatch and onto the top of the elevator car.

Elian collapsed on the metal, gasping. His legs dragged behind him like dead weights.

"Good," Silas said, barely looking at him. He pointed to a maintenance ladder leading down the shaft. "We have to climb down. Then it’s a crawl through the ventilation to the caves."

"I can't climb a ladder," Elian wheezed.

"Slide down the cables," Silas said, already moving. "Wrap your jacket around your hands. Don't slow me down."

The descent was a nightmare. Elian slid down the grease-slicked cables, the friction burning through his sleeves. He landed hard on the concrete floor of the shaft, pain shooting up his spine.

Then came the crawl.

The ventilation tunnel was cramped, smelling of mold and salt water. Elian had to drag himself by his elbows, his useless legs scraping over the rough concrete. Every inch was a battle. Every foot was a victory.

Silas was ahead of him, moving easily on hands and knees. He stopped occasionally to look back, his expression unreadable in the gloom.

"Keep moving," Silas whispered. "Almost there."

Elian dragged himself forward, leaving a trail of sweat and blood from his scraped knees. He focused on Silas’s back. *For Rio,* he told himself. *For us.*