Long ago, the Founders built the sanctuary city called Welltower to save mankind from a global inferno of poisonous gases and mutated beasts. Now over two miles high, the fortifi ed structure stands over the burning landscape like a colossus: unbrea...
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Kaehl stared into the light.
The young man gazed through a grate, pressed between dust-covered pipes, pea stones, cables, and cobwebs. Greasy black hair plastered his head; dirt clung to his clothes.
He had wormed his way through a narrow access tunnel, twisting and hauling himself around aging ducts and conduit as wide as his waist. Now he lay at the far end, his face pressed against the metal, unable to go farther.
He gazed through the bars at an immense shaft on the other side, a colossal gap that ran from the penthouses above to the foundations below, reaching so far beyond him that he couldn't see the ends. Light filled the chasm, bright and strong, intense enough to hide the opening's far side. Grates, pipes, ladders and hatches patterned the stupendous walls, curving away until they disappeared in the glare. Fitful winds howled through the structure and then died to a whisper only to rise again, carrying vapors that wrinkled his nose and stung his lungs.
Kaehl leaned back, his eyes half-closed, his breathing relaxed. He lay quietly, seemingly asleep, smiling at the coolness of the currents that bled into his access port, tracing noises that rose above the wind. Idly, he wondered what other people they had touched.
After a time, he stirred. Casually, he wrapped his fingers around the grate, his hands moving lazily. He tightened his grip. The pressure slowly increased. His knuckles paled and then turned white. His lips pressed back. He hissed air into his lungs and held it, his tongue pressed against his teeth.
Then all at once his body snapped and twisted, cracking against the walls, his muscles standing out under his pale skin. He yanked at the bars, rattling them until his veins stood out like cords. The fastenings popped and creaked. His mouth worked noiselessly, sweat standing out on his brow, his face turning purple, and his eyes bulging as if to pop out of his head.
With a groan, he released his grip and collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath, his fingers cramped into claws. He panted, his body curled like a newborn's. Tears threaded through his tightly-screwed eyelids, mingling with the sweat and dust caking his face. His whole body trembled.
Winds sifted in from the core again, stirring his hair. They cooled him where they caressed his skin, raising tiny goose bumps. He relaxed and slowed his breathing.
His eyelids parted. He wiped his face. His blurry gaze wandered, taking in the stony confines of the duct into which he had dragged himself, the dusty pipes, the hoses, the rough walls, and the unyielding grate.
He sighed.
Grabbing the grate again he bunched his muscles and clenched his teeth. With an explosive gasp, he yanked once more at the bars, his body contorting, sweat beading his forehead. Tears coursed from his eyes; his face smoked with heat. He strained against the metal, shaking and twisting it, his body whipping. He fought with the barrier a few moments more and then released it again, a cry breaking from his lips.
