Page 13 of The Atom Between Us

I nod, but the word “sleeper” echoes with dread. Jackson said before that some of the raider clans boobytrapped themselves with molecular kill switches; others just sent in spies. The idea that I might be one of them isn’t just paranoia. I’d suspect me, too.

I cross to the water drum, scoop out a cup, and sip. It’s cold and flat, but my throat sings with the shock. I refill, then pour a trickle into the wound at my arm. The pain lights up my nerves, but the blood washes clean.

Rosie watches, hands working a piece of wire into a tight spiral. “You want food?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself. I’m heating rat stew later, if you’re still alive.”

I take a seat on a crate, feeling every bruise, every splinter of glass still embedded in my calf. The silence stretches, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. Rosie’s attention returns to the power converter on her table; she cracks the housing and starts poking at the innards with a multi-tool. Sparks jump, but she never flinches.

After a while, I say, “You’re Sanctuary Network, right? The real one?”

She shrugs, not looking up. “I’m not paid to confirm or deny. But I don’t shoot scientists, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

I run my finger along the edge of the pendant. The glow is constant, but under it, there’s a nervous stutter. “The city’s crawling with Ghouls. And the Military’s got drones sniffing every quadrant. If they know about this place⁠—”

“They don’t,” Rosie cuts in. “Or if they do, they don’t care. Nobody comes out here except scavvers, and most of them die before they make it two blocks. Besides.” She winks, a fast, reptile flick. “They’re looking for someone a hell of a lot more dangerous than a couple of broken-down techs.”

I stare at her, trying to fit the pieces. The Network was supposed to be a myth, a story for people who couldn’t handle the world ending twice. But this bunker is real, and Rosie is flesh and blood, and the way she moves—like she’s never stopped expecting the door to blast open—tells me this is the real deal.

I say, “So you know Jackson Avery?”

Rosie’s hands freeze. She looks up, gaze sharp enough to bleed. “Where is the old bastard anyway?”

I shrug. “He’s dead.”

She sits, hard, on the crate nearest her. For a moment, she seems smaller, the armor of attitude falling off her shoulders. “Shit,” she says, and the word is a funeral. “He was supposed to—he said he’d—” She stops, starts again. “He said if anyone made it through the city, they’d be worth betting on.”

I wait. There’s nothing to add.

Rosie wipes her hands on her pants, leaving streaks of black. “So what now?” she asks.

I look at the map scrawled on the wall above the workbench. It’s not like any I’ve seen before: it charts radiation, magnetic anomalies, and the locations of the last known Sanctuary outposts. Most are crossed out or circled in red. The only one not marked is here. I point to a line drawn in green, leading east along a corridor of “low risk.”

“Someone named Thorne. I’m supposed to meet them.” Rosie snorts. “Maven Thorne’s a bastard, but they’re not a liar. If they says to meet, you meet.” Rosie’s hands work the wire again, tighter, like she’s winding her thoughts as much as the metal. “You ever think about what happens if you get there?”

I think about the orb, glowing in my pack, the blue pulse of the pendant, the tape drive with my name on it. “No.”

She grins. “That’s the right answer.”

The LED bulb overhead flickers, dies, and comes back. Rosie leans over her converter, and I watch her hands for a while—the way she keeps them steady, the way she never lets go of the tools for more than a second. When she works, the fear recedes. For both of us.

After a long time, Rosie speaks without looking at me. “You can stay the night, if you promise not to kill me in my sleep.”

I laugh, and it sounds almost human. “No promises.”

She laughs, too. “Good. Because I’ve got a kill switch rigged to the door.”

I close my eyes, the blue of the pendant painting the inside of my lids. The air is hot and wet, but the ache is gone from my legs, and for the first time since Jackson died, I think maybe I can survive the night.

Rosie tinkers, and I sleep.

The pendant glows, unwavering, as if daring the world to try me again.

My dreams are short and sharp, like someone is flipping the power on and off at random. Each time I surface, it’s to the drone of the recycler, the click and pop of thermal expansion in the walls, the faint chemical burn of antifungal compounds pumped through the vents. At some point the rhythms shift—less like a lullaby, more like an alarm. The drone becomes a whine, then a screech. The air thickens.

I’m on my feet before my brain catches up, blinking through a haze that burns the edges of my vision. The LED strip on the far wall is flashing crimson, and the pendant at my chest has dropped from blue to a mottled, unhealthy yellow. At the worktable, Rosie is bent over a panel, cursing in a steady monotone as she yanks at wires and shoves her shoulder into the access plate. The smell of burning plastic is unmistakable.