8| There could be rats

8| There could be rats

OTTILIE

W E OPT FOR THE TUNNELS since being on the street feels exposed, and ones near the Capitol are at a higher elevation than those at the White House and shouldn't be flooded.

Still, he hesitates at the entry door in the basement of the Rayburn building. "I'd feel better if you waited here."

"No."

"There could be rats."

"So?"

"You're not scared of rats?"

I touched Gina's corpse. "I'm over rats."

"They could still be flooded," he tries.

"Knox, come on. What are you afraid of? That we'll get there, and someone is waiting?"

"Yes."

"Then we deal with it."

His throat moves sharply, but he doesn't argue, just lifts the crowbar to the door. "Alright." You can't always hear the southern in his words, but it comes out now, long and lazy, the T going silent as the hinge releases with a metallic groan. "For the record, I like how you say my name."

"How do I say it?" I ask, biting down on my lip to stop myself from smiling.

"Like a rich girl who went to an Ivy League school and eats caviar with presidents." He ducks through the door and disappears.

"I did do those things," I say, following and then wish I hadn't when my voice echoes hollowly down the tunnel in each direction. Things … things … things.

An endless void yawns like a cliff face.

I move closer to Knox and the beam of his flashlight, fumbling for my own, the dark closing in all around. "You … you know these tunnels?"

"Some. Not this one, but I know the maps. This will fork. Left for the Capital and or right for the White House."

I find myself moving closer to him, and all on its own, my hand finds the back of his pants, grabbing his waistband, my knuckles grazing warm skin.

I shine my light behind me and wish I hadn't when the beam reveals nothing but that endless pit of a tunnel behind me.

Looking backward in a tunnel is like looking down on a ladder.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Fine, just keep going."

I don't breathe easily until our light settles on a door, and I breathe much easier when said door is open, and I am through it.

I sag standing against the wall in what I assume is a basement utility room in the Capitol Building.

Knox steps close to me and closes the door, but doesn't back away. The room is entirely dark except for the light he's got angled against the concrete floor, and mine angled at a dusty set of shelves.

Friends don't stand like this. The tips of my sneakers are between his boots.

And friends don't look at me the way he's looking at me.

Or probably the way I'm looking at him.

And they don't think incessantly about lips. His lips. And my lips.

"Are you going to kiss me, Ottilie?" he asks quietly.

I blink in surprise, shifting focus from his beautiful lips up to his dark eyes. "Should I?"

"I'd like you to."

"Why don't you kiss me then?"

"We established a while ago that it was possible for me to scare you. I don't want to scare you."

"We also established that I'm not scared of you."

"Still."

"Still?"

" Still." He straightens up, pulling his lips out of reach. "If kissing's going to happen between us, you'll have to start it."

"I'll … keep that in mind."

"See that you do."

Our hands find each other on their own—truly, I'm not aware of either of us making that move, but it happens, my right in his left, and it feels so normal as we climb more steps and find ourselves in the Cox Corridor. We were here not so long ago, and yet everything was different then. I couldn't write, and we definitely weren't holding hands.

We go over very familiar territory, past the Timucuan Village mural, past deserted rooms, until we stand under the massive rotunda, facing George Washington and his shiny boots and the neon post-it notes.

There are new words.

New letters done in sharpie.

Not Knox's writing.

L-E-T-SB-U-I-L-DAF-U-T-U-R-EW-I-T-HH-O-P-E.

Join me, Senator Lavinia Hope, the next president of our brave nation as we unite for a new and brighter future.

She's erased Gran from the equation.

We just met our new political opponent.

UNDERHANDED. But not surprising. Hiding the signs of political opponents is the oldest trick in the book.

I jog forward immediately and rip down the post-its that say her name.

If she can erase Gran—I can erase her.

Lavinia Hope. I know that name too.

I've just reached for my marker and new post-its when a strange instinct rises within me, something ancient passed down by distant ancestors as they entered an unknown cave.

Knox must feel it too, because his gun is out, and his head is cocked at an angle that reminds me of a wolf poised for attack.

I pull my own, dropping the post-its to the floor like detritus.

Something shifts, deep in the shadows beyond the Rotunda, a tiny noise, fabric brushing against something. When nothing happens again, my brain begins its work of doubting if I heard it at all.

Knox barely shakes his head, his pointer finger coming up to hover in front of his mouth.

We stand, half crouched, still as statues.

The noise comes again, followed by a mewl and then a sharp "Ssshhhhh."

"Maybe they'll help," someone whispers.

A sharp "shhh," cuts them off.

Those are kids' whispers. I don't know how I can tell, but I can.

Knox holds a quelling hand up, but I ignore him.

"We can help," I say quietly.

There'd a squeal, and the sound or running feet.

I bolt after them toward the shadowy hall that leads toward the Old Senate Chamber.

I catch a fleeting glimpse of a girl, reedy in the way of pre-teens, and a younger one, eight or nine. Just their silhouettes before they round the corner into the Senate Conference Room.

I run faster.

There's a frantic sound, one of them shrieks. I run into the Conference Room, ornate gold-and-crystal chandeliers, out into a hall, catch a glimpse of a ponytail darting into an office.

I slide into the office behind them in time to see them climbing through the window, the older one giving the younger a boost.

They freeze for a moment, both of them filthy and wild-eyed, before the older one shoves the little one, and then hurls herself through the window.

And then they're gone.

I follow, Knox on my heels.

"Wait!" I shout. "Please!"

But they don't.

They're alone. All alone, and I know what that's like. They'll disappear in this city and we won't even know where to look.

I climb through the window, get to the edge of the balcony, the balustrade, jump down.

I look left, then right, down squelching lawns, catch a glimpse of the older girl tugging the younger one around a corner.

"Wait!" I call, running for all I have. "We won't hurt you! I promise"

I get to the edge of the building in time to see them sprinting toward a waiting car, a dark sedan, parked facing the river.

A man sits inside.

He shouts when he sees me. I can't make out the words, but they don't seem kind. But maybe a caring adult wouldn't sound kind as they called kids to run from a stranger during the apocalypse. They might sound nervous, insistent, urgent. Maybe not gentle or kind.

"Wait," I cry out, running faster.

The little one stops, right there in the street, looking back at me, skinny, lanky hair, filthy, wide eyes holding mine until the man's shouting grows so loud that the older one lifts her bodily into the car.

The wheels screech away as he peels off before the back door has even fully closed.

And then they're gone, peeling down the road, then swerving to the right, across the National Mall, and disappearing in this empty, lawless city, two little girls with a man who put terror in their eyes.

Knox stops beside me, looking down the empty alleyway. His hand touches my back, and his lips part.

Those girls were so young, too young to protect themselves. They probably just lost their parents. I know what that's like too, but they don't have a grandmother waiting to take them in.

Knox asked what I wanted of the future, and that's it. I don't want a future written by men who scream at children, I don't want kids with eyes written by fear.

The worst of us shouldn't get to make the rules.

That's the argument.

Or one of them, anyway.

"I think I'm ready to write."